The Judas Project. Don Pendleton
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spent the next few days transferring the Black Judas files onto his personal computer in his apartment. He scanned the documents and the photographs, building up a full dossier for himself, then edited the information into a presentable form for Mishkin. He made copies of both editions, deleted the data from his computer and shredded the original files. He took his time, not wanting to make any errors by rushing the process. Federov had a personal safe in the wall of his apartment. He placed one of his CDs there. The other copy he deposited in his safe-deposit box at his bank.
Later that same morning he presented himself at Minister Mishkin’s office where he spoke in private, detailing what he had found, then presented Mishkin with the two copies of the Black Judas file.
Federov could still recall the expression on Mishkin’s face as he had read through the data on his computer monitor. His enthusiasm spilled over to the point where he was almost drooling. Mishkin had finally turned away from the screen, staring across at Federov. He did not speak for a while. Federov could see the gleam in his eyes, almost hear the thoughts turning over and over inside his head.
“Who else has seen this, Karl?”
“No one. I did all the checking myself. Kept no written notes. The files I found were removed from the archives so no one else might stumble across them. I scanned everything I located into a computer and saved it to a CD. Once I’d done that I wiped everything from the computer and destroyed the originals. You have the only copies.”
Which actually was not strictly true.
Mishkin was not the only one with high ambition, and Karl Federov was well placed to be able to use information he had found to his own advantage. Mishkin might yet find out he was not as clever as he imagined—not with Karl Federov working against him and not for nationalistic reasons.
“Black Judas,” Mishkin had said. “That project has been guarded for so long, and deniability has been so strongly maintained, even I suspected it was nothing but KGB legend. But it does exist and now the FSB has picked up the baton and is sitting on the damned thing. Why haven’t they activated the sleepers? What are they waiting for?”
“Chenin believes the final countdown is under way. Once the last details are established, the activation codes will be issued to the teams in America.”
“Karl, we have to gain control of that project. If we do, we can write our own ticket.”
Federov nodded in agreement, but for a different reason. His personal reasons. “I agree. The Unit will resist, though. They are still powerful, and we have to make sure we obtain every piece of information about Black Judas before they are eliminated. That’s why I need to keep searching for additional data.”
Mishkin had slapped his hand on the desk. “Damn Krushen’s pack of rabid hounds. If I could get away with it, I would have them up against a wall tomorrow. A swift volley from a squad of our security men would solve that problem. Unfortunately those days are gone. We need to be cautious, however. There are too many unfriendly eyes and ears out there.”
“Leave it to me.”
“Anything you want, Karl, just ask.”
This was working out better than he had ever imagined. Here was Minister Mishkin offering to give him anything Federov wanted. How about your job, Mishkin? Federov cleared his throat. “I have no problem gathering my main team. But if we really want this to work, I need the best.”
Something registered in Mishkin’s eyes as he had glanced across the desk. He suddenly grasped what Federov was intending.
“My God, man, are you sure?”
“Can you think of anyone better to deal with Krushen and his people?”
“I see your reasoning—but…”
“We need him, Minister.”
Mishkin still hesitated. He understood Federov’s request. His urgent need to use the one man capable of dealing with Mischa Krushen on his own terms. The problem was that the man Federov intended to bring on board presented his own problems.
“Minister, you want this to succeed? Then give me what I want. Give me Viktor Kirov.”
CHAPTER TWO
The Russian air-force transport landed on time, despite the inclement weather. Karl Federov watched it taxi along the runway, then turn toward the hangar. He remained where he was as the mobile steps were pushed into place in front of the opened door. A tight group of five men emerged from the plane and descended the steps. Four were carrying submachine guns. The fifth, walking slightly ahead, his shoulders hunched against the bitter rain, barely glanced at the men who had provided the steps as he proceeded in the direction of the hangar.
Someone opened the access door and the group moved inside, away from the rain. They made their way to the office where Federov waited, only now turning from the window. The man they were escorting held his hands in front of him, lifting them when he recognized Federov. Steel manacles circled his wrists. The man held them out to Federov.
“Take them off,” Federov said.
“We were told—”
“To bring him to me and leave him in my charge. You have done that. Give me the key, then you can climb back into your aircraft and leave. You have carried out your orders. He is no longer your responsibility.”
The man in charge of the detail still protested. “Do you realize who he is?”
The manacled man glanced at Federov, a faint smile edging his lips. He was tall, with broad shoulders. His head was shaved, the smooth skull glistening from the rain. He had lost some weight since Federov had seen him last and his face was pale, a little gaunt. Federov saw the big hands flexing. He knew exactly what the man was thinking, what he would do if he was not covered by the SMGs. Whatever else, Federov thought, they have not subdued his personality.
“Yes,” Federov said. “I know exactly who this man is. His name is Viktor Kirov and he is my friend.” Federov’s nostrils flared slightly as he allowed his anger to rise. “Now get out of here,” he yelled, “before I show you what my authority allows me to do.”
The leader of the escort detail took a key from his pocket. He handed it to Federov without another word, turned and led his men from the office. Federov watched them leave the hangar and return to the plane. His own men had returned to the building and remained there as Federov closed the office door. He crossed to the waiting man and removed the manacles, tossing them onto the desk that stood against the far wall.
Viktor Kirov rubbed each wrist where the manacles had chafed at his flesh. He remained where he was, watching as Federov unscrewed the top of a large steel flask and poured hot coffee into a plastic mug. He held it out to Kirov.
“Not the celebration I would have wished for, Viktor, but welcome home, my friend.”
Kirov took the mug, savoring the smell of the coffee. After he had tasted it, he nodded slightly. “An improvement on that cabbage water they gave us to drink and called tea.”
If Federov felt any awkwardness, he hid it well. “Once we get to Moscow, I promise you something even better. I have arranged to have an apartment placed at your disposal. The wardrobe has new clothes in it and the refrigerator is well stocked.”
“Will I find a young woman in my bed, as well?”
“That can also be arranged. I suspect you might have a little tension that requires relieving.”
“A little? My God, Karl, have you forgotten how long I’ve been locked up? Three long, lonely years. Just make sure whoever you send has stamina. She will need it.”
They both laughed.
Kirov watched as Federov drank his own coffee, his hands wrapped around the mug. “Are you cold, Karl?”
“Yes.”
“Compared to my cell this is almost