a long vacation to get over the sudden deaths of her family. Her main goal remained her secret. If she had even hinted at what she hoped to achieve, she would not have been able to proceed.
It was in London that the first moves in the tracking of her family’s killers started. Using the information she had gained, she located Malenkov.
ILYA MALENKOV had paused at the entrance to the house, his feelings of uncertainty rising again. He half turned to look back over his shoulder, expecting to see someone watching. Apart from a couple of pedestrians at the far end, the street was deserted. The only movements close by were leaves from the trees blowing along the sidewalk. Even though he felt a little foolish, Malenkov took his time checking out the area until he was satisfied his feelings had proved false. Only then did he push open the door and step inside. Closing the door behind him he felt the silence of the house wrap itself around him. It still amazed him that despite being in one of the busiest cities in the world, here inside this house it was so quiet, removed from the frantic pace of London.
Malenkov shrugged out of his topcoat and hung it on one of the hooks in the narrow hallway. He felt the chill in the house and realized he had forgotten again to put on the heating before he went out. He moved along the hall to the door that led into the kitchen. As he pushed it open, his world went dark and silent around him as something slammed across the back of his skull….
HIS FIRST IMPRESSION WAS of bitter cold. Not just the chill he had felt earlier, but a persuasive cold that pervaded his whole body. The air he breathed in held a dampness that went with the smell of mildew. Malenkov tried to move, then realized he was unable. His wrists and ankles were bound and when he forced open his eyes he saw he was tied to the arms and legs of a wooden chair.
He realized he was completely naked, as well, his body pale and so chilled he was shivering. Now he could feel a sickly ache across the back of his skull. The clammy feel of drying blood that had run down the back of his neck. Someone had struck him as he had entered the kitchen, then dragged him down to the cellar beneath the house. He saw bare brick walls and felt the boarded floor beneath his naked feet. A single bulb hung from an electric cord, throwing pale light on the stacked boxes and other household items that had been stored in the cellar and pushed against the damp walls.
He squinted his eyes and tried to ignore the pain in his skull as he attempted to understand what was happening. Who had done this to him?
And why?
Malenkov believed it could be down to Karl Federov. He would do anything to discredit Krushen’s authority.
Once the search for Black Judas had been activated, all interested parties would be alerted. Any information gained would be fair game for the others. But Malenkov was surprised at how easily his location had been discovered. The London safehouse had always been just that. Safe. It was a jumping-off point where agents could travel from London to distant points, away from Moscow. Despite the stepped-up security in the UK capital, it was still a freer place than back in Russia. A cosmopolitan city, where almost every nationality from around the globe moved back and forth, London was still one of the easier cities to maintain a safehouse. And they had always been so careful. The address and location had never been committed to any database. It had been rented through a number of anonymous aides, making sure none knew any of the others personally, nor had any more contact than via dead-drop mailings. Malenkov reconsidered that, admitting that nothing in reality was ever completely risk-free. Somewhere along the line, someone might have let something slip that had been picked up by a third party. Also, there was no discounting the possibility of betrayal by one of their own. Again that was something not unheard of.
In the final analysis it came down to the fact that the safehouse had been compromised. At this juncture of Malenkov’s life the who and the why didn’t really matter.
Especially in regard to himself.
What did matter was whether he was going to emerge alive from this situation.
He heard movement off to his right. As he turned his head, a dark shape loomed from the shadows. A figure stood over him, silhouetted against the light from the suspended bulb. There was a sudden blur of movement and he took a hard blow to the side of his face. The force twisted his head, blood welling from a gash in his cheek. The blow dazed him for long seconds, and Malenkov let his head fall forward. Blood dripped onto his naked chest. He picked up more movement and braced himself for more blows. Nothing happened.
“What the hell do you want from me?”
“It speaks,” a voice said from behind in Russian.
The sudden sound startled Malenkov, and what added more surprise was that it was a woman’s voice. Young, too, from the tone. He was reminded of his naked condition.
The voice’s owner moved to stand in front of him, easing aside so that the light from the bulb fell across her. She was young, he saw. Midtwenties and very attractive, though the expression on her face hardened her features. Black hair framed a strong, well-defined face. Her eyes were cold, devoid of any emotion. She wore dark, slim-fitting pants and a black turtleneck sweater. A long, dark topcoat completed her outfit. Malenkov saw the dark shape of a handgun tucked in her waist belt and recognized it as his own. She had to have found it in the drawer where he kept it upstairs. Now she took her time deliberately looking him over, her gaze lingering, a wry smile edging her lips. Malenkov felt an embarrassed flush color his face.
“Who are you? Dammit, woman, do you realize who you’re messing with?”
“No one very big,” she said. “Just a small scrap of lowlife.”
“A dangerous mistake,” Malenkov said. “I have no idea what this is all about, but you are playing games with the wrong kind of people.”
“Believe me, Malenkov, I am not playing games.”
Malenkov struggled against his bonds. His face darkened even more as he failed to loosen the ropes. Added to his frustration was the fact that the woman apparently had no immediate fear of anything he might say.
“Get me out of here, you bitch!” he yelled. “This will bring you more trouble than you can imagine. One word from me and I could have your family wiped out.”
He saw her stiffen, recognized the fierce look in her eyes as she fought back some deep emotion.
“But you already did that, Malenkov. You and your sick comrades. My family all died at your hands, you pig. It’s why you’re tied to that chair. So I can let you feel what my mother and father and my young brother felt before you vermin finally killed them all. It wasn’t all that long ago, so you must still recall the name. Tchenko. My father was Captain Pieter Tchenko. You do remember? Yes, I thought you would. So you see, your threats don’t worry me. There’s nothing left you can take away from me.” She reached inside her coat and took out a gleaming steel-bladed knife, holding it so light rippled along the smooth metal. “Today is your turn. I ask questions, you answer. Each time you lie, I use the knife.”
Malenkov realized from the start that she was not just trying to scare him. She made him aware of this by making a token cut across the soft flesh of his stomach. Deep enough to make him bleed and feel the pain. Not enough to incapacitate him. As the warm rivulets of his blood settled in his groin, Malenkov realized he needed to make a swift decision.
Refuse to answer the woman’s questions and suffer further living pain, or tell her what she wanted and accept the bullet through the back of his skull that would end his life far quicker. He was under no illusion. One way or another, he was going to die today. The only question was whether he gave up the names of his partners and sent this woman after them, or tried to protect them and suffered by the knife in her hand. It was not much of a trade-off either way.
In the end Malenkov found out he was not so much of a man as he had anticipated. He gave up names and locations. He told her everything he knew. But not before Natasha Tchenko made him suffer because of his early resistance. Her use of the knife was crude, and Malenkov spilled a great deal of blood on the cellar floor. Whatever his resolve, it faded quickly, his pleas for mercy falling on deaf ears. So he gave her what he