The Judas Project - Don Pendleton

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connected to an ongoing investigation.”

      “How so?”

      “Something I overheard her say. It meant something.”

      “Oh? You sure it wasn’t ‘Hey, I’m available and I have an inheritance’?”

      “For a cop you have one hell of an imagination.”

      “Yeah? Cooper, I’m not sure whether to take that as a compliment or a put-down.”

      “Believe me, it was a compliment.”

      “I made copies of everything we have on our two vics. Right now you’re as up-to-date as we are.”

      “I’ll leave my cell-phone number,” Bolan said. “If anything else crops up, I’d appreciate a call.”

      Hollander turned and beckoned to the cop who had been talking to the young woman. When he came over Hollander introduced him to Bolan as Steve Cross, explaining that Bolan was a Justice Department agent. Bolan shook the young man’s hand.

      “Some kind of Fed, huh?”

      “Something like that.”

      “Steve, Agent Cooper would like to get a line on that young woman you were talking to.”

      Cross rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, a grin forming. “Who wouldn’t? You know her, Cooper?”

      “Not personally, but I recognized a couple of things she said—OCD and Commander Seminov.”

      “Still think she’s part of your investigation?” Hollander asked.

      “I’m going to check that angle,” Bolan said.

      “Turns out she’s a Moscow cop,” Cross explained. “Showed me her ID and said if I needed confirmation all I needed to do was to call this guy in Moscow. He’s her boss. By the way, her name is Natasha Tchenko.”

      “What was her reason for calling here?”

      “She saw a TV report about a drug-related homicide we’re dealing with. Said she might know the guy from Russia. Said she’d be grateful for any information we could give her. Said it was in-line with an investigation she was working on and she would give us feedback.”

      Bolan found the information interesting, wondering what an attractive female Russian cop was doing in the U.S. with a connection to a murdered man.

      “How did you leave it?”

      “I told her we’d need to check out her credentials before we could pass along anything. Said I’d get back to her.”

      “Did she leave you a contact?”

      “Cell phone and the hotel she was staying at.”

      “Can you let me have that information?”

      “Sure.” Cross wrote the details on a sheet and handed it to Bolan. “Hey, Agent Cooper, if you see her, tell her I said hello.”

      Bolan patted the young cop on the shoulder. “I’ll do that, Cross. In the meantime try to stay cool. And thanks for the assist. Both of you.”

      “No problem,” Hollander said. He handed Bolan a business card. “That’s my cell number. Anything you need, you call.”

      BOLAN SAT IN HIS CAR outside the Grand Rapids P.D., ready to talk to Commander Valentine Seminov of the Moscow Organized Crime Department. He had contacted Kurtzman on his cell and a solid connection had been made via Stony Man, then routed to Bolan’s cell.

      “So how are you, my friend?” Valentine Seminov asked.

      “Surviving. Have you brought down the crime figures in Moscow yet?”

      “Ha. I see your sense of humor is as weird as ever. So, Matt Cooper, how can OCD help you this time?”

      “A cynical attitude, Valentine. Maybe I’m just calling out of the goodness of my heart.”

      Seminov’s throaty laughter rattled the telephone in Bolan’s hand. “How remiss of me not to realize that.”

      “Natasha Tchenko.”

      The line appeared to go dead for a long few seconds before Seminov spoke again. When he did, all traces of humor had vanished.

      “Is she safe?”

      “As far as I know right now.”

      “You have spoken to her?”

      “No. Only seen her once from a distance. She disappeared before I could get to her. She was in a police station asking questions. Identified herself as a cop working out of OCD in Moscow. Gave your name as a reference.”

      “Damn. I told her not to…”

      “Valentine, I need to know why she’s here and what it is she’s after.”

      “Is it involved in something you’re investigating?”

      “Right at this minute all I can say is it could be.”

      “Are you sitting down?”

      “Why?”

      “Because this may take a little time.”

      “Go ahead.”

      “Tchenko is one of my officers. A very qualified member of the OCD. Determined. Single-minded. Resourceful. And stubborn. Like someone else I know.”

      Seminov detailed Tchenko’s background. She came from a family with a long history of law enforcement. It seemed to be in the family genes. Her father had been a captain in the civil police, stationed in Moscow. “Had been” were the operative words. Tchenko’s family—father, mother and her teenage brother—had all been murdered a couple of months back. Her father, Captain Pieter Tchenko, had been handling a case that had delved deep into matters that had moved far beyond his normal investigations. He had, it seemed, stumbled onto a deeply covert operation involving the FSB and former associates of the old KGB. When his inquiries started exposing names, Tchenko was asked to back off. When he continued his investigation, he was officially ordered by his superiors to let the matter drop. The case had been referred to internal FSB jurisdiction. Word came through that Tchenko was putting his life at risk if he did not back off. It had been the wrong thing to say to Pieter Tchenko. While he considered his options, something happened that forced his hand. His wife received a telephone call promising extreme violence if he did not walk away. The same evening Tchenko himself was tailed as he drove home and someone fired on his car with an automatic weapon. A second phone call, just after he got home, told him that next time the bullets would not miss. The physical and verbal threats simply increased Tchenko’s determination. He upped his pressure on his contacts and concentrated his searches into the background of his investigation.

      Less than a week later his Moscow home was broken into by hooded men. Tchenko, his wife and his son were tied to chairs and subjected to savage beatings. Worse was to come. Tchenko’s son underwent a terrible attack by one of the invaders who tortured him with a knife and finally eviscerated him. The house was ransacked as the invaders searched the place for any files of evidence Tchenko might have put together. When they found nothing, Tchenko was shot twice in the head. The same happened to his wife.

      “Natasha was on an OCD investigation at the time, out of the city,” Seminov concluded. “She came back to Moscow to find her family slaughtered. Then she had to identify the bodies officially.”

      “Had she been aware of what was happening?”

      “Yes. She and her father were very close. They discussed work all the time. She knew about the threats. She also knew that Pieter Tchenko would never give in.”

      “How did she take it?”

      “That was the odd thing. She was calm. Even when we went to identify the bodies. I knew she was grieving but she refused to let it out. Not one tear showed, Cooper.”

      “Valentine,

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