SuperBolan.031.Onslaught.1993 by Pendleton, Don

of the man, Sergeant.” “Big,” came the reply. “Tall. Perhaps six-two, sixthree. Well over two hundred pounds, but no fat. He was the type of officer who would have obtained his colonel’s bars the hard way, coming up through the ranks.” Khrushchev paused. Leskov wrote furiously on the notepad. “Can you give me more?” he asked. “The man has seen battle, Colonel. You could read that much on his face.” “Anything else?” “No.” Without formalities, Leskov said, “Carry on,” and hung up. The colonel’s legs took on new life as he hurried across the den to the computer hutch in the corner of the room. Punching the On button, he waited impatiently for the machine to boot up. Who was this American? He didn’t know. But he was getting closer to finding out. The computer stopped, showing the time and date in glowing yellow letters. Leskov punched the Return button again. Then, linking into the main RI system in Moscow, he punched in his ID number, several codes and waited. Whoever this American was, the odds were good that the Committee for State Security had dealt with him in the past. With any luck at all, there would be a file. As soon as he’d cleared security, Leskov began typing in the details Khrushchev had given him. Nationality, approximate height, weight, hair colon He punched for Scan Files, and forty-three possible file numbers shot out on the screen. Leskov racked his mind for other details that might narrow the search. He had forgotten to ask Khrushchev for an approximate age, b