Kitabı oku: «War Drums»
Mack Bolan had long accepted he was living on borrowed time
Over countless missions he had gambled against the odds, and as time went by he realized those odds were becoming slimmer with every mission he accepted.
Stepping as he did into the killing grounds, facing enemies intent on turning Bolan’s world into a savage hell on earth, he saw himself not as some indestructible automaton, but a normal guy doing extraordinary things by simply refusing to give in to savage man. The rules devised for civilized existence were being trampled into the dust by the hyenas walking around on two legs.
Mack Bolan did what he could to bring some kind of sanity to the evils perpetrated by the spoilers.
Other titles available this series:
Shock Tactic
Showdown
Precision Kill
Jungle Law
Dead Center
Tooth and Claw
Thermal Strike
Day of the Vulture
Flames of Wrath
High Aggression
Code of Bushido
Terror Spin
Judgment in Stone
Rage for Justice
Rebels and Hostiles
Ultimate Game
Blood Feud
Renegade Force
Retribution
Initiation
Cloud of Death
Termination Point
Hellfire Strike
Code of Conflict
Vengeance
Executive Action
Killsport
Conflagration
Storm Front
War Season
Evil Alliance
Scorched Earth
Deception
Destiny’s Hour
Power of the Lance
A Dying Evil
Deep Treachery
War Load
Sworn Enemies
Dark Truth
Breakaway
Blood and Sand
Caged
Sleepers
Strike and Retrieve
Age of War
Line of Control
Breached
Retaliation
Pressure Point
Silent Running
Stolen Arrows
Zero Option
Predator Paradise
Circle of Deception
Devil’s Bargain
False Front
Lethal Tribute
Season of Slaughter
Point of Betrayal
Ballistic Force
Renegade
Survival Reflex
Path to War
Blood Dynasty
Ultimate Stakes
State of Evil
Force Lines
Contagion Option
Hellfire Code
War Drums
Mack Bolan®
Don Pendleton
All ambitions are lawful except those which climb upward on the miseries or credulities of mankind.
—Joseph Conrad,
1857–1924
Jackals in human form are quick to cash in on the misery of their fellow man. I do what I can whenever I can to even the odds.
—Mack Bolan
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
London, England
He never saw his killer. At the last moment he heard a faint click as someone eased off a safety. Before that, nothing. Whoever had come to end his life was good. That he had got this close meant he was better than good. And the sudden realization that he was about to die brought a rush of emotions and an overwhelming sadness that unrealized dreams would now never be. In the final moment he did make an attempt to pull out his own weapon, but the very act of reaching for it became his last. The bullet that blew apart his skull impacted a scant second before the second one followed. He felt only a solid blow that completely took away all of his senses in the ferocity of its effect on his brain and the functions it had controlled. There was no sound. No time to think about what had happened. Just that stunning blow that wiped his life away in an instant. The second bullet cored its way through and blew out his left eye. His body lurched forward, then dropped to the ground in the fluid slackness that comes only with death. There was no grace in his demise, simply the collapsing of a lifeless corpse that had only seconds before been a living, breathing man.
The body lay for almost twenty minutes before it was spotted by an employee of one of the restaurants the alley ran behind. Stepping outside for a cigarette the kitchen assistant almost tripped over the corpse. He recoiled at the sight of the body and the pooling, drying blood that had edged out from beneath the head. He stood for a few seconds, simply staring, uncertain what to do now that he found himself confronted by the corpse of someone who had been the victim of a violent death. He turned and went back inside to let others know what he had found, then made his way to a telephone to inform the police.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER THE crime scene team showed up. The metropolitan police cruiser that arrived earlier had cordoned off the area, holding back onlookers so the crime scene was untouched. With practiced efficiency the CS team marked possible relevant evidence, took photographs and checked the vicinity. When they were satisfied, they had the body removed, the contents of the victim’s pockets tagged and bagged and sent to the CS lab. In due course fingerprints were taken and fed into NAFIS, the UK cousin to the American AFIS system. It was, due to the current security conditions, connected to the U.S. database and it was able to identify the dead man. According to the criminal database the deceased was one Harry Vincent. NAFIS threw up a rap sheet that showed Vincent to have been arrested twice in the U.S. for suspected arms trafficking, but insufficient evidence had meant he was never charged. He had done time in prison for minor criminal acts. His background read like a familiar story of early criminal activity that continued into adult life. Certain questions arose that the UK police needed answers to. The main one concerned the seeming ability of a known criminal to be able to move back and forth through customs, without his past raising a flag.
Before the police could continue their investigation, matters were taken from their hands in the form of agents from the London field office of the CIA stepping in with a claim for Harry Vincent. Protests were stepped on harshly by orders from the higher-ups in Scotland Yard, who had received their instructions from MI-5, acting on calls originating in Langley, Virginia. Everything referring to Harry Vincent was confiscated by the CIA. There was a brief flurry of protest that ran all the way up to the top and back. At each level, those in control were given the stern warning to stand down. This was not a request, it was a top-priority command. Those who had identified Harry Vincent were told to forget about him. They found their computer access blocked, all references to Harry Vincent deleted. The phrases “need to know” and “in the national interest” were trotted out. That didn’t settle too well with the police department, but in the era of cooperation and national-international security, any tardiness was frowned on when it came to interfering with due process. The CIA team did its work with cool efficiency, whisking away Harry Vincent, his belongings and all the data gathered by the police. By the end of the day it was as if Vincent had never existed.
In truth, he never had.
Only those at the uppermost level knew that Harry Vincent was simply the cover identity created by the CIA’s Deep Cover section for one of their agents. His fingerprints, fed into NAFIS, then AFIS, had set off alarm bells at Langley. Langley had informed the London field office, issuing a removal authorization that entitled the team to acquire Vincent and all relevant data. The body was driven directly to a small airstrip used by the CIA and put on a plane that would finally deliver Harry Vincent to Langley, Virginia.
CHAPTER ONE
Stony Man Farm, Virginia
Two days later Hal Brognola, director of the Sensitive Operations Group, based at Stony Man Farm, received an urgent summons that took him directly to the White House where he was ushered in to see the President of the United States. The big Fed was sequestered with the Man for almost two hours. When he left, with a briefcase holding a “need to know” file, he returned to Stony Man. During the helicopter flight, he sent an e-mail directive requesting an immediate mission briefing. On touchdown he went directly to the office he used while at the farm and made four copies of the file, then headed to the War Room.
Those in attendance were Barbara Price, mission controller, and Aaron Kurtzman, the facility’s cybernetics chief. The third person he had requested was missing.
“Where is he?” Brognola growled as he sat, opened his briefcase and slapped the presidential files on the conference table.
“He’s on his way,” Price said. Concentrating on her own paperwork, she maintained a calm manner, hoping that her emotions didn’t betray her.
Brognola sorted the files, muttering to himself, and failed to hear the door open and close behind him.
“Time on this is scarce,” Brognola said sharply.
“I’m all ears, Hal.”
Brognola glanced up to see Mack Bolan facing him across the table, a slight smile on his face. The big Fed loosened his crumpled tie and opened the top button on his shirt. He noticed that Bolan looked cool and relaxed in clean, casual clothing, his hair still holding the damp shine from a recent shower.
“By the look of you, I’m being too easy. Not interrupting your free time am I?”
Bolan sat. “Not right now. R and R is over.”
If he hadn’t been so immersed in his paperwork Brognola might have noticed the sudden rush of color that invaded Price’s cheeks. It was only Kurtzman who picked up on it and chose to ignore it, sliding out a computer keyboard from the table, busying himself logging on. For the briefest moment Price’s eyes caught Bolan’s and they exchanged a fleeting smile. Then the soldier turned his steady gaze on Brognola.
“So what have you got, Hal?”
Brognola slid a copy of the file to each person in the room and sat back while they read and digested the data inside. He allowed them the time they needed before clearing his throat to open the discussion.
“Comments?”
“Why us?” Price asked. “I mean, the President has lifted the case from the CIA and pushed it our way.”
“Plain and simple. The President wants Stony Man to handle this. He had a visit from the CIA special ops director, and from what he told me the U.S. is in a fix over this Iranian deal. Intel has Iran’s hard-liners pushing for their own nuclear capability in defiance of UN rulings. They’re doing their damnedest to refine weapon’s grade plutonium and intelligence sources say they have some underground development work on the technical side.”
“Hardly a threat in the short term,” Price said.
“No one is expecting them to suddenly have fleets of ICBMs targeting New York,” Brognola replied. “But the very thought of Iran having any kind of nuke is sending shivers all across the Middle East, especially in the direction of Israel.”
“Those hard-liners have been laying it down pretty fierce,” Aaron Kurtzman pointed out. “They blame Israel for every problem in the region. I understand the rhetoric involved in politics. It’s all to do with psyching out the enemy, but in an area like the Middle East it’s very easy to start the fires.”
“If Israel gets pushed too far it might use one of its own surgical strikes against Iran,” Bolan said. “Preemptive. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Exactly. If that happens, we could end up with one hell of a conflict. But there’s more to it. The President has intel that points to Chinese involvement, behind-the-scenes courting of Ayatollah Muhar Razihra. He’s the man behind the belligerent criticism of Israel and the West. The Chinese are promoting themselves as the emerging political and market successor to the U.S. They have their eye on the future and Iran’s oil reserves. Iran as a superpower, wielding the strength of nuclear capability in the region means they’ll have clout. Beijing hasn’t been slow at seeing the benefits of wooing the Iranians. The country is oil rich. And oil is as important to China as it is to us. The Chinese are willing to work at this over the long term.”
“What about the rest of the region?” Bolan asked.
“Unrest. Negative feelings where it comes to Iran becoming nuclear. That’s another of the President’s concerns. We all understand the uncertainty in the region in general. All it needs is one country suddenly having a big stick they can use to intimidate other countries.”
“What about Iran’s moderates?” Price asked. “Isn’t there a calming influence?”
Kurtzman nodded. “Sure. There are government members who want to stay out of the nuclear club. They see the problems on the horizon. Right now they seem to be shouted down at every turn and the problem is they don’t have enough backing from the military or the religious community, which Razihra does.”
“Aaron, put up those images I sent you,” Brognola said.
Kurtzman tapped his keyboard and one of the wall screens lit up.
“The guy on the right in the black robes is Ayatollah Razihra. He’s the big gun in the pro-nuke debate. His direct opponent is Nuri Masood, a government minister who argues against the program. That’s him in the middle. On the left is Dr. Shahan Baresh. He works under Masood, and he’s a skilled negotiator who does all the Iranian dealings with the UN and other groups trying to ease the tension. He spends a great deal of his time out of the country in meetings, seminars, doing his best to promote a better image for Iran.”
“I’ve heard about Razihra,” Price said. “He’s not the kind of man you’d want standing against you.”
“I imagine this is only part of the picture, Hal,” Bolan said.
“Oh, yes.” Brognola tapped the file in front of him. “The CIA had a man infiltrated into a group that has been supplying the Iran Secret Service with conventional weapons and technical data on the construction and deployment of nuclear weaponry. This sweet bunch has even been negotiating with them to purchase this information and hardware. If the Iranians get their hands on this data, it gives them a jump-start on their development program. If they aren’t already up and running.
“The CIA director had initiated the covert operation himself, choosing his own agent and keeping it close to his chest after getting the go from the Man. It appeared to be running pretty smoothly until a few days ago when the undercover agent was assassinated in London. Professional hit. Two shots to the back of the head. The agent was working under the name Harry Vincent. When Scotland Yard put the name through their system it went all the way to Langley and was red-flagged in the director’s office. The numbers clicked in and Vincent’s body was appropriated by the CIA’s London field office and flown back to CIA headquarters. The director did his best to keep the details under wraps, but the killing made him suspicious and he went straight to the President. He suspected he had a leak within the Agency. The President took over the covert operation and told the director he’d take care of it.”
“He didn’t mention us?” Price asked.
“How could he?” Kurtzman asked. “We don’t exist.”
“Exactly,” Brognola agreed. “The President hinted the military would look into the matter and told the director it would be dealt with. I guess the director would have been relieved to have it taken off his hands. He’s going to have enough explaining to do over the Agency leak.”
“So we pick up the slack again,” Price commented.
“It’s what we do best,” Brognola said. “The director handed over all the intel his agent had gathered. His real name, by the way, was Carl Marchesse. Thirty-four years old. Native New Yorker. Joined the Agency when he was twenty-two and worked his way up through the ranks. Seems he showed a flair for undercover work early on. Worked a number of assignments that gained him a lot of brownie points. Five years ago he was recruited into a special ops section, specializing in the really down and dirty covert operations. He did well. When the Iranian operation was set up around five months ago, Marchesse was the man the director chose. He disappeared for a couple of months and when he resurfaced he was Harry Vincent. According to the director, he infiltrated the group suspected of providing the Iranians with weapons and data on nuclear weapons. The group’s headed by a Russian named Anatoly Nevski.”
“If a double agent in the CIA ordered his murder,” Bolan said, “all that intel is most likely in his hands, as well.”
“Unfortunately that’s probably true. Aaron, second file, please.”
“The gaunt-looking guy is Dr. Gregori Malinski, a Russian nuclear physicist. After the Soviet Union collapsed he was more or less out of a job. He moved around and started to sell his knowledge on the open market to whoever would pay. Marchesse’s intel told us the Iranians had him working big-time on their nuke development. But he dropped out of sight some days ago. Nevski had brokered Malinski’s contract with Razihra and his military backers. From what Marchesse managed to pick up the Iranians are less than pleased about Gregori’s jumping ship. It could be he left them at a critical stage in the development. If the Iranians had people clever enough to develop their own nuclear weapons they wouldn’t have needed to buy Malinski.”
“This is an old photo,” Kurtzman said. “The girl is Malinski’s estranged daughter, Sashia. She’s management in an international travel agency. Hops around all over the place. Right now she’s based in Paris. It might be that Malinski got in touch. It’s a long shot, but it could happen. It would be helpful for us if he did. But not so much for Razihra.”
“And this is because…?” Bolan asked.
“Malinski knows the location of the Iranian base where the nuclear development is taking place,” Brognola said. “Also, he’s just one of the equations in the picture.”
“I get the feeling you’re about to tell me what I’m about to let myself in for.”
“That’s my guy.”
Kurtzman brought up more pictures. “This next batch show the members of the Russian syndicate Marchesse infiltrated. I mentioned Anatoly Nevski. He’s the lean guy with the blond crew cut. He might look like a California basketball player but don’t be fooled by his good looks. He’s the top man. Not exactly Russian mafiya, but no Mother Theresa, either. It isn’t difficult to categorize him,” Kurtzman said. He pushed at a thick file across the table for Bolan to scan. “Courtesy of your buddy Commander Valentine Seminov, Moscow OCD. His attached note says he would be most appreciative if you could ‘take the piece of scum down.’ Do that and he will forever be in your debt. Nevski is no more than a connected street thug. Background is pure Moscow underworld. Worked his way through the ranks. From street hustler, pimp, pusher to present-day global arms dealer.
“When the Soviet regime collapsed, Nevski was in the front of local crime. Anything is fair game for the man. Stolen cars. Drugs. He was, and still is, one of Russia’s promoters of the white-slave trade, snatching young women off the streets to put them into prostitution and porn. He trades them across Europe, the Middle East and here in the States.”
“Sounds like a sweet guy,” Price said.
“Nevski has a unique business procedure,” Kurtzman went on. “If he takes a liking to your business, he makes a single, time-limited offer. If you say no he sends in his people and you get a bullet to the back of the head. Deal settled. No sentiment. No reasoning.”
Bolan was leafing through the file. “How did he segue into the arms business?”
“He saw the opportunities when the Soviet military machine started to fall apart. He nurtured contacts, wiped out a couple of smaller dealers and took their place. No hassle. He surrounded himself with plenty of muscle and firepower, and within twelve months he was one of the major players. He added industrial espionage and technical expertise to his catalog.”
“Which brings us back to the good Dr. Malinski,” Brognola said.
“Nevski looks for what the client wants, makes them a good offer because money is never a problem in this market,” Kurtzman said. “He sets up the whole package and delivers.”
“A nuclear physicist to jump-start your missile program,” Bolan added.
“Exactly.”
“But Malinski going AWOL has spoiled his customer satisfaction record.”
Kurtzman nodded. “Damn right. It isn’t going to make him popular with Ayatollah Razihra. Nevski will do anything to stay on Razihra’s good side. The word is Nevski is in very deep with the Ayatollah. This is more than just a one-off contract. Nevski is with Razihra for the long term. He’s realized the profit margin that staying with the guy will bring. So he’s in there pitching. Anything Razihra wants Razihra gets.”
“So he quickly gets rid of the CIA mole as soon as he’s been exposed,” Brognola said. “We were right it being a professional hit.”
Kurtzman tapped in another image. “The scowly guy is Nevski’s second in command. Lem Kirov, all round bad guy. Unstable and very violent. Next up is Claude Stratton. British. He’s a fixer, paymaster, dealer, for any number of dissident groups floating around Europe and the UK. He does a lot of transactions for ex–Saddam Hussein loyalists, like these three charmers—Ahmer Musak, Omar Jafir, Ibrahim Hassan. They appear to have access to some of the money Hussein stashed away. They’re using it to help Razihra and keep things hot in the region. They were all colonels in the Iraqi military. Now they’re being feted by militant Jordanians. They’re holed up in the desert at some training camp, along with some of Razihra’s hard-liners, led by Yamir Kerim. Marchesse knew that a consignment of weapons was shipped out to this camp. He never got the chance to find out what it was for.”
“Educated guess?” Bolan asked and answered the question himself. “Israel?”
“Borders Jordan. And we know Razihra is anti-Israel. It’s one of his main political rants,” Kurtzman said. “And why would weapons be delivered to Jordan if they were intended for Iran? Too far to risk transporting all that way. Could be part of Razihra’s aim. He doesn’t hide the fact he wants Israel destabilized. To be frank, his ideal would be Israel up in smoke.”
“If Razihra’s group has its way, it will boost its standing within the radicals across Iran,” Brognola said “It would strengthen their cause. A victory over the current administration isn’t what Iran needs. It could make for an isolationist condition that would back them up against the wall. It could happen if Razihra plays to fundamentalist emotions. The man in the street already sees the West and Israel as the brokers of everything going wrong in the region. If Razihra gets his hands on the reins we can kiss goodbye to any negotiations. And that feeling could spread beyond Iran’s borders.”
“According to the intelligence progress reports, Iranian nuclear development is still on a low learning curve,” Bolan stated.
“For now. Getting his hands on U.S. data and hardware is going help Razihra make a big jump in nuclear development,” Brognola said.
“It won’t get him a warehouse full of nukes. Having the instructions isn’t the end of the R and D. His teams will still have to build the devices,” Bolan said.
“That’s why Razihra is buying the components. Nevski has been orchestrating the search. It was Marchesse’s job to find out who was in the running and stop them,” the big fed told them.
“Any leads?”
“Thin. Mainly what we have already gone over. He managed to pass along a few pointers to the director. You have his last one in your file.”
“London?” Bolan queried.
“Yes. Activity appears to be fairly strong right now, according to security readouts. London’s at the crossroads for international dealing, the jumping-off place for Europe and the Middle East. It’s a financial hub, as well. You’ve been there before. You know the situation. Wide-ranging cultural mix. Large urban sprawl. Easy place to hide. And Claude Stratton is based in London.”
“I’ll make it my starting point.”
“There’s an Air Force plane on standby,” Brognola informed him. “I’ll make the arrangements. Tell Barb what you need and it’ll make the flight with you.”
“Backup data to be forwarded?”
“As long as we can maintain contact, you’ll receive it ASAP. Aaron will check out your communication gear before you leave.”
“Fine.”
“You need any local backup?” Brognola asked.
“I’ll call if I do.”
“Any local interference, just dial the number.”
“Time to move out.”
“Striker, stay sharp. Don’t trust anyone. We don’t know how deep this CIA connection to the opposition goes.”
“Trust is for little children and old ladies,” Bolan said. “I’m not expecting to meet many of either in the field.”
“This could turn into one hell of a mess, Striker,” Brognola said. “We don’t want to be caught with our pants down if it blows up. Too much is at stake—future relations with less aggressive Middle East countries. Then there’s Afghanistan watching what’s going on. India and Pakistan edging around each other. If it comes out that U.S. technology has been assisting the Iranians, denying our complicity is going to be one hell of a job. And don’t forget the Israelis. If they suffer any damage, they’ll hit back hard and fast. Do what you have to. Find the players. Shut down the supply of U.S. data being fed to the Iranians. Take down Nevski’s organization. See who and what’s behind this Jordanian connection. You won’t have any interference from U.S. security agencies. If you do, refer them to me and I’ll field them to the Man. He’s told me you have absolute authority to get what you want.”
“Knowing that is going to make it so much easier out there,” Bolan said dryly.
“Sad to see such blatant cynicism,” Kurtzman said.
Bolan pushed to his feet. “I’ll see you in thirty, Aaron. Just make sure my cell phone is fully charged.”
“Give me your details and I’ll make sure your flight is on standby,” Price said. She knew Bolan would be moving out within a short time. Going back into the hell grounds to take on yet more faceless enemies in his continuing struggle.
As he stepped by her, the soldier briefly laid a big hand on her shoulder, then he was crossing the War Room, going out through the door and she knew the mission had started.
CHAPTER TWO
London, England
Claude Stratton lived in a mews apartment in Chelsea, a double garage taking up the lower floor, with the living quarters above. Sitting in his car across the street from the enclosed courtyard, Mack Bolan judged the place to be prohibitively expensive. For someone like Stratton it would be pocket change. Bolan read the profile Stony Man had provided during his flight to the UK. It had detailed Stratton’s business ventures, his connections with various dubious organizations. Despite that, the man had never been convicted of any crime, due to the fact Stratton was a clever man. His wealth allowed him the privilege of hiring the best lawyers available and their legal machinations kept him free and clear. Stratton was able to continue in business and stay one step ahead of prosecution.
This was Bolan’s second day tailing the man, and during that time Stratton had done little to arouse suspicion. From what he had seen, Stratton lived a solitary life in London. He made few contacts during the time Bolan had been watching him, visiting exclusive stores, dining alone. If he was involved in anything big at the present time, he appeared to be playing a waiting game.
That changed late afternoon of the second day.
Bolan could see Stratton’s silver Rolls-Royce parked outside the apartment. He was debating his strategy when a dark-colored Toyota slowed and turned into the mews, pulling up behind the Rolls. A dark-haired man climbed out and pressed the bell at Stratton’s door. When the door opened Bolan caught a glimpse of Claude Stratton as the visitor stepped inside and the door closed. Bolan memorized the license plate on the Toyota. He turned on the cell phone Kurtzman had provided. It had Tri-Band connections and a dedicated e-mail interface. He logged on and established a connection, wrote and sent an e-mail request for a check on the UK registration of the Toyota. He received his reply in less than ten minutes.
The vehicle is registered to a Jason Novak, UK citizen. A check on the man revealed his business as an import-export dealer. His main client base is in the Middle East, and British Intelligence was investigating the possibility that he could be in the arms business, using his legitimate trading as cover.
Bolan logged out and switched off, checked his 93-R and exited the rental. Crossing the street, he entered the mews and walked to the big Rolls-Royce. He leaned against the side of the car and braced his heels to the ground, using his body to rock the vehicle. Nothing happened until he repeated the move, using more pressure, and heard the alarm system kick in. The shrill beeping sounded loud within the confines of the courtyard. Bolan flattened against the wall to the left of Stratton’s front door and waited.
The door was yanked open and Stratton stood with the car’s remote in his hand. He pointed it at the Rolls and depressed the button, shutting off the alarm. As he turned to reenter the apartment Bolan stepped into view, pressing the muzzle of the Beretta against Stratton’s spine and urging him forward. As soon as they were inside, Bolan pushed the door shut behind him, locking the dead bolt.
“What the hell is this?” Stratton demanded. He had a soft face, and his loose double chin quivered with indignation. Bolan didn’t miss the cold gleam in his eyes.
“Just a home visit,” Bolan said, and pushed the 93-R hard into Stratton’s soft flesh. “Keep quiet and let’s get back upstairs.”
Stratton had the sense to do what he was told and preceded Bolan up the stairs. If he had been planning any tricks, Bolan was ahead of him. As they reached the head of the stairs, the soldier edged around him and scanned the room that spread out to his left. Well appointed, with furnishings that had to have cost a small fortune, the living room had a wide window that overlooked the courtyard. Stratton’s visitor, Jason Novak, was standing at the window. His lean features paled when he saw Bolan and the weapon he was carrying.
“Claude, what the hell is going—?”
“Novak, keep the hands where I can see them,” Bolan ordered. He was running his free hand over Stratton as he spoke, checking the man for weapons and finding he was clean. “Stratton, sit over there. Do it now.”
Bolan turned his attention back to Novak. “What’s on the table today, Novak? Autorifles? RPGs? Electronic technology? You cut your deal yet?”
Novak didn’t respond, but the expression on his face told Bolan he had touched a nerve.
“Don’t tell this bastard a thing,” Stratton said.
Bolan raised a hand in Novak’s direction. “Take the jacket off.”
“What?”
“The coat. On the floor.”
Novak shrugged out of his jacket and dropped it on the carpet. A bolstered handgun rode his left hip, butt forward.
“Two fingers. Left hand. Take it out. Place it on the coffee table and join your pal.” Bolan picked up the revolver, a 5-shot, .44-caliber Charter Arms Bulldog. He flipped out the cylinder and let the bullets drop to the carpet. “This has to be illegal, Novak. UK has a no-handgun policy for civilians.”
“So what’s that in your hand, Yank? A stick of candy?”
“I admit to bending the rules.”
Bolan had seen the sheets of paper spread over the surface of the coffee table. He scooped them up and checked them out. One was a list of ordnance, covering a wide spectrum of weapons from handguns to autorifles, machine guns and even explosives. There were details of a port of destination in Jordan. The other sheet that caught his eye was a letter of introduction, which had been signed by Stratton. The final item was an airline ticket and hotel reservation—again the destination was Jordan.
“You guys are making this too easy for me,” Bolan said.
“I don’t know who you are,” Stratton said, sounding extremely nervous. He wasn’t used to being threatened. “But you should understand this is something you don’t want to get into.”
“Uh-huh,” Bolan said, “it’s something you should have got out of. Now it’s too late.”
“Too late? What is this crap?” Stratton asked. His attempt at bluffing failed. He tried another tack. “You realize who I am?”
Bolan shook his head. “I only heard about you recently. From what I read I haven’t missed a deal. You run errands for bottom-end terrorists. We’d call you a gofer in the States. Somebody calls, you fetch. Have I got it right?”
Stratton’s plump face reddened at the insult. “You bastard. I don’t run errands for anyone. They come to me. I…” He closed his mouth before he said too much.
“Okay, you got the drop on us,” Novak said. “So who the hell are you? A cop? Not British. American? Some agency? You can’t be CIA.”
“Why not?” Bolan asked.
Because I have some kind of Agency protection. Was that what Novak meant?
“I…”
“Jesus, Novak, shut your bloody mouth,” Stratton snapped. “Is this a rip-off?”
Bolan smiled. “You mean, a shakedown? I don’t think so, Stratton.” He folded the papers from the coffee table and slid them into a pocket inside his leather jacket.
That action forced Novak’s hand. He lunged forward, ignoring the weapon in Bolan’s hand, and cleared the coffee table in a desperate dive. One foot hit the top of the table, and he used it to propel himself at Bolan. In the fleeting moment before Novak made contact, Bolan saw Stratton move, too, pushing to his feet and turning toward an antique roll-top desk against one wall. He lost eye contact as Novak slammed into him, driving Bolan backward. They hit the room’s end wall, the soldier feeling the hard impact.
Novak clawed at Bolan’s throat, fingers attempting to gain a hold. He failed to divert his adversary’s gun hand, and it cost him when the solid bulk of the 93-R slammed down across the side of his skull. The blow dazed him, and Bolan struck again, aware that Stratton was still in the game. Novak gasped, shaking his suddenly bloody head and slackened his grip on Bolan’s throat. The soldier immediately slammed his left hand under Novak’s chin, the heel impacting hard. Novak gagged, head arcing back, and Bolan swung the Beretta one more time, steel crunching against the other man’s jaw. The blow spun Novak to one side and as he slumped to the carpet Bolan swiveled to face Stratton, and met the guy as he turned from the desk, his right fist gripping a SIG-Sauer P-226. The muzzle was already arcing in Bolan’s direction, Stratton’s flushed face taut with rage. The Executioner didn’t hesitate, his finger stroking the 93-R’s trigger. The pistol fired a suppressed 3-round burst into Stratton’s chest. He fell back against the desk, eyes widening in total shock, sliding to the floor, facedown, the P-226 spilling from his limp fingers.
CHAPTER THREE
Bolan stood in the silence, shaking his head at the sudden change in the situation. Soft to hard in a matter of seconds. No way could these events be predetermined.
He stripped off Novak’s belt and used it to secure the man’s hands behind his back. He lifted the unconscious man onto the leather couch, then bent over Stratton and took his belt. Kneeling in front of Novak, he bound the man’s ankles together.
Bolan took out his cell phone and contacted Stony Man. The connection was smooth and fast in spite of various cutouts and Bolan asked for Brognola. When the big Fed came on the line, Bolan explained the situation and made his request.
“You sure on this, Striker?” Brognola asked, then caught himself. “I know you wouldn’t be asking if you weren’t.”
“I need Stratton’s body removed and Novak in secure—and I mean secure—isolation. We remove Stratton’s Rolls from outside his place and have it hidden in a secure garage. Make it look like he’s gone on a trip. Novak’s car, as well. It might be less suspicious if his car is removed ASAP. It might give me some lead time. And Stratton’s phone needs monitoring for any incoming calls.”
“Give me his number and Aaron can access it and keep 24/7 surveillance. Anything else?”
“Not at the moment.”
“I’ll arrange the removals.”
“Novak’s flight isn’t until tomorrow afternoon. I’ll lay low until then. I also need a UK passport in Novak’s name with my photo and details on it. A suggestion—have the removal team arrive late in the evening. Less chance of anyone getting suspicious, or seeing it isn’t Stratton driving away. As soon as it’s done, I can leave and get back to the air base.”
“Stay close, Striker, I’ll call back with details.”
BOLAN LOCATED THE SMALL, expensively fitted kitchen and made himself a mug of coffee. He took it back to the living room and waited for Novak to regain consciousness. The man eventually roused, groaning at the pain in his head. Blood had run heavily down his face and soaked the front of his shirt. He struggled against the bonds at his wrists and ankles. He finally raised his head and stared across the room at Bolan.
“What’s your game?”
Bolan remained silent. He let it stretch, waiting until Novak looked around the room and saw Stratton’s corpse.
“Jesus, is he dead?”
“He’s dead. You can be next, Novak.”
The man shook his head. “If you wanted that, I’d already be dead. You want something. So we have a trade-off coming.”
“You can still end up like the deceased Mr. Stratton. Let’s be clear, Novak. If I can get what I want, fine. If not, I can go with what I have.”
“And what’s that?” Novak’s voice held a trace of a sneer.
“Your inventory. Your flight ticket and the reservation at Le Meridien Hotel in Aqaba, Jordan.”
“Maybe I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Then we don’t have anything to discuss,” Bolan said, and reached for the Beretta on the coffee table. “Like I said, it makes no difference to me. Two dead is just as acceptable. Actually it would make my life easier.”
BY THE TIME THE CLEANUP team arrived it was dark. Bolan had received an advance call and was there to let the four men into the apartment. They worked quickly and efficiently. Within twenty minutes Stratton’s body had been taken outside and placed in the trunk of Novak’s car. One of the men took the keys, slid behind the wheel and drove off. Novak, hands cuffed and mouth gagged, was taken out of the building and placed in the rear of the Rolls. All this was done with the minimum of fuss and at chosen moments so as not to alert anyone in the other apartments. There was only one of them that showed any light in a window, and close observation by the cleanup team ensured no one was watching. After the Rolls had driven out of the mews, the remaining member of the team handed Bolan a package.
“I believe this is what you’ve been waiting for, Cooper,” he said, using Bolan’s cover name.
“Thanks.”
They were standing in the gloom of the apartment, all the lights turned off following Stratton’s supposed departure.
“Novak?” Bolan asked.
“Don’t worry about him. Where he’s going they don’t have guest telephones. He’ll be out of circulation big-time until we get the word. Could be useful. We’ve been dying to get our hands on that character for some time. This gives us the opportunity to talk to him without his legal team breathing down our necks.”
“If you get anything that might be of use to me, I’d appreciate the information.”
“We know where to pass it along.” The man pointed at the laptop. “Likewise, anything we can use.”
“I’ll give my people the word to download the contents soon as they can.”
The apartment had offered up nothing else in the way of information. Bolan and the cleanup man slipped out of the apartment, pulling the door shut behind them. They stayed out of the security light and left the quiet mews. Bolan crossed to his rental car, the cleanup man already out of sight on the far side of the street. He started the vehicle and swung it around, his destination the military airfield where he had landed in the UK.
Military Airbase, Oxford, UK
“DOWNLOAD COMPLETE,” KURTZMAN said over the com link. “We’ll go to work on the files and give you anything useful.”
“Once I get to Jordan I might be out of touch for a while. There’s no way of knowing how this is going to play out.”
“Take it easy, big guy.”
Brognola came on the line. “The package you asked for?” He was referring to the passport Bolan had requested.
“Looks good. I don’t know how far it’s going to get me,” Bolan said. “If someone over there already knows Novak…”
“This is not a good idea,” Barbara Price said over the multilink. “You’re going to walk in blind.”
“It’s a chance I’ll have to take,” Bolan said. “I don’t have much more to go on, so I have to take what I’ve got.”
“Just watch yourself, Striker. Backup’s here. Just remember that.”
BOLAN, DRESSED CASUALLY AND carrying a small flight bag, arrived at Heathrow Airport well ahead of his flight time. He checked in and went to the departure lounge, bought himself a light snack and a coffee, and took a seat. He used the time to go over what he had already learned from his encounter with Stratton and Novak.
Prior to the arrival of the cleanup team, Novak had given Bolan what he wanted. The destination and time of a shipment that would complete his transaction with the group based in Jordan. Novak had finally accepted his delicate position in relation to staying alive. Stratton’s unexpected death had shaken the man, and Bolan’s cool demeanor had convinced him his continuing existence was dependant on cooperation.
Armed with that and the documents he had found, Bolan was going to step into the viper’s nest willingly. It wouldn’t be the first time. He knew he was putting himself at risk, but there was no way he could control all aspects of any mission. A degree of calculated risk was there, and Bolan had to chance it. There was no other way of moving forward.
At the back of his mind lingered the suggestion of some kind of Agency involvement. And that was something that would keep the Executioner looking over his shoulder.
CHAPTER FOUR
Aqaba, Jordan
Bolan’s flight touched down in Jordan just after noon. He hailed a taxi and headed to Le Meridien Hotel, where a room had been booked for Novak. Bolan checked in, went to his room and settled down to wait. When he had collected his key card, there had been a message waiting for Mr. Novak. It had informed him that he would be contacted and to wait at the hotel until then. There wasn’t much Bolan could do until that contact was made. Nothing happened during the rest of the day, and after a meal, he turned in and slept.
BOLAN SAUNTERED OUT OF the bathroom of his hotel room, towelling his hair dry after a cooling shower. He dressed in black, lightweight clothing and lace-up boots, then crossed to look out the second-story window. The sun was already up over the busy city.
Because of the high security in Jordan, Bolan had been forced to enter the country without the benefit of weapons. He hadn’t been happy with that idea, but he had been left with little choice. Somehow he was going to have to get his hands on some weapons.
As he considered his options, there was a light tap on his door.
“Who is it?”
“Clean towels, sir.”
When Bolan cautiously opened the door he was confronted by a lean man in a creased, cream linen suit. The man held a well-used Browning Hi-Power pistol, and was pointing it directly at Bolan.
“Please step back, Mr. Novak,” the man said politely. “I would hate to have to shoot you out here.”
Bolan retreated. The man knew his business. He stayed far enough away from Bolan to avoid being jumped while keeping the 9 mm gun on target. However much he might have disliked the situation Bolan wasn’t reckless enough to try to take the gun away from the man just yet. Not until he had gained some information at least.
The man followed Bolan inside, pushing the door shut with the heel of one worn and scuffed brown shoe. The cuffs of his pants were grubby around their frayed edges, and the overlong legs dragged on the floor when he stood still.
“Am I supposed to be expecting you?” Bolan asked. “Or is this just some local custom?”
The man’s wrinkled brown face creased into a semblance of a smile. “You had a message waiting when you arrived?”
Bolan nodded. “It said to wait, so I waited.” He turned and indicated his breakfast cart that had arrived minutes earlier. “You mind if I finish my coffee before it goes cold?”
The man gestured with the Browning, then went and sat on the other side of the room, the gun still trained on Bolan.
“You want any?”
The man shook his head. His black hair was worn thick and long, and kept sliding over his left eye. He brushed it back with a flick of his hand.
Bolan drank his coffee. “You know who I am.”
“Forgive me. I am Salim.”
“And your job is to…?”
Salim smiled. “I am your escort.”
“Why the gun?”
“To maintain mutual trust and ensure your good heath.”
“You speak good English.”
“Thank you. For an Englishman you have a very good American accent.”
Bolan didn’t miss a beat. “That’s what happens when you spend too much time over there. I do a lot of business with the Yanks. Goes down better if they understand what I’m saying.”
“I need to see your passport and a certain letter.”
Bolan handed over the items and watched the man study them. Finally satisfied, Salim pushed them into a pocket.
“Time to go,” he said.
Bolan pulled on his jacket. They left the room and made their way out of the hotel lobby without incident. Once outside, Salim guided Bolan to a black Audi. A solidly built man sat at the wheel. All Bolan saw were wide, powerful shoulders and a shaved head set on a thick neck.
“In the back,” Salim said. He followed Bolan inside, then spoke in rapid Arabic to the driver. The Audi swung around and out of the hotel parking area, merging with the traffic.
“Are we doing business, Salim? Or are we just going to tour the city?”
“Enjoy, Mr. Novak. This is a beautiful city. Look at the architecture. The sea.”
“I can do that on the travel channel.”
“True, but not with all the ingredients. Television is a false medium. Not real. Like you, Mr. Novak. It only pretends to be what is is.”
In that instant Bolan knew his claim to be Jason Novak hadn’t been believed. He was ready to make a move when Salim suddenly lashed out with the Browning Hi-Power, striking him across the skull.
BOLAN AWOKE IN A SHADED room that held the stale odors of casual existence in the dusty shadows and a scent of danger that heightened his awareness.
He sat up, leaned against the wall at his back and took a look around. Shabby furniture occupied a shabby room. Sunlight permeated the thin blinds drawn across the windows. He was facing the door and as he focused his eyes, pushing back the dull ache from where Salim had struck him, he saw the man watching him. Salim said something and a second figure materialized from the far side of the room. The driver. On his feet he was tall. His dark features held an expression that suggested he was more than ready to inflict harm on Bolan.
“Tell me where Novak is. And refrain from maintaining this deception. I know you are not Novak. Your false identity was spotted at the airport. Whatever your intention, it has failed.”
“It got you out in the open.”
“Much good that will do.”
“The game isn’t over yet, Salim.”
“If I shoot you now, it will most certainly be over.”
Bolan ignored that. “I’d guess you need to know why I took Novak’s place.”
Salim stepped forward. “And you are going to tell me.” It wasn’t a question. “I am also still curious about Novak himself. Is he dead?”
“I’m sure you’d like that to be true. Novak dead means he can’t talk about you and your people. Sorry, but he’s very much alive. The people who have him are very good at getting what they want. He’ll tell them everything in time.”
Salim closed in on Bolan, raising the pistol in his hand. “Death comes quickly in this country. Life can be cheap.”
“But not from you, Salim. You need my secrets. Kill me, and you’ll never find out what I’ve learned about your organization.”
“Nothing. You know nothing.” The words were spit out in an angry moment. He didn’t believe Bolan. Salim was eager to inflict harm, but something held him back and the soldier figured he had his orders. His threats were threats and little more.
“Your employers believe that? Razihra? Yamir Kerim? Anatoly Nevski? Hard men to keep happy I’d say.”
Bolan was deliberately goading Salim, using names he hoped would get a reaction. And they did. Salim failed to conceal his surprise. The man was nervous. Excitable. He turned and said something to his helper. The big man came forward, his large hands forming even larger fists.
“You will tell me all you know,” Salim said. “I need to understand.”
Bolan pushed slowly to his feet, watching the advancing figure. The man was slow, his movements heavy. No fast mover, Bolan realized. He’d work on that. The man depended on his strength, not his speed.
Salim was urging on his man now, his Arabic racing out in a continuous stream. The guy reached behind him and produced a broad knife. He cut the air with it to show Bolan what was coming.
“Yusef is very skilled with the blade,” Salim said. “He can cut you and you will still live. Save yourself the pain and give me what I need.”
Yusef leaned forward, the gleaming steel blade threatening Bolan.
“It is not too late.”
Bolan ignored Salim’s taunt. He stayed where he was a second longer, then spun hard and went low, driving a clenched fist into Yusef’s groin, catching him unprotected. Bolan’s fist went in deep, drawing a high yell from the guy. While Yusef’s attention was centered on his pain, his stride faltered and Bolan reached out, grabbing the wrist of the knife hand. His grip secured, the Executioner turned his back on the guy, twisting the arm and bringing it across his shoulder so that when he applied unrelenting pressure against the natural bend of the arm, bone snapped.
The knife slipped from loose fingers. Keeping hold of the wrist, Bolan turned, staring directly into the face of the moaning assailant, then launched a crippling punch that crunched the side of Yusef’s jaw with force enough to fracture the bone. The guy went down on his knees, lost in his new world of pain, blood dribbling from a slack mouth where teeth had dug into his cheek. Bolan slammed a brutal, sledgehammer blow to the back of Yusef’s neck and he flopped to the floor and lay still.
Salim had moved up behind Yusef, not wanting to miss what was supposed to happen to the American. When Yusef went down, Salim was left exposed. Before he could recover, Bolan was on him. He closed his left hand over the barrel of the pistol, twisted hard. Salim’s trigger finger, caught in the guard, snapped like a twig. He howled in pain and didn’t stop until Bolan backhanded him across the side of the face, the blow stunning the man. Salim started to transfer his pistol to his other hand and Bolan kicked his feet from under him, dropping him to the dirty floor. He bent and took the pistol from Salim.
Bolan stepped close, running skilled hands over the man as he checked for more weapons. He found a couple of filled magazines for the Browning and little else except for some coins and crumpled banknotes. He found his passport and the Novak letter, which he retrieved. He slipped the Browning mags into his pocket. Taking hold of Salim’s coat Bolan pulled him across the room and swung him into a sagging cane chair. He raised the man’s head and stared into his pain-dulled eyes.
“Is this the way it works, Salim?”
The man in the chair clutched his broken finger and shook his head. Up close his brown face was a mass of fine wrinkles, his slack jaw unshaved and he was sweating heavily.
“Maybe I should break the rest of your fingers. Just to show you I don’t play games.” The man shrank away Bolan. “Your choice,” the Executioner said. “Personally, I don’t care if I have to break both your legs, as well.”
“You are a cruel man.”
Bolan found it hard to hold back a smile. “That from the guy who just tried to have a knife stuck in me? What was that, a local greeting?”
“That was business. Nothing personal.”
“Wrong there, friend. When someone comes at me with a knife, it gets very personal.” Bolan straightened, regarding the man silently, waiting.
“What do you expect of me? Should I tell you who wants you dead?”
“It would be a start. Right now all I want to know is where they are.”
“You expect me to take you to them?”
“Why not?”
“You expect me to betray them? That will never happen.”
“Wrong answer. I’m not happy with that and you are getting closer to having something else broken. Maybe I’ll just shoot you now and get it over with.”
Salim’s eyes widened and the man sweated even more. He regarded the tall, cold-eyed American closely. The man had a look about him that indicated he meant what he said. He handled the pistol with authority, and it was plain to see he had killed before.
Salim, in fact, had a long acquaintance with violence. It had been his business for many years. In that time he had come up against many men of violence, and he had dispatched many of them. Always in the line of work. Never with any personal animosity. His killing trade was just that—his trade. He worked quickly and efficiently, mostly with his knife because it was that weapon he had mastered at an early age. He had killed his first victim when he was fifteen and ever since it had been the way he had earned his livelihood. Salim had an excellent reputation among his people. In some quarters he was feared. Others envied him his skill and his discretion. Yet here he was another man’s prisoner. The man he had been paid to capture. It was, above everything else, humiliating. To have been overpowered and wounded by an American. If the story got out, Salim would lose much of his status.
“So if you will kill me, do it. There is nothing I can tell you.”
Bolan backed away, turning to peer through the window. The narrow, sunlit street below had little traffic. Between the houses he could see the glittering water, boats bobbing gently. Here, away from the tourist hotels and the busy shops, life went on its slow-paced way. Just as it probably had for a thousand years. Change here was slow to the extreme. It didn’t stop the shadow people from plying their back-street trade in arms dealing. Weapons were always in demand, and the enterprise was thriving. The merchandise was no longer the usual crates of Kalashnikovs and RPGs. The stakes were far higher.
Nuclear stakes.
“If they know I’m not Novak, they must be concerned,” Bolan said. “Worried I might be close to discovering something about them. Like the location of the desert camp.”
Bolan watched Salim’s eyes as he spoke. Though he tried not to, Salim made an involuntary movement with his head when Bolan mentioned the camp.
“There is nothing to say,” Salim muttered, avoiding looking directly at the big American.
“I’ll be sure to let your employers know you helped me find them. Yamir Kerim especially.”
Salim became instantly alert, eyes wide with alarm. “You cannot do this…”
“You haven’t told me anything. Yet. But you will.”
Bolan let his words hang in the silence that followed. He could almost sense Salim’s mind working overtime, assessing and debating which way to go. He was caught in a dead end. No matter which way he turned, he was facing threats. Bolan on one side, Kerim on the other.
“Why should this happen to me? I only offer my services as a business. Not to become involved like this.” His voice had taken on a whining tone as he tried to worm his way into Bolan’s sympathy. “I am just a poor man struggling to make a living.”
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