Renegade

Like most of the dwellings in the other Tehran neighborhood, Mani Bartovi’s house had a garden. But the muddy area in this region of Tehran was far smaller and looked as if had been abandoned as a futile effort long ago. As he crept forward, Bolan looked through the front window and saw three small children playing on the floor of a living area. A woman—apparently their mother—lay back against several large pillows on the floor, breast-feeding an infant. Not far to her side the Executioner saw a man who had to be the cabdriver.

Mani Bartovi lay back against his own pillow, staring across the room at a wall Bolan couldn’t see.

Changing his angle slightly, the Executioner looked through the glass and saw the white glow of a television screen. The picture was all but unrecognizable, and looking up to the roof of the house he saw a bent and weathered TV antenna.

Bolan moved back away from the window, deeper into the shadows. He needed desperately to question Mani Bartovi and to learn where he had taken Anton Sobor. But there was no guarantee that Bartovi would talk willingly. And if he wouldn’t, Bolan would have to resort to a more forceful interrogation.

But not in front of the cabdriver’s wife and children.

Quietly circling the house, Bolan spotted a walk-in toolshed of corrugated steel at the rear of the dwelling. Moving silently forward, he drew a small laser flashlight from the inside pocket of his jacket and tapped the button on the end. The bright glow illuminated the shed just long enough to show him that no padlock was in place. Tapping the button again, the Executioner reached through the darkness and opened the doors.

With the aid of the flashlight once he was inside, Bolan saw rusting lawn and garden tools piled in the corners. In the middle of the shed was an old hand-mower. It wasn’t an ideal interrogation room by any means. But it would do. The question now was, how to get Bartovi out of the house and into the shed without alarming the rest of his family.

Closing the doors behind him, Bolan pulled the cell phone out of his jacket and tapped in the number to Stony Man Farm. Like all of the calls sent to, or from, the Farm, this one was scrambled and routed through dummy numbers on several different continents before it finally connected and rang.

Barbara Price answered on the first ring. “Hello again, Striker,” she said.

“I need some help,” the Executioner told her.

“Want Bear again?”

“No. Let me talk to the translator the Farm uses for Farsi.”

Price didn’t question the request—just tapped the transfer button. Bolan heard a click, then the sound of the line ringing again. A moment later a young voice answered. “Yes? This is Ron Touchie. How may I help you?”

“I need you to make a phone call in Farsi.”

CHAPTER FOUR

The Executioner was watching through the window again when he saw the woman inside the house get up, hand the baby to her husband and answer the phone on the table against the wall. Her lips opened slightly as she said, “Shalom.” A few seconds went by, then she dropped the phone to her side, said something to her husband, then traded the phone receiver for the baby again.

Mani Bartovi looked angry as he rose from the floor and spoke into the phone. He nodded and his lips moved several times. Then he dropped the phone back into its cradle and disappeared from view into another room.

Bolan moved back into the shadows and called Stony Man Farm again. Price was expecting his call and routed it on to Touchie without speaking. “How’d it go?” the Executioner asked.

“Very well,” Touchie replied. “He’s not happy about going out again tonight but, what can you do when half the cab company has come down with the flu?”

“Thanks,” Bolan said. “Stay on the line. I’ll need you to interpret once I grab him.”

“I’ll stay on if you like,” said Tokaido. “But I don’t think you’ll need me. The guy speaks English quite well.”

Bolan frowned. “How’d you determine that?”

“I asked him,” Touchie said offhandedly. “I told him there was an important New Zealand businessman arriving at the airport and expecting to be picked up.”

“Thanks,” Bolan said into the phone. “I’ll call again if I need you.”

“Okay. Goodbye.”

Bolan hung up and looked back toward the house. He had passed a front door just beyond the wall before moving to the shed. But his instincts told him Mani Bartovi was more likely to leave the house from the rear. He had already started that way when the sound of a back door opening confirmed his suspicion. He stayed out of sight around the corner of the house as he heard the man and woman speaking softly. Then the voices stopped and the sound of a door snapping closed met his ears.

Soft footsteps started toward him.

Bolan flattened harder against the side of the house and drew the Desert Eagle.

A moment later Bartovi had rounded the corner toward the street. A second after that he had the muzzle of a Desert Eagle stuck in one ear.

“This is to get your attention,” the Executioner whispered. “I don’t want to kill you unless you force me to.”

“No English,” Bartovi said. “No—”

Bolan jammed the gun tighter into the man’s ear and grabbed him by the arm. “I happen to know better,” he said softly but sternly. “You just spoke fluent English over the phone.” He paused long enough to let the fact that he knew about the phone call sink in. But not long enough for the man to question how he knew. “You’re coming with me into your toolshed,” the Executioner went on. “I’ve got a few questions for you. You answer them honestly, in English, and you’ll not only live through the night but you’ll go back inside with more money than you make in a month driving that cab.”

The cabdriver was breathing hard now, as if he’d just finished a footrace. “And what,” he said. “If I refuse?”

Bolan cocked the hammer on the Desert Eagle as an answer.

Together, the two men made their way across the darkened courtyard to the shed. Bolan kept the gun in the man’s ear as he opened the door and a moment later they were both inside. The Executioner closed the door behind him before switching on the flashlight. He shone the bright laser beam up into Bartovi’s eyes as he said, “You picked up a man just down the street from where the Hezbollah bust went down today,” he said. “The man had on a red shirt and was limping. You remember him?”

Bartovi was frightened beyond the point where he could even concentrate. “No!” he said in a loud voice, his eyes clenched shut against the light. “No! I am not Hezbollah! I am not a terrorist! I am—”

There were men who wouldn’t talk unless you threatened them and other men who turned incoherent when frightened for their lives. Bartovi fell into the second category, and Bolan brought him back to reality with a light slap across the face. At the same time he dropped the beam to the ground. The light, reflecting off the steel inner walls of the shed, was still bright enough to illuminate the entire area.

Bolan holstered the Desert Eagle. “Relax, Mani,” he said. “I know you aren’t a terrorist—you’re a hardworking cabdriver trying to support a family. Now, let me tell you what I am. I’m a man of my word. You tell me what I need to know and you’ll be fine.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of large denomination bills. “And I told you I’d pay you. I will.”

Bartovi slowly opened his eyes. The expression on his face was one of relief that the huge Desert Eagle was no longer in sight. Then it changed to nothing short of lust when he saw the money that had replaced it in Bolan’s hand.

“The man with the limp,” the Executioner repeated. “He may have spoken Farsi. But he would have done it with either an American or Russian accent.”

For the first time, Bartovi looked up at Bolan. “I remember him, yes,” the cabdriver said. “The accent was…very odd. Not really Russian. Not really American. More a little of both.”

The Executioner nodded. That made perfect sense for a man who had been raised in the Soviet Union but had spent the majority of his adult life in the U.S. “Where did you take him?” he asked.

Bartovi closed his eyes again but this time it was in concentration. “To the airport,” he said.

Bolan frowned. “Which terminal?”

“I am sorry,” Bartovi said, frowning. “I do not know that English word.”

“What airline?” the Executioner asked. “At what airline company’s area did you let him out?”

“Ah,” Bartovi said. “Yes. Iran Aseman Airlines.”

Bolan handed him roughly half of the bills.

Bartovi took them and stared down at his hand in shock, as if he had never truly believed that the big American with the big gun would really keep his word.

With the rest of the money still in his hand, Bolan said, “Did the man say anything about where he was going?”

Again, the eyes closed in concentration. When they opened again, the cabdriver said, “No.”

Bolan’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sure?” he said, the hand with the money in it moving a little closer to the Desert Eagle again. He wanted to make sure Bartovi understood he would be rewarded for telling the truth. But the Iranian cabbie also needed believe that punishment awaited any lies.

“Yes, yes, I am sure,” Bartovi said quickly. “I only hesitated because I was trying to remember.”

Bolan nodded and divided the money in his hand in half again. “Do you have a car?” he asked. “I’ll pay you to use it if you do.”

Bartovi shook his head, glancing regretfully at the bills remaining in the Executioner’s fist.

Bolan shoved the rest of the money into his hand. “Take this anyway,” he said. “You’ve cooperated.” Bartovi was trembling slightly again. It was evident that he still couldn’t believe the big stranger wasn’t going to kill him, then take the money back. “I doubt anyone will know I was here,” he finished. “But if they ask, you never saw me. Right?”

Bartovi nodded. “I never saw you,” he repeated.

The Executioner left the cabdriver in his toolshed and hurried back along the side of the house, exiting the courtyard through the same gate by which he’d entered. Turning, he started down the sidewalk. He had dumped the Mustang because, even though he’d paid the owner three times its worth, the man had probably reported it stolen. By now every cop in Tehran would have the license tag. He needed new wheels.

Less than half of the streetlights were working and Bolan stayed in the shadows as he jogged back to the Archaeological Museum. There was a mechanic’s shop across the street with two cars in the parking lot: a Pontiac Bonneville and a Dodge Dart GT that dated back to the mid-1960s. As he got closer, Bolan saw that the Bonneville’s front wheels were gone and it rested atop concrete blocks.

The Dodge Dart was old and required hot-wiring beneath the dash. But its 273-cubic-inch engine purred easily. With “four on the floor” and a silver T-handled gearshift knob, it was obvious that it was the pride and joy of some wannabe racer.

Bolan pushed in the clutch, threw the car in reverse and backed it away from the building. Pushing the T-handle forward into first gear, he slowly let the clutch out and eased back toward the street.

TRAFFIC THINNED as he left Tehran and headed for Rey again. Bolan manipulated the vehicle deftly up and down through the gears, staying just below the speed limit and keeping a low profile. When he hit a stretch where he could glide in fourth, he reached into the leather jacket to his side and pulled out his cell phone.

A few moments later Price answered. “Hello again, Striker.”

“I need Bear again, Barbara,” Bolan said as Tehran proper faded in his rearview mirror.

“Then you’ve got him.” The line clicked.

A second later Kurtzman lifted the phone. Bolan quickly summed up what he’d learned about Sobor going to the airport. “There’s no sense my going out there,” he told Stony Man Farm’s computer ace. “I don’t know who to ask for and don’t even speak the language.” He stopped talking, knowing there was no need to verbalize his next request; Kurtzman would know what he wanted.

“I think I might be able to help,” the computer man said. “I’ve been doing a little playing around since we talked. But first, you might want to know that you’re big news all over right now.”

Bolan frowned. “How’s that?”

“Iran’s riding the bust at the safehouse for all it’s worth, trying to use it to show the world how tough they’re getting on terrorism.”

“I’m not surprised. Since their terrorist buddies are already dead, they might as well get some use out of them.”

“Exactly,” Kurtzman said. “There are pictures of dead terrorists all over Al-Jazera and the other networks over there. Not to mention CNN, MSNBC, FOX—you name it.” Half a world away, the man in the wheelchair chuckled. “The holes in the dead men’s bodies look strangely .44 caliber to me, but then, what do I know?”

Bolan guided the Dodge on through the night, nearing Rey. “You said you’d been playing around,” he said. “I assume your magic machines have told you something?”

“Oh, yeah,” Kurtzman said. “Just thought I’d let you in on what the whole world knows first. Now, for your ears only, as the saying goes, I tapped into the Iranian secret police radio frequency and our translator’s been listening and jotting down everything that might be pertinent.

VEVAK, Bolan thought silently. The Islamic Iranian government’s secret police which had replaced the Shah’s ruthless SAVAK assassins and torturers. And become twice as ruthless as its predecessor. “What have you learned?” he asked.

“Well, for one thing, it appears they’ve got you and Sobor confused. Maybe that’s on purpose, but I don’t get that feeling. VEVAK’s radio frequency isn’t even open to the regular cops, and they’re pretty straightforward most of the time.” He stopped, cleared his throat, then went on. “They know there was a Russian there at the house, and a guy they think was Russian got away across the rooftops.”

“That was me,” said Bolan. “I’m the one they saw. Sobor was already gone when they got there.”

“Well, at this point, they seem to think it’s all one and the same man. They’ve found close to a dozen passports and supporting identification with the same picture on them, and the guy’s Caucasian.”

Bolan’s eyebrows lowered in concentration.

“You still there?” Kurtzman asked several seconds later.

“Yeah, just thinking, Bear.” He paused again. All he could learn from the passports and other ID Kurtzman had just mentioned would be names Anton Sobor wasn’t using. “Any way you can find out if there were any passports missing?” he asked. “Like, maybe they found just part of an identity?”

“I get your drift,” Kurtzman said. “But that’s gonna be tough. Give me a little while to come up with a plan, okay?”

“I’ve got another hour’s drive before I get back to the helicopter,” the Executioner said. “If you can find a name, great. If not, hack into the Iranian Aseman Airlines files and check the rosters for every flight out of Tehran since the bust, okay?”

“Okay. I’d better get on it.” Kurtzman hung up.

Bolan drove on. Rey appeared, and then the Dodge Dart GT’s headlights flickered across the deserted water hole where the women had washed the carpets earlier in the day. Lifting the phone again, he dialed another number.

“Get that bird revved up,” he said when Grimaldi answered. “I’m ten minutes away. I don’t know where we’re going yet, but we’re going somewhere.”

BOLAN PULLED to the end of the road and parked the Dodge Dart GT in the same spot where he’d left the Mustang hours earlier. Reaching beneath the dashboard, he killed the engine and got out. Below, in the valley where the Bell was hidden, he heard the soft purr of the chopper warming up. The OH-58D advanced scout helicopter had a mast-mounted sight and two Stinger missile pods. It had been designed with its main mission being to locate and designate targets for the Apache AH-64’s Hellfire missiles. This one was unmarked, and had been painted an unintimidating light tan that helped it blend in with the surroundings without screaming out “Camouflage!” in case it did happen to be seen. Stony Man Farm’s chief armorer, John “Cowboy” Kissinger, had disguised the Stingers and also rigged up a hidden 60 mm machine gun.

Bolan’s hope was that the machine gun and Stingers would still be unfired when the mission was over. The situation would develop much more smoothly if the Bell could simply be used as a means of transportation and not be forced to fight. But the weapons were there in case they were needed.

The half moon was high overhead, casting an eerie luminescence down over the rocky hills around the ancient city of Rey. Remembering the path he had taken earlier down into the valley, Bolan retraced his steps in half the time. When he reached the bottom, he ducked low beneath the twirling helicopter blades and climbed on board.

Jack Grimaldi was already strapped into the pilot’s seat behind the controls. Bolan saw him checking the various gauges in front of him as he buckled his own seat belt. He remained silent while the pilot finished his last-minute checklist. Seemingly satisfied, Grimaldi finally looked up and said, “You heard anything back from Stony Man?”

Bolan shook his head. “Not since we talked last.”

“Barb tried getting you,” Grimaldi said. “You were probably in a dead zone.” He glanced down at the cell phone that Bolan had just pulled from the pocket of his leather jacket. “Lot of them around in a place like this.”

The Executioner nodded. Stony Man Farm’s cell phones—like all of their other equipment—was top of the line, state of the art. But even though they had access to every satellite circling the planet, they were pushing contemporary technology too far expecting to be able to make phone calls around the world as if they were talking to the neighbors next door. At least each, and every, time. “I need to call in?” Bolan asked.

“Wouldn’t hurt,” Grimaldi said. “But I’m gonna take her on up while you do. I suspect I know where we’re headed, and if you decide different, I can always change course once we’re in the air.”

Bolan tapped the number to the Farm and got Price again. “Sorry your call didn’t come through earlier,” he said.

“Hardly your fault. Besides, I relayed the intel to Jack. He tell you?”

“Yeah,” the Executioner said. “But not the details. He’s leaving that to you.”

“And I’ll leave it to Bear,” Price said, and Bolan heard the familiar click of the call being transferred.

“I think I’ve got something for you, Striker,” the wheelchair-bound computer man said without bothering a “hello.” “I was able to tap into the VEVAK frequency again, and figured out a way to transmit as well as receive. It took a little doing, but Ron Touchie and I finally caught on to the passwords and code names and numbers, came up with one that sounded real.

“The passports and supporting IDs—everything from a couple of German driver’s licences to a Swiss voter’s registration card—were dumped in a cardboard box on the top shelf of an upstairs closet.”

Bolan frowned. He had checked all of the closets during his search of the house, and remembered several boxes. But he had been looking for men, not documents, and there had been no time to sift through the contents. “Go on,” he said.

To his side, Grimaldi said, “Ready?”

The Executioner nodded.

As the chopper began to rise, Kurtzman went on. “VEVAK assigned one of their men to put the IDs together, and they came up with thirteen different names. Eleven had passports with them. But they found a couple of supporting credentials for two other names—actually, the German and Swiss stuff I just mentioned—but no passports.”

The Executioner nodded. “Meaning that as soon as the shooting started, Sobor reached up into the box, grabbed a couple of passports and probably a few other things to back them up, and hightailed it out of there.”

“That would be my guess,” Kurtzman agreed.

The Bell had risen into the air and was now flying low over the rocky hills. Grimaldi left the lights off, using nothing more than the light from the half moon to guide him.

“What were the two names, Bear?” Bolan asked.

“Dieter Schneider’s the German,” the computer man said. “The Swiss voter’s card and a couple of credit cards were in the name of Jean-Marc Bernhardt.”

“I take it you followed up on them?” the Executioner said.

“Yes indeed,” Kurtzman responded. “No idea where Bernhardt is, but I suspect he’s in Dieter Schneider’s suitcase, and Schneider took the early evening junket out of Tehran to Isfahan.”

Bolan smiled. “Good work, Bear,” he said. He looked out into the darkened sky as a light snow began to fall over the rocky hills. “Jack’s got us headed toward Isfahan now. Anything else?”

“Uh-huh,” Kurtzman said. “But it’s only a ninety-minute flight so he’s already been on the ground in Isfahan for a couple of hours.”

“He didn’t take any connecting flights?”

“No. At least not under Dieter Schneider or Jean-Marc Bernhardt.” The computer man paused. “And he hasn’t checked into any of the major hotels yet, either. I tapped into them, too. Of course, all that could mean anything. Or nothing. The name Dieter Schneider’s sort of the German equivalent of John Smith—there could have been a real Dieter Schneider on the Tehran to Isfahan flight. And even if it was Sobor, he may have checked into one of the dozens of unregistered inns and boarding houses in Isfahan. Or some of his cronies may have picked him up and taken him straight to another safehouse. Actually, that’s where I’d put my money if I was betting. He’s probably hooked up with more of his terrorist buddies.”

“Thanks, Bear,” Bolan said. “Stay close.”

Grimaldi continued south, hugging the hilly terrain below radar. The flight from Tehran to Isfahan was almost directly south. It would be primarily flat land they covered until they reached the mountains near Oom, but even so there were enough dips and rises to slow them down if they stayed low. What was a ninety-minute flight by plane, as Kurtzman had said, could turn into a trip of several hours in the Bell.

And each minute’s delay gave Anton Sobor more time to disappear.

“Any way we can speed things up, Jack?” Bolan asked.

Grimaldi nodded. “Sure. But not without rising up into the radar zone and taking the chance of getting shot down.”

“I think we may have to take that chance,” Bolan said. “We’re racing the clock. We don’t know what Sobor might do now that he’s on the ground. He could even pick up another new passport from a contact in Isfahan and be on the next flight to Timbuktu. Or he could fade into the woodwork there. For that matter, he might take off over land—maybe even double back to Tehran. What I’m getting at is, we don’t know where he’ll go from Isfahan. But if we don’t pick up his trail somewhere near the airport, we’re likely to lose him for good.”

“You’ve got a point,” the pilot said. “Okay, if you say so, let’s chance it. At least we’re not marked and the guns aren’t showing.” He chuckled under his breath. “Which at least means we might be able to stall them a little before they blow us to kingdom come.”

“If they pick us up, they’ll try to make radio contact first,” Bolan said.

“Well, we can hope so.” Grimaldi didn’t sound as sure as the Executioner.

“They will,” Bolan said. “They won’t be certain it’s not one of their own craft until we don’t answer their calls.”

Grimaldi nodded and began raising the helicopter higher into the air. Farther from the ragged and unpredictable terrain now, he was able to increase the speed. “Maybe I can answer their calls,” he said. “At least enough to keep them confused for a while.”

Bolan turned to look at his old friend. “They’ll be speaking Farsi, Jack,” he said. “When you don’t respond, they’ll probably switch to Arabic, which you don’t speak, either. You’ll be ordered to land—in both languages—and neither of us will even know it.” He glanced at the interior controls which operated the Stinger missile pods and the 60 mm machine gun, and saw Grimaldi looking the same way.