War Drums

“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.