War Drums

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.”

“About now might be a good time to consider a change of occupation.”

Salim stared at the American. When he looked deep into the hard blue eyes he saw no consideration. Only the steady gaze of a man who knew his own mind.

“What do you want from me? If I offer you information, how do I know you will not betray me?”

“I don’t go back on my word. All I want is to find the camp. Give that to me and I’ll let you go.”

“Why should I trust you?”

Bolan leaned in close, his blue eyes looking directly into Salim’s.

“I never lie. If I give my word, I don’t go back on it.”

Salim knew instinctively that the American was telling the truth. There was no guile in his voice. It was that of an honest man, which was something of a novelty in Salim’s world. He lived in the shadows, surrounded by lies and cheating. Truth and honesty were items in short supply, so to be confronted by such things left him briefly at a loss for words.

“You tell the truth? What guarantee do I have?”

“How about I let you live.”

Salim recalled how easily this man had broken Yusef’s arm. The easy way of violence was in him.

“What do you want?”

“Get me to the camp. I need to go there. If you don’t I’ll kill you here. Now.”

“If I do this, you will set me free?”

“As I said, you walk away. No strings.”

Salim sighed. He had little choice. If he gave this American what he wanted, at least he would have his life. He would need to have his injuries attended to, collect his money from his apartment and take the first coach heading up country. He could always find work. His expertise was always in demand. After that…

“Do I need to explain what will happen if you betray me?” Bolan asked. “Just remember one thing. I’m very good at finding people.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Bolan hired a high-end Range Rover from a Jordanian rental company. The vehicle was fitted with satellite navigation, had climate control and a digital communications setup. Bolan, carrying a couple of cameras he had picked up from a local store, said he was scouting locations for a movie.

“Do you think they believed you?” Salim asked as he accompanied Bolan from the rental office.

“They believed the money I handed over.”

“Only an American would say such a thing,” Salim said.

“You didn’t take on your contract for money?”

Salim shrugged. “Perhaps it came into the picture a little.”

The rental assistant showed them around the gleaming vehicle. “It is very new, Mr. Cooper.” He was fussing over the Range Rover, rubbing a smudge with his sleeve. “Only a few hundred miles on the clock.”

“We’ll take good care of it,” Bolan said. “We are just going for a short trip.”

“The tank is full. You have spare cans of petrol and water in the rear. You understand how to operate the satellite navigation?”

“America is a big country, too,” Bolan said. “We use them all the time.”

“Then have a good trip and be safe.”

They climbed in and Bolan fired up the powerful engine. He eased away from the rental lot onto the smooth tarmac of the highway.

“Head north for now,” Salim said. He was hunched in his seat, keeping his head low, cradling his broken finger. Bolan had allowed him to go to a local drugstore to purchase a bandage to bind it. Coming out, Bolan had spotted rack of long-billed baseball caps and bought one.

“Are you expecting to be recognized?”

“If you expect the worst, it isn’t so much of a surprise when it comes.”

Salim was left to figure that one out.

THEY STAYED WITH THE HIGHWAY for an hour before Salim directed Bolan off-road. The flat Jordanian desert stretched out on all sides, wide and dusty, with little vegetation. The afternoon was hot. What wind there was blew gritty dust across the parched land. It hissed along the Range Rover’s sides and peppered the windows. According to Salim they were moving in a northeasterly direction. Bolan activated the sat-nav and the screen flickered into life. The readout pinpointed their position and when Bolan ran a check he found they were on a northeasterly setting.

“You did not believe me,” Salim said. “I do not need machines to tell me where I am.”

“I guess not,” Bolan said.

Salim fell silent. He kept looking in Bolan’s direction, but said nothing. The only time he spoke was to direct Bolan’s line of travel.

When it became dark Bolan slowed. The sat-nav would keep him on course but he didn’t want to risk hitting some unseen pothole or deep depression. After a couple of hours, the moon rose and bathed the landscape in a cold light. Bolan finally stopped. He was ready for a break after almost five hours driving. Beside him Salim sat up, staring around.

“Why have we stopped? Is someone out there?”

“I need a break, is all,” Bolan said, taking the key from the ignition.

He opened his door and climbed out, working the stiffness from his body. The desert spoke in its eternal whisper. The movement of the wind stirred the sand, rattling the sparse and dry grass. In truth the desert was never silent. It had a voice all its own and it was the same voice that had spoken for a thousand years. Bolan moved away from the Range Rover, feeling the still warm wind tug at his clothing. He felt Salim at his side, the man gazing out across the empty place.

“What do you hear?” Bolan asked.

“It is the song of the desert,” Salim said. “The sound that draws men to this place. They say it can bewitch a man. Make him follow the sound until he is lost. Did you know, American, that the desert is a woman? She has the power to lure men into her heart and turn them mad with her song. Do you believe that?”

“I believe a man could get himself lost out here. And be lonely. Put those together and a man could start to hear things. Maybe see what wasn’t there.”

“You see. I was right. The desert is a cruel mistress.”

Bolan understood the man’s feel for the desolate space. At the same time beautiful and indifferent, it had the timeless appeal of all great empty places. With no distractions, barely any sound, the desert could cast its hypnotic spell and isolate a man. Cut off from the reality of normal existence it would be easy to start imagining things. Bolan pushed the thoughts from his mind and focused on the present, where he needed to stay alert. He smiled to himself. Maybe he had been letting Salim’s desert get to him. An all too easy condition to submit to. But not one he could afford to give in to.

His mission in Jordan wasn’t to admire his surroundings, but to locate the isolated camp being used by Razihra’s group. He had a job to do. It was his priority. His focus had to be on that and nothing else.

Bolan turned to see that Salim was inside the vehicle, leaning back in the seat, his head resting against the window. The man was a strange one. Hard to figure, except in the respect that Bolan didn’t trust him fully. Salim had already changed sides once. Why wouldn’t he do it again if the opportunity presented itself? Bolan considered that and figured he had it just right. The man had no loyalty, except to himself. He was of that breed who worked one against the other. Salim would never tread the middle ground. Both sides of the street were fair game. He could only be bought for what was the current rate. If the pay went up in the opposite camp, Salim would choose to step over the line. Bolan had no doubts on that.

He climbed back inside the Range Rover, taking the rear seat so he could watch Salim. The man made no signs he had heard Bolan return to the vehicle. He was either a heavy sleeper, or a good actor. Bolan went with the second option and played along. He settled in the corner of the seat, making a play of taking out the Browning and cocking it. Now he sat with the pistol resting in his lap, the muzzle pointing at the back of Salim’s seat.

THEY MOVED OUT AS SOON as it was light. Bolan had dozed lightly, always conscious of Salim’s presence. The man had stirred a number of times during the night, perhaps in sleep, or to test Bolan’s response. Each time the man moved the soldier had responded by making sure the Browning could be seen. Eventually, Salim had slept soundly.

Bolan splashed water from a canteen on his face and drank a little. He allowed Salim the same privilege, but the man only swallowed a little of the water before resuming his seat. He seemed to have lapsed into a sullen mood, speaking only when he needed to offer directions, and Bolan had little he wanted to say to the man.

Midmorning Salim indicated they should stop. Bolan guided the Rover into a low, dry wadi and switched off the engine.

“Are we near?”

“Close enough that we should leave the vehicle here and walk.”

“How long?”

“Maybe two hours.”

“We’d better fill those canteens in back,” Bolan said.

He climbed out of the vehicle and followed Salim to the rear, then stood back, the Browning in his hand. Salim stared at the weapon.

“What is this? Suddenly you need to keep a gun on me?”

“You never know who might be waiting over the next rise. I’m just being cautious.”

“Then you should watch me in case I poison your water.”

“I will.”

They moved out, Salim in the lead, stopped to fill the canteens hanging from his shoulders. Bolan, his baseball cap pulled low to cover his face, walked a few paces behind. The Browning was tucked into his belt.

The first hour went by quickly. After that their pace slowed and even Salim seemed affected by the heat. He trudged to a near stop until Bolan caught up and prodded him.

“Yes, yes. You do not have to push me. Am I a camel?”

“A camel would be better company.”

“Ha, ha.” The exclamation was harsh, the derogatory meaning clear.

“Just keep moving, Salim.”

“And what if I refuse to go farther? What then? Could you find this place without me?”

Bolan’s silence made Salim turn. He saw the big man looking at the sky, his right hand resting on the pistol in his belt. Despite his curiosity Salim still managed to persist in his question.

“What now? Have you not heard my words? That you will never find the camp without me?”

“I have a feeling your time as a guide could be over. My guess is I don’t need to be shown where the camp is. I think they just sent us an invitation. And a ride.”

Salim followed Bolan’s gaze and saw the dark shape coming at them from the empty sky. A shape that rapidly formed into the outline of a helicopter.

Salim picked up the distinctive beat of the rotors. The sound grew in volume as the aircraft swept toward them, the rotors stirring up great clouds of dusty sand that peppered them with its gritty hardness. The helicopter made a firm landing. Bolan recognized it as a Westland Lynx. By its faded, dun color it was an ex-military aircraft, much used but still serviceable. The side hatch slid open and armed figures jumped out, covering Bolan and Salim. A lean figure dressed in khaki shirt and pants, and wearing a checkered kaffiyeh, came forward, raising a hand in Salim’s direction.

“Salaam aleikum, my brother. I see you have brought our guest safely this far.” The man turned to Bolan. “Novak? You have changed greatly since the last time we met. I am Yamir Kerim. Do you not recognize me?” Kerim was smiling as he spoke, amusing himself at revealing Bolan’s ploy. He looked at the pistol in Bolan’s belt and reached out and took it. “You will not be needing this. I would not want you to come into our camp armed. It would be looked on as an insult. You understand that some of the men are not as worldly wise as we. They live by the old rules of hospitality, you understand.”

“We wouldn’t want to upset them then. Would we, Mr. Kerim.”

Kerim’s face hardened. He heard the coldness in Bolan’s words. Saw the contempt in the blue eyes. “Your arrogance defines you as an American. Only one of your kind would dare to try and walk into my camp and then insult me as if I was nothing but an ignorant Arab. Isn’t that how you see us? All of us from this region? Dirty, ignorant Arabs? You class us all as one type. Perhaps, American, you need a lesson in the geography of where you are.”

“And you’re the man to teach me?”

“Perhaps I am.” Kerim nodded in agreement. “Yes, perhaps I am.”

CHAPTER SIX

The flight was short and, as far as Bolan was concerned, one of the roughest he had ever experienced. Kerim’s men had manhandled him to the helicopter. He had been thrown inside, the men using their boots to force him to the deck. Bolan hadn’t fought back. That would have resulted in far worse injuries than those he did receive. During the flight, he was dragged upright and subjected to a beating that left him bruised and bloody. The assault only stopped when the helicopter made its landing and Bolan was hauled outside. He was dragged by a couple of the men as they followed Kerim to the largest of the tents that formed the camp. He was pulled inside and thrown to the sand floor.

Kerim stood in front of a wooden desk, arms folded, waiting for Bolan to climb to his feet. Salim stood to one side, trying to appear relaxed. His eyes told a different story. Even in his dazed condition Bolan realized things had moved a little faster than even Salim had expected.

“So,” Kerim began. “We know at least that you are not Novak. So who are you? Or should I be asking, what are you? Obviously some kind of undercover operative working for…?”

“This could be a long day,” Bolan said.

“He would not tell me his real name,” Salim said eagerly.

Kerim shook his head. “His name doesn’t matter. The important thing is that we have him. Oh, I forgot, American, an old friend is here to see you, too.”

Someone moved out of the shadows at the far end of the tent and into the light. Bolan saw Yusef, Salim’s driver. His broken arm was encased in a plaster cast. His face was badly swollen and bruised where Bolan had hit him. It explained how they had known he was coming.

“Forgive Yusef if he does not express much pleasure at seeing you,” Kerim said. “He is still in great pain. Though he says little, he does hold a grudge.”

Bolan remained silent. He realized he wasn’t going to gain very much by getting into a vocal trade-off with Kerim. His prime concern now was to get himself out of their hands and make his attempt to destroy their nuclear cache before it could be moved on. To antagonize his captors was to invite the threat of an early death. Bolan had no plans for that to happen, so it was time to tread lightly until he could make his break.

“Contrary to what you might believe, we are not stupid. Since your involvement with our affairs suggests you work for one of the American agencies, it is important to us that we learn about you. Agreed?”