Appointment In Baghdad

Outside the modern terminal Calvin James and Rafael Encizo waited for him in the passenger pickup area. The two Stony Man commandos greeted Bolan like old friends and the three “representatives” of North American International climbed into their waiting Ford Excursion.

“That beard’s coming in nice,” Calvin James said with a smile.

“Thanks. It itches like hell,” Bolan replied. “You wait, once we finish dealing with Mirjana you’ll get your chance.”

After sliding into the shotgun seat, Bolan saw immediately that the Excursion was a diplomatic special, possibly left over from the days of violence in the former Republic of Yugoslavia. Such a vehicle would be outfitted with upgraded communications, executive armor, a more powerful engine than factory stock and concealed compartments for prohibited equipment such as weapons or surveillance devices.

Encizo pulled the big SUV into traffic and headed northwest out of the village of Pleso toward the congestion of Slavonska-Držićeva Avenue some fourteen kilometers away.

“How was you flight, Mack?” Encizo asked from behind the vehicle’s steering wheel.

The stocky, square-faced Cuban commando was an experienced underwater warfare specialist and urban operator who had cut his teeth in anti-Castro actions before joining the Stony Man team.

“Good enough, though I was feeling about as incognito as a circus clown on some of my flights out of Hong Kong.”

James snorted his laughter from the backseat. “Hell, try being us being here if you want difficulty blending in.”

Bolan smiled and nodded. Such problems had been a consideration when he’d chosen how to staff the operation. While he’d almost picked others from Phoenix Force, Bolan had finally decided that what was a hindrance for the minor action in Croatia would become an advantage once the team reached Baghdad.

“You have trouble with Mirjana because of that?” Bolan asked.

Encizo shook his head. “No, he bought it completely that we were purchasing agents for North American International. We played up the whole running-wild-on-an-expense-account thing.”

“Sounds like you had more success than I did,” Bolan noted. In precise, clipped details he ran down the events that had unfolded in Hong Kong and Jigsaw Liu’s final words.

Encizo let out a long, low whistle as Bolan finished describing what had happened in the Hong Kong pit.

“Scimitar’s a lie?” James asked. “Does that make sense?”

“Only in context,” Bolan said. “Unfortunately, we don’t understand that context.”

Encizo steered the Excursion down an off-ramp and exited onto the modern expressway that encircled the city. From the expressway Bolan could look out and see the most notable landmarks of Zagreb’s skyline: the Euro, HOTO and Cibona towers. On the expressway Encizo began to speed toward the northwest corner of Zagreb.

“Well, Mirjana is the real deal,” James said.

“He offer you weapons?” Bolan asked.

“Yep, get this. Once I made my introduction and gave him the information for North American International, he verified our employment with the company through standard channels.”

“Typical.”

“Sure, Gary’s people vouched for us no problem. But then the Croatian government asked for information on the company from the State Department as a ‘diplomatic favor.’ Gary has his network security tied into Stony Man. Aaron said he was able to detect an info-snatch worm originating from the HIS that cracked our cover personnel files and North American International’s authorization package to operate as a private military contract company in Iraq.”

“HIS?” Bolan grunted. “No one told us Mirjana was that well connected.”

The HIS, Hrvatska Izvestajna Sluzba, or Croatian Intelligence Service, was the youngest agency in the former Yugoslavia republic’s espionage community. It had been first commissioned in the winter of 1993 and dealt exclusively with the collection and analysis of foreign intelligence for coordination and dissemination to other branches of the Croat government and intelligence community.

As the majority of information collected by the HIS was utilized through the office of the president and his closest advisers on the cabinet, their involvement with Mirjana was potentially ominous.

“Apparently this is news. Aaron doesn’t want to share what this proves with the DNI because he’s afraid that once the Agency finds out, they’ll call Mirjana off-limits and try to exploit him,” James said.

“Oh, we were here first,” Bolan said. “That crooked Syrian bastard al-Kassar might have a pass for now, but Mirjana is all ours.”

“That’s what Barb says, too,” James agreed. “Hal’s going along with it for now. Part of the confusion is that we aren’t really able to tell where Mirjana pulls his arms from. It isn’t Croatian stocks except in small numbers.”

“I thought he was initially an executive with RH-Alan?” Bolan questioned, referring to the infamous Croatian arms company.

“He was, until 2000. Made his millions off government contracts during the conflicts, then he retired. Most intelligence reports had him figured for getting his supplies through them.”

“Looks like they figured wrong,” Encizo said. “Either way, we can purchase light or heavy infantry weapons, parts for armored personal carriers, including the electronics for cutting-edge systems, night-vision equipment and engineering explosives. He hinted he could go larger, but we really didn’t have a reason to be asking about laser-guided bombs. Still, most of the stocks are not Croatian armed forces mainstays.”

“He didn’t ask why you need black-market weapons with a U.S. government license to operate?”

“We told him there were restrictions we wanted to circumvent on numbers and types of munitions. He saw a sale and greed did the rest.”

Bolan nodded. “Betting on greed usually works.”

“Only to a degree in this case,” James said. “He flatly refused to discuss anything beyond business transactions. If we want information from him, we’re going to have to take it.”

“That’s not a problem,” Bolan said.

K ARL M IRJANA’S SPRAWLING estate sat nestled in a gentle saddle among the foothills of the Medvednica Mountains. In some ways it reminded Bolan of Stony Man Farm, with a large dacha-style main house, attached garages and numerous outbuildings. One of the structures was a luxurious hunting lodge—set at the edge of the estate on the woods leading to the southern slopes of the mountains—where Mirjana was known to conduct his business. A small paved airstrip was set on a patch of level ground on the river side of the estate.

Just beyond the airstrip Mirjana’s property abutted a bend in the river. A two-story yacht was moored to a man-made jetty of boulders that sheltered the craft from the river current.

James and Encizo had done preliminary reconnaissance of the Mirjana estate. The man’s defenses were considerable and appeared left over from the 1995 battles with Serbian forces: ground surveillance microphones, electronic sensors, commercial alarms and land mines along certain approaches.

Mirjana kept a small cadre of former members of the Serbian Special Police Units, the SMJ, as bodyguards. It was at first confusing why a Croatian arms dealer would be using Serbian commandos who had been accused of war crimes against his own people.

On further reflection it made a certain, cynical sense. Serbs were a minority in Croatia. Former Serb military veterans were hated and the SMJ most of all. The social animosity kept Mirjana’s private army isolated and thus loyal to him. He paid them well, they lived in luxury and were kept busy.

In addition to duties as security for shipments, action as bodyguards and sometime strike force for underworld disputes, the ex-SMJ troopers served as estate sentries. Armed with modern weapons and equipment, they patrolled the interior of the property and responded to any alarms or other disturbances.

Bolan sat in a rest area just off the northern expressway where it turned into a more rural highway. From that position the Stony Man team could overlook the entrance to Mirjana’s estate. Behind it the Sava ran in an almost perfectly straight diagonal line up toward the northwest.

It was night, and lights from Mirjana’s estate cut through the dark to illuminate expansive lawns and the purple tree copses on the mountain slopes behind it. At the front gate a sentry worked a brick booth, controlling entry.

Bolan lowered his night-vision binoculars.

“These are good,” he said.

“I thought it would be ironic if we took him down using equipment and weapons he’d sold us as part of our preliminary package,” James said.

Bolan smiled. “All this gear is from him?”

“Yeah. He took us to a warehouse in Pleso to show off his selection. We pulled exactly what we needed off the shelves. It was like Home Depot, dudes with electric forklifts and everything,” James said.

“When’s my meeting?” Bolan asked.

“About thirty minutes,” James replied.

“And he always does his business meets in the hunting lodge?”

“He claims it’s easier to ensure his electronic countermeasures are working against surveillance,” Encizo stated. “Like I told you, he even has an airport metal detector in the entrance hall.”

“I doubt you can get a piece in,” James said.

Bolan nodded. “I don’t intend to. I’ll rely on you two to shut the place down. I’ll keep Mirjana busy until you get in, Cal,” Bolan replied.

The two Phoenix Force commandos had thought Bolan’s plan for the Mirjana takedown risky. They were men used to danger, and Stony Man missions were run on extraordinarily narrow margins to begin with, but the news that Mirjana was tied into the Croatian government had changed everything for Bolan.

A straight assault could result in a distress alert making it out. The Stony Man commandos could find themselves trapped in the compound with SMJ killers while a Croatian government rapid-response force surrounded them, a diplomatically unacceptable situation. Smuggling their own weapons into the estate was also unfeasible due to Mirjana’s extreme security precautions.

Bolan had instead decided on a multipronged strategy. He would meet with Mirjana as the top purchaser of overseas acquisitions for North American International. The man who could sign the checks for big orders. Once Bolan was in proximity to Mirjana and could control his movements, Encizo and James would begin their assignments.

Encizo would approach from the Sava River and provide security overwatch across the lawns between the hunting lodge and the rest of the estate. He would neutralize any reinforcements moving to assist their boss.

James would infiltrate across the estate and bring in the weapons to secure the lodge. With Mirjana under wraps and Encizo providing security, the two men would begin their interrogation of the Croat arms dealer.

Bolan had brought hell with him to Croatia. He was about to introduce the Zagreb arms dealer to a fiery term of retribution.

Karl Mirjana had information the Executioner needed. Saying no was not an option.

CHAPTER NINE

The Stony Man team readied its gear and climbed into the Ford SUV. Bolan drove the Excursion now and he navigated through the outskirts of Zagreb, dropping James and Encizo at predetermined locations before heading directly toward Mirjana’s estate.

Headlights stabbed through the pitch darkness as Bolan rolled to a stop and switched them off for the first insertion. Calvin James, dressed in a sniper’s ghillie suit and armed with a Croatian-made APS-95 assault rifle, rolled out of the back of the vehicle and into the woods. The forest ran unbroken up into the southern foothills that formed the northern perimeter of the arms dealer’s remote estate and private hunting preserve.

Bolan pulled the SUV away from the spot and sped toward a secluded section of highway that ran next to the Sava River.

Outfitted in a neoprene drysuit, Encizo quickly disappeared into the low hedges along the riverbank, equipped with combat swimmer fins and a rebreather as well as an oilskin shoulder bag containing his long weapon and a silenced machine pistol. A double-edged dive knife was secured to the knotted muscle of Encizo’s calf and ankle.

Bolan was gone long before the Cuban-born commando had entered the water. With the members of his team deployed for their assault, the soldier guided the Ford Excursion back toward Karl Mirjana’s estate.

Bolan had dressed in upscale casual for his meet with the Croat. He wore sturdy but stylish khaki pants in black. Under his jacket he wore a crew-necked black pullover of expensive material and weave. He wore his Rolex Submariner watch and a pair of low-cut loafers with thick tread. The loafers were steel-toed and he hoped this would go unnoticed. Except for those steel caps he would be unarmed going into the death merchant’s lair.

After several minutes Bolan pulled off the main highway and took an unmarked paved private road. The long drive wound through several gentle curves cut through a dense copse. After nearly a full mile Bolan caught sight of the gate complex set across the road like a military checkpoint.

The fence was constructed of deeply red brick, ten feet high, and ran into the forest on either side. The heavy wrought-iron gate was electronically controlled, and heavy enough to resist ramming by even a semi-truck.

Bolan slowed as he approached the cinder-block gatehouse. Through the window he saw a tall man in blue coveralls rise from behind a desk. The black nylon pistol belt secured around his waist held a Glock handgun secured in the holster.

As the soldier stopped the SUV beside the gatehouse and powered down his window, the sentry came out, a telescoping metal pole with a mirror fitted on the end in his left hand.

“Mike Cooper, North American International,” Bolan said. “I have an appointment with Mr. Mirjana.” He wondered if the man spoke English, though the names should get the message across if he were expected.

The man nodded. “ Ja, moment.” His English was broken and accented but passable. “I check the vehicle. If you have weapons, I request you turn them me, now.”

Bolan grinned. “I’m clean.”

The sentry seemed to accept his word and focused on playing the mirror across the vehicle’s undercarriage. As he went about his security check, Bolan was able to get a better look at the pistol in the man’s holster.

Calvin James had been correct during his earlier briefing to Bolan. The Glock was a specialized model only available to military and police units. The Glock 18 fired 9 mm Parabellum ammunition and, like Bolan’s Beretta 93-R, could operate in either semiautomatic or 3-round bursts. The pistol had a 31-round extended magazine and a theoretical rate of fire in burst mode of 1200 rounds per minute.

Karl Mirjana was a serious man, which suited Bolan just fine. The Executioner was serious himself.

The sentry stepped back from the vehicle. “Follow road past the main house to left, ja? You drive all the way through the property to lodge where Mr. Mirjana meets clients. Do not get out of car. Security meet you at lodge. Go.”

The man stepped back inside the gatehouse and worked a button on his console. With the hum of powerful electric motors the gate unlatched and began to swing open. Bolan waited until the gate was fully open before driving through.

He did not wave at the man as he drove past.

W HILE B OLAN DROVE into the estate Calvin James circumvented the property and approached it from the rear. The going was tough. The woods were thick and the terrain steep. A former Navy SEAL, James had been in uncompromising physical condition before coming to Stony Man and still followed a grueling fitness program.

Despite his level of fitness, James sweated freely in the commercial camouflage suit. He scrambled up hillsides thick with brush and weeds, making his way around Mirjana’s estate toward the rear. He swept up the incline, sticking to patches of deep woods and using game trails so that as he made his final approach he was coming downhill toward Mirjana’s property.

As he neared the back of the estate James was forced to slow his approach. From his earlier reconnaissance he knew that a line of wild brambles and blackberry shrubs marked the beginning of Mirjana’s property line, set well before the wall that encircled the estate. The ex-Navy SEAL made his approach toward the brambles with trepidation.

Just beyond the brambles Mirjana’s security consisted of an array of spike microphones. Anyone thrashing through the brambles would be picked up on the hidden mikes and trigger an alarm response. Because of that James knew he would have to leave behind the relative invisibility offered by the ghillie suit.

James sank to the forest floor and quietly removed the camouflage. The loose patches and swathes of fabric that were so effective in breaking up the outline of a human body would only serve to snag and catch on the brambles and thorny blackberry branches.

Moving carefully, he crawled into the thicket on his elbows and knees, picking up thick vines and sliding under them, carefully dragging his weapon with the stock folded down behind him. He pulled a pair of garden clippers from a cargo pocket and carefully began to cut out a path.

Though he had purposefully chosen a section of bramble thicket that was in his opinion less dense than some other areas, it was still painstaking work. Every movement he made had the potential to be detected by the electronic sensors positioned on the other side.

Sweat rolled down his face. He pressed down slowly and steadily with the clippers to avoid the snipping sound common to his activity. Beyond the thicket and across a strip of tall grass Mirjana’s wall rose in an imposing barrier.

One thing at a time, James told himself. One thing at a time.

R AFAEL Encizo PURGED his regulator and slipped into the Sava river without disturbing the surface. The closed-system rebreather eliminated the telltale exhaust noise and bubble trail left by conventional Scuba gear and provided for a more silent diving experience.

Encizo felt the current of the deep river catch him up and sweep him along toward his target as he descended into the chilly darkness. His load-bearing harness was front-loaded, and the Phoenix Force commando compensated by adjusting buoyancy for that and the gear attached in oilskin to his back. He settled slowly down through the murky water and began to check his analog and digital displays. He would use the bottom to ensure depth consistency and a built-in pace counter to indicate the distance he swam.

Encizo kicked out gently with his swim fins, using the current to push him along and conserve energy. His breath echoed slightly behind his mask and visibility was less than an arm’s length in the polluted river water.

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