“My guess—and it is only a guess, if an educated one—is that they would be stored somewhere in one of the science buildings at the University of Tehran.”
“And why do you say that?” Bolan asked.
“Because they would have the facilities for climate and other controls,” he said as the traffic gradually began to speed up. “These are somewhat perishable items. And they would need frequent care.”
“Then you think the government, rather than al Qaeda, has control of these cultures?”
Mohammed glanced at Bolan. “It is often hard to distinguish between the Iranian government and al Qaeda these days,” he said. “This is why I want out of my country. Why I am willing to risk my life to obtain enough money to do so.”
“So,” Bolan said. “You have a plan to locate these bioweapons?”
“A plan, yes. Not a particularly good one, but a plan nonetheless.”
“And it is...?”
“I have a friend in the biology department at Tehran University. He may know. If he doesn’t, he may know someone who does. As you might guess, rumors about all of this have run rampant.”
While he didn’t voice the words, Bolan had to agree with Mohammed. It wasn’t a good plan by any means. And rumors were often as much of a hindrance as they were a help. If Bolan wasn’t careful, he could spend months tracking down false leads. Months he, and the Western world, didn’t have.
But at least he had a place to start. And if this was all he had, then it would have to do for the time being.
“Can you take me to meet with your friend?” Bolan asked.
Mohammed snorted through his nose. “Only if I want both of us to be killed,” he said. “You do not speak Farsi. And you look about as Iranian as one of your own Alaskan Eskimos.”
It was pretty much the answer Bolan had expected. “How about him?” he said, hooking a thumb over the seat to indicate Father O’Melton.
Mohammed tapped the accelerator a little harder as the jammed traffic began to speed up again. “Does he speak the language?” he asked.
“Yes,” Bolan said.
“Let me hear him then.”
O’Melton leaned forward in his seat again. “Esfahan nesfe jahan,” he said.
Mohammed let out a short laugh, then turned to Bolan. “He has chosen an ancient adage from the days when the city of Esfahan was one of the largest stops on the trade route from east to west and back again. It means ‘Esfahan is the center of the world.’”
Bolan waited as a short silence fell over the vehicle. He could tell by the inflection in the Iranian’s voice that more was coming.
“His accent, however, would give him away in a second. It sounds like a cross between American and Irish. And his face is the same, and confirms the fact that he’s a foreigner.”
Another hush fell over the slow-moving Highlander. Finally, as traffic came to a halt once more, Mohammed turned and looked at Ahmad. “Him, I could take,” he said. “He would fit right in with little to no explanation needed. I do not like dealing with Arabs—”
“And I do not like dealing with Persians,” Ahmad interrupted, verbalizing the ancient animosity between the two races and cultures.
“—but I will when I must,” Mohammed finished, then shot a dirty look over his shoulder at Ahmad.
Bolan could tell the two men were going to become great friends.
But he didn’t comment right away. He didn’t care if the two men liked each other, only that they worked together to help him find the WMDs. He sat back in his seat and closed his eyes momentarily. He had not had time to test Mohammed’s loyalty, and still was not completely convinced that Ahmad had truly had a change of heart. So did he want them taking off together—even if they didn’t appear to be able to stand one another—and engaging in a vital part of this mission, without his supervision? He didn’t know. If he assumed Ahmad could be trusted, then the former Hezbollah terrorist would monitor Mohammed’s actions. But if Ahmad was just setting him and O’Melton up for some “big fall,” allowing him to pair up out of sight with Mohammed could be disastrous.
After all, the two men were both Muslims. And that religious bond might be stronger than their cultural hatred for each other.
To complicate matters even further, Bolan didn’t want either man to be aware that he didn’t trust them. So if he refused to let them work together on this, he would have to phrase his words carefully, in a way that didn’t give away his suspicions.
Finally, he opened his eyes and turned back to the man driving the Highlander. “I think you should make contact with your friend at the university alone,” he said. “It’s going to take a certain amount of delicate diplomacy to engage his help without giving away the fact that you’re actually working for us. And any new face—no matter how Persian-looking or how well its owner speaks Farsi—is going to create at least a small amount of suspicion.” He paused to let his words sink in, then said, “And you’ll already be creating too much suspicion just by asking this guy where the bioweapons are stored.”
“Then I will meet with my friend alone,” Mohammed said. “As is your wish. I, too, believe it is better to work things that way.”
Bolan studied the man’s profile, looking for any signs of deception. Sending him in alone brought with it its own dangerous possibilities. Mohammed had already received half his million-dollar reward for helping them. It was safe and secure in an offshore bank account. So there was always the chance that he would decide five hundred thousand dollars was enough, and turn on Bolan and his associates before it became obvious to the Iranians and al Qaeda that he was an informant.
There was much to be said for settling on half the money, and leaving no anger in the hearts of his enemies, which might induce them to instigate a worldwide manhunt for him.
But the Executioner had found, in many missions over his long career of fighting evil, that there were always calculated risks that had to be taken. You controlled every part of an operation you could, but at some points you had to let loose the reins and hope for the best.
And this was one of those times.
“I take it you’re heading for the university now,” Bolan said.
“I am.”
“How much longer?”
“Ten minutes,” Mohammed said. “Perhaps twenty. It depends on the traffic.”
“Where are we supposed to be while you go talk to your friend?” Bolan asked.
“You can just stay in the car,” Mohammed said. “You will cause no excitement that way.” He glanced at Bolan, his eyes running from the top of the big American’s head down to his hiking shoes. “There will be many students, and even faculty, dressed as you are.”
Bolan nodded silently. Then his battle instincts took over, and he knew that within the next hour or so he would know where the smallpox and anthrax cultures had been hidden.
Or else he, O’Melton, Ahmad and possibly Mohammed, would be dead.
9
“According to my friend,” Mohammed said, as soon as he’d crossed the parking lot to where the Highlander hid amid a sea of other vehicles, “the most likely place for the biocultures to be hidden is not here at the main university.” He had stuck his head inside the open driver’s side window as he spoke.
“Get in,” Bolan ordered. “We don’t need to let every student on campus know what we’re up to.”
Mohammed opened the door and slid in behind the wheel as young men and women, some dressed in traditional attire and others wearing more Western clothing, passed by the Highlander on their way to and from classes.
As soon as the Iranian had settled into his seat, Bolan said, “Then where are they?”
“My friend has heard rumors that they are next door—at the school of medical science.”
Bolan sat quietly, taking in this new
information. Tehran University and the Tehran University of Medical Sciences, had separate administrations, but shared the same campus. Which meant the anthrax and smallpox cultures were somewhere right in front of them. Where, exactly, had yet to be determined. They might be hidden anyplace within the many divisions of a school of medicine. Finding them wouldn’t be like finding a needle in a haystack, but more like finding a specific needle in a great stack of identical ones.
“Can you narrow it down a little more?” Bolan suggested. “We can’t exactly go from room to room searching the whole medical school.”
“My friend—” Mohammed started to say.
“Let’s give your friend a name, shall we?” he interrupted. “I’ve got a feeling you, or all of us, are going to need to talk to him again, so we might as well treat him as a genuine entity.”
“His name is Ajib Hasan,” the man said. “And while he does not know exactly where the cultures are hidden, he has noticed a heavy military guard, both day and night, around the Traditional Pharmacy Research Center.”
Bolan sat silently for a moment. Then he said, “Did he seem suspicious of your questions?”
“Not particularly,” Mohammed said. “He has close ties to al Qaeda himself. And I—even though it is erroneous, of course, and part of my cover—am known to be aligned with them, too.” He held a fist to his mouth and coughed. “It all came off like two old friends who had not seen each other in some time, discussing a mutual secret which they shared.”
“And this military guard,” Bolan said. “It’s unusual on the medical school campus?”
“No,” Mohammed said. “There are always soldiers roaming both campuses—especially at night. They are like your American security guards. But Ajib says some are permanently stationed at the Pharmacy Center. That is somewhat unusual.”
“How big is the building?” Bolan asked.
“Big,” Mohammed said simply.
The Executioner shook his head. They were going to have to enter the place and find the biological WMDs. If they took out the guards, no matter how quietly, on their way in, other military men roaming the campus were likely to notice. And they would clamp down on the Pharmacy Research Center immediately.
He and his followers were likely to be trapped inside even before they found the smallpox and anthrax.
Which meant Bolan and his men had to get in, find what he was looking for, and get out again—fast. If they took out the guards upon leaving, it would not be so bad. They could still escape with the cultures they’d come for before an organized resistance could be formed.
But how were they to actually find the deadly viruses once they were inside? Bolan neither spoke nor read Farsi. O’Melton, Ahmad and Mohammed did—but none of the men had the expertise to look through the various cultures bound to be stored inside, and determine which ones were weaponized and dangerous.
An idea hit Bolan as he contemplated the problem. “Is Ajib familiar with smallpox and anthrax?” he asked Mohammed.
The man nodded. “It is not his specific field of expertise. But as a biologist, he should have a working knowledge of such things. More so than the rest of us, at least.”
“Then you need to go back and invite Ajib to dinner tonight,” Bolan said. “We’re going to have to take him with us when we go in.”
A look of fear suddenly fell over Mohammed’s face. “But if I do that, he will know I am working with you,” the Persian said. “Al Qaeda, or the government, will kill me.”
“That’s where your million dollars comes in,” Bolan said. “You’re getting paid, and paid well, to take risks like that.” He paused a moment, watching the man’s face. “I’ll do my best to get you out of the country as soon as we get what we’re after. Then, with all of that money, a big wide world opens up to you.”
Mohammed shook his head almost violently. “This is Iran,” he said. “One of the least free countries in the world. You cannot guarantee my safe passage out of harm’s way.”
“I can’t guarantee that any of us will get out of here alive,” Bolan agreed.
“I cannot do this,” Mohammed said, almost in tears.
“Yes, you can,” Bolan said. “You don’t have any choice.”
“I can refuse.”
“Yes, I suppose you could.” Bolan stared directly into the man’s dark brown eyes. Then swiftly and smoothly, he drew the big Desert Eagle from his Concealex holster and shoved the muzzle under Mohammed’s nose, pressing it hard against the skin covering his top row of teeth. “And I can just pull the trigger right now and end all of your worries forever,” he said in a low, menacing voice.
Mohammed was struck speechless. His eyes crossed almost comically as he stared down at the barrel of the big .44 Magnum.
Bolan had made his point. He holstered the Desert Eagle once again. “Or,” he said in a slightly friendlier tone, “I can go into those biology offices, find your friend Ajib and let him know you’re working with us right now. Actually, I’d kidnap him first and make him help us find the viruses. But then I’d tell him all about your past work for the CIA and how you led us to him.”
Mohammed had begun to calm a little since the gun had been removed from his face. But suddenly his anxiety returned in spades. “You cannot do that!” he almost screamed. “That would be murder!”
“Not in my book it wouldn’t,” Bolan said. “You’ve got a past history with al Qaeda. Which means before you went to work for the CIA, you were responsible for the deaths of who knows how many innocent men, women and children. That’s what made you valuable to the CIA, and now to us. But it also makes setting you up to be killed a matter of justice rather than murder.” He stopped talking long enough to draw in a deep breath. “So get back in there and tell Ajib to meet you here in this parking lot at seven o’clock tonight. Tell him whatever story you need to in order to get him here.”
Mohammed’s face had turned permanently gray. “What is to keep me from just walking into the building and out the other door?” he asked.
“The fact that I’ll burn you good if you do,” Bolan said. “You might get away from us now. But if you don’t return, I’ll make sure word gets out about your CIA connection. Do you really want both the Iranian government and al Qaeda after your head while you try to escape Iran on your own and get to your half million?”
“You are completely ruthless,” Mohammed said bitterly
“Only when I have to be,” Bolan retorted. “And considering the things you were involved in before you rolled over to the CIA, what I’d be doing seems like mere child’s play.”
Mohammed opened his mouth to speak again, but closed it just as fast. Without another word, he got out of the Highlander and disappeared into the same building he’d been in earlier.
Bolan, O’Melton and Ahmad sat waiting.
“Do you think he’ll be coming back?” Father O’Melton asked.
“I do,” Bolan said. “He doesn’t really have a choice.”
Fifteen minutes later, Mohammed came back out of the same door he’d gone in. He walked swiftly to the vehicle and got behind the wheel. “Ajib will be here at seven-thirty,” he said. “He has a staff meeting until then.”
Bolan nodded. “Does he suspect anything?”
“I do not believe so,” the Persian said. He was looking down at the floor of the vehicle. But then his eyes rose to meet Bolan’s. “And afterward, you will do your best to make sure I get out of Iran safely? And collect the rest of my payment?”
“Sure,” Bolan said. “Assuming we all don’t get killed first.”
* * *
AJIB HASAN WAS AS PUNCTUAL as he’d promised to be.
The luminous green hands on Bolan’s chronograph read exactly 7:30—1930 hours, to his military thinking—when the man approached the Highlander. He was half inside the vehicle on the passenger’s
side before he even noticed the three men crammed into the backseat.
“Ali, what—” he got out between his lips before Bolan raised the mammoth Desert Eagle .44 Magnum and motioned the al Qaeda contact on in.
As soon as the door closed and the dome light was extinguished, Bolan leaned forward. “You’re going to go on a little adventure with us tonight, Ajib,” he whispered, so softly it sounded terrifying.
“Ali, what is happening?” Hasan finally got the whole sentence out of his mouth.
The former CIA contact shrugged dramatically, his shoulders rising to his ears before dropping once more. “Things have changed since we last saw each other,” he said. “You will do exactly what this man tells you to do. Or we will both die.”
A moment of courage obviously overtook Hasan, who turned around in his seat and rose to his knees. “I will do nothing for you, infidel!” he snarled. Then his eyes dropped to the .44 Magnum, and Bolan sensed what was about to happen.
Hasan suddenly brought his hands together in a classic disarm maneuver—one taught all over the world and designed to break the opponent’s trigger finger against the guard as the gun was snatched away. He performed it perfectly, even twisting his body sideways in order to diminish it as a target, while his arms moved.
It would have worked beautifully on most gunmen.
But Bolan was not most gunmen.
And when Hasan’s hands slapped together, the barrel of the .44 Magnum was no longer where it had been a split second before.
Bolan had drawn the Desert Eagle back and away from the man, and it stopped just to the side of his pectoral muscle. Without pause, he thrust it forward, almost as if throwing a spear. The end of the barrel struck the al Qaeda–sympathizing professor just above his nose.
The Persian man screamed at the top of his lungs.
Bolan reached up, grabbed the man’s hair with his left hand and jerked him down over the back of his seat. For the first time, he noticed that Hasan had recently had hair transplants, and the top of his head looked very much like carefully cultivated rows of stalks in some Nebraska farmer’s cornfield. Bolan glanced quickly out through the windows of the vehicle, front and back, left and right. None of the students drifting back and forth from the parking lot to the buildings had been close enough to hear Hasan’s scream, or see the brief tussle inside the Highlander.
Throw Down Page 11