The soldier’s brown face turned gray under the lighting. “I was just about to do that very thing,” he lied.
Bolan reached into his coat pocket and pulled out one of the well-worn wallets that Kutbah had provided for them to carry their phony credentials in. Spreading the various IDs out like a hand of cards, he picked out the one that named him as a member in good standing of the Russian Academy of Science, and handed it over to the man with whom he’d been speaking.
The Iranian looked at the picture, then Bolan’s face, then back down to the card again. His lips moved slightly as he read in the foreign language. Then, puffing himself up importantly, he said, “I will need to see such credentials from everyone who enters the building. And a passport from each man.”
One by one, they all handed over Kutbah’s forged credentials.
The short soldier made a show of inspecting each card, obviously worried that the Russian would report back badly to his supervisor. Finally, after he’d returned the last set of documents, he said, “You may enter the building.”
Dr. Dunyazad pulled a large key ring from his pocket, found the appropriate key and inserted it into the lock on the front door of the Traditional Pharmacy Research Center.
“We will accompany you,” the Iranian soldier said as the men started into the building.
Bolan turned to him. “No,” he said. “You won’t.”
In this contest of wills, Bolan obviously had the upper hand, and he was reminded of just how easy it often was to gain the psychological advantage if you behaved aggressively and with authority. Even if you didn’t actually have that authority.
The Iranians who were guarding this building were no better than frightened, low-level bureaucrats—afraid of their own shadow, and twice as afraid of the harsh punishment their government handed out for mistakes.
The soldier who spoke Russian shrank back visibly, managing to mutter only, “Why? We must—”
Bolan drew in an exaggerated breath of impatience and disgust. “We are professionals, and we do not want you getting in our way,” he said. Then, after raising his chronograph dramatically to his eyes, he added, “And we do not have time to argue with you. As I said before, our mission is above your security clearance.”
“But—” the soldier said with even less assurance than before.
“That is enough!” Bolan said, halting the man before he could speak further. “Give me the name of your commanding officer. I will take this matter up with him.”
The Iranian looked absolutely terrified, and Bolan was thankful that whoever this man’s supervisor was, he had to be a holy terror. He could see that in the soldier’s eyes.
“Wait for us here at the door if you like,” Bolan said. “But if you attempt to enter the building, I will see that you are brought up on charges.”
The Iranian had been thoroughly cowed. He nodded, took another step back. His partner, looking totally confused, followed his lead.
“Dr. Dunyazad,” Bolan said. “If you please.” He indicated the door to the building with a wave of his arm.
Dunyazad obviously spoke Russian as well, and picking carefully through the key ring he held, he chose one and then walked toward the door.
A moment later, it had been unlocked and Dunyazad was holding it open for the rest of the men to pass through.
The ground floor hallway was well lit, and as soon as they were all inside, Bolan indicated that Dunyazad should relock the door. Through the glass, Bolan saw the frightened and confused faces of the two Iranian soldiers. In a final show of who outranked who, he waved his hand, and the two men shrank back into the shadows and out of sight.
“Now,” Dr. Dunyazad said. “Perhaps you can tell me why you felt it necessary to call me out in the middle of the night?” The inflection of his voice made the statement a question.
The question had been spoken to Hasan. But Bolan answered for him, still in Russian. “We are here to check the biological agents stored in this building.”
Dunyazad’s eyebrows lowered. “There are no biological agents here.”
Bolan let out a breath as if he was calling upon all his patience. “Dr. Dunyazad,” he said, “I have just had to argue with a simple soldier. Do not make me play the same games with you.”
Dunyazad just stared at him.
“All right,” Bolan said, impatiently again. “Since the smallpox and anthrax were sent here from Iraq, scientists such as myself, from my country, have assisted you in making sure they are kept safe, and ready to use if necessary.”
“Then why have I never met you?” the director asked bluntly.
“I do not know,” Bolan said. “Perhaps you were away when we did our earlier inspections. But it does not matter. The soldiers have seen our documents. Do we need to show them to you, as well?”
Dunyazad looked lost in thought for a moment. Then he finally said, “No. I suppose you are who you say you are.”
“Good,” Bolan said. He stared back at the man who had al Qaeda connections, wondering if the doctor was actually a full-fledged member of the terrorist organization or simply a sympathizer. Not that it mattered. As a past President of the United States had said, “Anyone who is not with the U.S. in the war on terror is against us.” That Man had served out his terms and there was a new President leading the war, presently. But the policy had not changed. At least not in Bolan’s heart and soul.
The rest of the men with Bolan had remained silent ever since the conversation with the Iranian soldier had begun outside. None of them spoke now.
“Take us immediately to where the agents are stored,” Bolan said. “The sooner we can make our inspection, the sooner you can return home and go back to bed.”
Dunyazad’s mouth opened and his lips started to move. But no words came out, and a second later he closed his mouth and turned, leading them to the elevators. Reaching out, he pushed the up button, then stepped back to wait.
Even though it took only seconds, the tension among the men made the elevator’s coming seem like an eternity, and the silence on the ground floor of the Traditional Pharmacy Research Center grew even more poignant. When the car finally arrived and the doors swung open, Dunyazad stepped through them without looking behind him.
Bolan and the rest of his group followed.
“The cultures are secured on the seventh floor,” Dunyazad said as he pushed the button between six and eight. A moment later they were rising. And a moment after that the doors were opening to reveal a large laboratory.
Bolan followed Dunyazad out, the footsteps of the men on the tile floor the only sound. Dunyazad skirted various tables covered with test tubes and other tools of the scientific trade. At the rear of the lab stood a closed door, and as he walked, the doctor fished through the pocket of his tweed coat again for the large ring of keys.
He found the one he was looking for, inserted it into the lock on the door and opened it. The room they entered next was a storage area, and barely large enough to hold them all. Cardboard boxes containing who knew what were stacked on both sides. But a narrow path between the stacks revealed what looked very much like a bank vault against the far wall.
As soon as he reached the vault, Dr. Dunyazad’s hand went to a numerical dial on its face. Then, instead of spinning the dial, he glanced at the other men. “You will please turn your backs,” he said.
Bolan nodded, and he and the rest of them faced the narrow pathway they’d just traversed. The irony of the doctor’s request didn’t escape Bolan.
The clicking sound of the dial spinning back and forth could be heard as the Executioner and his men waited. Old habits were hard to break, and Bolan listened to each turn. The combination consisted of four numbers, alternating right and left, and he guessed that if he had to try to open it himself, he could have come within three clicks of each number just by liste
ning to the length of time it took between each one.
Again, the irony of the situation struck him. After they finished with what they were about, he would have no need to know the combination.
The final bolt opening was more of a clunk than a click, and Dunyazad stepped back and swung the vault door open. He seemed to have finally gotten used to the idea that Russian scientists were assisting his government, as a broad smile covered his face. “Do what you must,” he said to them.
The first thing Bolan noticed as he stepped into the vault was that it was climate controlled. On his first look around he counted an even dozen wooden crates on the floor along the perimeter. A variety of test tubes extended from the open tops, sealed with corks and kept from smashing into one another with plastic foam packing worms. On the side of each crate was a label.
Bolan turned to Mohammed and Hasan. In English, he said, “Check the labels. And bring out all the crates containing biological agents.” He spoke quickly, hoping that even if Dunyazad knew some English, he would not be able to follow the words.
That was not the case.
“Why do you need to bring them out of the vault?” the man in the tweed sport coat asked. “Why can’t you check them where they are?”
“Because that is not the way we do it,” Bolan said. He turned to Ahmad and O’Melton. “You check the labels, too.” In a voice so low it was almost inaudible, he added, “And check the other checkers.”
O’Melton and Ahmad nodded in understanding. The man they knew as Cooper still didn’t trust everyone in his group of followers.
Bolan and Dunyazad stepped back out of the vault to give the other men room to work. The Executioner watched as the men squinted at the labels, then picked up crates and hauled them and their deadly biological contents out of the vault, through the narrow tunnel between the cardboard boxes and into the lab proper.
O’Melton set a crate gingerly on the ground near Bolan’s feet. “It looks like all the crates are bios,” he said. “They probably put this vault in here for just that reason.”
Dunyazad, who still thought the rest of the men were fellow scientists sent to monitor the status of the biological agents, said, “What exactly is it that you’re checking for?”
“To make sure they are safely stored,” Bolan said. “And we’ll run a quick test to ensure that they’re all weaponized and ready to use.”
“But why carry them out of the vault?” the Iranian doctor asked. “Can’t you perform your tests while they’re still inside?” He waved a hand toward the storage room, and the narrow tunnel through the cardboard boxes.
Intimidation had worked on the soldiers outside the building, and Bolan decided it was time to employ the same tactics here. “Not that I am required to justify my job to you, Dr. Dunyazad,” he said impatiently. “But just this one time, I’ll tell you. We’re going to have to transport all of these crates to a temporary lab we’ve set up for the tests.”
“There is no need for that,” Dunyazad said. His hand went up to his worn tweed coat and brushed invisible lint off the lapel. “I can give you full use of my lab here.” Again he waved his hand through the air, this time indicating the room in which they stood.
“You do not have the proper equipment,” Bolan said. “And I am tired of explaining it to you.”
His words obviously displeased the director, who was used to giving orders rather than following them. And he had been more or less under Bolan’s command ever since they had arrived at the TPRC building. Bolan saw the repressed anger on the man’s face, and knew instinctively that he was the kind who would do anything necessary to regain control of the situation and restore his self-importance.
Which led directly to a serious tactical error on the administrator’s part. In order to restore his own ego and feeling of self-importance, he let slip a detail he should have kept to himself.
“It is good that you are checking them,” Dunyazad said, puffing out his chest as if it had been his idea all along. “Because they are about to be used.”
Bolan turned to face him. “In what way?”
“It is a most secretive matter,” Dunyazad said, a new smirk of arrogance covering his face. “But I suppose you can be trusted. We are about to turn them over to some of our friends.”
Bolan nodded. “What friends?”
The question seemed to startle Dunyazad. It jolted him out of his brief moment in the limelight and back to reality. “Why do you ask?” he said.
“Because I want to know,” Bolan replied.
“But why do you need to know?” the man in tweed asked.
Bolan shrugged. “I don’t need to know. I just want to know. Call it curiosity.” He looked the other man square in the eyes, then allowed a small friendly smile to curl the corners of his mouth. “We are both professionals, doing what we do best. But we seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot.” He extended his hand, and Dunyazad grasped it. “To a more friendly, and honest, relationship.”
Dunyazad looked Bolan up and down, then obviously decided that if the man had legitimate access to inspect what was stored in the vault, then he had to be trustworthy. “We—my government—are giving them to a local al Qaeda cell. They will distribute them to other cells, and eventually they will be taken to sites throughout western Europe and America.”
Bolan had suspected as much. And finally, he had it straight from the horse’s mouth. He nodded at Dunyazad. “That’s quite an undertaking,” he said. “And all I needed to know.” Without further ado, he drew the Beretta 93-R and brought it down hard on the side of Dunyazad’s head.
The man crumpled to the tile floor of the laboratory before he’d even realized what had happened.
The other men, busily working inside the vault, didn’t notice either until they each carried their next crate out into the lab.
Ahmad, O’Melton and Mohammed took the unconscious body in stride. Hasan, however, was obviously concerned and almost frantic as he said, “Why did you kill him?” in a high-pitched, whiny voice.
“Because he’s in league with al Qaeda. And I didn’t kill him—he’s just been knocked out. This way he will not get in our way. That’s when he would have had to be taken out,” the Executioner said. And just to put a bit more fear in the professor, he added, “Maybe I made a mistake. Maybe I should kill him. Like I said, he’s working with al Qaeda.”
Hasan looked as if he was about to break down and cry. “You do not think I am in league with al Qaeda, do you?” he asked.
“Don’t know,” Bolan said simply.
Tears welled in the man’s eyes. “I will not lie. I know some of them. But I have never helped or worked with them.” As one of the tears began to make its way down his cheek, he added, “Please. You must believe me.”
Bolan still had the Beretta in his hand. He lifted it and rested the barrel on Hasan’s nose. “Give me one good reason why I should believe you,” he said.
“Because,” the terrified man said, “I know something. I have some other information. Information which you will need to avoid a catastrophe in your country.”
Bolan lowered the pistol. “Then I’ll let you live a little longer,” he said.
All the other men had gathered in the lab, having brought out the twelve crates of smallpox and anthrax cultures.
“We’ve got to get these out of here safely,” Bolan said. “Which means no stacking. Each man carries only one crate at a time.” He paused to draw in a breath. “There are five of us. That means we’ll need to make three trips.”
O’Melton nodded. “What do you expect out of the soldiers we left outside?” he said. “Are they going to snap to the fact that something’s wrong when they see us taking all this out of the building?”
“In all honesty I don’t know,” Bolan said. “I suppose it depends on whether they’ve been let in on exactly
what they’ve been guarding. On the other hand, the simple fact that they’ve been ordered to guard this building at all would tell anyone with an IQ a point above a rock that there’s something very valuable in here.”
“Is there any way to distract them?” O’Melton asked.
“If there is, I don’t see it. Anything we do to divert their attention is likely to have the opposite effect and bring even more Iranian soldiers to the scene.”
Ahmad, who had remained silent during most of this nighttime mission, finally spoke up. “Then we kill them if they try to stop us?”
“If we have to,” Bolan said. “But I’d rather avoid an open gun battle if at all possible. Bullets would go through these crates and test tubes like a knife through butter. And I don’t have to tell you what that would mean.”
All the men nodded gravely.
“We just have to hope for the best,” Bolan said.
“And pray for it, too,” Father O’Melton added.
“Sure. And pray for it, too,” Bolan agreed. “So we may as well get started.”
12
Bolan lifted the crate next to where he stood and led the way out of the lab and down the hallway to the elevator. The other men followed, each with his own box of deadly biological agents, packed in plastic foam and carried carefully in his arms. Even Hasan managed a load, despite his injured hand. There was barely room for everyone in the elevator when it arrived, but they were on their way down as soon as Bolan pushed the button and the doors rolled closed.
The entryway was not far off, and Bolan barely had time to spot the two Iranians in BDUs before he was pushing through the glass door. The one who spoke Russian stepped forward. “What are you doing?” he asked in their common tongue.
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