Annotation
A terrorist hunt through the streets of New York puts Mack Bolan on a much more urgent crisis. A Shiite-Mafia drug connection, ruled by a powerful cartel of fanatics and independent warlords, is preparing to supply huge quantities of bargain-basement drugs to bring Iran's holy war right to America's doorstep.
Posing as a maverick heroin dealer, the Executioner stages a raid that begins in Cyprus and ends in Lebanon's deadly Bekaa Valley, where unwelcome visitors never leave alive. Bolan enlists the aid of rebel factions on his desperate mission to destroy the cartel at its stronghold.
Those who profit in war and human suffering are about to discover the high cost of living… and dying.
* * *
Don Pendleton's
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
* * *
Don Pendleton's
Mack Bolan
Assault
EVERLASTING WAR
There's nothing in this Everlasting War that should influence anyone to follow in my footsteps. Mine is a very grim existence. I have submerged my life into these missions, sacrificing everything I hold dear. I, too, have dreams, but I've forgone them all to hurl myself in a holy war.
Mack Bolan
It's perfectly obvious that somebody's responsible and somebody's innocent. Otherwise, justice makes no sense at all.
Ugo Betti
The triumph of justice is the only peace.
Robert Ingersoll
It's time for justice to start making sense again. I have identified the guilty, and they have passed judgment on themselves. All that's left, from this point on, is the restoration of the peace.
Mack Bolan
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Mike Newton for his contribution to this work.
Prologue
The fortress-villa stood twenty miles north of Beirut on the highway connecting Lebanon's capital with its northern neighbors, Al-Batrun and Tripoli. The owner, when in residence, commanded views of both the highway and the eastern Mediterranean. On clear days — which were most days in that region of the world — he could stand on the balcony outside his bedroom window and observe the long, low silhouette of Cyprus, one hundred-odd miles to the west.
The villa had been raised by a long-forgotten architect, before the pall of endless violence had descended over Lebanon. Its "extras," from the sentries on patrol with automatic weapons to the various security devices tucked away from casual inspection, had been added in the past five years. Above all else the present owner had a passion for self-preservation.
To various observers and "authorities," the civil warfare that had shattered Lebanese society and slaughtered thousands since the latter 1970s was an unmitigated tragedy, perhaps a curse from God. The villa's present owner took a different view, regarding each historical event and each new day as one more opportunity provided for the benefit of those with strength and foresight. If the violence couldn't be eliminated, it could still be channeled, used against selected enemies, the private risks translated into profit. Peace was highly overrated as a backdrop to prosperity. The money lay in war and in the sundry lower passions man was heir to.
Sometimes in the evening he could see Beirut in flames. The once-great city was a charnel house these days, but he had little sympathy for those who lingered on, ignoring danger to themselves, their families. He understood religious warfare at a cold, objective level, but he lacked the zealot's passion, leaving that for others who believed with heart and soul. His passion was survival, in the lavish style to which he had become accustomed. If profit lay in war and human suffering, he was prepared to claim his share without compunction.
Glancing at his heavy Rolex watch, he saw that it was nearly time for him to greet the others. None of them were ever late, and while he might not have preferred their company in normal circumstances, this was business, and the villa's owner had a reputation as a gracious host. His chef had spent the past two days preparing menus that would satisfy his guests without offending Shiite sensibilities, and half a dozen prostitutes were quartered on the premises, prepared to serve with style if any of his less religious visitors were so inclined.
He crossed the broad veranda with an easy stride that spoke of confidence and self-assurance, closed the sliding plate glass doors behind him to preserve the air-conditioning — another late addition — and moved on through various luxuriously furnished rooms to reach the villa's entryway. Before he stepped outside again, he donned a pair of mirrored aviator's glasses to diffuse the glare of sun on polished marble.
The villa was of Greek design, with sturdy columns harking back to the Acropolis, their bulk providing fair concealment for the television cameras that monitored his driveway and the open lawn on either side. Inside the house a single claustrophobic room had been reserved for monitors, a dozen screens manned constantly against the possibility of an assault from land or water. Four men were employed to watch the monitors, trading off in six-hour shifts to avoid fatigue, and only one of them had ever fallen asleep on the job. He was still on the payroll, and the memory of ear lobes severed with a cutthroat razor was enough to keep him constantly alert to any hint of danger from the outside world.
In the event of an attack by land or sea, a mobile team of gunners could be instantly deployed to meet the threat. Trained attack dogs provided a substantial first line of defense, with automatic rifles, hand grenades and submachine guns in reserve. Atop the villa's roof, concealed inside a stucco dome of relatively recent vintage, twin-mount.50-caliber machine guns had been mounted on a small rotating turret. An assault by air would be met with concentrated antiaircraft fire, while sentries on the ground adjusted their response to meet the threat.
Security. In the unstable modern world, it came with wealth and wisdom, unattainable without experience and a supply of ready cash. If one elected to become a predator, survive outside the herd, eternal vigilance must be the price. With a secure base of operation, anything was possible.
The Palestinian, surprisingly, was first to arrive — usually it was the Shiites. He traveled with six bodyguards, their vehicle bristling with weapons, paranoid eyes concealed behind cheap sunglasses. The obligatory checkered keffiyeh and the khaki uniforms of his entourage clashed with the Palestinian's tailored business suit, invoking memories of an American politician, playing dress-up to impress the gullible natives in a backward congressional district.
"Good health to you, brother."
"Good health to you. Have the others not arrived?"
The host smiled patiently, observing the traditional amenities. A servant led the Palestinian inside, his squad of riflemen remaining with the vehicle, their weapons tucked inside. The villa's owner paid them no attention, trusting their discretion to a point, secure in the knowledge they were covered by his own crack troops in the event that anything went wrong.
A second vehicle rolled up the drive and parked some distance from the Palestinian's c
ar. The single occupant climbed out and left his keys in the ignition, brushing past the clutch of Arab gunmen with determined strides. The trip from Cyprus had consumed his morning, and the new arrival would be anxious to conclude his business, clearing the decks for rest and relaxation.
The servant reappeared and led the man from Cyprus into air-conditioned comfort. It was almost noon, and from his shaded vantage point, the villa's owner scanned the stretch of highway visible beyond the wall he had erected to protect his property from prowlers. He saw a shiny speck approaching from the north, assuming detail as it closed the gap and took on the familiar outline of a limousine. The vehicle was slightly larger than his own, coal-black in contrast to the beige that he preferred, and it was making decent time in spite of heavy armor plating that would add an extra ton or more.
The three Iranians arrived together, somber in their funereal robes and turbans, mouths etched in perpetual frowns above trailing beards. The Shiite temperament allowed no compromise with earthly pleasure, and the government's chosen spokesmen knew their role by heart. They might be forced by circumstances to deal with infidels, but they wouldn't enjoy it, even if it made them rich beyond their wildest fantasies.
He greeted them with courtesy and ushered them inside. The Cypriot and Palestinian had taken seats across from each other at the conference table, leaving four seats vacant, and the villa's owner moved to take his usual position at the table's head. The three Iranians sat close together, drawing spiritual strength from one another in the presence of uneasy allies.
"Gentlemen," their host began, "I'm delighted we could meet once more before commencement of our joint operation. It pleases me to tell you that I have established contacts in New York. They have assured uninterrupted distribution of our product, with a guarantee of full indemnity in the event of loss through confiscation or diversion."
On his left the Cypriot allowed himself another fleeting smile. "Full payment?"
"In advance. Our contacts will assume the risk with customs and the drug enforcement bureaucrats. Potential danger to our syndicate is thereby minimized, confined to transatlantic shipment and the territory we already control."
"The price?"
"Reduced by ten percent to offset risks incurred by the Americans. It's a bargain, I assure you."
"As you say."
The eldest of the three Iranians leaned slightly forward, elbows resting on the table, pale hands clenched in front of him. "The price is insignificant," he said, the flankers nodding like a pair of puppets. "We are more concerned about the prosecution of our holy war against the Great Satan."
"Understood." Their host had little patience for the Shiites' posturing, but they were partners of a sort, and any rift between them now might doom the enterprise to failure. "There was some initial reticence among our contacts in New York — these men are patriots, after their fashion — but an extra two-percent reduction in the wholesale price convinced them to accommodate our special needs. Your agents may expect cooperation… to a point."
"They will require assistance with their documents and weapons."
"All has been agreed, upon my promise of discretion. If your men are taken into custody, however…"
"They will not be taken. Each of them has been selected for his personal commitment to jihad."
"Of course. And we are in agreement that their 'special' operations will not jeopardize the pipeline?"
Stiffly the Iranian replied, "We are agreed that export of the poison to America will further undermine our enemies and strike a revolutionary blow against their parasitic government. With that in mind, we shall maintain security where possible."
It was a feeble promise, but the best he could expect, all things considered. The Iranians were zealots, rich with oil and largely out of touch with human feelings. They would do their part, but he would have to watch them closely, making certain that their precious holy war didn't obstruct the cartel's higher purpose.
"Very well," he said at last, his tone approximating satisfaction. "If we are agreed upon our purpose…?"
"We're agreed." The Cypriot presumed to speak for those around him, but this time he got no arguments. The three Iranians remained impassive, while the Palestinian smiled knowingly.
"Reports?"
The owner of the fortress-villa listened while they spoke in turn about their separate phases of the operation. All appeared to be in order, ready to proceed on schedule. After eighteen months of planning they were on the move, or nearly so.
For the Iranians, it meant a new expansion of jihad, their holy war against the West. The Palestinian would balance profit motives with an opportunity to strike another blow at Israel and her friends abroad. As for the Cypriot, his motives were, perhaps, the most uncomplicated and sincere of all. Self-interest ruled his every waking thought, and he would spare no effort to advance his own position in the world.
The villa's master understood them well enough, and understanding gave him all the edge that he would ever need.
Chapter One
From all appearances, the terrorists were looking for a place to start. Mack Bolan picked them up outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art and trailed them south along Fifth Avenue, maintaining distance while they dawdled at Temple Emanuel and the Fifth Avenue Synagogue, shifting east to check out the CBS building and Radio City Music Hall. They carried nothing in the way of packages or parcels, and he had no fear that they were leaving bombs behind. The men were window-shopping, memorizing entrances and exits, angles of attack, surveying one-way streets where they might lose pursuers if they drove against prevailing traffic.
The Iranians had nearly slipped away from Bolan, as they had eluded immigration officers and customs men, the FBI and Secret Service, state police and local homicide detectives. They would certainly have shaken him if Stony Man hadn't been able to rely upon a source in Teheran to leak a portion of the duo's planned itinerary. They had entered the United States from Canada on phony passports that identified them both as Indians from Delhi, touring North America on holiday. Mack Bolan didn't know their names — the source in Teheran hadn't been privy to such information — but he knew they weren't what they appeared to be.
The pickup had been a relatively simple matter. Bolan could have left it to the FBI, let them have some friendly headlines for a change, but the head shed at Stony Man had been concerned about potential repercussions. If the play went bad for any reason, spilling over into blood, it would be easier to cover Bolan's tracks than for the Bureau to explain itself before congressional inquisitors.
And there was bound to be some blood, the Executioner decided, following his targets south on Seventh Avenue toward Greenwich Village. An arrest would mean a show trail, offering the terrorists a public forum while their sponsors set about the task of infiltrating other hit teams into the United States. They might be in the U.S. already, but the warrior had no time to waste on empty speculation when an enemy of flesh and blood was right before his eyes.
The details of their mission posed a mystery for Bolan, but their covert presence in America confirmed his suspicions that Iran's new, accommodating attitude toward the United States had been a sham. The late ayatollah's program for Islamic revolution in the Shiite mold remained unchanged. The bogus Indians might have specific targets singled out for execution, but it seemed more likely they were fishing, sizing up the possibilities before they made their move. New York was like an endless smorgasbord for zealots, offering innumerable targets drawn from every creed and color of the human rainbow.
In Greenwich Village Bolan trailed them south on Bleecker Street and watched them disappear inside a small cafe. He found a parking space a half block farther on and doubled back on foot, arriving as the two Iranians prepared to place their order with a bouncy waitress. The warrior took a counter seat and scanned the plastic menu briefly, ordering a sandwich and a cup of coffee while he kept a sharp eye on the dark men at their table by the window.
The Iranians were nearly finished
with their meal when a short Italian entered, sizing up the scattered patrons at a glance. Without a trace of hesitation, he approached the terrorists and sat down at their table, smiling vacantly, his eyes belying any muscular contortion of his lips.
The conversation took perhaps three minutes, start to finish, and the terrorists apparently were satisfied by what they heard. One of them tried to pay the check, but he was waved off by the new arrival. Bolan watched as the Italian palmed a roll of currency and peeled off two crisp bills, folding them once in half before he dropped them on the table. Sweating out the fractions of a second, knowing he could lose them if their escort had a car outside, he let the trio reach the sidewalk. When the door had closed behind them, Bolan dropped a ten-spot by his plate and followed casually, acknowledging a thank-you from his waitress with a lifted hand.
He hesitated in the doorway, zipping up his jacket as he watched the three men crossing Bleecker Street on foot. Bolan struck off on a parallel course, keeping to his own side of the street, merging with the normal flow of pedestrian traffic. They covered three blocks before the Italian led Bolan's targets into a narrow side street, eastbound, and the warrior took his chances crossing in the middle of the block.
Their destination was a cheap hotel of 1930s vintage. Bolan watched them duck inside and followed cautiously, lingering outside the glass revolving doors and giving them a chance to reach the elevator. It was one of the old-fashioned kind, its destination indicated by an arrow set above the sliding door. As the Executioner's quarry disappeared, he entered, crossed the lobby swiftly, drawing no reaction from the solitary clerk behind the registration desk. Distracted by the charms of Hustler's centerfold, the clerk let Bolan pass without a second glance.
He lingered at the elevator, waiting as the arrow quivered, rose and stopped on number five. There might be time, if he was quick enough.
Assault Page 1