Assault

by Don Pendleton

  The Lebanese hoped that he was being paranoid. He didn't want to fight a war with the Sicilians or the Corsicans. It would be costly all around, and while Halaby would undoubtedly support him for a price, the damage done to ancient friendships would be totally irreparable. In the event that former allies were identified as modern enemies, Moheden thought it might be wise to let Silvestri's people seek revenge. While outlaws in the New World and the Old were battling among themselves, he would be free to look for other buyers, other ways to make a profit on the sidelines of the killing ground.

  The best scenario for all concerned would be the one put forward by the American police. Silvestri and his «Family» had enemies throughout America… perhaps throughout the world. The Mafia was known for its perennial resort to treachery, with blood relatives stabbing one another in the back on any lame excuse. For all its vaunted interest in diplomacy, the stateside Syndicate was torn by petty rivalries that made the European underworld seem stable by comparison.

  Moheden would proceed with caution, testing each new step before he was committed to a move, retreating if he spied a danger signal. There was nothing he could do until tomorrow, though, and in the meantime…

  Moving through the house, he passed the bedroom where Halaby and the whore were going through their paces. He walked along the corridor, past several other doors, until he reached the last one on his left.

  Inside, the tall Israeli prostitute was standing by the windows, facing Beirut. With darkness, if the fighting was intense this day, she might be able to observe the glow of distant fires.

  The woman turned to face him as he entered, offering the barest hint of a submissive smile. Moheden told himself that she was his, in heart and soul, as well as in the flesh. He wanted to believe the drugs and money made no difference.

  "I want you," he informed her simply. In his conversation with the woman, «need» was never mentioned or implied.

  She shrugged the caftan off her shoulders, stood before him, naked to his gaze.

  Moheden offered her his hand.

  Chapter Seven

  Mack Bolan was familiar with divided lands. He'd seen the different ways in which partition could make enemies of neighbors, even relatives. This afternoon, as flight attendants started picking up their plastic cups and checking seat belts, scuttling around the first-class cabin of the Boeing 727 circling Nicosia's airport, Bolan wondered whether it would be the same in Cyprus.

  He had brushed up on geography at the Farm, refreshing dormant memories from high school. Bolan knew that Cyprus was the Mediterranean's third-largest island, after Sicily and Sardinia, with a population approaching three-quarters of a million people. Eighty percent of those were ethnic Greeks, another eighteen percent ethnic Turks, with various Arab and Eastern European minorities making up the difference. Despite a full generation of independence, Cypriots had a tendency to think of themselves as «Greeks» or "Turks," and the ancient antagonism would probably keep right on simmering into the twenty-first century.

  Political control of Cyprus had been changing hands since Phoenician times, winding up with Britain in charge after World War 1. Over the next four decades, Greek Cypriots dreamed of enosis, a reunion with their ancestral homeland, and when diplomacy fell flat, they launched a no-holds-barred guerrilla war against the British in the latter 1950s. Members of the EOKA "liberation army" had been learning from the Viet Minh in Indochina and the IRA in Belfast, plotting acts of terrorism and assassination to accommodate their local needs. In August 1960, Cyprus won her independence, guaranteed by Britain, Greece and Turkey and the pipe dream of enosis was abandoned in the cold, hard light of day.

  The Cypriots had recognized their ethnic differences and tried to make allowances for same. Their brand-new constitution specified that the vice president, three of ten cabinet ministers, and thirty percent of the national legislature must be ethnic Turks, but old rivalries died hard. In Ankara, hungry politicians cast covetous eyes upon Cyprus, carefully logging reports of real or imagined discrimination against the island's Turkish minority. In June 1974, Turkish forces assaulted the island by sea and air, capturing forty percent of its northern territory before they ran out of steam. Over the next six months, 45,000 ethnic Turks moved north, into the "Turkish Cypriot Federated State," while an estimated 200,000 Greek Cypriots fled south, abandoning their homes to the invader. Fifteen years of UN votes, debates and consultations had done nothing to relieve the situation. Cyprus was — and likely would remain — a land divided, torn apart by ethnic and religious animosity.

  The situation would affect Mack Bolan's mission only inasmuch as he was called upon to read his opposition, crawl inside their heads and puzzle out their strategy before it took him by surprise. The target group was obviously international, including as it did a Cypriot of Greek descent, a Lebanese and an Iranian. Behind them stood another Lebanese, a Palestinian commando leader, and a spokesman for the government in Teheran. It was the kind of merger that made Bolan nervous, organized criminals crawling into bed with political zealots, producing a bastard offspring that was neither purely mercenary nor entirely dedicated to a cause. That kind of schizoid union made the players unpredictable, and Bolan knew that he'd have to watch himself each step along the way.

  He started watching in the airport terminal, remembering that he wasn't supposed to meet his contact there. Too obvious, they had agreed, and as a "casual tourist," he'd only draw attention to himself if he was greeted by a native on arrival. Still, the absence of a scheduled contact didn't mean security was guaranteed. There might be other watchers at the airport, checking new arrivals as a matter of routine, or looking out for someone in particular.

  It might not hurt if he was marked — the Executioner didn't intend to pass unnoticed in the city, after all — but he couldn't afford to have his cover blown this early in the game. He had an image to protect, and he had flown first-class to bolster the impression of a wealthy rogue, prepared to mix some shady business with his pleasure. If a lookout took the time to snag a copy of his ticket, they would learn that he was traveling as "Mike Belasko," paying with a credit card that matched the name, and all his correspondence had been picked up from a mail drop in Manhattan. He wouldn't be found in any telephone or street directories for New York City — or the Eastern Seaboard if they chose to look that far. Discreet inquiries in the halls of Justice might turn up a rumor that «Belasko» was a dealer with a heavy rep but no convictions.

  Waiting at the carousel to claim his luggage, Bolan wished he could have found some way to pack a pistol, anything, before he left New York. Security precautions had been tightened drastically across North America and Western Europe in recent months, authorities recalling the destruction of Pan Am Flight 103 by a terrorist bomb over Lockerbie, Scotland, and check-through luggage was now routinely X-rayed on all American carriers flying out of JFK. Inspectors were trying new gadgets, designed to replace bomb-sniffing dogs by revealing plastique with a dull yellow tinge on the viewer, regardless of its innocuous shape. Guns in the cargo compartment were no threat, per se — and they could be shipped legally by air, if you were into reams of paperwork — but Bolan had preferred to skip the hassle.

  The alternative, a military flight to carry all his hardware transatlantic, would have branded Bolan from the moment that he stepped on board. It would have been more economical to simply take out an ad in the local papers, publishing his name and mission for the world to see. In either case, the ultimate result would be the same.

  His bags arrived, and Bolan showed his claim stubs as he left the terminal, flagging a taxi outside. The driver understood enough English to find his hotel, deliberately selected by Aaron Kurtzman as the most expensive in Nicosia. A glance at the aging facade told Bolan that «luxury» on Cyprus clearly had a different definition than it did in the United States.

  He was expected, and a porter lugged his baggage to the elevator, riding up with Bolan to the seventh floor. His room was clean and spacious, decorated in an ear
ly-1960's style, as if the march of time had frozen in its tracks a short time after independence had been achieved. He tipped the porter, tried out the shower and was relieved to find the water neither brown nor tepid. Locking the door and wedging a straight-backed chair under the knob to frustrate intruders, Bolan peeled off his clothes and tossed them on the bedspread, moving on to wash the miles and his fatigue away.

  His local contact would be checking in sometime that evening, but the Executioner had several hours before he'd be called upon to meet the enemy. From that point he'd have to trust his instincts, play the cards as they were dealt and call the opposition's hand whenever possible. He knew the players, more or less, and recognized the natural advantage of their own home turf. It was a problem he had coped with in the past.

  This time, however, he'd have to be especially careful. With the different personalities involved, reactions to his overture were unpredictable, potentially explosive. In effect he'd be juggling vials of nitro, and it might not make a difference if he kept them in the air or not. One slip could take his head off, either way.

  Like always.

  * * *

  For Nikos Kiprianou, cloak-and-dagger work had started as a hobby, somehow winding up a full-time job. At first it was a lark — the hush-hush errands; runs for "cultural attaches" at the U.S. Embassy, with tax-free folding money paid upon completion of a job; a shadow mission now and then, with Nikos trailing this known Communist or that suspected criminal around the streets of Nicosia, logging destinations, sometimes snapping pictures of their contacts on the sly. On various occasions there had been clandestine meetings in a restaurant, a park or a museum, where Nikos handed off a slip of paper or received an envelope.

  By that time Kiprianou knew that he was working for the CIA. He didn't mind — if anything, the knowledge added spice to his activities, a hint of danger — but the risk had seemed illusory. All that had changed, when his control inside the embassy began to farm him out on drug enforcement business, dealing with a different class of agents and another breed of human targets. In the drug trade, spies and government informants were routinely murdered, dumped in alleyways or simply made to disappear, and lately Nikos had begun to wonder if his choice had been a foolish one.

  Tonight would be the worst. It was the first time he'd been required to carry weapons, and it made no difference that the pistol, ammunition and accessories were meant for someone else. If he was stopped by the police, his briefcase searched, it would mean prison time. Conversely if his actions were discovered by the other side, he might be killed.

  It was a problem, but he'd decided to proceed, at least until the point of contact. Afterward, if things went badly, he could still plead ignorance and disavow all knowledge of the stranger's government connections. And if things went well, he just might be a hero.

  Nikos squared his shoulders, entering the hotel lobby with determined strides, as if he were expected there. In fact he was, but the American wouldn't have briefed the concierge about their meeting. It was possible that Nikos might be intercepted, questioned by the house detective. The American would be disturbed, compelled to fabricate a story that might prove embarrassing. It would be best for Nikos to avoid a confrontation with the staff if possible.

  He took advantage of a family checking in, the clerk distracted, porters wrestling with their baggage. Kiprianou had the number of his contact's room, and he relaxed a little when the elevator door slid shut behind him. Moments later he was stepping out on number seven, the briefcase dragging on his arm as if it weighed a ton.

  The first time, Nikos thought he might have knocked too softly. He was poised to try again when footsteps sounded on the other side and someone threw the bolts back and opened the door. He'd prepared himself for anything, and yet his first sight of the tall American was startling. The eyes bored through him, seemed to peer inside his soul, and Nikos Kiprianou wondered what it must be like to face this man in battle.

  "Yes?" The voice was smooth and deep, without the rasp affected by so many thugs.

  "Mr. Belasko? I'm Nikos Kiprianou. I believe you're expecting me?"

  No password had been specified, and Nikos was relieved, as it might easily have slipped his mind. The man who called himself Belasko checked the corridor, then stepped aside to let him in. The door snicked shut behind him, and the double locks engaged.

  "You have the items I requested?"

  "Here."

  The case changed hands, and Nikos watched Belasko place it on the bed, extracting a Beretta Model 92, its muzzle threaded for a silencer that he would also find inside the briefcase. There were extra magazines of fifteen rounds apiece, together with a shoulder holster and a cleaning kit. While Nikos waited on the sidelines, the American broke down the pistol, checked its internal mechanism and reassembled the gun in seconds flat. He worked the slide to place a live round in the firing chamber, eased the hammer down and set the safety switch before he dropped it on the bed.

  "Sit down."

  The young man did as he was told.

  "What are your orders?"

  Nikos made a stab at looking nonchalant. "This evening I'll take you on a tour of Nicosia. We'll dine together at a restaurant where it is probable that we will see Makarios. If not, there is a tavern he frequents. We'll find him, one way or another."

  "When we do?"

  "You'll examine him, but from a distance. Strangers don't meet Makarios without a proper introduction."

  "That's where you come in."

  "Correct. However, it would be a foolish thing to take him by surprise. The first approach is critical. I have a friend who has a friend. These things are delicate, you understand? Tonight — tomorrow morning at the latest — I'll be in touch with those who schedule meetings for Makarios. If he is interested, and I believe he will be, you should plan on meeting him tomorrow, or the next day."

  "Fine. I leave it in your hands."

  The man was reasonable and Nikos was relieved. He'd expected something in the nature of a blustering commando type who had to have things now or not at all. Belasko obviously had enough experience to understand that nothing beneficial ever happened instantly.

  Nikos made a show of glancing at his watch. "We have two hours at the least. Are you ready for a tour of Nicosia?"

  "Ready as I'll ever be," the tall American replied.

  Bolan slipped on the shoulder holster and clipped the anchor loop around his belt. The weapon hung beneath his left arm, with a pouch for extra magazines below his right. A roomy jacket kept the hardware out of sight, though practiced eyes might spot a telltale bulge.

  "Have you got wheels?" Bolan asked.

  "A car? Of course."

  "Let's go."

  * * *

  The whirlwind tour took an hour and a half, with Nikos pointing out assorted mosques, museums and ancient ruins, plus the several enterprises owned by Spyros Makarios and his colleague, Rashid Sarkis. Roughly one-sixth of the Cypriot population resided in Nicosia, and Bolan had a feeling he'd seen them all before his tour guide parked outside a stylish restaurant downtown. The doorman obviously doubled as a bouncer, but he smiled at Nikos like a long-lost friend and ushered them inside. The maître d' conveyed them to a corner table where they had a view of both the entrance and the smallish dance floor. Just across the polished hardwood rectangle, a set of drums and other instruments awaited the arrival of a band.

  Their waiter brought the wine list and a pair of menus, lingering while Nikos rattled off a string of questions in his native Greek. From what the Executioner could tell, the answers seemed to be affirmative.

  "Makarios has made a reservation for this evening," Nikos said in English when they were alone. "This is his favorite restaurant in all of Nicosia. Possibly because he owns it."

  "How long has he been in bed with Sarkis?"

  "Bed? Ah, you mean business. Four, five years — perhaps a little longer. Sarkis brings the merchandise from Lebanon and sells it to Makarios in bulk. Makarios has friends in Franc
e and Italy, Morocco, even London. Lately some say he has friends in the United States."

  "Let's hope he's got room for another."

  Nikos frowned. "If you have money, then Makarios will be your friend. At least until he has your money. Then…" The young man spread his hands and cocked one eyebrow, his expression speaking for itself.

  Brognola had expressed his confidence in Nikos Kiprianou, based on classified reports from contacts in the Company and DEA. On impulse Bolan made the choice to trust him with at least an inkling of the game plan.

  "I don't need undying friendship," he explained. "I'm looking for the next step up the ladder, following their product to the source."

  "Is this not dangerous?"

  The warrior smiled. "Could be."

  "These men are ruthless," Nikos told him. "They will stop at nothing."

  "So, I'd say it's time that someone got around to stopping them."

  A shadow crossed the young man's face. He had a message to deliver, but the words were sticking in his throat, dammed up by pride.

  "Mr. Belasko, I'm happy to assist you," he began at last. "But you must understand that I have always been a messenger and nothing more. Sometimes I follow someone here and there, reporting on their movements, but I take no action. Do you understand?"

  The speech was costing him, in terms of self-esteem, but Bolan let him forge ahead.

  "Perhaps you have been… how should I say… misinformed. I'm not armed. If there is danger, I will not desert you, but…"

  The steward brought their wine and appetizers, silencing the young man's protest for a moment. Bolan seized the opportunity to let him off the hook.

  "I'm not anticipating any trouble," Bolan said, delivering a version of the truth. "If I can get Makarios to pass me up the line, I'm out of here. No pain, no strain."