He heard someone coming, then recognized the tall American from his silhouette.
"Chamoun?"
"Come in."
Bolan took a seat across the folding table, pushed the box of photographs aside and leaned in closer. "Can you have your people ready in the next half hour?"
"Ready?"
"There may still be time."
"For what?"
Bolan's eyes were burning coals. "I think I know where Mara is."
* * *
She had awakened in the helicopter, with her wrists bound tightly behind her back. A dead man lay beside her on the metal floor, and combat boots were pressed against her spine. She closed her eyes at once, but one of her captors had seen her stirring, and he started prodding her with his feet, making lewd remarks until the officer in charge demanded silence.
In a rush the fractured memories came flooding back. Mara saw a child cut down by flying bullets, and the tattered shroud that was her brother's tent. Was he air. How many of the others had been killed or wounded? Why had she been spared by the attackers?
Even as the thought took shape, it came to her that the fates hadn't been kind in leaving her alive. She was a prisoner, completely helpless, and it troubled her that she'd been selected by her enemies from all the others in the camp. Was she the only hostage? And if so, how had the raiders picked her out? What was their purpose in abducting her?
The first faint stirrings of imagination painted nightmare portraits in her mind, and Mara shut them out immediately. She'd need her wits about her when she faced her enemies, and manufactured terrors only made her weaker at the outset. She'd cling tenaciously to life while hope remained, and when it faded, she'd find a way to spare herself the worst of it.
The rotors had changed their pitch, and Mara felt the ship descending. On touchdown she lay still and watched the dead man carried off ahead of her. A moment later, rough hands pulled her upright, dragged her toward the open loading bay and shoved her through. She tried to catch herself — and failing that, to roll aside — but with her hands bound, there was little she could do. The ground rushed up to meet her, bruising knees and cheek on impact, but she bit her lip and made no sound.
She wouldn't let the bastards see her cry.
A pair of gunmen hauled her to her feet, one brushing at her clothes as an excuse to touch her breast, and Mara tried to kick him in the shins. He sidestepped, grinning, and the soldiers gripped her arms, a warning twist sufficient to remind her of the pain they could inflict. She walked between them through the dusty rotorwash, in the direction of a long, low ranch house thirty yards away. She glimpsed an older, well-dressed man on the veranda, speaking with the officer who had protected her in flight, but Mara didn't recognize his face. A man of influence, perhaps, but who?
It made no difference at the moment. Everything would be revealed to her in time, and she was in no special hurry to confront her enemy. Delays could work in Mara's favor now, allowing time for… what?
Inside the house she was delivered to a pair of revolutionary guards, stern-faced and clad in customary black. They led her to a room devoid of windows, freed her hands and locked the single door behind them as they left. The furniture consisted of a cot, a straight-backed chair and a ceramic chamber pot. She grimaced at the latter, wondering if she should fill it quickly, even hurl its contents at her jailers, or deny herself in protest. In the end she split the difference, waiting for the need to grow more pressing.
She examined her surroundings, found no exit other than the door and sat down on the cot to take stock of herself. Aside from minor scrapes and bruises, she was fit enough. She wasn't strong enough to overpower several men at once, but she was sleek and swift. If they sent one man with a meal, or removed her from her cell for any reason, she might have a chance to seize his weapon or to strike him with the chair or chamber pot. Do something.
Whatever else might happen, Mara was determined to resist her own humiliation and destruction. There had been no opportunity to put up serious resistance at the compound. Now, though it might be too late, she felt obliged to try.
And if they killed her for it, she would have the satisfaction of resisting with her dying breath. For now, it was the only concrete hope she had.
* * *
Mir Reza Bakhtiar had changed his mind. Initially he had decided to remain in Baalbek, safe inside his fortress, and allow Moheden to interrogate the prisoner alone. On further thought, however, he decided that the Lebanese had been given ample opportunity to prove himself, without result. Thus far, Moheden's men on Cyprus had been killed while dealing with a spy — an error that rebounded in the death of Bakhtiar's close friend, Hussein Razmara — and Moheden had repeated the mistake in Baalbek. Blinded by his greed, he had invited the American to tour their facilities, with a result that echoed Nicosia's violence. Now he tried to save the day by burning out a rebel camp and capturing a female prisoner. At best the plan seemed ill-considered. At the worst it smacked of rank incompetence.
Emerging from the courtyard of Hosseinieh, the Shiite leader traveled in his armored limousine, with two staff cars in front and two behind. He had perhaps two dozen soldiers at the farm, but they would do him no good on the journey, and if rebels were involved in their misfortune, reinforcements might be helpful.
To this point Bakhtiar had kept the news of their embarrassment from Teheran. The government didn't smile on failure, and had a record of impulsive actions — cancellation of a salvageable program, execution of the persons deemed responsible — that didn't fit his reputation for infallibility. The prophet was a genius; Bakhtiar wouldn't dispute that fact. But as a holy man, he was accustomed to dispensing theory and interpreting Koranic scripture. There were times, as evidenced by conduct of the war against Iraq, when practical decisions went astray and wound up in disaster.
Of course, Teheran had been informed about Razmara's death. There had been no way to disguise the fact, and so it was reported as an act by renegades and infidels, coincidental with Razmara's duties for the drug cartel. Before top officials were informed of the "mistake," the problem would be solved, their enemies wrapped up and tucked away in graves.
It was a promise Bakhtiar had made himself, and he would keep it if it killed him.
Leaving Baalbek in the waning light of dusk, the convoy hastened south along the valley's second-widest road. They passed one Syrian patrol and then another, but his vehicles were recognized and spared the ritual of stop-and-search reserved for peasants, members of the merchant class and other human flotsam. The Syrians did business with Iran for imports, and inside the Bekaa Valley they had recognized political reality. A word from Bakhtiar — or from Teheran — and Shiites would have risen in a howling mob against the soldiers who had dared molest their spiritual leaders.
It was comforting, he thought, to have both God and the large battalions on his side.
Moheden had been wise, for once, in carrying his hostage to the farm. Her people — if they looked for her at all — would doubtless start in Baalbek, chasing leads among the Palestinians and revolutionary guards. While they were grinding out their fruitless plans for an assault upon Hosseinieh or the Sheikh Abdullah barracks, all their precious secrets would be spilling from the woman's lips. She would destroy them in her effort to escape the pain, and when she found the sweet release of death, her passing would be symptomatic of the infidels' destruction.
Sometimes life was sweet, despite the fact that Bakhtiar's religion largely barred him from the realm of earthly pleasures. When an enemy betrayed himself and his comrades, and the noose closed tightly around them all, he knew that God smiled upon the holy revolution. Someday, when jihad had set the world on fire instead of simply burning out the Middle East, there would be cause for genuine rejoicing. On that day the Shiite thought that he might take a woman for himself, or even sip a glass of wine.
But first they had mistakes to rectify and enemies to kill. He wouldn't rest while the assassins of Hussein Razmara were at large
and plotting his destruction. The American must be discovered, captured and eliminated. Slowly. Painfully. And in such a manner that his mind would vomit up its darkest secrets prior to death.
On impulse Bakhtiar decided they should tape the girl's interrogation. Film wasn't appropriate, since she would have to be undressed, but he would have the cameras ready when they captured the American, Belasko. His confession would be very useful as a piece of propaganda in the endless running battle with America. The White House would be forced to finally admit its sabotage against the people's revolution. And if this Belasko turned out not to be an agent of his government, the film and tape could still be doctored to support a charge of CIA complicity.
Outside the ranch house, revolutionary guards snapped to attention as Bakhtiar's limousine pulled up and stopped. Moheden, taken by surprise, was slower off the mark and met him in the foyer.
The dealer forced a smile and lied. "I'm glad that you have come."
"I will assist you with the prisoner," Bakhtiar said, admitting no debate. "Some questions may occur to me that should be answered."
"As you wish."
"Of course. We shall begin at once."
Chapter Twenty-Two
It had to be the farm. Examining the other possibilities in detail, Bolan had discovered fatal flaws in each. For starters, both Hosseinieh and the Sheikh Abudullah barracks were too public, too accessible to the authorities. Despite security precautions they were also vulnerable to attack by snipers, rockets, even drive-by gunners on the street. An incident of any kind would bring police, who might feel duty-bound to check the premises and log complaints of hostages confined therein. It might amount to nothing in the long run, but a public link between Teheran's "holy men" and the narcotics trade would clearly damage their prestige.
The farm, by contrast, offered privacy, defensible perimeters and distance from the deputized authorities. A fair pitched battle could be waged without alerting anyone outside, and the casualties made to disappear without a trace. If Syrian patrols caught wind of the disturbance, they would be more apt to shrug it off, allowing Bakhtiar to deal with it himself.
Logistically the farm put Bolan closer to his enemies, located as it was midway between the current rebel camp and Baalbek. Closer meant less wasted time in transit, and a better chance of bringing Mara out alive — provided they could pull it off.
In hasty conversation with Chamoun, he tried to second-guess their enemies and gauge the strength of the opposition. On his whirlwind tour of the farm, he had observed at least a dozen guards, but they were bound to beef up that contingent now that war had been declared in earnest. Leaving a dozen men to guard the camp, he would have fifty to assault the dragon's lair. Against how many? If Moheden called out reinforcements from the Baalbek strongholds, Bolan's team could find themselves outnumbered by a ratio of eight or ten to one.
It seemed unlikely that the enemy would strip his urban fortresses of personnel, and Bolan cut the gloomy estimate in half. Two hundred sentries on the farm would still provide Moheden with a healthy edge, unless the strike force could achieve surprise. But how?
He thought about Grimaldi and the feasibility of calling up a one-man air strike, but he instantly dismissed the notion. He'd have to broadcast in the clear, on Joseph Chamoun's equipment, and the call might easily be intercepted by their enemies. Assuming it wasn't, Grimaldi would need time to reach his target, and a flying strike against the farm might finish Mara. All in all, the risks seemed greater than the possible rewards.
That left an infantry assault, bedeviled by the all-important question of surprise. Moheden's sentries on the farm wouldn't be taken in by humble peasants congregating on the highway, and a group of fifty men would instantly excite suspicion. Once inside the poppy fields, the raiders might be able to conceal themselves, but getting there was half the battle. All approaches would be guarded, and a force of any size would be contested instantly, unless…
He leaned across the table toward Chamoun, his elbows rumpling a large map of the Bekaa Valley they had spread between them. Glancing up from his consideration of an unpaved access, Chamoun appeared to recognize the spark in Bolan's eyes.
"You have the answer?" There was something close to desperation in his voice.
"I might," the Executioner replied. "But first we have to get ourselves arrested."
* * *
Bashir Moheden had been caught off guard by Bakhtiar's arrival at the farm. They had agreed beforehand that the girl would be the Lebanese's personal responsibility, his final chance to make things right with the cartel. By dropping in to take a hand in her interrogation, Bakhtiar was signaling a lack of confidence in Moheden, demeaning him before Ahmad Halaby and the other members of their team who might be quick enough to catch the nuance.
Furious at Bakhtiar for what he saw as rank betrayal, Moheden succeeded in disguising his reaction. He was civil, even cheerful with his cold, distrustful partner, reassuring Bakhtiar that every possible security precaution had been taken. With their enemies still reeling from the raid that afternoon, it was unthinkable that Joseph Chamoun could track his sister down, deploy his small remaining force and stage a counterstrike so soon. As for Belasko, he might still be hiding out in Baalbek, cut off from his allies. If he managed to escape the city, journey southward, he would find the rebels decimated, their small community in shambles.
Bakhtiar wasn't impressed by his assurances. The holy man had brought another twenty gunmen with him, and his first act on arrival was to radio for more. Nearly one hundred guns would be on duty, and Moheden hoped that they wouldn't be needed.
If the enemy made any move at all — other than a plea for peace, the Lebanese thought that it would come in Baalbek. He'd brought his hostage to the farm specifically to put a buffer between himself and the most likely combat zone. A major shift in troops could easily alert the enemy, but Bakhtiar refused to see the folly of his actions. As the owner of the farm and principal supplier of the drug cartel, he was within his rights to fortify the place at any time, for any reason. Moheden could only watch and hope the shift didn't betray his scheme before he had the necessary information in his hands.
He had intended to approach the girl with sympathy at first, relying on her simple peasant background to ensure a measure of stupidity. Commiserating with her plight, he would have offered favors, sanctuary from the brutes who had abused her during transit, swift release if she would answer certain minor questions. Only as a last resort would he fall back on violence — not because of any private squeamishness, but rather based upon the fact that victims under torture might say anything. A man or woman, driven past the threshold of endurance, would confess to crimes committed years before their birth, fictitious incidents dreamed up by their interrogators — anything at all. How many «witches» had been hanged or burned upon their own detailed confessions of consorting with the devil? In more recent times, how many Soviets, Chinese and Cubans, Eastern Europeans and Vietnamese had publicly confessed their "crimes against the state" before they shuffled off to prison camps or firing squads?
Coercion had its uses in a system where conformity was sought at any price. Beyond a certain point, however, it began to earn diminishing returns. A military leader who relied on torture for his battlefield Intelligence might find himself deploying troops against a nonexistent enemy. Police who leaned on the third degree in building cases frequently sent blameless men to jail, while leaving hardened criminals at large. A cautious man, Moheden didn't wish to risk his life, his fortune, on the garbled pleadings of a tortured soul.
With Bakhtiar at hand, however, he'd have no choice. Physical abuse was second nature to the Shiite zealots, and with Bakhtiar in charge of the interrogation, there would be no room for subtlety.
It was a pity, the Lebanese thought. He'd seen the woman in selected photographs, so different from the dusty, battered victim who had been unloaded from the helicopter, and in other circumstances, free of interference, Moheden might have approached
her as a woman. He wasn't devoid of charm, and in her current situation, much could be accomplished with a friendly smile, a well-placed compliment. She might have tried to bargain with her body, and he might have let her, but that wouldn't be an option now that Bakhtiar was on the scene.
Instead of teaching her to serve him, picking up her vital information in the process, now Moheden would be forced to tear the girl apart. And based upon his past experience with torture victims, it might all be wasted effort. They would stand no better than a fifty-fifty chance of learning anything worthwhile from Mara once the operation had begun.
A pity.
Still, if he could strike some happy medium with Bakhtiar, secure agreement to the use of low-key torture in the early phases, they might have a chance. He badly wanted to destroy his enemies, not merely rout them as he had that afternoon. Destruction meant elimination of the threat, together with a lesson for the other peasants who considered launching armed resistance on their own. Eradication meant smooth sailing, safety, higher profits all around.
Determined not to fail, he motioned for Ahmad Halaby to accompany him, and both men fell in step with Bakhtiar, en route to the interrogation room.
* * *
When Mara's time arrived, two Palestinians were sent to fetch her from her cell. Her spirits slumped, but she had promises to keep, and she had worked to fill the chamber pot against this moment. Now as they advanced upon her, Mara seized the pot and flung its contents squarely into one man's face, delivering a solid crack across his skull as hands flew up to wipe his stinging eyes.
Her adversary staggered, fell, and when the chamber pot didn't explode on impact, Mara swung on his companion, missing as he came in low, beneath her guard. His shoulder struck her in the solar plexus, momentarily short-circuiting commands between her brain and lungs. Momentum drove her backward, pinned against the nearest wall, and Mara felt like she was drowning. Suddenly, incredibly, she had forgotten how to breathe.
Assault Page 24