He undid the bottom seam of a sport coat and carefully inserted twenty one-hundred-dollar bills in each side near the back. The money made the jacket hang nicely, and a few extra dollars would always help.
At a bank he bought four thousand dollars' worth of American Express traveler's checks, then caught a cab for the airport. Another five thousand in cash, from an earlier profitable venture, was in one of the two wallets he carried.
At a magazine stand he bought the New York Times and two newsmagazines, wanting as much information as he could get about El Salvador, Honduras, Nicaragua and the whole mess in Central America.
The first leg of his trip took him to San Francisco, where he had access to some people who could help him with his "paper" problem.
The paper he needed was a false U.S. passport and the backup identification to help him in and out of the country.
6
It was dark when he landed in San Salvador. A taxi took Bolan into the downtown area where he went to a good hotel, but not the best. The room was small, the bed lumpy, but he slept. He had gained an hour in time, since the longitude at El Salvador is nearly the same as Chicago's.
Bolan woke at 5:30 a.m., as usual. He thought he heard someone outside his door, but when he unlocked it and moved the chair, he found the hallway empty.
He breakfasted in the dining room, then returned to his room and changed into a pair of blue jeans, a blue T-shirt with California written on it and a denim jacket several shades darker than the pants. It was to be his mercenary uniform.
He asked the English-speaking desk clerk if he could help find someone. All he had was a name. The clerk consulted a telephone directory and gave him an address.
"This man, he is not with the best reputation."
"I don't plan on marrying him, just some business."
"He is, what do you say, a shady character. Not above making the robbery of a tourist."
"Thanks, pardner. I'll be careful." He paused. "I guess it's against the law to carry a gun here, right?"
"Very right, sir. You will be shot at once if caught with a firearm of any type. Very much against the law."
"I was afraid of that. Thanks again."
Outside, Bolan took a stroll. It was easy to tell he was being followed. The small man doing the work was not the best — he was too obvious; this suggested there would be a second tail who would be more discreet and stick to Bolan once he lost the first one.
The Executioner ditched the first tail in a market by doubling back, then watched from a small cafe while the small man searched and at last gave up and backtracked toward the hotel. It took Bolan ten minutes to spot the second tail. He was thin and tall, wearing washed whites and a straw hat pulled low over his face.
The warrior left the restaurant and walked directly toward the man. He stared him in the eye and asked if he had a match. The tail hesitated, then shook his head and said in Spanish that he did not speak English. He turned and with only a quick backward glance walked away. When he was out of sight Bolan ran in the opposite direction for two blocks, caught a taxi and gave the driver the slip of paper with the address.
People were everywhere. It was hard to tell a civil war had been going on for five years. Five million people were packed into a nation about the size of Massachusetts, at about the same density, and most were jammed in along the coast.
The cab driver took him down the main thoroughfare, along a narrow winding street into a wide avenue of luxurious homes and then, turning a corner, to a fine house with an iron gate and bell at the sidewalk. He took his payment and left, and Bolan rang the bell. A panel opened in a door twenty feet away, and momentarily a large muscular black man emerged from another door at the side. He wore a tight T-shirt, white pants and a colorful sash around his waist. He stood beyond the gate looking at Bolan. He spoke in English.
"Morning, man. You're a long way from Pismo Beach."
The Executioner laughed. "And you're one hell of a long shot from it, too. What you doing down here?"
"Maybe the same thing you are. Who you looking for?"
"Gentleman by the handle of Diego Fortuna. Know him?"
"Could be. Why are you here? What do you want?"
"Hey, lighten up. A man told me I could find work with Fortuna, and since I don't have any war going at the moment, I thought I'd test the wage scale."
"You got any references?"
"A few bullet holes. Do they count?"
"I think I can let you in the gate," muttered the big man. "Diego will want to see you." He opened the gate, closed it and stood in front of Bolan. Suddenly he pushed the Executioner in the chest with an open hand.
Quick as a striking cobra, Bolan trapped the spread hand on his chest with his right arm, grabbed the man's elbow with his left hand, pressed it upward and prepared to snap the arm like a dried twig.
"Okay!" the black man yelled.
The Executioner let up on the pressure, and the other man stretched his fingers, working them to be sure they weren't injured.
"You're a good soldier," Bolan said. "But so am I."
"They call me Blackie," the big man grunted. "Never could figure the hell why." He grinned. "Come on in and say howdy, Brooklyn style."
In El Salvador, as with most of Central America, a small percentage of the population is extremely rich, an equally small number of people are middle class, and millions live at the poverty and starvation level. Diego Fortuna was one of the nouveau riche. The house was indeed luxurious, with fine furniture, brass fixtures, rich hand-carved wooden ornamentation and oil paintings bathed in the perfect illumination of small lamps. The hall and rooms that Bolan saw were carpeted, some with Persian rugs spread over the carpet.
They passed through a hall to a study lined with glass-enclosed book cabinets. There was a large globe in one corner and a big business-style desk of dark cherry with a gleaming top in the middle of the room. Only a phone and one file folder lay on top of the desk.
Behind it sat a man with dark hair, a full, closely clipped beard and darting brown eyes. He remained seated as the two men entered.
Diego Fortuna addressed Blackie. "Your preliminary evaluation?"
"I wouldn't want to go up against him. He used a hand press on me that was about to break my fingers off. I'd say he's a real find."
Diego nodded and Blackie left the room with a wink at Bolan, who stood just inside the doorway.
"How did you get my name?" Fortuna asked.
"From a friend in the States. He said not to tell you who he was."
"That in itself tells me." Diego smiled. When he stood, Bolan saw that he was barely five feet tall. He wore a business suit with a vest and a silk tie worth thirty dollars.
"You heard there may be employment here, but you don't know the employer or the mission, right?"
"Whatever it is, I can handle it. I'm plenty experienced."
"Yes, I would expect that you are." Diego moved to the front of the desk and leaned back against it. "Do you have any qualms about combat situations?"
"That's what I specialize in."
"Maybe you're overqualified for the position."
"I was a headhunter in Nam. Do you know what that means?"
Diego stared back at Bolan without answering. Then he said, "The pay is five hundred American dollars a week in any combat situation. If there is no combat, the pay is two hundred a week. Satisfactory?"
"Fine."
"This operation will last a week, maybe more. The timing isn't specific yet. We can contact you at your hotel, the Plantation?"
"Call me," Bolan said. "The name's Mack Scott." He turned and walked out of the room.
The lone warrior strode to the street and waved down a cab.
7
The Executioner believed the best way to kill time was to work it to death, but now that solution was denied him. He had to occupy himself with the same things mercenaries usually do: wine, women and song.
He gave the driver the name of his hotel. Bolan k
new he could not be sure if he had arrived before the canisters from Vancouver. He couldn't even be certain that the canisters of deadly gas would be delivered here. But it was logical and it was the only choice he had. He would play out the logic string.
As he rolled back to the hotel, Bolan knew his transition from hired gun for the U.S. to independent warrior was complete. True, he used Kurtzman as a source, but he would always have to use all the sources he could tap.
He was strictly playing a lone hand, with police agencies in several areas hunting for him again. He was wanted by the CIA and several other intelligence agencies, and the KGB had an extensive file on him under his various names.
Mack Bolan knew he was not a superman, not a special individual with special privileges. He came from common lower-middle-class stock. He had worked hard all his life and he was dedicated to the proposition that someone had to fight on the side of right no matter what the costs or casualties. That was simply what he did. And he did it well.
Bolan loved his country. He had fought and almost died in the nation's military uniform, and he still felt a surge of emotion when the "Star Spangled Banner" played or when the flag passed in a parade.
He had come out of Vietnam after two tours of duty to go home on emergency leave. A tragedy in his family had pointed him dead center at the Mafia, and he began his holy war against the most unholy of the time.
The Mafia had been his first war, as he pounded, bombed, shot and tore up two dozen Mafia families, riddling the ranks, avenging one-hundredfold his own kin. He had challenged their force with an equal amount of his own and blasted them back into the sewers they had originally crawled from.
His second war had been against terrorism. He had worked closely with the federal government, striking at terrorists who threatened the U.S. and its allies. Again he was fighting fire with fire, bombs with bombs, and as Colonel John Phoenix he made them pay dearly, wiping out whole nests of agents and terrorists. But they kept coming on.
That war came to an end for him with the attack on Stony Man Farm and the aftermath of the Russian deception. The KGB had set up a popular pro-Western labor leader in Europe and assassinated him, making it look as if Colonel John Phoenix had done the task in front of thousands of witnesses; with plastic surgery the KGB had transformed a convict from a Russian prison into a copy of Colonel Phoenix, then had him kill the labor leader.
Bolan spent months in Russia's underground searching for the man who had set up the deception, and at last took a swath out of the KGB management in a deadly maneuver. But then, when in front of the President of the United States in the Oval Office he killed the mole who had betrayed Stony Man Farm, Bolan cut his chances of reestablishing ties with the U.S. government.
And now he was out on his own again, answering to no man, driven by his need to avenge the murder of his lover and friend, April Rose, and driven too by the nature of his calling, which was to kill unmercifully so that the good and the gentle could survive; in its way, such killing was altogether merciful.
Bolan used secret documents he brought back from Russia to find and destroy as many KGB operatives and operations as he could.
It was kill or be killed, and Mack Bolan was ready.
The enemy had been warned. He was coming at them in every way and with every weapon and power he could command until they were all dead and buried — or until Mack Bolan had drawn his last breath and said goodbye to life after a rugged fight.
He would still be fighting when the KGB carried his head on a gold platter up to 2 Dzerzhinsky Square for the celebration. His eyes would still be accusing them.
Bolan realized the taxi had stopped in front of the hotel. He paid the driver five colones and went into the hotel.
He nodded at the clerk, bought one English and one Spanish newspaper off the stand, then strolled past the clerk.
"Diego did not laugh when I told him your remark," Bolan said as he walked.
"Surely you did not…" the clerk began, keeping up with him.
The big man with the steely blue eyes laughed and shook his head. "I did not, but next time I see him, maybe I will. It would be tactful of you to keep me informed of any more spies that the great one sends to watch me."
The clerk leaned closer to Bolan.
"One man went through your room while you were gone," he said. "Another man, the one behind the newspaper, is watching you and will follow you."
Bolan thanked the clerk and walked on to the man with the paper. He was dressed in a lightweight white suit and tie. The Executioner sat beside the slender man on the wide sofa.
"Hi, pal. No reason to make this hard for you. I feel the need of a drink. Come into the bar and share one with me."
The man shook his head. Bolan took the guy by the arm, his big hand viselike around the darker man's biceps, and lifted him from the sofa.
"Let's have that friendly drink. You do speak English?"
"No inglés."
"I bet." Bolan switched to his adequate Spanish as he guided the man into the bar. "I won't say a word about this to Señor Fortuna," Bolan said.
At that the man nodded and thanked Bolan. They sat down at the bar and ordered local beer. The man said his name was Pepe and said little else.
"I suppose you've been through my room by now." Bolan glared at him. Pepe held up his hands, protesting his innocence. Bolan softened. "You can tell Diego," he said, smiling, "that I'm exactly what I said I was. I kill people. I fight on any side if the price is right. Now that we have that straight, where is the best whorehouse in town?"
Pepe smiled for the first time. Bolan knew he had struck a responsive chord.
Pepe gave him the address, and Bolan finished the beer, bought the Salvadoran another and then went up to his room.
Whoever searched it had been good at his work. Bolan would not have known except for the way the newspaper was left on top of his suitcase. Bolan had placed it so the corners touched the edge of the suitcase, forming an exact equilateral triangle. Now the triangle was not perfect.
He removed his jacket and dropped on the bed. He went through the English newspaper from Miami, then the Spanish one, but found little of interest. He had an early lunch in the dining room, again inviting Pepe to eat with him. When Bolan checked the desk on the way to his room, he found a familiar face.
"Blackie, you no-good honky lover, what you doing here?"
"Got two tickets to the big game. Soccer, man! Bootball, Central American style. Big playoff game in the stadium. Want to go?"
They went. It gave Bolan a chance to pump Blackie, who didn't mind talking.
"Hell, man, Diego gave me the tickets and said to take you. He don't want you getting in trouble in some cathouse and winding up in jail just when we pull out. Looks like it'll be tomorrow sometime."
The soccer was good, although it was a cut below European.
"You been out on these runs before for Diego?" Bolan asked casually.
"Hell, yes! I'm the pointman. And I think he wants you to ride with me. We go ahead of the main party in an old jeep. We try to draw any hostile fire. Hell, I'm telling you how to be a pointman?"
"You lasted this long?" Bolan asked.
"Shit, nobody can kill me. I been on six runs now in the point. That's why I get a thousand a run. Got cut up bad once, but nothing fatal. I figure about five more trips and I can go back to Detroit and open a little ribs place. Damn, I love ribs."
"This one going down fast?"
"Tomorrow."
"What's the mission?"
"Probably the usual. We filter out of town and meet in the boonies. When we're far enough out, we form up into a small convoy, pull out the weapons and charge up into the hills. The Sierra Madre range is back there. First we have to get through the coast range, which ain't as high. Heard something about a truck we'll be taking in. But just where we're going we never know. Usually we hook up with a guide who takes us to one of the guerrilla camps. The central-government forces never get back in the hills too f
ar. Afraid of getting their damned heads blown off."
He laughed then and turned to watch the game. One of the home team forwards missed an easy shot.
"Ain't a matter of whether or not we're gonna get shot up. It's when and where and how bad."
"And we'll be the bait?"
"True."
The home team won the soccer game. The pair of Americans left and had dinner at a restaurant Blackie knew, and afterward went to the hotel. Blackie made a call from the lobby as the Executioner waited. The big black man returned, grinning.
"Okay, my man. It's on, it's a go! I'll pick you up in the morning at 6:15. Pack and leave all your traveling gear here. We take a taxi out, transfer to a bus and then meet our group about ten miles farther on into the foothills. Nice country. Sleep good, man, we're going to need it all tomorrow!'
8
Ambassador A. Ellington Johnson, up as usual a little after nine o'clock, went through his fifteen-minute regimen of flexibility exercises. On schedule, his aide briefed him regarding new material from the news wire, special signals from Washington, and the latest guerrilla situation. The Communist-led rebels had been making increasingly bold moves lately, some even in the city of San Salvador.
Johnson sat on the edge of the Mancisor intermediate-level home-gym exercising machine. He shipped it everywhere he went. As a medical doctor he knew that he had to take care of the body as well as the soul. It was the dedication, the day-by-day mental push to do it, that was tough.
Johnson hadn't really wanted this job with the administration. His medical practice in Washington, D.C., put him in touch with the administration, and his contributions over the years to the Republican party had now been "rewarded." The fact that he spoke Spanish like a native and had spent two years in Mexico City as an intern helped. He at last agreed to a four-year stint, but no more.
At fifty-five, he was too old to play the diplomatic game, but he was locked into it now, and he went at the contest with fierce determination.
The ambassador listened as his aide droned on about the international situation, knowing that he should be on top of everything. He did ten minutes of hard pumping on the stationary bicycle and retreated to the shower.
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