Hellbinder

by Don Pendleton

  "Thank you, Mr. Ambassador."

  There was no one else in the room.

  "Now onto your plans, then. I would like to put in a bid for your services," Dr. Johnson said. "I need a better bodyguard than I've had down here, as you found out. I want to put you on staff as a GS-13 at thirty-six thousand a year, beginning the first of last month."

  "Mr. Ambassador…"

  "Please let me finish. You will have a car and driver at your command, as well as an apartment here in the embassy. Your only job will be watching my tail and keeping me out of trouble. You damn well saved my neck back there. I'm not good at this sort of thing. A man does not take it lightly when someone saves his life. I'm not a man of violence. I'm not used to it, I don't like it. I know I killed one man, perhaps more than one last night. But it was them or us, him or me. A man thinks differently in those situations. I want you to see to it that I don't get in any more trouble like that."

  He paused to look at his watch, then continued. "Don't say a word right now. Go back to your room and relax, then have lunch and a nap and we'll meet for dinner in my quarters at seven. This is tremendously important to me."

  Bolan got up and shook the ambassador's hand and went to his room down the long hallway.

  In the room he checked his battered suitcase. It was intact. The traveler's checks were still in the suitcase lining, the cash still sewn in his sport coat.

  He found a pen and paper, and wrote a note to the ambassador apologizing for having to leave. He indicated he was still on the track of the rest of the gas and it was important for him to follow Aleksandr Galkin the KGB agent and Hassan the Syrian as quickly as he could.

  An hour later Bolan caught a flight to Miami.

  As the plane took off, he relaxed. Now that he was away, he intended to use a different name, so the ambassador would have to do the best he could to find him.

  The Executioner turned on the soft music in his earphones and let his mind drift back.

  He had been nervous on that tiny piece of American soil in El Salvador. The embassy had shielded him, but it had also been a hazard, the ever present chance that someone there might know him, might connect him with Colonel John Phoenix and the wanted notices out on him by the CIA.

  Now the Executioner could relax fully. He was on his own again. He lived for the day when he could bring the KGB mastermind Major General Greb Strakhov into his control. The Russian general had been the man who had worked out the plan that ended Colonel John Phoenix's useful operations for the United States government. It was Strakhov who was responsible for the death of April Rose. It was Strakhov who had devised and executed the plan to kill the labor leader in the Warsaw pact nation and blame it on Phoenix.

  Bolan had been grievously wounded in the spirit by April Rose's death at Stony Man Farm. He dropped the John Phoenix pose and worked his way to Moscow, where he stayed for months with the Russian "underground" of Gypsies, dissidents and small-time criminals. They sheltered him, helped provide for him as he tried to uncover who had carried out the plot against Stony Man Farm and against John Phoenix. Once he knew that, he could vindicate himself.

  When he learned at last the name of Major General Greb Strakhov, the highly placed KGB leader was out of reach. It was then that he found out that a helicopter pilot John Phoenix had killed in Afghanistan had been the general's son. Only then did Bolan know why the general hated Colonel John Phoenix so fiercely.

  But even with the facts about the plot against him revealed, Bolan did not succeed in clearing his name. He tracked down the mole, the American spying for the Soviets in a rival American intelligence agency, who had set up Stony Man Farm for the attack where April Rose had been killed. Bolan had captured the mole, shown his complicity and executed him in the Oval Office with the President as a witness.

  The killing destroyed Bolan's last chance to return to any kind of good graces with the American establishment. Now Stony Man Farm and all its resources were totally beyond his reach. Now the KGB, the Western intelligence agencies, and even the CIA were hunting him.

  As in the old days, Mack Bolan was the outsider looking in, waging a solo war for justice against tremendous odds. He had to do it all, facing an utterly hostile world alone. But he had to do it, he had no choice. In his mercy, he would kill — and kill personally — to help restore the balance of right and wrong. His wounds were personal, and it was he personally who suffered so gravely when the balance of righteousness was upset and the snakes of evil and terror unloosed on the world. So he would fight a personal war.

  As the pilot announced that they were starting their descent into Miami, the Executioner was disturbed. It was as if he had been reading a mystery novel and twenty pages of the book were missing.

  How did he know that the other canisters were going to Syria?

  He did not know. He assumed it. He had made one of those combat decisions that must be right or you are dead.

  Was he wrong? Why should the gas go to Syria?

  He thought about his intuitive conclusion. Why else would a Syrian be at the "test site" in El Salvador? The Syrians were the logical customer for the other five canisters. They were on a wartime footing. They had combat troops in action every day. They had men on the lines. They were fighting their historic and hated enemy, Israel, and simultaneously trying to stabilize Lebanon and keep the many factions in that war-shattered nation in line. Bolan knew from Kurtzman that his good friends in Able Team were even now involved in a fantastic war in the Middle East, where Syrians, Iranians, Libyans and American black nationalists were embroiled in a smorgasbord of blood and violence, their only political unity being the groups' lust for terror.

  In such an environment, Bolan decided that the ultimate target for the gas would not be Lebanon or the Druse or the other factions fighting there. The only logical target for the gas was Israel. With five canisters, the Syrians could attack the five largest Israeli cities. The chemicals could be released by special aircraft over the cities at night to produce genocide by morning. By the time his plane landed, Bolan had devised a plan and fixed it clearly in his mind.

  Bolan gathered together his gear and waited until everyone was lined up in the aisle. Then he walked off. As usual, everyone had to wait at the luggage carousel for the bags to arrive. Bolan spent his time calling the various consulates in Miami until he found the one that handled Syria.

  No problem, he could leave on an evening plane.

  13

  Mack Bolan had never enjoyed international travel. Airports, jet liners, more airports, customs inspectors and hassles over baggage were not his idea of having fun. After two delays, he arrived in Damascus a day and a half after leaving Miami, which was about average, as another American in the customs line told him.

  The Executioner had been surprised by the green around Damascus. Somehow he thought of Syria and most of the Middle East as one huge desert. The Barada river runs through the heart of Damascus and is the source of water for the city as well as for extensive surrounding irrigation in fields of fruits. The city had seemed to float into view as an extension of the barren eastern slopes of some mountains.

  Bolan declared his cash and traveler's checks, did not mention the cash sewn into his jacket and was cleared quickly. He had no weapons, not even a pen knife, and he had a feeling he would have to do something about that quickly.

  The friendly American in the customs line told the big man with the ice-hard eyes he was going to the best hotel in town and even that was not anything special. The Executioner's Arabic was almost nonexistent and he asked the American if he could ride along. It was the Hotel Gamil, which his English-speaking friend said meant beautiful. It was. They introduced themselves. The small, balding American's name was Harry Engeland, from Boston on a vacation. On this occasion Bolan used his passport name, Mack Scott.

  He registered, found an English-speaking employee and told him what he wanted. The man nodded and wrote down an address. Bolan showed it to a taxi driver and was let out in f
ront of a small shop in the bazaar section of town.

  Quickly he found the first item he wanted: a walking cane, sturdy but not overpowering. It cost eight Syrian pounds, a little over two dollars, had fancy carving on it and was highly varnished. In another store he purchased a small pocketknife. It took the Executioner half an hour to find the rest of what he needed. At last he located a shop with fishing equipment and bought a fifty-yard roll of thirty-pound clear monofilament fishing line. It had a slight blue tinge but would work well, the Executioner decided.

  Back in the hotel he completed his passive weapon. He notched a ring around the tip of the cane with the small knife, then tightly knotted the end of the nylon line around it. He measured off an arm's length of the nylon, then one more, cut off the line and tied a two-inch loop in the end and bent the line back on itself, pushing it through the loop, forming a noose. Now he adjusted the length of the noose so he could form a circle two feet in diameter and be able to keep it three feet from the end of the cane.

  When it was perfectly formed, Bolan retied the end of the line on the tip of the cane and stretched the loop and the single strand along the length of the cane. He bound the fishing line in place with spots of cellophane tape and was pleased with his unconventional yet highly effective weapon, a garrote on a stick. The plastic line was hard to see from a few feet away.

  Next he took from his pocket the address that Ahmed Hassan had given him and went out to find a taxi. The driver looked at the address and asked Bolan something.

  "La yatakalam," the Executioner said. His American friend Engeland told him that meant, "I don't speak." It worked. The driver shrugged and charged into the crazy Damascus traffic. A million and a half people live in the capital of Syria, and all of them seemed to want to take this street at the same time with cars, trucks, bicycles and a few donkeys and camels.

  Bolan had never seen anything like it. Minor scrapes and bumps of fenders and body panels were ignored as the drivers jockeyed, charged and bluffed for position.

  At last they came to a narrower and less traveled street. The taxi driver stopped a dozen numbers down from the address Bolan had given him and said something. The Executioner didn't understand. The driver snatched the bills offered. So much for over-tipping.

  Bolan recognized the large and plain Arabic lettering from Hassan's note and saw that the building was an office of some sort. Without hesitation, he pushed the door open and walked in.

  The quiet inside surprised him. No hawking from the street vendors, no snarl of traffic, no blaring of horns. He found himself on a deep-pile carpet in a beautifully decorated room about ten feet square. An attractive woman behind a desk looked up from some papers and asked him something in Arabic.

  "Do you speak English?" he asked.

  "Yes, of course. How may I assist you?"

  She was striking. She had deep-set dark eyes, heavy lashes and her black hair coiled and fastened to one side.

  "I'm looking for Ahmed Hassan. I met him a few days ago in El Salvador. He said if I made it to Damascus I should contact him. He indicated that he might have some work for me."'

  "Mr. Hassan is not here. We have had no word from him for some time, but if you wish to leave your name and the name of the hotel where you are staying, we will let him know at our first chance."

  "Good. I'm Mack Scott, staying at the Gamil hotel."

  She wrote something on a red three-by-five card.

  "Thank you, Mr. Scott. I'll see that Mr. Hassan gets your message if we can contact him."

  Bolan returned to the street. The taxi he had used before sat in front of the building. Bolan got in and told the driver to return to the hotel. All he needed was the one word, and the driver understood.

  The big American waited in his room. There was no call. At four that afternoon he left the hotel and again took a taxi to the address Hassan had given him. This time he stayed well back, made sure the driver did not return and watched the front door. Just after five o'clock, the tall, slender woman emerged and walked away.

  The Executioner followed her. She walked rapidly, not watching to see if anyone were following her; as far as Bolan could tell, no one else was. She went up several blocks, through a main artery and into a better section of town where she entered an apartment complex. He got close enough to see her press a numbered button and go past a heavy door, which locked behind her.

  He leaned against a closed shop and waited for two hours. She did not come out. Bolan was hungry, tired and slightly angry that he was at a dead end. He had to find Hassan soon or it would be too late. He expected the Syrian would strike quickly. They had been waiting for centuries for a chance like this to annihilate the Jews. Now they had the right weapon.

  Bolan turned and almost bumped into a small dark-haired woman with big sunglasses. A smart white linen suit covered her well-proportioned figure.

  She glanced up at him, smiled and put her arm through his and matched his slow stride.

  "I was afraid you would stay here all evening. There is nothing to learn of Hassan this way, but there are other ways. You are the American who arrived this morning, is staying at the Gamil and wishes he could speak Arabic. I speak the language like a native. You are using the name Mack Scott, obviously an alias. Now that we have that out of the way, are you ready for some dinner?"

  Bolan tried to smile. He had been surprised by the woman's presence, startled when she took his arm and stunned that she knew all about him. It came too suddenly, so he laughed.

  "Now, miss. If we could try this all again. My name is Mack Scott, I'm a plastics salesman from Peoria, and you're right about my not speaking the language. What's this about Hassan?"

  She lifted one dark brow, took off her sunglasses and put them in a pocket in the lightweight jacket.

  "First we'll have dinner. I know a special spot, and I can even find a hamburger for you if you insist. We can talk shop as we go along. I have been following you and watching you since you visited Hassan's blind drop this morning. It would be a favor of me to suggest that you find a better spot than the lining of your jacket for the spare cash you carry."

  Bolan looked at her and this time his laugh was full and hearty. He hadn't been away from his room for more than ten minutes since she had tailed him back there this morning. She must be good or had help.

  "I'd love to have some dinner. Do you have a name? An alias will do."

  "Now that is better. My name is Luana, it is German and Hebrew, and we will talk more later when the walls do not have ears."

  She signaled and an old Renault drove up. She reached for the door; Bolan beat her to it and followed her inside. She spoke rapidly in Arabic and the car surged ahead.

  "Yes, I too have been watching for Ahmed Hassan or any of his friends. My last information was that he was in the Western Hemisphere somewhere."

  "Who are you?"

  "I work with friends of the United States," she said. "We both struggle for the betterment of the world, not its destruction."

  "Israeli intelligence?"

  "Surely you realize that I can say neither yes or no. But we must work together. I could guess you are CIA or M-6, but I think neither. There is a strange, independent air about you." She smiled and her brown eyes shone. Her hair, loose around her shoulders, shaded one cheek.

  The car stopped at the curb and they got out at a dimly lit alley. She took his arm and marched him down a series of stone steps, through a beaded curtain into a dungeonlike room decorated in silks and pillows and small tables, with flickering candles in chandeliers. There were no electric lights. It looked like the inside of a sultan's desert tent, or perhaps that of his favorite wife.

  A robed waiter led them to a table, where he seated Bolan and let Luana sit down by herself.

  "Remember," she said, when Bolan stared at the waiter, "that in the Arab world, a woman is a third-class citizen, coming after the man, his male sons and his sports car if he has one. Then his wife."

  "My three wives would never ac
cept that," Bolan said.

  "Good," she said, laughing softly. "This is the type of business where a little humor helps. Here there are ears in every cushion. We will talk nothing of our problem, only eat, enjoy the dancer if there is one tonight and then leave. We talk later."

  She ordered for them in fluid Arabic, and it was plain that the waiter knew her. There were small crackers and some kind of cheese and a soup he didn't want to know the contents of. When the lamb came, it was cooked to perfection and he enjoyed it. They had three kinds of tea and for dessert a watery pudding.

  Bolan had found out little about her at the meal. Every time he asked a question she shook her head silently, although there was no one within hearing distance.

  He paid the bill, and outside she found transport quickly. It was not a taxi, he discovered, but the same car and driver who had taken them to the restaurant.

  As soon as the door closed she began talking seriously.

  "Hassan is back in Damascus. I found that out this morning. He is traveling with a Russian who is using a special diplomatic passport."

  "The Russian's name is Galkin, KGB. I met him in El Salvador," Bolan said. "You do know about the canister of poison nerve gas they used down there?"

  "Everyone knows about that. The papers and the radio have been overflowing with it. Depending on your politics, the U.S. is the biggest warmonger since Napoleon, or an unwitting and bumbling idiot."

  "And why are you watching Hassan?" he asked.

  "We always watch Hassan. I am acquainted with him, and with some of the other more ambitious of the Syrian power team. They think I am Arab and I do not discourage that. I am only one-quarter Arab, but do not tell them."

  "And you have access to the inner workings of the Syrian military, their intelligence operation?"

  "Only on the periphery, the crumbs. Anything helps these days."