Bolan shrugged, again lifted both hands in the air and walked toward the entrance. Someone slid out of a booth and followed him. The Executioner hurried without appearing to, went through the door and into the black void of the alley. He stepped to the alley side of the door and pressed against the wall in the Stygian darkness.
A thickset man came through the doorway. He looked down the dark alley, then sensed Bolan behind him and whirled, a gleaming six-inch blade in his hand. The Executioner snaked out of his jacket and wrapped it around his left arm, protecting it, backing deeper into the alley.
The Arab laughed, lunged and backed away. Bolan offered his protected left arm to take the thrust that never came. The Arab growled, began another lunge. The nightfighter started to lift his left arm, instead chopped it savagely downward, jolting his attacker's wrist just as it shifted from a slashing motion to a forward thrust. The American heard the bone crack, and the Arab grunt with pain. The big man grabbed the Arab's injured wrist with both hands and whirled the attacker around half a turn, then slammed him into the masonry wall. Bolan followed up quickly with a double-fisted hammer blow to the side of the Arab's neck.
The last blow knocked out his attacker and dumped him into the dust. Quickly searching the man's pockets, Bolan found an identification folder, a wad of money and a small .32 automatic. He took the ID and the gun and walked casually into the street, then caught a cab.
It was not much, but it might be a start. He got out a block from Luana's apartment, made it to the door without being seen and used the key she had given him. She was not inside. After making sure no one was in the apartment, he sat in the darkness.
The canisters. Where were they? Had Mossad traced them? How in hell do you capture five canisters of deadly nerve gas without putting everyone in jeopardy?
Bolan paced the room, then sat down to wait for Luana. She was his only link to the success of the whole mission. He knew it would be a long wait.
16
Bolan slept.
It was nearly 3:00 a.m. when a noise jarred him — the scraping of a pick or key in the lock. He was awake at once, the .32 automatic in his hand, the safety off. The Executioner had fallen asleep in a big chair near the far wall of the apartment. He waited now. It was a key. The door handle turned and a small figure entered, closed the door, then turned on the light.
"Good morning, Luana."
She turned, fear on her face replaced at once by a smile.
"You are safe. Good. We have much to talk about. I'll make some tea. Sorry I don't have a beer for you."
Over hot tea she told him the bad news.
"Our people in Lisbon missed sabotaging the plane. It is now flying toward Damascus. Officials at Lisbon did not bother the plane or its cargo. It's an old Boeing 707 converted passenger liner. I've talked with my people. Several operations are under way. We are making preparations. First we will try to capture the canisters and threaten to blow them up at the airport if they do not give us transport out of the country. That should work. If not we move to plan B, then C, and even a shaky D."
"You look tired."
"Sex always makes me tired. And keeping him talking is no easy job, either." She grinned. "I usually don't complain."
"When will the canisters arrive?"
She looked at her watch. "The plane was scheduled to arrive a half hour ago at the Atsi military airfield just outside town."
"Where will they hold it and guard the canisters?"
"Hangar twelve, if everything works out right. That's all I could get from my Arab friend before he passed out."
Bolan stood. "I'm going out there for a soft probe. It won't do any good for your people to hit that hangar if it's a dummy, a false lead. We've got to know."
"I'm going with you."
"No, you're almost out on your feet."
"You'll need an interpreter."
"For fighting and making love you don't need to know the language." He showed her the .32 automatic. "I borrowed this from a friend in the alley. I followed the tall man to a small eatery. I have the address. I went in and he was gone. A man tried to kill me. He missed. I didn't. Here's his ID. Mean anything?"
She smiled as she saw the name. "A short, heavy man?"
"Yes."
"Good. I know the man and the place. I must get back to our people about this. It will help."
Bolan changed into his nightfighter blacksuit as Luana watched. Things have a way of balancing out. He had the .32 but only seven shots. He should not need that many. They both rode a taxi to his hotel, where he retrieved his cane. Then he dropped her at a small building near the one where they had been before. She told the driver where to take him.
The Executioner paid the driver and got out a block from the lighted and fenced border of the Atsi military airfield. He walked a half mile along the road next to the fence and soon found a hole through which the enlisted men had been sneaking out of camp at night.
Bolan darkened his hands and face with dirt and went through. He soon found hangar four. Well before he worked along the row to number twelve he saw it ahead. It was bathed in floodlights, special ones of every size and description.
A mounted jeep-type patrol circled the building, which faced the runway but was isolated from the others. Bolan bellied up to the edge of the darkness where it came closest to the hangar and watched the guards. There were six on the two sides he could see. Five walked given beats, and the sixth was probably a sergeant keeping tabs on the others.
Two hours until daylight. Plenty of time. Bolan worked around to the other side of the dark splotch where he could see the third side of the building. The darkness came to within ten feet of the hangar, and one guard moved in and out of the area.
Five minutes later the Executioner blended into the shadows where the guard made his deepest penetration. A small building stood close by with electrical wires coming from it to a pole. Bolan froze at the side and as the guard moved up, the cane with the fishing line snaked out, the loop dropping over the guard's head. The combatman jerked the loop tight and lunged backward, dragging the choking guard with him, the thin monofilament line slicing into neck tissue as the guard struggled.
Bolan pulled harder on the cane, and the line bit deeper; gurgles and wheezing came from the guard. Another hard lunge backward with the cane and it was over. The line had cut through flesh and one carotid artery. The Syrian died in seven seconds, his life's fluid pumped into the sandy soil.
The Executioner pulled the noose free, dragged the body behind the small building and retrieved the guard's AK-47 with its 30-round magazine. He found another magazine in the dead soldier's pocket and slipped it in his belt. Bolan bellied down in the dirt and checked the other guards. All were at the end of their assigned posts. He surged through the darkness, cane in one hand, rifle in the other. No alarm sounded as he slanted across ten feet of shadowed light to the small side door of the huge hangar.
He opened it cautiously, saw the inside was dark, and stepped through. He could make out two small planes parked to one side, and in the center a 707 with the Syrian national seal on the side. Armed men stood shoulder to shoulder around the aircraft.
Someone barked an order at the far door and half the men around the plane double-timed in formation outside. The other men spread out. There was no chance to get near the plane, let alone to get on board. He could take out a dozen of the troopers with the Russian automatic rifle, but if he did he might not get out. A soft probe was a soft probe.
Bolan turned to find a grinning guard pointing a pistol at his belly.
The man growled something the Executioner did not understand. Bolan shrugged as if in surrender, slung the rifle over his shoulder, put the cane tip to the ground and shuffled meekly toward the soldier, who had officer bars on his shoulders. The officer frowned, but watched in surprise. He said something else and Bolan lifted the cane, then quickly flipped the loop of nylon around the Syrian's arm and jerked the cane viciously. The noose tightened, slicing in
to the wrist, jolting the pistol from the officer's hand.
Dropping the cane, Bolan leaped forward, smashing the butt of the AK-47 into the Syrian's chin. The force of the blow jolted his head up and back and the Executioner heard his neck snap, then the man crumpled on the floor. The nightfighter pulled the noose free from the corpse's wrist and checked around. There was no one near, no one who could have heard.
He ran lightly to the same door he had come in, the AK-47 on automatic as he made for the exit. If he were lucky the dead guard outside would not have been noticed yet.
His luck had run out.
Directly opposite the outside door were two men, one looking behind the building where the dead guard lay, the other holding a rifle at the ready, peering intently into the darkness. There was no way around them. Bolan cut down both men with one 5-round burst from the stuttering Kalashnikov. He was moving before the bodies hit the ground. The Executioner grabbed the first soldier and dragged him deeper into the shadows.
A burst of gunfire tore jagged angry holes in the silent night. Someone yelled. A pistol barked twice, then the chatter of the AK-47s came. He saw the flashes ahead along the hangar. His left arm jerked and spun him around. He was hit. The force of the round dropped him into the dust. He tested his left arm. He could still move it — nothing broken. It was time to move fast.
Quickly he stripped the green fatigue shirt from the soldier he had just killed and put it on, quickly fastening every other button. Then he donned the dead soldier's soft green cap. His arm bled and throbbed, but he had no time for it now. Bleeding to death would be slower than being ripped to shreds by AK-47 spitfire.
He ran forward in the darkness. Someone challenged him and he pointed behind him, screamed, and continued forward. Three more soldiers approached him. He pointed behind him and gave the infantryman's classic signal to advance.
Then he realized the fatigue shirt he wore had captain's bars on the shoulder. He kept on moving north toward the hole in the fence. By now it might be guarded. He had no way of knowing. He saw more troops running toward the hangar.
Finally he was in the shadows again, the deep quiet of the early-morning darkness. Now he could run at his usual steady pace of seven minutes to the mile.
When he was sure he was out of the combat zone, Bolan cut the right sleeve off his fatigue shirt with his pocketknife, tore it into strips and tied it around his left arm just above the elbow where the slug had churned through flesh and muscle. It hurt like hell.
He found the hole in the fence and went through, still wearing the officer's shirt and hat. They might come in handy. He slung the rifle upside down with the muzzle pointing at the ground, pushed on the safety and walked away from the air base at a steady right angle. It was almost daylight before he found a taxi. He did not signal it. He stood in front of it with his rifle at port arms and the cabby came to a stop. Bolan opened the door and slid inside.
Three blocks from Luana's place, Bolan got out and didn't offer to pay the driver, just motioned him forward. When the taxi was out of sight, Bolan walked with the AK-47 rifle near his leg. It was still dark. He went through an alley until he found the back stairs up to Luana's apartment. She was there, waiting for him.
She saw his wound and began working on it at once. No hysterics. As she cut off the bindings and then stripped off his shirt, she asked him what happened.
He told her quickly.
She poured some disinfectant over his wound and watched him suck in his breath.
"You're tough," she said, a touch of admiration sneaking in. "I've seen bloodied troopers scream for five minutes when I did that." She shook some powder on the wound on both sides of his arm. "Looks like it nicked the bone in there. We've got to get you to a doctor."
"No time. Later. I'm good for another seventy-two hours before I pass out. I need those seventy-two."
"We'll see." She put something else on the wounds, then bandaged his arm tightly. "Yes, I know it's tight. I want it that way. Next time it will be more comfortable."
"What is your team doing?" Bolan asked.
"We're in motion. Mossad has given us A-1 priority and all the help we can find. We're on schedule. The Syrians will move the plane or the canisters now. We'll have to find out where."
"Fortunes of war."
"Fortunes of war," she repeated. Suddenly she reached out and kissed his lips softly. She pulled away.
"You need sleep," she said. "Come on."
In the bedroom she began undressing. He looked at her.
"We're going to sleep, soldier, not mess around." She took off her blouse and the long skirt and slid under the covers in her bra and panties.
Bolan took off his shirt and pants and saw that Luana was sleeping before he touched the bed. He programmed himself to wake up at eight o'clock. He closed his eyes and was sleeping almost at once.
17
When Bolan woke up he smelled hash browns and eggs. He grinned but when he tried to sit up, he got so dizzy he slumped back on the bed.
He must have groaned because Luana was at his side before he opened his eyes.
She put her hand on his forehead.
"Damn, at least 102. I'll have the doctor come and give you something. We don't want to lose you to blood poisoning."
He shook his head and tried to sit again. The whole world flipped and he let her ease him down gently on the pillow.
"We have a good doctor who works with us. He won't report the bullet wound and he has penicillin and all the good stuff."
Bolan nodded, feeling as if someone had kicked him in the head. It was nearly five minutes before his brain cleared, and then he felt as if he was burning up. Why all this from one simple gunshot wound?
She brought in the tray and put it down, then helped him ease to a half-sitting position. Her telephone rang. She picked it up. "Yes?" She listened. A moment later, saying that she understood, she put down the phone. The Israeli agent stood at the side of the bed and watched him eating.
"At least your appetite is good. I have to leave in twenty minutes. Some new developments. The doctor is to come at ten. It is arranged. I'll leave the door unlocked. He will lock it when he leaves."
Luana looked at him. He nodded. She took his face in both hands.
"You must stay in bed until the penicillin can get to work, do you understand?" He nodded. "Some of the Syrian military have been experimenting with poison-impregnated bullets. If they lodge in the target, death is the result after as little as four hours. If the bullet is removed or goes through, as with you, there can be a high-grade fever that puts the casualty down and keeps him down for as much as a week. So don't let this attack come as a shock to your macho nature. It's more than a simple wound."
Bolan heard and nodded. He was not sure he could talk.
"Thanks," he said.
She kissed his cheek and went into the kitchen. Bolan ate the rest of the breakfast and half a banana.
When Luana came back five minutes later, she had on a different outfit, a divided skirt of dark green and a military-style shirt with three creases in back. She wore a small dark hat and over the shirt, a dark green blazer.
"I'm going to meet General Quannut. He's extremely excited, says he must show me an experiment they are doing today at the air base. Some kind of a test. He insisted. But I should be back by two this afternoon." She stopped and watched him.
"You will stay in bed?"
Bolan nodded.
He could not move if he wanted to.
* * *
Luana had never seen such a large gathering on the Atsi air base before. She had attended three or four of these exhibitions. One had been a machinegun firing, another to demonstrate some new explosive. It was one way Abdul liked to show off. She sat beside him in the huge hangar. Everyone had been carefully cleared by guards at the door. They had simply saluted when General Quannut came through with her.
Several demonstrations had already taken place, showing the advanced capability of new shoulder-mou
nted rockets and launchers. Then workers wheeled in a clear, heavy plastic box with white mice in it and another with a mongrel dog inside.
General Ahmed Hassan rose and conducted the last demonstration himself.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we are now in the final stages of perfecting biological and chemical warfare testing of some new weapons. These, naturally, would be used only in retaliation if the United States or Israel uses chemicals on us first.
"However, we must have the ability to return attack for attack, which will prevent the use of such gases as it did during World War II. Now please observe the white mice cavorting in the first container. The technician will open a valve and inject a small portion of an invisible, odorless and tasteless gas. When he drops his hand the gas will be released. He will count down the seconds it takes for the mice to die. Let's watch."
"I think I want to leave," Luana said to General Quannut to help preserve her woman's image.
"Hush, and watch. Learn something," Quannut said.
The technician lowered his hand and counted the seconds.
"One, two, three, four…" He stopped. Every mouse in the container had fallen dead.
"Four seconds!" General Hassan shouted. "Did you see that? There can be no cure for a sickness that reduces its victims into corpses that quickly. But what about on a larger animal? The dog is a mongrel from the streets. It weighs about sixty pounds. We'll use the same procedure here."
Again the man in the white lab coat lowered his hand and began to count. This time he got to nine before the dog shuddered its last and was dead.
Luana did not need to pretend. She pushed her face against the general's shoulder and would not look. He laughed at her and they made their way out of the demonstration hangar.
"We may have some news that I can tell you soon," General Quannut said. "Important news. I may even get my second star!"
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