Triangle of Terror

by Don Pendleton

  The hell with it, he decided. The gig here at the Triangle was dead. There would be no return to Washington, much less ever setting foot on native U.S. soil again for him. Unless, of course, Durham and his spooks pulled off the big event. If they succeeded, it would prove one for the history books, no question, but Braden wasn’t sure he wanted any part of their New America. As for his own bloody drama, the hard part may or may not be just ahead, but he had irons already thrust in the fire.

  Nahab’s information about a Warrior Sons contact in Ciudad del Este had panned out, only Braden was told to call the cutout back to nail down certain final arrangements regarding the prisoners and financial compensation. Not trusting anyone outside Task Force Talon to do what he wanted, what was necessary if he intended to survive, had flamed a plan to mind, whereby he could hedge his bets. It was time to clean up his own mess. But to do that, he needed Poscalar to cooperate. To get the Brazilian to cooperate he needed to cough up more cash.

  “Colonel Braden, I get the impression I do not have your full attention,” the Brazilian stated.

  Braden bared an ugly grin at his comrades, but pointed at Poscalar. “This guy, this buzzard. He’s got one hand dipping into about twenty billion U.S. from cocaine coming across from Bolivia, while the other hand is fisting up as much of that twenty billion in aid Washington sent down to his pals in Brasilia and he’s squawking at me over a few thousand bucks.”

  Poscalar removed the cigar from his mouth. “Colonel Braden, are you trying to offend me?”

  “You’re goddamn right I’m trying to offend you!” Braden roared, pleased when Poscalar flinched at the sudden outburst. An inch of dangling ash fell into his lap, leaving the Brazilian cursing and slapping at his thighs.

  “Wake up, Poscalar! It’s crunch time, time to get off your silken ass and do more than whine about your wallet!” Whirling, he moved to his footlocker in the far corner near his own workstation. Unlocking it, Braden hauled out a nylon satchel and hurled it across the room. It sailed, nearly skimming Poscalar’s head on the way to Turkle’s waiting hands.

  “Listen the fuck up, Colonel! I am staring down the barrel of a very big gun that was sent down from Washington in all likelihood to shut me down. If we’re finished here, Colonel Poscalar, you and your vultures in Brasilia will probably never see the other half of that aid package from the U.S. You want more money, you’re going to have to earn it.”

  Braden saw Poscalar was shaken into silence by his tirade, ready, finally, to listen to reason. He took his cell phone from his desk, chucked it to Poscalar. “Make some calls to your people in Ciudad del Este. I need backup. I’m going to war, and right under this roof. I know you have contacts in the death squads. You’ve got some real hard cases, and I hear a few of them are always on R and R in Ciudad del Este. I need as many of them as you can round up.”

  “You want my own men, you claim are members of death squads, men who have families—”

  Braden dug into his top desk drawer, fished out two sets of keys and dropped them in his pocket. “Spare me the bullshit. Get them.”

  “To do whatever it is you intend requires ready cash, Colonel Braden.”

  “My men will escort you to any and all rendezvous points once you’ve made contact. They have enough in that bag to buy some cannon fodder and whatever you can scrounge up. And enough will be left over to pay you another fifty large on the spot, provided you come through. If you’re smart, you will agree.”

  Poscalar settled back in his seat, nodding, puffing. “I assume you are going to fill me in on your plans.”

  “In due course.”

  “One hundred thousand by the end of the day’s business,” Poscalar demanded.

  “Can you get me at least twenty shooters?”

  Poscalar slit his gaze, bobbed his head. “Yes, it can be done, if the price is—”

  “Another hundred grand, it is! Make it happen.”

  With that, Braden gathered up the batch of paperwork. At the door he handed off the paper-clipped bottom half to Hanover, who started marching toward the shredder as soon as he stepped out into the hall. Braden stole a few moments of blessed silence, sucking in deep breaths, slowly exhaling. When he felt the storm was sufficiently calmed, he began swiftly marching away from the administrative quadrant, down the corridor marked D. Assuming Compton began the tour from the northwest end, where the lines of holding cells began in the warehouse-style pen, he still had a couple of minutes to pull it together, get ready to fake it for Stone. He was past the open but empty shower area when he made out Compton’s voice, just around the corner of the main corridor A.

  “I have to reiterate, Colonel Stone, the breakout was an aberration. There were eight of them and only four Marines at the time. I know, Colonel, before you say it, we are only thirty-strong here between Marines and Task Force Talon, and the manual states there should be two guards for every prisoner, but that’s not my call to make. Washington dictates numbers and procedure.”

  Braden gritted his teeth, imagining how much Compton had already kissed up to the SOB, trying so hard to snow the guy Stone had to have seen through it all like a pane of glass. He pulled up at the corner to eavesdrop a few moments, get a read on how Stone might be reacting. He heard keys rattling, cell gates opening, Stone grunting.

  “Remarkably, no one was killed, but the Marines who were attacked were shipped back to the States.”

  Stupid damn fool, Braden silently screamed. And the man was a general? Didn’t he know that was easy enough for Stone to verify with one call? What the—

  “And like I said, Colonel, the reason there are only twenty-two prisoners at present is because three were released and returned to their countries of origin once Colonel Braden and his men determined they were noncombatants.”

  As in the ones I executed, Braden thought. He barely caught Stone sounding another grunt as the blood pressure thundered in his ears. When all else appeared on the verge of failing or was suspect, he thought, blame the other poor bastard, and in his case he was guilty as charged. Braden began to think it would be best to leave Compton behind in the ashes.

  Before it got any worse—and he knew it could be a death sentence if Compton kept running his mouth—Braden rolled around the corner. He saw a lean shooter in blacksuit with a briefcase in one white latex-covered hand vanish into one of two open cells. He wondered who he was and what he was doing. He saw Compton throw him a worried look as he closed the gap and an orange jumpsuit in chains duck-walked into view. Stone was taking his first prisoner for grilling.

  And, of course, Braden saw, it had to be Jabir Nahab.

  11

  Plan B was never far from the Executioner’s thoughts, and it went way beyond the official boundaries of any military protocol.

  It didn’t take a world-class investigator to see Braden and his bullies had used seven of the twenty-three detainees as punching bags, clearly violating the Geneva Convention where the rules of handling enemy combatants was concerned. Worse, he strongly suspected Braden or one of his interrogators had executed the three missing prisoners—whether as examples to the others or something else—and Compton’s flimsy explanation fairly sealed Bolan’s hunch.

  Torture and beating of enemy combatants was not part of the warrior’s prescribed regimen, though he wasn’t above inflicting pain on rare occasions to get answers when lives hung in the immediate equation and he found himself staring into the face of the responsible evil. Braden and his thugs apparently used torture on a regular, if not daily basis, as easy as breathing, and he could only imagine what the detainees had suffered at their hands. As for facing a court martial and lengthy prison sentences, Bolan suspected Camp Triangle’s hierarchy had their own backup plan to escape justice, ironed out before they even landed in Brazil. So why, then, Bolan wondered, risk so much, under the watchful eyes of Marines who would go to their graves defending a uniformed code of military honor, and when they knew report of their brutal actions would eventually leak back to Washing
ton?

  The question alone answered itself, Bolan concluded. Braden or his superiors wanted something badly enough to jeopardize careers, risk prison and their own lives, and they believed one or some of the detainees at Triangle had the answers they needed. Bolan believed he was on track to solving the mystery. All he had to do, he figured, was follow—or ride—the dark horse to the finish line.

  For the moment, Bolan decided to stick to Plan A. Play it hard, tight-lipped and official. Follow through with interviews. Fax all fingerprints, both Triangle’s originals and those just now redone by Michaels. With those, he would also send all processing photos and documents to both Brognola and the Farm. He needed those he trusted implicitly to send back reliable intel on whatever Braden might have conveniently left out. Meanwhile he would keep Triangle’s suspects dangling over the fire. If Braden and bad company sweated enough, they might crack and force Plan B into action.

  Unless he missed his hunch, the Executioner believed Plan B was as close as the next few hours, or the next set of prisoners.

  Bolan glanced at the two militants, both of whom had had their faces shoved through Braden’s meat grinder. They were looking at him, uncertain, but Bolan thought he glimpsed something else in their battered faces. Strange, but they seemed resigned, or hopeful, he thought, unlike the burning hate, rage and defiance he’d seen countless times in the eyes of fanatics, on or off the battlefield. It occurred to him that Braden had paid all the detainees a last personal visit before his arrival, spelling out their futures if they made the evident abuse out to be anything other than a counterattack for escape. But Bolan’s gut told him something else was spinning in their hearts and minds besides lies and cover stories.

  While they sat, ramrod stiff, in bolted-down leather wing-backs across from the Executioner in the Gulfstream’s aft, Bolan perused the documents on two detainees Braden had handed off, assessing the situation, gathering more of his own thoughts. The short time he’d spent with the hierarchy and sightseeing the facility had only served to further cement his grim suspicions. For one thing, Compton was so nervous he babbled nonstop, repeating himself, every word out of his mouth scripted for Colonel Stone’s benefit, no doubt, whereas Braden was walking body armor, not the first hint of even a conversion of convenience. Then there was the interrogation room itself, the smell of bleach still lingering in the air where blood had, in all likelihood, been mopped up. There were subtle changes in the room, he suspected, such as cracks in the concrete floor where a chair had been bolted down. There was the air conditioner, which had been turned off, but someone had neglected to reset the dial from HI-COLD, if the intent had been to further try to fool him the room had not been recently used as a meat locker. There was the light, which would stare directly into the eyes of a detainee, easy enough to simply change the bulb, from high and blinding, to low wattage before his coming. There should have been video or at least audiotapes, recording all sessions…

  Bottom line, he decided, Braden and company were criminally guilty. If it was all headed where Bolan suspected it was, they’d be lucky to stand in one piece before a military tribunal.

  After reading what little background Braden’s documents provided, Bolan looked at Jabir Nahab and Atta Dbouri. Beyond the detainees, Bolan saw his blacksuits, com links on, hunched at the workstation. Michaels fed the fax, in communication with Stony Man Farm, while the other two relay feeds. Tied into the Farm’s own cyber link to whatever military or spy satellite they managed to steer and park over the Triangle, the blacksuits were ready to intercept any form of communication, coming into or leaving the compound.

  Bolan looked at his prisoners. “When did your attempt to break out happen?”

  They thought about something, hesitated, then answered at the same time, “Two days.” “Four days.”

  Bolan kept his expression deadpan and fired off the next question without missing a beat.

  “Where did it happen?”

  “In the shower—” “Just outside our cells—”

  Bolan flipped the mostly useless file of Braden crap on the seat next to him. “Why are you lying to me?”

  Nahab seemed the most tense of the two. “Why would we lie about being beaten like this? Do you think we did this to our own faces?”

  “No. I think either Braden didn’t do such a hot job concocting your story, his cover story for me, or you’re too nervous or scared about something to think straight and tell me the truth.” Pausing, Bolan let them feel the full measure of his penetrating stare. “What is it Braden and Compton want so bad they’re beating men to a pulp and even murdering your comrades?”

  Whatever the truth, Bolan watched it harden both their faces.

  “What did he promise you to lie to me? Freedom? Money? Weapons? All of the above?”

  The prisoners were silent.

  “If you have something to say, now is the time.”

  They glanced at each other, and for a second Bolan thought they would crack.

  “He wants what all you American Special Forces and operatives want,” Dbouri said. “Information regarding our ongoing operations to crush the Great Satan.”

  And Bolan saw defiance return to their eyes. He gave them a few moments to reconsider, then realized they wouldn’t break. Good enough, he decided. He already had what he wanted from them anyway. He had caught them in a lie. In his experience, one lie always led to another, and few human beings, save for perhaps the pathological liar or pure sociopath, could keep all their lies straight. Eventually the avalanche of lies and half-truths tumbled toward the truth. All Bolan had to do was keep pressing.

  When the Executioner motioned for them to stand up they looked at each other, confused and worried. “Let’s get you back to your cells. I need those seats,” he said.

  BRADEN CHECKED HIS WATCH. “You gotta be shitting me! That’s still another six hours, and just for a face-to-face!”

  Fuming, he watched Poscalar shrug, as if to say what’s the rush, the Brazilian pouring himself a drink at the wet bar. “I cannot control their daily routines, Colonel Braden. These men, their world does not revolve around you. They have their own affairs to attend to.”

  “Oh, I’m sure they do. Selling dope, pimping, stealing.”

  Poscalar removed another cigar from his gold-plated humidor and placed it between grinning lips. “I was unaware, Colonel Braden, you were in such a state of grace, whereby you can cast the first stone.”

  Braden spun on the man from the far side of his desk, seething as he watched Poscalar sip his drink and smoke.

  “Two thousand per man, and not knowing what it is you wish from them, well, you must understand they are perhaps a bit on the anxious and cautious side,” the Brazilian said with a shrug.

  Braden felt himself about to explode, thinking the list of problems reaching critical mass had swelled to the breaking point and he might just take it upon himself to pick up an assault rifle, march right out to their military VIP aircraft and handle the Stone problem his way, his time frame. He was about to tell Poscalar he’d raise the individual payments another grand when his cell phone trilled. He didn’t recognize the caller, but the numbers indicated the call originated from Ciudad del Este. Punching on, he recognized Nahab’s contact and listened to the instructions. For once, there was news, if not good, at least positive there would be action. Confirming the instructions, Braden signed off. “Put the drink down and follow me,” he told Poscalar, “you’re on a revised schedule as of now.”

  SIX BRIEF INTERVIEWS later, Bolan knew he’d either have to change his tactical approach to questioning, or accept that Braden had influenced the prisoners to stick to the same story as the first pair, rattle off the standard jihad rhetoric or plain stonewall. In short, Bolan was getting nowhere closer to the truth.

  The good news was that the blacksuits had intercepted cell phone relays to and from Braden, to and from the Brazilian military attaché who was on-site but unseen at Triangle. Bolan had never met Colonel Miguel Poscalar, but Bro
gnola’s file on the man was thick with pretty much the usual sins for a corrupt officer. Beyond drug trafficking, arms smuggling, suspicion of murder, extortion and graft, Poscalar was reputed to be Brazil’s commander in chief of the police death squads. That alone, Bolan knew, should have earned Poscalar a one-way ticket to hell. But given what his blacksuits had overheard, Bolan intended to use the man as chum in the coming hours, to net and harpoon the bigger man-eaters. It seemed Colonel Braden was in the process of initiating his own Plan B.

  The areas in question were already triangulated down to a few square yards, in Bolan’s hands, thanks to the Farm’s expert handling of the spy eyes over the Triangle, and relayed to his blacksuits. Anticipating Braden to make his big move, Bolan had already given the blacksuits their next round of orders. Unless a meteor obliterated the camp and crushed the grimmest of murderous plans, Braden was poised to ship out his two brigands and Poscalar to reach out and hire cutthroats for some wet work. When that happened Bolan was prepared to go at a moment’s notice.

  “Are you with these…savages here?” a shaky voice asked.

  Bolan dumped the space shots on the seat beside him and looked at detainee number nine. Bringing them in alone, he decided, might loosen their tongues, where they felt free to talk, and not be shackled by fear of retaliation from Braden or their own militant comrades. The Syrian’s name was Mohammed Bal-Ada, and there was nothing incriminating, as far as being a terror operative went, in his file. Nor was there a scratch on his bearded face, which left Bolan wondering just how important he really was if Braden had opted for the kinder, gentler approach to this prisoner.

  “No. I’m with me,” Bolan stated.

  The Syrian took a few moments to choose his next words. “If I talk to you…is there a chance I may go free?”

  “That depends.”

  “Meaning is there American blood on my hands?”

  “Anyone who may have died, whether you pulled the trigger, or built a bomb or helped plan an operation. Even if you were in a training camp that would cancel out any deal.”