"Do you just dislike me?" the younger man asked.
"Right now I dislike everyone."
Bowen grinned and shoved his hands into his pockets. "Everyone except Belasko, you mean."
Brognola didn't bother to reply.
The elevator doors hissed open. A crowd of newspeople filled the hallway leading to the conference room. Heads started turning as Brognola stepped out with Bowen in tow. A warning itch flared up between his shoulder blades when most of the crowd rushed at him and minicams turned in his direction, flickering into sudden life.
Before he had taken three steps, Brognola walked into a barrage of microphones, hearing the different identifying preamble each reporter made. Questions were fired at him from point-blank range with machine gun efficiency.
"Is Michael Belasko working with the Justice Department to protect the Soviet representatives?"
"Are you Harold Brognola?"
"Is Belasko operating under your orders?"
"What do you know of the shootings that occurred in the southeast office area?"
"Did you know reliable sources are saying Belasko killed a half-dozen men tonight?"
"Do you believe someone working for the Justice Department should court violence in the streets of this city?"
"What are your feelings about the use of deadly force by law-enforcement personnel?"
"Have you heard whether Belasko lived through the bomb blast?"
Brognola raised his hands and motioned the crowd to silence, aware that Bowen had moved unnoticed to the outside fringe of the reporters. A curious look filled the man's handsome face, and Brognola knew even when he answered all the questions the reporters had, there would still be ones to answer for Bowen. What the hell had Striker stepped into tonight?
* * *
Helene used her fingers to trace the shiny curvature of the necklace through the glass of the display case, wondering how it would feel against her skin. Would it be cool? Or would it draw in the desert heat until it almost reached a burning point? It would certainly be heavy. Gold always was, weighted with wealth and with the sins that were made to earn it.
But Ris wouldn't know anything of that, she told herself. To Ris, gold meant power. Nothing more.
She turned away from the dark thoughts, almost afraid that if she thought too much or too long about Ris that those thoughts would draw him to her like a vulture to a fresh kill.
The money belt she had taken from the American yesterday morning was still full. She didn't know how much money was in the compartments but hoped it would be enough to see her clear of Cairo. As soon as she figured out a way through the gauntlet Ris was sure to have waiting for her. It was certain he would have informants at airports and bus stations looking for her. The taxi drivers were out of the question, as well. The last time she had escaped, one of them had turned her in for the reward Ris had offered.
Helene was all too aware of Ris's anger, of the madness he held in check, knowing that she wasn't dead now only because Ris wanted her. Revulsion filled her as she remembered the touch of Ris's hands on her body. How many times had he forced himself on her? Sometimes he would stay away, but Helene knew he was only testing himself, trying to see if his addiction to her would pass with abstinence. But, as always, he would eventually return to her, seeking solace from whatever devils preyed on his mind. He would lose himself in her flesh. Afterward, Helene would lock herself in the small bathroom adjoining her bedroom/prison and hunker under the spray until it turned cold and Ris left. Even then she hadn't felt clean. She hadn't for months.
"Will there be anything else, mistress?"
Reluctantly Helene glanced up at the old woman behind the counter as the sounds of the bazaar flooded in on her. She shook her head and reached into her newly purchased djellaba for money. "How much?" she asked, indicating the salves and creams she had selected to protect her pale skin from the harsh desert wind and sun. She had been unprepared for the scorching heat after living in the underground complex for so long.
The old woman named a sum.
Helene sorted through her money, choosing smaller bills so that memory of her would be lessened.
"I can make you a good deal on the necklace," the old woman said.
"No, thank you," Helene said as she started to hand the bills over. The money belt she had found on Callahan had been an unexpected treasure. Yesterday she had lived on the scraps from expensive motels and caught small naps in out-of-the-way corners of the bazaar. Every pound note in her possession when she found the means would tip the scales in favor of her freedom when the time came to escape.
A slender hand with expensively manicured nails wrapped tapered fingers around Helene's wrist, holding her arm back. Helene fought the instinctive urge to flee, thinking the hand belonged to one of Ris's agents.
But a woman stepped forward, releasing Helene. "Before she even discusses any deals for the necklace," the unknown woman said, "she would first like a decent price for the cosmetics she is purchasing."
The old woman behind the counter made a face.
Helene, still fighting to control the anxiety raging in her, studied the woman who had interceded on her behalf. The woman was half a head shorter, which wasn't surprising because Helene found herself taller than many men, even the soldiers Ris worked out with in the gymnasium. The woman's long brown hair, almost the same hue as her dark eyes, was piled on top of her head in a style Helene hadn't seen before. Her appearance was regal, proportioned generously beneath the faded black jeans ensemble she wore. Her skin tone was shades darker than the collar of the white silk blouse she wore under the short-waisted jacket. American, Helene thought, because of the woman's dress and the way she conducted herself. Wealthy, too, judging from the glittering array of jewelry adorning the woman's neck and hands.
"The price has already been agreed on," the Arab woman said.
The American raised one perfectly arched eyebrow. "You have the money?"
"The price has been agreed on."
The woman turned to Helene. "Put your money away, child, and we will go somewhere else. Surely someone here will quote us a fair price."
Helene stood undecided about what to do. She had been on the move, fearing for her life, for the past two days. Maybe an argument over prices was a commonplace experience for the woman, but it could get her killed or, worse, recaptured. She didn't know if she could survive being a prisoner again, assuming Ris let her live.
"Wait," the counterwoman said.
The American turned around and the dickering began in earnest. Finally, to Helene's relief, she seemed satisfied with the price and let Helene give the Arab woman the money.
"Thank you," Helene said as they walked away from the cosmetic stand. Inside she wished the woman would go away. The woman's beauty set her apart too much, made too many men look at her. How long would it be, Helene wondered anxiously, before one of those men staring at the American woman was loyal to Ris? In the djellaba with her hair cut to a length hardly longer than a man's, Helene was sure she would go unnoticed for the most part. Her height was compensated for by the short hair, and she was convinced the sexless djellaba prompted many people to think she was a man.
"What's your name, child?" the American woman asked.
"Krista," Helene answered. It had been her mother's name. Only the knowledge of that and the small handful of pictures she had been permitted to retain were all she had of her mother.
The woman offered her hand.
Helene took it, surprised again at the strength of it.
"I'm Constance McKenna," the woman said, smiling warmly.
"It's nice to meet you," Helene replied, and wished it was true. She tried to think of a way to slip away from the woman and fade back into the crowd of the bazaar. She had to be by herself, she thought, until she could think of a way to get out of Cairo. It surprised her to learn that part of her wanted to remain with the woman and share the companionship she offered. Only occasionally had she had any contact with other
women, and then only ones Ris employed to groom and dress her before one of his visits.
"Is this your first time in the bazaar?" Constance asked.
"Yes," Helene replied truthfully.
The woman's eyes flashed with dark glints as she looked around the crowded thoroughfare. "I assume you're alone?"
Helene nodded.
"A young woman like you shouldn't be in this bazaar alone. There's no telling what might happen. True, there are the Tourist Police to protect you, but they can't be everywhere at once. In fact, just this morning I heard there was some sort of massacre at one of the cafés near here. A mercenary unit between jobs, I think. The authorities believe the men were trying to muscle in on one of the local drug suppliers."
"Callahan," Helene said before she could stop herself.
Constance flashed her a brief smile devoid of any humor. "I believe that was the name of one of the men. How do you know them?"
Helene looked away. Was the meeting in the bazaar by chance or by design? Was Ris involved? Callahan's death was surely at Ris's hands. Someone had spotted her with the mercenary and told Ris. A cold fear speared down the back of her neck as she realized again how truly alone and unprotected she was. "I don't really. I had an unsavory experience with them yesterday."
The woman nodded in response, but Helene sensed she didn't really believe her.
Helene stopped abruptly. "I'm sorry to rush off like this," she said, straining not to continually look over her shoulder, "but I really have to be going."
"Can I walk you somewhere?"
Helene shook her head. "No, thank you."
The older woman's eyes narrowed. "You're in trouble, aren't you?" The woman's voice was calm and measured, and too low to be heard by the many passersby.
Helene met her gaze with trouble. Was this one of Ris's tricks, or was this woman for real? Was she passing up the opportunity to leave Cairo by not telling her everything?
In the end caution won and Helene said nothing.
A heavy sigh slipped through Constance McKenna's painted lips. "I don't know what kind of trouble you're fleeing from, child, and God knows I'm old enough to know better than to get involved, but if you find you need someone, come see me. I'm staying at the Hilton." The woman scribbled something on a small card and held it out.
Trembling inside, Helene reached for it, noting the name and room number printed in block letters. Tears of helplessness stung her eyes as she held on to the card and fled deeper into the bazaar. She wished she could have trusted the woman, could have been sure that Constance McKenna would have helped her.
5
Mack Bolan forced himself to stand under the cold water of the shower's needlelike spray until goose bumps rose on his skin. He was still sore from the explosion in the arcade four hours earlier. The chill drove the final remnants of fog from his mind, though, and restored circulation to his limbs. There was still a slight ringing in his ears, but it wasn't overly annoying at the moment.
He stepped from the shower stall and into the terry cloth warmth of the plush towel he found waiting. His mirror image stared back at him with baleful red eyes. He ignored the numerous scars crisscrossing his upper body, knowing they bespoke a violent past and foretold a violent future. He quickly finished toweling himself and dressed in jeans and a knit shirt. After checking to make sure the Desert Eagle and Beretta were fully charged, he gathered his shoulder rigging in one hand and started for the door, grabbing the new pair of joggers sitting on the edge of the sink as he walked past.
He padded barefoot across the carpet, feeling at home. Or at least as much at home as he had felt in years. Even at three o'clock in the morning there was an undercurrent of life that beat beneath the bulletproof skin of Stony Man Farm, deep in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia.
He paused in the large dining room, fisting a pair of peaches from the bowl of fruit on the dark sideboard, then made his way down a short hallway to Aaron Kurtzman's world, the computer room.
World was the correct choice of word, Bolan thought again as he closed the door behind him quietly. The huge room was filled with the latest in high-tech equipment and computers. There were linkups within the walls of the room that could access information, discreetly, from a large portion of the satellites in frozen orbit above the earth, many of them under the influence and control of other countries. Other components diffused the signal and retriangulated it away from Stony Man and Kurtzman. Still more allowed the Bear's cybernetic fingers to flip through records through phone lines, securing the information in nanoseconds, then displaying or copying it for later reference.
Aaron Kurtzman sat at a half-moon-shaped console near the center of the room, his fingers idly toying with the keyboard in front of him. His lips flexed as Bolan observed him, pushing in and out the way they always did when the Bear was involved in a problem. Bolan laid his shoulder rigging and joggers on a nearby desk.
Kurtzman's head swiveled around in response to the noise, and a smile split his big face. "Hey, Mack."
"Aaron." Bolan stepped forward and took the big man's hand, almost losing his fingers in the enormous grip. If it hadn't been for the wheelchair, Kurtzman would have towered over him. Bolan had often thought Kurtzman must have had shoulders that made his mother cry every time she bought his clothes. Even in his diminished stature, Kurtzman was one hell of a big man.
"Coffee's on," Kurtzman said as he rolled back from the console.
Bolan nodded and padded over to the coffee maker set up against the wall. The liquid in the glass pot looked dark and evil, and he wondered if his stomach was ready for anything as vile as the concoction Kurtzman habitually brewed.
"You'll find a real cup under the cabinet behind the napkins," Kurtzman told him. "I can't get the housekeeping staff to understand that a man has the right to drink out of a man's cup."
Bolan knelt for a moment and reached into the cabinet past the Styrofoam cups and packages of napkins, finding two more broad-based ceramic mugs. He took one and lifted the pot from the coffee machine on his way back to Kurtzman. He filled the big man's cup and poured the dregs into his own. "You ever think about making a fresh pot?" he asked as he started a new brewing cycle. "That could be part of the problem with the Styrofoam cups."
Kurtzman waved the thought away. "Hell, I change it every three days whether it needs it or not."
Bolan chuckled. He took a seat on Kurtzman's console, cupping the coffee mug in both hands to combat the chill of the room, his bare feet dangling inches above the floor. "Where's Leo?"
"I put him up in one of the other bedrooms. The man was out on his feet."
"I know. Did he call Angelina?"
"Yeah. They talked for a little while. Long enough for him to tell her he was still alive and not to expect him home right away."
"How's he holding up?"
"You know Leo. He's spent too many years holding his feelings in to just open up and say what's on his mind."
Kurtzman pushed a button on the console, and the room's lights dimmed. A panel on the far wall slid back to reveal a forty-eight-inch screen. "I didn't find any dirt on that cop of yours." He stabbed at another button, and a black-and-white still of the policeman's face filled the screen. The cop looked younger in the photograph, eager to please.
"His name's Dwight Hooker," Kurtzman said in a monotone. "He's been a D.C. cop for eight years, has a clean record except for a minor traffic accident in a squad car about six years ago. According to his files, he's never used his gun the entire time he's been on the force, never been cited for using excessive force. He lives in Fairfax and works a part-time job at Spraggue Industries as a security guard."
The screen ran through an assembly of paperwork, personal biographies, merit evaluations, shooting range scores, interspersed with a couple of more pictures of Hooker that must have been shot for local newspapers. Bolan didn't try to read the captions, searching, instead, for a fix on the man.
"What makes you so sure this guy pinned the bug
on your car?" Kurtzman asked.
"I called you to put the paperwork through on the car when I rolled it out of the garage at Justice," Bolan said. "Nobody knew which car I was going to be driving until I was on the road."
"Someone could have bugged all the unassigned cars in the garage," Kurtzman suggested.
Bolan sipped his coffee, watching as the initial picture of Officer Hooker slid back into frame and stopped. "Yeah, but I checked the car before I took it. Hooker is the only person who touched it besides me."
"Could be some kind of interdepartmental play, somebody in the FBI or Secret Service trying to figure you out. As far as the other security teams are concerned, you're the only wild card in the game, the only guy who's not really family."
"Maybe," Bolan conceded, "but at this stage of the play, we can't afford to take chances."
Kurtzman grunted an affirmative. "Hal called while you were in the shower and said he'd call back."
"How did he sound?"
"As gruff as ever," Kurtzman answered with a grin.
Bolan drained his cup and returned for the pot. "What have you got on the Witness Protection murders?"
Kurtzman punched commands into the keyboard as he answered. "I broke into the AP and UP! hookups first after Leo gave me the names he had, and cross-referenced the microfiche for any mention of the Witness Protection Program people. Apparently no one has made the connection between the murders, or the program heads are sitting on this one." The screen on the wall darkened again, then flickered back into quick life. News stories paraded across the large screen, bringing an alternate reality into the cloistered crispness of the Bear's world.
"Whole families killed to the last member," Kurtzman said. "Leo was right about that."
"Any idea who's behind it?"
"No." Kurtzman cleared the screen and the keys clicked under his fingertips as he fed in new commands. He faded from view as documentation fell into place over the glaring rectangle of light at the other end of the room. "I retrieved files from the local cops, district attorneys' offices, federal reports, everybody who was connected with this in any way, shape, or form. Everybody seems to agree that these were professional hits because of the way and extent to which they were carried out."
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