Ice Wolf

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan shifted uneasily, uncoiling from the cramped position. The numbers were already falling on this one. The Soviet leader's White House appearance was set for the next afternoon, Washington time, and that left less than twelve hours to figure out what was going on and find a way to stop it.

  Tsurnick had told him he could put together a team of about twenty-five men for the attempt on the Phoenix building, but it would mean pulling some of the agents out of deep cover.

  Even twenty-five men might be too small a force to go up against what Bolan expected to be waiting. The people behind Phoenix Enterprises were forty years ahead of them in planning. And one of the biggest businesses Phoenix Enterprises had immediately following the Second World War was an excavation service. Bolan figured he knew what was being excavated, but not why. It had also given him an idea about how to get inside the building and set up the frontal assault Tsurnick would be leading.

  The small wireless earplug in Bolan's right ear crackled with static. "Your man is on his way, Mr. Bolan," one of the Israelis said.

  Bolan tapped the Morse button on the transceiver in his jacket pocket and signaled an affirmative. He glanced at his watch and decided Tsurnick and the rest of his force would be in place now, with Grimaldi waiting in the wings with a «broken-down» airliner that wouldn't be fixed until they were ready to leave.

  Faisal looked exactly like his CIA file picture, though perhaps a little more frayed around the edges where the sun had worn at him. If Bolan hadn't known from the file that the man was only in his forties, he would have guessed him at least ten years older. A perpetual squint shadowed the man's dark Mediterranean features.

  As the man passed, Bolan fell into step with him, taking the folded Egyptian newspaper from his back pocket that contained the money Faisal had requested for the information.

  "You are the seeker?" Faisal asked quietly as they continued to walk.

  "As surely as the Nile flows north," Bolan responded.

  "You have the money?"

  "If you have the information."

  The Arab nodded.

  Bolan did a quick sweep of their surroundings, noticing that Leo had fallen in behind them at a discreet distance.

  "I have the information," Faisal said, "but as I told your contact earlier, there is not a lot of information on either Phoenix Enterprises or its owners."

  "Are you trying to talk your way out of some of this money?"

  Faisal looked at him sharply, then flashed a broad grin. "No, I just don't want you to be surprised at the lack of knowledge my files contain. I have a few pictures, one of which cost the life of the photographer."

  "What happened?"

  "Thomas shot him."

  "William Thomas?"

  Faisal shook his head. "No. That was the father. Ris Thomas is the son. It was this Thomas who killed the man who took his picture."

  "Charges were never pressed over the murder?"

  "What murder?" The Arab's smile was wintery. "When the Tourist Police arrived Thomas was gone and the photographer had a gun in his hand instead of a camera. Obviously the man was not of a sound mind and took his own life. Such thinking makes things much neater in Cairo, true?"

  "How did you come by the picture?"

  "The photographer was able to run a few steps after he was shot. I recovered the camera in an alley and hid it nearby. Before I could return, my son had died, with no one there to mourn him,"

  Mentally Bolan pushed the scales of trust a little more in favor of the information broker.

  "So you see," Faisal continued, "I have no reason to hide anything from you or even to wonder what it is you want with Thomas or why you seek him. Although I know most people don't use my services unless it bodes ill for whomever I research for them."

  Bolan took the Egyptian newspaper from his back pocket and traded it for the thickly rolled one Faisal offered. He rolled the rubber bands off and inspected the contents briefly, noting the handful of black-and-white prints and one color Polaroid shot, along with the pages of printed material spliced into the newspaper's pages. It looked accurate to him, judging from some of the business names he picked up while scanning, though smaller than he had hoped. He rolled the paper back up and replaced the rubber bands.

  Faisal smiled with more warmth this time. "As an added bonus," the man said, "the Garfield the Cat comic strip in today's paper is very humorous."

  At the far end of the narrow street, a motorcycle ridden by two helmeted men edged slowly through the pedestrians, drawing harsh stares from most of the bazaar-goers. Bolan kept an eye on it as his combat antennae flared to sudden life. Why wear the helmets? The heat in the marketplace was oppressive.

  "You will find a picture of a girl in there, as well," Faisal said. "I don't know who she is, but I do know that Ris Thomas has spent considerable manpower looking for her. The picture was taken from one of his agents a few days ago by a pickpocket I know who was convinced it would be worth something to me. Only my wish for vengeance for my son's death convinced me to purchase it and follow up the girl's whereabouts. At present, Thomas still doesn't know where she is, but I do."

  "You think she's important?" Bolan asked as he continued to watch the progress of the motorcycle. It was less than fifty yards away now, stalled in pedestrian traffic. He Angered the collar microphone, which was designed to look like another button on his jean jacket.

  "Important enough for Thomas to kill several men two days ago."

  "Where is she?" Bolan asked, realizing the girl might be another lever he could use in some fashion to pry loose whatever secrets lay under the stone foundations of Phoenix Enterprises.

  "Normally I would charge another fee for the information," Faisal said as he searched Bolan with intensely brown eyes. "A nominal fee, of course. But in you I see something more than I usually see in the Americans I deal with. You are a warrior. Military at one time. I can see that in your bearing, in some of your mannerisms."

  Bolan remained silent. The motorcycle had gotten under way again, and there was an open area only a little farther on that lay directly in front of the Executioner and his informer. Bolan tucked the newspaper more securely under his arm.

  As Faisal started to speak, Bolan saw the man on back of the motorcycle reach into his partner's backpack and pull out an Uzi. The engine on the Japanese bike screamed shrilly as the vehicle lunged forward, spewing black smoke. The staccato burst of noise rebounded from the marketplace's high walls, and people scattered in all directions.

  Reacting instinctively, Bolan grabbed a handful of Faisal's djellaba and pulled him toward a small stand filled with jewelry. The roar of the Uzi punctuated the movement as bullets clawed through the air where they had stood.

  "Move," Bolan ordered as he kept his hold on Faisal and hurried the man across the wooden countertop of the jewelry stand. The smaller man slid headfirst and dropped from sight. Wooden splinters ripped free of the countertop as Bolan threw himself over in a rolling dive. Glass from display cases shattered, and the small pieces showered the Executioner as he moved to the opposite end of the counter to make sure the clerk was all right. She screamed when he touched her and tried to get away. Bolan held her fast. "Stay down!" the warrior shouted in Arabic.

  Satisfied that she understood, he peered over the pockmarked counter to see the driver of the motorcycle heeling the bike around in a tight maneuver that almost laid it on its side. Dust kicked up around it in a semicircle, choking the slower pedestrians still trying to get away.

  "Mack," Turrin's voice crackled over the earphone.

  "I'm okay," Bolan said into the collar microphone.

  "These clowns aren't alone," Turrin went on. "I've got three more bike teams in my sights now."

  "Stay clear, Leo. These guys can't hold up an attack for long. The Tourist Police will be here any moment."

  "Negative on the no-show, Striker. I just aced the driver on one of the motorcycles. His partners have noticed me, but they seem more interested in you."


  "Watch your ass, Leo. If we get separated, I'll meet you back at the rendezvous with Jack."

  The buzz-saw whine of the motorcycle erupted as it closed in on the jewelry stand. Bolan watched the rear man drop off as the bike roared forward. He tightened his grip on the newspaper Faisal had given him and drew his Desert Eagle. The Uzi barked again as the motorcycle crashed into the stand, splintering the two-by-fours that formed its skeleton and tearing through the thin plywood skin.

  Knowing it would take the driver a moment to reach his weapon, Bolan stood suddenly and pumped two 240-grain hollowpoints through the visor of the man with the Uzi. Crimson froth jetted from the front of the helmet as the gunner was blown backward.

  The motorcycle driver tried to get to a standing position and draw the weapon concealed under his jacket at the same time. The heavy Magnum in Bolan's fist thundered twice more and punched fist-size holes through the man's chest.

  Stepping over the wreckage of the bike and the jewelry stand, Bolan grabbed Faisal by the elbow and helped the man to his feet. He kicked the side door that opened onto an alley and hustled the smaller man out.

  The keening of more motorcycle engines cut through the shrill cries and screams that had suddenly flooded the bazaar. Bolan secured the newspaper inside his jean jacket, pulling Faisal behind him. They were heading toward Khan al-Khalili, a route that led deeper into the maze of the bazaar. The Executioner hoped it would render pursuit by the motorcycles impossible. Once his attackers were on foot, too, the odds for survival would improve dramatically.

  How the hell had they gotten onto him so quickly? The only answer he could come up with was that someone had been watching for him at the airport. But how could they be sure he would come? The questions pounded at him faster than his feet on the cobbled alleyway.

  Bolan cut into another alleyway, keeping the .44 as much out of sight as possible. He scanned the crowd around him for the white uniform of the Tourist Police with its distinctive green armband and blue strip over the left chest.

  Bolan pulled Faisal to one side of the alley and said, "You know this bazaar better than I do and these guys aren't after you. Alone, you stand a better chance of getting away."

  The Arab nodded, breathing strenuously, his cheeks puffing with the effort.

  "Where's the girl?"

  Faisal named the hotel. "She is staying with a woman named McKenna."

  "Does anyone else know this?"

  "Meaning Thomas or his people? No. Otherwise I'm sure she would no longer be there. Thomas can be a very determined man, as I'm sure you've noticed by now."

  "Yeah, I've noticed," Bolan said dryly as he recharged the .44 with a fresh clip. He remembered the helicopter attempt on Kirby Howell and the subsequent clashes he had experienced against Thomas's forces. That the men who served the secret masters of Phoenix Enterprises, Incorporated were so willing to die was alarming enough.

  The sound of a motorcycle neared and Bolan turned to go. Faisal stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Good luck."

  Bolan nodded.

  Moving out at a steady pace, the warrior jogged for the other avenue passing through the bazaar. People scattered before him as if sensing that violence pursued him. He pressed the switch on the collar microphone. "Leo."

  "Still in one piece, Striker."

  "Find your fastest way out of here and take it."

  "Mr. Bolan?"

  Bolan answered the call, recognizing the voice as belonging to one of the three Mossad agents who had accompanied him and Turrin to the bazaar.

  "Captain Tsurnick wants me to inform you that he is en route to your position and will pick you up by the Hotel Hussein if you can get there in the next few minutes."

  The information let Bolan know that Tsurnick was carefully monitoring the situation and had even hedged his bets concerning the Executioner by having a second radio frequency available for the Israeli's use only. Bolan admitted to himself that it was probably something he would have done if he was in the man's place.

  "Tell him I'll be there," Bolan said as he made a sudden turn and struck off in a new direction.

  "Yes, sir."

  Bolan dodged around a balding man wearing a Mickey Mouse T-shirt, sidestepping the man's wife and their four children. He knew that by running he was drawing a lot of unwanted attention, but he was also cutting down the time he would be tracked through the bazaar area. There were too many people wandering through the marketplace to hope that no outsiders would be injured. He opened the channel on the collar microphone. "Leo?"

  "Hotel Hussein, Striker. I got a copy." Turrin sounded winded.

  "Don't be late."

  "I wouldn't think of it, Sarge."

  At the other end of the small thoroughfare was an area dominated by a handful of fortune-tellers advertising different techniques in English and Egyptian. Remembering the map of the bazaar area he had studied while on the plane, Bolan knew that once he reached the fortune-telling area, he could turn left and the narrow street would lead him directly to Shari Gohar ei-Qait and Hotel Hussein.

  Before he reached the first booth, a motorcycle appeared on the street he intended to turn south on. Not daring to fire at the two men on the motorcycle because of the crowds, Bolan fled back the way he had come, hoping to find another, more roundabout way of getting to the rendezvous point.

  He sprinted for all he was worth, knowing the motorcycle would lurch after him instantly, remembering the man on back had reached for a radio instead of an Uzi this time.

  A new sound joined the keening of the Japanese bike, and Bolan looked up to see a helicopter bearing down on his position. All doubts lingering in his mind as to who it belonged to dissipated with the initial burst of .50-caliber machine gun fire that ripped a nearby neon sign to shreds.

  Wheeling quickly while the helicopter tried to maneuver to present the machine gunner with another chance, Bolan locked the Desert Eagle into a double-fisted grip and emptied the clip in concentrated fire, zeroing in on the pilot.

  The helicopter leaped skyward in immediate response, though the Executioner doubted any of the bullets had scored. He changed clips as he cut back again, making a circular attempt to get back to the fortune-telling section. Whirling rotors overhead let him know the helicopter hadn't given up.

  Bolan paused, listening for the sound of the motorcycle that was searching for him. With the helicopter covering the area, he knew there was slim hope of being able to get away unseen. His only alternative lay in speed. And the guys riding the motorcycle were definitely sitting on a source of it.

  Desert Eagle in hand, Bolan crept back through the shops, knowing if someone saw him their reaction would signal his position to the assassins. The narrow street he'd just left was in pandemonium. People raced away in all directions.

  The motorcycle coasted slowly down the street, coming back in Bolan's direction. The rear man was obviously in contact with the helicopter crew by radio.

  Waiting until the motorcycle was almost even with him on the other side of the street, Bolan exploded from between the shops, sprinting toward the cyclists. His feet left the ground in a full flying kick targeted on the rear assassin even as the driver tried to get the man's attention.

  Bolan felt his boot connect with the base of the man's skull as he had intended, the impetus of his body driving all of them into the brief security offered by a nearby shop. He heard the man's neck snap even over the whine of the motorcycle, and for a moment they were hidden from the helicopter.

  Without wasting time, Bolan grabbed the handlebars and righted the motorcycle, knowing the chopper would be in position over him in seconds. The driver lurched to his feet, grabbing at Bolan's arms in an effort to detain him. The Executioner put a foot on the guy's chest and pushed him away.

  Bolan hit the starter with a thumb as the helicopter swung into view overhead. The motor chain-sawed into sudden life, and he pulled the throttle back as he released the clutch. The front tire reared up suddenly, then he had it under control as .50
-caliber spikes sheared into the cobbled street just behind him.

  Keeping himself low over the handlebars, Bolan rocketed down the twisting aisles, homing in on the fortunetellers' booths. He struggled to keep both wheels under him as he made the corner. In the distance he could see the placard advertising the Hotel Hussein.

  Bullets from the machine gun overhead kicked up a ribbon of dust just ahead of him. He whipped through it and changed sides of the street, watching pedestrians dodge out of his way.

  "Bolan."

  The warrior recognized Tsurnick's harsh tones immediately. He had to reach across his body with his left hand to trigger the collar microphone. "Yeah?"

  "I have you in sight. My team is in the black limousine directly in front of you at the corner of the hotel. When you make the exchange here, turn east and head toward the car park. We'll take care of the helicopter."

  A moment of unease flashed through Bolan. With the motorcycle he had a chance of avoiding the helicopter's machine gunner, provided he stayed within proximity of the city buildings. And the Tourist Police or regular Egyptian Police should be en route already. If he followed Tsurnick's instructions, it was all open space.

  At the corner he dragged a foot and headed east, blowing past the black limousine as Tsurnick disembarked from the rear with a long tube.

  Reaching for a higher gear, Bolan sped toward the mesh wire fence surrounding the parking area, determined to put as much space between himself and the helicopter as possible. He heard the rotors screaming into place above him. Closing in on the fence with no move left open for him, Bolan clamped down hard on both front and back brakes, feeling the motorcycle skid sickeningly under him.

  Kicking free of the machine, Bolan rolled across the pavement as bullets chopped into the motorcycle's body, following it as it tried to run up on the fence.

  Bolan came to a rest on his knees, the Desert Eagle already fisted in his right hand. He drew target acquisition on the bubble shield of the helicopter. Bui suddenly a flame shot out of the helicopter's tail. An orange-and-black explosion ripped the chopper from the sky to land in the center of Shari al-Azhar.