As he put the .44 away, Bolan saw Tsurnick drop the LAW to the ground and climb back into the limo. The driver wheeled around the mass of burning wreckage in the street and came to a rocking halt beside Bolan. The Executioner got in gratefully. Tsurnick sat on the other side of the plush back seat.
"Good shooting," Bolan said as he settled in. The limo accelerated quietly. Inside the air-conditioned interior, Bolan felt as if he had become part of another world.
"We were fortunate there were no Egyptian authorities involved," the Israeli captain said honestly. "Otherwise I would have had to leave you to your own devices."
"Which were damn few."
"Agreed."
"Where's Leo?"
Tsurnick pointed ahead.
"He got out okay?"
"Yes."
"What about your men?"
"All of them," Tsurnick replied. "So far Israel's involvement in this hasn't been compromised."
"Let's hope it stays that way."
Tsurnick nodded. "Let's have a look at what you bought in the bazaar."
Bolan removed the newspaper from under the jean jacket and separated the pages of information. He scanned each page in turn, then handed it to the Israeli.
"There's not much here," Tsurnick said. "You had most of this information from your American sources."
"Yeah, but we didn't have any pictures."
Tsurnick tapped the black-and-whites. "These are the men we're pursuing? The ones behind the attempt on Gorbachev's life?"
"Yeah."
He handed Bolan the Polaroid. "Who's the girl?"
"I don't know," Bolan replied as he studied the picture. She was blond and would have been beautiful if it hadn't been for the butchered hair and the haggard expression on her face. She'd been watching someone, Bolan thought, someone she was definitely afraid of. "But Thomas was willing to kill to get her back."
"No matter. The girl is either dead or Thomas has her back."
"Neither," Bolan said as he tucked the information he had gotten from Faisal back into the paper. "According to my informant, the girl's hiding in a nearby hotel."
Tsurnick removed the picture of Ris Thomas from the paper and went over it again.
Bolan had the image etched in his mind. The harsh planes of Thomas's face, the scar over the eye, the wintry nothingness that lay in the torrid depths of the eyes.
"This man is a killer," Tsurnick commented.
Bolan agreed.
"You can see it in his face just as surely as you can see it in ours," Tsurnick said. "But there's one difference between us and this one. This man recognizes no conscience, no sadness at being what he is."
"Which makes me wonder why he would leave seclusion to pursue the girl."
"Especially at this point in time, when whatever they have planned all these long years is about to come to fruition." Tsurnick took a long cigar from his pocket and lit it.
"You're thinking the same thing I am."
"That the girl could be more important than surface value?"
"Yes."
Tsurnick nodded. "Yes. I think that as well." He thumbed the intercom button and got the driver's attention. "What was the hotel?"
Bolan gave the name to the Israeli and settled back to grab a few moments of welcome respite from the physical side of the pursuit. The few hours of sleep he'd been able to manage aboard the Harrier Grimaldi had flown into Israel had only been enough to whet his appetite. Yeah, the tactician inside him said the girl definitely bore more exploration, but it was his humanity that said she needed to be rescued from whatever trouble she had found herself in. He just hoped he wasn't too late.
12
Helene struggled through the layers of the nightmare into wakefulness, clawing through the images of Ris as he told her again and again that he loved her. She didn't dream of a normal life anymore. That lay somewhere in the past. The schools in Naples where her father's money paid her to keep her out of his way. How long ago had that been? She considered the present month and subtracted. Eight months. How in the name of God had she been able to survive all that time?
"I love you, Helene," Ris's voice seemed to whisper to her. "I love you the way I've never been able to love anyone else in my life."
Blinking her eyes open through the hot tears that suddenly came to her, Helene lay quiet, not wanting to wake Constance McKenna. She fisted her pillow under her head tightly, curling into a small ball on the bed.
Cautiously she looked around the hotel room, wondering if the escape was the dream and not the nightmare. Maybe while she slept the Hilton's walls had become the walls of the underground complex. When she saw the sunlight filtering in through the patio windows of the hotel room, an unfamiliar exuberance about life flashed through her. It was followed immediately by the feelings of guilt for involving the American woman in her problems.
But there had been nowhere else to go, she told herself again. Ris had given her no choice but to accept refuge wherever it was offered. Surprisingly the McKenna woman had asked no questions and had limited herself to taking care of Helene's needs. The woman had summoned a hairstylist to the hotel room and ordered clothes that fit Helene very well. And Helene had to admit it felt good being taken care of again. In school there had always been her friends. They had taken her to their parents' houses sometimes on vacations because they knew Helene had no family to go home to. She never tried to explain that her father was always too busy to bother with her. Later, when she realized he wasn't just another corporate executive trying to set up his next million-dollar deal, she wondered why her father hadn't had her killed to make sure there were no loose ends.
Someone knocked at the door.
Pulling the covers up to her chin, Helene rolled over, expecting to see Constance McKenna in the other bed. Sudden terror overwhelmed her when she found the bed empty.
Someone knocked again.
"Krista?"
A feeling of relief washed over Helene when she recognized the McKenna woman's voice coming from the bathroom.
"Yes?"
"Did I wake you?"
"No."
"Good. Will you be a dear and answer that? I'm trying to put my face on and I don't want anyone to see me like this. It's probably room service. I placed an order about an hour ago."
"Okay."
She walked to the door and peered out the peephole. She saw a man standing in the hallway with his head down, holding an armful of roses.
"It's someone with flowers," Helene called out.
"They must be from Bryan, my ex-husband. He's still convinced we need to get back together, though while we were married he was convinced we needed to be divorced. I don't know how he found me here."
Filled with trepidation, Helene unlocked the door and stepped back. When the man raised his head, she recognized him at once — Eric Konig, whose loyalties lay more with Fritz Kettwig than with Ris. Panicked, Helene threw her weight against the door, trying to lock the man out. "Constance, call the hotel security! Please hurry! They've found me!"
The woman ran from the bathroom to the phone between the two beds and lifted the receiver.
Konig exploded against the door, and Helene found herself stumbling backward. She tried to get to her feet as she saw the man lift a pistol and point it at Constance McKenna.
"No!" Helene screamed as she reached for the gun.
The pistol bounced in Konig's hand and whispered once.
Helene looked back over her shoulder to see the woman's body jerk with the impact and fall over the bed. She hurled herself at Konig, knotting her hands into fists. Konig backhanded her across the mouth, and she tasted blood on her lips as she sprawled on the floor. Helene stared at him, putting venom in her words. "Ris will kill you for this."
Konig smiled coldly. "Perhaps he would, bitch, if he knew. But you won't tell him. You've caused enough trouble in his life, and you've endangered our cause more than enough." He holstered the gun.
Helene kicked out at him, screaming. Su
rely someone would hear her; someone had to hear her.
Konig caught one of her feet and dragged her roughly across the carpet toward the window. Using force and slaps, Konig muscled her to a standing position near the patio door.
Still struggling, Helene brought a knee up into Konig's crotch, earning another slap after the man only succeeded in partially blocking the blow. Her senses swam with the sudden onslaught of violence. One eye had swollen shut and she had difficulty breathing through her broken nose. She heard the lock click back on the balcony doors, then one of them slide open. A warm, light wind blew through her short hair. Konig managed to grip both of her wrists in one hand as he forced her backward, out onto the narrow balcony. Helene whipped her head around, getting a dizzying panoramic view of Cairo, then saw nothing but the ground three stories below when the man bent her double over the railing.
She felt Konig's free hand wrap around her thigh and lift her, edging more of her upper body off the balcony railing. Anger burned her bruised face. Why didn't she just let go and have done with it? There would be nothing more to fear then. No possibilities Ris or anyone else could take her life and freedom away from her again. But she fought to maintain her grip. Her head pulsed with the pressure of hanging upside down. Her arms ached and shook from holding on so tightly.
Then an explosion sounded behind her, and she felt the pressure on her legs lessen. Her hands slid down the white wrought iron with bruising intensity, and she knew gravity was going to finish the job Eric Konig had started.
* * *
The Beretta filled Mack Bolan's hand at the first scream. He held the elevator doors open as Tsurnick hit the Stop button.
He glanced down the empty hallway, realizing most of the hotel guests would be out of their rooms, engaged in whatever business or pleasure had brought them to Cairo. The scream sounded again. Bolan wasn't able to pinpoint the source, but he was fairly certain it was coming from room 312, where Faisal said he would find the girl Ris Thomas was searching for. He looked at Tsurnick and noticed the Israeli captain had a pistol in his hand, as well. Tsurnick nodded and Bolan left the cage, knowing the Israeli would back his play.
The warrior raced to room 312, flattening himself against the wall as he tried the knob only to find it locked. The screams this time were definitely coming from inside the room. Flicking the 93-R into 3-shot mode, he aimed at the doorknob and squeezed the trigger. The 9 mm parabellum rounds shattered the lock and the door pushed open at Bolan's touch.
He swung the door wide and dropped to one knee as he leveled the Beretta before him. A man was trying to push the girl over the railing. Before the Executioner could issue a warning, the man's hand streaked for the gun in his shoulder holster.
Bolan squeezed the trigger of the Beretta, and the man's forehead dissolved into a crimson spray as the parabellums punched him over the railing. Then the warrior was a blur of motion, flinging himself across the room as the girl started a downward slide. Throwing himself headlong, he slid across the threshold of the balcony and slipped an arm through the railing to wrap around the girl's legs. He squeezed tightly, knowing his grip had to be causing her excruciating pain but not daring to release her.
"Tsurnick," Bolan called through gritted teeth. His face was pressed painfully into the railing and he felt blood run down his cheek. Dust from the balcony floor found its way into his nose, and he had to fight the urge to sneeze.
"Here," the Israeli answered.
Bolan felt the girl's weight reduced against his arm, then finally taken off. He got his feet under him and stood quickly to help Tsurnick pull the girl to safety.
"Who are you?" she asked dazedly as she was guided back into the hotel room.
"There's no time now, girl," the Israeli captain said.
Bolan silently agreed. The covers Mossad had arranged for the trip into Cairo would stand up under the scrutiny of airport officials, but never under a prolonged investigation that would arise if they were discovered in the hotel room with a dead man just below their balcony.
"But Constance was hurt," the girl protested.
"Where?" Bolan asked.
"Here," Tsurnick said as he knelt between the beds.
Bolan stepped forward until he could see the woman. She was lying on her side, her left arm covered with blood.
"Is she all right?" the girl asked.
"Yes," the Israeli replied. "The bullet passed through cleanly. She'll be okay."
"Get dressed," Bolan ordered gruffly, knowing the girl would remain frozen unless he made her move.
"But Constance…"
"Will be fine," Bolan said. "We won't be if the authorities find us here. And neither will you."
The girl nodded and moved toward the bathroom.
Bolan helped Tsurnick lift the injured woman to one of the beds. He made a compress from a pillowcase while the Israeli talked to the woman.
"How are you?" Tsurnick asked.
"Hurting. Is Krista here?"
"Yes, Constance, I'm all right," the girl said as she stepped from the bathroom and knelt by the bed.
Bolan pushed the compress onto the woman's shoulder and saw her flinch with pain. "Hold it firmly," he instructed, "until the doctor gets here."
The woman nodded her understanding.
"I wish I could stay until someone gets here," the girl said, "but I can't."
Constance touched the girl's face tenderly. "I understand, Krista. At least now you'll be in friendly hands." She looked at Bolan meaningfully.
The warrior nodded.
"My name," the girl said. "It isn't Krista. It's Helene. I didn't mean to lie to you, but it's been so long since I could trust anyone."
"I could tell."
Bolan took Helene by the shoulders and urged her to get to her feet. "We have to go."
"Thank you," Helene whispered to the woman. "I'm sorry you were hurt."
"I'll mend. You will, too."
"Keep the pressure on the compress," Bolan said as he followed Tsurnick and Helene. "We'll get a doctor in here as soon as we can."
The woman nodded.
"How badly are you injured?" Bolan asked when the elevator doors were closed.
"I think Konig broke my nose. I can't breathe through it." She snuffled and tears flowed from her open eye.
"Konig?"
"Yes. Eric Konig."
"Why was he trying to kill you?"
She raised her shoulders and dropped them, then glared at Bolan with her good eye. "Why does anyone try to kill anyone?"
"What does this picture mean to you?" Tsurnick asked, showing her the Polaroid.
"Nothing."
Knowing they would get nothing more out of her for the moment, Bolan remained quiet, hoping for an easy, unnoticed exit from the hotel. The elevator doors opened on the main lobby, and Tsurnick guided them out. Helene followed him closely, using his body to keep most people from seeing her.
Outside the building, they crowded into the waiting limousine, Helene between the two men.
"Look, Helene," Bolan said after the car slid into traffic, "I'm almost certain we're on your side in this thing. We're here in Cairo looking for Ris Thomas, and we know he's been turning this city upside down looking for you. What do you have that he wants?"
A sad smile lifted the corners of the girl's mouth, and her voice broke when she answered. "For the past eight months I've been his prisoner. He's held me in a small room and kept me for his sole pleasure. I've lost count of the times I've been raped. He only wants to possess me again."
"Why was Konig trying to kill you?"
"So I wouldn't stand in Ris's way of accomplishing the goal he was groomed for."
"How were you standing in the way?" Bolan asked. The girl had dropped into an almost trancelike state. Her voice was flat now, monotonic. He glanced at Tsurnick and saw that Tsurnick had noticed the change, as well. Bolan hated to push the girl after all she had evidently gone through, but they had to have answers.
"Because Ris wanted m
e. For some reason I seemed to become the only thing he ever wanted."
"What do you know of Phoenix Enterprises, Incorporated?"
"Ris and Kettwig run it."
"Where are they?"
"In the underground section of the building, I suppose."
"What is Ris's goal?"
"I'm not sure. It has something to do with the United States and the Soviet Union."
Irritation filled Bolan, and he wished the girl was more coherent. But then, if she was, maybe the answers wouldn't be coming at all. "Did you know Ris was connected to some kind of Nazi plot dating back to the Second World War?"
"Not until eight months ago," Helene said dully. "But never before then." Without warning she went limp and fell against Bolan's chest.
He caught her effortlessly, cradling her in his arms so that he could hear her breathing, wanting to make sure her broken nose wasn't still hemorrhaging down her throat. "What do you think?" he asked the Israeli.
"We're onto something, yes, but what? We still have no proof of any conspiracy against America and Russia. Even this girl's words may be the result of a delusion. And in her present shape, she might agree that Ris Thomas killed Anwar Sadat."
Bolan didn't say anything, feeling that in the end Tsurnick would take the situation at face value and authorize Israeli help. In his gut the Executioner knew he was right. And if he had to, Bolan figured he could blow the secret operation into the international headlines by himself. One way or another.
The limo's telephone rang, and Tsurnick picked it up. "It's for you." The Israeli extended the receiver.
"Striker?"
"Yeah, Jack."
"That historian you wanted to talk to has shown up. I've got him in our friends' airliner under wraps."
"Tell him I'm on my way."
"Roger."
"Has our hitchhiker put in an appearance yet?"
"Yes, and he's already been bitchin' about the coffee I make. He doesn't know how to appreciate it the way you do."
Ice Wolf Page 15