"You can rest here." The monk indicated a pallet hidden in the shadowy corner of the kitchen. "I shall keep watch for you. I can wake you at four."
Bolan's only advantage was to remain more alert than those soldiers stuck out on that bare mountainside. There would be no sleep for them this night. Bolan trusted this mysterious old man enough to take the risk.
The cleric brought him a blanket, then went to fetch some more wood for the fire. By the time he returned Bolan was asleep.
This time there were no dreams.
* * *
Brother Josef shuffled over to the corner. Bolan was already awake, lying with his head in the crook of his arm. He was watching the monk.
"It's almost four o'clock. There's a rainstorm brewing; it's beginning to cloud over."
Bolan stood up. Brother Josef handed him a steaming mug of herbal tea. Its warmth helped him wake up. They both squatted in front of the fire.
"I came here a long time ago." It seemed that the monk had decided to answer the question after all, as if he wanted to confess his secret before the big stranger went out to face the men who were waiting for him. "I, too, was a soldier. I fought in Poland in 1939, then Belgium, France... and finally in Italy."
"You were with the Wehrmacht?" At least that explained his accent.
Brother Josef nodded sadly. "The Allies landed and pushed north. The Italians threw down their arms. Hitler ordered us not to yield another inch of ground, but I had made up my mind to leave such madness behind. I turned my back on it all, retreating farther northward by train at first, then I stole a motorbike and headed east, then I walked. I walked for days, always moving east, heading deeper into the mountains."
"Until you found yourself here?" Bolan took another swallow of tea.
"Yes. I was taken in by Brother Stefan. He gave me sanctuary. New clothes. And another chance at life."
"What happened to Stefan?"
"He was an old man when I arrived. I looked after him. But he died; in 1956, I think it was. And I have stayed here ever since. But perhaps there is no escape..."
"You mean from men like those?" Bolan tipped his head toward the dark square of the kitchen window.
"I was never a Nazi. Just a German soldier called up to serve my country. I was glad when I heard that the Allies had finally defeated Hitler, although the news did not reach us here until months after the war had ended."
Bolan picked up a log and placed it on the fire.
"I do not know what you have done that they want you so badly," the old man continued, "but I feel I must support you. You have chosen to fight, and that is the braver decision. Come, I have something to show you."
He picked up a candle stub and led his guest to a small storage chamber adjoining the kitchen. There was a large wooden trunk, a finely constructed container, standing against the far wall. Brother Josef knelt in front of it and opened the lid. He had to exert considerable effort since the box was almost airtight.
In the box Bolan glimpsed the distinctive flared shape of a Nazi helmet. Brother Josef lifted it out and placed it on the floor. Next he pulled out the field-gray tunic of a German trooper. Concealed beneath it was a long bundle of waxed paper.
The monk unwrapped the hidden object. "Maschinenpistole," he said.
It was a Schmeisser MP-40, one of the most effective submachine guns of World War II. Brother Josef reached down and produced two 32-round magazines, plus a pouch full of loose ammunition.
The paper in which he had carefully packed away the ordnance crackled as the older man lifted it out of the bottom of the trunk. Lying on the cedar lining were four "potato mashers," the unmistakable hand grenades used by the Wehrmacht.
"Why didn't you discard these things?" Bolan asked.
"I had no intention of being taken alive," said Brother Josef, "by the partisans, the Russians or by my own comrades."
Bolan nodded. He understood only too well what it meant to have every man's hand against you.
A tremor ran through the monk's shoulders as if he were recalling memories of only yesterday. "I disobeyed the regulations of the army I served in. Desertion was instantly punishable by death. I broke the laws of my own country; at least, the laws that were then in effect. My illegal entry must certainly have contravened the laws of this country."
"Looks as if everything you did was wrong," Bolan summarized without judgment.
"It is sometimes necessary for a man to do what others claim is wrong if he is to live at peace with himself. Laws can be changed to serve the most perverted ends, but justice remains immutable. Sometimes a man must become an outlaw to do what is right. I trust you understand me now."
"Better than you think, old man."
"Then take these weapons... and may they be of some aid for what you have to do."
IBolan felt the odds tipping in his favor. Sometimes a man must become an outlaw...
27
Tongues of lightning were flickering within the serried banks of clouds sweeping in from the south. Bolan held the Beretta in one hand. The Schmeisser was slung over his shoulder by its strap. In the other hand he carried the soup pot. It was full of glowing embers from the kitchen grate. A cast-iron lid prevented any random sparks from giving away his position. He moved along the dark line of stunted pines toward the deep notch dimly outlined against the storm-racked sky.
Brother Josef had sketched the layout of the pass, and Bolan could match the silhouetted landmarks against the clearer picture he held in his mind's eye.
He left the sandy track and padded out along the bare overhanging rocks that looked down on the far slope of the mountain. He came to the edge of a cliff that fell sheer for nearly two hundred feet.
The moon was obscured by fast-moving rain clouds, but Bolan could make out the trail winding through the woods below. Now the path ended abruptly in a strip of open ground that cut along the flanks of the high country.
Running down the center of this barren clearing was a single fence, six strands high, with heaps of coiled wire pushed up against it at occasional intervals. It was not a formidable obstacle in itself — Bolan could see the pale outline of the path still continuing through the thick forest on the far side.
But almost directly below his position was a watchtower rising above the treetops, with an unobstructed view of the old crossing point and the no-man's-land.
The windows of the cabin at the top were faintly lit, and Bolan counted four men inside. He could barely make out the silhouette of the helicopter parked on a flattened area where all the stumps had been pulled.
Big, soft drops of rain started to spatter down. The hot soup pot sizzled briefly as Bolan spotted one of the machine guns dug in close to the path. The other one would be in the opposite trees to provide an effective cross-fire pattern.
He squatted on his haunches to observe the woods. A cigarette glowed intermittently, as a bored sentry waited impatiently for the end of his nightwatch. The lay of the land was exactly as Brother Josef had described, and the soldiers were deployed much as Bolan had envisaged.
A white-hot fork split the sky. The storm was getting closer. It was almost time to make his move.
For aeons, pelting rains, freezing cold, blistering sun and bolts of lightning had worked on these stones. The exposed cliffs were dangerously eroded, with rocks balancing on weathered columns that threatened to collapse at any moment.
Bolan moved cautiously along the ridge, constantly wary of dislodging any loose pebbles, as he searched for the fissure. It was about a hundred yards from where the trail descended dizzily toward the border wire.
Some bushes grew about sixty yards farther on. Here he put down the iron pot and removed its lid. The embers were still quite hot but covered with a soft layer of ash. Bolan's pocket was bulging with the old German ammunition. He scattered the bullets on top of the embers, then ran back to the spot he'd located on the cliff edge.
He kept the handle of one potato masher tucked through his belt. He held the sticks of
the other three grenades in one hand, waiting for the signal from the overheated rounds.
One of the guards circled the platform at the top of the tower, decided everything was quiet, and began to climb down the long wooden ladder.
It all seemed to happen at once...
About a mile away a lightning stroke cleaved the sky, splitting a fir tree apart with a frightening crack. And as the pealing thunder died the first of the bullets exploded.
Bolan pulled the fuses on the grenades and immediately dropped them down the crack in front of him. Unslinging the submachine gun as he ran, the lone warrior raced back to plunge down the path.
The grenades went off in rapid succession. Their muffled reports were followed by the grinding creak of the stones moving outward. The unsafe rocks at the top tumbled first, knocking larger chunks out of the cliff face as they fell.
Another lightning bolt struck the woods, even closer this time. Then the rain started pouring down.
"There! Over there!" A machine gunner opened fire toward the sound of the exploding ammunition. His steady stream of bullets only chipped more stones from the cliff top.
"No. He's coming down the path!" yelled a guard. He had seen the fast-moving figure illuminated by the lightning. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw the whole rock face giving way. Huge slabs mixed with jagged stones collapsed, gathering force as they rattled and rumbled down the scree. The soldier knew he had no chance of outrunning the landslide. His shout of warning turned into a high-pitched scream.
Bolan dodged along the track. Below him and to the right, the falling rocks tore out trees and buried large bushes in their mad rush.
One of the sentries reached the trail, seeking shelter from the rockfall. He turned, thinking another comrade had reached comparative safety with him. What he saw was a black-clad death-dealer, hair plastered wildly by the rain, a gun in either hand.
Bolan fired a single burst from the Beretta, scoring three hits less than two fingers apart, as he simultaneously swung the Schmeisser across to target on the muzzle-flash of the second machine gun. The shuddering incandescence of the machine pistol was answered by the brilliance of the raging sky.
He was a living blitzkrieg of stone and fire and flying lead.
The enemy had been struck by a one-man storm of such ferocity they were taken completely by surprise.
Only seconds had elapsed since the first round had exploded. The man on the ladder heard the terrible groaning roar of the rock slide and clung there for a moment, undecided whether he should go back up or continue down. He began to ascend.
The force of the rolling rocks was almost spent by the time it reached the watchtower. But the momentum of the moving wall of debris swept away one of the support struts. Another began to bend. The whole platform tilted alarmingly as the structure leaned backward. Then it collapsed on top of the helicopter. The watch-tower's guardroom itself landed square on the rotor assembly and squashed the chopper cabin flat.
The dust cloud was being beaten back into the dirt by the pouring rain. Bolan, his face a battle mask streaked with grime, had reached the last long run to the fence. A three-man patrol was charging in from the left... but a raking broadside of Schmeisser-fire shredded into them before they could get off a shot at the speeding shadow.
The flaring storm lit the avenue he had to cross. The frontier fence was fifty yards ahead. He slammed home fresh magazines and ran into the open as bullets danced in a crazy pattern across the earth. Bolan skidded to a halt, spun about and dropped to one knee. Both his weapons spurted flame as a staccato stream of destruction cut down the machine-gun crew.
The MP-40 was empty. Bolan dropped the gun, tugged the last grenade from his belt, yanked the fuse with his teeth and hurled it at the nearest fence post. He hit the ground. The explosion splintered the upright, severing the wires. They peeled open with an angry twang.
Bolan fired a last burst at the trees, then he was up and running through the hole. His soles were caked with mud as he raced for the deep cover of the forest.
Behind him, a few smaller stones were still slithering onto the scree; and one of the survivors fired a single rifle shot after the weaving figure.
But Mack Bolan, like the storm itself, had moved on.
28
The promise of springtime had been dashed by sheets of silver-gray drizzle as Bolan, damp and chilled, struggled westward. He had managed only a few short snatches of sleep in the past forty-eight hours.
He was contemplating stealing a motorcycle from the blind side of a country cafe when a trucker pulled over and offered him a lift. Thankfully, the fellow at the wheel was not the talkative type, so Bolan curled up in his corner of the cab and dozed off.
The driver stopped at a gas station on the outskirts of the city; when he returned from the rest room his passenger had disappeared.
Now Bolan waited near a phone booth beside a bus terminal. He scanned the cars heading north on his side of the highway, watching for a green Fiat. He saw two of them before the third squelched to a stop at the curb.
"Hop in," said Wetherby. Bolan could sense the uneasiness lurking behind the smile. "We'll soon have you safe..."
Lawrence Wetherby was the agent who had fielded Bolan's call. He hoped he could distract the renegade Bolan with small talk until they reached the secret CIA office. Thank God, Dave Hamilton was riding shotgun in his sports car.
Wetherby signaled he was about to turn back toward Zubrovna. "Keep going! Straight on... north. And move it!" Bolan ordered the agent.
He pulled out the Beretta and held it across the front of his body.
"So they were right. They said you'd gone bad." Wetherby's voice cracked with fear. The fact that the gun was pointed at his stomach only confirmed the stories that he'd heard.
"If you don't lose the white Alfa Romeo that's trailing us," warned Bolan, prodding the driver in the hip, "I'm gonna turn you into a real soprano."
Wetherby pulled a fast maneuver, first signaling right, then accelerating left across three lanes of traffic to drop onto the autoroute. They had shed their escort.
"You're dead on your feet, Bad Apple," Wetherby told Bolan, trying to bolster his own courage and wondering why he'd been crazy enough to think he could score a coup by bringing in the renegade alive. "You're all through — you just don't know it."
I "Tell me about it."
Wetherby was happy to — as long as he talked he was still alive — and he spilled everything he knew.
Bolan realized that if he went back to Washington right now, any one of his closest colleagues — even Hal Brognola — was duty bound to turn him in. And if he surrendered Radic's precious photographs they just might get "lost." Whatever happened, he'd never get a crack at the mole.
Bolan let Wetherby drive for another half hour before he ordered him to stop. They were miles from anywhere when Bolan gestured with the pistol for the young man to get out of the car.
"Take off your shoes. Hurry. Now drop them on the back seat." Bolan kept the agent covered as he moved behind the wheel. Just before pulling away he glanced up at Wetherby's startled face. "No, I'm not going to kill you. Now you figure that out."
The oncoming lights were a hypnotic blur flashing over the rain-streaked windshield as Bolan sped northward.
When the fuel gauge indicated empty he abandoned Wetherby's Fiat in a dilapidated barn and started walking again. The weather was shifting.
Bolan pulled up his collar. A cold wind was blowing from the east.
Bolan knew he had only one chance.
Find the man he'd seen in Zubrovna.
The man with his face.
Part Three
Split Image
29
Vichinsky took a sip from his vodka flask before going into the major general's office.
"So it would seem he has slipped through their fingers," Strakhov remarked. The head of the Thirteenth Section did not look up from the map of Europe spread out on his desk. He had suspected this
might be the outcome. He had never liked relying on local operatives. "Amateurs!" he raged.
"The body of the journalist, Radic, was brought back to Zubrovna," Vichinsky offered in an effort to mollify his boss. He had to try to salvage what he could of a botched assignment. It would have been different if he had stayed on to supervise the manhunt, but his continued presence risked directly implicating the KGB.
Nothing was ever allowed to attract attention to the Thirteenth Section. But he gave no voice to the confidence he felt that he could have trapped the American. His fear of being scoffed at by Strakhov bordered on paranoia. He stuck to the facts. "Nothing more has been released to the press except for the pseudonym Phoenix was using."
The department head continued perusing the map. His finger hovered over Switzerland, wandered toward eastern France, then swung back up to Germany as he tried to gain some insight into the resourceful mind of his enemy. Strakhov's tracings paused at England. He tapped the pale blue ditch of the English Channel and shook his head.
"It was a good plan to send the package to the Americans. They have had time to inspect the evidence, I am sure. It should guarantee that we will achieve our primary goal."
"Our American contact has just reported that there is now a worldwide sanction on the life of Colonel Phoenix," Vichinsky said enthusiastically.
Strakhov sat back in the tall leather chair. He linked his stubby fingers across the front of his stomach. The major general's eyes bored through his assistant. But they were unseeing as he pondered the immediate problem. He could not be as proud of eliminating the main enemy in this manner. But the final result — the death of John Phoenix — would net him every bit as much satisfaction.
* * *
David McCarter hooked back the edge ot the curtain. He could see the hood of the beige Rover barely poking out from beyond the alleyway. He sighed as he let the drapery fall back into place. They were still down there. The move to Lynn's apartment had not shaken them off; a switch now to Karen's place in London's West End would only encourage their vigilance.
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