“I’m on it.”
“Okay.” Bolan rose. “I’m sacking out. As soon as you have that information package on the legion, call me.”
“One thing, Striker.”
“What’s that?”
“You be careful about messing in legion business. They have a reputation for killing people who mess with them.”
“I’ve heard that.”
3
Paramaribo, Suriname
Bolan removed the bandage and surveyed the handiwork on his arm. It would have to do.
Sweat stung his arm as he stepped out from the air-conditioned hotel, and his shirt soaked through from the ninety-degree heat and the matching humidity. Suriname sat at the top of South America less than two hundred kilometers from the equator. As a nation, Suriname consisted almost totally of its coastal strip; and once one strolled half a kilometer from the surf and sand, the sea breeze ended and the cloistered heat of the tropical rainforest began. The capital city followed the geography. The Europeans clung to the coast. Modern European Dutch-style businesses and homes clustered along the beaches and the waterfronts of the capital. Once one went inland, the tin shacks of the ever-growing ghettos clawed space out of the jungle.
Bolan put the blissful breeze of the sea to his back and walked into the blast furnace.
He was walking into a part of the capital that most people avoided after dark, and where police went only when heavily armed and in number.
Bolan got the directions from the U.S. Embassy, but he could have followed his nose. It was evening, and with the setting of the sun the act of cooking had become tolerable. Bolan walked the invisible borders of the shantytowns by scent and turned to follow the aroma of jasmine rice, curry and simmering coconut milk to the Javanese quarter.
Bolan had few illusions. He was barely armed, and his ruse was as thin as hell. He would not be able to withstand more than a few moments of scrutiny, and if it came to a fight he would never live to reload the little .22 Walther PPK/S tucked in the small of his back. The knife tucked in his boot would be of even less use against men who had spent their entire lives practicing the dances of death with foot-long kris knives and parangs.
People sat outside on the stoops and rattan chairs, taking their ease, or leaned out the windows to try to catch some hint of the evening breeze. They smoked cigarettes and looked sidelong at Bolan with undisguised suspicion as he passed.
Bolan consulted his mental map and approached the practice hall of Pandekar Ali Soerho.
Soerho was a pandekar of high repute, of the Jokuk style, from the same lineage as Regog. In this confrontation, Bolan would not have tactical surprise or Adamsite gas to back him up against this mystic warrior and his circle.
The hall was a WWII-vintage Quonset hut that had been repaired many times. Tin siding had been used to patch the walls and the roof. Woven rattan screens covered the windows. The scent of sandalwood incense drifted from an open door that was obscured by hanging strings of cola nut beads. Two men sat on the stoop smoking pipes with incredibly long stems. They wore T-shirts, shorts and sandals and looked like everyone else in the quarter seeking relief from the evening heat. The veins crawling across their corded, rock-hewn forearms, and callused hands bespoke of long weapons training with blades and staves.
The two men watched Bolan approach with supreme disinterest.
When Bolan neared to a few feet, the two men suddenly rose with fluid grace. They flared out heavily developed shoulders and stood in his way like temple guardians carved of stone. Bolan smiled, but the smile he gave them was very sad, as if he were in mourning. He bowed his head toward both men respectfully. “Asalaam aleikum.”
The two sentries blinked in surprise as Bolan greeted them in Arabic. They bowed back, but their wary eyes were still hooded like hawks considering prey.
“What do you want?” the taller of the two men asked in French.
“I need to speak with Pandekar Soerho.” Bolan bowed slightly again. “One of us is fallen.”
Bolan took out the knife he had liberated from Pak Widjihartani’s corpse in Indonesia. Widjihartani’s legion dog tags were wrapped around the hilt. The two men sucked in their breath in dismay. The taller one surveyed Bolan intensely. “And you?”
Bolan pulled up his sleeve. His arm still burned where the tattoo had been scrawled into his skin. The tattoo was not deep, but direct injections of cortisone had been required to get rid of the swelling. The CIA developed inks would dissolve within days. The job had been done by a former Navy SEAL who owned his own tattoo parlor and contracted out tattoos needed by agents going undercover. The man was a pro, and even though the tattoo was less than forty-eight hours old, it looked like Bolan had borne it for years.
The tattoo was of a shield. A dragon was scrawled across its background, and a stylized owl parachuted across the front of it.
The sentries stared at the tattoo and nodded slowly. The taller one took the knife from Bolan and motioned for him to follow them inside.
The scent of sandalwood was very strong. The walls were covered with crossed spears and staves. Short swords and knives with blades that curved in every possible direction were everywhere. Batik prints of gods, heroes and demons covered the patched, steel walls. The incense sticks near the altar had burned low. The evening’s instruction was over. Two men swept the floor, and another dusted the altar.
Ali Soerho sat cross-legged on a mat. Bolan scrutinized the pandekar carefully as he unfolded his legs and seemed to grow out the mat like a tree. He was a slightly built man who looked to be around fifty. Bolan knew that looks could be quite deceiving in martial-arts masters. Soerho could be anywhere from fifty to seventy, and to have reached the rank of pandekar his slight build and gentle features hid his power like silken cloth wrapped around an iron dagger.
The taller of the men escorting Bolan approached the pandekar and bowed deeply. He leaned in close to his master and whispered to him for long moments before presenting him with the knife Bolan had brought. Soerho accepted the weapon reverently and went to lay it upon the altar. His man and the two men sweeping fell into rank behind the pandekar as he approached Bolan.
The man dusting the altar ceased his cleaning and pulled out a cell phone.
Bolan bowed low to the pandekar. The master bowed back and spoke in very rough, halting French. “You speak Arabic?”
Bolan bowed again and replied, “I am only just learning, to further my studies of the Holy Koran.”
One of Soerho’s men quickly translated. The pandekar nodded at Bolan’s wisdom. The tall disciple took over as interpreter. “You knew Pak?”
Bolan pulled false foreign legion dog tags up from around his neck. “We served together in the legion. It was there that I converted to Islam.”
The man with the phone clicked it shut and went back to his dusting. Bolan noted he was working his way back the way he had just come and was putting himself between Bolan and the door. The pandekar spoke through his translator as he gestured at the knife and the dog tags on the altar. “How did you come by these things?”
“How much have you been told?” Bolan countered.
The Javanese had a very rapid discussion in their own language. Bolan decided to interrupt it. “There was an attack. Pak and his men were overcome and killed. We believe it was done by special forces, most likely Australian SAS.” Bolan let his eyes harden. “We believe we were betrayed from within.”
The taller disciple looked shocked as he translated.
Bolan’s face was stony as he openly scrutinized the men before him. One of the disciples flinched as he met the soldier’s tombstone stare. The big man had come looking for a traitor. It was very clear that he did not consider them above suspicion. The Executioner repeated himself slowly. “How much have you been told?”
The taller disciple cleared his throat. “Only Ki has been—”
“Where is Ki?” Bolan demanded.
“I am here.” A man parted the strings of beads blocking the
door. He was short but had almost inhumanly wide shoulders. He was naked save for shorts and sandals. Every muscle in his body stood out in high relief, as did numerous scars, some of which Bolan recognized as bullet and shrapnel wounds. Tattoos crawled along his biceps and shoulders. Both the man’s physique and the way he carried himself were reminiscent of a brutal and battle-hardened Bruce Lee. The two men measured each other. Bolan was relieved that the man did not sport the owl and dragon tattoo.
The man wore round, French military dog tags.
Bolan nodded at him. “Ki.”
“Ki” looked at the sheathed kris and the dog tags on the altar. He then stared long and hard at Bolan’s tattoo. “You served with Pak?”
Bolan threw caution to the wind. “We met in the Pacific. I was in the 5th Foreign Regiment. I spent most of my time at Fantagataufa and a number of the other atolls.”
It was a wild gamble. The 5th Foreign Regiment had been stationed in support of France’s nuclear testing in the South Pacific. Their activities had great political sensitivity, and the regiment had since been dissolved. Their top-secret duties and subsequent disbandment allowed Bolan to make up almost any kind of story. The Achilles’ heel of the ruse was that French-owned atolls were tiny communities. The communities of the legionnaires even tinier. If Ki had served in the same theater, Bolan was toast.
Ki watched Bolan like a hawk as he digested Bolan’s story.
Bolan met his gaze without flinching. “How much have you been told?”
Ki never stopped trying to read Bolan’s eyes. He looked down at the tattoo on Bolan’s arm once more. “I do not know you,” he finally announced. “This will require verification.”
“Of course.” Bolan frowned impatiently but nodded. “I am going to give you a telephone number.” He reached slowly into his shirt pocket and pulled out a small pad and a fountain pen. “Memorize it and destroy it.”
Bolan flipped open the pad and turned the pen over. Suddenly he pressed the pocket clip.
The pen hissed in Bolan’s hand as it shot a stream of pressurized CS tear gas directly into the pandekar’s eyes.
Bolan flicked the notebook into Ki’s face as the pandekar staggered back into his disciples. The blow had no impact but Ki brought his hands up to cover his eyes. Bolan put his thumb on the butt end of the pen and thrust the blunt object into Ki’s esophagus.
Ki’s knees wobbled as he gagged.
Bolan jumped to put Ki between himself and the rest of the disciples. Blades appeared in their hands.
With his free hand, Bolan ripped the dog tags from around Ki’s neck.
The man by the door ripped a rattan stave from the wall, and it blurred about his body like a propeller as he came for Bolan. The Executioner emptied the rest of the gas-pen at the men surrounding the pandekar and broke for freedom as they flinched. Bolan broke sideways and ran at a dead sprint for the eastern wall of the hut. He chose a rusty looking five-foot section of tin siding that had been used to patch a hole in the ancient structure, and hit it like a fullback.
Metal screamed. The rivets holding the siding tore free, and Bolan and the entire section of siding exploded into the night. He rolled in the muck of the alley and came up running.
The disciples boiled out of the hole Bolan had made. They were shouting at the top of their lungs. The soldier could guess what they were yelling to the barrio around them at large.
“Stop him!”
A man rose from a stoop and raised his hands as he stepped into Bolan’s path. The Executioner ripped him off his feet with a forearm shiver without breaking stride.
People were coming out of their houses. The big American did not look back, but he could hear a mob swiftly forming behind him. The road ahead began to fill with alarmed citizens. Bolan drew his pistol as he ran, raised the gun in the air and fired off three quick rounds. The flat snap-snap-snapping of the little pistol cut over the sounds of concern and alarm.
The people ahead of Bolan parted like the Red Sea as he ran among them. But the angry mob behind was undeterred.
There was only one avenue of escape, and that was to run.
Bolan retraced his path. It wasn’t the quickest way out of the quarter, but it was his safest bet. He knew furious phone calls were crisscrossing, trying to arrange solid resistance ahead to cut him off. Bolan held up his gun to deter anyone who appeared before him. His heart hammered in his chest as he used his size and speed to put distance between himself and the ever increasing mob chasing him.
Bolan caught the scent of cayenne pepper as his lungs heaved. He pushed himself into an all out sprint toward the smell. A pair of dark-skinned men looked up in surprise as he charged past them.
Bolan burst into the Creole quarter. He had no friends here, but neither did the Javanese. He raced across a footbridge and tossed his pistol and holster into the canal below. A gun would not help him here. Behind him, he could hear people shouting at one another in a mix of languages. Creoles began coming out of their houses to see what the ruckus was about.
Many of them carried machetes loosely in their hands.
Bolan ducked down a side alley and quickly lost himself in the maze. He slowed to a walk and let his breathing return to normal. He was still in a dangerous part of town, and he did not expect any Creole to protect him out of Christian charity. But the five thousand Dutch guilders he carried in his belt could buy a great deal of indifference, and probably an anonymous ride back to the embassy, as well.
Bolan held up his prize. The dog tags he had taken from Ki glittered dully in the dim light.
It was time to give Kurtzman something to do.
4
Ki clutched his bruised throat as he spoke hoarsely over the phone. “Pak has been compromised.”
The voice on the other end of the line did not sound overly concerned. “How so?”
“They had his dog tags. They followed the trail here. They know he was a legionnaire.”
“Was a legionnaire,” the voice said. “So what?”
Ki’s face tightened with more than the pain in the hollow of his throat. “The man took my dog tags and escaped with them.”
“Well, now, that is an unfortunate turn of events.” The voice paused. “So, just for my edification, this man came in, claiming to be a legionnaire, and then beat up you, the pandekar, your friends, stole your dog tags and ran off into the night with them?”
“Yes.” Ki’s jaws were clenched. “That is about the size of it.”
“Tell me, where did he go? I assume you mounted some sort of pursuit?”
“We did. We chased him for some distance through the streets, but he was lightning fast. His attack at the pandekar’s was sudden and unorthodox. As was his escape. He is obviously some kind of professional.”
“Do you believe he is a legionnaire?” the voice said, this time more in reflection than sarcasm.
Ki had been devoting a great deal of thought to that question. “I do not know. The way he acted, it was clear he is a very experienced soldier. Things like that cannot be faked. Whether he served with Pak in Polynesia…” Ki’s scowl returned. “Without a name, that will be very hard to verify, with the unwanted attention it could attract.”
“Indeed,” the voice agreed. “Tell me, how was his French?”
Ki considered that. “Not perfect, and he spoke with an American accent, but that does not prove anything. The only legionnaires who speak good French are lying Frenchmen.”
The voice on the phone snorted derisively. “That is true.” The voice lowered. “But in your opinion, is he a legionnaire?”
“He had the dog tags, but I did not get to see them up close. He had the same tattoo as Pak and others who served as security in the atolls.” Ki grunted and shook his head. “But my instincts tell me no. I do not believe he is legion.”
“That is all I need to hear you say.”
Ki rubbed his throat. “So what do we do?”
“Let us assume your instincts are correct, and he is American.
To my knowledge, the United States has no military or intelligence assets in Suriname to speak of. The only real place he can take genuine sanctuary or receive any sort of aid is the American Embassy.”
Ki spoke bitterly. His hand went to his chest, to the place were a familiar weight was uncomfortably missing. “He has my dog tags.”
“Yes, and if he has reached the embassy, he will be able to contact his confederates stateside. It will only be a matter of time before they determine who you are.”
“What do you propose we do?”
“Tell the pandekar to gather men he trusts. Cover the embassy now, twenty-four hours a day. Sooner or later, he must come out. When he does, you and your men will kill him. I will send Cigarette and Babar to back you up, but you will lead, and you and the pandekar’s men must see to finishing the job. If you fail, then whatever kind of stink rises up, it must be a Javanese stink and one that ends in Suriname.”
Ki looked at the weapons mounted on the walls. They would be of little use in the coming confrontation. It was the weapons in crates beneath the cellar that would tell the tale now. “And if he somehow escapes us?”
Once more the voice on the other end of the line did not sound concerned. “If he somehow escapes and learns your identity, then he will most certainly come here.” The voice paused significantly. “And then I will most certainly kill him.”
Secure Communications Room,
U.S. Embassy, Suriname
KURTZMAN WAS CLEARLY unhappy. “Striker, we can’t keep plundering French military records.”
His brow furrowed on the videophone link. “We’re risking a lot. Busting into Suriname’s military database would be one thing, but France is a very modern country, with some of the most sophisticated technology in the world. In some areas of technology, France is even ahead of us. And right now, in all honesty, I cannot guarantee you that we’re getting in and out undetected. Much less what kind of electronic tracking and countermeasures we may be subjecting ourselves to. If French Military Intelligence catches a whiff of us and goes on a war footing, it’s not out of the realm of possibility that they could find us in spite of our fire walls and back doors.” Kurtzman shook his head. “I feel the risk may soon be too great.”
Lethal Payload Page 3