The Commander took a long pull on his cigar, amused. “Furthermore, someone, I know not who…”
Babar and Cigarette laughed.
“Has sent anonymous letters to our local newspapers,” the Commander continued. “These letters state that this man is a deserter and a traitor to the legion, and the legion will appreciate any and all help from the citizens of France. A small reward is mentioned along with the patriotic duty of all Frenchmen.” The Commander’s smile was beatific. “I do not think the officers, given their current mood, will do anything to contradict these letters.”
Babar smiled to reveal a mouthful of gold teeth. His voice dropped a happy, dangerous octave. “So there is no place he can hide.”
“Oh, my friend, hiding is all that he can do. He has no safe haven in French Guiana. Everywhere he must hide or skulk in the shadows. His ability to operate has been severely compromised.” The Commander leaned forward and fixed Babar with his stare. “Now, what can you tell me about him?”
“He was big.” Babar shook his head in memory. “Not as big as me—”
“Who is?” the Commander said.
“And fast.” Cigarette held up his wounded arm. “He came out of the smashed car like a jumping jack with a heavy machine gun. Shooting everywhere at once. Babar and I are lucky to be alive.”
Babar nodded in unhappy agreement. “Yes, Cigarette is correct. This man, he had skills. As good or better as any man among us.”
“Yes. An operator.” The Commander puffed on his cigar reflectively. “A real American cowboy.”
Cigarette shrugged. “So what do we do?”
The Commander shook his head absently. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Both Babar and Cigarette sat up in their chairs.
“Nothing,” the Commander repeated. “Because that is exactly what this American has. Nothing. And I do not propose to give him anything further. All he has is a cold dead trail. It started in Indonesia, he followed it to Suriname, and it has ended here in French Guiana. He has nothing to go on. And whatever theories he may have, not in his worst nightmares does he even begin to suspect what is to come. What can he do? He has antagonized the legion, Action Direct and the civilian population. He can cower in the shadows and do nothing, or he can show his face in the streets and have it smashed in.” He leaned forward and made a meaningful fist. “Just one week is all he has, and after that, he is superfluous. All he will be able to do is weep.”
Cigarette and Babar nodded as they contemplated what was to come. Cigarette lit up a Galois and took a nervous drag. “Still, I do not like doing nothing.”
The Commander smiled again. “I said we would do nothing. I did not say nothing would happen to the American in the meantime.” He took a languorous puff on his cigar. “Even though he has nothing, there is still a loose end he has not tied up, and I believe we all know someone who owes something very special to our American friend. Death surrounds him.”
Cigarette and Babar smiled. The American had failed in that regard.
The Commander lounged back in his chair. “Where can he go?”
French Foreign Legion Jungle Warfare School
THE GUARDS GAPED at Bolan.
Getting out of Cayenne hadn’t been easy. The situation had quickly become untenable. Between the hours of 1730 to 0530 he was a hunted man, and more and more legionnaires were appearing on the streets at all hours. The Executioner had made his way down to the motorcycle shop, bought the only other Ducati S4 in French Guiana and got the hell out of Dodge.
The legionnaires at the gate of the Jungle Warfare School were shocked. Their hands went to their pistols.
“I would like to speak with someone in command,” Bolan told them.
The two guards looked at each other and spoke rapidly in a language that was not French.
Bolan tried again. “It is important that I speak with your commanding officer. If you call him and tell him who is at the gate, I believe he will wish to see me at once.”
One guard drew his pistol and held it on Bolan with both hands. The other man retreated to the guard shack without taking his eyes off Bolan and began speaking rapid French into the telephone. He hung up, drew his pistol and pointed it at Bolan. “You will remain here.”
The soldier nodded and waited patiently.
It took no time at all for a squad of legionnaires to come pounding up to the gate. Every man among them carried an assault rifle with the bayonet fixed. Bolan kept his face pleasant as Legionnaire Doherty stepped forward. The legionnaire was struggling valiantly to keep his emotions under control. “You will accompany me to the commandant’s office.” His teeth ground as he gestured at the men surrounding Bolan. “These men are for your protection. I must ask you to surrender any weapons you may be carrying.”
Bolan raised both of his arms out to the sides. “I am unarmed.”
Two legionnaires swiftly patted Bolan down and then nodded the all-clear to Doherty. The soldiers formed a block around Bolan as Doherty shouted out orders. They trotted down the short one-lane road to the camp. Legionnaires looked up from their duties about camp and began shouting and pointing at Bolan. The words came in a dozen different languages, and none of them sounded friendly. However, nothing more hostile than words came his way. Bolan was betting on the absolute adherence of the legion to professionalism, duty and discipline.
No one in the camp would attack him without express orders from the officers.
What the officers would do might be a different story.
The French Foreign Legion also had a reputation for brutality and vindictiveness.
Bolan and his honor guard crossed the camp and came to a small building. The guard detail turned and fanned out before the increasing mob of angry legionnaires forming around them. Doherty motioned for Bolan to follow him inside. They quickly marched down a hallway and came to the door at the end. Doherty gave two swift knocks. A voice from within beckoned.
Doherty opened the door. A thin man looking to be in his forties sat behind the desk of a Spartan office. Doherty closed the door behind them and snapped to attention and saluted.
Doherty finished his salute by slapping his leg and took his position by the door.
Bolan and the commandant measured each other. The nameplate on the desk read Commandant Michel Marmion.
“Please, sit. Be at ease. I will speak in English for your benefit.” The commandant gestured at the chair facing his desk. “Cigarette?”
“No, thank you. And thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
“Oh, well, it was that or let you be torn to pieces, and, to be honest, you intrigue me.” The commandant lit a cigarette and gazed at Bolan speculatively. “Tell me, do you really wish to pick a fight with the entire Jungle Warfare School?”
“No, I only wished to attract the attention of a single member of it. The incident at the gate was regrettable.”
Doherty glowered.
The commandant’s gaze grew troubled. “You speak of Caporal-Chef Ki Gunung.”
“Yes.”
“Why is it you wish to fight him?” Marmion leaned forward. “Is this some sort of personal vendetta? If it is, I am afraid that as his commanding officer I cannot allow him to participate. Further, should you insist on your attempts to force a confrontation, I must warn you I will do everything in my power, which is not inconsiderable, to make your stay in French Guiana as short and unpleasant as possible.”
“I understand completely.” Bolan gauged the officer before him, and decided he stood a better chance with the iron honor of the legion than he would playing games with Action Direct. “But I believe that Caporal-Chef Gunung is a traitor to the legion.”
Bolan heard Doherty’s knuckles pop as he curled his hands into fists. He ignored the legionnaire and kept his gaze on the commandant.
Marmion stared at Bolan for long moments. “I am going to allow you the opportunity to explain that statement.”
“There was an operation in Indonesia—”
“By and for whom?” the commandant interrupted.
“There was an operation in Indonesia—some Dutch missionaries had been kidnapped. Perhaps you were aware of it?”
“Vaguely. It was in the news. It was some sort of terrorist act. I believe al Qaeda was suspected,” Marmion acknowledged. “I understand the missionaries were successfully rescued.”
“Yes, during that operation it was discovered that a former legionnaire named Pak Widjihartani was intimately involved. He was Indonesian and had served the Foreign Legion in the 5th Pacific Regiment. Intelligence led the investigation to Suriname, where—”
“Where Caporal-Chef Gunung was on leave.” The commandant leaned back in his chair. “Gunung is a suspect?”
“More than that. Investigation found direct evidence linking Gunung and his associates in Suriname to the terrorists in Indonesia. Gunung served with Pak in the 5th Pacific Regiment. I believe he is part of a plot, with at least nominal ties to al Qaeda.” Bolan locked his gaze with the commandant. “I do not believe he is working alone.”
Marmion’s face was tight as he turned to Doherty. “Fetch Ilyanov.”
Doherty saluted and bolted from the office. Bolan heard a door open down the hallway, and two sets of boots tramped back to the commandant’s office. A large, blue-eyed, blond man accompanied Doherty. He saluted the commandant sharply, but his blue eyes were cold and never left Bolan.
Marmion gestured at the man towering in the doorway. “This is Sergent-Chef Vasily Ilyanov. Ilyanov, this is…” Marmion shrugged. “This is a man who says that Caporal-Chef Gunung is working for terrorists and is a traitor to the legion.”
Ilyanov’s blue eyes went arctic.
Bolan smiled. “You’re Gestapo?”
Ilyanov smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “Gestapo” was a legion nickname for their own internal security.
Marmion nodded. “Sergent-Chef Ilyanov is head of security here in the camp, among his other duties. He also has the advantage of having served in the 5th Regiment in the Pacific. Ilyanov, did you ever serve with a Legionnaire Pak Widjihartani?”
Ilyanov thought a moment. “Yes, he was on the Fantagataufa atoll at the same time I was, and served in the same security detail as I did.”
“What about Gunung?”
“He was not on Fantagataufa, but I had seen him in the islands on leave. French Tahiti is a small place, and there are only so many places legionnaires on leave can go.”
“This man says that Widjihartani was involved in terrorist activities in Indonesia, and that Gunung was in contact with him, and participating, in one way or another. To your knowledge, did they fraternize during their service in the Pacific?”
“I could not swear to it.” Ilyanov looked unhappily from the commandant to Bolan. “But I believe yes. However that is not unusual. They were both Indonesian. In the legion, Germans tend to fraternize with Germans, Asians with Asians.” Ilyanov shrugged. “Russians with Russians, and—”
“Muslims with Muslims,” Bolan said.
“Well, yes,” the Russian admitted. “They do tend to congregate and take prayers together. In a legion of strangers, one seeks out one’s own.”
“Ilyanov.” Marmion’s jaw set. “How many Muslim legionnaires have we here in the camp?”
“Few.” The big Russian scratched his chin as he did a mental head count. “Caporal Atrache is Algerian. Caporal-Chef Sahin is a Turk.”
“Any others?”
“Not to my knowledge, Commandant, but I will look into it.”
“Good. Put Sahin and Atrache under observation, but be subtle about it. Look into the record of their leaves during service. Gunung was allowed special permission to visit Suriname. I want to see if they have had any similar excursions. I also want you to examine Sahin’s and Atrache’s initial enlistment and reenlistment interviews. Look for any discrepancies or anything that might seem relevant to the current circumstances. Report what you find directly to me. Is that understood?”
Ilyanov snapped to attention. “By your order, Commandant.”
Marmion turned and gave Bolan a hard look. “Now, you must give me a reason to confide in you, much less prevent Ilyanov and Doherty from dragging you outside and ripping you a new rectum to the cheers of my men.”
There was absolutely no reason for Marmion to confide in Bolan. He could not tell Marmion who he was. He had assaulted the guard at the gate and then come into Marmion’s office and dropped a bomb in his lap. A bomb that would be very hard to prove or disprove. Bolan glanced around the office and his eyes fell on a framed photograph on the wall. A much younger looking Michel Marmion with lieutenant’s bars on his uniform wore a green beret, and stood in front of a French AMX-10 wheeled reconnaissance vehicle. A black man in U.S. desert camouflage and mirrored sunglasses also wearing lieutenant’s bars stood beside him. They had their arms around each other’s shoulders. Both men were holding up glasses of wine and smiling as they toasted the camera. The desert stretched out behind them.
The American was wearing a black beret.
“You were in Desert Storm,” Bolan said.
Marmion nodded. “We call it Operation Dagger in France, but yes.”
Bolan pointed at the picture. “Assuming that man is still alive, what if he called you within the next twenty-four hours and told you I was good people?”
Marmion snorted. “I believe my friend retired some years ago. It has been many years since we have been in touch. However, were he to call me, tomorrow, and personally inform me that the man who assaulted my camp is to be trusted with matters of legion, if not French national security itself, that would indeed give me pause.”
“Give me his name and his unit, and I’ll have him contact you personally within twenty-four hours,” the Executioner said.
“Very well.” Marmion took a pen from his pocket and quickly scrawled a few lines. “I cannot promise you anything.”
“I understand that.” Bolan’s smile was sincere. “Given the circumstances, you have been more than understanding.”
“Of course I must contact my superiors. French Military Intelligence will undoubtedly become involved.”
Bolan played his second card. “Action Direct already is.”
Marmion’s face fell. “Really.”
Bolan knew his card was a winner. The world was the same all over. The CIA and the FBI in the U.S., the SVR and the GRU in Russia, and Action Direct and French Military Intelligence, it made no difference where you went. Civil and military intelligence services were always at odds with one another, if not downright at war.
The commandant’s fingers drummed the desktop. “You have been contacted by Action Direct?”
“My initial welcome by the legion was warmer.”
“I see.” Marmion scowled. “Doherty has informed me that he received a phone call saying what café you could be located at the other day, but he arrived too late. These were the actions of Action Direct?”
“I am almost sure of it,” Bolan stated. “I was contacted by a woman claiming the name Jolie Erulin.”
“Ilyanov, check on that.” Marmion gave Bolan a thin smile. “I will wait twenty-four hours before I make my decision on whether or not to let Ilyanov and Doherty cripple you.”
Bolan glanced at the two legionnaires. “I appreciate that.”
Marmion sighed heavily. “Ilyanov, what is Caporal-Chef Gunung’s current status?”
The big Russian checked his watch. “Caporal-Chef Gunung’s leave ended over seventy-two hours ago. He remains absent without leave.”
Bolan glanced at the Russian. It seemed both Action Direct and the legion were aware something was up with Gunung.
The soldier turned to Marmion. “As I mentioned, Gunung was encountered in Suriname. There is a chance he was severely injured or killed.”
Marmion accepted this without comment.
The coldness returned to Ilyanov’s eyes. “Permission to speak freely, Commandant.”
“Granted.”
Ilyanov looked at Bolan. “It would be best for you if he is dead. If he is not, he is hunting you, and he is a very dangerous man. If he is alive, and what you say is true, it shall be my job to hunt him down.” The big Russian leaned in close and thrust out his jaw. “And if he is alive, and what you say turns out to be lies, then we shall hunt you together.”
8
Roura, French Guiana
“So how did it go?”
The laptop and the portable satellite link showed Kurtzman sharp and clear on the screen. It was the best intelligence suite Bolan could manage on the back of a motorcycle. He had driven south twelve miles to the town of Kourou and rented a bungalow by the river. Even with the commandant’s calling off the dogs, the capital was still teeming with patriotic citizens of France who wanted to beat the living hell out of him. Out in the sticks, he could still pass for a tourist.
“Commandant Marmion wasn’t happy. He already knew that Gunung was AWOL, and nothing I told cheered him up. Speaking of the commandant, I need you to locate a former U.S. Army Ranger captain, Royce Cunningham, 2nd Battalion. He knew Marmion during Desert Storm. He just might be the key to getting me some legion cooperation.”
“I’m on it. What about this Russian, Ilyanov?” Kurtzman asked.
“Well, he’s Gestapo, legion internal security. He’s big, and he is angry.”
“What do you think that means to you, Striker?”
Bolan considered the big Russian. “The legion has a reputation for taking care of its own. At one time they were known for tracking down deserters and killing them. If he gets convinced I’m right, I wouldn’t want to be Gunung.”
“I gather he doesn’t like you much, either.”
“I don’t see him trying to kill me in cold blood, at least not without some kind of sanction, official or otherwise.” Bolan thought about the hard glints in Ilyanov’s and Doherty’s eyes. “But given the chance, I think there’s nothing he’d love more than to gather up some of the boys and send me home on a gurney.”
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