Lethal Payload

by Don Pendleton

The soldier brought the grenade up overhead and smashed it into the crown of Ki’s skull. Ki fell on his face. Bolan put the grenade back in his pocket and bent woodenly to retrieve his Beretta. He ejected the nearly spent clip and reloaded. “Poulain? You all right?”

  Poulain groaned from where he lay on the floor. The left side of his face was grotesquely swollen. “Oui…” He nodded and even that effort seemed to hurt him. The doctor looked about painfully for his rifle.

  “Roland?”

  Aretos sat collapsed against the wall. Blood poured down the back of his head. His left forearm was broken in two places. The blackening bruises on his throat reduced his voice to a guttural whisper. He cursed in French.

  Bolan smiled tiredly. If the Frenchman could use foul language, he could breathe. The soldier picked up his fallen Thompson. He clicked in his last 50-round drum and racked the action. “Roland, you and Poulain hold the fort up here. I’m going down.” Bolan picked up his Beretta and held it out. “If anyone besides me or Jolie comes up the stairs, shoot them.”

  Aretos nodded and grimaced as he took the pistol in his good hand.

  Bolan nodded at Poulain. “Watch the door.”

  Poulain sat wearily next to Aretos and aimed his rifle. Bolan picked his way over the bodies of the two dead gangsters on the stair. Reno lay at the foot of the stairwell. Ki’s shotgun blast had decapitated him. Bolan picked up the shotgun and entered the cellar. It was a fairly spacious room. Chains and shackles were bolted to the concrete walls. A twisted, all stainless-steel version of a dentist’s chair dominated the room. It had multiple restraints and could be adjusted into numerous positions. The stains on the floor and the stench of human suffering testified to what sort of things went down in the tiny concrete hell below the earth. Ugly implements of torture lay arranged on wheeled trays, as well as a pair of video cameras. There were two doors off to the side.

  Jolie’s torn clothes were tossed in a corner.

  Bolan kicked a door and found an empty cell. He kicked the second, and Jolie Erulin lay naked upon the floor. Her nose was bleeding, and her left eye was swollen shut. Bolan knelt.

  “Are you all right?”

  She shuddered. “I do not wish to speak of it.”

  Bolan quickly checked her over. The lack of outward damage implied they had not gotten around to any of the real fun yet. She shook uncontrollably, but her good eye blazed at Bolan. “Don’t let my men see me like this.”

  Bolan collected her garments. He pulled off his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders as she struggled to pull on her torn clothes. Bolan handed her the fallen shotgun. “How’s that?”

  She clutched the shotgun. “Better.” She suddenly became aware of Reno’s body at the foot of the stairs. “Roland…”

  “He’s injured, but alive. Poulain is with him.”

  “Bernard?”

  “He insisted on coming to rescue you.”

  “He is a fool,” the agent murmured.

  Bolan nodded. “You have that effect.”

  She smiled weakly.

  Bolan jerked his head toward the stairs. “Let’s get you out of here.”

  13

  “Roland is busted up.” Bolan rubbed his own aching arms and ribs. The bruises had turned an ugly black. He didn’t want to think about his face. “Dr. Poulain has a concussion. They’re keeping him under medical observation at the hospital.”

  “Got to take care of France’s best brain.” Kurtzman was clearly more concerned about Bolan. “How are you?”

  “Been worse. Massive contusions, the usual. Breathing is fun.” Bolan took out some medical tape and bandaging from his kit. “Tomorrow, it’s going to be a barrel of laughs.”

  “How is Jolie?”

  “I don’t know. She’s not talking. She went into professional mode and is busying herself with her men.” Bolan frowned. “There were no signs of significant physical torture, but there are worse things you can do to a woman than jumper cables and pliers.”

  Kurtzman sighed. “What did you learn?”

  “Not much. Ki is dead. That he was involved with Javanese gangsters in French Guiana isn’t a surprise, and we didn’t take any prisoners. We took casualties. As a rescue, it was success. As a hard probe, it was a failure. We didn’t learn anything, and we lost another twenty-four hours. Did you come up with anything?”

  “I got some of the lowdown on Dr. Mohammedkhani.”

  “What’d you get?”

  “You were right on the money. Feresteh Mohammedkhani emigrated from Iran with her parents Jafar and Mariam Mohammedkhani to France when she was seventeen. Both of her parents were engineers, her father chemical and her mother civil. She and her parents became French citizens. France granted them dual citizenship. Iran doesn’t recognize it.”

  “What’s the status on her parents now?”

  “Both are alive and solid citizens. Jafar retired from the petrochemical business and teaches at the Polytechnical School. Mariam works for the Parisian city government.”

  Bolan considered the coldness he’d seen in Dr. Mohammedkhani’s gray eyes. “And what about their daughter?”

  Kurtzman sighed in admiration. He liked a woman with a brain. “Child prodigy. It appears to be one of the reasons the Mohammedkhanis emigrated. They wanted Feresteh to have education and employment opportunities she wouldn’t have access to in an Iran under the Ayatollah. She graduated at the top of her class in the last year of middle school and then enrolled in the Polytechnical School. She got her degree in Aerospace and Systems Engineering, again at the head of her class.”

  Bolan watched the information scroll on the computer screen. “Give me something I can use, Bear.”

  Kurtzman hit some keys. “Things start to get interesting. Feresteh got involved in political activity at university.”

  “What kind of political activity?”

  “Anti-American, anti-Israeli. She spoke at rallies and was arrested twice at protests outside the U.S. Embassy, bricks in hand. She also helped organize Muslim militants, both on and off campus. The French police investigated her on a weapons charge, but it was dropped. Probably because her parents were wealthy, high profile and very useful citizens of France. But it was enough for Israeli Intelligence to keep a passive tab on her activities.”

  “What happened?”

  “Her political activity seems to have tapered off as she went on to get her advanced degrees and specialized in rocket science. She went to work for the space program after earning her doctorate.”

  “Okay, so where does Israeli Intelligence come into the picture?” Bolan asked.

  Kurtzman let the cat out of the bag. “They considered assassinating her.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. The Israelis were following up on a lead they had on Iraqi Intelligence activity. That lead led to Paris. It appears Iraqi agents contacted Dr. Mohammedkhani in 1995 and again in 1997.”

  Bolan could see what was coming. “To help modify and upgrade their SCUD missiles.”

  “That’s right. The first time the Israelis detected the contact, it sent up red flags. The second time, they had a team on a flight to Paris ready to go and punch her clock.”

  “What stopped them?”

  “They believe she refused to help the Iraqis, though there seemed to be some dancing around the second time. That’s when the hit men got ready to deploy. Then, the Iraqi agents left Paris, without Dr. Mohammedkhani or any significant technical advisement or information. The hit was called off.”

  “How does French Intelligence feel about all this?”

  “There’s no indication that they know.”

  Bolan rose. “I think I’ll just have to go have a talk with her.”

  Kurtzman cocked his head. “Doesn’t she think you’re a pig?”

  “I believe she considers me an ignorant, bigoted, Muslim-hating American pig,” Bolan replied.

  “So you should have no trouble then.”

  Sinnamary, French Guiana

 
; THE ANCIENT INDIO SERVANT looked at Bolan dubiously. So did the two drooling French Mastiffs flanking him. Bolan had looked at himself in the mirror that morning. He wouldn’t let anyone with a face like his through the front door, either. He looked like he’d gone fifteen rounds well out of his weight class. Bolan’s mashed lips made a dreadful attempt at a smile for the little man in the white housecoat and sarong. “I’m expected.”

  The old Indio’s almond eyes peered up at Bolan critically. “Monsieur Cooper?”

  “The same.”

  The man turned without a word. The dogs dropped into formation as the servant led Bolan through a French colonial–style house. It had been beautifully restored and Spartanly furnished with a tasteful mix of French and Persian antiques. The late-afternoon heat was intense, but the house was perched right on the sea, and the ocean breeze stirred the long white curtains. They went out onto the veranda, and Bolan kept the surprise off of his face. The servant bowed slightly. “Mademoiselle Mohammedkhani. Your guest is arrived.”

  Dr. Mohammedkhani lay upon a deck chair, sunning herself. She turned large dark sunglasses to regard Bolan. She was wearing a black bikini, and her magnificent black hair cascaded past her shoulders. The tropical sun made her already olive complexion glow. She pulled down the dark glasses to reveal her startling gray eyes. “You are early.”

  Bolan shrugged.

  “You look like shit.”

  He cracked a smile through his mashed lips.

  “I suppose the state of your face has something do with why Dr. Poulain is in hospital with a concussion.”

  Bolan saw no reason to lie. “The injuries are related.”

  “If Dr. Poulain were not in hospital, and had he not called me personally this morning, told me what happened and asked me to cooperate with you, I would have had Luc sic the dogs on you.”

  Bolan nodded. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

  Dr. Mohammedkhani sighed magnificently. “I am still not sure if this is a good idea.”

  Bolan nodded. “These are serious people, Dr. Mohammedkhani.”

  The doctor was a beautiful woman, but her face could grow cold in an instant. She took off her sunglasses and turned her icy gaze on Bolan. “So, I am a suspect?”

  “My main one at the moment, at least on paper.”

  “On paper?”

  “Well, just on raw data. You’re Iranian by birth, you’ve been involved in radical, anti-American political movements in Paris and you’ve been approached at least twice by the Iraqis to assist them in upgrading their ballistic missile systems.”

  She stiffened.

  He pressed his advantage home. “In 1997, the Israeli Mossad had a hit team on a flight to Paris to kill you.”

  Her face showed her alarm.

  Bolan’s instincts were correct. She hadn’t known about her brush with death. “On paper, you’ve got the tools, the talent, the means and the motivation to make something unpleasant happen involving the space center. But in person…” Bolan sat down on a chair and let the sun soak into his stiffened muscles. “You don’t give off the vibe.”

  “Well, thank you, I suppose.” The scientist’s face stayed hard, but her body relaxed slightly. “I will tell you something you may not know. My father fought in the Iran-Iraq war. He came back with mustard gas burns in his lungs. My two brothers did not come back at all. My father told me to tell the Iraqis to go fuck themselves, and that is what I did.”

  “You’re a brave woman.”

  “Thank you.” The gray eyes did not blink. “But that still begs the question, what are you doing here?”

  “I’m trying to put two and two together. Something terrible is about to happen. I don’t know what it is, but I have to try to stop it. I can’t leave any stone unturned.” Bolan switched gears. “You respect Dr. Poulain?”

  “He is a genius, and he has been my biggest sponsor. What exactly did you do that put him in hospital?”

  Bolan decided to breach the security of Action Direct. “Agent Erulin was kidnapped.”

  “Jolie?” The woman blinked. “How? Why?”

  “By Muslim terrorists. Javanese, but I believe the cell operating in French Guiana goes far beyond the Javanese in South America. She was kidnapped in an attempt to take me off the investigation, and hopefully, get French Intelligence to kill me.”

  “How was Dr. Poulain involved?”

  “I believe that both French Intelligence and the legion have been compromised here. Which means the terrorists would have ears in the local police, as well. I gambled on trusting Agents Aretos and Reno. Dr. Poulain volunteered to back me up.”

  “You rescued Jolie?”

  “We were successful, though Dr. Poulain was injured during the rescue, as you know. So was Roland. Alain didn’t make it.”

  “Jolie.” Dr. Mohammedkhani smiled in bemusement at the name. “I suppose she was suitably grateful.”

  Bolan caught the vibe in her expression but ignored it.

  The gray eyes grew troubled. “Who are you?”

  “Someone trying to stop the massacre of innocents.”

  “You really believe that the space center is somehow going to be involved in a terrorist attack?”

  “I know it. I know it in my bones.” Bolan’s lips skinned back from his teeth in frustration. “But pieces are missing, and I can’t quite put the puzzle together. I’m trying to stop an atrocity, Feresteh, and I know your first instinct is to tell me to go stand in front of an Israeli tank in the West Bank, but…” Bolan relaxed and smiled again. “This isn’t an interrogation. Like I told Dr. Poulain, I was only hoping something you might suggest, or just say unknowingly, might help.”

  The scientist regarded Bolan intently. “But I am still your number-one suspect.”

  “On paper, like I said.” Bolan met her look. “In person, I’m not so sure anymore.”

  She stood. Her glossy black hair surged forward as she threw a long leg over Bolan and straddled his stomach. “If we are going to cooperate—” she leaned down and her gray eyes bore into his “—you’re going to have to be absolutely sure.”

  14

  “Sleeping with the enemy?” Kurtzman was vaguely appalled.

  “Winning friends and gaining influence,” Bolan countersuggested.

  “So what did you learn?”

  “Not much in the way of hard data. Instinctwise, I don’t think she is directly involved in any kind of terrorist plot, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t being used, either with or without her knowing it, or she may think she is involved in something else. Some of the things I told her shook her up. She says she wants to cooperate.”

  “So Ki’s dead, and you’ve seduced every woman with a top-secret clearance in French Guiana.” Kurtzman folded his arms. “Where does that leave us?”

  “It leaves us with a space shot out of Kourou in four days, and I still have a really bad feeling about it.”

  “Question is, what do you want to do about it? The French government isn’t going to stop a space launch on our say-so, particularly when we have nothing to go on but your gut feelings. They’re probably already ticked off with all of our meddling.”

  Bolan knew he was right. With Ki dead, French Intelligence probably considered the matter closed, and even though Bolan had rescued Erulin, he had gotten one of their agents killed and risked one of France’s top scientific minds. Action Direct and the French government probably didn’t feel he had done them any favors. He’d exposed a mess and been a major source of embarrassment. It was only a matter of time before they had him officially booted out of French Guiana.

  “This all started with the foreign legion. That’s what I’m going to have to go back to. Hopefully, Jolie will have something I can use, regardless. I’m going to drop a dime on Commandant Marmion. I’ll contact you when I have something.”

  “All right, I’ll keep working it from my end.”

  Bolan clicked open his phone and punched the preset number. The phone answered in two rings. “Marmion.�
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  “Good evening, Commandant. I trust your friend Captain Cunningham contacted you yesterday.”

  “Yes, he did. He said he does not completely understand what is going on, but that he has been assured by the highest levels of U.S. Military Intelligence that you are to be trusted, and that the security of both of our nations is at risk.” The French officer’s voice was cold. He was clearly not happy.

  Bolan’s battle instincts went on alert. “Something has happened.”

  “Yes, something has happened. I think you should come here, and you should speak with Ilyanov.”

  “I’m on my way.” Bolan clicked the phone shut.

  Jungle Warfare Camp

  THE BIG RUSSIAN GLARED out the window of his tiny office into the inky blackness of the night. “As you know, I have been keeping track of Legionnaires Sahin and Atrache.”

  Bolan nodded. “The Turk and the Algerian.”

  Ilyanov stood like a statue. “When a man joins the legion, he is given the opportunity to change his identity.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “It is not like the old days, when rapists, murderers, or any scum with prices on their heads could take the oath and disappear. We do background checks on any applicant who is initially accepted. This check is performed by Interpol.” Ilyanov shook his head slowly. “As you can imagine, many things are missed, but in some ways, we do not care. If we find no glaring fault with you, your past is your past. It is your behavior while in the legion that concerns myself and my branch of the legion the most.”

  “I understand.”

  “Nevertheless, I have dug into the past of every Muslim legionnaire in French Guiana.” Ilyanov shrugged. “I myself am Jewish. I have a number of friends and relatives who have emigrated to Israel.”

  “You have some connections in the Mossad,” Bolan concluded.

  “Yes. I have called in favors, and I can tell you this. Caporal Rachid Atrache has a death sentence on his head. He has been involved with the jihad movement and the arming and equipping of terrorists in the Middle East. If Israeli Intelligence can locate him, they will attempt to kill him.”

  Bolan took a deep breath and let it out. “And the Turk, Sahin?”

  “Caporal Lala Sahin is not a Turk. He is a Kurd. He has been involved in terrorist bombing attacks in both Turkey and Iraq for the Free Kurdistan movement. Both countries wish him dead, and he fled his homeland to Egypt and then Saudi Arabia, where it seems he sold his talents to both al Qaeda and Islamic Jihad.”