Backlash

by Don Pendleton

  The lieutenant waved to his companion, who was standing beside the passenger door of Wade's vehicle. Bolan watched him move toward the door. Jaundiced by the tinted bug light under the awning, he still gave the impression of a man in his prime. A little shorter than Bolan, and maybe ten pounds lighter, he was still an impressive specimen.

  Without preamble, Wade jerked a thumb toward the man in the doorway. "Gil Hoffman," he said. "He already knows your name." Wade lowered himself into the molded plastic chair as Hoffman closed the door. "You got something cold?"

  Bolan shook his head.

  "Figures," Wade said. Rubbing his hands together, he looked at each man in turn. "Let's cut the cards." The smile was a foot wide and as cold as dry ice.

  * * *

  Mack Bolan didn't suffer fools gladly, and he had no patience for stuffed shirts. When he found himself confronted by one of the former wearing one of the latter, he was prepared for a bad day. Gil Hoffman had prepped him on Winston Bartlett, and he was prepared for the worst.

  Bartlett paced back and forth behind his desk. His carefully sculpted, brilliant white pompadour waved the tiniest bit with every measured step. His skin, betraying the slightest, fashionable hint of a tan, was as smooth as a baby's butt. For someone like Winston Bartlett stubble was bad form. He voted against Nixon, not once but three times, all because of the famous five o'clock shadow.

  He was a type, a career man, the type who seemed to weather every change in administration, and to be immune to every shifting in the philosophical winds. Bartlett had made his mark early, and had been dragging it along to stand on ever since. He was as immovable as if his shoes were glued to the floor.

  The man's style was almost a parody. More English than American, it was as if he dressed out of a style guide from Downing Street. The Savile Row suit and white on white shirt, so crisp that it rustled when he moved an arm, cost more than the average working man's whole wardrobe. Bartlett would be the last one to deny it.

  His Italian oxfords were the only deviation from the sedate luxury "Bartlett permitted himself, not exactly daring but still adventurous. When he finally stopped pacing, he planted himself behind his leather chair. "This isn't easy for us," he said.

  Bolan nodded, waiting to find out what wasn't easy and, more to the point, who Bartlett meant by "us." The answers would be forthcoming, of that he was sure. But he was equally sure that it would be in the same stately pace that was the hallmark of all bureaucracy, even one where daggers hung in the cloakroom. In a world where outsiders perceived the clocks to have thirty hours to the day, and no ends to mark their passage, patience wasn't a virtue — it was a necessity.

  But Mack Bolan's patience was wearing thin.

  "We don't like to go outside, you know," Bartlett continued. "But these are strange times."

  "You mean desperate times, don't you, Bartlett?"

  "I'm sorry?"

  "As in 'desperate measures'?"

  "Oh, yes, quite. I don't know that I'd go quite that far, but still…"

  "How far would you go?"

  Bolan's persistence was beginning to ruffle the fabled Bartlett calm. He looked as if Bolan had just spit on the carpet, then sighed heavily before turning his chair far enough to the right to allow him to sit down.

  "I suppose there's no point in beating about the bush, is there?"

  "None."

  "Very well, then. Here it is…we seem to have something of an impasse in the Isthmus. Central America, that is."

  "You mean Nicaragua?"

  "Yes."

  "And?"

  "And we have a rather delicate situation. We believe a change in government to be essential to stability in the region."

  "That's been apparent for some time."

  "Of course, but we may have been a bit hasty. Gotten off on the wrong foot, so to speak. But there may be another way."

  "Why don't you come to the point?"

  "In due time, young man, in due time. There are certain… delicate matters to be considered first."

  "You've already made up your mind, or I wouldn't be here. Why don't you lay it on the table?"

  "How much do you know about Central America, Mr. Belasko? Oh, I don't mean the contras, Somoza, the Sandinistas. That's ancient history. We're concerned about the future, not the past. It's in the future, after all, that the solution lies."

  "If there is one, you mean."

  Bartlett leaned back in his chair. He snatched a pencil from the blotter on his desk and tapped it, eraser down, on the arm of his chair. "You're rather one for plain speaking, aren't you?"

  "It's the only way to stop talking and start doing. How many times around the bush is enough?"

  "All right. We've considered all our options. It's obvious that the current plan has outlived its usefulness."

  "You mean it didn't work, so it's time to chuck it."

  Bartlett ignored the reformulation. "We've decided on an alternative. We believe it can work, and we mean to give it every chance to. And that's where you come in. Does the name Emiliano Rivera mean anything to you?"

  "Not really."

  "General Rivera was deputy chief of staff of the Nicaraguan army before the arrival of the Sandinistas. He's a brilliant and cultivated man, a graduate of the Sorbonne and of our own War College."

  "And you've anointed him as the heir apparent. Now all you have to do is arrange the coronation. Is that the picture?"

  "That's merely a rough sketch, Mr. Belasko. The final picture is considerably more sophisticated than that, and much harder to paint."

  "How can you expect Rivera to succeed where Pastora and the others have failed?"

  "The others were merely children looking through a candy store window, their noses pressed against the glass and nickels clutched in their grubby fists. In retrospect we should have realized they had no chance of succeeding. It was rather contemptuous of us, and insulting to the Nicaraguan people, to expect such a plan to succeed. But we've learned from our mistakes. We're big enough men to admit them, and intelligent enough to push on without repeating them. But this time we'll do it right. It will first be necessary to prime the pump, so to speak, but once that's accomplished, the desire of the Nicaraguan people for self-determination will take over. We have every reason to expect General Rivera will do well in the upcoming election."

  "So they can freely choose the man you've already chosen."

  "No, of course not. But if given the opportunity to choose, we believe they'll choose correctly. That's all we want to do — give them the opportunity."

  "And, of course, Señor Ortega will offer his full cooperation."

  Bartlett bristled. "He doesn't speak for the Nicaraguan people."

  "And you do?"

  "That's hardly the point. We believe that General Rivera does, and all we intend to do is give him a chance to be heard. It's in our best interest, and that of the hemisphere. I needn't tell you how important stability in Central America is to our own national security."

  "And if I say I'm not interested?"

  "We do have alternatives. Although, in all candor, I must tell you that you were our first choice for this sensitive and critical assignment. You've got a certain swashbuckling flair, I understand. But don't decide now. Why don't you meet General Rivera first? I think you'll find him a most interesting and honorable man."

  "I don't think there's any point, Mr. Bartlett. I'm not interested."

  "May I ask why not?"

  "Because I came here expecting the truth, and all you've given me is the Agency newspeak. You and I both know that Guillermo Pagan, your most recent white knight, had rather soiled armor, as it turns out. You didn't even mention his name. You didn't mention his drug dealing, which was conducted under the willfully blind eye of the Agency, if not outright complicity."

  "That's not your concern."

  "The hell it isn't. You're a fool, Bartlett, if you think Pagan will roll over and play dead. You anointed him, and he wants to pull the sword out of the stone. H
e's a man who wants to be king, and you'll have to kill him to keep him from it."

  "I see…"

  "Do you?"

  "Better than you think, Mr. Belasko. I think we should explore this matter a little further."

  "It's your nickel."

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mack Bolan stood in the window for a moment, watching the street. A handful of windshields shone dully under the block's solitary lamp. The scattered cars, a few on either side of the street, looked more like monuments to a bygone age than vehicles still in use. Hoffman was late, and Bolan was getting concerned. Time was too damn valuable to waste, and they both knew it. Bolan let the curtains fall back, turned off the small light on the night table and sat on the edge of the bed.

  The dial of a cheap clock radio glowed a dim green. Every minute the clock works clicked, and another number showed, and Hoffman was another minute late.

  Hoffman was supposed to be his guide to the intricate underworld of Central American politics that flourished in Miami. There were Nicaraguans and Salvadorans, Guatemalans and Panamanians. It was a world where Emiliano Rivera and Guillermo Pagan stood like icons of the extremes, monuments to indifference and vengeance. They would start with Rivera and, if all went well, they would use him as a bludgeon to bring Pagan down.

  If all went well. If Rivera was agreeable. If Bartlett could pull it off.

  Unable to remain still, Bolan stood and walked to the window.

  Another car had done its bit to fill in the emptiness of the street. Dust-streaked and battered, an ancient Volvo had pulled in between two cars directly across the street.

  Beyond the Volvo, an alley, black as the mouth of hell, gaped between two buildings that had seen better days. Faded art deco facades were a sad reminder of a time when this part of Miami had nothing to fear, and nothing but a brilliant future to look forward to. One of the buildings was vacant, the other boarded up on the ground floor, probably to keep the junkies out. This was one area tourists would never see.

  Something caught his eye in the mouth of the alley, but it was gone almost before it registered. Letting the curtain close to a narrow crack, he watched the shadowy opening, but nothing moved. He noticed a fifth-floor window in the building directly across from him and tried to remember if it had been open the last time he looked. He didn't think so, but couldn't be sure.

  He was feeling uneasy. Hoffman was late and hadn't called. That in itself wasn't completely unexpected. Traffic was just one of a dozen variables, any of which could have held Hoffman up. But in Bolan's line of work, you learned to go with your gut. Hesitation was risky; ignoring the tingling of sensitive antennae could be riskier still, even deadly.

  Bolan shrugged into his jacket and walked to the door. He paused just long enough to slip the safety off the Desert Eagle, then opened the door. He clicked the overhead light on as he left, letting the door close softly. Down the hall the elevator creaked and sighed as it struggled up its shaft. In the quiet hallway Bolan could hear the turning pulleys squeaking and the cables rattling as they strained to pull the car up to the top floor.

  At the far end of the hall a fire door sat halfway open in defiance of fire regulations. A small block of wood, visible even half a hall away, had been jammed in at floor level, keeping the door from closing all the way. Bolan moved quickly over the frayed carpeting, his shoes scraping at threadbare patches the color of old sawdust. He paused for a moment at the door, listening to the moaning draft in the stairwell before pushing the door open. Slipping through the opening, he left the wood block in place and quietly closed the door as far as it would go.

  Bolan leaned over the rail and looked down the six flights. The rectangular well was lit by a small red bulb on every landing, bathing the stairs and painted railing in a bloody glow. Other than the slight echo of the moaning wind, the stairwell was quiet. Bolan started up the stairs toward the roof. He stopped on the eighth floor, one flight below the door to the roof. He couldn't see anything through the dirty skylight overhead.

  With one hand on the rail he moved quickly up the last flight. He held the big .44 in his left hand, keeping one eye on the door which, like the door on his own floor, had been left open a crack. It seemed odd that only two doors had been blocked, as if it were a signal to someone. On the top landing he paused to listen, placing his ear close to the narrow opening. The wind whistled through the gap. He strained to hear over the steady droning, but nothing seemed out of place.

  Dropping into a crouch, he pushed the door gently. It gave immediately, and he ducked through, keeping the door open with a shoulder. Once on the roof, he dropped flat onto his stomach and wormed his way across the tar toward the yellow brick wall that encircled the roof. When he reached the wall, he rolled to his right, stopping just before a small drainage opening in the brick.

  Bolan kept his head down and tried to get a look at the opposite roof, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. He still wasn't satisfied, though, and rolled past the opening to the next. Looking at the building from a different angle, he noticed that the open window had been raised still higher. The room beyond it was black, but someone was definitely there.

  Bolan lay prone again, staring impatiently at the window. He heard a soft whisper behind him and turned to look toward the rear wall. A black knit cap bobbed just above the retaining wall. Its owner was too far below the wall to see him, and he scrambled to his feet and ducked behind the elevator housing. Peering around the housing, Bolan realized the man was talking to someone below him, while hanging on to a fire ladder.

  The man suddenly darted up the ladder and threw one leg over the wall. A second man followed him, also wearing a black cap. They moved smoothly, as if they were used to working together, and Bolan watched as they huddled together on the roof, then moved toward the opposite wall. The first man, who was taller than his companion, mumbled something into his hand, and the warrior realized he was talking to someone on a small handset. The small antenna bobbed on its spring as the man tucked the unit into his pocket.

  At the far wall the man waved to someone across the street, confirming Bolan's guess that there was a connection between the open window and the threat he had felt in his gut. Both men were armed with Galil submachine guns fitted with stubby sound suppressors. The hit team crossed to the stairwell, and Bolan was glad that he'd left the wooden block in place. The temptation to nail them while they were still setting up was great, but he was curious. He wanted to be certain they were after him before making his move. A fleabag dive like the Excelsior might house a half-dozen drug dealers, and the hit might be intended for one of them. If it wasn't, it would mean that he'd been compromised in some way. There were only a handful of possibilities, but he didn't want to go off half-cocked, finding a leak where there was none.

  One man slipped down the stairs while the other positioned himself in the open doorway. He held the radio to his lips and whispered something, probably to a man in the building across the street. From his vantage point Bolan could see the open window, where a shadowy figure now moved about five feet back from the wall. The man on the roof fiddled with the volume control on his handset. It crackled and squawked loudly, then died to a burry whisper. Bolan couldn't make out the words.

  The squawkbox crackled again, and the man leaned in and snapped off a quick count. "Five… four… three… two… one…" There was a throaty whoosh across the street, and Bolan saw the telltale smoke trail of an RPG as it darted across the street and screamed through the wall of the hotel a few stories below. A burst of autofire echoed up the stairwell, followed by shouts from at least three different voices.

  It was time to move.

  Bolan edged around the elevator housing. "Easy," he barked. "Just put it down." The gunman at the head of the stairs cursed. His head swiveled, looking for the source of the command.

  "Easy," Bolan repeated.

  But the gunman didn't listen. He swept his Galil in a quick arc across the roof, and Bolan dived under the snaking lead. He la
nded hard on his side, steadied the Desert Eagle and snapped a quick shot toward the door, now yawning redly where the gunman had kicked it all the way open.

  Bolan raced toward the stairs, firing twice more to keep the gunner off balance. Back to the wall, he listened for a moment to the clatter of footsteps on the stairs. As he ducked through the open door, he saw the other man's head disappear below the landing, and he started down the steps.

  The gunner shouted something in guttural Spanish, but the words were swallowed by their own echo. At the next landing Bolan stopped, expecting to see the gunner on the stairs. Peering around the railing, he saw the hat again, and again it disappeared down the next flight.

  A burst from the Galil swarmed like bees up the stairs, pocking the walls and scattering paint chips and pieces of plaster. Bolan waited a moment before starting down the next flight. He heard running feet far below as the other man raced for the street. The warrior stopped halfway down and leaned over the rail. He waited for the gunner to swing around and start down from the sixth floor. Bracing the .44 on the railing, he held his breath for that split second, caught the moving shadow and fired three quick shots.

  The shadow stumbled, then Bolan heard metal on stone and raced down the stairs. Turning the corner, he saw the gunner lying on his back, the Galil clutched against his stomach and pointed back up the steps. The warrior fired again, and this time there was no doubt. Rushing past, he kicked the Galil away from the twitching fingers, slipped on a pool of blood and nearly lost his balance. Bracing himself against the wall, he plunged off the landing and headed down the next flight.