Backlash

by Don Pendleton

  Rivera joined him in the laughter. "Juan, I didn't know until this minute how long I'd been away, and how much I missed you, my friend."

  "Lucky for you I stayed here, or you would be in one deep hole."

  The general agreed. He tugged the old man to his feet and embraced him warmly. "If I succeed, old friend, things won't change for you. You understand that, don't you?"

  "It doesn't matter. I'm past saving, and too old to celebrate with the señoritas. But there has been enough killing. The best thing you can do for Nicaragua is to show her there's another way. And to show the world we Nicaraguans know it." He looked at Rivera for a long time, then turned away. "Forgive a sentimental old man, Emilito. You better go now. God be with you."

  Rivera reached out and patted Juan on the shoulder. "And with you, too, Juanito. With you, too."

  He turned abruptly. "I have to change," he said, and followed the driver into the other room. When he returned, he was transformed. The illusion of softness that seemed to cling to him was gone. He looked like a man who had worked the earth unceasingly all his life. The hardness of the man, the steel frame over which the deceptive flesh had been stretched, was evident.

  Without looking at Juan again, he headed toward the door, leading now instead of following. Cruz rushed after him, followed by the driver. Ingrazia hung back and looked at Bolan. "Go ahead," the big man said.

  Juan watched Bolan quietly. "Is there something you want?" he asked.

  The warrior shook his head.

  "Take care of him," the old man whispered. "He's his own worst enemy. More courageous than you might think. He can get himself killed if he's not careful."

  Bolan shook the old man's hand. He marveled at the strength in a limb so light that it felt like rice paper in his hand. "I'll do what I can," he replied, then he turned to join others in the courtyard.

  * * *

  Hoffman sat quietly in the jeep, tugging the tarp a little more snugly in place. It was a makeshift arrangement, but there was no other way to handle it. He knew that Pagan and Martinson were aware of the itinerary Bartlett had planned for Rivera. He remembered reading the files and thinking then it was almost eerie how prescient they seemed. It had struck him that Bartlett had written notes expressly for him, as if the DDO expected trouble and wanted to make sure that someone knew.

  Ever the gentleman, though, Bartlett had refused to point a finger at the DCI. Ever the intelligence officer, however, he had left enough tantalizing implications between the lines, almost like a separate text for the cognoscenti alone. Hoffman smiled wanly when he realized that Gardner himself would have missed the indictment that in the right hands could hang him.

  The supreme irony was that the indictment would never be handed down. No matter what happened, it wouldn't be possible to call Gardner to account. If Rivera was successful, it would make no difference. If he failed, the chances were better than even that Hoffman, Rivera and Belasko would be reduced to nothing more than minor footnotes in an inconsequential history of Central American politics.

  Hoffman felt guilty not telling his men they were bait, but if the deception was to work, it had to be secret. They couldn't risk an accidental leak, not even at this stage. If they were ambushed — and there was always the expectation that they would be — it was an unacceptable risk for anyone to know where Rivera was. Hoffman was sorry that he knew himself. It was only too easy to extract information from an unwilling informant.

  The scenario called for the unit to enter Managua no later than three o'clock. So far they were right on schedule. There were a dozen ways it could go wrong, a hundred reasons why it should, and a thousand why it better not. Those numbers kept rubbing against one another in Hoffman's head, like gemstones in a tumbler. The more often he thought about them, the more luminous they became.

  He wasn't all that worried about being stopped. After all, it was supposed to be Rivera's jeep. They were being monitored, he was certain, but there would be no routine check of papers, no overzealous lieutenant interfering. As long as they thought it was Rivera's jeep, they would leave it alone. And that was fine with Hoffman. As long as they thought they were already watching the general, they wouldn't be looking for him. But in the back of his mind was the certainty he couldn't confront but couldn't avoid. They wanted him to go so far.

  But no farther.

  The sun beat down on the jeep's hood. Even the dull mat finish was too reflective to kill the glare. Hoffman's eyes hurt, and he was fighting a killer headache. The tension did nothing to make it more endurable. Glancing at his watch, he wondered whether Belasko and Rivera were holding up their end. He knew that the same odds against success applied to them, but it pained him to think that he might be doing all this for nothing.

  As they drew closer to the capital, he felt less and less confident that the masquerade would succeed. It seemed too transparent by half. The uniforms were legitimate Nica issue; the paint job was bogus. But he knew that most deceptions were in the eye of the beholder. People seldom saw through flimsy veneers because they saw what they expected to see. It was an axiom of his trade, and he prayed to God it would hold true just one more time. After that he really didn't care. He promised himself he would spend the rest of his life in some quiet suburb. Nine to five. The grind that once had seemed too tame now seemed like heaven.

  And if he failed, he at least wanted his wife to know that he had meant well, and his kids that he really had wanted to coach Little League. When he thought about the possibility of dying that was what troubled him the most — that he would take his good intentions to the grave with him unspoken, his last and most unforgivable secret. It seemed almost too cruel to consider the possibility that he would be deprived of the chance to be bored stiff at the office at least once before he passed on.

  The men with him in the jeep seemed wrapped in their own thoughts. Silvio Collazo, Raul Rodriguez and Victor Chamorro all kept their own counsel.

  One of these days, Hoffman thought, he'd have to set this all down on paper, a private diary, something for the grandchildren to find in the attic one rainy afternoon when he was long in the ground. It amused him to think that he might have a chance to spill every last secret he knew, even if it brought no one to justice, toppled no government. Just the telling, that was the thing. And he knew he would do it.

  If he got the chance.

  Ten miles out they had a close call. A Sandinista militia unit, three truckloads of trainees and a jeep full of regulars, had to pull off the road to let them by. Hoffman could feel the eyes on him for half a mile. It was bad enough waiting for the other shoe to drop. Knowing that both of them might land on him at the same time made the trip almost unendurable. At seven miles they passed through an abandoned village.

  Hoffman stared at the ruined buildings as if he expected to learn something from them. A handful of shacks announced the hamlet. At a crossroads there were buildings on both sides, a cantina and a store that sold farm implements the largest and most prominent. In the window of the latter merchandise leaned against the glass. Even from the moving jeep Hoffman could see the cobwebs spun between them, knitting them into a single tableau like a monument to a vanished culture. It reminded him of a museum display, except for the absence of costumed mannequins.

  The first shot ripped through the canvas cover before he realized it. The driver reacted late, hitting the brake rather than the gas, almost stalling the jeep before realizing his mistake. It was the mistake that saved them, at least for a while. Anticipating an acceleration that didn't come, a burst of machine gun fire tore up the dirt road in front of them, detonating the first mine. It triggered two others, and it seemed for a moment as if the entire world were about to be torn out from under them.

  Shrapnel from the mines took out the front tires and starred the windshield in a dozen places. Rodriguez tumbled from the jeep, landing on his back in the road. Hoffman thought he'd been hit, but the man crawled under the vehicle, narrowly avoiding a snake of dirt geysers coiling tow
ard him. The CIA man dived out of his side of the jeep, landed on his knees and started running.

  The machine gun hammered incessantly. Hoffman heard the slugs tearing through the side of the jeep, and the footsteps of two men behind him. The machine gunner shifted his aim, and the window in front of Hoffman exploded in a thousand pieces, the glass cascading into the store.

  Hoffman launched himself as he got within range, cartwheeling through the show window and landing on his back amid shards of glass and rusted tools. His heel slammed into an antique plow, and he thought for a second that he'd broken his ankle. Collazo and Chamorro dived in after him, the latter kicking Hoffman in the back as he rolled by. The CIA man turned, his arm tangled in the AK sling, and tried to get to his knees.

  Rodriguez was still under the jeep, his hands clasped over his ears. He was wriggling, trying to kick himself out from under the vehicle, and Hoffman saw the dark pool in the dirt beside the struggling driver. At first he took it for blood, then realized it had no color of its own. Rodriguez got to his knees as Hoffman realized it was gasoline. The machine gun opened up again, igniting the fuel just as the man got to his feet, his pants and shirt soaked with the volatile liquid. But he was too late. His clothes burst into flame and he spun in a circle, beating at his clothing with his bare hands. Then he started to run, ignoring the fire. His flight only fanned the flames, and he collapsed in the dirt after a few yards. Seconds later the screams died away, lingering only in the back of Hoffman's mind as Rodriguez finally lay still.

  Across the street, Hoffman found the first gunner, a rifleman, in an alley between the cantina and a nondescript building. He sighted in and squeezed off a steady stream of 7.62 mm slugs as the gunman turned to run. Hoffman watched just long enough to see the guy's legs buckle, then looked for his next target.

  The two men who had tumbled through the window after him scrambled back to the frame and took up a position on either side of him. Hoffman pointed to the machine gun on the roof. It looked like a PKS on a bipod, but appeared to have been deserted. He didn't understand why a cross fire hadn't been set up. It was the most sensible way to do it. Then, as if a light went on, he realized that it might have been, after all.

  "Watch the MG," he said, backing away from the window. "Shoot anything that moves out there."

  Hoffman stood and rushed toward the back door of the one-room store. Several empty display counters transected the floor, like hurdles on a track. He moved to the left and ran along the wall just as the back door flew open.

  He heard the grenade land, but couldn't see it in the darkness. He shouted to the men at the window, then dived between two counters as the thunder of the exploding grenade filled his ears.

  Hoffman crawled the length of the aisle, then concealed himself behind the end of a counter. As he brought his rifle up, two shadows darted through the rear door. The CIA man got off a short burst, and the second man through went down. The lead man vanished in the smoke and shadows. Hoffman could hear him moving but couldn't see him.

  He listened to the stealthy movement, trying to pinpoint the location. Moving left, Hoffman gave himself a clear shot down the next aisle, leaving a single counter between himself and the back door. A shuttered window on the rear wall leaked light around its edges, but not enough to help. Hoffman pulled a new clip for the AK out of his ammo pouch, then emptied his rifle through the window. The shutters shattered, and a broad swath of light cut through the swirling dust. He changed magazines before the glass stopped tinkling.

  The shadow ducked, but not soon enough. Hoffman dived into the next aisle, the AK held out in front of him. His extended arms absorbed most of the shock, but he almost lost his grip on the weapon. The shadow scrambled backward as the CIA agent found the trigger. He squeezed off a short burst, but he was too late.

  The gunman was in a position to backshoot the two men at the front window. Hoffman started down the aisle, but the man heard him and drove him back with a quick burst. Collazo turned just as the gunman aimed, and he rolled to the left, bringing his gun around. Hoffman zeroed in on the end of the counter as Collazo returned fire. And the gunman, intent on avoiding gunfire from that direction, backed away from the counter. Hoffman drilled him.

  Collazo gave Hoffman the thumbs-up and continued his surveillance of the street. They were safe for now, but the back door was a problem. Hoffman didn't know how many men were outside, and if another grenade was tossed in, he might not be so lucky. While he tried to decide what to do, another shadow blocked the doorway.

  "Forget about it, Hoffman," the apparition shouted. "Give it up, man. We don't want you. We want Rivera. Where is he?"

  "Go to hell!"

  "Come on, Gil, be reasonable."

  "Harry, is that you?"

  "You know it is. Come on, where is he? Just tell us and we'll leave you alone."

  "Sure you will?"

  "Gil, I've got no beef with you."

  "You had no beef with anybody you killed, did you, Harry?"

  "Be nice."

  Hoffman cut loose at the door, but Martinson must have sensed it. He was already moving as his adversary's finger closed on the trigger. He was outside just ahead of the burst. The doorframe splintered from top to bottom and halfway back up, then the well went dry. Hoffman changed clips again.

  "That wasn't smart, Gil. I'm getting pissed off now."

  Hoffman didn't bother to answer.

  "Gil, you still there?" Martinson shouted.

  Hoffman eased out from behind his cover. He climbed onto the last counter, took a trial step, then launched himself through the shattered window. He saw Martinson out of the corner of his eye as he arced through the opening. The man looked stunned. While still in the air, Hoffman swept the AK in a broad arc, his finger locked on the trigger. Martinson's expression changed as his hands came up. As if in slow motion, Hoffman saw it all — the gun falling from Martinson's hand, the puzzled look on his face, the sudden puff of his cheeks as the first 7.62 round hit him in the chest, the bright red flowers opening in a drunken row across Harry's shirt — and then he hit the ground. He rolled over, feeling the glass slicing through his clothes, his weight pressing him against the razor-sharp edges.

  He stopped moving, his eyes still locked on Martinson, who lay on his back beside the open door. Hoffman started to get up, pulling his arms back and climbing up on all fours, like a sprinter in the blocks. Maybe I'll do that diary yet, he thought. Listening to his own inner voice, he heard the other noise only dimly. He started to turn toward the sound when the first bullet slammed into his shoulder. He rolled over as one arm went out from under him and he lost his balance. He was staring up at the sky now, and at the gunner on the roof.

  He started to shake his head, but he didn't finish.

  Chapter Forty

  Revolución was already crowded when the truck nosed its way through the traffic and into the market square two blocks away. The driver pulled in between two stands and shut off his engine. Bolan was riding in the front seat; Rivera, Cruz and Ingrazia were in the back. The big man jumped down and thanked the driver as if he had hitched a ride.

  Bolan sauntered toward the plaza, unhurried as if he were a tourist. He towered over most of the milling crowd that was drifting toward the heart of Managua. He stopped at a cart selling flavored ices and bought a coconut-pineapple concoction in a flimsy paper cone. He carried the shopping bag in his left hand, the ice in his right. Sucking the thick, sweet juice out of the shaved ice, he drifted casually along.

  Far down the street he saw Rivera and Cruz moving his way. They argued as they walked, doing their best to look like concerned citizens on the way to a political rally of some consequence. Juan's information was the linchpin of their plan. If the old man was wrong, they were so far up the creek even a paddle wouldn't help them. If he was right, they were still shooting in the dark. Of the four men, only Rivera had ever seen Pagan face-to-face. Bolan had seen photographs, but they were more than three years old. A man's appearance could cha
nge a lot in three years, especially if it had to.

  Juan had learned that the assassination was to be done by means of a bomb hidden under the podium. The fallback was a suicide hit squad of three men who would be among the crowd near the front edge to give them a clean shot. The bomb was to be detonated by radio, since Ortega was so unpredictable. Unlike Castro who, once having attained the microphone, often spoke until it seemed he would die there of old age, Ortega was a hit-and-run speaker. He might take an hour, or speak his piece in five minutes. A timer was out of the question for such a target. You had to be there and you had to push the button.

  Bolan knew enough about radio detonators to know that the button man would want to be within a couple of hundred yards. But that covered half the plaza. How did someone find a black box no bigger than a cigarette pack that might be in any one of thirty thousand pockets?

  Given the range, and given the premise that the button man wouldn't want to kill himself, he was probably going to be on the outer edge of a hundred-yard semicircle, close enough to do the job and far enough away to stay clear of the debris. At the back of the square Bolan stopped and leaned against a truck, sucking on the ice and scanning the throng, hoping to get lucky.

  Rivera walked past him, still arguing with Cruz. Ingrazia sat on the ground five feet from Bolan, leaning against the front wheel of the same truck. All four of them wore straw hats with large blue feathers to make themselves more visible in the throng. Ingrazia glanced at the warrior with a neutral expression. The big man nodded slightly to indicate that he'd seen him. Bolan's side ached, more from the tension than anything he had done to aggravate the wound. He pressed on the injured side with the flat of his hand, letting the shopping bag dangle from his forearm.

  He wished for a break and knew he'd have to make his own. In the button man's shoes, what would he do? What would he need? If he could answer those two questions, he could narrow the field. Then it dawned on him — the radio signal might be blocked by a dense crowd, so the best place to be was at the front, which was suicide, or above it, which made more sense, but which wasn't easy to do. The nearest buildings to the platform were all more than a hundred yards, except for the government buildings directly behind it.