“I do,” Price agreed. “What’s going to happen now?”
“Probably nothing,” Bolan said. “Roelle is gone, and his organization is fractured. The Red Death owes me a debt, although I doubt I’ll get to collect on that.”
“Watch your six just the same,” Price urged. “You got our communiqué about the news?”
“I did, but it didn’t tell me anything. What’s going on?”
“That’s because we’re not sure of the implications. French media is worked up like a hornets’ nest,” Price told him. “We’re monitoring internet traffic and wireless telecommunications. Whatever it is, it’s big, and they’re getting ready to go nationwide to announce it.”
“Can I assume Hal’s managed to clear the way for me again down here?”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“How so?” Bolan asked.
“The French have stopped talking to us,” Price stated. “We’ve received several complaints from Director Vigneau of the DCRI. Even if he’s clean, Striker... Hal thinks they’re worried about the trouble you’ve stirred up by raiding one of the ethnic enclaves. It’s an unsteady, unspoken truce they have with the power elements down there at the best of times. Now you’ve created a power vacuum while flouting that agreement. They’re worried.”
“You can’t appease evil,” Bolan said. “You can’t cut deals with murderers, with child-killers.”
“Hal says he understands. But he’s reached the limit of his influence for the moment. He says if you keep on, the Man won’t complain, and Hal will of course support you...but he’s got no more leverage with the French.”
“Long-term damage?”
“None,” Price said. “You know how these things work. They’ll make a big stink now, then forget all about it the next time international interests align. But Hal can’t push them any further. He said to say as much. Said he thought you knew what that meant.”
“Yeah,” Bolan replied, “I do. A friend called such politics ‘delicate.’” He paused. “You know, Barb, this upcoming news could have nothing to do with the mission here.”
“Striker, how long have we been doing this?”
“A long time. Why, Barb?”
“What are the chances it has nothing to do with your mission?”
“Understood. I’ll see if I can find a television. Striker out.”
“Good hunting, Striker,” Price said, closing the connection.
Bolan stretched his arms wide, rotating them, making a conscious effort to loosen the knots in his muscles that were always the result of adrenaline, combat and all the crashing and bouncing around that accompanied his battlefield existence. He took off his leather coat and draped it over his arm. Then he ducked out of the interrogation room—where Bayard had asked him to wait—and into the adjacent conference room.
There was a long, low wooden table there, with a media center at one end on the facing wall. Bolan unclipped his M16/M203 combo from its sling and put it in the corner, resting on its stock with the barrel pointed toward the ceiling. He switched on the television and jabbed his thumb at the input switch until he got what he thought was local television, then changed channels until he found what looked like a twenty-four-hour cable news station.
The running news ticker at the bottom of the screen was his clue. He found the switch that activated captions and cycled through these until he got English, as he knew he wouldn’t catch much of the rapidly spoken French. The captions were delayed, but they would suffice.
Downtimes—in his work—were few and far between. Bolan knew to take advantage of them when he could. Keeping one eye on the screen across from him, he draped his three-quarter-length leather jacket over the next chair.
Then he unslung his canvas war bag, placed it on the table before him and took his Desert Eagle and Beretta 93R from their holsters. He also stopped long enough to take his combat knife from the sheath clipped to the off side of his shoulder holster, behind and below the spare magazine pouches for the Beretta. He put the knife on the table, as well.
From one of the side pouches of his war bag, he took a folding diamond rod, a rag and a ballistic nylon cleaning kit. Breaking open the kit, he removed from it a spray bottle of pressurized solvent and a pair of brushes.
The key to managing stress, Bolan had once read—probably while killing time recuperating from a gunshot—was to find something about which you felt nothing. The examples cited in the book had been mundane things like folding laundry. The idea was to do some activity that was emotionally neutral, something that allowed the mind to calm itself while the body was occupied with the purely mechanical.
For Bolan, maintaining the weapons that had saved his life time and time again was not exactly “neutral,” as such, but it was as valid a way to find one’s center as any other.
It was certainly efficient.
Bolan methodically cleaned and reloaded his guns. The spare magazines in his war bag had been loaded by Kissinger. There were boxes of loose rounds, as well. It was from these that Bolan reloaded the spent magazines he’d dumped in the bag to that point.
As he worked, Bolan was doing more than maintaining his guns. He was feeling every portion of his body, rotating his ankles beneath the table, flexing his calves and thighs, making sure he had taken no injuries that would interfere with the continued pursuit of his mission.
Setting aside his guns, Bolan unfolded the diamond rod. From his war bag he took an antibacterial swab and cleaned the blade. Then he dried it with the cleaning rag and ran the diamond rod along the knife’s polished edge, returning it to razor sharp. He was just sliding the knife back into its sheath when the door of the conference room opened.
“Agent Cooper?” asked one of the two men standing there. Both wore dark suits bearing DCRI identification tags. Bolan scanned the tags. The one who had spoken was Musson. The one just behind him was Flagel. Musson’s French accent was only barely perceptible. He had probably been bilingual since childhood.
“Yeah,” Bolan said. He stood to face the two inspectors.
“Agent Cooper,” Musson said, “I’m afraid I must ask you to place both your hands on the table. You are under arrest.”
“I’m what now?” Bolan asked. “Inspector, I’m operating under the aegis of the United States Justice Department, in cooperation with the French government. This arrangement—”
“I’m afraid that the cooperation of my government has been rescinded. Based on the testimony of Inspector Alfred Bayard, we have determined you to be a threat to the general peace and welfare of this nation. We are arresting you on multiple charges, not the least of which is the murder of French citizens. You will be transported to a secure holding facility to await trial while we compile a full record of your activities on French soil.”
Bolan sighed. “That isn’t going to work for me,” he said. He looked down at his weapons, which were still on the conference table, and then back to the television, where the promised “big news” still had not broken.
“Make no move for your weaponry,” Musson said. “We will use force if we must.”
“Inspector,” Bolan stated, “I would never kill a law-enforcement officer.”
“Place your hands on the table, Agent Cooper,” Musson ordered. “We will not ask you again.”
“No,” Bolan said. “You won’t.”
The two inspectors looked at each other. Bolan watched the almost imperceptible nod that they exchanged. Musson’s hand went for his jacket. The Executioner had already spotted the telltale bulge, which gave away the shoulder holster.
Bolan’s hand snapped like a rattler, pinning Musson’s arm against his chest before the man could complete his draw. Behind, his partner, Flagel, sucked in a breath, probably to shout for help. Bolan took his free hand and shoved Musson’s skull with a vicious palm heel, bo
uncing the back of Musson’s head off Flagel’s face. The blow knocked Flagel’s head into the doorway in which the two lawmen stood.
The soldier followed up with a powerful close-range knee strike to Musson’s groin. The inspector turned purple and dropped to his knees. Flagel, whose nose was streaming blood, managed to rise behind Musson and yank his own pistol from under his jacket. Bolan clapped the weapon out of Flagel’s hands as if taking it from a child.
The result was that the gun was snapped from Flagel’s grasp and sent spinning to the carpeted floor. Bolan kicked it away, then rapped his adversary in the bridge of his already bloody nose with his wristbone. Flagel collapsed within the doorway.
Musson managed to surge to his feet and collide with Bolan, pushing the soldier into the side of the conference table, knocking him against the table’s surface. The Beretta and the Desert Eagle skittered across the polished wood.
Musson’s hand found the combat knife.
“Don’t,” Bolan said, as Musson, who was a large man, struggled to pin the equally large Bolan to the tabletop. “I’m trying not to hurt you, Inspector.”
The blade came up. Bolan snagged Musson’s wrist and forced the knife into the table at the point. Then he clenched his fist and punched the inspector across the jaw with a good old-fashioned haymaker.
The shot struck the inspector right in the knock-out button. Bolan thought, just for a moment, that he could see the man’s eyes rolling into the back of his head before he slid off the table.
Flagel was up again. The backup revolver he held had a four-inch barrel and looked to be a heavy caliber, probably a .44 Special. It was an odd choice for a French inspector, but Bolan had seen more idiosyncratic selections in personal firearms. Bolan’s eyes narrowed as he watched the set of Flagel’s arm, the tension in his hand.
The man was about to shoot him.
“Put that down, you fool,” said another voice. Alfred Bayard stood in the doorway, holding his own .38 Special in front of him. The weapon was not pointed at anyone in particular, but neither could Bolan say it was not aimed in his general direction.
Flagel stared at Bayard. “But...Alfred, this man is a murderer.”
“This man is an American agent in our country under the auspices of both our governments.”
“Not anymore, he is not,” Flagel stated. “The orders came through moments ago, while you were still debriefing. Agent Cooper is to be detained.”
“You won’t be detaining me,” Bolan said.
“Do not touch those weapons!” Flagel ordered. Blood trickled down his face from his smashed nose.
Bolan snatched up his Beretta, turned in a tight circle. The gun blast that came was not unexpected. The shot dug a furrow in the conference table. Above them, a smoke detector began to beep. Bolan was jacking back the slide of the Beretta on a full 20-round magazine as he turned again. When Flagel tore his gaze from the table to Bolan, his eyes widened.
Bolan’s gun was pointed right at him.
“You said you do not kill law-enforcement officers!” Flagel insisted.
Musson groaned on the floor.
“He said what?” Bayard asked.
“I won’t kill a cop,” Bolan said. “But if you don’t lower that revolver, I will fire a round that takes a piece off you. An ear, maybe. Or the pinkie finger of your gun hand. Whatever it is, I guarantee it will be something you’ll miss.”
“Please,” Bayard begged. He turned to Flagel. “This man risked his life to save those who could not possibly have meaning to him...except as innocent lives. I have watched him for just long enough to know that, if he wanted the pair of you dead, you would be dead.
“In fact, knowing the little that I do of this man, I think he exercised what was for him considerable restraint. Please lower your weapons. There will be no more talk of arresting Agent Cooper. He will leave here and go on his way.”
“But, Alfred—” Flagel began.
“Enough!” Bayard ordered. “Enough, or it will be on all of us. You fools, look at the television! It was coming through just as I left my debriefing.”
Flagel turned his face to the set that Bolan had switched on. His jaw dropped, and, a moment later, he lowered his gun.
The news was staggering. The reporters seemed scarcely to believe it themselves. After a period of what Bolan took to be the usual vapid time-filling commentary—as people with nothing new to add to a story struggled to fill minute after minute and retain curious viewers through shock value—the report began to cycle through from the beginning once more. Video footage then rolled.
The scene itself was nothing terribly distinctive. Shadowy figures sat in cars in some dark alley. The corona of a street light was playing hell with the camera. Whatever device had recorded the conversation was attached to some kind of zoom lens, so the footage was grainy, heavily pixelated and color-distorted.
The conversation involved a discussion of the ES and its terror attacks. Talk turned to potential targets, a mixture of public places and rallies belonging to Henri Gaston. This squared with what Bolan knew from his briefing. The ES has been targeting civilians but paying special attention to Gaston’s events in order to put pressure on Gaston to quit.
Evidence of the terrorist involvement in the French elections was certainly a big story. As the graphs in the next set of videos obviously showed, support for Gaston was rising. But support for Leslie Deparmond was plummeting, which made less sense. What could take voters away from the ultranationalist candidate so quickly? The underdog effect explained rising numbers for Gaston, but there didn’t seem to be any reason for Deparmond’s subterranean poll numbers.
Then the video changed again. This time it depicted a close-up of one of the men in the cars. The footage had been digitally enhanced, the reporter said, and as a result the interference fluctuated wildly while the images turned several shades of green and brown.
There was no mistaking the face of the man sitting in the car, however. The man who was spearheading the meeting, the man actively discussing the selection of targets with men identified as high-ranking members of the ES, was instantly recognizable. Bolan knew it from the campaign posters that had been supplied with his briefing.
The man was Leslie Deparmond.
“I do not believe it,” Flagel said.
“What...what is going on?” Musson asked as he rose from the floor. He looked at Bolan and flinched as if he expected to be hit again. Bolan shook his head.
“Well,” Bayard said. “This explains a great deal.”
“But it makes no sense,” Flagel stated. “The terrorist attacks have helped Gaston. They make him look like a victim, make the voters determined to defy terrorism by supporting a candidate the terrorists do not wish them to support.”
“Fear,” Bolan said. “They count on fear to influence the election.”
“But the people are brave and will fight for freedom,” Flagel said.
“Are we not arresting this man?” Musson asked.
“Be quiet, Musson,” Bayard ordered.
“After a terror group carried out coordinated train bombings in Spain,” Bolan said, “the voters ushered out the current administration and voted in a new government. It’s widely believed that’s what the attacks were carried out to do. Fear works, Inspectors.”
“So you think this is true?” Flagel asked. “You believe Leslie Deparmond is a terrorist sympathizer?”
“I’m not offering speculation,” Bolan said. “I deal in facts. Facts as real as a bullet or a blade.” He jerked his combat knife from the table, shot a look at Musson and Flagel and sheathed the knife. Then he holstered both his pistols and slung his war bag back over his shoulder, across his chest.
Bayard sighed. He had stowed his own weapon. “Cooper, I wish something understood.”
Bolan turned to him.
The inspector went to the soldier’s leather jacket and picked it up, turning it left, then right, as if examining both sides against the light.
“I am surprised,” he said, “that there are not at least a few bullet holes. The way you live your life, Agent Cooper, I should think that would be a constant hazard.”
“I didn’t get shot,” Bolan said.
“No,” Bayard agreed, inspecting the coat. He turned it over and over in his hands, clearly mulling something over. “No, you did not. But a man who fights as you do must see bullets pass close enough to perforate his clothing at times.”
“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” Bolan said. He held out his hand. Bayard passed him his coat.
On the television, the reporters had turned their attention to speculation that Deparmond would now face charges for his actions. They had begun calling him the “mastermind” of the attacks. Gaston was poised to secure an easy victory, and the surging support for his party meant that his moderate regime would take the reins of the French government.
That was what the Man wanted, Bolan knew, or at least what the folks in Wonderland thought they wanted, which would work out pretty well for everyone concerned. That was provided the ES didn’t interfere, and Bolan thought it likely they would. Seeing their designs thwarted would not sit well with the terror group. They would try to reassert their control of the situation.
The course ahead of Bolan seemed simple enough. He would resume his attacks on targets of priority per the ES safehouse list provided by the Farm. Sooner or later, he would either eliminate the ability of the ES to prosecute its agenda, or Bolan would find some clue leading him to the leadership of the group, where he would attempt to do the same thing in neutralizing the enemy.
So why did Bolan feel uneasy about it? Something just felt too pat, too easy. It was tickling his sixth sense for combat. He had learned to pay attention to those instincts.
“Cooper,” Bayard said again.
Bolan shrugged into his jacket. “I’m listening, Inspector.”
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