Bolan slid a glance at Kengo. The ninja slitted his eyes slightly in agreement. The two men stopped in place. The Assassins behind them nearly toppled like bowling pins trying to avoid bumping into the ninjas. Singh looked back at the commotion. “What is happening?”
“Where are we going?” Bolan asked.
The Sikh smiled through his beard. “To a place you need to see.”
The Executioner turned his chemically mutated face upon the big Sikh. “That is suitably vague.”
“The Whispering Pine have served most bravely,” Singh said, “but you are neither of my brethren nor the Ismailis. You are mercenaries, of admirable dedication, but you serve for bowls of silver.”
Bolan willed his numb face into a glower. It was enough to almost make Singh take a step back. The soldier put his faith in Kengo and ignored the Ismailis around him putting hands to weapons and took a step forward. “This is no longer a matter of silver crossing palms. This is a matter of the honor of my clan. We are prepared to die.”
Singh took a step back. Bolan gave him space and didn’t follow. Singh held up a placating hand. “You must understand. The time of the harrowing is now, and you are outsiders.”
“Time of the harrowing” sat cold and ugly in Bolan’s craw. “If Kengo-san and I are to be effective, we must know what our responsibilities will be so that we can make the appropriate preparations.”
Singh bowed and spread his hands. “I urge you, please follow me a little bit farther. Much will be made clear to you.”
Bolan and Kengo looked at each other and nodded in unison. “Very well.”
The warrior and the ninja followed the killers deeper into the tunnels. The water was just about knee level when they came to a vertical shaft. The shaft was more recent construction. By the condition of the concrete and the iron rungs forming the ladder upward, Bolan made the construction from some time in the last century.
Singh led the way upward. Sunlight scorched down the shaft as the man opened the hatch. Bolan slid on his shoes and climbed up into the fresh air.
The hatch opened on a little island with a single tree. That told Bolan the island was solid rather than one of the ever-shifting sandbars. Kengo emerged and looked around. Singh took a deep breath of the breeze off the water and sighed. “When the time comes,” he said, “we will be met here. Then the final leg of the mission will begin.”
Bolan looked around the little island. They weren’t on the main Hooghly, but one of its smaller branches. There was little on the banks other than a few huts on stilts. To the north Bolan could see the high-rises of the old downtown and farther north the taller spires of New Town. “Who will we be meeting?”
Singh swelled with pride. “Destiny.”
Besides the single tree, the little island was nothing but tall reeds. From the Hooghly’s banks the island would look like nothing. The reeds on the southern edge of the island had been crushed in a swathe that ran right up to the hatch. The Hooghly was a deep river and had a tidal bore. Bolan suspected that the little island spent at least part of each day under water. It made the swathe of grassy destruction difficult to read. There were no tracks left in the mud, but the grinding and tearing of the stalks gave Bolan a firm impression.
Whatever had rolled up on the island had done so on treads rather than wheels.
He was beginning to get a very bad feeling. “How shall destiny manifest itself?”
“Kali shall stir in her slumber. The Great Satan shall be dealt a terrible blow. The mission your clan was commissioned to perform shall be accomplished, and those who gave your clan offense shall be cleansed from the Earth.”
“And how is this to be accomplished?”
“I cannot speak of it to you just yet,” Singh’s eyes blazed with the fire of the fanatic. “But I can tell you this, Mas-san. When the time comes, my people wish you and Kengo-san to be a form of insurance. You shall be the safeguard of all accomplishment.”
“Insurance.” Kengo grunted. “I am not sure my clan will be appeased by such a role.”
“Oh, do not think you will be hanging back in the shadows. It would be more appropriate to think of your role as the third tine of the trident that we shall drive into the heart of our enemy, and your hands will be upon the torch that will light the greatest fire in human history.”
Bolan looked northward toward the city. “You can tell us nothing more?”
“Not until tomorrow.”
The President of the United States was arriving in India the next day. It was pretty clear that Singh knew far more about the mission than he was telling. “Why have you brought us here?”
“Can you not guess?”
“You have revealed that part of the mission is to be amphibious.”
Singh smiled. “Are you and Kengo-san accomplished at such things?”
“I would venture to say we are far more accomplished at such things than you.”
“Tomorrow your role will be made known to you.”
“And if we are told tomorrow and we believe our participation in this mission will compromise our clan or the State of Japan?”
“I believe I can say with absolute certainty that once the plan is set in motion, the State of Japan will be the least thing on anyone’s mind. However, if you do feel it necessary to refuse, all we ask is that you not interfere. Return to Japan. When all is said and done the Land of the Rising Sun, and your clan, may well find a host of new opportunities.” Singh gave Bolan a very strange look. “And perhaps a measure of vengeance for past atrocities committed against you.”
“Can you tell me nothing more?” Bolan pressed.
“No, not until tomorrow.”
Harrowing, cleansing and revenge for past atrocities against the State of Japan sealed the deal for Bolan. There would be no waiting for the next day. Singh blinked as Bolan drew his Desert Eagle and his Beretta 93-R from the cross-draw and small-of-the-back holsters beneath his shirt.
“Surrender immediately.”
Singh gave Bolan a fatalistic smile he didn’t care for. “Kill them.”
It all happened very fast. Bolan snap-kicked Singh in the groin. He turned as an Ismaili brought up an MP-5. The soldier fired, a .50-caliber bullet blowing out the man’s sternum, lung and spine. Bolan’s Beretta 93-R let loose a triburst that blasted an Assassin into the tall weeds. Kengo produced a pair of .45 Colt Government Model pistols and shot without looking, like some cyborg that had already marked his target’s positions. Assassins fell. Bolan spun, firing, and a .50-caliber bullet burst a brain. A 9 mm triburst sent another Assassin in a screaming splash into the shallows. Kengo’s .45s jackhammered in his hands. As an Assassin produced an Uzi, Bolan put both front sights onto the Ismaili’s chest and slammed the front of his rib cage to splinters.
Bolan swung as Kengo made a noise.
Singh had managed to rumal the ninja. Kengo pointed both .45s over his shoulders at the man, who held the strangle in place with his left hand. He stabbed the dagger in his right hand up underneath Kengo’s left shoulder blade. The ninja gasped and both of his shots missed. The 3-round burst from Bolan’s Beretta sent Singh’s turban ribboning away along with a good portion of the top of his skull.
The island was suddenly still except for the flocks of river birds that had burst from their perches and squawked in consternation into the sky. Bolan dropped his Desert Eagle and caught Kengo as he folded and took him to one knee. “I’m going to leave the knife in for a second.”
Kengo nodded. “That is probably best.”
Bolan kept the ninja upright as he scanned the island. Eight Ismaili’s and one Thuggee lay in the mud or bobbed in the shallows. “We won.”
Kengo nodded again. “Good.”
“We killed all of our suspects.”
“I never liked them.”
Bolan smiled. “You’re okay, Kengo.”
“Thank you. You are—” Kengo gasped as Bolan pulled the dagger free. A few words in Japanese that sizzled broke out between Kengo’s
clenched teeth and he collapsed in Bolan’s arms.
Bolan packed his handkerchief into Kengo’s wound. “The son of a bitch stabbed you.”
“I am aware of this,” Kengo said.
“He’s a Thuggee. They don’t spill blood.”
Kengo grimaced and took a knee. He regarded Singh. “It is anomalous.”
“If he brought us here, I think he’s the best of their best.”
Kengo put a fist into the mud to keep himself upright. “Do you realize that you never have anything encouraging to say?”
Bolan picked up the knife. There was nothing Persian or Indian about it. It was a thoroughly modern weapon. It looked a lot like a stunted filet knife, like something that was made to slide between bones. Bolan didn’t care for the three flutes on both sides of the blade that had sucked up tiny rivulets of Kengo’s blood. “I am going to have this sent to my people.”
“You do that.”
Kengo fell face-first into the mud.
Kolkata safehouse
BOLAN STAGGERED through the door. Kengo was large for a Japanese, and every last ounce of him was either muscle or bone. Shushan grabbed an arm and helped lay the ninja facedown on the couch. “He’s been stabbed?”
“Yeah. Get the med kit.”
She disappeared and came back with the trauma bag the Farm had sent. The stab wound itself wasn’t very big, but it bled out of all proportion to its size. Bolan figured the knife’s design had something to do with that. Shushan pursed her lips as she watched Bolan’s ministrations. “They went for the heart. That’s an awkward blow.”
Bolan nodded at the rag he wrapped the knife in. Shushan unwrapped it. “This blade looks like it was built for feeling around inside people.” She ran the clinical eye of a professional killer over the curved, whisper-thin blade. “A real rib tickler.”
“Go into my room. In my smaller bag I have some diplomatic courier pouches. In the side pocket are some sterile sleeves for medical samples.”
“Right.”
Kengo let out a long sigh. “I passed out.”
“You lost a lot of blood.”
“I would like to sit up.” Kengo grimaced as Bolan got him upright on the couch. “What happened?”
Bolan’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Singh stabbed you.”
“Ah yes, I remember.”
The Executioner cocked his head at the ninja in interest. “Doesn’t that bother you?”
Kengo cocked his head in return. “Yes, I am often very bothered by being stabbed. I am quite annoyed with Singh and I thank you for killing him for me.”
“No, I mean he’s a Thuggee. Thuggee stranglers don’t shed blood.”
“Perhaps he is not a very good Thuggee.”
Bolan rolled his eyes.
“He’s certainly not a very good Sikh,” Kengo tried.
“You know, you’re the only ninja I’ve ever met with a discernable sense of humor.”
“I’ll have you know ninjas are renowned for their sense of humor. You know, more and more I am beginning to believe that I may be the only real one you have ever met.” Kengo frowned at the knife on the table. “You are implying that Singh did not stab me with the intent to kill me. Thus, in his view of the world the act did not constitute a sacrifice to Kali, and thus shedding my blood would not constitute a transgression against his beliefs.”
“Yeah.”
“You realize he was strangling me at the time.”
“That was so he could stab you. Stabbing ninjas is an uncertain business even under the best of circumstances.”
“Then why would he stab me the way he did? I can tell you that internally I am aware of the fact that the tip of his knife came very close to my cardiac tissue. If his beliefs allowed him to disable me without killing me, there are many far more effective and less risky places to strike with a knife.”
“Right, but Singh wanted you to genuinely believe he had tried to kill you.”
Kengo gave Bolan another wry look. “You are familiar with Occam’s Razor?”
“Yes, the law of parsimony. The simplest explanation is most likely the correct one. It applies here. Singh is a Thuggee. Thuggees do not shed the blood of their sacrifices. He didn’t stab you to kill or disable you. He stabbed you because he wanted to put a knife in your body.”
Shushan laughed as she entered the room. “That is the traditional reason for stabbing someone.”
Kengo wasn’t laughing anymore. “You are implying there is something on the knife.”
“Yes.”
Kengo frowned. “I’m a ninja.”
“I know.”
“It is traditional for us to develop a great deal of resistance to many poisons.”
“How about psychotropic drugs?”
“What are you implying?”
“I’ve fought the Thuggees before. They initiate new members into their ranks with some very powerful hallucinogenics. It’s called ‘The Sweetness of Kali.’ They say once you’ve tasted it, you’re hers forever.”
“And?”
“And they also use it to recruit people against their will, and compromise them.”
“How do you know this?”
“They compromised my team, and they came about an inch away from recruiting me.”
Shushan looked at Kengo with interest. Her hand casually slid toward the pistol tucked in her waistband. “The ninja has been compromised?”
Kengo contemplated this. “I do not feel like I have been drugged.”
“Even when I had metabolized the drug, later on they were able to induce a flashback.”
“Since I have never been exposed, and do not seem to feel any effects, that might indicate a binary drug. One that will not produce its effects until the victim is exposed to the other half of it.”
Shushan seemed more bemused than alarmed. “The ninja is a psychedelic bomb waiting for a trigger.”
“Possibly. Keep an eye on him.” Bolan put the knife in the sleeve and sealed the diplomatic pouch. He wrote down the coded address that would get it sent straight to the Farm. “Na’ama, I need you to get this to the international airport, then get back here and keep an eye on Ken.”
“Where are you going?”
“I need to file an after-action report with Karrar. With any luck, we just became indispensable.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Floatel, conference room
“The American is here.” Bolan’s words sent shock waves around the room. Karrar’s jaw dropped. V. spoke tremulously. “Where is Singh?”
“Dead.”
Karrar gave Bolan a very hard look. “And those we sent with him?”
“Dead.”
The half-dozen Ismaili gunmen standing behind Karrar put hands to weapons.
“Where is Kengo?” Karrar inquired.
“Wounded. He is back at our safehouse. The Shushan woman is tending his wounds.”
“How do you know it was the American?” Karrar asked.
“I saw him. I shot at him.”
“Did you hit him?”
“No.”
“Who else was there?”
“The Pakistani soldier, Scarface Babar. Omar Ous. Agent Keller, along with several Americans who are either operatives or agents. Agent Keller and Ous are dead.”
“How do you know?”
“I killed them,” Bolan replied.
Karrar relaxed slightly. “What about the rest of the Americans?”
“Two escaped.”
“And Babar?”
“He fled in a different direction. He appeared to be wounded. He is a Pakistani special forces soldier operating illegally in India. I do not believe he presents a threat anymore. With Keller dead, that leaves only the junior agent, Farkas, in India with a great deal of explaining to do. Their investigation is broken.”
“Keller…and Babar,” Karrar mused. “I see you did not bring us any heads.”
“All of the bodies are dismembered and at the bottom of the Hooghly. I decided trying t
o evacuate Ken-san through the streets of Kolkata while at the same time carrying a bag of bloody heads would be impractical.”
“How were you discovered?”
“We were not discovered. Ken-san and I came from Japan. There is no one who could be aware of us or tracking our movements outside your organization.” Bolan let his voice grow cold. “One or more of your people were being tracked or are traitors.”
This information went over like a lead balloon. V. unconsciously put a hand to his stump. “You have contacted your people?”
“My clan has been apprised of the current state of affairs.”
Karrar looked at V., who nodded.
Karrar looked back at Bolan. “What are your orders?”
“The honor of the Whispering Pine must be avenged. To that effect I am willing to do anything that redeems the death of my clansmen and kills or causes harm to those responsible, specifically the Americans.”
Karrar and V. exchanged another look.
“Specifically,” Bolan concluded, “we are prepared to help you assassinate the President of the United States.” Guns were drawn. The Executioner stared down the several weapons pointed at his face impassively. “He arrives in India within hours. It is not a great stretch of the imagination to assume he is your goal.”
Karrar held up a calming hand to the gunmen. “Assuming such a startling turn of events were true, why would you wish to assist us? Indeed, why might you not want to stop us?”
“If I wished to stop this, I would simply have killed every man in this room except you and V. and then tortured all pertinent information out of you.”
“So why would you wish to assist?” V. queried.
“The simplest reason is that my people have a code. We have taken payment. We must finish our task. There is also the honor of the clan and revenge.”
“Is that truly enough to motivate you into assisting in the assassination of an American President?”
“Normally I would agree. The State of Japan is not at war with the United States. The killing of the American President would serve no purpose but to endanger Japan. However, the killing will take place in India.” Bolan looked to Karrar. “I assume the shadow of blame will fall on Pakistan?”
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