Dead Easy

by Don Pendleton

  As Bolan had said some time before, it smelled.

  Right now his main interest was to discover who gave the colonel his orders. And why it was so important that he, Bolan, should be liquidated.

  He could understand it if they wanted to «punish» him for the Ogodishu operation. Sure — as a warning to others. But from what he had heard so far it seemed now that the most important reason was to block him from further investigation.

  Of what?

  Vanderlee was tapping a buff folder. "This man Bolan is a danger," he said. "It is important that you understand the position. You'll know that farmers, ranchers and managers of estates in the outback and away on the veldt are at the mercy of terrorists — the marauding bands that filter across the border from Botswana, Mozambique, Southwest Africa, Zimbabwe, you name it. They come in all shapes and sizes: Zulus, Swazis, Bantu from our own reserves, even Masai, sometimes, from the north. Or Xhosa. But they all have certain things in common. One, they kill, loot, rape and destroy; two, their activity threatens to put the whites who make their home there out of business."

  Hanson yawned. "And so?"

  "So quite often the whites form vigilante patrols, or they employ specialized posses to flush out the marauders and crucify them, to provide the protection the law is not always able to give them. It's a big country, for Chrissake. Your own position should be viewed in the light of that example."

  "Meaning?"

  "I mean that you are answerable to… well, to a group of private individuals who are, let us say, comparable in a figurative sense to those farmers. Except that in our case it's big business rather than agriculture. Gold, diamonds, heavy industry… You don't need to know the details, but people dealing in that kind of merchandise can't afford to have years of exploitation threatened by the terrorist activity of one crazy son of a bitch who thinks he's Superman."

  "Okay," Hanson said. "Leave aside the history, Colonel. You want this guy Bolan taken out, so I'll take him out. And leave no clues pointing your way. That's what you want, right?"

  "Don't underestimate him," Vanderlee warned. "He's smart, and tough. You'll need the whole group if you're going to make it."

  "We'll make it, all right. You say he already hit town?"

  "Three days ago. We tailed him from Gabotomi, near the dam, through Libenge to Lisala. He had some kind of newspaper creep with him, the bastard who wrote up the raid in the Chicago Globe last week. They changed cars at Lisala and we lost them until they made Kisangani. After that, the scandalmonger flew north and Bolan took a flight that brought him here. We don't know where he's holed up. Wherever it is, he's got to be flushed out and disposed of."

  "I'll find him."

  "You better. I'm driving out to Baarmbeek at the weekend. I'd like to have the file closed by then. They'll want to let Florida know that everything's taken care of this end."

  On the ledge outside the window, Bolan frowned. Baarmbeek, he knew, was a small town between Pretoria and Warmbad, in the Transvaal province.

  But Florida?

  Florida, U.S.A.?

  Whatever it was that he had rowed himself into, there were international ramifications, for sure. But who were «they»? And what were they doing in a small town far to the northwest? What the hell had this Euro-African conspiracy to do with Florida?

  Before he made any attempt to check out any of those questions, Bolan determined to do his damnedest to penetrate Vanderlee's office sometime and take a look at his files. Even if he was acting in a private capacity, surely there should be some clue someplace. And the Executioner needed every lead he could get, however slight.

  In any case, he thought sourly, it was time he initiated some indoor action; he seemed to have spent half his life, lately, clinging to roofs and walls.

  He shivered. It was cold this high above the street and the wind was freshening.

  He glanced sideways along the ledge, toward the corner of the building on the far side of which was the stack pipe he had climbed. Behind the rows of lights marking the steel and glass skyscrapers of the city center, a cloud bank was blotting out the stars. The Executioner tensed.

  Something was blotting out the city lights, too — first one row, and then another as the first reappeared.

  There couldn't be clouds between him and those buildings!

  He strained his eyes through the darkness.

  Spread-eagled against the wall, toes on the ledge, hands gripping the cornice above, another dark figure had materialized around the corner from the pipe.

  Inch by inch, the head still turned toward the corner, the figure was sidling toward the lit window.

  And nearer to the Executioner.

  He reached gloved fingers down toward the holstered Beretta.

  Like Bolan himself, the second intruder was clothed entirely in black — skintight one-piece suit, black gloves, black sneakers, black woolen cap.

  No more than three feet separated them when the head turned slowly to face the window.

  An indrawn gasp of surprise when the newcomer found an eavesdropper already in place was echoed by Bolan himself.

  In the diffuse light escaping from the office, he saw that he was face-to-face with Ruth Elias, the dark-haired woman from Milan he had rescued from Anya Ononu's summer palace.

  Chapter Seventeen

  "There is one other thing, Hanson," Colonel Vanderlee said. He cleared his throat. "It's better we should get it out of the way now."

  The mercenary had already moved away from his chair, on the way out. He retraced his steps, frowning. "Namely?"

  "The man Bolan, as you know, is on the hit list of several security agencies, among them the KGB. He is also wanted in a number of European countries and in many parts of the United States."

  "So?"

  "But not at present in South Africa. If, on the other hand, we could persuade one of those bodies to ask formally for his extradition…" Vanderlee left the sentence unfinished.

  "What are you getting at?"

  "Such a request could not involve the security forces here, but it would provide an excuse for the civil police, country-wide, to be put on the alert, with a warrant issued for his arrest."

  "So why not do that?"

  "The necessary procedures have been… set in motion." The security boss straightened a pile of papers on the desk, patting the edges with his fingertips. "But even if he was caught and detained, there would have to be a trial before the authorities decided whether or not there was a prima facie case for extradition. And Bolan would be permitted to advance a defense, to show reason why he should not be sent back to wherever it was. In some countries, what are known as political crimes…" the colonel pronounced the words with distaste"…are not considered sufficient reason for extradition."

  "What would be the point, then? Are you trying to say…"

  "I am saying that although such a move could effectively neutralize Bolan so far as activities in this country are concerned, it would take time. And time is what we lack."

  "You're telling me," Hanson said, "that I could get police help to locate Bolan — given sufficient reason? Is that it?"

  "I am pleased to see that we think along the same lines," Vanderlee replied.

  "But that the extradition reason, though it might work in the long run, doesn't move fast enough for you?"

  "Exactly."

  "So what other reasons did you have in mind?"

  "Assuming you cannot eliminate the man at once…"

  "I figure we can."

  "We have to plan for all eventualities. Assuming you cannot," Vanderlee said carefully, "it would place much more pressure on the police, give them a far more urgent reason to find him, if Bolan had committed — or was supposed to have committed — some crime in this country. Murder, for instance."

  On the ledge outside the office window, the subject of the conspiracy shook his head. He had heard it all before. It was precisely because of such a frame that he was now an outlaw.

  It had started with th
e death of a Russian test pilot during one of the Executioner's clandestine missions inside the Soviet Union. The pilot's father had sworn revenge. And the father happened to be Major General Greb Strakhov, ruthless head of the KGB's Department Thirteen terror squad.

  Stage one of the revenge was the KGB-inspired assault that almost took out Stony Man Farm, Bolan's Virginia headquarters when he was working secretly for Uncle Sam, and provoked the death of his great love, April Rose.

  Stage two was subtler. While the Executioner was on a mission in southeastern Europe, a double was KGB-trained to assassinate, in full view of the public, a popular labor leader. The Bolan look-alike then vanished, leaving the real man to take the blame.

  Whether or not the revenge was sweet, nobody knew, for Greb Strakhov was now dead, too.

  But Mack Bolan was still an outlaw.

  He glanced across at the figure of Ruth Elias, flattened against the wall on the far side of the open window, and shrugged. Raised eyebrows on his part and a hesitant smile of recognition on hers were the extent so far of their communication. It wasn't the best place in the world for small talk.

  For the moment, as far as Bolan was concerned, the mystery of just who this woman was — and what the hell she was doing here — must wait. Inside the office the conversation was nearing its end.

  "Let me get this straight," Eddie Hanson was saying. "You want me to stage a killing, to pin a murder rap on Bolan, right?"

  There was no audible reply. Bolan assumed Vanderlee had nodded.

  "Okay," the mercenary continued, "so, as you say, that would bring in the local law to help find the bastard. But there'd still have to be a trial before he was topped. It'd probably take even longer to come to court than an extradition case, wouldn't it?"

  The Colonel sighed in frustration. "The purpose of such a frame — the only purpose — would be to enlist all the aid possible, to hasten the search for this renegade, to help with a job that might take you too long on your own. But once Bolan was cornered — well, I should be relying on you to make damned sure he was not brought to trial. That, in reality, is what you are being paid for, Hanson."

  "I'm with you," the hired killer said. "Okay. Right. I see."

  "As a model," Colonel Vanderlee offered, "I could advance the case of Lee Harvey Oswald. You'd be playing Jack Ruby. Do I make myself clear?"

  "Sure. Knock him off once the cops have fingered him. Leave it with me, okay?"

  "Very well. I will contact you in the meantime if there are any developments in the extradition situation, but a murder charge would be much better."

  There was the sound of papers shuffling and the closing of a drawer. "And now we must leave," the security chief said. "In five minutes the door of this office is electronically locked and nobody, not even myself, can open it until ten o'clock tomorrow morning."

  Bolan held his breath as footsteps approached the window.

  Ruth Elias froze.

  But Vanderlee did not poke out his head to look at the sky or the city. He shut the window and they heard the sound of bolts being slid home into the frame. Seconds later the light was killed and there was the muffled slam of a heavy door.

  "What the hell are you doing here?" Bolan whispered furiously.

  "Market research," Ruth Elias replied.

  Bolan choked back a retort.

  "I'm going in," she added in a low voice. "If you're not going to force the window, I will."

  "Great," he said, "and have every siren in town wailing when you break the alarm connection?"

  "Do you have a better idea?" she snapped.

  Bolan nodded. Very carefully, he moved in front of the window. Lowering one hand, he removed from a narrow pocket a short stalk with a dull industrial diamond embedded in one end.

  There was a thin screeching noise as the diamond traced out the shape of a circle on the windowpane.

  Bolan hit the center of the circle a single sharp blow with the heel of his hand.

  The glass broke away cleanly and fell to the carpeted floor inside the office.

  The opening was large enough for a big man to enter. He eased his body through the gap and then helped the woman in after him.

  "I have a flashlight," she murmured.

  "Save your battery," Bolan said. He pulled down a canvas blind over the window, stole across the floor to where a thread of light showed beneath the door and found a wall switch. The green-shaded lamp above the desk momentarily dazzled them.

  "The passageway outside is lighted, so there will be no telltale beam under the door," he said. "In any case, nobody can get in here. And with a building this size, I guess nobody out in the night's going to notice which particular window out of several hundred shows a light. Even if any escapes around that blind."

  It was a small office, with a desk, three phones and two chairs. A black-leather and chrome armchair. Shelves of reference books, a bank of gray steel filing cabinets, a wall safe.

  "Okay," Bolan said softly. "I want to know who you work for and what brings you here tonight."

  "I told you before," Ruth Elias said, "I like to know why people do things."

  Bolan sighed in frustration. "I think you'll tell me in your own sweet time. There's too much work to be done now."

  He shot her an appraising look. The one-piece garment she wore, so like his own blacksuit, clung to her body and emphasized the rounded swell of her breasts, the subtle curves of hip and waist, the provocative sweep of flesh dropping away from the belly to the top of the thighs. She pulled off the woolen cap and shook her dark hair free.

  "What are you looking for?" he asked.

  "His files."

  "Me, too." Bolan crossed over to the row of metal cabinets. Each was secured with a combination lock that controlled all the drawers.

  He swore.

  "Don't worry," she said. "The window was yours, this one is for me."

  From a knee pocket in the close-fitting suit she produced a metal box not much larger than a cigarette pack. Clamped magnetically over the first lock, it emitted a faint beeping sound.

  Ruth knelt, her ear close to the box, and fingered two tiny wheels set into the casing. On the face of the box a needle flickered across a dial.

  As the tumblers, moved by electromagnets within the box, approached or receded from the preset combination, the beep quickened, slowed, accelerated again and finally changed tone. The lock clicked open and she pulled out the top drawer.

  Bolan was impressed.

  "How do you want to do this?" she asked.

  "Let's each take a whole drawer."

  Colonel Vanderlee's filing system was predictable, as neat and precise and orderly as the man himself. Still, it did not help Bolan, because he didn't know what he was looking for.

  What he did know was that the colonel wanted him out of the way. Vanderlee's words came back to him.

  If Bolan himself was out of the way, Baarmbeek would want to let Florida know that things in South Africa had been taken care of.

  Following his vigil on the ledge, that was all Bolan had in the way of a lead.

  But now that he was in the office, which files should he search?

  Baarmbeek and Florida, both presumably no more than place names, were the only possible entries. Files under the broad headings of Transactions and Relations seemed the obvious ones for a preliminary search. But neither name appeared under those headings.

  The files under Communications could conceivably relate, but here again Bolan drew a blank.

  Vanderlee had made it clear, talking to Eddie Hanson, that he was acting "unofficially," that he was, in fact, looking for a reason to make his interest in Bolan official — which was why he was so eager to frame a case against him.

  But it wasn't official yet. So it was possible there would be no entries in the official files in connection with Florida or Baarmbeek. Or, if there were, that they would be in connection with some subject having nothing to do with Ononu and the opium farm.

  Bolan tried all the s
ubheads under Organization.

  Zero.

  From time to time he stole a covert glance at the girl. She was skimming through the Professions section of the Suspicion drawer.

  Judging by her expression, she was having no better luck than he was.

  He was about to make another attempt to find out who she was working for and why she was there, but he thought better of it and continued his own search. Questions could wait. Right now the important thing was to find answers.

  He went to the desk and pulled open a double drawer at one side of the kneehole. Here there were folders on the everyday running of the office, furlough rosters for the security personnel working under Vanderlee, interdepartmental memos, Ministry of Interior circulars and suchlike.

  No file detailing the relation between a town in the province of Transvaal, the opium trade and an American state bordering the Gulf of Mexico.

  It was in the shallow drawer above the kneehole, among paper clips, rubber stamps, ink pads and elastic bands, that he found the first clue.

  He spotted a small address book with imitation leather covers, bordered by a neat row of ballpoint pens.

  Bolan ran his thumb down the stepped index on the outside of the pages until he came to the letter F.

  Nothing under Florida.

  No Baarmbeek on the B pages.

  But there wouldn't be, he realized. Any entry would be under the name of a person or an organization He went through the book page by page.

  He struck pay dirt when he reached the second R page.

  Reinbecker.

  The full entry read: Piet van der Hoek Reinbecker, Grey stones, Valley Road, Baarmbeek. And there were two telephone numbers.

  On Florida Bolan once more scored zero.

  He went back to the filing drawers and searched for any entry under the name Reinbecker.

  It took him almost an hour to find it — in the least likely place.

  The name — together with a spidery signature — was at the foot of several report sheets in the section of files headed Subversion (Cases Closed).

  Piet van der Hoek Reinbecker was governor of the Baarmbeek jail.