21
Johnny Bolan sat at the bar, running an index finger around the rim of the shot glass. Braxis, standing on the other side, poured himself another whiskey, leaving the half-empty bottle on the polished wood bar top. Though it was late afternoon, the room was dark, shades pulled down, no lights on.
"This stuff tastes like motor oil," Johnny said.
Braxis grunted. "Don't know," he replied. "I never drank motor oil. More?"
Johnny nodded, and Braxis refilled the small glass.
Johnny raised the drink. "To death," he said.
Braxis shrugged. "Why not?" he said. "To death."
They drank.
"You and your brother know a lot about death," Braxis said as he set his glass back on the bar.
"No," Johnny said, motioning for a refill. "Mack's the one who knows about death. I'm just a talented amateur."
"You kill for a living?"
"I never thought of it that way before," Johnny replied, "but I guess we do."
The swarthy man shook his head. "I prefer the bar."
Johnny watched as Braxis poured him another drink. "Yeah," he said. "I think I do, too."
They froze as they heard voices coming from the alley. Braxis put a finger to his lips, and the two of them sat there like hiding children as several men tried the door, shouting and banging on it when they discovered it locked.
"What if they don't go away?" Johnny whispered.
Braxis smiled knowingly. "There are other bars," he said softly. "They will not keep their money long."
A moment later, hurling last-minute curses, the men wandered off, their muffled voices drifting farther away and finally vanishing into the afternoon.
"I feel stupid sitting here like this," Johnny said.
"You don't go to kill with the big man?"
"Not this time."
Braxis brought a chuckle up from deep inside. "Maybe you don't want to die with him."
Johnny glared at the man. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Braxis returned the stare, glassy eyes shining in the semidarkness. "You are trouble, both of you," he said, and spit on the floor. "You both die, that's fine. Just die away from the house of Braxis."
"You've been well paid."
"A fool's wages," Braxis said, and spit again. "The Koran says to live in the world as one already dead. The dead are not greedy. My greed is my folly."
"The Koran says not to drink, either," Johnny said.
"So I'm a fool more than once," Braxis replied.
Johnny thought about that for a second, and his mind turned immediately to Judith. "Well, I don't intend to die either," he said. "Not by a long shot. Let's leave death to Mack Samuel Bolan."
"You are like him," Braxis said.
Johnny slammed an open palm on the bar. "No!" he said loudly. "I'm not." He couldn't sit there waiting for the obituaries anymore. "I need to use your telephone."
"No," Braxis said. "I agreed to hide you for one more day. Using the telephone is not hiding."
Johnny stood, the least bit groggy from the drinks and the pain. "For a thousand bucks a crack," he said. "I get the use of the damned phone." It was at the far end of the bar. He walked toward it, Braxis hurrying to intercept him.
"I said no." The man put his hand on the receiver.
Johnny shoved him out of the way. "Go to hell," he said, and picked up the receiver.
Angry, Braxis pulled the cord out of the wall, the unit dying in Johnny's ear.
"All right," Johnny said, letting the phone drop from his hand. "I'll use a phone somewhere else. I need some fresh air anyway." He walked to the door, unlocking it with the key in the dead bolt.
"Where are you going?" Braxis asked, his voice laced with concern.
"To start over," Johnny said, opening the door. "I'm going to start over."
He moved into the hot afternoon, Braxis slamming and locking the door behind him. He wandered the cobbled streets, sorry he had drunk so much. He wasn't falling down, but could feel he wasn't in complete control of himself either.
Trying to clear his head, Johnny walked from the alleys and into the hub of the small, stone city. The Arab population bustled all around him, carrying on their daily routines, moving through the quiet tangle of their lives, free from the burdens of responsibility that plagued him moment to moment. He envied them, envied their freedom.
He could be free, too. It wasn't too late for him. Somewhere in the world he could live like this, free from the responsibility, free from the constant vigilance, free from having to look over his shoulder. Leave vengeance to the Executioner.
He entered the main square, acrid cooking smells assaulting him. Foot and car traffic hurried in all directions. A number of cafes were set on the main drag, people sitting under colorful umbrellas at the outdoor tables, drinking Turkish coffee and talking casually.
Johnny walked to one of the small restaurants, entered the open front of the place. A man in a white apron stood squeezing oranges behind a small counter.
"Telephone?" Johnny asked.
The man reached under the counter and brought up the phone. Johnny thanked him and called Judith at Sabra headquarters. Hillel answered, and was able to get her to the phone moments later.
"Johnny?" she said, excitement lacing her voice. "You're all right!"
"I could say the same to you," he said. "I saw the films at the reservoir…"
"Please," she said. "Not over an open line. Where are you?"
"Close by," he said, thinking about the promise he had made to Mack.
"This is no time for secrecy between us," she said. "I must see you."
Johnny thought quickly. Having Judith come to Acco was certainly not the same thing as bringing her to their hiding place. He had to see her, too, to hold her, to know she was really all right.
"I'm in Acco," he said.
"Where?"
"A place on the square called the Omar Khayyam,"
"Good," she said. "Is your brother?…"
"He's gone," Johnny said.
"Oh." There was a short pause. "Get some coffee, I'll be there within the hour."
"I miss you," he said, and the words sounded strange to him.
"I miss you, too," she answered.
He hung up the phone, knowing he had done the right thing, but somehow feeling he had betrayed a trust. He bought an orange juice and sat outside, watching the day wear on, feeling more comfortable, safer, with each passing minute. He didn't think about Mack and what he was doing. He thought about Judith, used Judith to push out Mack. He sobered up slowly, listening to the conversations all around him that he didn't understand, and all at once… she was there.
She stood before him, the sun behind her head, her hair glowing like a halo. She wore a soft knit dress that highlighted her figure. He had never seen her in anything but combat fatigues.
"You look beautiful," he said.
She smiled, sitting down beside him, leaning over familiarly to kiss him deeply on the mouth. He put his arms around her and hugged her fiercely to him.
"I want to be alone with you," she said into his ear.
He pulled away and looked at her. She was this far, what difference the few hundred yards to Braxis's place? Besides, Mack was wrong, paranoid. Johnny had sat there with his orange juice for a long time, everything safe, everything ordinary. Judith was the woman he loved, and he would take her to his place. It was natural. It was the thing to do.
He stood up, taking her hand. "Let's go," he said.
Arm in arm, they walked the ancient streets, women singing from the open windows, dumping out buckets of dirty dishwater to splash the stone streets near them.
"What is your brother doing now?" she asked, as they turned down the alley to Braxis's place.
"He's gone… What difference does it make?"
"This is my country, Johnny. If he knows anything I should know…"
"As usual," Johnny said, "the Executioner is handling things himself. Here we are."
He knocked on the door. "Braxis," he said in a quiet voice. "It's me. Open up."
The door opened, the Arab's eyes widening when he saw Judith. "You're insane," he said.
"Let us in," Johnny said. "C'mon, it's okay."
Braxis opened the door, frowning, and let them pass. He stuck his head out and looked up and down the alley before closing and locking the door.
* * *
Abu'din quickly jumped back into the shadows near the dumpster when Braxis poked his head out into the alley. He waited a moment after the man closed the door before coming out of hiding and moving back into traffic.
He hadn't seen the big man since the night he had first come to Acco, the night he had been humiliated by the man in the bar. But he had seen the pictures on the television sets and knew it was the same person.
Though he hadn't seen the big man since, this other man had been with him and, if he was still at Braxis's, could the big man be far behind?
He hurried to Majil's market, moving immediately to the phone his brother-in-law kept in his office. They'd all see soon enough that they had humiliated the wrong person.
He dug into his wallet for the old, faded number, dialed it up. It was answered almost immediately.
"Faysal," he said. "This is Abu'din."
"Oh, hello, cousin," the voice answered suspiciously. "If you are calling about a loan…"
"No, no," Abu'din said. "I call to do you a favor. Do you still have those… connections you used to talk about?"
"Perhaps. What do you need?"
"I have some information for them that they might find most interesting."
"What sort of information?"
"I know where the American is. The one they call Bo-lan."
22
Sundown was approaching when Bolan pulled the Toyota into the alley behind a small tailor shop. He had driven around since entering Jerusalem two hours earlier, feeling safer in the moving vehicle, giving himself time to plan. He had been around this shop several times already, waiting for it to close. Sundown marked the beginning of Shabbat, the Jewish holy day. No work went on beyond sundown, so Bolan had only to wait.
His grim work knew no holiday.
He climbed out of the car, the last of the sun gleaming off the lofty walls of the Old City, David's city, two miles away on the high ground. Old Jerusalem was a fortress, totally surrounded by defensible walls, parts of it dating back more than two thousand years. Within those walls lived four factions: Jew, Christian, Arab and Armenian — each with its own quarter.
The Western Wall separated the Jewish and Arab quarters; an Arab holy site, the Dome of the Rock, now occupied the land where Solomon's temple once stood. It was there that Bolan was ultimately bound, there that he would take the measure of his own life, his own death amid a clash of cultures millennia old.
He looked up and down the alley, long shadows beginning to sheathe the backs of shops and houses. A young girl of about six was moving quickly toward him, a bouquet of flowers in her hand.
He stood, waiting for her to pass, but instead she ran right up to him, a large smile on her beautiful, smooth face. He returned the smile, the effort hurting him, his face still very tender.
"Shabbat shalom," she said, handing him a long-stemmed carnation from her bunch.
He took the offered gift, its touch barely felt in his callused, scarred hand. "Shabbat shalom," he repeated, and was surprised to find his eyes misting.
The girl waved, then ran off, disappearing into the shadows at the end of the street.
Bolan retrieved the duffel from the interior of the Toyota and moved to the back of the tailor shop. He used one of his picks to get through the old, wooden door.
The shop was musty and very small, but for the Executioner it would serve an important purpose. He noticed that it made clothes for Hasidim, rabbinical Jews who dressed alike in black clothes. The style was centuries old, and for the Executioner, the long black coat and hat was the perfect disguise for him and his weaponry.
He quickly stripped off his street clothes and put on his blacksuit. Then he opened his makeup kit and went to work on his face.
Hasidic Jews don't shave or cut their hair in a circle around their face, so Bolan applied a black beard and improvised a hair curl on each side of his face. Then he went to the racks of clothing, finding a white shirt and black trousers to put on over his skinsuit. He left on his black jungle boots.
He picked out a black hat, then found a long overcoat, a size too big. He put on his combat harness, fitting the Linda into the shoulder holster, its extralong clip nearly sticking out too far. The Ingram strapped neatly to his other shoulder and hung down under his arm. Over this he put the overcoat, which neatly hid everything.
In one pocket of the overcoat he put extra clips of ammo, in the other, a short-barrel .38. He was ready. Since Hasidim rarely engaged in conversation except among themselves, Bolan was set up perfectly to get around undetected and stay that way.
He rummaged in his bag and pulled out a handful of money, leaving enough to cover the cost of the outfit he was taking. Through the store's front window, beyond clothing frames and bolts of material, he could see darkness descending in earnest. It was time to go.
As he turned to leave, he saw the carnation lying atop a sewing-machine table, a gift of love in an atmosphere of hate. He picked up the flower and fixed it into his top buttonhole as a boutonniere.
* * *
Tomasso Metrano stood watching out the window as one of Jamil's people raped a woman in the breezeway between his building and the one next to it. He didn't much like the way Jamil Arman did business, in fact he was sick to death of it. The man had no sense of honor, or of family. He was simply devious and bloodthirsty.
Metrano dropped the curtain and moved away from the window to sit on the bed. Arman was like a spider, always spinning, turning the web in on itself. Every step he took, every breath, was a way of drawing his victim up tighter in his webs. He had already gotten Big Tommy so far in over his head it would take an act of God to get him out.
Arman had Big Tommy's son, Tony, in Jerusalem, involving him more deeply in this insane jihad. Arman had gotten him, a Family head, to drop into the midst of a political maelstrom of global proportions, and then had gotten him photographed for the world to see.
Well, Big Tommy Metrano didn't like spiders very much. In fact he hated them. He didn't like being played for the fool, either. But all that was business, and could be forgotten if not forgiven. But the loss of his sons was deep and profound, and Guido's death he blamed directly on Arman and his webs. The loss of his sons had to be repaid in blood, first Bolan's, then Arman's. He figured on Abba for dessert.
He reached under the bed and slid out his suitcase. He pulled it up on the bed, dumped out the clothes and lifted the false bottom. Beneath, his matching pearl-handled .45s sat gleaming in their contoured case.
He'd bide his time until Tony came back, probably until the party. He wondered about the party, for by now he was sure that there was no ten million bucks coming into his hands. It was a set-up. Arman probably intended to use blackmail to keep Metrano in line, keep him supplying guns without benefit of payment. Perhaps he'd threaten to expose his "connections" with the ganglord.
It didn't matter, really. He just didn't take that kind of crap. He'd have to fight his way out, of course, but he'd fought his way out of tough spots before.
He lifted one of the guns out of the case and turned it around in his hands. He'd take out Arman himself. It had been quite a while since he'd dropped the hammer on anybody personally. He was going to enjoy it.
* * *
Abba watched lazily out the tinted back seat window of the Mercedes as it pulled up near the main gates of Acco, the car's air-conditioning doing very little to keep out the late-afternoon heat.
"There he is," the driver said, pointing to a man frantically waving to them just outside the gates.
"Pull over," Abba said, and stole a glance at
the other two men sitting in the car with him. They looked anxious, yes, and hungry. They would work quite nicely for him.
They pulled off the road, the Arab hurrying over to meet them. Abba rolled down his window and motioned the man over. "You are the man who called us?"
"Yes," Abu'din said, nodding. "Bo-Ian came here two nights ago, in the middle of the night. When I asked him questions, he attacked me. A vicious pig. Vicious."
"Yes, yes," Abba said, impatient. He didn't have much time here. He needed to get back to Jerusalem before sunset. "Is Bolan in there now?"
"I don't know," the Arab said. "The one who travels with him is, though. He is there with a woman."
Abba brightened. "A woman?"
"A Jew, I think. Maybe military."
Abba cracked the door. "You will get in and take us to this place."
"No!" Abu'din said, backing away. "I'm not looking for any trouble." He held up a piece of paper. "Here. I have drawn you a map."
"Bring it here," Abba said.
The man moved tentatively toward the car, the paper outstretched in his hand. Abba took it from him and handed it to the driver. "Can you find this place?"
The driver grunted affirmatively.
"Good," Abba said cheerily and held up a stack of bills. "Your reward."
Abu'din moved up to the car, Abba pulling back the bills until Abu'din was reaching far into the car for them.
"Try this instead," Abba said, pointing the MR 73 at the Arab's face.
Abu'din's eyes went wide, and Abba jammed the long barrel into his mouth until he gagged.
"Now I want you to close your mouth around it tight," Abba said.
Abu'din was shaking wildly. He closed his mouth on the barrel, the question loud in his eyes.
Abba decided to answer him. "I wanted to muffle the report," he said, and pulled the trigger, the back of the man's head splattering off with a smoky pop, his body dropping into the tall grass immediately.
"Let us go," Abba said. "We do not have much time."
Death Has a Name Page 12