Each course, naturally, would be lubricated by a carefully selected wine, with brandy coming last of all. For those jihadists who abstained from alcohol on principle, a choice of bottled water or strong coffee was available—not that Major Khosa supposed the delegates would need caffeine to interfere with sleep tonight.
While waiters dressed in starched white shirts and knife-edged black trousers began to serve the first course, Colonel Pérez rose to offer an abbreviated version of the opening remarks he’d planned before discovering that two intended delegates had been slain upon arrival at Maiquetía. Clearing his throat discreetly to preempt whichever delegates were chattering among themselves, the colonel paused and then forged ahead.
“Major Khosa and I wish to thank you all for choosing to remain despite the loss of two participants. ¡Mil gracias! We trust your suites are satisfactory. If you need anything that has not been provided, kindly notify the registration desk at any time to remedy the lapse. Your comfort is our first concern—rivaled, of course, by hopes that you may all adopt a spirit of cooperation toward the goal of victory for freedom fighters all around the world. May this be but the first of many gatherings through which downtrodden people may relieve themselves of capitalist vampires feasting on their blood.”
Pérez concluded with what he apparently regarded as a joke. “And now, speaking of feasts, enjoy the meal prepared for you. ¡Buen apetito, mis amigos!”
* * *
Mack Bolan took his time on the final approach to Las Palmas, discovering no obstacles until he’d reached a point two hundred yards from the resort proper. At that point he observed a sentry drifting through the forest, clad in black and wearing what appeared to be a pair of hands-free night-vision binoculars and carrying an AK103 assault rifle.
The lookout wasn’t bad, all things considered, but a wispy crackle from a shoulder-mounted two-way radio betrayed the guy before Bolan caught sight of him moving through the trees. That was an oversight that could have been avoided with a Bluetooth earbud hookup, spawned by cutting corners or attempting to economize when lives were riding on the line.
The only question now was whether he should die.
Lying beside Adira Geller in a bed of staghorn ferns, Bolan decided that he’d give the guy a one-time pass. His choice was not derived from sympathy or any squeamishness, but rather to avoid dropping a guard whose death or disappearance might trigger a premature alarm.
There would be death enough to go around when it was time.
When it was clear, Bolan and Geller rose from hiding and proceeded on their way, still watching out for traps and/or security devices on the luxury resort’s perimeter but finding none. The sentry on patrol told Bolan that the meeting had not been abandoned, scrubbed or relocated to another venue. For whatever reason, its sponsors and visiting participants had chosen to press on.
And with a bit of luck on Bolan’s side, that might just be their last mistake.
No words passed between the Executioner and Geller as they made their way through darkness toward Las Palmas and its beckoning bright lights. They had agreed upon a strategy of sowing strife among the meeting’s delegates, in the hope of turning them against their hosts, and sparking violence that would negate any numerical advantage on the other side.
If that failed...well, in his personal experience, Bolan could always fall back on a good old-fashioned blitz attack and let the chips fall where they might.
The goal: eliminating all or most of the participating terrorists by any means available and scuttling any plans for repetition of their sit-down in the future.
Punishing the meet’s official hosts would just be icing on the cake.
Bolan had sensed that Geller wasn’t totally convinced about his use of a divide-and-conquer strategy, but she’d agreed to wait and see how it played out. That said, if she decided it was going south at any point, she had reserved the right to implement her own orders from Tel Aviv, amounting to the blitz that Bolan counted as his fallback option.
Either way, they would be angling for a state of carnage that would garner global headlines, brand the Venezuelan government a friend of terrorists, and drive a persistent wedge between the various participating groups.
One down already, with elimination of the Philippine CPP/NPA, with most likely nineteen left to go.
And could that be accomplished overnight?
Bolan saw no reason why not.
Moreover, if he failed, it would not be from lack of trying, lack of spilling blood, or any hesitance to die in the attempt.
If his long war had finally proved anything, it was that one determined man could make a difference, on both a local and a global scale.
To fall while driving home that point would be a worthy end for any warrior.
Now, as he approached the VIP resort, Adira Geller at his side, Bolan knew it was absolutely worth the risk.
* * *
Mohammad Bajwa’s stomach felt a bit unsettled after dinner, but he kept that information to himself as he and Tehreek-e-Taliban comrade Tariq Sattar reentered the main meeting room at Las Palmas, settling back into the chairs marked with their place cards.
Both Jihadists were armed now, and feeling greater confidence, if not convinced that they could trust either their hosts or the security provided for this gathering. Each carried a Browning Hi-Power pistol, ten .40-caliber S&W rounds in each sidearm’s magazine, with one more in each chamber. For backup, they had two spare magazines apiece, and Mohammad Bajwa had hedged his bets by retaining a razor-edged steak knife from dinner, swaddled in a linen napkin before he concealed it in one of his pockets.
When the delegates had reassembled, watched by Colonel Pérez and Major Khosa, the leaders of each foreign duo briefly stated their main goals, describing how they hoped that sundry groups, sometimes at odds in politics and general philosophy of revolution, could resolve their disagreements in a common cause.
How would that work, exactly, when each unit represented at Las Palmas had divergent aims? Some of those goals were strictly local and parochial—the Basques, for instance, and the Irish—while others, like al-Qaeda, al-Shabaab and Boko Haram, fought on an intercontinental, even worldwide scale?
Mohammad Bajwa was not sure it could succeed, but he was under binding orders from Mufti Noor Wali Mehsud in Pakhtoon Khuwah Province to present the TPP’s intentions and to forge alliances wherever possible to mutual advantage, without welcoming crass unbelievers to the fold.
No easy mission, that, but Bajwa felt himself honored by the assignment and refused to think in terms of failure.
Not yet, anyway.
But if more problems should arise...well, he was authorized to pull the plug, voting to scuttle the proposed alliance while the TTP fought on against the so-called “lawful” governments of Pakistan, Afghanistan and Syria.
Bajwa’s turn to speak finally came. He rose, smoothing his jacket with moist palms—he’d always hated public speaking, while never mentioning his glossophobia—and let his gaze sweep up and down the table, meeting others’ eyes, some sympathetic, others seeming frankly hostile. When he spoke, Bajwa took care to moderate his voice, keep it from cracking, while his cheeks burned from humiliation at the tremors in his legs that only he could sense.
“My friends, brothers in struggle,” he began, ignoring the Colombian woman who had no place with fighting men in Bajwa’s estimation, “as a spokesman for Tehreek-e-Taliban, I wish to thank our hosts for granting us a place to gather and whatever may result from that. I and Tariq Sattar look forward to exchanging thoughts with all of you and seeking means by which we may cooperate toward victory.”
Polite applause rippled around the table, passing over certain delegations whose members clearly remained unmoved by his remarks.
As he resumed his seat, Bajwa noted those who’d refused to clap or eyed him without trying to disguise their personal hostility. The day wo
uld come, he thought, when all his enemies would see the error of their ways and suffer for their spite.
And Bajwa hoped he would be with them on that day, consigning each of them to hell with his own hands.
* * *
Adira Geller paused to wonder if she’d been mistaken, falling in with Matt Cooper’s plan to separate and thereby hasten their reconnaissance of the Las Palmas property.
She had no doubts concerning her ability to carry out that mission—her efficiency had long been proved under stress and under fire. But what about her unexpected ally on the mission that had now become a joint endeavor?
Granted, she had seen his shooting skill and knew that he was capable enough in that regard—along with hiking through a forest she presumed that he had never seen before and homing accurately on their designated target—but would he hold up against the hostile odds they now were facing? Once their survey of the posh resort had been completed, if Cooper lasted that long, could he implement his plan to turn the terrorists against each other in a killing rage?
In theory, it sounded workable and even canny, but it seemed to her a thousand little things could still go wrong, snowballing into a disaster if that term could even be applied to Venezuela’s tropics.
Never mind.
She had agreed to operating separately in the short term and would carry out her end of that bargain.
Already, she had counted thirteen guards in uniform, besides the one they had outsmarted in the forest, each man carrying an automatic rifle, a minority of them with Polish-manufactured PM63 RAK submachine guns. A few also wore backup pistols on their hips, as what appeared to be an afterthought, perhaps dependent on their rank within SEBIN.
Geller assumed the sentries were proficient with their weapons, although likely not on par with her abilities. That said, a single lucky shot—or ricochet, for that matter—could bring her down, and so she was avoiding contact with the guards until such time as she decided with Cooper that their time for operating undercover had expired.
And if one of the Venezuelan watchdogs managed to pick off the American prior to that...then, what?
Geller would proceed alone, as she had planned to do before their paths had crossed on the docks at Maiquetía.
Solo operations were not standard for Metsada, which preferred small-unit action against designated targets, but her chief had deemed the infiltration of a team into Venezuela perilous under the present atmosphere. If Cooper should be sidelined prior to kickoff, Geller could and would press on without him, even though it whittled down the odds of her escape to something between slim and none.
Potential sudden death was always on the menu with Metsada, in which case Geller—already expendable—would be officially forgotten by the agency she served, her presence in the field on any manner of official business ardently denied.
She would expect no less, in the best interest of Israel and her people.
Sacrifice was understood, even expected, by all agents serving under the Israeli flag.
Whatever happened with Cooper, Geller would continue with her mission as assigned, at any cost.
Next up, a cautious survey of the luxury resort’s southern and western wings, attempting to discover which suites, and how many of them, were now occupied. Phase two of the American agent’s plan, if it bore fruit, required incursions to those suites, lighting a fuse that might, with any luck, turn nervous delegates into a mob of raging enemies.
But who, if anyone, would be alive when the smoke cleared?
* * *
Zuhra Fakroun had heard enough for one night, sitting through remarks from spokesmen for assorted groups that would not share the time of day in normal circumstances, much less join hands in collaboration to upset the world’s political balance.
His own remarks, kept brief, had fallen into line with those of other delegates, extolling the purported benefits of unity while questioning if such a thing were even feasible among hunted outlaws. Fakroun craved time to speak with his companion at Las Palmas, Wahbi Tatanaki, and decide how far they would commit to the president’s scheme.
Fakroun and Tatanaki served Ansar al-Sharia in Libya, organized nine years ago, during that nation’s civil war, rising to prominence after Colonel Muammar Gaddafi’s death in October 2011. As circumstances worsened toward the end, the ASL had sprung from remnants of the failing Abu Obayda Bin Aljarah Brigade, Malik Brigade and February 17th Martyrs Brigade, first adopting, then discarding, the name Katibat Ansar al-Sharia in Benghazi as it forged local communal ties and gathered strength among Salafist Muslims still committed to jihad and Dawah.
Three years after its formation, the ASL helped precipitate a second civil war in Libya. Designated an international terrorist group by the US and Britain in 2014, the ASL had lost defecting members to ISIL since 2017 but continued sporadic attacks and kidnappings for ransom.
Fakroun had not been enthusiastic about traveling to Venezuela for this conference. He was further agitated by the news that two attending delegates were slain upon arrival in the country, but his orders offered no alternative unless the meeting fell apart and turned into an undeniable disaster.
How much longer did he have before that happened?
Shifting slightly on his padded chair, Fakroun relieved the pressure of a borrowed Glock pistol against his lower back and checked his watch, as if he might locate the answer on its face. Failing in that, he frowned and tuned out the remarks of Xabier Biscailuz from the ETA, a group that neither interested nor inspired him.
Not much longer now, he thought. Please, Allah, not much more.
And, as expected, based on previous experience, he heard no answer from on high.
That meant that Zuhra Fakroun had to proceed upon his own initiative, duly consulting with his second-in-command. If he discovered any reason to believe the meeting was a farce—or worse yet, a betrayal—he would have to act accordingly without consulting his commanders in Benghazi.
What would that mean, in the end?
No good for anyone, Fakroun supposed. And likely death, for both himself and Wahbi Tatanaki, who had come to Venezuela with at least a faint hope of collaboration in his mind.
Fakroun did not fear death, per se. What jihadi soldier would have, in his place? His faith was strong, bolstered by a belief that when he died someday in combat he would be transported to Jannah—Islamic heaven, translated as “garden”—where he had no doubt that vestal virgins eagerly awaited his arrival and reward for all his suffering on Earth.
With that in mind, all things were possible.
* * *
Bolan, lying prone on the roof of a gymnasium provided for the VIPs who patronized Las Palmas in its usual course of business, watched as delegates began to exit the luxury resort’s conference room, returning under guard to their respective suites.
A man in military garb accompanied each team of two participants, no deviations from their course along paved, lighted walkways. Bolan logged their faces in his mind and noted rooms to which they were assigned. He could not track them all from where he lay, but trusted that Adira Geller would be somewhere nearby, doing her part.
Since no alarm had sounded up to now, no shots reverberating from the shadowed and well-tended grounds, Bolan assumed that she was still alive and on the job, preparing to touch base with him and share findings before Bolan proceeded with his plan.
As to said plan, he hadn’t finalized target selection yet, but had one pair of delegates in mind, leaning in their direction since they seemed most out of place among the others, burdened with a history of dissidence spanning thirty-four years and counting.
On the one hand, sacrificing them per se would likely have the smallest impact on the other criminal conventioneers of any delegation he could choose. But by the same token, if Bolan pulled it off successfully, the strike would have the other terrorists on-site watching their backs, suspecting one a
nother and perhaps blaming their hosts, as well.
That meant ill will between the rival groups on hand, directed simultaneously against the SEBIN babysitters, and the supervisors of the sit-down at Las Palmas. And since someone had seen fit to arm the delegates since they arrived—some of them carrying their weapons openly, while others barely tucked them out of sight—hostility could shift to all-out mayhem within seconds.
That was a major part of Bolan’s stock-in-trade.
Throughout his lonely war against the Mafia and afterward during his campaigns on behalf of Stony Man, he had been fighting fires with high-test gasoline. From posing as a “black ace” hit man with the Syndicate to sparking civil war between the narcotrafficanti laying claim to modern Ciudad Juárez after they’d kidnapped Hal Brognola from El Paso not so long ago, he seldom used an ax or sledgehammer when he could use a lever to divide his enemies and keep them busy killing one another.
Call that poetic justice if you liked, or karma. Stirring human predators to homicidal fury against others of their own kind served the Executioner well whenever it could be arranged.
And then, if all else failed, Bolan still had the ax and the sledgehammer—or the Steyr AUG and matching Glocks—to serve as an alternative.
No matter how it shook out at Las Palmas, he was pledged to see that none of Venezuela’s latest visitors would make it home.
Or, if they did, ensuring that they made the trip in body bags.
And how would he return home, if at all?
There was no time to think about that now.
He had work to do.
Chapter Seven
East Wing of Las Palmas, Suite 221
“Do you believe that shite?” Dara O’Banion asked between sips from a can of Guinness dark stout he had taken from the room’s beige minifridge.
“Let’s say I’m skeptical,” Brendan McGarry answered, between pulls on his bottle of lager. He was seated on one of the suite’s two king-size beds, his submachine gun lying at his side within arm’s reach.
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