"Any other hidden access to the house?" Bolan asked Rafsanjani. "A bricked-up rear porch, or conservatory, greenhouse?"
"Ah, the greenhouse," said Rafsanjani, his face lighting up. "Acute of you to mention it." The little man raised a forefinger and shook it at Bolan in mock admonition. "That is my favorite adjunct to the house, my personal play space. Mine alone.
"I shall show it to you because it will give me pleasure. It is in fact attached to the building, but there is no way into the house from it. It is accessible only from the outside. Come."
The two men proceeded downstairs and out through the front door. Bolan maintained his appearance of alertness, though he was endeavoring to pace his energy for the crisis to come. His reserves were already sorely taxed.
Around the back of the building stood a small greenhouse with a roof that sloped against the wall of the house itself. It was lit from within.
As they entered it, Rafsanjani pointed to a wooden hutch on the outside of the door. "Rabbits," he said simply. "My idea."
Inside the greenhouse, the humidity gave forth a rank odor of unusual plant life. Bolan surveyed the structure swiftly. There was nothing of interest to him there.
"These are exotic herbs I am growing," said the Middle Easterner in his whining voice. He intended to capture the American's interest in an obscure hobby. "The protecttion of them is everything to me. They are my sole existing connection with the homeland, apart from the general, of course."
He waved his small hand in a gesture of territorial power, his plants tall but slightly bowed in the artificial atmosphere. "I would not advise entering farther than this point," he added.
"No?" queried Bolan. He was becoming aware of a sinister delight in this unpleasant little man's attitude.
"It would not harm you lethally, but it will kill all vermin of lesser scale.'' Rafsanjani pointed to the slanting roof. "The metal bar crossing the roof there — it is emitting a silent scream!''
His eyes were now blazing with intensity. He was looking at Bolan with the gaze of a mad scientist. These people gave the big guy the creeps; he was beginning to feel alien in his own land.
"You have a sonar device at danger pitch there? Why?" he rasped. He was going to cut through this crazed man's crap with brutal force if need be.
"To preserve and protect, of course," giggled the Iranian. "Watch."
He stepped out of the greenhouse to the rabbit hutch, opened the hutch door and, clutching the animal around the neck, pulled out a piebald rabbit from its bed of straw.
Before Bolan could stop him, Rafsanjani flung the creature through the air. As it traversed the space beneath the bar across the roof, suddenly the animal plummeted to the ground. It was screeching eerily as it lay spreadeagled on the dirt of the floor. Then two streams of blood poured from the helpless animal's ears, and its eyes all but popped from its head. A sickening twitch or two and then silence.
It had been struck stone-dead by the invisible force of sound. Bolan was speechless. The act was wanton and disgusting, the sight of it was an ugly, nauseating thing.
But Rafsanjani was thirsty for more.
"Again?" he squealed as he moved toward the cage.
"Enough," shouted Bolan. With the side of his hand he chopped at Rafsanjani's arm as it reached for the cage.
The act paralyzed the cruel man on the spot. Far from dropping from the blow, Rafsanjani's arm sprung back and stayed outstretched, stiff with shock, as his jaw dropped and he stared at the spreading welt with watering eyes.
"Damn you," he gasped, shaking his arm and dancing about like a struck ape.
"Damn you," spat Bolan. He had no patience with indiscriminate animal killers. Self-defense he applauded, some revenge he could condone, but the careless arrogance of super-predator Man sickened him with its spoiled, idle abuse of the lesser creatures. "You touch another animal in that cage and I'll jam your face into the back of your head.''
He pushed Rafsanjani impatiently to one side, sending the dazed Iranian staggering along the pathway. He swung the wooden-framed wire door of the hutch wide open.
"I'm releasing these toys of yours," he said. "Better they face the danger of dogs and highways than your sick whims.
"They'll be a damn sight safer away from this place tonight anyway," he added. "You'll all be like scared rabbits when this invasion comes down. And frankly," he said, turning to offer Rafsanjani an open sneer, "I'm beginning to look forward to it."
7
The head honcho of the security force was a surly, heavyset dude named Minera. Bolan and a chastened Rafsanjani found him in what had once been the estate's stables. But no fine-muscled racing champions were being bred here now. The old wooden structure had been renovated to serve as the security force command post.
Minera wore the same navy blue uniform as the other guards. His right hand rested habitually on the butt of a Dirty Harry model .44 Magnum holstered at his hip.
When Rafsanjani informed Minera who Bolan was and why he was there, the guy's response was an angry glare at the newcomer. "Nobody told me there was gonna be help rung in from the outside," he groused. "What's wrong?" he demanded of the Iranian. "You don't think me and my boys can handle this tonight?"
"It's a matter of cooperation," Bolan interjected coldly. "If you don't want to cooperate, you can leave now and we'll carry on without you. If you're going to stay, I'll want a tour of the grounds. I'd like to personally inspect your security."
Minera backed down from the confrontation immediately. "I've got twelve men out there tonight," he said. "Besides the five at the front gate and the two in the guard shack on the driveway, I've got three more men out on foot patrol with dogs and the two inside the house with the general. They even watch him go to the bathroom."
"How are you set up electronically?"
"We've got rotating infrared cameras at all the corners of the outside wall." Minera touched the walkie-talkie at the hip opposite the .44. "Plus I'm in radio contact with my men at all times, and I've got a souped-up golf cart over there to get me anywhere I need to be fast."
Bolan started toward the golf cart.
"Let's take a ride," he suggested to Minera. As he and the security chief climbed aboard the nearby contraption, Bolan said to Rafsanjani, "Please return to the house and stay inside. Tell the others to do the same. I think Minera's men should be ordered to shoot on sight tonight. That means we have to restrict movement in the critical area, which in this case means the whole damn estate."
The Iranian again executed his slight bow.
"Whatever you think best, Colonel," he said in his Peter Lorre voice, then he turned and walked away.
"Never did care much for that weasel," Minera grunted to Bolan when Rafsanjani was out of earshot. He turned the ignition key and gunned the golf cart's engine to life. "Well, let's get this show on the road. We can start with a run along the inside perimeter and track down that dog patrol..."
The grounds of the estate had all the natural beauty that a man could ask for. The rolling hills were broken by clusters of dogwood and a lazy, meandering stream. But the natural beauty of the land was marred by the general's security modifications, especially the length of chain-link and barbed-wire fence that ran parallel to the brick wall. Pleasant geography or not, Bolan felt the same ugly emanations out here that he had felt cloaking the main house.
And he decided the security was not all it could be.
As he and Minera went bumping along in the powerful golf cart, Bolan put his thoughts into words. "Why no inner compound?" he asked the security honcho. "The house is on high ground, but it could be made safer."
"The general didn't think he was gonna be here this long," Minera explained. "Things got tied up."
"How long have you been with the general?"
"Since the time he went to ground here," said Minera. "Going on ten months."
"What do you think of him?"
Minera's response was a noncommittal shrug. "It's a job," he growled. That was all he had to sa
y on the matter.
Bolan suggested that one man from the dog patrol be transferred to the first gatehouse at the front entrance. Minera went along with the suggestion, but the guy's surliness was never far from the surface.
Bolan left the security chief, who headed back to his post, and started walking a straight course up a rise toward the house, some two hundred yards away beyond a clump of trees.
Once he had topped the rise and disappeared from Minera's view, Bolan dodged off course and into the trees, out of view of anyone who might have been tracking his movements with night sight equipment. If pressed, he could always offer the call of nature as an excuse.
It was past time for contact with Stony Man Farm, and Bolan wished to make contact without any of the Nazarour household or staff knowing about it.
A lot more was wrong here than a busted marriage, and Bolan needed the full picture. For the time being, his strategy was to give these people free rein. To not let them know that he sensed something wrong with the picture here. He would give the principals of this drama a free rein, yeah. And they would show their true colors. And someone would then make a mistake.
That mistake, whatever it would be, could be Bolan's handle onto this thing.
He brought up the compact transceiver from under his jacket and depressed the transmitting button. The unit linked Bolan to Stony Man Farm via a government ultrahigh-frequency band expressly forbidden for public use. The transceiver was locked into a D.C.-area scrambler station, which gave the transmissions airtight security and additional range.
"Striker to Stony Man. Come in, Stony Man."
The transistorized crackle of April's response carried a brightness of profound relief.
"This is Stony Man, Striker. Go ahead. Are you all right? Over." Her voice was lively, but her questions were efficiently procedural.
"Alive and kicking," chuckled the big guy in black. "But this thing is twistier than it looked. I need some information."
"Name it, Striker. You should know that Hal and I are looking into some rough connections both sides have. We'll report soon. But go ahead."
"Run a check through police channels for anything you can get on a shooting at Canal Park," said Bolan. "It happened about a half-hour ago. I also need anything you can give me on a man named Minera. He's the security chief out here. I've got a hunch about this one. Check him out with the Org Crime Bureau downtown. I also need a license number ID'd." And he recited the license number of the blue Datsun.
"Roger," April acknowledged crisply. Then a hint of something else crept into her voice. "Striker, what kind of shape are you in?"
Bolan's own voice softened. April was, yes, a most important person in this warrior's life. He had his close buddies in this cause — men like Brognola and Jack Grimaldi, who had made sacrifices that easily matched his own and who were united with him in this new cause — but April alone offered Mack Bolan the strength and friendship that these men did, plus the compassion, comfort, and understanding that can only be supplied by the female of the species.
"Don't worry about this guy," Bolan assured her. "Everything is running smoothly so far. Anything from the Potomac authorities?"
"They're operating full strength," April's voice replied, its cool professionalism once again intact. "They're patrolling for any unusual signs of activity, but nothing so far."
"It's a long shot anyway," Bolan said. "This hit team will outmatch any local suburban force, no matter how good the force is. Tell them not to engage Yazid's group if they do locate them. Just pinpoint them for us, if possible."
"Roger, Striker. We'll advise if they spot anything unusual heading your way."
"Now I'd better get back into the action around here before I'm missed," said Bolan. "Get that information together as quickly as possible, April. I'll make contact again in sixty minutes — unless things are popping. Over and out."
He deactivated the unit and replaced the transceiver at his belt. Then he left the trees and resumed his approach to the main house.
The place was as secure as possible, sure.
But something was wrong.
To Bolan, every one of the security guards had looked like nothing less than a transplanted Mafia street soldier. He knew the type by heart, and these were the type. And that went for Minera, too.
A nest of vipers, yeah.
Bolan knew that not all of his problems would be coming from beyond that wall tonight.
8
Nazarour's brother stood in the shadows of the house and watched the big American approach. Colonel Phoenix had materialized out of the darkness from the direction of the front gate and guardhouse. Dr. Mehdi Nazarour had never seen a human being move with such economy or such compatibility with his surroundings.
As the big American in black strode past him toward the front door, Medhi stepped from the shadows, speaking softly.
"Uh, Colonel. May I have a word with you?"
The American swung around, iced-over eyes scanning the darkness, making sure the speaker was alone.
His response came in the same low whisper.
"Hello again, Doctor. What can I do for you?"
"I must speak with you on a matter of utmost urgency, Colonel. Please. Step back here where we won't be seen."
Dr. Nazarour returned to where he had been standing, and the American accompanied him.
All the while it was obvious to Medhi that the big man was keeping his fingers only inches from the butt of the impressive weapon that rode low on his right hip.
"Yes, Doctor, what is it?"
Medhi Nazarour felt drops of perspiration beading along his forehead, in spite of the chill.
"I, uh, only wanted to say, Colonel, how much my brother and I appreciate you lending your time and expertise to insuring our protection."
"You could have told me that inside," replied the man in black. "You'd better get to the point, Doctor, before we're missed and people come looking for us."
"Yes. Yes, of course. I only wish to say that — well, that you have many enemies here this night... if you understand my meaning."
Medhi Nazarour inwardly cursed the shivers that were coursing through him, causing him such difficulty in speaking. But he could see that the real meaning of his words had gotten through. The American's eyes glinted with interest.
"You suspect there's a traitor among you?" asked the man called Phoenix. "Are you talking about your brother's wife and Rafsanjani? Or about Minera down at the gatehouse?"
Medhi felt his shivers intensifying. "Please. I can say no more. But be warned. Expect trouble from any quarter."
He began edging away, anxious to end this confrontation. He was already wondering if he had made a terrible mistake.
"One moment, Doctor." Medhi felt himself frozen to the spot by the authority in the American's voice. "I'm glad I ran into you out here, away from the others. I'm curious. I haven't seen your brother's wife since I got here. Not even when Rafsanjani took me on a tour of the place. Where is she? Have you seen her?"
Medhi Nazarour wanted to hurry away, but instead he heard words escape his lips. "I was told by my brother that Carol had been through an unsettling experience. I was... instructed to administer a sedative."
"And did you?"
"Yes. She's asleep in her room."
"How long ago was this?"
"Shortly after you arrived. About forty-five minutes."
"How long does it take for the sedative to take effect?"
"Approximately fifteen minutes. It's a... very powerful sedative."
The American's eyes were now colder than before. So was his voice. "How was the sedative administered? What was Mrs. Nazarour's reaction to all this?"
"The sedative comes in tablet form. She understood that it was her husband's implicit order that she take the tablets or face some sort of punishment. This has happened in the past. Rafsanjani has had to... to deal with her several times. Tonight he locked her into her room after I had given her the sedative."
Medhi's mind was screaming to him, You must go! Be gone! He began moving backward again, melting in deeper with the shadows, away from this American giant and his fierce glare, back toward the side door by which he had silently left the house.
"Please, Colonel. I must return before I'm missed. I simply wanted to warn you."
"Then one last question, Doctor. Why are you telling me these things? What is your motivation in this?"
It was the question Medhi Nazarour had dreaded hearing. It would be foolish to tell him too much. It could be a fatal error.
"I... must do as my brother says."
The words came to Medhi as if spoken by another. He barely recognized his own voice; it sounded weak and afraid. But the big American made no attempt to stop him or question him further, and before he knew it, Medhi was back inside the house and moving on soundless feet toward the back stairway that led upstairs to his room.
Medhi Nazarour detested himself and his weakness. He detested his love and physical addiction for the little packet of heroin that awaited him, hidden in his room.
But he needed the blissful release that the drug provided. It was his only escape from the horror that had become his life during these past two years of exile with his brother.
Medhi had been able to handle his addiction back in the days before the revolution in Iran. That was when he had been a successful physician appointed to the Shah's personal court. But now his entire existence revolved around that little packet of white powder and the bliss that was his at the stab of a syringe.
As a doctor in Iran, it had been possible for him to dose himself with small amounts of the purest heroin from his own practice. But here in the United States, he had no access to pharmaceutical narcotics, and was at the mercy of his brother, Eshan, who had become his sole supplier of the powder since they had fled Iran. Eshan had American connections that Medhi knew nothing about. These connections furnished Eshan with the drugs that his brother craved. Medhi's addiction had increased dramatically as the quality of what he injected into himself decreased, and he was forced to take more and more.
The Iranian Hit te-42 Page 5