Beirut Payback: MacK Bolan (9 page)

Somehow, they were all together again at Stony Man Farm, and his heart soared with happiness for the first time in a long, long time because April was there with him.

April Rose and Konzaki and "Bear" Kurtzman.

Andrzej Konzaki, legless since Vietnam, armorer extraordinaire of the Phoenix program, exuded physical stamina from his wheelchair as he recounted a ribald joke to Kurtzman, the Farm's computer mastermind.

Kurtzman pretended the joke wasn't funny, but that was a joke, too, between the four friends on the patio on one of those rare occasions when The Executioner allowed himself to slow down between missions for some R and R-to be human again.

Bolan and April stood away from the patio and picnic table where the four of them had just devoured the steaks Bolan had prepared. The Virginia night had a pleasant coolness. Constellations spangled in the indigo heavens away from the illumination of the patio of the "rustic farmhouse" that was in fact the command center of Bolan's antiterrorist group.

Bolan stood behind April, the love of his life who was also the coordinator, the "warden" of this secret base. His arms enfolded her, the scent of her natural fragrance titillating his nostrils, his senses.

April uttered a contented sound from deep within and Bolan knew how she felt.

Everything was perfect.

The thud of an impacting mortar shell in the near distance awoke Bolan with a start. In a flash he crouched into a shooter's stance next to the bed, fanning the silenced Beretta 93-R around the attic above the garage in Beirut.

Empty.

Zoraya had gone.

Bolan blinked the sleep from his eyes and reprimanded himself, irked that he had allowed it to happen. But he had been forced during the past hours to push himself beyond endurance of even a combat-toughened pro. At least the lapse into deep sleep had occurred in the safety of this refuge.

Where was Zoraya?

And then for just one heartbeat, enough of his dream of April came back to burn through his gut like a bullet, and he brushed at a tear on his cheek. He blinked it away and the iciness of the trained executioner took over.

April and Konzaki were dead, killed in the same KGB-ordered commando raid on Stony Man Farm that had left Kurtzman a wheelchair case for the rest of his life.

Bolan moved to the secret-stair panel and glanced at his digital watch as he moved.

It was 9:55 A.m.

He had not been asleep more than ten minutes.

He still had time to make the meeting Zoraya said she had arranged with the Mossad man, Weizmann, at the pub across town — a town falling to insurgents; Bolan could feel it, sense it.

He slid open the partition and lowered himself to the garage of Zoraya's uncle.

The place was empty except for the hulks of stripped vehicles and the body of the old man — Zoraya's uncle lay sprawled on his side across the cement floor near the door, his neck twisted at an impossible angle.

Bolan stooped to check the old Muslim's pulse to make sure.

The man's neck had been broken.

A wallet lay alongside the body.

Bolan pried a quick look inside Elie billfold. It had been stripped of currency. The photo identification proved it to be the dead man's.

Bolan figured it three possible ways.

The enemy — anyone from the fighting factions in this civil war to sideliners like the CIA, Mossad or even Syrian Intelligence — could have spirited Zoraya away in an effort to locate Bolan. And not even the murder of her uncle had made Zoraya reveal Bolan in the hidden attic.

The enemy took her and left the uncle's empty wallet to mislead any Beirut police investigation, which wasn't very likely in the first place.

Too silent, too quick to awaken Bolan.

Damn, damn.

There was of course the likelihood that it had been wandering gunmen from a Muslim or Arab Christian faction who had not thought twice about snuffing a useless old man for the few Lebanese pounds he might carry.

And the final possibility.

Zoraya could have killed the old man.

Bolan wished like hell that he could rid his mind of these ungrateful thoughts about tough, brave, humane Zoraya, but he had a realistic sense of his importance to the real enemy.

Strakhov's KGB had a special unit assigned to terminate Bolan in revenge for Bolan's killing Strakhov's only son.

Considering the elaborate steps taken to frame Bolan for the CIA a while back, it only made sense they could consider and implement a similarly complex operation. But before terminating Bolan they would torture out of him what he knew of the operations of the U.S. intelligence community from his time as "John Phoenix." Zoraya's uncle could have discovered this and threatened to tell Bolan and, yeah, that would get the old guy killed.

Bolan did not have the time to pursue any of these possibilities. He had a Mossad agent to meet.

Unless that was part of the trap, too.

The shifting quicksand of this mission was as unpredictable as the future of Lebanon itself.

He stood up from the body and started toward the door leading out to the street.

The door burst open.

Bolan froze and dropped to a combat crouch, 93-R in hand, ready to kill.

Two veiled Muslim women, surrounded by seven scrambling children, burst into what they thought to be a temporary refuge.

Gunfire erupted outside.

The group regarded with wide eyes the dead body and the imposing sight of the warrior.

Bolan lowered the pistol, motioning them inside.

Seeing the gun, the refugees obeyed, breath caught in their throats, waiting for whatever would happen next. Their faces registered surprise when Bolan trotted out.

A military vehicle with two Muslim gunmen moved leisurely down the middle of the street, punks looking to prey on refugees, such as those who had dodged into the safety of the garage.

The gunmen saw Bolan. The driver braked and reached for his rifle. His buddy bandit scrambled to a mounted machine gun on the back of their vehicle.

Bolan holstered the Beretta and shifted to the AutoMag. A pair of well-aimed shots wasted the duo.

He had to kill another three Phalangists this time. He could have talked his way past, except that they opened fire on him before he had the chance. Bolan had no alternative if he wanted to live.

He arrived at the battered Saab he had bought from the family outside town. Bolan was sure no one had tampered with the decrepit vehicle.

He climbed in and started on his way.

Beirut presented a strange paradox. Although a civil war raged in its midst for control of the city itself, and the streets hosted an ever increasing number of refugees, you could turn a corner and find yourself stalled by rubble, bombed-out buildings and sniper fire. But you could also reverse your route and travel for blocks along peaceful thoroughfares just like those in any city anywhere.

Strange, yeah.

And very deadly.

From everything Bolan could see, today's action in the city equaled last night's fighting in intensity. Mortar and artillery shells fell with unsettling regularity. Dark smoke clouds blotted out the sun, intensifying the brassy heat.

There were no clearly demarcated battle lines between the fighting factions. Gunmen of both sides were everywhere.

At one point Bolan saw a group of about fifteen Lebanese soldiers walking along a road, an air of resignation about them.

They were turning their backs on the war and simply going home.

Bolan left the rattletrap Saab and rounded a corner on foot in his search for the designated pub.

The time was 10:28.

The bar was located midblock on one of the streets that appeared relatively normal and untouched by the fighting.

But even along there no one gave a second glance to the heavily armed soldier in blacksuit.

The businesses were mostly closed along the street, except for the taverns, which, as Zoraya had said, did a business almost as booming as the heavy artillery up in the hills.

Dozens of people in various stages of intoxication moved in and out of the pub in the ten minutes Bolan crouched around the corner of a building at the end of the block.

He recognized the Mossad agent and another man because of their sober intensity; this told him he had Uri Weizmann as surely as the guy's jacket matched the description Zoraya had given.

Bolan crossed the street and moved up the sidewalk, closing in on the Mossad undercover operative and his companion without letting them know it.

When they slipped into a Renault, Weizmann in the passenger seat, his associate behind the wheel, Bolan slipped into the back seat behind them, the Beretta in his left hand pressed against the base of the driver's neck, Big Thunder ready to shred the man from Mossad.

"Let's talk." Bolan nudged Weizmann with the barrel of the AutoMag. "You start."

"May I reach for identification?"

"Slowly. Very slowly." The man obeyed and held a thin leather packet open over his shoulder for Bolan to read.

The ID indicated he was Uri Weizmann, Israeli Embassy Staff personnel.

The silence grew louder inside the hot car.

Bolan read these men as unafraid, seasoned hellgrounders like himself.

Their grim expressions were blank masks.

"You realize anyone seeing me flash my ID in this neighborhood would make sure the mob in this street tore me apart," Weizmann snapped.

The driver grunted assent.

"The three of us would be dead."

"So put it away." Bolan pulled his guns back from the neck of each man, lowering the pistols but keeping them aimed below window level. "You're still covered." Bolan nodded to the driver. "Who's your friend?" he asked Weizmann.

"I am General Chehab," the Arab at the wheel said.

"Of the Lebanese army," Weizmann added.

"The general is in charge of presidential security. Naturally, when Zoraya told me you had information on a plot to assassinate the president..."

"I insisted on coming along," Chehab rasped.

"There have been two attempts on the president's life in the past month. Syrian agents, trained by the Bulgarians."

"So this time they got someone else to do their dirty work," Bolan said. "Last night at an Iranian base in Biskinta I found blueprints of the presidential palace at Baabda."

Chehab lost his cool. The Lebanese officer spun around and eyed the big guy in the back seat.

"My Phalangist units monitored the fighting. You?"

"With a little help from the Syrians. They don't want your president assassinated any more than you do. Not right at the moment, anyway. That's why Strakhov is in Beirut." Bolan concisely related the developments regarding General Masudi and the Disciples of Allah and what had transpired during the battle for the Iranian Revolutionary Guards' base at Biskinta.

"We know of the Disciples, of course," the Israeli said when Bolan had finished. "Masudi most likely told the truth before this Major Kleb killed him. That was only one cell of the Disciples you eliminated at Biskinta."

"American, I thought you had something new to tell us," Chehab snarled at Bolan.

"Slow down, General, we're not that friendly yet," Bolan snapped. "Are you a general in the army or the Phalangists?"

"At such a time as this, American, the two forces are much as one."

"I learned something else at Biskinta," Bolan told them. "An unmarked government car was seen leaving the Iranian base before the Syrians attacked. A car... like this one." The general's poker face remained inscrutable.

"Are you suggesting anything in particular?"

"I'm suggesting you get on it, General. Trace and verify the whereabouts of all unmarked government cars last night. You have the clout to do that?"

"But of course."

"Then that's all I've got for you, so you can leave us and begin now while I have a few words with Uri in private."

Chehab got a tightness to his eyes, but he held himself in check and glanced at Weizmann.

"Do you wish to be left alone with this, uh, gentleman?" Weizmann glanced at Bolan's pistols.

"I don't seem to have much of a choice, General. But yes, do as Mr. Bolan suggests. And of course keep this extremely confidential. A government car... that means we're dealing with someone on the inside. But I think I shall be safe here. We're on the same side, Bolan and I, after all."

"As you wish," the general grumbled.

Chehab left them.

Bolan watched the Arab get out of the Renault and amble down the crowded street.

"Don't be too sure about the same side. The Phalangists have committed as many or more atrocities against civilians as the Muslims in this war."

"It is difficult to take either side," Weizmann conceded. "There are no good guys."

"Except maybe the guys who are trying to put a stop to it."

"Like us, eh? And is that what you wish to discuss?"

"Let's settle something first, then maybe I can dispense with this." Bolan motioned with the AutoMag stiff aimed at the man who called himself Uri Weizmann. "Your orders from Tel Aviv are that I'm top-priority TOS. Terminate on Sight. Your showing up to sit over in that pub and wait for me for half an hour, just the two of you, no backup, calls for an explanation and a good one."

"If what I have heard about you is true, Mr. Bolan, you will understand when I tell you that Chaim Herzi and I had been friends since childhood. Chaim saved my life twice. I never had the chance to repay him and now he is dead. Zoraya told me all about it when she called. And so I must repay Chaim some other way.

"It is ironic, is it not, that we do not know which side actually killed Chaim in the cross fire between Phalangists and Muslims. Does it matter, really? I don't know if Chaim knew the truth about you, or if he but followed his Uncle Yakov's instructions without question. I know he respected his uncle greatly.

"But Chaim did understand that only swift, decisive measures can achieve lasting peace in Lebanon and prevent more slaughter at this late date. I have been stationed in Beirut with Mossad for three long years and have seen the situation here only deteriorate. Perhaps it is time the Executioner got here. You may already be too late." Bolan holstered his weapons.

"It's never too late." He reached for a pack of cigarettes, offered Uri one and lit them both. "Do you know where Zoraya is now?"

"I thought with you. She said she was returning to be with you when she telephoned me to arrange our meeting."

"I'll need help, Uri. Strakhov has called a meeting of the Muslim factions for noon today at the base at Zahle."

"I already know of this, my friend." Weizmann smiled. "We have our ear to the ground, as you Americans would say. In fact, the information has already been processed. The base at Zahle will be leveled by Israeli aircraft at precisely 12:10. Approximately one hour from now."

"Then you've got to pass on additional intel and call off that strike."

"Call it off?" Bolan told Weizmann what happened to Zoraya's uncle at the garage. And his thoughts on what could have happened to Zoraya.

"If the Syrians have connected her with you and Chaim and me, then the Russians have her," said Bolan, "probably at Zahle."

Weizmann frowned.

"I'm not sure I can do it. Get the Israeli air force to call off the air strike, I mean."

"The people Strakhov is bringing together could still escape," growled Bolan. "An air strike is too chancy. I've got to hit that summit meeting and make sure every damn one of them is dead. I have the chance to disassemble their entire infrastructure and that would cancel their effectiveness long enough for some real peacekeeping negotiations to take place."

"And the fanatics of the Arab Christians?" asked Uri. "The Phalangists have run wild, massacring every civilian in sight, many times after ceasefires have supposedly taken place... as you yourself pointed out."

"Squeeze every source you've got and pin down the government car that showed up at Biskinta last night," said Bolan. "Tap your pipelines into Syrian and KGB intel sources. Strakhov is working it right now, and it could move up standard channels before they realize how important it is."

"And you? What of the Executioner?"

"I told you. I hit the Russians and the Syrians at Zahle. And I've got to find out what happened to Zoraya. She's done too much for me just to write her off now. Do the Russians and the Syrians have her? Or is she working for them?" Weizmann's frown deepened.

"You have reason to suspect that? It seems rather coldblooded considering what she has done."

"Hot blood gets you killed at a time like this, Uri. You sound like you might be in love with Zoraya yourself."

"That... that's ridiculous," the Mossad man bristled without much conviction. "I... I am concerned about her. Yes, of course I am... I don't know...." The indignation faltered. "Perhaps..."

"Some other time," growled the big guy. "I know what you mean. Every man who's ever met that lady has probably fallen a little in love with her. Some women are like that and she's one." He saw no reason to tell Uri of Strakhov. "There are stakes in this that you don't know about and I don't have the time to tell you. There's only time now to do it. Will you help me take these warmongers apart or not?" Reason won the Israeli over.

"I will do what I can, certainly... Your points are well taken. I may be able to delay the air strike perhaps a short time, perhaps not, but I'm afraid that is all."

"It will have to do," the Executioner said. "I need a way onto that Syrian base. The site will be vacuum tight after what happened this morning. Is there any possible way your Mossad connections could get me on base for what I have to do?" Weizmarm nodded thoughtfully.

"Yes, but it will be extremely dangerous."

"What in Lebanon isn't?"