Assault

by Don Pendleton

  "Not even close," he said. "Makarios is handing out the invitations, and he obviously doesn't want an extra pair of ears. If you're looking for a job tonight, check out Hussein Razmara and his buddy Sarkis. I have all the basic background information, but I need an inside reading I can trust. The personal perspective from a native. Can you handle it?"

  The young man thought about it long enough to make himself believe the job wasn't mere busywork. "Of course," he said at last, a measure of his old vivacity returning. "Anything you wish to know."

  "Primarily how well they work together. Are they friendly or antagonistic? If there's any weakness there, I'd like to know about it going in."

  "No problem."

  "Watch your step, all right? I've got no use for dead men."

  Nikos cracked a smile. "I know just how to do it."

  Bolan hoped that it wasn't bravado talking, but he had to give the guy a chance. If he instructed Nikos to remain at home, the young man might be driven to attempt some action on his own, provoking unforeseen retaliation from the enemy.

  He cursed the driver's macho personality and made a mental note to keep him occupied as much as possible with harmless errands for the next two days. The last thing Bolan needed in his present situation was a kid, still wet behind the ears, hell-bent on demonstrating that he was a man.

  The Executioner's experience had taught him that the «men» who tried to prove themselves the hardest often failed. In combat that meant risking other lives as well, and taking others with you when a grandstand play fell through. For Bolan's part, he couldn't spare the time to baby-sit a wounded ego.

  Nikos and his pride would have to take care of themselves.

  The Executioner was gearing up for war.

  * * *

  The midtown traffic slowed him down, but Nikos Kiprianou still had time. Belasko's meeting with Makarios was scheduled for the normal dinner hour, starting off at eight o'clock with cocktails, and the young man thought he should be able to produce some interesting information in the meantime. He would telephone Belasko in his room before the meeting, and he would impress the tall American with his initiative.

  At first it worried Nikos, his reaction to the thought of being left behind. Why should he care what happened with Makarios? He could be safe at home while the American took all the risks. But something deep inside — a pang of shame, perhaps — had forced him to complain. In all his missions for the drug enforcement people and the "cultural attaches," he had never failed. There was no reason for Belasko to dismiss him now.

  It was his own fault, Kiprianou thought, for showing weakness when they met. He had been frightened at the prospect of a shooting war against Makarios, and he had let it show. Small wonder that the agent tried to shake him off when there was danger in the wind, but he wouldn't be thrust aside as if he were a child.

  Belasko had been playing with him when he offered the alternative assignment, digging up more information on Hussein Razmara and the Lebanese supplier, Sarkis. Still, it was a job that Nikos knew he could perform, and he might yet surprise Belasko with his range of contacts. There were ways to find out anything in Nicosia, if you tried, and Kiprianou thought he knew them all.

  His first stop was a coffeehouse that catered to the Shiites. They didn't touch alcohol, and they were close-mouthed even with their own, but there was always gossip, even in the tightest circles. Nikos had a friend who had a friend, and by the time he left the coffeehouse at four-fifteen that afternoon, he also had a name.

  The latest information led him to a smoky tavern where the conversation ran to whispers and the clientele regarded him with frank suspicion. It was slower going there, and cash changed hands before he heard another name, together with an address in a section of the city that police avoided after nightfall. Still, if there was information to be had, it was his duty to pursue the lead.

  Traffic thinned as Nikos neared the target neighborhood. Most local residents couldn't afford to buy or operate a car, and Nikos thought it might be wise to double back and find a parking place outside the district. He could walk from there, attracting less attention to himself, but what if he was called upon to make his exit in a hurry? Pounding through the maze of streets with enemies behind him, darkness falling like a shroud, held no appeal for Nikos Kiprianou. He'd run the risk of theft or vandalism, making sure to lock the vehicle before he left it on the street.

  His destination had been charitably dubbed a "nightclub." On arrival Nikos recognized it as a sex club, with a bar on one side of the smoky room, a small stage on the other. Naked «dancers» occupied the stage in shifts, performing with a startling array of foreign objects while the scratchy background music rasped and sputtered from an ancient record player. Nikos ordered wine and then paid double, as he fed the bartender a name.

  Kiprianou's contact was so short that Nikos first mistook him for a midget. Swarthy, scarred about the face and neck, he gave off menacing vibrations that belied his size. The careless stitching of an ancient wound had forced one eye to squint forever.

  It was difficult to talk around the music, and the short man led him through a beaded curtain, up a flight of stairs, the sounds of drunken men in heat receding as they climbed. A narrow corridor led off the landing, several painted doors on either side, and Nikos guessed they'd be bedrooms where the «dancers» and selected customers would make a little extra money for the house. The young man understood such things, though he had never paid for sex.

  His contact chose the nearest door and led the way inside a tiny office. If the room was small to start with, its dimensions positively shriveled with the addition of the two behemoths stationed by the desk, a pair of animated bookends, scowling down at Nikos Kiprianou. He felt giddy as the door swung shut behind him and the bolt was thrown.

  "You have been asking many questions," Scarface said, relaxing in a swivel chair that had been fitted out with extra cushions. "It is time for you to give some answers of your own."

  Chapter Nine

  From where he sat, it seemed to Rashid Sarkis that his world was shrinking daily, dwindling to the extent that he'd wake one morning with the Japanese for neighbors and Americans camped out in his front yard. Within a decade he had risen from the ranks of petty crime around Beirut to deal with foreign buyers, moving major quantities of contraband. Each day he dealt with customers in Rome and Paris, Bonn and Barcelona. Twice he'd been called upon to speak with the United States, but the Americans were treacherous, and he preferred to deal with them through intermediaries.

  Now the damned Americans had come to him, and he was being forced into a corner, pressed for a decision that would either save his life or throw away a thirty-million-dollar deal. The utmost caution was required. He couldn't risk an inappropriate decision based on lack of information. Neither could he stall too long, when Spyros was prepared to close the deal.

  They had discovered nothing yet about the man who called himself Belasko. Sarkis had no interest in the name, per se. He was aware that men in certain lines of business were required to change their names as often — and sometimes, regrettably, more often — than they changed their underwear. Belasko might be known by many different names at home, and it wouldn't support a case against his suitability for the transaction he proposed. If anything, a shady reputation only served to make him seem legitimate in present circumstances.

  Likewise Sarkis wasn't troubled by the possibility that Anthony Silvestri had been murdered by Belasko or his agents. Some of the dealer's best friends were assassins. He recognized the role of violence in their industry and made allowances, reserving judgment when potential customers waged war against each other on their native soil. A small delay, perhaps, but he could always strike a bargain with the winner. Bakhtiar and his associates would be more difficult to pacify, but thirty million dollars was a powerful inducement to forgiveness.

  All things being equal. Sarkis worried most about the young man, Nikos Kiprianou. He'd set the meeting up between Belasko and Makarios, rema
ining in the background as they gingerly began negotiations. It was normal practice in the world of shady deals, employing intermediaries to unite two men of substance and prestige. If only Nikos had been satisfied with his achievement and the normal finder's fee.

  But he'd started asking questions, prying into matters that were better left alone. Worse yet, instead of seeking information on Makarios — an indiscretion which, at least, would bear some plausible connection to his work for the American — he had begun to sniff around the fringes of the Sarkis empire, peering into corners that had never seen the light of day.

  Inevitably, swiftly, word was carried back to Sarkis. As a spider monitors each tremor of its web, so did the Lebanese absorb each bit of information pertinent to his continued safety and prosperity. He was accustomed to inquiries from police and offered the appropriate response, in cash or vague, misleading answers, but he bristled when the questions came from strange civilians. Questions on the street meant competition at best, or lethal enemies at worst. In either case, experience had taught him to respond with swift, decisive action.

  Sarkis had begun by asking questions of his own. Within an hour's time he learned enough to know that Nikos Kiprianou didn't represent a local syndicate, nor was he rich enough to tackle Sarkis on his own. He was an errand boy, of sorts, and that told Sarkis that his questions had been posed by someone else, outside the young man's normal sphere of operation.

  It remained to be determined whether the American, Belasko, was responsible for Kiprianou's sudden curiosity, or whether Nikos had some other sponsor waiting in the wings. Interrogation was a tiresome, messy business, but there seemed to be no option. Sarkis needed answers, and his time was running short. He had to get a fix on Nikos soon, before Belasko kept his next appointment with Makarios.

  And that meant he'd have to supervise the job himself, as he had in the old days.

  Sarkis raised his hands and held them before his face, blunt fingers spread for individual inspection. They were clean hands — physically, if not in theory — and his nails were manicured with loving care. It had been years since he'd been called upon to personally violate another human being, but he couldn't trust the present task to his subordinates. They would assist him, naturally, but the work required a master's touch.

  Some things, like making love, were never quite forgotten once you learned the trick.

  * * *

  The pain returned with consciousness, by slow degrees, and Nikos Kiprianou realized that he was still alive. It came as something of a shock, all things considered, but the throbbing in his skull, the aching ribs and groin, assured him that the beating hadn't been a simple nightmare. Somehow, after they had gone to work, the scarfaced midget and his pet gorillas had decided not to kill him. They had spared his life, and with that certain knowledge came a flash of cold, mind-numbing terror.

  Nikos spent a precious moment taking stock of his surroundings. He was lying on his back, spread-eagle on a rigid surface, with his wrists and ankles bound securely. It wasn't the floor, because it shuddered slightly when he moved.

  A table, then.

  The cool air on his body told him he was naked, and the nagging rasp of friction burns confirmed that he hadn't been stripped with tender, loving care. His garments must be little more than rags by now, but Nikos didn't care. He'd be glad to walk home naked through the teeming streets if they would only spare his life.

  But who were "they," and where had they transported him?

  The ceiling had been different in the sex club's office, where the questioning began and ended with a vicious beating. This was certainly a different room, more spacious, and the new acoustic ceiling tiles suggested that he might be in a different building altogether. So, they had abducted him as well as beating him unconscious, but the information failed to help him in his search for a solution to his plight.

  The early questions had been crude, simplistic. Scarface wanted Nikos to explain his interest in the Sarkis operation. Had another prompted his inquiries? And, if so, what was the stranger's name? The young man had surprised himself by holding out, but on reflection, he couldn't attribute that to any special strength of character. The hulking animals who beat him had enjoyed their work so much that they refused to stop upon command, and blessed darkness had descended in a tidal wave of jolting, crushing fists.

  He thought they would be more deliberate and thorough when they started up again. They wouldn't let him slip away so easily next time. His very posture, splayed out on the table, indicated that his captors were adopting a more calculated, reasoning approach.

  His skin was crawling, and he feared that he might soil himself, but Nikos Kiprianou spent a moment breathing deeply, trying to control his runaway emotions. Fear was paramount, but there was also anger, outrage, and a trace of morbid curiosity. If Scarface had relinquished him to other hands, who would his new interrogator be? Would more intelligent assailants be amenable to reason? Could he spin a web of cunning lies that held up long enough to win his freedom?

  Behind him — or above him in his present posture — Nikos heard a door click open, whisper shut. The sound of footsteps told him that the floor was vinyl, possibly linoleum. No carpeting to stain with flecks of blood or human waste.

  A human silhouette moved into Kiprianou's field of vision. Nikos didn't recognize the man at first, but he made the obvious connection in another moment. Despite familiar features, Sarkis nearly fooled him with the denim overalls.

  "My friend," the Lebanese addressed him simply, "you appear to be in difficulty."

  "A misunderstanding," Nikos answered, fighting to enunciate with lips that felt like sausages.

  "No doubt." The dealer sounded rational. "My people misconstrued your questions as a gesture of hostility. Myself, I have no doubt that you were merely curious, attempting to collect some simple information."

  "Yes." The pain prevented him from smiling, but he felt a sudden rush of hope. How easy this was turning out to be!

  "I must confess a certain curiosity, myself. When strangers question my employees, seeking information on my business operations and my movements, I become suspicious. Surely you must understand."

  "Of course." What could he say to pacify the enemy and save himself? "I only…"

  "Yes?"

  He tried again. "You are a wealthy man, while I have next to nothing. I was anxious to improve myself by emulating your example. How could such as I pose any threat to you? You must believe me."

  "Must I?" Sarkis studied Nikos Kiprianou with a flat, disinterested gaze. "In your place I believe I would say anything, do anything, to save myself and fend off further pain. Of course, the most successful remedy is truth. I recommend it."

  Nikos clenched his sphincter muscles as a rising surge of panic threatened to betray him. "I have spoken truthfully," he answered, instantly disheartened by the hopeless tenor of his voice.

  "You will, of course, forgive my skepticism," Sarkis said. "I fear that you haven't convinced me, Nikos. I must cause you further suffering, unless you can persuade me that you speak the truth."

  "I beg of you…"

  "You must not."

  Sarkis reached behind him and retrieved a long, flat tray of stainless steel. He placed it on the table next to Nikos, just beyond his line of sight, and spent a moment studying its contents. Nikos felt his scrotum twitch and shrivel as the dealer started holding up his instruments in turn for mutual inspection.

  First there was a six-inch corkscrew, followed by a pair of butcher's shears, designed for clipping bone and gristle. There were knives in several sizes, and a brand-new hacksaw. The soldering iron, by contrast, was discolored from frequent use.

  "Once more," the dealer said. "Who sent you to inquire about my business?"

  Nikos Kiprianou closed his eyes and gave no answer.

  He would need his breath when he began to scream.

  * * *

  Bashir Moheden tolerated telephones around the house because his business was dependent
on communication, but he never answered them himself. Their ringing grated on his nerves, and practical experience had taught him that the shrilling rarely heralded good news. He let the servants field all calls, reporting the identity of callers, while Moheden picked and chose among them, spending time with some, rejecting others.

  This time there was something in the jangling of the telephone that set his teeth on edge. He was relaxing in the shade of his veranda, half-asleep, but he could hear the strident chimes through walls and windows closed against the midday heat. He braced himself for the inevitable summons, wondering what sort of crisis he would have to cope with this time.

  Soft soles whispered across the flagstones as the houseman brought a cordless telephone, in case Moheden deigned to take the call.

  "Who is it?"

  "Master Sarkis."

  Frowning, he received the instrument and waited for the houseman to retreat before he lifted the receiver.

  "Sarkis?"

  "Here."

  "Have you secured the line?"

  "Of course."

  "Proceed."

  "There is a problem."

  "Go on."

  "A stranger from America. He calls himself Belasko, first name Michael. He's been in touch with Spyros to initiate discussion of a major purchase."

  "Ah."

  "Makarios believes his backers may have killed Silvestri."

  "Is that a problem?"

  "Not to me. I'm concerned about the youth."

  "Explain yourself."

  "A local small-time hoodlum. He approached Makarios for this Belasko and arranged their meeting. Spyros and Belasko are supposed to meet again tonight. Perhaps an hour from now."

  "I'm listening."

  "The young man was intercepted asking questions all about Razmara and myself. He stands up fairly well to questioning, but I have learned that he runs errands sometimes for the U.S. Embassy. My people think he may be tied to drug enforcement, possibly the CIA."