Belasko, dead, would solve one problem, while creating yet another. If the man had been eliminated, then it stood to reason he hadn't been pan of the assault on Sarkis and Makarios. And, by extension, it might still be safe to strike a bargain with his sponsors in America. The downside of the matter was that Mike Belasko hadn't named his sponsors, and he wouldn't do so from his grave, wherever that might be. Unless the buyers sent another representative — and there was every chance that they wouldn't, considering the first one's fate — the Lebanese had no way of touching base with them to close the deal. And at the same time, there was every chance that one or more of New York's «Families» had turned against him, blaming him and his associates for the Silvestri strike.
Moheden cursed. The plan had been so simple in the beginning. Eliminating middlemen and moving heroin to the United States in greater quantities by cutting prices back, he should have made a fortune overnight. Instead a portion of his hard-won empire lay in smoking ruins, he'd lost connections in the States and he was looking at the possibility of violence yet to come.
His greatest fear was the prospect of a global shooting war. The Mafia didn't forgive unless there was a profit in forgiveness, and it was within the realm of possibility that Anthony Silvestri's syndicate would try to kill Moheden and his partners, even at their homes in Lebanon. It seemed farfetched, but he'd heard of other cases, where a witness or defector from the Mafia was trailed for years, to South America or Africa — wherever — and the vengeance of the tribe exacted when the subject least expected it — a bomb or sniper's bullet, poisoned food, a knife thrust on a crowded sidewalk. It was said that no place on the earth was safe once the Mafia decided you must die.
Moheden knew that there were limitations to the Syndicate's ability, but he'd also seen their work firsthand, and he'd purchased long-range contracts on his own. New York was half a world away, but Sicily was just around the corner. Blood ties held the Mafia together, and the Syndicate had earned its reputation from another kind of blood: the kind it spilled.
It was approaching lunchtime, and Moheden was surprised to find his appetite intact. With perfect logic, he decided there was nothing to be gained by going on a hunger strike. His strength and clarity of mind would be affected and, besides, the typical anxiety reaction would spell triumph for his enemies. If they could break his spirit, force him into hiding from himself, they would have won.
He was about to ring for lunch when footsteps sounded in the corridor outside his study. At the butler's knock, he struck a pose of studied relaxation.
"Yes?"
"A thousand pardons, sir. There is a stranger at the gate. A foreigner. He tells the guards you are expecting him."
Moheden frowned. "I'm expecting no one, least of all…" He hesitated. "What sort of foreigner?"
"American, I think, sir."
"And his name?" Moheden knew the answer in advance. His pulse was hammering.
"Belasko, sir. Shall I instruct the guards to deal with him?"
Moheden raised a hand, took care to keep it casual. "Not yet," he answered. "Have him searched for microphones and weapons. Send him in to me when they're finished."
"Yes, sir."
Was he making a mistake? And then again, how could the stranger harm him in the sanctuary of his own palatial home? If Bashir Moheden wasn't safe here, then he'd never be safe anywhere.
The lunch could wait, he thought, and when he dined, he just might have a guest. He drained his glass of wine, refilled it, then waited for his first glimpse of the man who was his mortal enemy, or else the key to untold wealth.
* * *
Chamoun had disapproved of Bolan's plan, but he didn't refuse to help. A dark sedan and several tailored suits were whipped up in an afternoon, no questions asked, and Bolan finalized his plans in one last meeting with the rebel leader, Mara sitting in as her brother's lieutenant while he convalesced. It was agreed that there would be no fresh attacks against Moheden's operation in the next few days, until the Executioner could organize his play and get in touch. Chamoun had been unhappy with the waiting game, disgusted with himself for having stopped a bullet, but he would perform on cue. If Bolan made no contact after three days' time, all bets were off.
When they adjourned the meeting, Bolan took a long, slow walk with Mara, through the trees surrounding the encampment. She was frightened for him, and the feeling troubled her. When Bolan took her in his arms, she wept at first and then found strength to match his passion with her own. That night, beneath the stars, they pointedly avoided speaking of the future.
Driving west from the encampment in the Bekaa foothills to Moheden's villa on the coast, Bolan carried the Beretta, his «Belasko» paperwork and fragile hopes of waltzing straight into his enemy's preserve. A thousand things could still go wrong, but the alternative — assaulting either of the Baalbek strongholds with a team of riflemen — was tantamount to suicide. If Bolan had to go that route, he'd prefer to try it on his own, a desperation measure undertaken with the very faintest hope of coming out alive.
The Lebanese might attempt to minimize his risks by killing Bolan on arrival, but it was a chance the Executioner would have to take. He was committed to the game, and there would be no turning back. If nothing else, he might get close enough to lock his hands around the dealer's throat before they cut him down.
He found the villa without difficulty, rolling up outside the wrought iron gates as if he owned the place. Three riflemen were stationed at the entrance, one of them with a strong command of English. Bolan gave his cover name and asked to see the master of the house, relaxing at the wheel of his sedan while one of them got on a walkie-talkie to the villa. Several moments passed before the English-speaking hardguy stuck his face in Bolan's open window, scowling.
"You will step outside of the car," he said.
"Sure thing."
The search had been inevitable, and he made no move to stop the hand that plucked his side arm from its shoulder rig. When he had undergone a standard frisk and turned his pockets out, he backed away and watched them search the car. It wasn't the most thorough search in his experience, but it would do.
The English-speaking sentry rode with Bolan to the house, one hand on his submachine gun, and the other clutching the Executioner's pistol. At the villa he delivered Bolan's piece to other riflemen and drove the car back to his post. Whatever might go down inside the house, there would be no quick getaway with screeching tires.
The air-conditioning took Bolan by surprise, immediately raising goose bumps on his sweaty skin. Surrounded by four guards, he marched through rooms and corridors until they reached their destination. One more frisk for anything the gatemen might have overlooked, and he was ushered in to meet his adversary.
Bashir Moheden stood beside the tall French doors, his features lost in shadow. Bolan felt the eyes examining him, inch by inch, and knew that he could make or break it here, right now.
"You're not an easy man to see," Bolan said by way of introduction.
"No. Have you been trying long?"
"I met one of your boys in Nicosia, but he had an accident."
"I'm interested in hearing more about that, if you have the time."
"I've got all day." Bolan drifted toward the open liquor cabinet and poured himself a drink without an invitation. "You don't mind?"
"By all means, help yourself."
Moheden took a seat behind his massive desk, and Bolan chose an easy chair directly opposite. "There isn't much to tell," he said. "I made your boy, Makarios, an offer on some merchandise. We were about to hash the details out when someone started busting caps. Makarios went out one exit, I went out the other. Next time I heard anything about him, he was dead, with lots of company."
"You didn't recognize the gunmen who attacked you?"
"Nan. They all had panty hose or something on their heads, you know? Like smash-and-grab guys. I was too damned busy looking out for number one to stop and check their visas."
"And you neve
r saw Makarios again?"
"I saw his picture in the papers," Bolan answered, nonchalant. "I'm not so hot at reading Greek, but what the hell, dead's dead in any language."
"You are fortunate to have survived," Moheden told him.
"We make our own luck, don't you think?"
"Perhaps. Is that why you bring weapons when you come to visit me at home?"
"I haven't stayed alive this long by taking stupid chances," Bolan said. "For all I know, the action with Makarios was something in the family. You might have run it down yourself."
"And yet you came."
"I figured, either way, it's no skin off my nose, you follow? If you're looking at a war with someone on the outside, maybe we can help each other. If you're cleaning house, that's cool. Just tip me off next time so I can take a rain check on the party."
"For the record," Moheden informed him, "I didn't assassinate Makarios or any of the others. At the moment I have no idea who might have been responsible."
"That's rough. It makes for problems with your business, eh?"
"A temporary setback." With a frown, the dealer shifted gears. "I'm told that you know something of another recent incident in New York City. Anthony Silvestri?"
"Good news travels fast, I see. The guy was losing it. He had delusions of adequacy, biting off more than he could chew. Somebody knocked his dick in the dirt, and that's all there is to it."
Moheden's voice took on a frosty edge. "A pair of my associates were meeting with him at the time."
"Unfortunate. Sometimes you have to take your shot when it's available, know what I mean? You want to make an omelet, first you have to break the eggs."
"Silvestri's Family may disagree with your assessment of the situation."
"The Grisanti crowd? Forget 'em. Don Patrice is looking at a string of federal indictments that'll keep him paying lawyer's fees until doomsday. He's a dinosaur, about to go extinct, and his lieutenants haven't got a working brain between them."
"Someone planned the raids in Nicosia."
"And you think Grisanti's got that kind of pull?" The soldier switched from cocky self-assurance to a thoughtful frown. "I guess it's something I could check on, if you like."
The dealer shifted gears. "What sort of offer did you make Makarios?"
"A two-year, thirty-million-dollar package, with an option to increase the volume after that, if everybody's satisfied."
"You represent another Family in the United States?"
"You're warm. My people aren't hung up on all the old-world bullshit. They're concerned with profit margins and reliable suppliers. That's where you come in."
"Perhaps."
"You don't need thirty million?" Bolan made as if to rise. "Hey, look, I'm sorry that I took your time, okay?"
The Lebanese flinched, a sudden flash of panic in his eyes. "Please, wait! You surely understand the need for caution in a venture of this magnitude, especially when there has been so much unpleasantness already."
Bolan sat down again and smiled. "Okay. I guess you'll want to check my bona fides? I've got a couple numbers I can give you, in New York and Washington, to get things rolling."
The Executioner jotted down the numbers on a business card and passed it over. Dialing either one would route Moheden's call through cutouts, back to Stony Man, where Kurtzman's staff had been on the alert since his departure from the States. The dealer scanned the numbers, smiling as he raised his eyes to Bolan's face.
"Forgive my skepticism, if you will, but telephones are vulnerable instruments. Assuming that the message wasn't intercepted, it would tell me nothing. Anyone may answer, and I have no way of judging their veracity."
"You've got a point."
"If you could offer me some names…"
"My sponsors like their privacy. I'm sure they'll want to meet you when you close the deal, but first they need a reading, get me? Any time they think of buying into something major, they send me — or someone like me — to check the action. Make sure everything's on track and running smooth. They've heard good things about your operation, but they don't like flying blind."
"I feel the same myself."
"That's understandable. My people figure it's a sin to waste a big man's time, so here's the deal. Five hundred thousand for a guided tour of your operation, nonrefundable, whichever way it goes. If everything checks out and my folks like the action, I'm empowered to negotiate the two-year deal I mentioned. Even if we don't do business, you still make a fancy piece of change."
"Your offer is… unique."
"It's standard for the men I represent."
"I can't imagine carrying such sums around the countryside."
"Damn right you can't. I socked it in a safe-deposit box in Nicosia." Bolan palmed a useless railway locker key and held it up for Moheden's inspection. "When we rap the tour up, you get the key. From that point on, whatever happens, happens. No hard feelings."
He could feel the line begin to jerk, Moheden nibbling at the bait. But he was not prepared to swallow yet.
"I must consult my business partners."
"Sure, why not? That's just the flat half million, though. You want to split it up, that's your decision."
"I'm confident that we can reach an understanding."
"Glad to hear it. Shall I let you have some privacy to make those calls?"
The dealer rose and moved around the desk to shake his hand. "My servants will provide whatever you'd like. Some food, perhaps?"
"No, thanks, I'm fine."
"A moment, then."
"Sure thing."
Outside the study, Bolan trailed his escort to a recreation room of sorts, complete with wet bar, big-screen television and a VCR with racks of videocassettes. He settled for a beer and nursed it, standing at the window, studying the sun-bleached sky.
One fish hooked, apparently, and if his reading of Moheden was correct, the Lebanese would sell his partners on the "guided tour," one way or another.
He was halfway home. The easy half. From here on out the stakes would be increased, as well as the odds against him. Any slip, however small, would spell disaster.
But at least he was inside, where he could do some major damage in a pinch. They might still pierce his cover, take him down before he wrecked their poison pipeline, but the bastards wouldn't get a freebie. No damned way at all.
The Executioner had penetrated their defenses at the top, and he was hanging in until he blew their house down — or until they killed him.
* * *
Amid Rashad was restless. He had information that would doubless fascinate his outside contacts, but he couldn't live the rebel compound. Joseph Chamoun had ordered all his troops to stay in camp until they heard from the American, and if Rashad slipped out, his absence would be noted. Explanations would mean nothing to Chamoun, who saw through liars as another man saw through a pane of glass.
Rashad had witnessed three court-martial in the compound. Two of the defendants had been charged with sexual assault on Shiite women, and they had confessed their crimes, believing the identity their selected victims granted them immunity from punishment. Chamoun had executed both of them himself, a single bullet through each forehead as they knelt before him in the dust.
Rashad had been unmoved by those proceedings, but the third trial sparked a greater interest. One of the commandos was accused of spying for the Syrians, relaying information to the enemy that led to cancellation of a major raid. This time the prisoner claimed innocence, but he was contradicted by the testimony of a spy within the Syrian militia. One conviction he was handed over to the troops for execution, carried to the groove where different soldiers took their turns with knives. Rashad had joined the butchery, and no one noticed that his hands were trembling as he claimed his pound of flesh from the informer.
He didn't intend to die that way, but neither did he plan on wasting the remainder of his life in service to Chamoun's lost case. Rashad had sniffed the wind and recognized the losing side. It might tak
e months, or even years, before Chamoun was beaten and his soldiers scattered to the winds, but the survivors would have nothing they could call their own. The Bekaa Valley was an unforgiving place. It nurtured winners — or at least survivors — and the rest were gobbled up alive.
Amir Rashad had chosen to survive, to win, and with the information in his hands, he could demand a higher price from his employers. They would recognize his value, not as an informer in the ranks, but as a man with leadership potential. When Chamoun was broken, they would certainly reward Rashad with a position of respect.
A runner found Rashad and told him his presence was required in the commander's tent. Acknowledging the summons, his immediate reaction was a surge of panic. Had they found him out? Was this the moment be had dreaded for the better part of two long years?
But he remembered how the traitor had been handled at his trial. An escort had dragged him across the compound, clouting him with fists when he resisted. There had been no courtly summons, certainly no chance for the accused to slip away. Rashad considered flight, abandoning his few belongings and escaping with the money that he always carried on his person. But it seemed absurd. He was accused of nothing yet, and if he bolted from a simple order to present himself before Chamoun, the act of flight would be as good as a confession to something.
At the leader's tent, he was received with courtesy by sentries who apparently suspected nothing. As he stepped inside, Rashad was instantly relieved to find himself alone with Chamoun and his sister. Smiling through the sudden rush, he even managed not to gape at Mara's breasts.
"I have a job for you to do in Baalbek," Chamoun said.
Rashad suppressed the urge to leap for joy. "As you command," he answered, carefully observing military courtesy.
"You will deliver this." An envelope, flap sealed with colored wax, was placed into his steady hands. "This information may not be entrusted to the radio or telephone."
Assault Page 19
