Flight 741

by Don Pendleton

  "He'll surface," Bolan told her, less concerned with Axelrod than with his own primary target of the moment. "What about the Raven?"

  "Not a sign. We're working on the theory that there may be multiples, but even so..."

  "I'd say it's pretty well confirmed."

  "Okay. We still can't move until the bastards show themselves. They could be anywhere and everywhere by now."

  Mack Bolan understood the problem, but he was hoping that the cumulative weight of recent incidents might be enough to draw the several Ravens home — wherever home might be. He had no reason to believe it would be Steyr; the town and weapons factory were just another stop along the way, a new potential source of information to assist him in his quest. The Raven's lair might just as easily be somewhere in East Germany, in Cuba or the Middle East, for all he knew.

  They cleared the city limits, rolling east through Salzburg province, bounded on the north by the Upper Bavarian plain and the hilly Alpine foreland. They followed the Salzach valley through terrain that varied widely as they passed; the mountains of the Dachstein massif dominated overall, with dark, forbidding forests. At other points the highway opened out and traveled arrow straight for some kilometers, before the hillsides finally closed around them once again. It should have been no more than sixty miles to Steyr, but the winding mountain roads would add another twenty miles before they reached their destination.

  "I understand it hit the fan in Canada," McCarter said.

  "You got that right."

  There was a trace of bitterness in Toby's tone, and Bolan wondered if the lady would be able to divest herself of anger, act with cool deliberation when the time was right. Before the doubt was fully formed, he put it out of mind. The lady was a trained professional, damn right, and he had seen her work firsthand. She had the strength required for this — or any other — job.

  "You saw the Raven in Toronto?"

  "We saw a Raven," Bolan answered.

  "Bloody hell. I wish we had some decent photographs." The Phoenix warrior's eyes were narrowed as he watched the road. "How many do you think there are?"

  The Executioner had thought of little else since the encounter in Toronto, torturing himself with thoughts of nailing down a score of Ravens, never positive that he had tagged the one responsible for capturing Flight 741.

  "It wouldn't take an army," he replied at length. "No more than eight or ten, perhaps as few as half a dozen. Any more than that, they'd run the risk of duplicating efforts, laying trails that might disrupt the whole damned operation."

  "Do you think there ever was a Julio Ramirez?"

  Bolan shrugged. "Why not? The idea had to come from somewhere, and the background on this bird is pretty firm."

  "You've seen his file?"

  "At Stony Man."

  The reference, with its memories of death, betrayal and revenge, brought momentary silence to the three of them, each concentrating on his private thoughts. McCarter broke the ice again when they had driven on for several miles without a word.

  "This smells like KGB."

  "They'll have a piece of it," the Executioner agreed, "no matter where the plan originated. Anything this size could only work to Moscow's benefit."

  Behind them, Toby had been worrying at something else, and now she spoke her doubts aloud. "We know the Raven — one of them — was supplying Axelrod with guns through Paul Vachon. If Lyons is correct, another Raven's been providing him with drugs from Mexico. But dammit, all this time... I'd swear he never knew the Raven, never met him face-to-face."

  "Entirely possible," McCarter said. "The bloke's devious enough to work through cutouts, after all. To tell the truth, I can't imagine why he surfaced for a simple buy-out in Toronto. Risky business, that — and all for what?"

  "Nobody ever said the guy was stable," Bolan offered.

  "True enough. And if the guy is really several guys, with different temperaments..."

  "Stability goes out the window," Bolan finished for him, smiling to himself. "They just might have a cowboy on their hands."

  The prospect cheered him, giving rise to hopes of possible dissension in the hostile ranks, a clash of personalities that might prevent the several Raven clones from working smoothly as a team in an emergency. One down, in Mexico; at least two others burned, unless the Ravens seen in Germany and Canada turned out to be identical. In either case, the savages had lost their image of invincibility. They could be seen — and, more importantly, they could be killed.

  It was the kind of edge an Executioner could work with.

  The highway took them out of Salzburg province into Upper Austria, a region drained by the Danube and its several tributaries. The area is notable for heavy industry, including steelworks, manufacture of commercial vehicles — and the thriving weapons plant at Steyr. They were close enough to smell their quarry now, and Bolan rode in silence for the last few miles.

  Positioned at the junction of the Steyr and the Enns rivers, the town of Steyr is an old, established focal point of the Austrian iron and steel industry. Drawing much of its iron ore from the Erzberg at Eisenerz, the old town — squatting on a tongue of land between the two rivers — still preserves a certain medieval quality. At a glance, it would not be suspected as the home of Austria's most famous small-arms manufacturer.

  As McCarter homed on the Hotel Ibis, they motored down the Stadtplatz, surrounded on all sides by old, arcaded homes and shops, some dating from the fifteenth century. Except for traffic on the streets, the modern wares displayed in windows of the shops, they might have been transported back in time, across the centuries into the Middle Ages. Bolan scanned the quaint facades of buildings as they passed, and he hoped they would not have to make the town a shooting gallery before they finished there.

  It was the nature of his work that he must wage it in the streets, among the gentle folk who were, at bottom line, the very spoils of war. He did not know a soul in Steyr except for Katz; no man would know that Bolan passed among them here unless his war spilled over into fire and blood. When he was gone, the city would continue on about its business, healing wounds and finally forgetting what had brought him here.

  But Bolan could not forget. The image of Flight 741 was with him now and always — just as images from Pittsfield filled his dreams. The soldier had forgotten nothing from the outset of his private war. He was forgetting nothing now.

  It was his task to gather memories of pain and suffering, to nurse them, keep them fresh against the day when opportunities were granted to avenge those wrongs, to strike against the cannibals and drag them screaming from their burrows. No matter if the savages were mafiosi, mercenary terrorists or "pacifists" with automatic weapons in their hands. Whatever mask they hid behind, the Executioner was pledged to hunt them down.

  It was his destiny, the only way of life that he had ever known.

  For Steyr, right now, it was the only game in town.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Julio Ramirez lit a slim cigar and blew a wispy smoke ring toward the vaulted ceiling of his study. Swiveling his padded chair in the direction of the picture windows, he once more admired the sweeping panorama of the Alps, the craggy, snowcapped Matterhorn slightly to his left. That view had cost him upward of a million dollars... and how many human lives?

  He did not dwell upon the subject. The thought of death did not unnerve him, but he hated letting mundane thoughts intrude upon the majesty of nature. After years of living, working, fighting in the cities of the world, Ramirez had a fine appreciation for the wilderness, those portions of the globe unscarred — or nearly so — by man.

  The Matterhorn, for instance. Mastered by a handful of intrepid climbers, it remained majestic. Still dangerous, it had the cold capacity to kill and maim without remorse. At one time or another he had lived in jungles and in deserts, but Ramirez loved the mountains best. They humbled man, and having done so, let him reach beyond himself in search of something greater, something infinite. Their challenge summoned forth the b
est in man and weeded out the worst.

  Like war.

  A veteran of countless wars and mountains, Julio Ramirez spent another moment staring at the Matterhorn, wishing he was up there among the crisp, eternal snows, decked out in climbing gear and reaching for the summit of the world. A climbing party had been scheduled for the afternoon, but weather was preventing their departure. Maybe, if they got away tomorrow, he would watch them through his telescope... and dream.

  The wound prevented him from climbing now, of course. Unconsciously he ran one hand along his thigh and traced the outline of the ancient scar. It wound around his kneecap like a pale tattoo, the outline of a surgeon's stitches barely visible when he had gone too long without the sun. Sometimes in winter he recalled a vestige of the pain, flashed back to memories of other climates, other wars. The flashbacks never lasted long, but they invariably left him bathed in perspiration, trembling like a frightened child.

  It had been pure coincidence, of course; the damned Israelis never knew that he was in the bunker, never had an inkling of how close their strike had come to snuffing out his life. They had been after other targets — Palestinians in general, and Black September in particular — that afternoon. Their spies had not observed him, he was sure of that, but the result had been the same.

  Unbidden, memories returned. The baking desert sun, and temperatures inside the bunker higher than they were outside. You paid a price for your security in Lebanon, and he had learned that lesson well. A younger man, impetuous, courageous at the cost of wisdom, he had lingered with the fedayeen beyond his deadline, basking in their adoration once the job was done. He should have been moving toward another rendezvous with revolution, but his stubborn independence led him to ignore the cryptograms, remain among the ragtag soldiers who were carrying his gospel to the world.

  A shriek of Phantoms, diving from the sun, no quarter asked or given to the antlike figures on the ground, their cannons belching high-explosive death in rapid-fire. He saw them coming, saved himself by breaking for the open, going wide while most of the guerrillas headed for the bunker, seeking safety underground. He saved himself — almost — by opting instantly, instinctively, for the unusual, unexpected course of action.

  Pain, as real in daydreams now as it had been in life, the shrapnel slicing through his flesh, and he was airborne on a gust of smoky thunder, falling endlessly until he woke beneath white linen in a Beirut hospital room. The doctors had no firm idea of who he was, but they had been advised by Arafat and others to see that he received the very best of care.

  And they had saved his leg. No matter that it stiffened on him now below a certain temperature, that he limped at any pace beyond a stroll. The wound had put him out of action permanently, and for days he had believed that it would render him expendable, ensure his swift elimination once the word leaked back to Moscow. Later, he had realized the folly of his fears. The Russians needed him, would pay to keep him happy and cooperative while they continued their secret war.

  He was a star, albeit more notorious than famous with his public. As the Raven, he had taught the West to live in fear, to taste the bitter gall of paranoia every time a diplomat or wealthy businessman set foot outside embassies or foreign offices. He was the terrorist of any given year, most wanted by the bourgeois nations, most pursued by strategists of Third World countries on the rise. In time, he would have served them all, and named his price.

  But there had been no time these past three years. He was sidelined by his wound, unceremoniously relegated to the bench while others carried on in his behalf. They used his name, his face, his style... but none of them would ever really be the Raven.

  Julio Ramirez felt no conscious bitterness at having been cut off before he reached his prime. Khaddafi and the Soviets had been most generous; they might have simply murdered him, instead of purchasing a villa, granting him a very healthy pension and allowing him to serve as strategist and elder statesman for the Raven force.

  He had been fortunate, and yet he missed the action, the smell of cordite, blood and fear, intoxicating, stimulating the adrenal glands. He missed the rush of combat, the excitement of pursuit, the hounds behind him, running close and baying at his heels. He missed the power, the adventure of it all. The mantle had been passed to others but they wore it in his name, and while it lasted, Julio Ramirez could at least derive vicarious release by following their exploits, charting raids and second-guessing their mistakes.

  Mistakes had never been a problem... until recently. Of late the game had taken unexpected turns, and now he sat before his favorite view, cigar in hand, and wondered what the hell was happening.

  No problem with the skyjacks. The plans had gone like clockwork, with America predictably capitulating, giving in to his demands while making noises like the victor. Propaganda notwithstanding, everyone on earth had seen the giant humbled, forced to bow and scrape before his tiny band of warriors. Everyone on earth had seen, and understood.

  The drugs were a problem from the start, and he recognized the fact that there would be some difficulties. Ramirez had no scruples when it came to dealing drugs — indeed, he had few scruples when it came to anything — but he realized that Western nations would respond to the narcotics traffic with missionary zeal.

  The West never came to terms with drugs, would never understand the Eastern mind in that regard, and so Ramirez prepared himself for opposition. It was worth the risk — especially since his sponsors would be picking up the tab and guaranteeing his supply — but looking back, he realized that everything had soured when they entered the narcotics trade.

  Durango was the first disaster. Escobar had blown it, pushed his luck too far against an unknown enemy, and he was snuffed out. Fine. Given the dynamics of their trade, a death had been inevitable somewhere down the line. Five agents in the field, competing for the most bizarre and dangerous assignments, could not hope to live forever. But Ramirez had enjoyed the company of Escobar, his sense of humor. As the first recruit for Project Raven, he had shared a special closeness with his namesake, viewing Julio Ramirez as a mentor, almost as the brother he had never known.

  Durango had been painful, whereas Mittenwald was merely startling. It had been close for Ludovescu, but he escaped — unlike the others. Ramirez had no inkling what happened, nothing but the bare mechanics of the raid, the chaos that it inspired in Baader-Meinhof ranks. Two years of close cooperation were jeopardized, and there were some within the German group who blamed the Raven, stopping short of any blatant accusations, hinting broadly that his inefficiency — or worse — had doomed their friends to death.

  He could not begin to fathom what happened in Toronto, with Khaldi's weapons transfer. There was no opportunity to talk about it on the telephone, but he would be receiving personal reports within a day or two. He knew, already, that an ambush was waiting when they went for the exchange, and that was disturbing in itself. Security was clearly failing, and it was but little consolation that his ringers escaped unharmed in two of three encounters.

  A back-check on security had shown Ramirez that official agencies, per se, were not involved. The hostile bodies in Durango had been former DEA, but if they had enduring ties with federal agencies, those ties were not apparent to his inside sources. As for Mittenwald and Canada, he had no clue regarding who blew his scores, or why. The German operation was not official; the Soviets had ears inside GSG-9, and would have known if antiterrorist commandos were responsible. As for Toronto, the encounter there was being handled as a clash of criminals, reported in the press as something of an eight-days' wonder, unexplained beyond the reference to weapons found abandoned at the scene.

  He would be hearing from the Russian, damn it; there would be no way around him now. If there had been no casualties, perhaps... but what the hell, it did no good to worry over the inevitable. Soon — tomorrow, or the next day — there would be a call, informing him that Comrade Rylov was in town and looking forward to the pleasure of his company.

  He
had dealt with Soviets before and would no doubt be forced to deal with them again. They were his bread and butter, masters of the project that supported him in luxury and ease. He owed them that... and still, it rankled him, being at their beck and call.

  The Russians were in debt to him, and it was time they realized as much. Without his name, his image, Project Raven would have floundered from the start.

  He was ready for the meeting, almost looking forward to it now, although he knew that Rylov would be angry, asking questions that Ramirez could not hope to answer. Panic was a gut reaction with the Russians, an instinctive veering off the target any time they hit a snag. It was the reason they were dying in Afghanistan, outfought by ragtag peasants in the bush. For all their might, their revolutionary rhetoric, they lacked the fighting spirit of the fedayeen, the Irish, the Japanese. Given half a choice, Ramirez would have cut the Soviets loose... but he could not afford to kill the golden goose. Not yet.

  It would be necessary to appease his contact, make the Russian think that Julio had the situation well in hand. No small task in itself, considering his own confusion at the moment, but with any luck at all he should be able to confuse the issue, keep the money flowing in from Moscow while he tried to nail the problem down.

  There was a problem, and Julio Ramirez knew that it would only worsen if he took no countermeasures. First, however, he would need a definition of the trouble, something that would lead him toward determination of the enemy's identity. If it had only been Durango and the drug connection, only Mittenwald or Canada, he would have opted for coincidence, the natural result of doing business with the underworld. A triple strike, however, staged in widely different target zones by enemies unknown, was something else entirely.

  Three strikes within a single week, in Mexico, in Europe and in Canada, spoke clearly of concerted hostile moves against his team. By whom? The possibilities were endless: the Americans, Israelis, French, Italians, Spanish, Greeks, a handful of assorted other nations theoretically too small to mount effective actions on their own but rich enough to hire it done. The drugs might be another angle; he knew that certain syndicates — most notably the tough Colombians — were anxious to eliminate competitors.