Blood Testament te-100

by Don Pendleton

  "This could blow up in our faces, Hal."

  "In my face, sir. As far as I'm concerned, we never had this conversation."

  "Mmm. As for this other business..."

  "I assume I'm on suspension, sir."

  The President was bristling. "Dammit, I'll decide who's on suspension. You have time off coming?"

  "I'm on holiday through Monday."

  "Fair enough. If anybody asks, you're still on holiday. Through Monday."

  There was no mistaking the significance of that. He had two days to see his family safely home, wrap up his problems on the side, before he had to deal with Chatsworth's "evidence" directly.

  "Thank you, sir."

  "For what? We never had this conversation."

  "Right."

  "There's one more thing."

  "Yes, sir?"

  "I want a meeting with your friend."

  Brognola felt the short hairs rising at the back of his neck. "I don't know if that's possible."

  "Hell, anything is possible," the chief executive replied. "I leave it in your hands."

  "I'll see what I can do."

  "I know you will."

  He didn't care to ask what was behind the President's request. It would not be an ambush, he was sure of that. The Man had never worked that way. But setting up the meet could be a problem, all the same. The President's command was good enough for most men, but there were a few — or one, at any rate — who might not be impressed.

  One man who might decline the invitation from on high.

  One man whose aid now meant the difference between survival and annihilation for Brognola's family.

  One man named Mack Bolan.

  4

  Leo Turrin waited while the officer on duty checked his ID card against the master list and finally returned it with a laminated clip-on pass marked Visitor. Although he was a paid employee of the org-crime branch at Justice, ranking just below Brognola in the bureaucratic scheme of things, his name and face were not well-known around the beehive office complex at Ninth and Constitution Avenue. No more than a half dozen people in the whole department knew his function, which was fine with Turrin. If his name became a household word in Wonderland, his usefulness would instantly evaporate. Security was everything, and so he was content to be a "visitor" among the staffers who, in actuality, were his subordinates.

  The privileges of rank meant little to the stocky veteran lawman. He had seen enough of chiefs and Indians in Vietnam and later, as a "mole" for Justice in the upper echelons of the Cosa Nostra. Rank, which was bestowed by others, could as easily be swept away, and Turrin put no faith in others.

  No, that wasn't strictly true. There were several individuals, a handful, really, whom he trusted with his life. His wife and family, of course. Brognola, who had signed him on at Justice in the first place, serving as his personal control and only contact while he burrowed from within the Mafia, ascending through the ranks to find a seat on La Commissione before the end. And Mack Bolan.

  Always Bolan.

  Turrin rarely passed a day without some thought of his clandestine comrade, once a lethal enemy and now his closest friend. Their first encounter had been touch-and-go, before the hellfire warrior was apprised of Leo's double role within the Mob. But they had worked some minor miracles together once they understood each other. Turrin owed his life, his family's survival to the man from Pittsfield, and he knew that there was nothing he could ever do to balance out that debt. Of late, they had been out of touch, the soldier fading into limbo after all the shit came down at Stony Man, but Leo tracked his exploits through the media, and through confidential files that found their way across his desk.

  The Executioner was labeled "hit on sight," a designation normally reserved for CIA defectors and the sort of mad-dog psychopaths who roam cross-country, killing for the hell of it. In fact, the soldier did not fit in either category, and to Turrin's mind it was a goddamned shame that he had made the hit list in the first place. Still, his unofficial "resignation" from the Phoenix program, his rejection of the deal that had supplied a covert pardon for his other "crimes" had marked him as a renegade in the official view, unstable, dangerous to anyone and everyone.

  It was a lot of bullshit, Turrin knew, but there was nothing he could do from his position. Nothing, anyway, unless the soldier got in touch and asked for information or assistance in his next campaign. When that occurred, it would be Turrin's duty to report him, set him up, if possible, and see him dead before he had another chance to cut and run. His duty, sure. Except that he would rather kill himself than help to bring the soldier down.

  Goddammit, what a fouled-up world they lived in! Money-grubbing bastards were enthroned in politics, in giant corporations, sometimes with the blood still fresh and dripping on their hands, while heroes were reviled and hounded to their graves. Sometimes Turrin wondered if society had received its just desserts: besieged crime, inflation, chaos in the streets... and then he thought of Angelina, of the kids.

  The momentary introspection was depressing Turrin, as it always did, and he dismissed the morbid thoughts, intent upon his morning's mission. He had called ahead and found out that Hal Brognola was, in fact, expected in his office on this Saturday. The girl had seemed confused; Brognola had been scheduled for a holiday through Monday, but his early call had let them know that he would be available by noon. To Turrin that meant Hal would probably be in before eleven, poring over files and working angles on a dozen operations simultaneously, and he timed his own arrival to connect with Hal before he broke for lunch.

  His covert probe of cocaine sources serving certain senior congressmen and senators had borne surprising fruit, and Turrin knew that he should check with Hal before he forged ahead. There might be profit in avoiding scandal for a chosen few, providing they agreed to work with Justice on uncovering the pipeline. If they tried to stonewall, well, there were a host of ways to get the message out before election time, regardless of admissibility in court. No friend of politicians for the most part, Turrin theorized that some could still be salvaged, turned around in time, but he would need Brognola's go-ahead before he made the overtures. He half expected Hal to grumble at the interruption of his crowded morning schedule, but he had been grumbled at before by experts, and eleven months of digging gave the project top priority in Turrin's mind.

  The elevator reached Brognola's floor, and Turrin moved aggressively along the corridor, a quarterback in motion, carrying the ball for one more touchdown.

  He reached Brognola's office, brushed on through the open door and found two uniforms emerging from the inner sanctum, laden down with cardboard boxes full of files. It looked like moving day, and Turrin was about to challenge them when he made out the figure of a ranking Justice staffer bringing up the rear.

  The staffer's name was Erskine DeVries, and Turrin knew him as a yes-man, recognized for his ability to kiss up the appropriate superiors. Adept at sniffing changes in the winds of office politics, he had survived three administrations, wobbling from left to right at need, a humanoid chameleon intent upon survival and advancement. Leo didn't like the type, and in his fleeting contacts with DeVries, there had been nothing to incline him toward an individual exception.

  "Leo, hey! Long time, no see."

  Turrin pumped the boneless hand and let it go, suppressing a desire to wipe his palm against the nearest wall. "What's going on?"

  DeVries was grinning at him like a cat about to belch canary feathers.

  "Mean you haven't heard? Brognola's checking out. The guy's as good as gone." DeVries was on a roll, unable to contain himself. "He's history. Got one foot out the door, and one on a banana peel. I mean, he's out of here."

  "Since when?"

  "Since someone figured out the guy was doubling his bets. You feature that? The asshole was a sellout."

  Turrin felt the angry color rising in his cheeks, and he suppressed a sudden urge to drive his fist through DeVries's face. Instead he slid an arm around the weasel
's shoulders, lowering his voice to indicate a bond of confidentiality between them, drawing him away and to one side.

  "Hey, this is news to me," he said. "I was supposed to see the guy this morning. What's the skinny?"

  Favored with an audience, DeVries waxed professorial.

  "I can't go into too much detail here, you understand, but someone tipped us that Brognola has been playing footsie with the Families in Baltimore, New York, some other places. We got phone logs, videos, you name it. Primo stuff."

  "What's in the boxes?"

  "Cases, this and that. You know the drill. Whatever's pending, plus a few selected oldies for comparison. And this."

  From underneath his coat, DeVries produced an address book that might have been procured in any dime store, bound in imitation leather.

  "So?"

  DeVries looked pained.

  "So, buddy, this is just his trick book here, that's all. It's full of names and places, dates. Amounts."

  "You're saying you've got evidence of payoffs?"

  "Hey, what can I tell you, Leo? Some jerks like to write it down. It's like the Nixon syndrome, eh? That Watergate fiasco might have had a happy ending if he hadn't got a tape recorder for his birthday."

  When he laughed out loud, DeVries reminded Turrin of a braying jackass. Wincing, Leo forced a grin and waited for the moment of hilarity to pass.

  "So what's the deal?" he asked when he could get a word in edgewise. "Is the guy already out, or what?"

  DeVries dismissed the question with a shrug.

  "Nobody's briefed me on the disposition yet. They'll have to wade through all this shit before they file, I guess, but if the bastard owed me money, I'd collect it while I could."

  The braying laugh, abrading Leo's nerves like fingernails across a blackboard, was suddenly cut short as Hal Brognola crossed the threshold.

  "Hey, I'll catch you later," DeVries mumbled, steering wide around Brognola, eyes averted as he navigated toward the door.

  They stood alone in the reception room, deserted by the vultures now, communicating silently with eyes that never wavered. It was Hal who broke the ice a moment later.

  "Perfect timing."

  "Hal..."

  Brognola raised a hand to silence him.

  "In here," he said and nodded toward the inner office. Leo followed on his heels and closed the door behind himself.

  "We might not be alone," Brognola told him simply, stooping to check beneath his desk, the swivel chair. There was no way to search a modern office thoroughly with naked eyes and empty hands, but they spent twenty minutes going through the basics, checking furniture and fixtures, lifting artwork off the walls and rummaging through drawers. Hal unscrewed the earpiece and the mouthpiece of his telephone receiver, slipped the base plate off and poked around inside before he satisfied himself that it had not been tampered with. He riffled through the sparse remaining files while Leo checked the heater ducts. When they were finished, Hal sat down behind his desk and motioned Leo toward a chair directly opposite.

  "I'm in a bind," he said, presenting Turrin with the understatement of the year. "Somebody's got me marked as a mole."

  "If I can help..."

  "We'll get to that," Brognola interrupted. "First, I want to put you in the picture. When you've heard me out, if you're inclined to take the chance, at least we'll both be going into it with open eyes."

  "All right."

  There was no doubt in Turrin's mind that he would offer any possible assistance, but he recognized Brognola's need to fill him in before accepting a commitment. Hal would no more let a friend expose himself to unknown risks than he would sell out his own department. It was unthinkable.

  In short, clipped sentences, the big Fed told him everything. The disappearance of his wife and children. The communication from their obvious abductors. His return to Washington, the Oval Office meeting, and his confrontation with the manufactured "evidence" of personal corruption. He was waiting for another call at noon, some thirteen minutes off.

  "What have they got, exactly? Did you see this so-called evidence?"

  Brognola shook his head. "I'll have to let the lawyers hassle that," he said. "Right now my top priority is Helen and the kids."

  "It's got to be connected," Turrin said unnecessarily.

  "Of course. I just can't bother with the job right now."

  "Were you suspended?"

  "Not exactly. I'm on holiday, through Monday."

  "Well, that's something, anyway."

  "It's all I'm going to get."

  "Okay, so let's run down a list of possibles."

  "I've got till Monday, Leo, not till New Year's."

  "We can make a start..."

  "No time," Brognola said again. "I'm going to hear the bastards out and play along with them until I find an opening."

  "It's too damned risky."

  "Well, I hadn't planned on going in alone."

  "All right. Just tell me when and where. We'll roll these scumbags up and shake 'em till they rattle."

  Hal was watching him through narrowed eyes. "Not us," he said. "I'm looking for a specialist."

  Turrin had been half expecting it, and still the statement, voiced aloud, had come as a surprise.

  "Well, sure... I mean, you've got some top-notch talent in the program."

  "I can't touch it, Leo. Ground rules. I've got sixty hours, tops, and I'm required to go outside the house."

  The answer had been looking at him all along, but Turrin was reluctant to suggest the only viable alternative. He waited for Brognola, letting him take the initiative.

  "I need to get in touch with Striker."

  Once spoken, it became a problem they could deal with logically, deliberately. Both men were fully conscious of the risks involved, the dangers to themselves, the precious hostages and to the man they called Striker. Turrin knew that he could walk out now, refuse to put his future on the line, and no one — least of all Brognola — would think less of him for his decision.

  No one but himself.

  The former capo mafioso understood his duty, as defined by printed guidelines, and he also recognized a deeper obligation to the man who faced him across the empty desk. Brognola had defended Turrin countless times, had saved his ass from the congressional investigators and from leaks inside his own department, keeping him alive while he fulfilled his mission in the syndicate. When he emerged to claim his rightful place at Justice, Hal had been his sponsor, fending off the others who believed that Leo was a risk, his motives suspect by the very fact that he had spent so many years inside the Mob. He owed Brognola everything he had, and short of sacrificing Angelina or the kids, he was prepared to pay that debt with any means at his disposal.

  "I can make some calls," he said.

  Brognola didn't answer for a moment. He was staring at the clock, as if he could advance the minute hand to noon by force of will alone. When Leo checked his watch, he found that five minutes were left before the scheduled call.

  "I'd better get to work on it," he said, already on his feet before Brognola could respond.

  "Take care."

  The big Fed's voice was soft and faraway, the normal gruffness tempered by a sorrow that could never be described at secondhand. It had to be experienced — as Leo had experienced it for himself in Pittsfield during Bolan's early war against the Mafia. A faction of the Marinello Family had taken Angelina from him, looking for a handle that would make him crawl, ideally blow his cover and reveal Turrin as a mole. For a brief eternity he had been faced with the destruction of his life, the loss of everything he cared for in the world. There had been nothing Hal could do from Washington, no magic tricks tucked up his sleeves. The mission had required a specialist.

  Like now.

  A hellfire warrior who could bend the rules or break them as he chose, with the impunity of one who stands outside the system, looking in. A dedicated soldier who was ready to commit himself and risk his life on behalf of others without thinking twice abou
t the costs.

  Their situations were identical, and Turrin knew that Hal had used up his other options before he mentioned Striker's name. The guy was like a frigging doomsday weapon — you could not control him; you could only point him in the general direction, turn him loose and pray. There were no guarantees that he would finally succeed, no guarantees of any kind — except that he would do his best, use every means at his disposal to prevent unnecessary harm from coming to the innocent, to any noncombatant.

  As he closed the office door behind him, Turrin wondered what had happened to the noncombatants, anyway.

  Increasingly the lines were blurred, and he could not distinguish friend from enemy, civilians from belligerents. Increasingly, he had begun to share Striker's view, which held that there were battle lines on every front, insidious opponents waiting for an opportunity to strike on every side. Your enemy might be the syndicate, a clutch of terrorist fanatics or the homicidal boy next door, and any man committed to the preservation of society who, once he relaxed his guard, could count upon no mercy from the opposition.

  Turrin knew where Bolan could be found — if not precisely, then at least in general terms. His means of making contact were distinctly limited, but there were ways, and he would spare no effort on behalf of Hal Brognola's cause. The soldier would respond, if he could get in touch before it was too late. If Bolan had an opportunity to extricate himself from the campaign in which he was involved. If he had not become a casualty by now.

  Too many ifs.

  It was the only chance Brognola had, and Leo meant to play it out, whichever way it went. If he could not touch base with Striker, Leo was prepared to stand with Hal and face the enemy alone, no matter what the risk.

  It was his duty to a friend, no matter what the rule book said. Some moral obligations never found expression in the printed guidelines, but the lawman knew precisely where they lay.

  It was a trait he shared in common with the soldier known as Striker. There were too few like him in the modern world, but one could be enough.

  One man with skill, determination and a will to win.

  One man like Bolan, sure.