The Libya Connection te-48

by Don Pendleton

  "The conversation we picked up over the embassy line indicates that the Russians are giving Shahkhia the necessary backing and that the coup is set to happen immediately. Shahkhia spoke like someone with a wide base of Libyan support too. Most likely in the military. Considering the timing of Jericho's operation, and Jericho's intense hatred for Khaddafi, I'd say Shahkhia is our best bet as the buyer for whatever Jericho has diverted over here."

  "Is Jericho at the villa now?" Bolan's reaction was biased toward action. Enough talk.

  "We don't know, Colonel Phoenix. My guess is that the cargo itself is in the possession of this Kennedy guy, the mercenary. His force probably is at the villa in Bishabia. Meanwhile Jericho is off somewhere making the final negotiations with Shahkhia, or Shahkhia's people."

  "What kind of force does Kennedy have?"

  "Paramilitary all the way," said the Company man. "U.S. mercs, mostly. We've not been able to get an accurate manpower count. We do know there have been three or four civilian. Huey choppers inside the estate walls of that villa at one time or another recently."

  "What happens to the real Mike Rideout?" asked Bolan.

  "He'll still be home by the end of the week, just like Jericho's people told him he would," smiled Lansdale.

  "One more thing," grunted Bolan. "I must locate a woman, an agent from Puerto Rico, who Jericho is holding prisoner. She's here in Libya with him. Her name is Eve Aguilar."

  "Nothing on that, I'm afraid," said Lansdale in his languorous, East Coast prep-school style. "The most I can tell you is that Shahkhia is rumored to have a taste for Western women. Maybe Jericho has something in mind along those lines..."

  The two men were only paces from the door. The meeting had come to an end.

  "One last thing. I guess I should warn you about," said Lansdale. "It's something that's been coming through one of the other stations. But we're getting it only one piece at a time. The word is that the Israeli Mossad has already planted an agent of their own in the villa at Bishabia. No connection with us. You have been warned."

  Bolan smiled coldly.

  "Name of the game," he said, by way of a farewell.

  Bolan left the covert complex to rejoin the Benghazi street scene outside. He had a phone call to make. To a man named Kennedy.

  Yeah. Libya was definitely booming.

  The Executioner was here to make sure it stayed that way.

  But with a bigger boom, in the manner of Mack Bolan.

  5

  They sent a jeep into Benghazi to pick up Bolan at a designated corner in the busy waterfront district.

  The jeep driver was a hefty American, outfitted in lightweight desert fatigues, who introduced himself as Doyle, then said no more for the duration of the forty-minute drive from Benghazi.

  The adobe-type suburbs thinned out behind them. The jeep rocketed along a sparsely traveled blacktop highway that arrowed south into the rocky wilderness of desert.

  The Sahara again.

  The harsh wasteland of dunes stretched forever. The land shimmered with waves of heat beneath a bloodred sun. The wind blew in hot, scorching gusts. Thirst came quickly.

  Bolan knew from experience that this was a deadly terrain of sand vipers, scorpions and clouds of loathsome flies. The only visible vegetation were the occasional stunted pines or thorny, knee-high shrubs.

  It was startling, at one point, to see Arab tents and a flock of sheep and some camels amid this barren no-man's-land of sand and stone.

  An arid land. But to Mack Bolan, a jungle nevertheless.

  It was six o'clock.

  A mere thirty hours since Mack Bolan's assault on Leonard Jericho's yacht, the Traveler, on the other side of the world in Exuma Cay in the Bahamas.

  The oasis village of Bishabia was nothing more than a jumble of squalid stone houses and two main dirt streets.

  But Leonard Jericho's villa, screened by desert trees beyond the village proper, was in a class by itself.

  Doyle wheeled the jeep off the highway and along a winding approach to the front gate.

  The walled estate was a blend of Roman and Moorish architecture. Bolan spotted clusters of cedar and aleppo pine trees growing near the outer base of the wall.

  The entrance to the grounds was to the west. The concrete wall that surrounded the property was twenty feet high and six inches thick. An iron grille gate barred entrance.

  The gate opened mechanically and the jeep passed through. Thus far things were so much easier than breaching Marker's damnable conglomeration in Algeria's Tanezrouft region of this same desert. Grim memories.

  A brick gatehouse was situated just inside the wall. A guard, armed with a Galil ARM assault rifle, gave a sharp salute as the jeep rolled past.

  Lansdale's intel had been correct. Jericho's security force was paramilitary all the way.

  The wrought-iron gates closed automatically behind the jeep. Doyle and "Rideout" drove a short distance into a spacious courtyard at the villa's core.

  The core of Lenny Jericho's Something Big.

  Three single-engine jet-turbine Bell UHi-D "Huey" helicopters, buff-colored desert models without markings, rested on the pebbled turf of the courtyard. All three choppers were heavily armed, boasting 40mm cannons and 5.56mm miniguns mounted externally on turrets.

  Three alert mercs stood guard around one of the aircraft. Other "soldiers" lounged here and there at points around the courtyard, looking hot, oppressed, drenched in sweat.

  Bolan made the scene even before the jeep had rolled to a stop. The heavily guarded copter would be carrying whatever cargo it was that Jericho's forces had lifted from the States. The other two Huey gun-ships would guard the cargo when word came down to rendezvous at a trade-off point with Jericho and Colonel Shahkhia.

  The jeep stopped at the front of a flight of marble steps. The opulent-looking steps led up to the entrance of the villa itself.

  A man stood waiting, hands on hips, halfway up the wide steps. He was dressed in lightweight fatigues. He had watched the jeep approach. When the vehicle halted, the guy came down the rest of the way with an almost arrogant stride.

  This would be Kennedy. Blond-haired, boyish good looks did not fool Bolan. The guy's eyes told the story: the eyes of a killer.

  Kennedy carried a 9mm Browning hi-power in a cross-draw position at his left hip. Like those mercs Bolan could see who were not toting Galils, Kennedy also carried a Largo-Star submachine gun strapped over his shoulder.

  Bolan knew the Largo as a Spanish copy of the German MP-40, or "Schmeisser." The weapon, referred to by Konzaki back at Stony Man Farm as the Z-45, is fully automatic with a cyclic rate of fire of 550 rounds per minute and a muzzle velocity of some 1,500 fps. Hot stuff.

  Kennedy looked at Doyle as Bolan climbed from the jeep.

  "Was he wired?"

  "Now, he was clean," reported the driver. "No tails. He's all yours."

  "Check out the north wall with Bruner," Kennedy told the driver. "We'll be getting word to pull out any minute now."

  Doyle nodded, wheeled the jeep out of sight.

  A sweating Kennedy eyeballed Bolan. Bolan eye-balled the honcho right back. Even the long-term pain in his left shoulder from his last overseas mission would not deflect Bolan from meeting iron with iron, which was the way of his new terrorist wars.

  "Where the hell you been, Rideout? We could been pulled out by now."

  "Then I guess I'd have made ten grand the easy way," grunted Bolan in response. "The airlines tied me up. Got here fast as I could."

  "I don't like this crap, not knowing who's supposed to be working for me," spat the head cock. "You could be any-damn-body. How do I know you're Mike Rideout?"

  "You don't," said Bolan. "So you call it."

  Kennedy paused several heartbeats to decide. Few men who ever stood eye to eye with Mack Bolan carried more than a confused and invariably false impression of what the anti-terrorist avenger actually looked like. But there was one detail that never escaped the living memory of a
Bolan encounter. And that was the coldly purposeful eyes of the combatman. The Bolan gaze was actually composed of many diverse qualities and could switch from cold death to warm compassion in a flick — or could contain both at one moment. This was not one of those moments. Now it was all cold death. Bolan had the guy psyched and when Kennedy's decision came, Bolan knew that "Mike Rideout" was in.

  "Get yourself to the armory in the garage over there," growled the merc. "Arm yourself and suit up. Then go to the southeast corner of this place. You'll find a guy named Teckert. Tell him I sent you as backup."

  "Sounds like you're expecting something."

  "Always expecting, pal. Always ready. We'll be pulling out of here within the hour. Be ready to move."

  6

  The rider wore crude shepherd's clothing as a disguise. The gray charger beneath him soared at full gallop across the tumbling landscape of desert wasteland.

  Colonel Ahmad Shahkhia pulled rein at the crest of a dune. Below, a stretch of the Benghazi-Jarabub highway arrowed from north to south.

  A three-sided tent was pitched against the scorching Sahara sun, some twenty yards off the highway.

  One man sat in a camp chair, waiting alone in the tent's shade.

  Pornov.

  Of course, thought Shahkhia.

  The Russian would be here early for their meeting. He always was.

  Colonel Shahkhia clearly discerned, through the shimmering mirage of afternoon heat, a small bodyguard force, deployed around a cluster of desert vehicles parked another ten yards up the highway from the tent.

  The sentries were all heavily armed. Shahkhia spotted rifles, machine guns, a grenade launcher.

  The man in shepherd's clothing felt a certain satisfaction at this.

  The amount of protection for the general was an indication of their respect for Shahkhia.

  And what he was capable of.

  Yet, he must be careful. And cautious.

  This was a treacherous game he played. Especially now.

  Shahkhia fully understood that success, at this point, rested solely on his maintaining a confident facade to all involved in the unfolding drama.

  The rider spurred his mount into a sideways canter along the face of the sloping dune.

  Shahkhia wondered why the Russian had contacted him for a meeting. This was not a time that Colonal Shahkhia wished to be seen making contact with anyone who might cast the slightest hint of suspicion on him, most notably the Russians. Most notably on this day of days.

  Nothing would stop Colonel Shahkhia from keeping his rendezvous this evening with Leonard Jericho.

  Nothing!

  Shahkhia realized once again exactly how dangerous was this game he played with Pornov, the KGB agent from Moscow.

  Be very cautious, the rider reminded himself again as Pornov's tent grew closer. Do not make the same mistakes in dealing with these people who are about to bring down Moammar.

  Brother Colonel Khaddafi was one year older than Ahmad Shahkhia's own thirty-seven years. They were of the same tribe, and it seemed to Shahkhia that he had always been forced, by circumstance, to live in Moammar's shadow.

  Shahkhia had been aware of this from their very earliest days together. And he had always resented it. And always waited for the day when he, Ahmad Shahkhia, could step from the Khadaffi shadow and claim the ruling power of Libya as his own. It was his destiny, he would tell himself. His fate. He deserved no less. And now... yes, now the time had come. Shahkhia's visions of a lifetime were about to become reality.

  Ahmad Shahkhia knew that he would not make the same mistakes as Khaddafi.

  While in Moammar's shadow, Ahmad had observed and studied very closely, and he felt that he had learned his lessons well.

  He had even been with Khaddafi when the two men attended Britain's Sandhurst military college together, the only time in his life when Ahmad had ever been away from his beloved desert. The young men had walked about London in their traditional Bedouin robes, causing all manner of sensation at a time when such an act was considered an Arab defiance of the West. And, indeed, it was exactly that!

  Ahmad Shahkhia and Moammar Khaddafi had been lowly captains together in the Libyan army when Khaddafi commanded his efficient bloodless military coup against Libya's Western-backed monarch, King Idris, while the eighty-year-old monarch was out of the country in 1969.

  The country belonged to Moammar then.

  Khaddafi became, now and forever, Brother Colonel, the all powerful leader of his people; the invincible agent of Allah's will on earth.

  And jealousy ate at Ahmad's guts like a spreading cancer.

  Precious oil beneath the Sahara sand became the key to a power far greater than anything imagined by either Shahkhia or Khaddafi.

  The Soviet Union needed oil for survival as much as the West did. And Moscow was willing to offer far more than the petrodollars of the capitalists.

  Russia rapidly became Libya's principal arms supplier.

  Oil deals with the USSR had allowed Khaddafi's military to acquire more than $10 billion worth of highly sophisticated Soviet weaponry.

  But always, with the weapons... came conditions.

  Khaddafi — and Shahkhia — knew that Libya was expected by the Kremlin to supply the fist behind Soviet expansion in Africa.

  Still, such a role could only lead to more power.

  Khaddafi was happy to oblige.

  Colonel Ahmad Shahkhia shared in the power. But always — always! — awaiting his chance to step out from Khaddafi's shadow.

  Ahmad was careful to mask his ambition. He bided his time.

  Two months ago, his waiting paid off.

  He had been discreetly approached by General Pornov, of the Russian Embassy in Tripoli.

  For some time now, it was explained by General Pornov, Brother Colonel Khaddafi had become increasingly too "ambitious." For ambitious, read crazy.

  Pornov had not elaborated, but implied that the Kremlin was far from pleased. It was past time for a change. They were scouting for someone new to take Khaddafi's place, fast. Someone who would be more... appreciative, more stable.

  Someone like Colonel Shahkhia.

  A deal was struck. Ahmad would plan and lead a coup to overthrow Khaddafi.

  Pornov would supply the weaponry and financing needed to launch such a military overthrow.

  It was set to happen in two days. All was in readiness. The plan, to Shahkhia's mind, was perfect. Shahkhia had given arms to members of rogue Bedouin tribes who roamed the desert. The tribesmen would do the dirty work, attacking key military installations around the country that had been carefully selected by Ahmad and his fellow plotters. Well-coordinated attacks by the Bedouins would weaken Khaddafi politically as well as militarily.

  Brother Colonel would be disgraced, seen as a leader too weak to control civil disorder.

  Troops loyal to Colonel Shahkhia would then march in and restore order from chaos. And of course the tribesmen would be duly paid for their work, clandestinely.

  Yes, only two days... and Ahmad Shahkhia would never again stand in another man's shadow.

  But why had Pornov issued this summons to a meeting in the center of nowhere? There was no traffic whatsoever along this stretch of desert highway. Only the sand, the Russians and the line of telephone poles and wire, reaching from horizon to horizon.

  The uniformed Russian KGB man stood at the very edge of the tent's shade. He was waiting for the approaching rider.

  Pornov was squat, oxlike. To Shahkhia, the Russian pig farmer always seemed to be slick with perspiration in his confining brown uniform.

  The "shepherd" pulled rein short yards from the tent, dismounted and approached the KGB man. The Russian spoke in clipped English as the two men exchanged a handshake. English was the only language known to them both.

  "Colonel Shahkhia, I am glad you were able to keep our appointment."

  There was a smugness in the Russian's voice that was vaguely unsettling.

  "General
Pornov." Ahmad noticed that the general's camp chair was the only furniture in the small tent. The Russian and the Arab remained standing. "I trust there have been no complications in our arrangements."

  "Not from our end," said Pornov. His small eyes glittered like polished beads. "But complications, yes. It seems, my dear Colonel, that you have underestimated myself and the people I represent."

  Shahkhia felt cool fingers of fear caress his spine.

  "Underestimate you? How?"

  "Fool!" snapped Pornov. "You deal with others. You are to meet the American, Leonard Jericho, this evening at the army base at Aujila, to close a deal you have made with him without my sanction."

  Shahkhia prayed that he was not showing outwardly the rising panic he felt inside.

  "My General, you must be mistaken ..."

  Even to Ahmad, the voice did not sound like his own.

  "I am not mistaken," said Pornov icily. "It need not concern you how I came by this information. I believe that two words will suffice to persuade you, Colonel Shahkhia, that I do know of what I speak. The two words... Strain-7."

  "General Pornov, I'm sure there has been some mistake ..."

  "There most certainly has, Colonel! And it has been made by you. I fear you forget the power I hold over your conniving head. One telephone call to the office of Brother Colonel and that head will roll."

  "We are coconspirators, General Pornov."

  "Obviously I will deny any allegations you make against the Russian Embassy, and do you know? Colonel Khaddafi could not afford to disbelieve me!"

  Shahkhia felt his throat go as dry as the desert sand on which they stood.

  "My General, I had planned to turn over the consignment to you, once it was mine."

  "Do not lie to me, Shahkhia."

  "The man called Jericho would not deal with the Soviet Union," insisted the Arab. "And I thought something so important should be obtained for our cause."

  "You thought only of your own ambition," snarled Pornov. "You thought of the power that would be yours. You will keep your scheduled rendezvous with Mr. Jericho. I will accompany you. And you may thank your beloved Allah that your life has been spared. My people will contact you later today regarding flight plans for tonight. That is all."