Whipsaw te-144

by Don Pendleton

  Whipsaw

  ( The Executioner - 144 )

  Don Pendleton

  Torn by political struggles and underground revolution, the Philippines are wide open to powermongers and would-be messiahs. Now the deadliest and most elusive terrorist-bomber in the world stalks its crowded streets, plotting an act that will shake the country to its core.

  Working under government cover, Mack Bolan has to infiltrate the terrorist network, find the bomber, then break him. Bolan is thrown headlong into the fire — from an unthinkable airport massacre to the steamy jungle where the heart of terrorism beats relentlessly.

  In a country where white-hot violence has become almost a way of life, the Executioner is about to cause some scorching heat of his own.

  Don Pendleton

  Whipsaw

  1

  The stink of dead fish swelled up in the alley.

  His stomach started to churn as he moved into the darkness.

  He thought for a minute he was going to vomit, and swallowed hard, the bitter taste of the bile rising all the way into his throat until he could taste his last meal along with it.

  It was hotter than hell, and the sweat rolled down the back of his neck and trickled under the rounded edge of his shirt neck. He stopped to get control of himself, leaning against the sticky wall.

  He took a step away from the wall, and something squeaked. It darted past him, a long, thin tail dragging along the wet pavement. He didn't have to look to know it was a rat. And he didn't have to count to know that there was more than one. They moved in packs, a dozen for each one visible. And it was that, more than anything else, that made him hate the Third World. The damn rats. Why in hell couldn't people take care of their garbage? It wasn't necessary to leave food rotting in alleys for days at a time, until every kind of vermin had a chance to eat its fill. These people were no better than savages.

  He took another step, and his foot landed on something soft and squishy. He steeled himself for the familiar smell of dog excrement, but this time he was wrong. Whatever he'd stepped in didn't smell that bad. It was wet and sticky. His shoe made a sucking noise when he lifted it, then some thing cloyingly sweet swelled up around him, much like overripe banana.

  As he drew deeper into the alley, the darkness seemed to suck the heat right out of his blood. He started to feel cold all over, and he shivered despite the sweat rolling down his chest and soaking through the underarms of his shirt. He heard a distant throbbing, like some sort of giant dynamo. He stopped again to listen, but he couldn't get a fix on it. The sound rose and fell as if it were stopping and starting, or as if the wind, or the distant ocean, somehow interfered.

  He shrugged it off and took another step, and this time the dynamo started to get louder. He accidentally kicked a splintered packing crate, and it fell into a pile of folded cardboard. The humming suddenly swelled in volume and broke into a thousand splinters. Then he realized it wasn't distant at all. It was the flies, sitting like some single, throbbing thing in a layer on the piled garbage. Their separate buzzes slashed at him as the insects soared up over his head, then settled back down.

  The noise gradually fell away until once again it sounded a hundred miles away. The smell of rotting fish grew worse, as if fanned by a thousand sets of tiny wings. He hated fish, hated the stink of it, the feel of it on his tongue. He couldn't think of fish without gagging. And he couldn't take another step in that damn alley without thinking of fish.

  He turned his head away, but it was too late.

  It swelled up in him like the first rush of oil as the drill breaks through and taps a new field.

  He doubled over, and the first wave of nausea racked him until his stomach hurt. He thought he would turn inside out. Again and again his intestines tied themselves in knots, trying to get out. He doubled over and braced himself with one hand on his knee.

  The spasm passed, and he turned to one side to spit out the horrible, rancid taste. He wished to hell he had a bottle of beer, a glass of water, anything to rinse it away. And he knew that he couldn't afford to think about it unless he wanted another bout of the heaves to sap whatever willpower he had left.

  Spitting that awful, dry spit, he shook his head and swallowed hard one more time, sliding past the puddle on the ground. He forgot about the flies now, and even the stink of fish was forgotten. All he wanted to do was to get away from the incontrovertible proof of his own weakness. Giving the mound of garbage a wide berth, he bumped against the wall of the building on his right. It jarred his shoulder, and his teeth clacked together. He thought for a second he'd chipped one, then realized it had been that way for years.

  He looked up at the sky, which seemed to have disappeared for a second. Then, like a narrow strip little more than a foot wide, he saw a band of black sprinkled with stars. He realized the eaves of the two buildings arched out over the alley, almost touching in places. It was almost as if he were in a tunnel with a skylight. He felt the walls pressing in on him, and his head started to spin. He closed his eyes to fight off the vertigo, shook his head to clear it and tried once more to concentrate on the business at hand.

  Ten feet, he kept telling himself, eight feet, six feet. Step by step, like a scared kid inching past a graveyard, he marked his progress.

  In the darkness, in the back of his mind, he kept hearing the squeak of the rats. He shivered, imagining the rodents trying to slither under his cuffs and up his legs. God, how he hated being there. He wondered whether that was why he did what he did, whether he hated such places so much he had a compulsion to obliterate them all, wipe them away as surely and completely as the teacher's pet washing the day's assignments from a blackboard. He asked himself that sort of question often. He never had the answer, but knew it didn't make any difference. He was what he was, and nothing could change him. And it suited him to think of himself that way immutable, irresistible. He was a force of nature, a fact of life.

  He was at the hard part. He could look a man in the eye in broad daylight, and put a bullet right between his eyes. He knew he could because he'd done it.

  He could design a bomb to look like anything from a Bible to a hair dryer. He'd done that, too. But in the damp dark he felt vulnerable.

  He shut his ears to the droning of the flies and groped along the wall until he found the back corner. It was tricky work in the dark, but he couldn't risk using a light. He didn't want to call attention to himself and, more than that, dreaded what unwanted things would be picked out by the beam. At the back corner, he leaned against the wall, taking long, slow breaths through his nose.

  In his chest he could feel his heart pounding like an angry fist. The noise of it thumped in his ears, his pulse roaring like white water through a narrow chasm.

  His mouth felt dry and pasty. It still tasted of bile and the afternoon whiskey. He placed one hand flat against his chest, pressing on his heart, stroking the tight skin under his shirt to calm himself.

  When his composure started to return, he ran through it all in his head one last time, just to make sure. He had the right building he was certain of that.

  And he had all the equipment he would need. One by one, he ticked off the inventory. He could even visualize the yellow sheet he'd used to assemble it. So meticulous he was that he always wrote everything down. Just to make absolutely certain. Then, item by item, he had gathered the tools of his trade and put them in the nondescript green canvas backpack. Then he'd burned the list.

  He imagined every unforeseen contingency and carried tools to deal with them, as well. He was perfect, and he knew it. So did those who employed him. It was why they paid him so well. It was why he could work as little or as much as he chose. But he was superstitious. He never worked during the month of June. It was the month of his bir
th, as well as his mother's. It was also the month of her death. In his calendar, June was a sacred month, his own personal Ramadan it was a fixed Lent, a time to reflect on the eleven months that had gone before. He wondered why he had agreed this time to work in June.

  In his head he said a little prayer, one of thanks for his success so far, and a petition for safety during the night ahead of him. When the prayer was finished, his heart had returned to normal. He could still feel it, but it was a good feeling, a peaceful, regular rhythm. He was back in control. The rats and the flies were behind him. And there was consolation in the fact that some of them would disappear by the following noon.

  He moved quickly, his goal so close that it drew him on like a magnet. His tempo quickened but his heart stayed calm. He was in his element now, the perfect professional. He heard nothing but the noise of his tools on the lock, saw nothing but the outline of his fingers against the dull metal. The lock clicked in almost no time at all, and he tucked the picklock into his back pocket.

  The door swung open and bumped into something against the wall. Glass rattled in the ancient wooden frame. He closed it softly, leaving it just ajar so he could pull it open with a snap of his wrist.

  Feeling ahead in the darkness, he made his way through the tangled junk in the back room. Old furniture, cartons of paper, several paint cans arranged in a precarious stack. A tall box full of fluorescent bulbs. He almost screamed when his face broke through a spider web, and the broken strands tangled in his hair and tickled his neck and ears. He brushed angrily at them, smacking at the skin of his neck and cheeks.

  He found the doorway to the middle room. Here, he knew, there were no windows. He clicked on a small flashlight and set his bag on the floor.

  Dropping to a squat, he undid the flap and took out the rest of his tools. He worked quickly. This part was the easiest. He liked to tell himself that he could do it with his eyes closed. One of these days, just to see if he was right, he would do it. There was practically no risk, not if you knew what you were doing.

  And he did. Better than anybody else.

  When he was ready, he put all the tools back and hefted the package in one hand. It felt just about right. Not too heavy for the size of the box, but not so light that it would seem odd. Leaving the flashlight on the floor, he walked to the door leading to the front. He'd come to the hard part the crucial part.

  To get the maximum effect, you had to be precise, even scientific. How to hide something in plain sight was the tricky part. You wanted your handiwork to stay right where you put it. Not only did it have to look as if it belonged, but it also had to look as though it had been right where it was forever.

  People had to see it without realizing it; they had to take it for granted.

  The front room was the largest. There was a little light spilling in from the street, just enough for him to move around without tripping over anything. A long coffee table covered with American magazines sat up front, under the broad plate-glass window. At either end, a low sofa, just big enough for two, or maybe for a mother and two children, filled the remaining free space along the front wall.

  He got on his knees and looked under the table.

  He could probably put it there, but that was too easy. Besides, the table looked heavy and it might interfere. The desk was out, because it would be in the way there.

  What about right on the table, he wondered.

  Maybe with a magazine on top of it, not to conceal it, but just to give it a touch of belonging.

  Why not? He asked himself the same question three times. When he could come up with no good reason, he went for it. A copy of National Geographic was just the right touch. Sitting at an angle, it showed one corner of the brown paper. But that was perfect. You could worry this sort of thing to death if you let yourself. But he wasn't going to let himself.

  He slipped into the back room, picked up his flashlight and grabbed his bag. He was moving smoothly, the uncertainty gone. Out the back door, which he pulled shut. Once more he had to make it past the rats and flies. Knowing they were there made it more repulsive.

  He swallowed hard as he tucked the small flashlight back into his pocket. Moving quickly, almost sprinting, he slipped along the alley. He sidestepped the puddle of vomit and nearly slipped and fell.

  Once he made the street, he allowed himself to breathe for the first time since reentering the alley. His heart was pounding again, but this time he relished it. Already he could imagine the result of his handiwork. Tomorrow around noon, he would wander by, just to make sure, and peek in to see if he could spy the corner of brown paper.

  Then, across the street, his back against the wall of the newsstand, he could reach into his pants. He could already feel the smooth metal, warm from the sunlight on his pocket. He visualised the sudden rainbow of glass, pieces sparkling like fiery jewels as they arced high into the air, caught the sunlight and tumbled back to earth.

  It would be good, and it would be the first of many.

  2

  Walt Wilson was a big man. His two hundred and thirty pounds looked out of place in the Brooks Brothers suit. His bull neck strained against a thirty-dollar silk tie, and his shirt, white on white, rustled every time he shifted his massive torso in the chair.

  Mack Bolan watched him quietly. He had met Wilson before. The nickname "Rosebud" seemed out of place on a man so huge, but Bolan had never bothered to ask Wilson where it came from. He preferred instead to let the man have one secret.

  And for that matter, to Wilson he was Mike Belasko, a friend of Brognola. So he had his own secret, and a high ace it was.

  Nor did he envy Wilson his job. A troubleshooter for the Intelligence division of the State Department, Wilson had no place to call home and no base to call his own. Wherever it got hot, Wilson got sent. He seemed to thrive on the challenge, but Bolan knew just how old it could get, and how quickly it could age you. Wilson was on the edge of a downhill slide. The next crisis, or the one after that, could be the one that pushed him over the edge.

  The two men sat across from one another with an ocean of gleaming walnut, smelling faintly of lemon oil, between them. At one end of the briefing room, a stark white screen descended with a pneumatic hum.

  It clicked home, and Wilson nodded to his assistant, who killed the lights.

  "First picture," Wilson said in a voice that seemed too high in pitch for someone so large.

  Bolan wondered whether Wilson's tie might be a little too tight for his own good.

  The projector's magazine advance hummed, a bright square of light splashed on the screen, was swept away by a click, reappeared, vanished with another click and was replaced by a photograph of three men. Bolan knew instantly that it had been taken from a distance.

  Without waiting for Wilson's question, Bolan scrutinized the three. He knew none by name, although one, the leftmost on the screen, looked vaguely familiar.

  "Know any of these rascals?" Wilson asked.

  Even in the near dark, Bolan knew that Wilson was watching him closely. "Nope. One guy, the one with the grey hair, looks sort of familiar, as if I should know him. But I can't connect the face with a name."

  "Next shot, Donny," Wilson piped.

  The projector whirred and clicked, and the photo was replaced by a blowup of one of the three men.

  Again, Wilson waited. "El numero uno." Wilson chuckled. "That is Juan Rizal Cordero. Ring a bell?"

  "No," Bolan said.

  "Well, he's the new kid on the block. We've been watching him for more than two years. He shows up at the damnedest places. Nicaragua, two years ago, was the first time we tumbled to him. Right after the attempt on the Ortega brothers. We lost him after that for nearly six months, then he pops up, of all places, in Beirut. Mossad backfilled our file. Seems he's been training the right-wing Christian militia there, sabotage and demo work, mostly. Then he comes out of the ground again last February, a regular tucking ground hog, he is, in Angola. Palling around with a bunch of Woolworth meres,
soldiers of misfortune I call 'em. That was right before Savimbi's plane lost a wing after the ANC conference in Nairobi."

  "You tie him to any organisation?" Bolan leaned closer to the screen, waiting for Wilson's answer.

  "Nope. The boy seems to be a free-lancer. He goes where the bucks are, I guess, but we don't know where he goes to ground. It's now you see him, now you don't. Kind of like a right-wing Carlos, I guess you'd say. Hell, for all I know, maybe he is Carlos. Change his nose, add sixty pounds, turn his politics inside out and you got a dead ringer." Wilson laughed in his high, lilting voice while Bolan chewed on his lower lip.

  The machine clicked again, and another of the trio appeared center screen. The blowup fuzzed a lot of detail. The man was sitting at an angle to the camera, and his profile was as wispy as breath on a cold afternoon. One prominent, dark eye looked like a burn hole in the screen, but the rest of him was hazy and indistinct.

  "Sorry about the quality," Wilson said. "Sometimes I think Fotomat does a better job than our lab."

  "Got a name for this one?" Bolan asked.

  "Not a syllable." Wilson sighed. "He's new in our rogues' gallery. We don't even know what nationality he is."

  Next to fill the screen was the image of the distinguished gray-haired gentleman. He was the one Bolan had seen somewhere but couldn't place or come up with a name.

  "If you knew anybody up there, it'd be this fella," Wilson said. "Charles James Anthony Harding."

  "Harding," Bolan muttered. "Harding I know that name."

  "Three Purple Hearts, a Bronze Star, a DSc. Four years in a POW camp, courtesy of Uncle Ho. Worked out of a think tank outside of L.A. for a while. Still there as a consultant, but mostly he stays in the Philipines. Did a stint on the Hill, then ran for a House seat in Mississippi, his stomping grounds, but lost by a hair's breadth, and voila, a thinker was born."

  "Where were these photos taken?" Bolan asked.