Annotation
OUT OF THE ASHES.
In the heat of an upcoming U.S.-Soviet summit, a dozen people in the Washington, D.C., Federal Witness Protection Program are executed. While acting as a security consultant for the President, Mack Bolan starts digging — and discovers much more than a Mafia-backed vendetta.
The witness strike is part of a sinister scheme to draw the attention of D.C. law enforcement away from the real targets: the American President and the Russian premier.
A madman's blueprint for world domination is about to unfold. His brilliant plan has been forty years in the making. The Executioner has only minutes to stop it.
* * *
Don Pendleton's
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
* * *
Don Pendleton's
The Executioner
Ice Wolf
You are the bowes from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
Kahlil Gibran,
The Prophet, 1923
One man can change the world with a bullet in the right place.
from Lindsay Anderson's film if…, 1969
The innocents are never safe in a madman's war. No matter how much blood a warrior sheds, or how willing he is to sacrifice himself for the cause, he can't save them all.
Mack Bolan
To the victims of armed aggression
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Mel Odom for his contribution to this work.
Prologue
The Past
Field Marshal Erwin Rommel raised a hand to his temple, plagued by one of the frequent headaches that were constant reminders of the Livarot attack that had almost killed him. He sought refuge in the garden behind his villa, though by all rights he knew he should be in bed, fast asleep beside Lucce. They had spent the previous day driving and visiting with their longtime friend, Oskar Farny.
Absently he rubbed the indentation in his skull, wondering why the flesh had no feeling whatsoever yet the brain beneath seemed to constantly ache.
The October chill made him shiver under the housecoat, and his breath plumed out before him in the spare moonlight. The doctors he had seen had prescribed painkiller after painkiller to help him get through the worst of it, but Rommel disdained taking them. If the pain was going to be a constant thing with him now, it was going to have to also be something he could master. Alone. By God, there was still a war to be fought, and maybe something to salvage as well if he could get the Fuhrer to listen to reason.
For weeks he had listened to bits and pieces of plots and counterplots about seizing control of the country from Hitler, yet none of them had seemed concrete. Except for the bomb blast in Berlin only a few short weeks ago. The fallout from that episode hadn't been completely sifted through yet.
He stumbled over a rock in the yard, thought about picking it up and discarded the idea almost at once. The headache was bad enough without risking additional agony by bending over.
"General."
The voice drifted softly through the night air, sending chills up Rommel's spine when he identified the speaker. He whirled about, unmindful of the sickening pressure inside his head, his right hand dipping into the housecoat pocket for the Luger he always carried. He leveled the weapon, searching the darkness.
"Put your gun away, General. Had I wanted to kill you, you would have already been dead."
"Von Thoma?" Rommel called in something more than a whisper.
"The same."
A group of shadows twisted to Rommel's left, and he saw the tail man step into blurred reality under a nearby tree. The major's hair seemed white under the moonlight. His eyes were hidden by pools of inky blackness, but Rommel would never forget their wild blue hue. Nor their inhuman coldness. "I could shoot you now for desertion," Rommel said acidly.
"I didn't desert, General."
"I looked for you in the retreat from Montgomery's forces at Alam al-Halfa. You weren't there."
"That's because I didn't retreat." An easy smile touched von Thoma's lips.
Rommel let the pistol drop to his side but didn't put it away. Major Wolfgang von Thoma remained an enigma, even though Rommel's acquaintanceship with the man spanned two years.
"I went into Cairo behind the Britishers' backs," von Thoma explained as he stepped forward.
"You're an SS spy, then?"
"Once, perhaps, General Rommel, but no more. Now I serve the German people. As I hope to get you to."
"I am serving the people."
"Are you? Or are you satisfying the whims of the madman who happens to run the country now?"
"Talk like that will get you imprisoned if not killed," Rommel warned.
"I know, but the truth dies slowly. That's why the Fuhrer hastens each departure as it arises."
"What are you doing here tonight?" Rommel looked over his shoulder to make sure his bedroom light was off. Too often Lucce woke while he was trying to relax on one of his midnight walks. It wouldn't do to have her walk up on someone as unstable as he knew von Thoma to be.
"I came to save your life," von Thoma said flatly.
Rommel grinned without mirth. "As you can see, I'm in no danger."
"Yes, you are. Tomorrow Generals Burdorf and Maisel will be arriving at your villa to let you know you have been implicated in conspiracies against Hitler. It's only because our Fuhrer respects you, or more precisely, respects the feelings your name generates in the German populace, that you will be given a choice of suicide over being executed."
The words had the impact of cold nails being driven into Rommel's flesh. The headache became a whirling maelstrom of raw agony. For a while, since the bombing at Berlin, he had been experiencing a feeling of impending doom. "Why should I believe you?"
"Search inside yourself," von Thoma suggested. "Why shouldn't you?"
Rommel remained silent, feeling the cold fingers of a bleak future close in around him.
"You're an intelligent man," von Thoma continued after a moment. "You see the writing on the wall. You know this war is over for Germany, but Hitler will never see that. He will push this country until there's nothing left for the German people. There's a new world dawning, and we can be visionaries."
"A Fourth Reich?"
Von Thoma shook his head. "No more Reichs. No more Hitlers. World power will shift after this war. The United States and Russia will be the two big superpowers. France lacks the centralization of government, and Great Britain no longer has the resources to call on. But neither the United States or Russia will be able to trust each other, not until years from now, and by that time my group will be ready to strike."
"And how do you plan to strike?"
"I have wealth and I have people who know how to make that wealth work for me. Already, at my base of operations in Cairo, my money is hard at work earning interest from the war, from munitions and from the alcohol the soldiers drink in the bars."
"All this since you have been there?"
"I have had two years, General. A man can accomplish much in that time if he truly believes in what he wants and really has a passion for it."
"Do you plan to come back to Germany and lead the new war effort?" Rommel asked. The pistol was a leaden weight at the end of his arm.
"No." Von Thoma shifted under the tree. "The uneasiness between the United States and Russia will escalate. Each will wish to dominate world affairs but neither will establish a firm position. I've invested heavily in science and technology as well, General. Diversify
ing my resources, so to speak. Even in this war we have seen new products and procedures come about. Vulcanized tires, new weapons, rockets, potato gasoline. Science is only now beginning to break its stride."
"You still haven't said how you'll bring about a new era for Germany."
"It may not be for Germany," von Thoma said. "But for the German people, yes, I will establish a way. We are a proud people, a people with history, a people deserving of more honor than the Allies gave us at the end of the last World War, or will give us at the end of this one. But there will be people to lead at the end of it, no matter what they are called a score or more years from now."
Rommel was quiet. For years he had been a devout believer in Hitler's policies. Then he had suddenly realized, too late to save the Afrika Korps, that the country was following a madman. Von Thoma had the same sound in his voice, possessed the same charisma.
"When the United States and Russia are at their weakest," von Thoma continued, "then I will strike quietly, setting them at each other's throat. Then the German people will come into what is rightfully theirs."
Rommel's headache had vanished, and he was surprised to note its absence. "Why do you come to me with this?"
"Because I respect you as a man and as a general. I want you to be with me."
"I have family."
"Bring them with you," von Thoma said. "There's room for all of us. If not in one place, then surely in another. Though I will want to keep you by my side. Your face is too well-known even in the Allied countries to escape detection for long."
Rommel stared at von Thoma through the shadows, wondering how the man's insanity had managed to capture his interest so well after everything he had gone through with Hitler.
"Will you come with me?" von Thoma entreated.
Rommel shook his head. "I can't. I have sworn to follow Hitler until the end of the war. I have given my word."
"Break your word! Haven't you been listening to what I've said? People are coming here tomorrow to kill you or ask you to kill yourself!"
"You offer a double standard, Major von Thoma," Rommel said with a trace of humor in his voice. "You tell me on one hand that you respect me for being a man of my word, then in the next breath you ask me to break my word. How would you see me if I left now and went with you?"
Von Thoma was silent.
For a moment Rommel thought he had pushed the madman too far, had found some edge for sanity to drop away from. Would the man attempt to kill him if he couldn't be swayed in his decision?
"Perhaps you're right, General. Perhaps we're both trapped by our destinies. Still, if you're able to survive the events of tomorrow, let me know. Escape if you can and come to Cairo, to the main court of the al-Azhar Mosque. Show this device around and someone will help you find me." Von Thoma threw a disk to Rommel.
The general caught it, surprised at its heaviness. Both sides of the solid gold coin showed a stylized bird that appeared to be swimming through the sky rather than flying.
"That's my sigil," von Thoma explained. "And if you look closely, you can see the lines of the swastika."
When Rommel looked up again, he could find no sign of von Thoma. Coldness spread throughout him when he considered the man's dire predictions. Was it true? Could the Führer truly believe him to be guilty of some conspiracy and condemn him to death? The war had taken such unexpected and bloody turns. Even children were fighting as soldiers.
He returned to the house, and his fingers shook as he dialed a telephone number. He had to tell a trusted friend about von Thoma. Someone had to watch out for the man in case his promise of death came true as he said it would. There had been enough war in the world already. More than enough by the time the latest one rolled to its inevitable conclusion. The gold coin felt heavy in his palm as he listened to the line ring on the other end. How many lives would von Thoma's scheme claim in the future? Rommel shuddered to think about it.
1
The Present
Easing the low-slung Pontiac Trans Am through the late-night traffic, Mack Bolan glanced occasionally at the clipboard lying in the passenger seat. He didn't doubt the information the Secret Service teams had put in the report he was following, but he wanted the chance to drive the route for himself. There was too much riding on this meet between Gorbachev and the new President. Not only would it be the Soviet leader's formal introduction to the Man, but it would probably set the tone for the upcoming international summit talks concerning the use of nuclear weapons. The last President had made giant strides in the world peace effort, and people in many countries were waiting to see what would happen now that the teams had changed slightly.
The sports car rolled like a silent shadow down Pennsylvania Avenue, nearing the White House. Bolan mentally checked off the numbers from the printed page Hal Brognola had given him earlier in the day, comparing the estimated times with what he experienced. The big Fed had been tense, irritated, as he told the Executioner about the information the CIA had turned up concerning the Russian's arrival, relaying the vague hints that they'd uncovered about an upcoming assassination attempt. Nothing definite, Brognola had said, nor even any idea about which country might stage the attempt. The Man himself had asked for Bolan.
He turned off Pennsylvania Avenue onto Seventeenth Street and parked the Trans Am in an outside space near the Renwick Gallery. After powering down the electric windows, he cut the engine.
There had been other threats concerning past visits, Bolan reflected as he watched the D.C. traffic flow through the streets. The Secret Service did a good job as long as the people they were guarding didn't insist on taking too many chances in open areas. With this assignment, they didn't have that luxury. The whole world would be watching.
Bolan believed in the reason behind the summit meetings and didn't want to see the tenuous thrust that had been built between the two countries go down in flames. Especially not here, with the Russians under the protection of the American government. That would serve the purposes of certain Russian factions who were protesting Gorbachev's «westernization» of the USSR and force the wedge already separating the two countries even deeper.
He settled back in the seat, grateful for the plushness of the sports car. He left the radio off, enjoying the silence that surrounded him. For the moment, he had abandoned the role of the hunter. He considered going to the hotel in the downtown area where Brognola had made reservations in the name of Michael Belasko. Maybe later, he told himself, after he'd had a chance to unwind.
The black sports car hugged the shadows in the parking lot, and Bolan was sure he was an almost invisible wraith behind the tinted windows… until the police car pulled off Seventeenth Street and rolled toward him.
The bright headlights of the vehicle splashed across the windshield of the Trans Am, reducing Bolan's vision to an assault of brilliant whiteness. He shifted, letting the lightweight leather jacket he wore slide open enough to allow instant access to the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle and the Beretta 93-R, but not enough to reveal their presence readily.
The police officers' silhouettes looked like two-dimensional cutouts against the brightness of the patrol car's beams.
Bolan narrowed his eyes and looked away from the lights, waiting for his night vision to clear. Chances were this was a legitimate investigation by legitimate cops, but the Executioner didn't rely on chance unless he had exhausted every other avenue. He balanced his weight inside the sports car, preparing to throw himself against the passenger door and roll clear of the vehicle if need arose. It didn't figure that whatever forces were planning the attack on the Soviet leader and the President would know of Bolan's presence. Hell, half of Brognola's team and the Secret Service hadn't seen him in the flesh yet. All they had been privy to so far was the background information Aaron Kurtzman had inserted into the files of the various security groups' computers — and the KGB's.
Bolan watched as one of the policemen stepped to the side of the car with his right hand locked around the butt of his
holstered .38. The guy was young, with a baby face and the blocky build of a professional linebacker. He didn't wear a hat, and the hot, dry wind that had risen blew his hair into short-cropped disarray.
"Could I see some identification, sir?"
Reaching out slowly, Bolan handed over the automobile package for the Trans Am that Brognola had given him earlier, as well as his «Belasko» driver's license.
"Keep your hands on the dash, please," the policeman ordered as he walked to the rear of the sports car.
Bolan lifted his hands and kept them in sight, trusting that Kurtzman's magical computers had fully fleshed out the Belasko identity without forgetting to enter the Trans Am's plates and registration in D.C.'s Department of Motor Vehicles. One of the policemen kept an eye on Bolan while the other went back to the patrol car to run the Belasko ID through the police computer.
Then Bolan's car phone rang. "Belasko," he said into the receiver quietly, shifting to monitor the nearest cop's movements in the side mirror.
"Striker?"
Bolan recognized the voice as Leo Turrin's, but the anxiety he heard alarmed him. Turrin had been a Bolan ally from the first bullet fired in Pittsfield, although the Executioner had learned the fact almost too late to keep the guy from becoming a casualty. Turrin had been an up-and-coming young Mafia lord then — as well as an undercover cop for the Justice Department. From time to time, the tightrope Turrin walked between his separate worlds crossed Mack Bolan's path, and in several cases they had stood hard for each other when the chips were down. In the barren soil of the hellgrounds, the friendship had flowered. Like Bolan, Turrin had adopted many names and still had access to more than a few. The latest was as department head Leonard Justice, operating out of Justice.
"Go ahead, Leo," Bolan said softly so that his voice wouldn't carry past the receiver. In the rearview mirror he saw the first cop, the one who had spoken to him, bend forward for a moment and flick on his flashlight to scan the sports car's plates. When the big man reached out to touch the car, Bolan's warning senses buzzed loudly.
Ice Wolf Page 1
