Patriot Play

by Don Pendleton

  “Deke. What do we do?”

  “Make sure everyone understands how serious this all is, but make them see it hasn’t shut us down. We need to step back and reorganize is all. Keep our brains working and our assholes puckered. I’ll talk to the man when he calms down. In the meantime work on the plans already set out.”

  Ribak put down the phone. He leaned back and stared at a blank space on the wall across from his desk. If nothing else, times were getting to be interesting. Seeger wouldn’t view it like that. His master plan was being frayed around the edges by whoever was working these attacks on his organization. That was the trouble with these self-styled radicals. They had tunnel vision as far as their visions were concerned. They never considered anything disrupting their operations, and when that did happen they had no real idea how to work around the problem. They saw dark clouds looming ahead and refused to see the glimmer of light in the background.

  Jesus, Ribak thought, give me a military mind any day of the week.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  West Africa

  Mack Bolan and Carl Lyons flew to Africa three days later and were taken from the small civil airfield to the U.S. Embassy via one of the official cars. They were met by Lyle Kellerman, the embassy attaché who had been instructed by Washington to afford the two men as much assistance as they required and not to question their presence in the region under any circumstances. As much as he resented being shut out of their business, Kellerman extended a courteous welcome to his visitors.

  Bolan, as Agent Matt Cooper, apologized for the intrusion and assured Kellerman he and his partner would not involve the embassy in any of their operations. Once they had collected their luggage from the trunk of the embassy car they requested a taxi be ordered so they could move to their booked rooms in one of the city hotels.

  The embassy connection had been used so that the luggage containing Bolan and Lyons’s ordnance could be brought into the country as part of the official diplomatic baggage, ensuring that it was neither checked through customs nor searched. If Kellerman had suspicions, he kept them to himself, glad that Cooper and Benning stayed at the embassy for the minimum of time.

  At the hotel Bolan checked them in and they went up to their rooms. As soon as he was alone, Bolan activated his Tri-Band cell and called the number he had memorized from Brognola’s sensitive data at Stony Man. His call was picked up on the third ring.

  “Am I speaking to Tomas Shambi?”

  The reply was slow in coming, the speaker careful not to allow himself to give too much away. “Who wants to know?”

  “A friend from America.”

  “Where are you calling from?”

  “Room 201 at the Bell Marie Hotel.”

  “Are you Cooper or Benning?”

  “Cooper.”

  “Shall I meet you as arranged?”

  “That would be difficult since no arrangements were made.”

  Bolan picked up the sigh of relief.

  “I can be there in ten minutes.”

  “The lounge bar. By the window overlooking the street.”

  TOMAS SHAMBI WAS a young black man with an easy manner. He arrived at the hotel on time. At the table he shook hands with Bolan with genuine feeling. Sensing Carl Lyons’s less than enthusiastic attitude, he simply nodded his greeting to the blond man. He took a seat that allowed him to face both men. The African accepted Bolan’s offer of a drink and asked for a bottle of Guinness stout, explaining he had developed a liking for it during his student days in London.

  “Do you know London?”

  “I’ve made a few visits,” Bolan said.

  Shambi realized it was all he was going to get so he didn’t pursue the matter.

  “It was very bad what happened to your people,” he said. “I still feel partly responsible.”

  “The report doesn’t read that way. You gave your help when it was asked for.”

  “But this time they died.”

  “And you knew this was going to happen?”

  Shambi’s shocked expression was real. “Of course not. They were my friends. Would I have sent them if I had known?”

  Bolan laid a big hand on Shambi’s shoulder. “Then it was not your fault, Tomas. Quit giving yourself such a hard time.”

  Their drinks arrived. Bolan took his and turned to Shambi. “To your friends, Phil and Anthony.”

  “Thank you for that.”

  “Tell us about this deal M’Tusi has coming up,” Bolan said.

  “Your FBI men found out about this latest deal. In two days from today M’Tusi meets with this man from the U.S.A. to sell more of his illegal diamonds.”

  “This American is Max Belmont?” Lyons asked. Shambi nodded. “Do you know who else will be there?”

  “A man named Kesawayo. He works for M’Tusi as his negotiator on these deals. There will also be another American there. Jack Regan. He sells weapons to M’Tusi.”

  “We know Regan,” Bolan said. “This won’t be the first time we have crossed paths.”

  “The meeting is somewhere in the heart of M’Tusi’s territory. He knows he will be safe there. No one dares go there without his permission.”

  “Time to lay on a little surprise for him,” Lyons said.

  “He will not be alone,” Shambi said. “He will have some of his men with him. M’Tusi goes nowhere without his protection squad.”

  “Wouldn’t be a surprise if there was no one there to share,” Lyons said.

  Lyons’s manner puzzled Shambi. He looked at Bolan for an explanation.

  “Agent Benning has an odd sense of humor.”

  “So it seems.”

  “Shambi, the earlier communication explained that the exact location of the meet was still not known. Has that been resolved?”

  “We will find that out once we have met with Father Agostini.”

  “Is that Father in the religious sense?” Bolan asked.

  Shambi smiled. “Yes. A priest. A most unusual man, Agent Cooper.”

  Lyons drained his glass. “I think I’m going to need another of these. Now we have a priest standing in as mission controller. A couple more beers and I might start to see things a little clearer.”

  SHAMBI TURNED UP the next morning driving a battered, dust-streaked old Land Rover. He parked at the side of the hotel and helped Bolan and Lyons stow their gear. Lyons walked around the vehicle, checking the tires and subjecting the Land Rover to a physical inspection.

  “Don’t worry,” Shambi said, “it will get us where we are going.”

  “In what kind of condition is my question.”

  That made the young African grin. “A very pessimistic man, Agent Benning.”

  Bolan agreed with him. “He had an unsettling upbringing. Makes him suspicious of just about everything.”

  Shambi got behind the wheel and fired up the engine. It roared into life, sending clouds of smoke from the exhaust. “This Land Rover has been blessed many times by Father Agostini.”

  “I thought religious benedictions were a one-time deal,” Lyons said.

  “Ah, but this Land Rover has little faith in itself, so it requires reassurance.”

  Shambi’s laughter almost drowned out the grinding of gears and the general noisy vibration as the Land Rover moved off.

  Once they were clear of the city and rolling across the arid plain, Bolan and Lyons armed themselves with hand weapons. Shambi watched with growing concern.

  “Don’t worry,” Bolan told him. “We need reassurance, too.”

  The landscape around them was dry and dusty. Vegetation was thin, what grass they saw, brown and listless. A few stunted trees dotted the way. In the far distance, to the northeast, they could see low mountains. Overhead the sky was hard blue, with barely any cloud to shield them from the unrelenting burn of the sun.

  Shambi drove steadily and the Land Rover performed efficiently. It was noisy, but the engine had been well looked after.

  “This vehicle has driven many hundreds of miles a
nd never let me down,” Shambi said. “When I go to see Father Agostini he helps me to look after it. He is a clever man.”

  “I’m starting to see that,” Bolan said. “His blessing of the Land Rover comes complete with a can of oil and new spark plugs.”

  “That and God’s help.”

  In the rear of the Land Rover were boxed supplies for the priest. Shambi had also brought along plenty of bottled water for them to share as they drove. He stopped at noon, parking close to a tree to gain a little shade. As they rested, Bolan took a long look around.

  “Is the region like this all over?”

  “More or less,” Shambi said. “The people have moved away from this area. You can see why. The best land is where M’Tusi and his army live. There is water and grass. It could be used for many things but M’Tusi steals everything and kills those who even think about standing up to him.”

  “What about the diamonds?” Lyons asked.

  “The source for them is within M’Tusi’s territory. He uses the people to mine for him. Terrifies them into working for him.”

  “And then sells the diamonds for himself,” Bolan said.

  “Yes. This is what he does.”

  “And the profits from those diamonds fall into the hands of dirtbags in the U.S.,” Lyons said.

  “These are the militia murdering their own people?” Shambi asked. “Now you have it in America as we have had for many years.”

  “It’s about to stop,” Bolan said. “We cut off their cash supply, we can slow them down.”

  They drove for the rest of the day. Shambi stopped just before dark and they made a rough camp. The African had brought along food. Bolan took the first watch, followed by Shambi, who insisted on playing his part. Lyons completed the cycle until dawn. Before they moved off Bolan and Lyons changed into combat gear, adding the full complement of weapons and extra ammunition. Shambi had told them they were getting close to M’Tusi territory, and Bolan had no intention of going in empty-handed.

  They reached Father Agostini’s small settlement midmorning. It comprised a few huts constructed from corrugated sheets and shingle roofs. The mission building, a substantial structure, was part home, part church. The whole place had a calm and ordered appearance. There was another Land Rover, looking equally as battered as the one Bolan and company rode in, parked outside the mission building. As they drove across the compound, people took notice. Many of them waved at Shambi. He stopped the Land Rover at the mission building.

  DURING THE LONG DRIVE, Shambi had told Bolan how the region suffered under M’Tusi’s control. The man had carved out his own empire from the desolate area, using brute force and intimidation of the already suffering populace.

  The prevailing conditions were just a part of Africa’s problems, a vast continent that struggled in parts to rise from the misery that had plagued it for so long. And as always, it was the innocent who suffered the most. People who struggled with existence from the day they were born. Proud people, with traditions going back thousands of years and cultures that might have benefited them greatly if they had not been cursed by the men with guns, the ones who armed themselves and rode the dusty plains in their noisy vehicles, terrorizing and killing in the name of freedom. Their kind of freedom, not one that the near-starving thousands would have chosen. If choice had been the meal of the day, their bellies would have been overflowing with a freedom that meant no more oppression; food that arrived when it was promised, that was not mysteriously spirited away to the storage sheds of those in charge; medical supplies that would release the children and old ones from disease. The irony was that goods were shipped to the region, but very little reached the people who needed it. It vanished, and there was no one who could stand up and demand to know where it had gone. The few who did, suffered for their courage. Mostly they died. Or disappeared. Some were tortured, then sent back so that the people could see what would happen if they dared stand up for what was rightly theirs.

  It was a situation without hope. And the innocents bore it with a courage that would have shamed their oppressors if they had the conscience that would allow them to admit their wrongs. The region’s people went about their daily lives in silence, heads bowed when the men with guns came.

  And their warlord, who ruled without compassion, was Joseph M’Tusi. Of all the oppressors who had walked their land he was the worst. His brutality knew no limits. He ruled by fear, by beating down any opposition with total disregard for any kind of sanctity.

  Only one man seemed able to stand up to M’Tusi and remain alive.

  Father Agostini. And from what Shambi had told Bolan about him, the American began to realize why even before he met the man.

  As they sat in the Land Rover outside the mission, dust still swirling around them from their arrival, Lyons spoke.

  “So where is this holy man?”

  “From what I’ve heard about him, don’t use that epithet in his presence,” Bolan said. “He’ll likely floor you if you do.”

  “I like him already.”

  FATHER AGOSTINI WAS A WIRY, brown-faced man of Italian descent, dressed in a black cassock. His lined face and sunken cheeks spoke of a life of hardship that he carried without complaint. Keen, bright eyes inspected Bolan and Lyons from beneath heavy eyebrows. He made his appraisal in silence, taking note of their combat clothing and the weapons they carried. As he assessed them, his thin hands made cups of black coffee.

  “Have you come with the intention of killing M’Tusi?” he asked, his English perfect yet tinged with his Italian ancestry. Asking the question, his eyes remained fixed on Bolan.

  “That is not the main purpose of our mission, Father,” Bolan replied. “M’Tusi’s life remains in his own hands. It will be determined by his actions.”

  “An ambiguous answer. My son, it raises the question, however, whether I can allow myself to became involved in your mission.”

  “We have no intention of compromising you.”

  “I feel that has already happened. Simply by you coming here I am involved.”

  “Then we will leave, Father.”

  Father Agostini laid a hand on Bolan’s arm. “Certainly not. I have just made coffee. Would you deprive a lonely man some much-needed company? Please sit.”

  “I was serious about not wanting to bring you problems.”

  “And I was just testing you. To see if your intentions were serious.” Agostini passed around the cups of coffee. It turned out to be hot, black, and had rich, spicy flavor. “Is it not good?”

  “You don’t get this at Wal-Mart,” Lyons said.

  “It is grown not far from here,” the priest said. “Now tell me why you have come here to face M’Tusi. Shambi did explain but I want to hear it from your lips.”

  Bolan told Agostini about the bombing campaign and the involvement of the Brethren and how the illicit diamonds were being used to help finance the militia group’s operations. Agostini absorbed the detail, allowing Bolan to complete his telling with the respectful manner he might conduct during a confessional.

  “I have heard about those terrible bombings and people who died in America. If I was not a man of God, I might question the persistent brutality we wish upon each other.”

  “But because you are a man of God?” Lyons asked.

  Agostini glanced at him. “I see you are curious at my reaction.”

  “Are you going to explain there’s a purpose behind what happened and your God understanding?”

  Agostini smiled. “I would not insult either you, or those who died, by such an explanation.”

  “Doesn’t it come back to if there is a God, why would he allow these things to happen?” Bolan said. “If he does exist and has such power, then shouldn’t he prevent evil taking place?”

  “Tell me why you stand against evil.”

  “Because we can. We have to. If we don’t, evil will swallow everything in its path.”

  “You see? Because you can. Yes. God has endowed us all with the free w
ill to fight evil. As free men we choose to do so. It is in all men to make that choice. The individual choice between good and evil. As in life itself there are many decisions to be made and as intelligent creatures we make our own.”

  “You’re saying that God allows us individual freedom of choice? To stand against those who have picked the wrong path?”

  “If He used his power to correct every mistake, every wrong move, it would remove our ability to develop. The human race would go on without responsibility. It would stagnate. How long do you think it would survive if those things were taken from us? A world of mindless drones never faced with a challenge. Responsibility. Choice. When we act on those things it allows us to advance. To reach far beyond our expectations.”

  “And you believe God has put us in this position?” Lyons asked.

  Father Agostini raised his hands, palms up. “My belief has given me the insight into His way. He puts us on the path and shows us that way.”

  “Father, you talk a good talk,” Lyons said. “Almost as good as your coffee.”

  Agostini refilled their cups. “My sons, it appears we have monsters in our respective countries. Those who bring death and unrest and who feed from each other to satisfy their own vile needs.”

  “Which brings us back to why we need to shut down this diamond pipeline.”

  Agostini considered Bolan’s argument, finally nodding. “I will do what I can to help. Even as a Christian I find it hard to hold much love for Joseph M’Tusi and those murderous followers who take great delight in what they do. I will ask God’s forgiveness for my less than charitable thoughts.”

  “Father, I’m sure you’ll be granted absolution,” Lyons said.

  Agostini smiled at him. “Ah, you are a hardened cynic, but this once, I am sure you are right.”

  As they sat and talked, Bolan and Lyons learned more of how Father Agostini struggled to keep the locals fed and ministered to their needs as best he could. He was aware of the shady dealing that went on but he was a lone individual, with little to offer except his religious conviction and a gentle hand. M’Tusi and the priest tolerated each other in an antagonistic way. Father Agostini stood up to the warlord, and the general allowed him his outrages. Regardless of what Agostini threatened, M’Tusi made it strict policy that he was not to be harmed. The African was smart enough to realize that killing a priest would attract more attention than if he slaughtered a hundred of the locals, so he pulled back from that and made it clear to his men that Agostini would not be harmed. There was another, more practical reason. As long as Agostini was around, the locals knew he would find food and shelter for them. Care for the sick at his small mission. It lent M’Tusi a degree of humanity for others to see. Carefully leaked information spread the suggestion that M’Tusi was not as much of a monster as may have been thought. Even in such a desolate and forgotten corner of the African continent, diplomacy and politically slanted spin went the distance. M’Tusi did not want to disturb that image and have hordes of interlopers entering his territory, so he confined his murderous activities to within his own backyard. That backyard comprised many hundreds of square miles of harsh, inhospitable territory. Within that tract of land lived scattered tribes in primitive villages. They survived, but only just, on what they could grow, on the cattle they raised, combating poverty and disease and the warlord Joseph M’Tusi and his army of murderous thugs.