Patriot Play

by Don Pendleton

  “Liam,” he said, “don’t worry about her. I know someone who will be more than pleased to take her off your hands.”

  “Who?”

  “My principal. Your benefactor. He knows this woman. He can persuade her to divulge anything she knows. Believe me, he’ll be extremely grateful for the privilege.”

  Brent was smiling when he walked by Valens to help himself to another tumbler of Seeger’s fine whiskey. He glanced at Ribak, giving him a brief nod.

  “Let her go with Brent,” Ribak said. “His people have the time to deal with her.”

  Seeger considered. “Lock her up in the basement until Brent leaves. I have too much on my mind to worry about her.” As Ribak moved toward Valens, he asked, “She was alone? No partner?”

  “She was alone. I can guarantee that. Figured she was watching us, and all the time we had her under observation. Her people might miss her, but there’s no way they’ll know where she is.”

  Maybe, maybe not, Valens thought. Just don’t believe it’s all going your way, Mr. Ribak.

  Ribak took her arm and hustled her from the room, along a passage until he reached a heavy door. Opening it, he walked her down wooden stairs to a large basement room. Windowless, it was furnished as a small dormitory, with half a dozen beds and a few chairs. A small table stood against the wall.

  “Toilet through that door. Drinking water at that sink. What else do you need, Agent Valens? All the comforts of home. We haven’t gotten around to cable yet, but if you feel lonely I can always drop in so we can enjoy a conversation.”

  “Fine. If you do, I promise to use small words so you don’t feel challenged.”

  “It isn’t me being locked in down here, honey. I’m going back up to the big boys. I’ll be thinking about you when I’m eating my steak.”

  Valens smiled. “That will be raw, I expect.”

  “Keep it up, Agent Valens. One time I’ll knock that smart mouth of yours right out of your head. Just keep pushing, bitch.”

  He turned then and climbed the stairs, closing the door on her prison. Valens heard the door being secured. She took a long look around the basement.

  Well, Clair, this time you really went and did it. Get yourself out of this little mess if you can.

  Stony Man Farm, Virginia

  BOLAN TAPPED IN the number he had been given for Saul Kaplan and listened as it rang and then was answered.

  “Saul? It’s Matt Cooper.”

  “Your people told me you have changed your name. Doesn’t it get confusing?”

  “Never thought about it that way. You needed to talk, Saul?”

  “Well, really I am acting as an intermediary. For our mutual friend, the lovely Agent Valens.”

  “Clair? Is she in trouble?”

  “She asked me to contact you as soon as I could. You are a hard man to pin down, Matt Cooper.”

  “What’s going on, Saul?”

  “Clair called and asked me to contact you. It appears she is on some kind of surveillance and felt you should know about it.”

  “Any names, Saul?”

  “One you will recall I’m sure. Eric Stahl.”

  Bolan’s fingers gripped the phone as he registered the ex-senator’s name.

  Eric Stahl wasn’t someone he would forget in a hurry.

  But why was Clair Valens checking him out? And if she was, did it have any connection to his association with the Brethren? More importantly, did Valens realize Stahl had an association with the militia group?

  Whatever Valens’s motivation for going after Stahl, it was going to involve her with the Brethren and the violent way they dealt with anyone getting in their way.

  WHEN BOLAN ENTERED the Computer Room, he found Aaron Kurtzman on his own, hard at work at his computer station. The cyberwizard swung his wheelchair around as Bolan entered.

  “Remember Clair Valens? Security agent working the Zero Project? She could be involved with the Brethren through Stahl. She sent me her cell number via Saul Kaplan. I can’t get an answer, but her cell is switched on,” Bolan stated without preamble.

  “Give me the number, Striker, and I’ll track her position.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  “No big deal at this end.”

  “How long?”

  “Hell, Striker, even I’m not that good.”

  Bolan smiled. He knew different. The man was more than good. Kurtzman had the answer Bolan wanted within a half hour.

  “I have your location for Valens’s cell,” the computer expert said. “It’s static. Signal strength has dropped a little but still strong. I’d figure it’s been at the location at least a day.”

  “Thanks, Aaron.”

  “Location is a small air charter field in Idaho.”

  Bolan jotted down the details, then asked if there was any news on Valens’s car.

  “Picked this up when I ran a trace on the license plate. A car with those plates was logged into the database of the Idaho State Police. Found abandoned on the forecourt of a motel outside Boise. Manager spotted it and called the cops in because it didn’t belong to any of his guests. Been there at least a day and a half. It’s close on a hundred miles between the motel and the cell phone location.”

  “They certain it belongs to Valens?”

  “No doubts. It’s her own vehicle. Not an agency car. Registered to Clair Valens.”

  “Abandoned car. Cell phone located miles away. But no Valens. What the hell has she gotten herself into, Aaron?”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Vermont

  Senator Vernon Randolph rolled his SUV to a stop, switched off the engine and sat listening to the silence. He normally enjoyed the tranquil atmosphere of the lodge. Surrounded by a tract of forested acres, the building overlooked a peaceful lake and had the rising foothills of the Green Mountains in the background. The scene had a calming effect on Randolph.

  This day it failed to work its magic.

  The visit held a tinge of menace. Randolph knew he had overstepped himself again. His natural curiosity, coupled with a feeling of impending unrest, had forced him to continue his investigation into Eric Stahl’s behavior, and now he realized he had taken a step too far.

  Some might have said that Randolph’s interest in Stahl bordered on the obsessive. Randolph would have refuted such an accusation. His interest in Stahl’s business came about because he had long suspected the man’s stance had not altered since forced out of office. Eric Stahl was too much into his agenda to give up. He had been wily enough to withdraw from view, limiting himself to his business empire while the Zero affair slid below the horizon. Randolph saw that as nothing more than a smoke screen. Stahl would never abandon his vision of becoming a top player. It was the driving force behind everything the man did. And sooner or later he was going to step into the ring again, using a different tack, maybe, but still with the big prize his ultimate goal.

  Randolph was a patient man. He went about his investigation carefully, employing tactics that kept both himself and the investigator he used well below the radar. Surviving for so long in Washington’s urban jungle had taught him the art of concealment. He never became blasé about his own survival. The previous encounter with Stahl, when armed men had attacked his home, had shown Randolph exactly how far his opponent had been prepared to go to remove any opposition. He held no illusions. Stahl would go to any lengths to do the same if he suspected Randolph was dogging his tracks once again. So he conducted his covert investigation with that in mind and instructed his investigator to do the same.

  The data that came his way was for the most part mundane, everyday information. Stahl appeared to be conducting himself correctly. Concentrating on his business affairs and little else. The facts did not deter Randolph. He knew his enemy and eventually Stahl would make a detour.

  It happened over a period of weeks.

  During that time, Randolph was fed details of Stahl’s increasing contact with General William Carson. Always done quietly an
d away from prying eyes, except that Randolph’s man maintained a close surveillance and obtained visual evidence that was presented to the senator.

  General Carson’s involvement whetted Randolph’s interest. He understood Carson’s politics and knew the man had wide-ranging influence with the three military services. He couldn’t see Carson working alongside the militia group the Brethren. He was a professional soldier. The lack of discipline and command structure would not go down well with Bull Carson. He would consider them weekend warriors. But there had to be something there, a reason Carson was aligning himself with Stahl.

  Randolph had spent time poring over the printed data and the few photo images his man had taken of Stahl and Carson together. His mind worked and reworked the various computations of the alliance.

  And then he received a call that made a lot of the pieces fit into the jigsaw. They fell into place on the basis of what he heard.

  What he heard alarmed Randolph and left him wondering how he could make use of the information.

  The following morning he had another call. One that left him slumped in his armchair, suddenly feeling cold and weary and every year of his age.

  His investigator, Rick Berkly, a man he had known for more than fifteen years, had been found dead in his car, in the parking lot of a downtown shopping mall. He had been shot twice through the head. What was it they called that? A double tap. Generally the mark of a professional hit.

  Randolph sat and let the day grow around him, warm sunlight penetrating the windows of his house. His mug of coffee became cold.

  Damn the man, he thought. If Stahl believes this is going to stop me, he has another think coming. He had no doubt Stahl was behind Rick Berkly’s murder. Guilt washed over Randolph, a sensation that cloaked him in abject sorrow at the death of his friend. A death he had brought about because of his desire to uncover whatever it was Stahl and Carson were up to. There he had been congratulating himself on exposing Stahl’s covert machinations, and his faithful friend, alone and defenseless, had died trying to keep that wish on track. It was no good telling himself it was the way things went. That risk was part of such investigations. Rick Berkly had spent his days and nights out on the streets, gathering the information while Randolph had sat in comfort and safety, pulling together pieces of paper and photographs.

  Now Rick was dead.

  And he, Randolph, was most probably next.

  That thought snapped him out of his self-pitying mood. Rick Berkly had died attempting to gather more information. What right had Randolph to sit and bemoan his own fate? His loyal friend was dead. It was up to Randolph to make sure he had not forfeited his life in vain.

  He gathered every piece of information he had collated and placed it in his attaché case, then he went to his bedroom and packed a carryall with a few items of clothing and personal effects. He changed into a pair of dark trousers and a flannel shirt, pulled on a pair of walking boots, then donned a weatherproof coat and a tweed cap. He took his cell phone and laptop, picked up his keys and left the house by the door in the kitchen that led directly to the spacious garage. In the garage he placed his luggage in the late-model, dark-colored Cadillac SRX and slid behind the wheel. He started the big engine. Activating the garage door, he reversed out, closed the garage door and swung the powerful vehicle around the driveway and onto the road. It was going to take him at least six hours to reach his destination in the foothills of the Green Mountains in Vermont.

  Randolph settled into the comfortable leather seat. The long drive didn’t worry him. He’d always enjoyed the open road, watching the world slide by as he drove. Only before, his driving had been for pleasure.

  This time he couldn’t get rid of the feeling he was driving to stay alive.

  IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON. Randolph, feeling a degree stiffer from his long drive than usual, pulled his luggage from the Cadillac and made his way up onto the lodge veranda. He unlocked the main door and made his way inside. Placing his luggage on the floor, he returned to the SUV and brought out the two brown bags of provisions he had picked up at the store ten miles back along the road. The owner knew him from previous trips, and Randolph had spent some time talking with the man before loading up and driving on. While he had been inside the store his vehicle was being refueled. It was something Randolph had learned a long time back. To always keep his gas tank full in this quiet backwater.

  He carried the groceries into the kitchen, went to the switchbox and turned on the electricity. He did the same with the water supply, filled the kettle and put it on to boil. He spent the next twenty minutes storing the groceries and taking his carryall into the bedroom to unpack. By the time he returned to the kitchen the kettle had clicked off, so he had to drop the switch again. He spooned instant coffee into a mug and waited for the hot water. He left the brewed coffee to cool and went out to the Caddy. Before he locked it he opened the glove box on the passenger side and took out a SIG-Sauer P-226 handgun and a couple of additional magazines. He took the weapon inside and placed it on the kitchen work surface next to his mug of coffee. He picked up the mug and drank his coffee. Mundane matters occupied Randolph for the next half hour. He checked the lodge right through, making sure all windows and doors were secure. He laid a fire in the big open grate and lit it, the stacked logs beside it plentiful to see him through the night.

  He considered a meal, but decided he had something else to do first. With a fresh mug of coffee beside him he sat in his favorite armchair and reached for the telephone. The soft dial tone assured him the instrument was working. He dialed a number he knew by heart and listened as it rang out. No one answered. Randolph let it ring until an answering machine clicked in.

  Hi, I’m not at home just now. Leave your name, number and message, and I’ll get back to you. Thank you.

  “This is Vernon Randolph, Clair. I need to talk with you as soon as possible. I didn’t know who else to speak to. Please get back to me. It is important.”

  Randolph ended the message and replaced the receiver.

  “SENATOR VERNON Randolph has been trying to contact Agent Valens,” Kurtzman said. “His calls came from the lodge he owns up in Vermont.”

  “He doesn’t realize she’s gone missing. Lucky you’re keeping a call log on her home phone.”

  “Luck?” Kurtzman rumbled. “Luck has nothing to do with it. It’s down to initiative and dedication.”

  Bolan grinned. “Right,” he said. “I should have known better.”

  “You want Randolph’s number?”

  “Yeah.”

  Bolan took the number. “I’ll check with Randolph.”

  The phone rang for a long time before it was picked up.

  “Is that you, Clair?” Randolph sounded anxious.

  “No, Senator, it’s Mike Belasko.”

  “Belasko? Of course. You worked with Clair on the Zero affair.”

  “Senator, you’ve been trying to make contact with Valens. Can I ask why? Has it anything to do with the Brethren and Eric Stahl?”

  “I know Clair has been doing some checking into Stahl’s business. I wanted to warn her to take care. You see, I’ve been doing the same.”

  Bolan paused for a heartbeat. “Senator, we need to talk. Stay where you are and I’ll arrange for you to be picked up.”

  “Mike, is Clair all right?”

  “Right now I can’t say. She’s missing. I’m looking into it. You just wait for my partner to come for you. Big blond guy. Goes by the name of Doug Benning. Just to set the record straight—forget Belasko. It’s Cooper now. Matt Cooper. Senator, are you alone at your lodge?”

  “Yes. I simply left my house and drove up here. Why?”

  “Expecting any visitors?”

  “Are you trying to scare me? If so, it’s working. Maybe I should put you in the picture. The reason I came up here unannounced is because an investigator working for me was found shot to death. He was a good friend. He was looking into Eric Stahl’s current involvement with the Brethren. He must ha
ve gotten too close. I decided the safest move was to leave Washington and come up here while I tried to figure out what to do. I wanted to warn Clair she might be in danger, too.”

  “Benning will be on his way shortly. At least now he knows your situation.”

  ONE OF THE Farm-based choppers flew Lyons into the Vermont area. It dropped him a mile from the lodge, then powered down to wait. Lyons cut off through the forested area, his GPS unit guiding him in the direction he needed.

  He spotted the dark SUV parked alongside Randolph’s Cadillac. A single, armed man stood guard by the vehicles. Lyons stayed put and scanned the area for any other perimeter sentries. He saw no one.

  Making a wide circle around the far side of the vehicles, Lyons came out of the foliage behind the sentry. He eased his way to the rear of the senator’s Caddy, checking out the weapon the sentry was carrying. It was a compact mini-Uzi. Lyons waited until the guy moved, exposing his back to the big ex-cop’s position, then moved quickly. The passage of his boots on the soft ground reached the sentry in the second before Lyons reached him. As the guy began to turn, the Able Team leader was already primed. He launched an unrestrained right that slammed against the sentry’s jaw, snapping his head around and bouncing it off the corner post of the SUV’s body, a glistening splash of red arcing across the panel. As he slid away from the vehicle, Lyons slammed his knee in under his bloody jaw, driving his head back with enough force to snap his neck. He grabbed the guy’s collar and hauled the slack body out of sight behind the vehicles.

  Snatching up the fallen Uzi, Lyons checked the mag, making sure the weapon was cocked and ready for use. He made a fast run for the lodge, staying low, and stopped at the veranda rail. He rolled under and flattened against the front wall, leaning to peer in through the window.

  An open-plan living area that reached as far as the rear wall held three men. Two were armed with mini-Uzis like the one he had taken from the sentry. The third man had to be Senator Vernon Randolph. He was slimly elegant even in his leisure clothing. The man was seated on a wooden kitchen chair, his hands resting casually in his lap. His captors seemed to be in a heated discussion, almost as if they weren’t sure what to do with their prisoner. One of them kept jabbing a finger at Randolph.