As sleep moved in to claim him, Bolan prayed he would not dream.
4
He woke to the sensation of a strong hand on his shoulder and swung up the Makarov, the muzzle leveled on Kasm's face before the slender Arab could react. He eased the hammer down and checked his watch, surprised to find that he had slept undisturbed for seven hours.
"You were supposed to wake me when your shift was over."
"I had sleep last night, while you, I think, did not."
"The last thing I need is a groggy guide."
The Arab shook his head and grinned. "Americans. You think that I will not — how I say it? — go the length?"
"The distance."
"Ah."
"We're ready, then?"
"Almost."
The guide rummaged in a pack that had been waiting for them in the cave, producing linen robes Bolan recognized as caftans, favored by so many desert travelers in the Middle East. A keffiyeh — an Arab headdress — would complete the outfit perfectly.
"What's this?" he asked, although he had an inkling of Kasm's plan.
"Your uniform will do quite nicely for a meeting with Sheikh al-Jebal," the Syrian replied, "but in the meantime, we endeavor to be less conspicuous. The caftan will conceal a multitude of sins, as you might say." As Kasm spoke, he gestured toward the AK-47 that rested against the rocky wall near Bolan's bedroll.
"And you think the robe will help me pass for a native?"
"Possibly, if you resist the urge to speak in English for the benefit of strangers. When we reach the Eagle's Nest…"
He let the statement trail away, and his frown told Bolan that he was not certain what would happen once they made their destination. Bolan felt a measure of that same uncertainty, but he could not afford to let it grow.
"We'll manage."
"Yes." His contact did not sound convinced. "It would be better if we had a plan, I think."
"I'll have to play it by ear," Bolan told him. "If we find an in, I'll take it. If we don't…"
And there was nothing more to say. He took a moment to arrange the AK-47 on its shoulder strap so that it hung beneath his right arm, muzzle downward. The Makarov was shifted in its holster, from his right hip to the left, a cross-hand draw that sacrificed a fraction of a second, but that made more sense beneath the robe. He used the Tanto blade to slit his caftan on the right, from belted sash to armpit, granting quicker access to the folding-stock Kalashnikov. He tugged the keffiyeh into place, adjusted the headband for comfort and turned to face Hafez Kasm once again.
"I think that you will pass," his guide declared. Kasm had donned his traveling attire while Bolan dressed, his semiautomatic rifle casually slung across one shoulder. "But remember. I must do the talking if we meet with any strangers on the way. Until we reach our destination, you are deaf and mute from birth. Agreed?"
"Sounds good to me."
They shouldered packs and bedrolls, then left the cave once Bolan's guide had satisfied himself they would not be observed. Their den had been protected from the desert sun and was relatively cool, but now the baking heat struck Bolan like a fist, producing instant perspiration on his brow. The earth was simmering below them on the desert floor, but even altitude could not assure them total respite from the heat.
Kasm was pointing northeast. "Five more kilometers," he said, "until we reach a mountain spring where travelers are welcome. We can refresh ourselves there before continuing."
Five more kilometers. Bolan made it roughly three miles, give or take. It should have been an easy stroll, except the path they followed still led uphill all the way, negotiating goat tracks, blazing trails where mountain fauna had declined to go. The "highway," well below them, was a one-lane ribbon scarcely worthy of the name. No traffic passed as they were climbing, but Kasm kept glancing backward, toward the lowlands, like a fugitive expecting hot pursuit.
With mental time to kill, the soldier scrutinized his guide. The Arab seemed sincere enough, and he had spoken from the heart that morning; Bolan would have bet his life on it. He was, in fact, by trusting everything to someone he had met just hours earlier, but he was caught up in the kind of mission where you couldn't simply hit the beach, blitz everything in sight and fade back out again. Successful penetration of a hostile camp, inside a hostile country, made the buddy system mandatory, and if it was still too soon to fully trust Hafez Kasm, Bolan was prepared to grant a measure of that trust, provisionally.
He was a decent judge of character, all in all, and he assessed the Syrian as honest, even dedicated, in his way. If Hafez Kasm was a patriot, his loyalty to a homeland didn't blind him to the human frailties of the men in charge. He could revere the land of his birth and still resist the tide that swept so many of his countrymen toward chaos and destruction. Once a soldier, he could draw the line between combatants and civilians, terrorism and the conduct of a fighting man at war.
The choice to work with the CIA could not have been an easy one, all things considered. With a wife and family at risk, the very fact of his involvement with a foreign government spoke volumes for the Arab's courage, his determination to oppose the dark malignancy of terror that had fastened on his native land.
Would he succeed at last? Did he have any chance at all? Could one man — or a hundred — turn the running tide in Syria? In any country?
Bolan shrugged the questions off. Philosophy was not his field of expertise, and he would leave it to the thinkers in their ivory towers to debate the ultimate futility or worth of human sacrifice. He knew one dedicated man could make a difference — and he also knew that there were limitations on a single man's ability to shape the course of history. Each man on Earth was spinning out his days on borrowed time, engaged in fruitless games of beat the clock, and many never found a way to make their time count at all. Each man would face his private judgment day, regardless of his chosen role as poet, patriot or executioner.
Perhaps today.
Bolan marked a pair of vultures circling in the distance, mere specks against the shocking azure sky. They had no interest in him, their keen eyes focused on carrion below.
On level ground, the three-mile hike should have consumed an hour or less. Today, the rough terrain combined with heat and altitude to nearly double that, and Bolan's legs were aching when Kasm declared the first phase of their journey at an end.
"Wait here," he said, and Bolan noted that his contact's voice was lowered almost to a whisper. Crouching in the shade afforded by a stand of trees, he watched as his guide scaled a rocky outcrop then disappeared on the other side. He ticked off ninety seconds in his mind before the Syrian returned, a pained expression on his face.
"What is it?"
"We have company." He frowned. "Four men on foot, with rifles."
"Can we go on to the next spring?"
"There will be no other on our way," the Arab told him, shrugging resolutely. "We must have the water for our journey."
"We could wait them out." But even as he spoke, he knew that they couldn't afford to wait. The clock was running down on this mission, precious moments slipping through his hands.
Kasm could obviously read his companion's sense of urgency. The Arab shook his head and offered a cautious smile. "They may be ordinary travelers," he said. "Not all who pass through the mountains here are bandits. They should not feel threatened by a man alone, and I will offer nothing worth their effort for the taking."
As he spoke, he slipped the semi-auto rifle off his shoulder, passing it to Bolan. "From the point that I will show you, you will have a view of anything that happens. If there should be trouble…" He shrugged and left the final plea unspoken.
"You'll be covered," Bolan promised, "but you shouldn't go in empty-handed."
"Never fear." Kasm reached underneath his caftan and withdrew a vintage Webley revolver. He broke the weapon, checked its load and tucked it beneath his robe. "If you will follow me?"
Bolan's lookout post was roughly eighty feet above the point where
native stone had been collected to create a basin for the flowing mountain stream. The spring, in turn, was roughly twenty feet above the level of the narrow highway, access granted by a footpath etched out of the mountainside. Four men in brightly colored caftans lounged around the spring, enjoying shade from the trees that overhung the small pool. From his perch, Bolan had a shot at all four, providing he didn't allow them time to scatter, if and when the fireworks started.
The rifle in his hands was a Czech Model 52, chambered in 7.62 mm, with a 10-round, double-staggered magazine attached. Similar in overall design to the M-1 Garand, the weapon was a virtual antique. The Executioner's expression as he looked it over brought a cautious smile from his companion.
"It is accurate," Kasm informed him. "I have seen to that."
"Okay."
The veteran sniper found himself a niche and settled in. Kasm began the combination hike and crawl downslope with their canteens, all dangerously close to empty now. The strangers heard him coming halfway down and broke off their conversation, all four men immediately on their feet with weapons pointed at the new arrival.
Bolan pressed his cheek against the worn stock of the borrowed rifle, praying that Kasm was right about its accuracy. There was no time to make the switch in any case. Whatever happened in the next few seconds, he was bound to play the game according to the rules the Syrian laid down. But he was not obliged to like it. Not at all.
* * *
Hafez Kasm scrambled down the last few yards of sloping, rocky ground, endeavoring to keep his hands in view without surrendering his balance completely. If he fell, the strangers would be bound to laugh at him, and honor would demand some form of satisfaction. In the circumstances, even with the American prepared to cover him, it was a risk he did not relish taking.
Feeling better with his feet on level ground, Kasm put on his most ingratiating smile. "Greetings, my brothers. Peace to you this day."
"I know my brothers when we meet," one of them growled. "Your face is strange to me."
"A weary traveler in need of water," Kasm replied, a knot of apprehension tightening around his heart. He held up the canteens, his free hand tugging the sash around his waist to loosen it and let his caftan gap in front. "I mean you no disturbance."
"You disturb me all the same," the leader sneered, and his companions chuckled. "How can I rest with magpies all around?"
Refusing to accept the insult, Kasm made a show of glancing at the sky, apparently bewildered. "I regret your rest has been disturbed by thoughtless birds," he said at last. "By some good fortune, it appears that I have frightened them away."
"One still remains."
"A coward, then. He will not show himself."
"He stands before me, crowing."
This time, Kasm scanned the ground around his feet, still smiling. "Surely there can be no magpie here."
"A mangy dog, then, baying at the moon."
"In daylight?"
"He is blind as well as stupid."
"Then I pity him. If I may have the water that I need, perhaps the thoughtless cur will follow me."
"This water?" Turning toward the spring, the gunman frowned, his rifle never straying far off target. "It belongs to me."
"Perhaps you are mistaken, brother."
"No. You are mistaken. You have twice confused me with your brother, and the second time since I attempted to correct your error. Those who fail to profit from mistakes are foolish."
"I must beg your pardon and rely on your generosity."
"You are presumptuous as well as ignorant."
"Again, I must apologize. I was informed this spring was free for travelers."
"Your information is mistaken, as are you."
"In that case, I will leave you to your rest."
It was a calculated risk to turn his back, but he had no choice. His robe was nearly hanging open now, the Webley in its holster, inches from his itching hand. Before he covered half a dozen paces, he was frozen by a voice behind him.
"Wait! I did not give you leave to go."
"I beg your pardon."
It was timing, plain and simple. As he turned, one hand was sliding underneath his caftan, circling the Webley's butt and sliding out again, his thumb already drawing back the hammer as he made his move. The gunmen were expecting meek compliance; they were unprepared for sudden thunder as the Webley roared to life, its heavy bullet toppling the leader in his tracks.
Kasm was diving for the precious cover of an outcrop as the second bandit took a rifle bullet in the face, his body twisting in an awkward pirouette before collapsing near his fallen comrade. Thirsty soil was drinking up their blood as number three collapsed, his hands clasped across a spouting chest wound. From the slopes above, the sound of rifle fire rolled down like summer thunder, echoing against the backdrop of the mountains.
Number four was moving, squeezing off a burst of automatic fire in the direction of the upper slope without a target firm in mind. Kasm used up a heartbeat as he aimed the Webley, firing once at twenty yards. The heavy slug ripped through his target's rib cage and dropped the gunman to his knees. Before Kasm had a chance to finished off the job, however, the American had launched another thunderbolt downslope, its lethal impact marked by spraying blood and brains.
An eerie, ringing silence settled on the killing ground. The Syrian emerged from cover, checking on the fallen enemy from habit rather than necessity. All four were dead — he knew that at a glance — but it was better to be certain.
The American was climbing down, the rifle slung across his shoulder to free his hands. Another moment, and he stood beside the Syrian, his face solemn, eyes like chips of flint.
"Let's get that water, shall we?"
"Yes."
Hafez bent, retrieved the canteens he had dropped and was moving toward the spring when he was frozen by a sudden, unexpected sound.
"What is it?"
"Listen!"
Now it was apparent the American could hear it, too, and there was no mistake — the sound of an approaching vehicle from the south, traveling along the narrow mountain road. And with the sudden clarity of one who sees his doom reflected in the stars, Hafez Kasm knew that there was nowhere left to run.
5
Securing the bodies was impossible, within the time allowed. Bolan and Kasm dragged the corpses to a stand of cedars, twenty feet beyond the running spring and rolled them down a rocky incline to the bottom of a small ravine. They would be clearly visible if someone wandered off in that direction to relieve himself or stretch his legs, and they would soon begin to ripen in the sun, emitting odors that would carry on the desert wind. But it was early yet for anyone to smell the dead, and with a little luck, they might be overlooked.
They spent another moment scuffing at the blood-stained sand with their boot heels. Before they finished, Bolan saw the vehicle approaching, which he recognized as a military jeep, the arrogant driver keeping to the middle of the narrow mountain road. There were three men, two of them dressed in military uniforms. Their passenger, sitting in back, was wearing light civilian khaki, with a keffiyeh on his head to shield him from the sun.
"Remember, you are deaf and dumb."
"Got it."
They had settled near the rocky basin of the spring, canteens still empty as they tried to strike the posture of two travelers at ease. The Executioner had hoped their visitors might pass them by, but running mountain springs appeared to be a mandatory stopping point. The jeep was slowing now, the driver braking to a halt below them at the bottom of the slope. His shotgun rider had them spotted, nudging his companion, and the soldiers both had hands on holstered pistols as they left the vehicle.
The civilian took his time about unloading, watching as his escorts made the first approach. Despite the keffiyeh and the shades, his face was familiar. Bolan set a portion of his mind to work trying to place the guy.
"Salaam alaikum."
Bolan caught that much of it, and then the rest was lost to him as K
asm and the soldiers spoke back and forth in Arabic. He didn't speak much of the language, but he trusted that his contact would provide some kind of danger signal if their butts were on the line. He knew that he could reach the Makarov before the soldiers drew, but whether he could take them both remained uncertain.
Still, it might not come to that. Their hands were off their pistols, and one man was smiling. He glanced at Bolan and said something to Kasm, provoking laughter from the guide. Some bit of humor at the Executioner's expense, no doubt. He didn't care what any of them said, as long as they were on their way within the next few minutes.
Scuffling sounds from the slope revealed that the civilian passenger was climbing up to join them. At close range, he was even more familiar, though the Executioner was certain they had never met. A photograph he'd once seen at Stony Man, perhaps, or something broadcast through the media. If he would only remove the shades…
"So what the bloody hell is goin' on?"
Suddenly Bolan had it. The Irish accent clinched it for him, and a mug shot flickered on his mental viewing screen. It was a face he might have seen on Wanted posters when he'd been in London or in Belfast, but it would not be familiar to the average stateside resident. The FBI would have that face on file, as would the CIA. And there was a rather bulky file at Stony Man.
The passenger was Bryan Harrigan, a triggerman and sometime spokesman for the Provisional IRA. According to the files, he had been active in the cause since adolescence, boasting that he killed a British solder — the first of many — at the tender age of seventeen. A virtuoso with explosives, he had been suspected in the murder of Mountbatten and had traveled widely in the intervening years, one step ahead of Interpol and British justice. Surfacing in the United States, he had secured cash and arms from Noraid; popping up in Moscow, he reportedly had forged a gentleman's agreement with the KGB. Along the way, a dozen cadres from the ETA and Baader-Meinhof to the Red Brigades had made him welcome, learning from the master, offering safe passage in return. There had been rumors — unconfirmed, as yet — of secret meetings with Khaddafi, to discuss the possibility of Libyan support for IRA campaigns in Northern Ireland. Be that as it may, the Ulsterman was here, in Syria, and Bolan had a notion as to why.
Cold Judgment Page 4
