Another enemy squad had crawled through the longer grass and was trying to reach the alleyway behind the store. They were greeted with broad-bladed bush knives.
Jo-Jo screamed out a warning, pointing to the southwest. Katz could not make out a word; he scanned that sector with his binoculars. Two faint but sizable dust clouds were drifting in the air.
Nieuwenkamp shaded his eyes as he peered into the distance. "It looks as if we'll have our hands full, Captain."
Katz stared disbelievingly. "What the hell happened to Scarr?"
"Dead, probably."
The men under the trees were jumping out of the freshly dug trenches and racing back to find better cover in the village. They had spotted the Simba reinforcements as well.
"Captain, you take some men and. . . ."
Katz anticipated the order and was already moving away when the ground between them exploded in a shrieking cloud of shrapnel and debris.
Katz shook his head, his ears ringing. He did not seem to be seriously hurt.
But Nieuwenkamp was down.
The Israeli sprinted back to his fallen comrade. The major had taken a sliver of shrapnel right through the chest. It had hit him in the back. And his shirt now had a tattered, oozing hole in front.
One of the blacks saw that Nieuwenkamp had been badly wounded. He shouted across to the guy in the next trench. The men knew they could not hold off the Simbas for long.
The blacks started to abandon the orchard in force, retreating in sheer terror.
Katz bundled his bush jacket into a pillow for the dying officer.
The first of the frightened natives raced past Katz. He turned to check the orchard. Kruger, eyes glazed, was leaning out from the cover of a tree.
"Cowards! Scum!" he was screaming at his men.
He brought up his automatic and began firing wildly. Two men were hit. One cartwheeled forward and slammed into a pile of sandbags. The other made jerky motions like a marionette before falling backward into a trench, dead.
Kruger rammed home a fresh magazine, his weapon chattering from the hip as he chased after his fleeing platoon. Three more men went down.
Nieuwenkamp struggled to prop himself up on one elbow. He saw Kruger killing his own troops.
"Katz, get that bastard!" he gasped, grabbing Katz's hand. "You must get . . . ."
He fell back limp.
Nieuwenkamp was dead. Katz did not need his final order for what he was about to do.
Delon came running around the corner of the store. "We can't hold them off much longer. Those other bloody Simbas will be here any minute!"
"Get the trucks started. We'll run for it!" Katz shouted. He dashed down the street, pulling the Kiwi from its holster.
Kruger saw him coming. He had run out of clips for the submachine gun. He looked right into Katz's eyes and knew that the moment of reckoning had come. Not for shooting the blacks. No, Kruger made the chilling realization he was being called on to account for crimes and atrocities committed far away and long ago.
Katz's temper was controlled. He approached Kruger with icy dispassion. He knew precisely what he was doing. Those cold eyes sent a shiver down Kruger's spine as he recognized the face of his own executioner.
Well, he would take this French Jew-bastard with him! Kruger pulled out a grenade and yanked the pin clear with his teeth. His arm was sweeping forward when Jo-Jo smashed into him.
One powerful black hand crushed the German's fist, holding the grenade fast. They rolled over in the dirt. Kruger started screaming. Too late! Their bodies, locked together for a moment, were blown apart by the explosion.
Katz was knocked to the ground again. This time it felt as if a red-hot claw had ripped into his leg. His pants were shredded around the knee and soaking up a dark red stain.
Kruger, alias Schneider, was literally cut in two.
Katz struggled to stand up, took one look around him, then half ran, half limped toward the truck. Delon was revving it and ready to move. Men were still piling in the back as the Frenchman rammed it into gear.
Madness! Katz shook his head. Bloody madness! The Congo had cost too many good men already. It was not worth it. As the truck roared out of Shogololo, Katz vowed he would never return to this hellish place.
He would leave it to the vultures.
4
Bolan admitted Manning to the hotel suite, then resumed his telephone conversation. Manning gestured to the street outside the window. "The car's arrived for us."
Holding his hand cupped over the mouthpiece, Bolan said, "Let them wait. Anyway, April is giving me a geography lesson."
"Are you still with me, John?" said the voice at the other end of the phone, which was not scrambled.
"Of course . . . go on."
"I was saying that the final result of all the turmoil in the fifties and sixties was that the French Congo became a so-called 'people's republic.' And the Belgian Congo became Zaire. Katanga never did break away, it was just renamed Shaba province. Around the border today lie a handful of pocket-sized states like Rio Muni to the west. And Cabinda, which is under Angolan control. In the east, there's Rwanda and Burundi. Kuranda lies to the south. . ."
"And it's Kuranda we're interested in?"
"Right. Malakesi, the guy you'll be going to see, was once the minister of justice. He served under Kuranda's first prime minister, Bambabele. His regime was marginally pro-Western, but they were ousted in a coup about five years ago."
"So who's in charge now?"
"The nominal head of the country is a tribal boy-king called Buka Ntanga. Rumor has it he's retarded. But the real power behind the throne lies with his chief of internal security, the self-appointed General Mumungo." April paused for a moment. There was a note of real concern in her voice when she added, "From the reports we've got, this man makes Idi Amin look like a village priest."
"What did you get on Brendan Scarr?"
"Half Irish, half Afrikaaner, and totally mean. Been all over the world. Strictly a gun for hire. He was captured in that Angolan mess. For some reason or other they commuted his death sentence. He's doing life in Quita prison."
"What's the latest entry on him?"
"Two American mercs who finally got back home in a prisoner trade a few months ago reported he was still in there doing his time."
"And no intelligence updates on Kuranda? Is there a countercoup in the wind?"
"We've no input on that—which is why Hal Brognola would appreciate hearing from you as soon as you've discussed things with Malakesi."
"Will do, April. And thanks."
"Any time, Striker, you know that."
"See you soon."
"Take care, big man."
Bolan replaced the receiver. "Okay, Gary, are you ready for a ride?"
Bolan and Manning followed the chauffeur who was standing near the elevator in the lobby. They climbed into the waiting limousine.
THE LINCOLN headed north on the highway out of Toronto.
The massive high-rise apartments were quickly left behind. The big car quit the freeway and the urban landscape gave way to fields covered with patches of snow on both sides of the road. Bolan surveyed the Ontario scenery with detached interest.
They crested a low hill and the chauffeur slowed to a crawl. A beige Chevrolet was parked on the soft shoulder. The driver was smoking a cigarette while his companion dozed with a hat pulled over his eyes. They looked like a couple of salesmen taking a break from their calls. Bolan and Manning exchanged glances; neither of them believed that for a moment.
Up ahead on the left was a thick cluster of tall evergreens, evidently planted to afford privacy to the large house set back from the road. The chauffeur drove the big car through the tall hedge that flanked the curve of the graveled drive. The car pulled to a halt in front of a mock-Tudor mansion.
The driver slipped smartly from the car and opened the rear door for the visitors.
Bolan and Manning walked up the steps and rang the doorbell. The door
was opened by a distinguished-looking black man in a business suit.
"Good morning, gentlemen."
"Good morning. I'm John Phoenix, and this is my associate, Gary Manning."
"And I am Malakesi." Bolan placed the accent as that of a top British boarding school. It was the same voice he had heard on the phone that morning.
The man motioned them to follow him through the main hall. "It is very good of you to come at such short notice."
"Your proposition—what little we know of it—intrigued us," Bolan replied candidly.
"Good," said Malakesi. "Perhaps you gentlemen would like some refreshments?"
"Coffee will be fine," said Bolan. Manning nodded in agreement.
Malakesi seemed about to launch into a more detailed explanation for this meeting when a middle-aged man wearing an open khaki shirt walked into the lounge. He advanced on Bolan with hand outstretched.
"Colonel John Phoenix," Malakesi began his introduction in measured tones, "this is Prime Minister Andrew—"
"—Bambabele," Bolan completed the formalities.
"You recognize me," said Bambabele. Although he had recently re-emerged on the foreign-news pages, he still managed to sound pleasantly surprised. He gripped Bolan's elbow and gave him a firm, dry handshake. "You follow the news?"
"Professional interest," conceded Bolan. He quoted: "Andrew Bambabele, ex-prime minister of Kuranda, has left the Caribbean and is now believed to be staying with friends in the vicinity of Toronto. I think that's how Time reported it."
"Correct and properly vague." Bambabele gave an approving nod.
"Do the powers-that-be know you're here?"
"You must have passed their sentries on the way in."
"Of course," said Bolan, referring to the two men in the beige Chevy. "We spotted the welcoming committee."
"To tell the truth, I'm not sure if they're posted out there for my protection or to keep me under surveillance for their own government."
"A little of both, I imagine."
"Even after five years of exile, the powers-that-be, as you called them, still remain alert to the slightest shift in the winds of world opinion." Bambabele made an expansive gesture with his hands. "If they find they can live comfortably with the new regime, they will make disapproving noises and swear they're doing their very best to deport me. But, following the latest reports of Mumungo's outrages, I seem to be gaining international sympathy once more, so I expect that soon they will announce I am at last being granted political asylum."
"Thus gaining diplomatic leverage," added Bolan.
"Precisely, Colonel. Liberals of the Western world cannot be satisfied with simply acting liberally... they must be seen to do so, and then patted on the back for living up to their, um, principles."
To Mack Bolan, such honesty was refreshing.
"I ought not to sound so cynical," added the ex-prime minister, though without any trace of apology. "But let us discuss the proposition I have for you."
Bambabele served himself a gin and tonic, then nodded toward his aide. "Mr. Malakesi has already spoken to the person in Washington you gave him as a professional reference. You and your associates come with the highest recommendations. But let us waste no more time.
"I—that is, we, the people of Kuranda—would be indebted to you, Colonel, if you would lead a small patrol into our country, there to retrieve something that now morally belongs to us all, and bring it back out."
Both Bambabele and Malakesi watched their guests' faces closely, but neither man betrayed any emotion other than a curiosity for more specific details.
"Kuranda was born out of the division of the equatorial colonies. For several years it was the battleground of more or less legally constituted armies, guerrillas, the United Nations and les Affreux ."
Bolan nodded; this much he already knew.
Bambabele continued. "When the Simba Revolt swept over what is now the borders of Kuranda, the mercenaries fought a dozen courageous actions. In one small battle, a South African volunteer named Brendan Scarr abandoned the position he was supposed to be defending in the Mbanja Highlands and with two dozen or so men raided the nearby town of Tshilanga. They shot up the place, and in the ensuing confusion they robbed the local bank. Stripped it clean! Barely ahead of the Simbas, they escaped with the loot through the bush country to the northwest. About two weeks later, Scarr reappeared alone, empty-handed but in one piece, having paddled down the Makala and Kasai rivers to safety. It must be assumed that he killed all his men, presumably after burying the loot."
"And this is what you want us to recover?" asked Manning.
"The town Scarr raided had been the base of operations for a man called Willem Vandergriff," said Bambabele, ignoring Manning's question.
The name meant nothing to Bolan.
"Vandergriff," explained Malakesi, "was probably the most notorious diamond smuggler in all of west-central Africa. It was he who controlled that bank and used it to store the bulk of his illicit stock."
Things were beginning to make sense to Manning. "So Scarr must have got away with quite a haul in uncut diamonds."
"Yes," confirmed Bambabele. "Vandergriff was stockpiling a private hoard of stones that today would be worth more than five million dollars."
So it was to be a treasure hunt after all, thought Bolan. Would it be worth risking the lives of Phoenix Force to recover a few boxes of precious stones?
"There's something else I must tell you," continued Bambabele, almost as if he could sense Bolan's growing reluctance to get involved. "Unknown to either Vandergriff or Scarr, a man named Asiwa, the manager of the Tshilanga bank, was the key figure in organizing the movement that helped bring me to power. All the paperwork that coordinated our separatist movement and the liaison work with American agents was kept in one of the deposit boxes stolen by Scarr."
Now Bolan was interested. Very interested.
"Yes, Colonel, papers that could implicate American agents and other, even more unorthodox agents working for the West. Even after all this time, the names and the details must not fall into the wrong hands."
"What happened to Asiwa?" asked Manning. "He was killed in the bank raid."
"And the diamond smuggler?"
"Willem Vandergriff survived until a few years ago, when he died in Switzerland."
"Why didn't Scarr ever collect his loot?" asked Manning.
"For a long time he was kept on the run by men who Vandergriff hired to track him down. Scarr always managed to elude them. Then came the fighting for Angola in 1976. Scarr saw it as his one chance to recover the diamonds, by crossing over the border into Kuranda and making his way back to the upper reaches of the Makala."
"But things didn't work out for him, did they?"
"No, Colonel, they didn't." Bambabele smiled. "This time the mercenaries were so badly organized that they were routed by the Marxist guerrillas. Scarr was among those taken prisoner and put on trial. He has been serving a life sentence in Quita prison."
"Has been?"
"We still have an underground network sympathetic to our cause, and it has informed us that Scarr has struck a deal for his freedom. The Russians have sent in a new 'adviser,' Colonel Yagoda."
"And Scarr has made a bargain with this Yagoda?"
"Yes, according to our sources he is preparing to lead a long-range patrol across Kuranda to recover the treasure."
The final piece of the puzzle was now in place.
"And you want us to be there when they fetch it, is that it?" Bolan lit a cigarette. "You want my team to rob the robbers, as it were?"
"Exactly, Colonel. As soon as Scarr and his men have located the loot, then you would step in and relieve them of it."
"If you . . . when you succeed," said Malakesi, "it will be a decisive blow against any further interference by the Angolans, together with their Russian and Cuban masters. It will also make General Mumungo, whose own position grows precarious, into a laughingstock. He is, after all, supposedly in c
harge of internal security."
"And the proceeds from the diamonds would help finance your own return to power."
"Yes," agreed Bambabele. "But if you should fail, then not only would a wealth of uncut stones fall into the wrong hands, but they will discover the papers and the Kremlin will ensure that secret American involvement in African affairs is publicized around the world."
"Many of the people named in those documents are dead by now," admitted Malakesi. "Some of us escaped after the coup. Others, less fortunate, have been executed. But there was a large cadre that wisely chose to lie low over the years. They made little of the vital role they played in the birth of Kuranda, but even now they form the backbone of what resistance there is to Ntanga and Mumungo. If they should be uncovered, Colonel. . . it won't be a purge, it will be a bloodbath."
The longer-range strategic implications were clear to Bolan. The United States would lose its one opportunity to help re-establish a friendly power in a decidedly unfriendly part of the world.
"I beg you, Colonel Phoenix, to accept this commission."
"Hard to refuse," said Bolan, rising to shake the ex-prime minister's hand on it, "when the Kremlin's involved."
"DID BAMBABELE MENTION INGOT?" Brognola asked Bolan over the phone later that evening.
"No, he didn't say where the money was coming from. He left it to Malakesi to talk over the financial end. They've raised a quarter of a million for the job. They'll get a good return on their investment if we bring back the diamonds."
"Since they don't know you like I do, Striker, what's to stop you from running off with the loot?"
"Malakesi made it quite clear there was an emergency fund that would be posted on our heads if we tried anything like that."
Brognola chuckled as he tried to imagine any bounty hunter who would live to collect it. "I think INGOT put up the money. They're an international mining consortium that lost their concessions in Kurands when Bambabele was kicked out."
Brognola did not need to point out how much INGOT stood to gain by having a prime minister back in power who looked favorably on their own goals. More vested interests!
Executioner 058 - Ambush On Blood River Page 3
