Bolan reached into his coat pocket. His hand re-emerged in a closed fist. He looked at the two politicians and opened his hand. A cloud of gray dust, together with some larger scraps, fluttered onto the carpet.
"Termites! They'll eat anything and everything, including all your precious papers." Bolan never took his eyes off Bambabele. "But you probably knew that even before we set off. You never were interested in the papers, were you?"
The former Kuranda leader turned away disdainfully, seeming to dismiss such a suggestion. When he suddenly turned back, he was holding a Mauser semiautomatic.
"You used us to steal the diamonds," came Bolan's cold accusation. He ignored the pistol pointed at him. "You used INGOT, Jeff Clayton, some good people inside your own country . . . . You didn't care who got hurt as long as you got hold of the diamonds."
"Why should I share Kuranda's wealth with an international conglomerate?"
"You don't intend to share it with anyone!" scoffed Bolan. "You've already arranged to sell these stones in Antwerp. To one Van Roon, I believe. You should have picked a more trustworthy fence."
Bambabele remained quite stony faced, betraying no curiosity as to how the American had discovered these arrangements. It was Malakesi who shook his head sadly, not wanting to believe the ugly charges. But the 9mm pistol in Bambabele's hand was eloquent confirmation.
"I won't let you!" Malakesi quivered with fury at being betrayed. He took a step forward. "You cannot steal . . . ."
Bambabele fired only once. It hit Malakesi in the chest. Dead center.
The ex-justice minister was thrown against the wall. His legs buckled slowly and his body left a vivid, sticky smear down the paintwork as he collapsed to the floor.
Bambabele was no amateur. Not like Luke Rawson. He would waste no more time talking than he had to. "Move back, both of you! Keep your hands higher."
"You just screwed your chances for political asylum," said Bolan.
"The diamonds will buy me refuge in any of a dozen countries," replied Bambabele confidently, picking up the lightweight container. "You're the ones in trouble. Two men, easily proved to be mercenaries, shot dead in a gun battle with an African diplomat, himself once a guerrilla."
"And you?"
"Oh, I shall have fled in fear of my life, Colonel Phoenix. It will be a long time before I . . . ."
Katz fired the built-in .22 just as Bambabele hefted the case in front of him. The hollowpoint slug smashed a large dent in the front cover and almost knocked Bambabele off balance.
The black leader snapped off another shot, just missing Katz, turned and fled.
The Israeli recovered his poise and was about to charge after him.
"No." Bolan stopped his friend. There was a look of bitter disappointment in his eyes. He had not wanted it to end this way. "Let him go."
They turned to the window and saw the Ferrari speeding away around the curve of the front drive.
BAMBABELE PASSED the Pontiac and drove on over the hill. His other car, a nondescript Buick with everything he needed already packed, was stashed at an abandoned farm about ten miles farther on.
But curiosity gnawed at him and—a growing suspicion that Colonel John Phoenix might have tried a last-minute double-cross.
He pulled off to the side of the road and checked the mirror. The Pontiac had not followed him. They were used to his comings and goings, he'd made sure of that. They would stay back there to log his return. Well, they were in for a long, cold wait.
He turned to the case lying on the passenger seat. Bambabele's delicate hands were trembling with excitement as he undid the latches.
Holding his breath, he jerked the lid open.
It had worked!
Six bulging pouches lay cocooned in the soft black lining.
And a thread dangled from the left-hand side of the lid.
It had just pulled the pin from the grenade that Bolan had taped securely to the inside wall of the case.
Bambabele realized he had only a few seconds left to live. Desperately he reached out to slam the lid shut.
But Bolan had outwitted him even on the final move.
It was short fused.
Bambabele saw only a pinprick of light, glowing white-hot. And the sound. Like the roar of a . . . .
Thousands of tiny steel balls cut Bambabele to shreds before the blood-drenched windows exploded outward. Two seconds later the gas tank erupted.
BACK AT THE MANSION Bolan picked up his Scotch and turned to Katz. "Here's to the people of Kuranda . . . whoever their new leader might be!"
Don Pendleton on
MACK
BOLAN
If the well-researched quality of Ambush on Blood River is very familiar to seasoned Bolan fans, it's because of Alan Bomack. Alan's work appeared previously in The Invisible Assassins (Executioner #53), a highly topical story set in Japan, and I can tell you he's a guy who knows what he's writing about.
Bomack's an ex-journalist who's lived in Africa and the terrorist-plagued Middle East. He's as familiar with Paris and London as you and I are with Las Vegas, San Diego or Indianapolis! Those of you who've read the saga about ninjas and bacteriological warfare will appreciate the degree to which his stories are torn from today's headlines.
In Ambush, Alan is back at his gutsy best with a story about the tragic character of Africa, where man wrestles raw nature in a timeless hellground. I know you'll get a lot out of his vision of Africa, because Alan Bomack has captured the hard essence of The Executioner and sees the dark continent through Mack's own eyes.
Also, he realizes Mack's life is an exhilarating adventure that we all share, and to which we can all contribute some meaningful dimension. Alan understands that deep down in our hearts, we dig the guy because we are the guy.
Stay hard.
Don Pendleton
Executioner 058 - Ambush On Blood River Page 14
