Cold Fusion

by Don Pendleton

  “I get it. It could be a free-for-all. So how do I fit into this?”

  “We know that the auction is to be held in the Middle East. Invitation only. Small teams from each bidder. The location is to be kept secret until the last moment, to avoid interference.”

  “I’d like to see how they plan to do that. Every bidder is going to have a team ready to go in and wipe out the opposition if they don’t come out on top.”

  “That’s my concern. If that happens, then we end up with a very confusing bloodbath on soil that lies in a very contentious zone. You can bet your ass that we’ll have people there, from an unidentified and unidentifiable agency. If they get caught up in this, they’ll be the ones assigned culpability.”

  “That’s one thing we’ve had enough of in that region,” Bolan agreed. “Your point is well taken. Am I right in assuming that this will be an unknown quantity, even to Stony Man?”

  “You can get intel, but the purpose of that intel—”

  Bolan smiled. “Bear will love that. It’ll drive him even more crazy than knowing about this place. So my job is to get in...and then what?”

  “Stop the auction.”

  “Hal, there’s going to be enough hardware and personnel around there for a medium-sized army.”

  Brognola grinned. “There won’t be an auction to stop if you secure the merchandise.”

  “You want me to find the formula?”

  Brognola shook his head. “The auction will be for the scientists. They’ll be there like it’s some kind of old-fashioned slave market. Which it is, I guess. Some things never really change.”

  “And that, of course, makes it easier,” Bolan said with a wry grin. He looked over the bar. “I wouldn’t like to bet with Tiny on this one. When and where do I start?”

  “Syria.” Brognola reached into his jacket. “I got you a ticket.”

  Chapter 4

  Bolan took a scheduled flight to Damascus using the ticket Brognola had given him. Raiding a war chest, he made sure that he had currency. He would need it when he landed, as he was forced to travel without any kind of armory. It had been a while since he was in that part of the globe, but some things carry on regardless of political climate.

  Like all of the major cities in the country, Damascus had been hit by the unrest and uprising. And like the rest of the major cities, it had come under the heel of the military. Time and again. Presently, there was an uneasy peace in the streets as Bolan checked into a hotel as Matt Cooper. If anyone from another black ops team was looking for him and suspected Brognola had sent him, he would be easy to find. That might not be a bad thing—it was pretty safe to assume that Brognola’s actions had been noted. It might draw some people from the woodwork and give Bolan the chance to make a few intel connections. He wouldn’t be here long. Certainly not long enough for anyone to pose a danger to him.

  Registering with nothing more than a small gym bag had not raised the eyebrows at the hotel that it had at the American end of the flight. Different circumstances bred different expectations: this could work to his advantage.

  After a quick shower to wash off the torpor of travel, Bolan hit the streets. He carried the handgrip with him. Nothing much had changed in terms of the architecture and layout since his last visit. He just hoped that this lack of change would be mirrored by those who lived in the buildings. A brief cab ride dropped him five minutes from his intended destination. He made the rest of the journey on foot, through backstreet stone buildings shaded from the heat and under awnings that were tattered and ripped, hanging over the streets and side alleys at unkempt and uncared-for angles.

  No matter where in the world he was, or what the style of building may be, there was a feeling about these places that never changed. He stood in front of a wooden door that was thick, scarred and pitted, and looked bleached by time and the elements.

  It hadn’t changed in all these years. When he banged on the door, the small spy hole in the door opened. A wrinkled face that was as pitted and scarred as the door looked out at him. At first suspicious, it took a moment for Bolan’s identity to register, then the face became wreathed in a smile.

  “Belasko, you remembered your old friend after so long.”

  “Hadez, I was never your friend, but my cash may have been.”

  “You carry the money, you are my friend. But what are you doing standing there? You must come in.”

  “I would be only too pleased, but first...” He indicated the door, still closed, that stood between them.

  Hadez opened the door and ushered Bolan inside. Once the door was closed behind him, Bolan found himself in a cool stone room that was dimly lit. As his eyes adjusted, he could see that the chairs, hangings and low tables remained almost as he remembered them from long ago. If the layers of dust on them were anything to go by, they had lain unused for the whole time. But then, Hadez had priorities other than housework, particularly in a part of the house that mattered little to him.

  “I take it that my friend does not visit me after so many years purely because he has missed my company in sudden recollection?”

  “You would be correct. And it’s not Mr. Belasko these days, Hadez. I prefer to answer to Cooper. That’s what it says on my credit cards, though I doubt you would take them.”

  Hadez was a man as wizened and bent as his face would suggest. He made a gesture that could have been a shrug. “I prefer it when there is not trail of paper to be followed. That was always how it was, and I see no reason to change a good habit.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. You know why I am here. I find myself indisposed when I would rather not be. Perhaps you can be of assistance.”

  “Anything for such an old and valued friend. Please, this way.”

  With a sweep of his arm, he indicated that Bolan should take the curtained doorway ahead of them. It led to a flight of stone stairs lit by a string of lights with a reinforced door at the bottom. Squeezing past Bolan, Hadez unlocked the door and let the soldier into the storeroom where he kept his merchandise.

  “It’s nice to see that you can still rely on some things.” Bolan smiled as he surveyed the crates and boxes stacked against the walls. “I’m pretty sure you’ll have exactly what I’m looking for.”

  “If you have a list for the market, I will do my best to comply,” Hadez said with a slight bow.

  “Let’s begin with small arms and work our way up,” Bolan began.

  An hour and a half later, having haggled over the price with the vendor as was expected, Bolan packed two duffel bags with the ordnance he had purchased and was ready to leave.

  “What’s it like on the streets these days?” he asked.

  Hadez shrugged. “These are difficult times, my friend. But I think I know what you ask. Yes, the military are more alert than in previous times, and not as susceptible to the lure of the bribe. It makes my business more difficult in many ways, but do not worry, I have trustworthy drivers who know the areas to avoid. Come, I will assist you—no extra charge.”

  “Your generosity knows no bounds,” Bolan said, straight-faced.

  The old merchant said nothing, but allowed himself a small smile before pulling a cell phone from his pocket and hitting a speed-dial number. When his call was answered he spoke rapidly, pausing only briefly and not allowing whoever was on the other end of the line to speak more than a few phrases. With a firm nod, he ended the call and looked at Bolan.

  “My man will be out front in six minutes exactly. He will take you wherever you wish to go, and ensure that you reach your destination without any interference.”

  Bolan assented wordlessly. He had feigned ignorance through the call, keeping his face a slightly puzzled mask. He had never spoken in an Arabic language to Hadez, allowing the man to believe that he could only converse in English. This was not entirely true. Although the
soldier’s grasp of the language was rusty, and the old man spoke rapidly in a thick dialect, he had been able to pick out enough to know that safe conduct was only part of the deal. The driver would report back on the destination and also tail him.

  Why not? The old man lived in dangerous times, in a perilous place, and in an uncertain industry. A little knowledge would be useful. Bolan had no doubt that Hadez would not use any information gleaned on customers without due need—anything else would be impolitic—but Bolan could do without his movements being known.

  The driver was on time to the second. Hadez kept that time on an old pocket watch that was affectation, and when it hit the mark he indicated that Bolan should leave. Shouldering his duffel bags, Bolan exited the building as a battered Fiat drew up at the end of the alley.

  “May your God go with you,” Hadez said with a bow.

  “And with you,” Bolan returned as he exited, adding to himself that there was no way any god would find out his destination from the driver.

  Bundling himself into the rear of the vehicle, he settled as the driver pulled out into the road, peering over his shoulder and almost colliding with another vehicle as he did so.

  “So where you wanna go, boss?” the driver asked, his face fat, sweaty and disingenuous.

  “Take me to the airport,” he said flatly.

  The driver looked puzzled, wiping sweat from his eyes with one hand, the other on the wheel that he seemed to turn arbitrarily.

  “You kidding me, boss? Army got that tight. You go there after where you been, you ain’t getting on no plane.”

  “That’s my worry,” Bolan answered. “You just get me there in one piece.”

  The driver shrugged as he turned his attention back to the road, cursing loudly at a cyclist he sent tumbling into the curb. Bolan sat back in the cracked leatherette seat, pondering his next course of action.

  It had never been his intention to return to his hotel. It had served his purpose as a place to register and clean up. If anyone knew of his arrival, they would have perhaps tailed him from there—although he was sure that he had been tail free—or at the very least would have a location for him. Let them wait. While he was here, he had no intention of standing still long enough to be tagged.

  The Fiat skewed into the road approaching the airport. The driver had said nothing else, but must have been wondering if the American was crazy enough to try and get on or charter a plane while carrying that much hardware.

  Bolan had no intention of leaving Damascus yet, but if Hadez believed that to be the case, so much the better.

  The Fiat pulled in front of the airport. Soldiers and armed police were heavily visible. The driver eyed them nervously. He had no intention of being picked up with a passenger so heavily laden—which was kind of what Bolan counted on. He eased himself out of the vehicle.

  “I’ll take it from here,” he said blandly. “Give Hadez my regards, and don’t park here too long—it’s only a dropping zone.”

  He shouldered the duffel bags and took a couple of steps away from the vehicle, not looking back. He heard the driver grind the Fiat into gear and screech off from behind him; a couple of the armed police had already been eyeing the Fiat as it hesitated.

  The same officers watched him as he entered the airport building. For his part, Bolan remained impassive. If they stopped him, it was a problem. But only if. He kept walking—past the check-in desks, past the bar and toward the men’s room. Over his shoulder he could feel the eyes of the police officers follow him, and as he neared the washroom, he slid into a crowd. Security cameras could follow him, but not the naked eye.

  Another exit beckoned and he switched direction, hailing a cab and climbing into it swiftly. He gave the name of his hotel and breathed a sigh of relief as the cab exited the airport. Checking, he couldn’t see a tail.

  He pulled out his smartphone. There were emails from Brognola, as promised. One contained the note that had first been circulated concerning the auction, which he skimmed. It told him little more than he already knew. A second email gave details of the location, time and date. So he had this, but in truth it counted for little. Someone would know that Brognola was harvesting this information, and that it was being passed on. He had little doubt that it could be traced to him—information tech was useful, but he had no faith in its security. It put him on par with those who sought to buy in terms of intel, but otherwise he would have to use his own skills to stay one jump ahead, and chances were that it would be changed. As long as Brognola could update him, then fine.

  Bolan leaned over and asked the driver to change destination. “I need to do something before I check in.” He gave an address around the block from Hadez’s domain. The old man wouldn’t expect him to be so close, and it somewhat amused Bolan to hide in such plain sight.

  He thrust a bundle of cash at the driver. “Wait for me.”

  Leaving the cab running at the roadside, Bolan walked down an alley and out of the cab driver’s world. The man could wait there as long as he liked before giving up—there was plenty of cash to recompense him.

  The streets and alleys in this quarter were winding and mazelike—presumably why Hadez still felt so at home and safe amongst them. But not much had changed in the years since Bolan’s last visit, and he was soon able to locate a café that was still in business. Entering, he ordered coffee and took a seat as far away from the bar as possible. The café was almost empty, just the proprietor and a middle-aged man with a weather-beaten and scarred visage present. His coffee in front of him, the duffel bags and holdall safely stashed beneath his table, Bolan hit a number on his speed dial.

  “Striker... Interesting location from GPS, and not a secured line at present. Give me a second...” Bolan waited patiently through a series of barely audible hisses and clicks, then: “Well, Hal said we’d be hearing from you soon enough, but he wasn’t exactly forthcoming.”

  “Not sure that there’s much I can add at the moment, Bear. I need some intel from you. Maps, topography. I’ll send you the locations. But more than that, I’m on my own here, and I’ll need some backup. A man on the ground who knows the territory and can be relied on to put together a team.”

  There was a brief moment’s silence. Bolan could visualize Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman, in his wheelchair, mind working faster than his fingers as they flew across a keyboard. Even with touch-screens, Kurtzman worked faster on keys, as if the motion helped speed his mind.

  “I have someone, Striker. Jared Hassim. Rogue from us after a spell in Afghanistan. Deep cover that some say went a little too deep. To be frank, looking at his record and what we have on him, I’d say it was more a case of him being disillusioned with all parties and figuring that he’d be better as a freelancer.”

  “Great, I love freebooters,” Bolan said wryly.

  “This one is a little different. No record of him ever landing one of his own in deep. Actually looks reliable.”

  “Jared...” Bolan’s mind traveled back a few years to his brief foray into the Afghan territories. Then back before that: to West Point and a man in uniform he had never expected to see again. “I know him. Not well. But we’ve crossed paths a couple of times.”

  “His details are on their way to you, along with the requested intel. Anything else you need right now?”

  Bolan thought about it. “No. If I do, then I’ll call. I don’t have much to go on at my end, and what I do have is probably compromised. This one will have to be close.”

  “Okay, Striker. You know where I am.”

  “Thanks.” Bolan disconnected, and then brought up the intel that Kurtzman had sent—background on Jared Hassim. He had been a UCLA political student, athlete, West Point grad and a U.S. Marine with a good record. He had also converted to Islam eighteen months before 9/11. Recruited into black ops immediately after the event, having been singled out as
religious but not fundamentalist, he received further training and was sent to Afghanistan to work in deep cover with the Taliban. His age had been to his advantage then, as he had been seen as an elder with experience. A useful soldier, he was also a man of conscience with a deep vein of individuality and stubbornness. It seemed that disgust at both sides, and the knowledge that this was becoming apparent, had fuelled a move into the realms of the freelancer. He had settled in Damascus five years back and lived on the other side of the city.

  Bolan checked the time. Less than thirty-six hours until the auction; he would have to move quickly. Finishing his coffee, he collected his baggage and made for the door, muttering thanks to the proprietor and the old man who sat by the bar, grumbling to the proprietor in an undertone.

  He set off on foot, checked for a tail and then picked up a cab. Traffic through the city center was heavy as the hour progressed, and he became bogged down in a morass of trucks, cars and bikes that sought to gain an advantage on streets where traffic regulations were an unknown quantity. Using the time to acquaint himself with the location for the auction, he knew that he would have to persuade Hassim quickly or else set off on his own. He had a long way to travel, and it would help if he had a local man to gain the transport needed, if not the manpower he would prefer.

  Latakia was a Mediterranean port, a city and governerate of half a million people, and—more importantly—two, maybe three districts away. To get to it would entail a roundabout road route or a hop across a bay that was inevitably heavily guarded. This was before the mission could even be mounted—that would present a whole other series of issues. Bolan hoped that this wouldn’t be symptomatic of the mission as a whole.

  As the cab ground its way through the traffic he sat back and considered his position. If Brognola was right, even elements of the U.S. government would be at this auction. He could not rely on any backup, and knew that Stony Man could be compromised if he put a foot wrong. It would be best if he kept contact to a minimum.