Executioner 053 - The Invisible Assassins

by Pendleton, Don

There were a dozen blank sheets of paper lying in a row along the workbench counter; they were marked at the top Roll 1 through Roll 12. The pages at either end were empty. The rest were covered with carefully laid out strips of film.

  "As far as I can see there were in fact only eleven rolls," said Corbett, placing the two pieces he had been studying on the bottom of the Roll 10 sheet. "Everything's black-and-white. He must have sent out his color films just like anyone else."

  So whatever it was that Shinoda had photographed, thought Bolan, whatever was so incriminating, he had been smart enough to shoot in monochrome. That way he could process it at home by himself.

  "Most of the cut pieces could be matched to their strips simply by eyeballing them and watching the edge numbers," continued Corbett. "A few I had to double-check under the microscope. Anyway, what you brought back is all laid out here."

  "What happened to Roll 1?"

  "Larry has those strips in the darkroom. I've got him making up contacts—that way it'll be easier for the rest of you to check them out. From what I could tell, they begin with some pictures of a workout, judo or something like that, then the rest are tourist snapshots taken in Japan. We'll be able to see better when Larry's finished."

  "What about this hole here?" Bolan tapped the gap in the middle of Roll 7.

  "Those ones, Colonel Phoenix, appear to be missing." He bent forward and checked the edge numbers. "Ten frames, to be precise."

  Before Bolan could ask more questions, Corbett's assistant emerged from the darkroom. "Here's the first roll."

  He handed Bolan a single eight-by-ten glossy on which was printed a series of tiny black-and-white photographs, direct contacts of all the negatives from Roll 1.

  The first seven were of Shinoda and a couple of friends in various action poses from a karate session. The rest were of a Japanese city—Tokyo, probably—a view from his hotel window, a temple and some candid shots of street characters.

  Bolan stared at them for several moments.

  "See something?" asked Corbett.

  "Would Shinoda have made up contact sheets like this?"

  "Quite probably. When you've processed a lot of film you usually run off some contacts. If you've got dozens of pictures, this would be the quickest way to check which ones you wanted to pick out for enlargement."

  Bolan turned away so suddenly he almost knocked the film out of Fisk's hand. Corbett was surprised that their guest had enough energy left to race down the corridor that way.

  He walked to the door to see what had got Colonel Phoenix so excited.

  Bolan was ducking into Garfield's office, where he grabbed the keys from the desk.

  "Your boss better get over to Shinoda's apartment as fast as he can," Bolan told the startled technician. "I know what the intruder was after. And if Hal Brognola turns up here, give him the address. Tell them to follow me!"

  4

  THERE WAS NO COP standing guard outside the door when Bolan got there. All the experts had gone back to their offices or back to bed.

  It was quiet inside the apartment. Streaks of hazy dawn light filtered through the rough-weave curtains, which Bolan drew open.

  There was little sign that a team of specialists had given the place the once-over, except for an odd mixture of butts in the large ashtray and a film of powder around the door handle and on the glass-topped coffee table.

  Bolan drew the Beretta and went to Shinoda's desk, in an alcove in the main room.

  It was a heavy rolltop desk, probably not worth all that much as an antique, but it had been nicely refinished. With one hand Bolan opened it. The desk was full of the usual paraphernalia but nothing that attracted his attention. What had that young cop said? The top two drawers .

  He slid the first one out. Personal paperwork—insurance policies, bills, an outdated driver's license, a credit card application—lay on top of an old computer printout. Bolan felt underneath.

  Nothing there.

  He opened the second drawer. Some camera equipment. Filters. A telephoto lens in its box. He stroked his fingertips on the underside of the drawer. And that was where it was.

  Shinoda really had been an amateur at this game. Bolan smiled grimly as he pulled out the eight-by-ten contact sheet. That's what had killed him.

  The city detectives had been so busy checking for what might have been broken into and collecting possible fingerprints that they had missed the photographic print taped to the underside of the drawer.

  "Roll 7, I'll bet," Bolan murmured to himself. 'There was not enough daylight yet to get a good look at pictures this small, so he switched on a floor lamp and, still gripping the gun in his right hand, picked up a small magnifying glass from the clutter in the desk.

  The first few photos were of a traditional Japanese

  Shinoda had taken it from several angles. The shots along the bottom row were seascapes, showing two large rocks with a line or cable of some sort stretched between them. Bolan mentally filed the images for future reference.

  The middle two rows were the pictures from the missing negative strips. Bolan slowly ran the magnifying lens over them.

  The first two shots were out of focus. Three more were obscured by large blurred heads in close-up; Shinoda had been trying to shoot through a crowd. The remainder showed his subject clearly: a group of four—three men and a young woman, all Japanese against a backdrop of evergreens.

  Bolan studied the group more closely. One of the men stood a head taller than the others; he had the build of a wrestler, and there was something odd about his left hand. In most of the shots he appeared to be listening or talking to a younger guy wearing glasses. Bolan was not sure, but there was something about his haircut and the fit of his clothes that suggested the other man was a well-heeled American rather than a native Japanese.

  Bolan inspected one particular picture under the glass. The big fellow had his left hand on the visitor's shoulder. It looked as if the top of his little finger was missing.

  These contacts could be rephotographed and enlarged. All the details would show up nicely then.

  A siren wailed in the distance. Must he Garfield coming on the run.

  The third older man in the photographs with a dapper, studious look could be easily recognized: he had a strange streak of snowy white hair zigzagging through an otherwise full black mop. Bolan turned his attention to the woman.

  A second far-off siren added to the city's dawn chorus. Brognola was on his way. And it would not be a wasted journey. Bolan had something to show them all.

  He looked at the woman as closely as the magnifying glass permitted. Quite pretty in a serious, almost stern way. The men seemed to be paying little attention to her; they were focused on the guy with the spectacles. This woman looked average, with no distinguishing features. Again, they would be able to get a better view of her in the blowups.

  He put down the glass and rubbed the bridge of his nose between his fingertips. Oriental faces. .. they haunted him.

  The sirens wailed louder, then died as the cars drew up outside the apartment block. Bolan's allies would be here at any moment.

  Bolan looked up. He was still coming to grips with that half-glimpsed face of the hit-and-run driver. The vision of it had never left his mind. Those dark eyes, two malevolent slits, continued to bore into him.

  Oriental eyes!

  Reflected in the window... .

  Marten's killer was right behind him.

  Bolan moved.

  Knees flexing, weight shifting, he began to duck in a sweeping turn as the attacker sliced the Beretta from his hand, knocking it across the floor. Then the attacker's lightning-fast arms held Bolan's shoulder and left elbow in a tightening grip.

  Bolan froze in mid-turn. The pain was excruciating. White-hot daggers raced up his arm, stabbing at his heart. His legs collapsed beneath him.

  Even as the pain slammed the breath from his body, Bolan's mind was racing. He knew this guy. From somewhere in the past he dimly recognized him—and
the big warrior was not going to let the bastard get him now.

  His right arm flailed, circling until he wrapped his fingers around the upright of the lampstand.

  It was an awkward swing back over his head, but Bolan managed to catch the killer across the side of the face with the teak pole. Shade, bulb and wire fixture were mangled. The numbing grip on his shoulder loosened.

  Bolan took advantage of the momentary relaxation to jab the broken lamp savagely at his adversary's eyes.

  The move forced a retreat.

  For a few seconds the two fighters squared off, each remaining motionless. Bolan's every sense was attuned to the slightest clue—the flicker of an eyelid, the intake of breath—to warn him of his adversary's next move: feint or final strike. The killer gave no hint which direction he would attack from. His black eyes transfixed Bolan with a soulless, impersonal hatred that might have unnerved a lesser man. It was as if the guy had looked Death in the face and stared Death down.

  The assailant was dressed from head to toe in a soft black combat suit. Both men wore the color of death.

  Feeling surged back into Bolan's shoulder. He brought the wooden pole across in another vicious arc. His opponent sprang back.

  Both of them were twisting around to renew the assault, each seeking the best position for attack.

  The man's smooth Oriental features were marred with a puckered scar that pulled the corner of his mouth into a superior sneer. Bolan watched as his right hand reached back and emerged with a throwing knife. They were too close for it to be used for its proper purpose: instead, the killer came in low, lunging for the big man's ribs.

  Bolan sidestepped, half turning as he slashed the extended knife hand and punched the heel of his own right hand under the assassin's chin. Seizing the initiative, Bolan shifted to grasp the wrist of his unbalanced opponent and began to twist outward.

  The knife dropped to the floor. Bolan kicked it away.

  But damage had been done. The strength had been drained from Bolan's arm. Before he could complete the brutal wrist wrench, the killer had given in to the flow of Bolan's counterattack and made a chop at the back of the tall man's knee.

  Bolan went down.

  The assailant got him from behind, fingers of steel probing for the vital pressure point.

  A molten ball of pain exploded in Bolan's head.

  At that moment the big guy knew who had killed the computer genius and precisely how he had died. He, too, was experiencing the searing agony that Shinoda had suffered in his final moments. A sudden ninja-style leap of that Alvarez Street wall, and then. . . .

  A massive pounding reverberated in his ears.

  A tortured howling echoed in his skull. It might have been a siren. It might have been the roar that ripped from his throat as he fell into a bottomless pit of darkness.

  Utter darkness.

  "HE WASN'T THERE...."

  Those were the first words Bolan forced from his parched throat. April Rose looked across at Hal Brognola as she exhaled a sigh of relief.

  Three faces slowly swam into focus. Darker, hovering ovals within the shimmering shadows of returning consciousness . . . features . . . then, finally, familiar faces: April Rose grinning bravely; Hal Brognola, with a cold cigar clamped between his teeth, and Dr. Vicky Stevens.

  "He wasn't there," Bolan repeated groggily as he struggled to prop himself up on one elbow.

  "I said you should have waited for the X-ray results," Dr. Stevens chided him. She was putting the best face on things, but her seemingly flippant reaction did not disguise the iron in her voice.

  Bolan massaged his neck. He was back in the medical center. He sat up. "You must have got there—"

  "Just in time," confirmed the man from Washington. Brognola, the liaison officer between the highest reaches of government and the man who headed the Stony Man team, was only too aware that Bolan was involved in this Shinoda problem on his direct orders. "Garfield had just found you when I got there. You were out for the count."

  "But you grabbed . . ."

  "No," Brognola shook his head abruptly. "There was no sign of him."

  Brognola was about to give a fuller explanation but checked himself and glared at Dr. Stevens as if she were an unwelcome visitor in her own clinic.

  Nerves were understandably frayed, she decided, but before leaving she touched Bolan on the arm. "This time you don't go anywhere until I check you out. Personally."

  Her concern was sincere. In every way.

  "Okay, doctor, you've got it," Bolan promised her with a slight smile.

  April Rose clenched her jaw, signaling that she alone would insure her guy regained his peak of health.

  Vicky Stevens turned for the door but not before firing a final glance at Brognola that warned him it was more than his life was worth to light that cigar.

  The Washington executive raised his eyebrows when she had left. "Tough lady!"

  "We've all got our jobs to do," Bolan said.

  "Yep, you're right," he nodded. "As I was saying, Striker, by the time we'd checked you out and then figured he must have swung down to the balcony beneath—well, he was gone."

  "And he'd taken the pictures with him.. . . "

  Brognola nodded. "He scared the hell out of the lady who lives in the apartment under Shinoda's. She'd just got up to go to the bathroom when he came charging through. Still, we've got a description."

  "I know who it was," Bolan stated simply. "It was Zeko Tanaga."

  "I thought he was dead," grunted Brognola. But he did not question Bolan's identification. Striker's powers of recognition had been amply demonstrated in the past; his eidetic memory had put face to name with invariable accuracy.

  "There'll be no need to look for him," said Bolan. "At least, not around here. He'll be out of the country by now—that was his specialty."

  "Yeah. Borders didn't exist for him," nodded Brognola. "He could smuggle arms, men, explosives—whatever was needed to cause trouble—into any country he wanted. And then get out again."

  "He was the advance man in Israel for the Red Army attack on the civilians at Lod Airport," Bolan said.

  "That's right. And he was the only one that got away."

  "As soon as I get to a secure phone, I'll call the Farm for an update," said April Rose, "but I'm sure the last we heard of Tanaga was that he'd been killed by a land mine at a terrorist recruiting camp in Yemen."

  "Sounds like a useful cover story—I don't suppose it was ever independently substantiated," Bolan said, his sardonic grin more teeth than humor. He rubbed his neck again. "I can vouch that Zeko Tanaga is very much alive."

  They were silent for a moment, each trying to digest the implications of Tanaga's involvement.

  Bolan was still puzzled how he had been taken unawares. That sixth sense, which had so often saved his life in the past, had issued no warning; the instinctual sonar with which the Executioner continuously swept his surroundings had not picked up the slightest hint of Tanaga's approach. It was as if he had not been there. . . and it baffled Bolan.

  From Interpol files, CIA profiles, SAS reports, Mack Bolan knew the biographical outline of the shadowy terrorist who was probably wanted by more security agencies than The Jackal, but this was the first time their paths had crossed—and Bolan knew it would not be the last. He sensed that his close brush with death was only the prelude to a bloodier, more terrible conflict.

  "We'd better get you out of here," said Brognola, shifting the unlighted cigar to the other side of his mouth. "I've borrowed the office from Jim Garfield. Kurtzman is waiting to give us a rundown on the technical angle."

  "I'll get Dr. Stevens," said April Rose.

  Bolan watched her walk to the door.

  They were alone and Brognola's next words only served to underscore the big man's sense of foreboding.

  "This Shinoda thing—to the city cops and even to agents like Garfield, well, it's just another killing. But I have a bad feeling it's going to take on a much greater import
ance—" Brognola paused, searching for an appropriate parallel "—like Hitler's fake attack on that Polish radio station... . This could be he opening shot that will plunge the world into war. And I mean the whole world. Nobody will escape this time around."

  5

  BROGNOLA FLICKED his lighter once, twice. It didn't work. He searched through the accumulated paperwork on Garfield's desk for a book of matches.

  The federal agent's office had been pressed into service as a temporary command center for the team from Stony Man Farm, the Executioner's headquarters in Virginia's peaceful Shenandoah Valley, from which was waged a relentless war against the forces of terror, the blind armies of destruction and chaos.

  Normally, in L.A., they would have used Able Team's aid, but Gadgets, Pol and Carl were on their way from a major clash in Cairo to an explosive mission in Azatlan, Mexico.

  The three top Stony people now awaited Kurtzman before beginning the briefing.

  April Rose stood by the window watching the patterns formed by the unseasonable rain. The silvery light that pierced the slate gray clouds gave her naturally lustrous hair an especially delicate sheen.

  Bolan was standing slightly to one side. She really was a most striking woman. "Yes, I do," he said.

  Her beautiful brows arched in bemusement.

  "I like what I see, April," explained Bolan.

  She chuckled lightly, remembering the first thing she had ever said to him. In defense against Bolan's surprise at finding her assigned to drive his War Wagon, she had challenged him with, "You don't like what you see?" He did, of course; and over the many months of working together he had come to appreciate her unique blend of beauty and brains, for April Rose was every bit as smart as she was beautiful.

  "Are you feeling up to this?" she said.

  He nodded, then managed a tight grin to help banish her fears.

  She had seen Bolan face danger before, but he had never looked so tired, and—she was almost afraid to admit it—so shaken as he had in that room at the clinic. He must be very concerned at how he had fallen victim to the recent attack, as if he had come across a new kind of warfare unknown in the city streets of America, let alone in the badlands of Nicaragua, or the hills of Tuscany.