Death Has a Name

by Don Pendleton

  The Executioner moved up to the serving window, his eyes expertly scanning the moving crowds for signs of hostiles. "Good morning," he said to the man who came to take his order.

  "Shalom," the man replied tiredly.

  "Do you speak English?"

  Johnny walked up beside Bolan.

  "Sure," the man replied, brightening. "I'm from New York. Moved over here after the Six Day War." He reached out and shook hands. "Good to see somebody from the States."

  "How about an orange juice," Bolan said, "and a little information."

  Israel was famous for its oranges, and orange juice was sold everywhere. "One shekel and a half," the man said, cutting an orange, and putting it on the squeezer. "Info's free to another American."

  Bolan put the money up on the counter. "That ship out there… what's the story?"

  The man shrugged, putting the other half of the orange on the squeezer. "Came in the middle of the night, I guess. At least it was here when I showed up this morning. They've been unloading since first light."

  Bolan winced. Three to four hours of unloading sounded like a two-day hangover. "Ever seen that one before?"

  The man shook his head. "It's new to me," he said. "Kinda strange how the trucks have been lined up for it, too. Usually they just pile stuff on the dock and it sits. Not this time, though."

  "Thanks," Bolan said, and took the juice without even tasting it.

  Johnny followed him as he walked toward the ship. "What do you want me to do?" he asked.

  "Hang back," Bolan replied. "Cover me if I need it."

  He moved off, Johnny slowing his pace to a casual stroll. Bolan could feel the MAC-10 pressed under his left arm.

  The crane had creaked into position above the forward cargo hold, and was just lowering its cable when he reached it. The operator was intently watching the man on deck for instructions, and Bolan slipped easily behind the machine and began using a small screwdriver on the bolts that held the square metal housing for the electrical housing.

  He removed three bolts, the cover hinging on the fourth to swing open. A maze of large transformers and wiring filled the space.

  A gangway stretched from the dock to the deck thirty feet above. Once he put the crane out of commission, he'd have to get up there quickly.

  He looked around easily, took a sip of the juice just to try it, then tossed the whole cupful into the exposed wiring.

  The unit began arcing loudly, sparks sizzling while bright white smoke poured out of the housing. The whole crane howled as if it were crying, then froze up with a terrible grinding sound, a transformer humming loudly, then blowing. Smoke billowed out of the machine, as people from all over the dock hurried up to see what the problem was.

  Bolan raced for the gangway in the confusion, but something tangled up in his legs, sending him sprawling on the dock. He rolled, recovering, but came up into a crouch to face the muzzles of three Uzi submachine guns, one wielded by a woman.

  "Amad!" the woman ordered, motioning with her gun.

  Bolan smiled, playing dumb. "Shalom, shalom," he said, tensing for a barrel roll. He could take two down at once, counting on Johnny for the third. A second before the lurch, something flashed around the woman's neck and he froze in place.

  "Johnny, no!" he shouted, and guns swung around to Johnny Bolan, who stood not five feet distant with his hands away from his body.

  The warriors were taken.

  Bolan straightened slowly, his hands behind his head. Several more men joined the band, forming a loose circle around them. The Executioner found himself staring into the cold eyes of people to whom death was no stranger.

  He said one word to them. "Sabra."

  * * *

  Tommy Metrano stood amid the bombed-out ruins of the old PLO base three miles from the Israeli border. It was nothing but a junkyard of charred lumber and stone now, and the carcasses of military vehicles, gutted by fire and stripped by vandals.

  The base stood at the top of a hill, within mortar range of the border, and rocket range of any target within Israel. Terrorist raids had been carried out from there on a regular basis until the Israelis cleared it out on their march to Beirut in '82.

  Big Tommy was agitated. Not only had he not been able to find decent food, but jet lag and the difference in time zones had kept him from his usual restful sleep. Now he was having to wait on Arman in this godforsaken place, when all he wanted was his ten mil and Bolan's ass.

  His entourage of eight was with him, including Abba, who seemed to be the only one around who really knew what was going on. The three black Mercedes sedans they had arrived in were idling a short distance away.

  "So where is he?" he asked Abba. "We been here thirty minutes already. I ain't used to bein' kept waitin'."

  "He will arrive very soon," Abba said, his dark eyes laughing the way they always did when he talked with the Americans. Big Tommy was willing to give a guy the benefit of the doubt, but he was beginning to suspect that the man was going to have to be taught a little respect before long.

  "Well, I'm gettin' sick of waitin'," Metrano said, wiping sweat from his forehead on a handkerchief. "I've kept my end of the bargain. I expect your boss to do the same."

  "Jamil Arman is an honorable man," Abba said, voice tight. "He is a soldier fighting an honorable cause. Money is not important to us like it is to you. You shall have all you want."

  Metrano moved up closer to him, towering over him. "Listen to me, little man. At least with a few bucks you can look out for yourself, your family. That makes sense. All you people want to do is kill and blow things up. I got a look at Beirut when I was coming into the airport. You dumb shits blow your own stuff up."

  "Our cause is just," Abba said, angry. "What can you know of our revolutionary struggle?"

  Big Tommy spit on the ground. "I know that it makes a lot of fools march off to get their asses blown off, while somebody else sits behind making speeches and getting rich." He started laughing then, Abba turning away.

  "Hey, Mr. Metrano!" Arnie called from the cars. "I got Mario on the phone in here."

  "There." Abba pointed to a dust cloud in the distance. "He comes."

  Metrano strained his eyes to get a good look. A car was racing along a dirt road a mile and a half away, the same road they had taken up to the outpost. He turned back to Arnie and waved his arm. "What's he want?" he called.

  "Trouble at the boat, some sort of commotion. People with guns."

  "How much we got off already?"

  "Two-thirds."

  Metrano took a cigar out of this pocket, thinking as he pulled the cellophane wrapper off the thing. He stuck it in his mouth. "Tell them to stick with it, but if it looks like they're in trouble, have them scuttle the load. Blow it up."

  "Okay."

  Metrano turned and watched the car, another Mercedes, wind its way up the hillside. Maybe now they could get this taken care of and get on with things.

  A minute later, the dust cloud pulled into camp, two men in olive-drab uniforms jumping out of the car. They each carried a Valmet Bullpup on full auto with Kalashnikov AK action. They swung the carbines around in a full circle, only letting Arman out of the back seat when they were sure it was safe.

  The man got out. He wore an American business suit, with a red-and-white-checked ghutra on his head. The double banded aghal, a camel rein, was wrapped around it. He was massively overweight, his eyes nearly lost in the large folds of skin that wagged on his face. He wore black-rimmed glasses and a week's growth of beard.

  He moved right for Big Tommy, hand extended. "It is my great honor and pleasure to meet you at last, Mr. Metrano." He was soft-spoken, his English impeccable, his voice low and melodious.

  "Likewise," Metrano said, shaking hands. "Did you bring the money with you?"

  Arman smiled, pouting out his large lower lip. "A man who gets right to the heart of the matter," he said. "I appreciate that in an associate."

  "Yeah. Well, the boat's in and the trucks
are on the road," Metrano said, wiping his forehead again. "Where I come from you get your business done in a hurry and get off into the shade, y'know?"

  "I do indeed understand," Arman returned. "But unfortunately, I do not have the money with me here."

  Big Tommy looked around at his men. They were easing toward cover, preparing to handle things. "Where is it?"

  "Do not worry, my friend." Arman gestured around the compound with an expansive arm. "This, as you can see, is hardly the safest spot for conducting… delicate business."

  "Why are we here then?"

  "We are here to — how do you Americans say it? — get on the same wavelength."

  Metrano didn't like this guy at all. He talked all the time, but never said anything. "Well, I don't know nothin' about any of that. I just figured to take the cash and haul ass."

  Arman moved to put an arm around Big Tommy's shoulder, directing him to look out over the surrounding hills. "Out there," he said, "is the Jewish entity."

  "Huh?"

  "You call it Israel."

  "Oh."

  "That land belongs to me and my people, the land of Ibrahim, of Muhammad… the land of Allah." Arman made a fist, shaking it at the sky. "But the cursed Israelis have stripped it from us and forced us to live as nomads. With their ancient ways and heathen minds, they refuse to accept our faith and so must suffer the torments of the Koran."

  He walked around in a circle, his hands in the air. "The ground they call their own will soak through with their blood, and the blood of their women, and the blood of their cursed children. We will take back what is rightfully ours and drive their memory from the earth itself/' He pointed to Metrano. "And you will help provide the means to do it. Tonight, we move. Tomorrow, we dine in Palestine. And then, when we have tasted Israeli blood together, you will have your money."

  "I'll be honest with you," Metrano said. "I ain't too much on politics. You know, outside of what a little juice money will do for you."

  Arman walked Big Tommy to the other side of the hill, pointing into Lebanon. "My men await. Ready to die for Allah, for a Palestinian homeland."

  He took out a handkerchief, waving it over his head. From behind every bush, every stand of rocks as far as they could see, men stood, dressed in black. There must have been a thousand of them.

  "Human bombs," Abba said. "Suicide troops. All are willing to die to fulfill the will of Allah."

  "Suicide?" Big Tommy said.

  "What do you think of our revolutionary struggle now?" Abba asked, triumphant.

  "Son of a bitch" was all Big Tommy could think of to say.

  9

  Mack and Johnny Bolan stood behind the wharf snack stand, disarmed as much as was humanly possible — for as long as the Executioner's body and mind were intact, he was still the most dangerous weapon in existence. He had played his cards this way intentionally, and now was the time to see if his gamble would turn away the barrels of the submachine guns trained unwaveringly on him and Johnny.

  "You don't have much time," he said.

  Seven people held him at bay, two of them women, both wearing Stars of David the way the dead agent had. In Israel, military service was compulsory for everyone, male and female, and these women had the thin, taut air of combat veterans. If they were anything like the woman he'd fought beside in Palm Beach, they'd be hell on wheels.

  A back door led into the snack stand. The man he had gotten information from earlier came out the door, taking off his white apron. His sleepy look had hardened to granite.

  He fixed Bolan with steel-gray eyes. "You've got five minutes to make us love you before we cut your throats and throw you in the ocean," he said.

  Bolan held those eyes and spoke volumes in a look, one warrior to another. "New York cop," he said. "SWAT, most likely, and probably Special Forces before that."

  The hint of a smile flashed across the man's face. "Nat Barlow," he replied. "And I make you out to be a crazy man."

  "Can I reach into my pocket?" Bolan asked.

  "Slowly," Barlow said. "Very slowly."

  Bolan reached into his pocket and fished out the six-pointed star he had taken from the dead woman, plus the tooth containing the microfilm. He laid them in Barlow's open hand.

  The man held up the tooth. "Where did you get this?" he asked.

  "I pried it out of a dead woman's mouth."

  One of the women, tall with kinky black hair, gasped loudly. "Sara…"

  "Quiet," Barlow said to the woman, then to Bolan, "How did she die?"

  "With a gun in her hand," Bolan replied, "killing vermin."

  "How do you know?"

  "I was with her. You're wasting time."

  Barlow's expression didn't change. "Why are you here?"

  "To stop that ship from unloading millions of dollars' worth of terrorist death into your country. A Mafia family is supplying weapons and ordnance to the PLO."

  "Why would an American care about what happens to Israel?"

  "You're an American," Bolan said. "You care."

  Barlow looked at his watch. "The five minutes is up… you've made it." He nodded to the others, and they brought down their guns and began talking all at once, looking at the effects of their dead sister.

  "Tell me about the boat," Barlow said, and Bolan quickly recounted the events of the past several days, leaving out nothing, including his identity. Now was the time for trust and action — there was no other course.

  "I've heard of you," Barlow said when Bolan was finished. "And admired you."

  "People say I'm just a killer," Bolan said.

  "In a small country like ours that is constantly besieged from every side we must all be killers sometimes. We have no armories in Israel. We carry our weapons with us. When the wars come, we fight where we stand."

  "Life and death," Bolan said.

  "Every day," the black-haired woman said in English with a French accent. "My name is Judith Meyers. Sara and I were cousins. We both came here from France for education when we were teenagers and fell in love with the homeland. I… appreciate the burial you gave her."

  "That crane won't stay broken forever," Bolan said.

  "We must stop it now," Nat Barlow said. "We'll handle this our way, Mack Bolan. Thanks for all you've done."

  "No," Bolan replied. "This is my fight, too. Maybe as much mine as yours."

  "Can you take orders from me?" Barlow asked.

  Bolan answered with another question. "Do you have a superior in your government?"

  Barlow smiled. "Sometimes," he said, "there are things that need to be done faster than governments can do them." He stuck out his hand. "Welcome to Sabra, my friend."

  * * *

  The crane was back in operation as the Sabra agents moved casually toward the ship in ones and twos. There was no time for subtlety, especially now that the main deck rails were filled with swarthy men, all watching the dock and wharf. There would at least be no problem now with making sure this was the right ship. They'd know just as soon as they tried to board.

  Bolan walked with the ex-New York City cop turned freedom fighter, the two warriors sharing an understanding only they could know.

  "We'd had some vague warnings about this from our other agents," Barlow was saying. "When Sara disappeared and didn't check in, we knew something was up, but we didn't have enough information to act. We've had soft probes on the wharves all week, but this has been too smooth to get a fix on until you stumbled upon me this morning."

  "I've never stumbled on a cop in my life," Bolan said. "The eyes give you away every time."

  "You mean you fed me information?"

  The Executioner nodded. "When I saw you this morning, I knew I had to set up some sort of contact or we'd have ended up with a three-way fight."

  Barlow snorted. "No wonder they haven't caught you yet."

  "Yeah," Bolan said. "Staying alive's a full-time job."

  They reached an old Ford flatbed truck backed up on the dock. One wooden crate was alre
ady in place in the back of the vehicle, another just then swinging over the edge of the Latva's deck to be lowered. The driver, an Arab with a large, black mustache, was out of the truck, helping to direct the lowering.

  "We'll start here," Bolan said, his K-bar knife in hand. He bent quickly, slashing a front tire, then moved around the other side to get that one.

  He stood, the creaking of the crane covering the hiss of escaping air. They moved up near the gangway.

  "They'll be waiting for us," Bolan said.

  Barlow reached into his jacket, taking the safety off his Uzi machine pistol. "I wouldn't have it any other way. Ready?"

  "Any time you say."

  They moved to the gangway, hitting it at a brisk walk, six other Sabra agents coming up behind, with Johnny and Judith Meyers taking up dock positions to clog escape routes. If the boat was what Bolan thought it was, they were all walking into a firefight in which they'd be seriously outnumbered — but no one complained. Silently they walked, all of them ready to do what justice called upon them to do. Like the dead woman in Palm Beach, they were soldiers of the night, fighting their lonely battles outside of the public eye.

  It didn't take long to answer all the questions.

  There was shouting on deck, and when Bolan saw the first glint of sunlight on the barrel of a carbine, he was running, the MAC-10 in one hand, the Beretta in the other.

  He hit the main deck on a dead run, diving and rolling as rifle and machine-gun fire shattered the peaceful morning, thousands of wharf gulls screaming into the hazy sky.

  They were everywhere, swarming the deck, Arabs and greasy American hoods, all armed to the teeth with the best technology Uncle Sam could muster.

  Bolan rolled to a crouch, firing from the hip, driving the enemy back with covering salvos that got the rest of his squad on deck. Then the killing began.

  With reflexes quicker than thought, the Executioner raked the top of a huge wooden crate marked Fragile that sat beside the open cargo bay, taking off the tops of three heads that fired from behind, bone and brain exploding in instantaneous death.