Armed Response

by Don Pendleton

  “Political, maybe, but I doubt extremist. Not enough violence. Has anybody claimed responsibility for the bomb?”

  “Several groups and nut jobs have claimed responsibility, but not one has been able to give accurate information about it. I don’t see how the rioters would be connected to the hotel bombing or the attack on us today.

  “So what do we do now?”

  “We? You’re going to work with me?”

  Douglas sighed. “I don’t know. I think so. Is it always like this morning with you?”

  “No. This morning was easy. Normally the bad guys put in a lot more effort. I’ve been in Djibouti before, but I don’t know my way around. I would appreciate a guide. And I think that you would like some sort of closure on this.”

  “Okay, I’m in. It’s not like my career was going anywhere anyway.”

  “Good. Now, do you have a slush-fund stash?”

  Douglas nodded.

  “Then get us some new transport, nothing flashy. We’re going to pay Gullon a visit. I’m going to call home, let the folks know that I’m camping out.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. Got a spare toothbrush?”

  * * *

  ONCE DOUGLAS HAD LEFT, taking with him one of the Beretta pistols, Bolan sat behind the laptop. In the internet browser he typed in a web address that navigated him to a website that sent anonymous emails. He typed a short message—Lovely weather, staying for a few more days. Mike—then sent it to another anonymous email address. The email would be around the world in seconds and arrive in a secure email box that was monitored by Stony Man Farm.

  After that he quickly changed his clothes, exchanging the white shirt and blue jeans for the black T-shirt and trousers that he had purchased the day before in Aden. The black boots he also put on. The T-shirt he left hanging out so that he could keep his pistol tucked into his waistband at his back. Uncomfortable and not practical, but he could live with it.

  He turned his attention to the weapons in the cabinet. The M-16s were too big to lug around, but were possibly useful. He stripped down both weapons and placed the component parts in his sports bag, using his clothes to wrap the pieces in to prevent rattling. The remaining Beretta joined the rifle parts. He placed several magazines in his rear pockets. His cell phone beeped several times. He retrieved it and found the device was almost out of juice. There had been no adapter sold with the phone. The soldier turned it off and chucked the now-useless device onto the bed. And then he waited, using the old laptop to do a little research on Trenchard Oil Industries on various public websites.

  He didn’t have to wait long. Douglas returned, thundering up the stairs.

  “Okay,” he said, “I have a vehicle, nothing fancy.”

  “Let’s go.”

  After Douglas locked the door, Bolan followed him down the stairs, shouldering the heavy sports bag. Parked outside was a small dark blue four-door Hyundai Excel sedan. Bolan raised an eyebrow at Douglas.

  “Hey, it was the best thing I could get at such short notice. Only…it has a 1.3 liter engine.”

  Bolan’s other eyebrow rose.

  “It drives okay, although the steering wheel is very thin. Come on, I’ll drive. You might need to shoot.”

  “What’s the spoiler on the back for?”

  “How should I know? Gives you something to hold on to when you need to push?”

  Bolan chucked the sports bag onto the backseat and climbed into the passenger side, finding the springs shot in the seat. Douglas clunked the manual gearshift and drove away. Bolan noted that the two black marketers paid them no more attention than they had earlier in the day. The car’s air-conditioning blasted warm air around. Bolan cranked down a window. At least that worked.

  The offices of Saint-Verran were on rue Clochet, not far from the Ethiopian Embassy, only five blocks north of their own address. Bolan noted that all the streets were named either after cities or countries. The trees that lined the streets seemed either dead or dying; the whitewash on the colonial-style buildings was faded and peeling. They passed a long line of people at one point, standing and waiting for food to be handed out. Douglas maneuvered the car around slow-moving minibuses, scooters and the ever-present green-and-white taxis, until he pulled over to the side of the road.

  “The offices are over there, second floor,” Douglas said.

  Bolan saw that the police and army had a heavier presence here. A couple of Dacia squad cars were driving down the street, and Bolan spotted two old AMX-10RC 6x6 armored cars. Their 105 mm guns pointed to the sky, but he knew that they could be brought into play quickly.

  “There are a lot of embassies around here, and the shiny parliament building is just down the road,” Douglas stated. “It would be slightly embarrassing to the government if something were to happen.”

  Nobody seemed particularly interested in the office building. Bolan wound up his window and climbed out. He carried the sports bag with him and placed it in the trunk, not wanting opportunists to make a quick smash and grab. Douglas joined him at the rear of the car.

  “What’s the plan?” he asked.

  “Go in and ask questions. Be nice to normal people. Shoot any bad guys.”

  They crossed the road, dodging traffic, ignoring the beeps and hoots. A nameplate was fastened next to the surprisingly clean brown double doors, proclaiming a shipping company could be found on the ground floor. Nothing for upstairs. Bolan pushed open the door and entered the cool foyer. It was tastefully decorated in white, the furniture and various vases all French and seemingly costly. Bolan proceeded to a large staircase that wrapped itself along one wall and led up to a landing that was covered in a rich, patterned carpet.

  The first door on the landing was open and Bolan could hear a lot of movement inside. He entered into a large lobby, decorated in the same manner as the rest of the building. It seemed no expense had been spared. In the middle of the room was a large receptionist desk, behind which were two doors, presumably, Bolan thought, one for Saint-Verran, the other for a partner. Sitting at the desk was a beautiful Somali woman who was supervising two other women packing files and folders into boxes. The receptionist looked up as Bolan and Douglas approached, offering the two men a smile that did not reach her sad eyes.

  “Bonjour,” the woman said. The two women behind her stopped their packing and looked up at the strangers.

  “Er, yeah, bonjour,” Douglas replied. He then started to speak in halting French, mispronouncing several words. Bolan knew enough of the language to know that Douglas was asking to speak to Monsieur Gullon.

  “I am sorry,” the woman said in perfect English, “but we are no longer in business. I am afraid that it is quite impossible to speak with Mr. Gullon. He is very busy tidying up.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure he is. We don’t want to disturb him, we just want to ask him something,” Douglas stated.

  “I am sorry, but Mr. Gullon does not want to be disturbed.” The smile had fallen from her face. “As I said, we are no longer in business. I can provide you with other addresses of companies that offer similar services. They are very good and come highly recommended.”

  Bolan stepped forward and spoke in a low voice before Douglas could reply. “Tell Gullon that the last people who saw Saint-Verran alive are standing outside his door. We really would like to discuss what cost Saint-Verran his life and inform Gullon that his might also be in danger.”

  The receptionist looked blankly at the Executioner for a moment, weighing whether to grant the request or not. Finally she climbed reluctantly out of her chair and went to the closed door on the right. She knocked, opened it and poked her head inside. There were in audible mutterings, audible cursing. The two packers got back to work, keeping their heads down. The receptionist turned and indicated with a jerk of her head that the two men could enter the office.

  Gullon turned out to be a small and extremely thin Frenchman in his late fifties. Boxes were piled on the chairs and desks. All the bookshelves
in the room were empty. Gullon had his back to them, displaying what appeared to be a tailor-made Versace suit. He waved irritably behind him, not looking up from the box he was peering into.

  “There are no chairs. You will have to stand,” Gullon said, speaking in heavily accented English.

  “Fine. Then we’ll stand. But we won’t wait. We aren’t patient men, Mr. Gullon. If you don’t feel like talking to us, then somebody from the French or American authorities will come to escort you to Lemonnier. Or you can talk to us, here and now,” Bolan said.

  Gullon turned slowly, glaring at Bolan through his thin spectacles.

  “Do not expect me to be intimidated, Mr. CIA spy. I am not to be intimidated.” His glare focused on Douglas, softening slightly. “I know you. How are your hands? How is your friend?”

  “My hands are fine. They’ll recover. My friend is still in intensive care. I don’t know how he is at the moment. The doctors believe that he will recover.”

  “Pah! Doctors! Quacks! What do they know? They lied about my wife’s condition, and they will lie to you, as well.”

  He turned back to Bolan. “I do not know you. What do you want?”

  “My name is not important. What we want is information on Saint-Verran’s activities.”

  “Pah! You spies are all the same. Wanting to know secrets, keeping secrets from each other. Always playing little games. Well, Pierre’s little games, little secrets, cost him his life. And now we are all paying the price. Without his contacts we have nothing. I have to throw the ladies who work for me onto the streets where they can starve. I will have to return to Lyons to live, where my daughter will not speak to me. All because Pierre could not leave the game alone. And because of his obsession, he got a lot of people killed at the hotel.”

  “We think that was a miscalculation on the killer’s behalf. We think that the bomb should have gone off earlier,” Bolan said.

  “Think? Think? What difference does it make? People are still dead, I am ruined. It makes no difference when the bomb goes off! It did go off!”

  Douglas held up his bandaged hands. “Please, we just want to find who did it, stop them from doing it again. That’s all.”

  “Oui! You stop them with more bombs!” Gullon stopped ranting, took a deep breath and looked down at his feet. “This helps no one. Very well. What is it you want?”

  “We want to know what Saint-Verran knew about the mercenary camps in the north and about Trenchard Oil.”

  Gullon shook his head. “I know nothing about the mercenaries. I do know that Trenchard paid their bills on time, for the hire of two guides and other costs. They have not returned to the country.”

  “What about Saint-Verran’s papers, documents, computers?” Douglas asked.

  Again Gullon shook his head. “Not long after the bomb, hours maybe, friends of Pierre’s, spies from DGSE, came in and took everything. The room is now empty.”

  “And the guides? What about them? Do you have an address for them? You must have paid them somehow.”

  “They are two brothers. I do not know their names. All payments were made in cash. They do not have bank accounts. They would not know what to do with them. You cannot buy food with a bank account. Marie!”

  The attractive receptionist hurried in. “Give these two men the address of the brothers,” Gullon barked. She nodded, returning to her desk.

  “I am sorry,” Gullon continued, “there is nothing more I know. I handled the financial side. When companies want to open offices, start trading, I handle that. I guide the way. Pierre, he would do the rest, play the spy, learn what the politicians, what the army, were doing.”

  Marie returned, clutching a small yellow sticky note. She looked at Bolan and Douglas, then decided to hand it to Bolan before returning to pack her things.

  “Thank you,” Bolan said to Gullon.

  “Yes, yes. Now, please, leave. I do not wish to play spy. I have to return to France, penniless. Now, please leave! Au revoir! Au revoir!”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Penniless!” Douglas imitated Gullon’s accent as the two men exited the building. “I am penniless! Sacre bleu! Who is he trying to kid? Did you see the suit he was wearing? That would cost me six months’ salary! I bet you that he has been cooking the books. Running off with the company money. And that chick! I bet that she is in on it, as well.”

  “Not our problem. I don’t look into financial theft. If it makes you feel better, you can always fire an email off to someone you know in the government. This address, where is it?” Bolan handed Douglas the yellow slip of paper. Douglas studied it, thinking before pulling a face.

  “South of here. It was once a reasonably good neighborhood, now gone to seed. Nothing but the starving and the gangbangers.”

  “Then let’s go. Maybe the two brothers can tell us something about Trenchard Oil. We can hire these guides ourselves. They no doubt need the money now that Saint-Verran is dead.”

  The two men crossed the road, dodging the traffic that obeyed no rules. Their Hyundai sedan was still intact; nobody had paid it any interest. They headed south, threading their way between the other cars and trucks that occupied the roads. Mangy, skinny donkeys pulled carts piled high with junk that nobody wanted. The farther south they traveled, the less affable the neighborhoods became. The stares of people changed from disinterested to mildly curious to outrightly hostile at the intrusion of the white men. Houses and buildings that were once painted white were streaked with black-and-brown grime. Whole sections of paintwork and mortar had fallen away, and nobody seemed to care. Bolan stayed on alert throughout the entire journey, which was only a couple of miles but felt like a voyage to another planet. Trash lay everywhere, garbage overflowing into the streets. People waded through the mess, and malnourished children played in it. It was a sorry sight to witness.

  They were forced to slow at one junction, as children were sitting in the middle of the street, listless in the scorching heat. Bolan looked around, noting the enmity from nearby adults. Everybody was staring at them. They began to move forward, lurching as if they were zombies. Douglas tooted on the horn, but the children didn’t move.

  “Ambush!” Bolan said. “Lock your door quickly. Go around the kids.” The soldier reached over the back of the seat, making sure the two rear doors were still secure. Douglas cursed and banged on the horn again. Several adults, mainly men, were standing in the way, hands pressed on the hood, teeth bared, glaring at them. More people ran up and began hammering on the windows, screaming, demanding money from the two rich white men. Women pressed their emancipated children against the glass as a sign of poverty; others offered items for sale, even their sisters. Men were yelling, pulling on the door handles, trying to open them. The car was shaking from side to side. It would be only moments before either the windows caved in from the pressure or the Hyundai sedan was turned on its side and the mob pulled them both out of the car.

  “Go!” Bolan yelled. “Push your way through them!”

  “I can’t see shit!” Douglas screamed back. “I’ll run over someone!”

  “They’ll get out of the way! Just go!”

  As Douglas accelerated the vehicle, the banging on the roof and sides grew even more frantic. Several men had clambered on top and were jumping up and down. The roof began to crumple.

  “Go!” Bolan shouted again.

  Douglas made the effort. The car shot forward, both wing mirrors snapping off. The men on the roof tumbled from sight; people jumped out of the way. There was a lurch as the Hyundai sedan drove over something, then they were free of the mob, back onto the main road. Insults and jeers were hurled after them, along with bricks and other rubbish. Bolan looked back to see somebody sitting on the road, clutching at their legs, screaming.

  “God! Did I kill someone?” Douglas demanded.

  “Someone hurt their legs,” Bolan told him.

  “Jesus, I thought that was it. That we’d be pulled out and beaten to death. Jesus!” He continued to
mutter, his lips moving but making very little sound.

  Bolan said nothing. It had been close. Even if he had fired several rounds into the air, nobody would have noticed. They were making far too much noise. And Douglas was right: they would have been beaten to death by starving, anxious people. People who were so desperate that they used their own children as a barricade.

  “Much farther?” he asked.

  “No. Jesus! No. We are almost there. This is the street. Shit!” The temperature in the Hyundai sedan was unbearable, the air conditioner blowing nothing but warmth, but there was no way Douglas was going to open a window after what had just happened.

  “Calm down,” Bolan said. “We’re still alive.”

  Douglas gave Bolan a look as if to say how could he take that incident so calmly? Then he focused on the road, making a right turn and slowing.

  “I think this is it,” he said. There were no street names and no house numbers, so Bolan hoped that he was right.

  “Pull over here. Quickly.” Bolan pointed to where he wanted the car parked. As soon as they’d stopped, Bolan unlocked his door and was out, surveying the street. Something was wrong.

  Douglas switched off the engine and climbed out. He mouthed a “What?” at Bolan. The soldier indicated the end of the street with his head. He then moved around the front of the car to join Douglas. The feel of the street had alerted him to the danger. It looked no different from any other that they had just driven through, except there were no people. Everybody had vanished. Bolan suspected they were in hiding, peering out through holes in the walls and gaps in the curtains, waiting for the danger to go away.

  “What?” Douglas whispered.

  Bolan reached behind his back and withdrew his Beretta pistol. Douglas saw the pistol and groaned. “Oh, no. You’re not going to start shooting again, are you?”

  “Probably. Look down there.”

  Douglas, still shaking from their encounter with the starving mob, finally realized what had caught Bolan’s attention.

  Two black Toyota pickups were parked end to end, identical to the ones that had been used in the attack earlier that day.