Renegade Agent te-47

by Don Pendleton

  And yet, for the last five years of his service, this model agent had been exploiting his position and contacts to lay the foundation for his ultimate act of betrayal of his colleagues and country.

  CIA psychologists had developed a theory to explain Edwards's actions. The world of espionage was incredibly complex, they pointed out.

  Double-cross, betrayal, and deception were everyday components of it, so that the line between ally and antagonist could change position almost daily. In addition, the individual agent was only one small cog in the great intelligence machine; often it became difficult for the agent to relate the purpose of his operations to the greater scheme of his nation's interest.

  As a psychological defense, even a competent and loyal agent perceived his work as an exercise in logic tics and intellect. Accepting as a given fact that he was working on the right side, he would then bring nothing but a cold precision to his operations.

  There was nothing wrong with this, the psychologists pointed out. It was mentally healthy and stable, and served the agency's best interests. It became dangerous only when it was carried one step further, as Frank Edwards had done.

  Edwards had rejected completely the link between his intelligence activities and the greater good.

  Sure, he understood that as an agent of the CIA he was promoting the interests of the United States; it was just that he had decided that those interests no longer had anything to do with him. The operation ( the game ( became an end in itself. From there, the decision to operate solely in one's own behalf was not a large step.

  "It would be erroneous," one CIA psychologist wrote, "to diagnose Edwards as mentally unhealthy. On the contrary, from a purely logical point of view, Edwards's behavior is entirely rational." Rational, maybe. But Bolan knew that the world does not revolve upon an axis of rationality. To coexist, people had to accept and embrace emotion as well-emotions like loyalty, commitment to something of worth, moral vision.

  Instead, Frank Edwards had chosen a life of ethical vacancy, a commitment only to power and wealth with no thought whatsoever to those at whose expense he would prosper.

  It was a hollow world that Frank Edwards had created for himself. And Mack Bolan meant to pop it open.

  The chronometer on Bolan's left wrist read 0730:00, Tripoli time. Twisting the arm far enough to see it sent a faint ripple of hurt across the left side of his chest. It was another reminder that he would have to compensate for the less-than-full use of that arm. Everything had to go down exactly on the numbers, and there were no numbers to spare. This hit had to take out Edwards, but it would still have to be as soft as possible. Call it semisoft.

  Call it the end of a traitor's megalomaniacal master plan.

  13

  The middle-aged guard Bolan had seen occupying the gatehouse at Edwards's Giorgimpopoli villa a couple of hours earlier had gone off duty. His replacement was a younger man, a swarthy Berber in the same immaculate livery. The Berber listened to the name Bolan gave him, picked up a phone, repeated the name into it, then after a pause nodded Bolan on up the curving driveway.

  Like he'd figured, the gateman was more for show than anything else. The hard security began at the front door.

  Bolan pulled the Jag up to the villa. A couple of other cars were already there, two sleek black limos. Edwards was giving his guests the red-carpet treatment.

  Bolan had another treatment in mind for Edwards.

  The doorman wore a neatly pressed green jump suit without insignia of any kind, and a Colt .45 automatic in a web-belt supported holster on his left hip. He was an American. According to Toby, there were three or four other hardmen besides him at the villa, also from the U.S. It could have been a glimmer of chauvinism on Edwards's part, or more likely just the practical knowledge that he could find no better trained personnel anywhere. In this case, the four were all one-time Special Forces, recruited by T.W.Hansen, the one-time master sergeant whose brain fluids were now watering the grassy plain near Wheelus Air Base. They were tough, competent hardmen, combat-experienced, who had sold their deadly skills to the renegade agent.

  "Sid Bryant," Bolan announced to the guy as he got out of the Jaguar.

  "May I have your card please, Mr. Bryant."

  Bolan got out the wallet he had appropriated from Bryant. The slip he extracted was the size of a business card, with a series of random symbols ( a dollar sign, an ampersand, a star ( printed across it. The doorman tore off one corner; the card was made of three plies of different colored paper, like a tote ticket at a pari-mutuel horse-racing track.

  Like most of the more simple applications of tradecraft, it was effective. To counterfeit the card that identified the bearer, you not only had to know the order of the symbols, but the order and color of the card's plies and Edwards could change either at will.

  The doorman examined the torn corner, looked satisfied. Then he gave Bolan the once-over, his gaze pointedly lingering on the area of Bolan's left armpit.

  "Are you carrying a gun, Mr. Bryant?" the guard said neutrally.

  "That's right," Bolan said pleasantly. He had donned a light jacket over the khaki safari shirt. Beneath it gun-leather held a compact Beretta 92So autoloading pistol.

  "May I have it please?"

  "Nope," Bolan said, just as pleasantly. "I feel naked without it."

  The guard frowned.

  "Look," Bolan went on seriously, "I'm walking into a place I've never been before. You get me to Edwards, and him and me will talk about my gun. I won't shoot anyone before that."

  The guard didn't like that, but Bryant was a guest. He opened the lid of a recessed box set into the door jamb and spoke. Footsteps sounded inside, and the doorman opened up. Two other men, dressed and armed like the guy on the door, were coming down the hall. One was dark-haired, slim, and very tall six-eight or nine, Bolan guessed. The other was red-headed and burly.

  "He's heeled," the doorman told them.

  The redhead nodded blankly, "This way, Bryant." He took the lead, followed by Bolan, the very tall guy bringing up the rear, Indian-file style. The villa was cool, dim, elegant, and decorated in a vaguely European style. The furniture Bolan could see soft and plush, leather-covered cushions on solid hardwood chassis. They went down a long hall, as Bolan called into mind the detailed sketches of the place Toby had worked up, etching the layout into his consciousness. They passed sliding oak double doors on the left, which would open into a chandeliered dining room. On either side were oil paintings that looked like originals, framed in gilded hand-carved mountings. The hall ended in a carpeted double-wide staircase; at the top they turned and went back toward the front of the house, passing almost a dozen closed doors on either side of the second-story passageway.

  At its end the redheaded bodycock knocked on the last door. Above it was a motor-mounted video camera. The door swung open.

  Bolan's mind registered more leather-covered furniture; a monitor for the video camera set in the wall above the door; a small conference table with chairs; the two side walls covered with floor— to-ceiling shelves lined with mostly leather-bound volumes. The opposite wall was almost all window, shaded by semi-opaque draperies through which some of the early-morning sunshine filtered. In front of the draperies was a hardwood desk, its flat top as big as a bench, as baroquely styled as the rest of the house's furnishings.

  Frank Edwards sat behind the desk.

  He nodded, said, "Hello, Bryant," and stood up.

  Physically, he was not especially impressive.

  He was two or three inches shorter than Bolan's six feet, and had a pleasant open face and conservatively cut dark hair that was beginning to thin in front. He had the kind of compact stocky build that, when dressed in well-cut clothing, could have been either muscled or gone slightly to fat. Bolan could not be sure, because the clothes he wore were extremely well cut: a charcoal-gray summer-weight suit, a pale shirt, a plainly striped rep tie. A watch with a gold expansion bracelet circled his wrist.

  The result
was quiet wealth without ostentation.

  Edwards could have been an executive of a multinational corporation, or even a statesman.

  In a way he was a corporate president. His product was a full line of accessories for the well-equipped terrorist everywhere. And he didn't need either of his hardboys to pass on the doorkeeper's observation.

  "Would you mind giving up your side arm to one of my men for the time being, Bryant?"

  "Yeah," Bolan said, "I'd mind."

  "Look, Bryant, this is supposed to be a get acquainted visit. We're both pros. You know how this has to go." Nothing had changed in the guy's stance, expression, or tone, but somehow he was suddenly projecting a chill. It was the eyes, Bolan realized. They were dark, steady, cold as gunmetal. In contrast to the persona the man's clothing presented, his eyes gave off nothing at all.

  If eyes were the mirror of the soul, Frank Edwards was soulless. Bolan shrugged and fished out the Beretta with two fingers. He laid it on Edwards's desk, and watched the man frown at the ugly snout of the automatic's silencer.

  "I don't like loud noises," Bolan said.

  The whole role camouflage was carefully contrived to present a specific image.

  Bolan's version of Sir Bryant was of a tough, self-assured agent ( but one a little too glib, a little too pushy. He wanted Edwards to feel superior to Bryant, and to lose a few shavings of alertness for that reason.

  As for the Beretta, it had already played its primary role, which was not unlike the florid gestures a stage magician uses to misdirect his audience. The wrangle over its surrender had forestalled a full body-search ( and had in point of fact not left Bolan unarmed.

  The guard who had been inside the office when they arrived watched Bolan narrowly. His name, according to Toby, was Kenneth Briggs, and he was Edwards's personal bodycock, on him always, like a secret service man on the president. That made him Edwards's choice as the best man. Bolan returned the gaze. He would accept Edwards's opinion and treat the guy with appropriate caution.

  "I have some people downstairs," Edwards said. "A breakfast meeting I'd already planned before we got in contact. It will take an hour or so. I'd like you to wait up here." His tone left no room for argument. But then Bolan hadn't intended any. "Boyd and Whiston will stay with you." Edwards smiled very slightly. "For company." He came around the desk, headed for the office door. "I'll have breakfast sent up."

  "Thanks," Bolan said dryly.

  Edwards went out, tagged by Briggs.

  Based on what Toby had told him, Bolan had come into this on-the-edge soft penetration armed with a few knowns. Known: Edwards had a breakfast meeting with four bad-egg agents from the Red side of the fence. Known: Edwards's guard contingent at this softsite was four or five very tough men. Known: a computer terminal, phone-linked to the mainframe at Wheelus and manned by a technician, was located in one of the second-story rooms. Known: communication with Wheelus was maintained by land-line and two-way radio both.

  From the knowns had come the assumptions.

  Assumption: Edwards was hardly going to invite Bolan to join the breakfast meeting. Assumption: Bolan would be guarded, and guarded well.

  From all of that, Bolan had fashioned his plan.

  The framework went by the numbers, but the fleshing out allowed for the likely necessity of playing by the ear at some point.

  The difficulty came from the mission's dual goals ( neutralize Edwards, and wipe out his Wheelus base. To accomplish both, without one site tipping off the other as soon as the play began, was where the numbers got sticky.

  Bolan would almost have to be in two places at once.

  That was impossible. But many times in the past when he had faced the impossible, Bolan had simply substituted the improbable.

  14

  "Let's go, Bryant," Boyd, the carrot top, said. He stood, picked up Bolan's Beretta, and stuck it in the front of his belt.

  "Where we going?"

  "Just follow me."

  Two doors down the hall, Boyd unlocked a door and let Bolan precede him and Whiston in.

  The Old World elegance of the villa ended at the threshold. The room was windowless, painted all white. Louvered fluorescent light fixtures were set into the ceiling; in opposite corners video cameras behind wire-mesh cages swept the entire room. The only furniture was a plain wooden table and four straight-backed wooden chairs. The door they came through was nearly a foot thick and whispered precisely shut; Bolan assumed it, and the rest of the room, was soundproof.

  It was a multipurpose room, and none of its purpose had much to do with the gentility radiated by the rest of the house. This space was built for imprisonment, interrogation, isolation, and torture, if it came to that. Whiston took one of the chairs, set it next to the door, and folded his long frame to straddle it backward. Boyd gestured Bolan toward one of the others.

  "I'm not so sure I like the way this is going," Bolan said. He put on a cocky grin and let a wash of fear show through it. "I guess I'll be running along."

  "What is this, amateur hour?" Boyd said.

  Whiston snorted.

  Bolan lit a cigarette with a Zippo lighter.

  "So," he said through a cloud of smoke. "You boys like your work?"

  "Nosmoking."

  "Is that so?" Bolan said, still cocky.

  "Look," Boyd said reasonably. "The ventilation in here is lousy."

  "So let's go someplace else."

  Boyd leaned across the table, both palms flat on it. "Listen, Bryant."

  Bolan held his right arm straight out from the side, let the butt drop to the white floor, all the while staring defiantly into Boyd's gaze.

  "That's it, smart guy..."

  "Okay, okay," Bolan said quickly. He bent under the table after the butt. He swept up the leg of the twill slacks with his left hand, and the little C.O.P. .357 Magnum leaped from the ankle holster into his good right.

  Boyd was sharp enough to catch the import of the motion and realize he was in a vulnerable position in the same instant. Instead of jumping back, he put his weight into the table, tried to topple it on Bolan. Bolan ducked under it, hit the redheaded hardman in the knees.

  Boyd took a step back, blocking out Whiston, but did not go down. The muzzle of his Colt .45 cleared leather.

  Bolan shot him in the chest at a range of three feet.

  The explosion of the heavy-caliber round in the soundproof room was loud enough to be painful but not as painful as the slug. Boyd bucked into the air, spun half around to show a ragged exit wound in the middle of his backbone, nearly crashed into Whiston.

  Straddling the chair had not been a good idea. The second hardman learned that a moment too late and took the lesson to eternity with him. He was trying to draw, stand, and avoid Boyd's body all at once, and he had finished none of the motions when the C.O.P. boomed again and most of his chin and jaw caved into his face as he flew off the chair, all arms and long legs.

  Bolan got to his feet, not without pain. As he had rolled, a wrenching bolt had tormented his left shoulder and chest. He could feel wetness seeping into the fresh compress he had applied when he dressed in the Bryant camouflage. With much more punishment he would not be able to control the arm at all.

  He retrieved the silenced Beretta from Boyd's belt, wiping flecks of blood off its butt on the dead man's blouse. The 92So went back where it belonged. From Boyd's trouser pocket he took the key to the white room. As he straightened, someone knocked on the door.

  Bolan palmed the little .357 inside his jacket pocket, then eased open the door a crack. A young Arab in some kind of servant uniform was holding a tray with three cups, a coffeepot, and a covered dish. "He say bring up breakfast." His accent was thick, and his tone seemed sullen, as if he resented the job or any other.

  But neither his attitude nor the fact he was Arab made him a terrorist. He could have been just what he looked like: a servant who'd had a fight with his wife that morning before coming to work.

  Bolan was not about to harm
the guy on suspicion ( but he couldn't let him run loose either.

  Bolan opened the door wide enough to slip through.

  "In there," he told the guy. The Arab scowled and went past him into the white room. The door sighed shut in time to cut off the crash of the tray hitting the floor, and the guy's strangled gasp of fear and surprise. Bolan locked the door, pocketed the key, and moved on down the hall. There were other keys on Boyd's ring, but Bolan did not waste time trying them. The Beretta whispered, and wood cracked. Holding the silenced gun up and ready, Bolan put the flat of his foot against the door at the far end of the hall from Edwards's office.

  The room was a bedroom, a guest room from the unoccupied looks of it. Bolan waited a moment, every sense alert, then crossed past a door opening into a bathroom, and on to a glass-and-lattice door.