The Iranian Hit te-42

by Don Pendleton

  Mack Bolan was not a cynic by any stretch of the imagination. Rather, he was a realist. He knew that many good men and women worked hard, long hours in the nation's capital to make this country a better place to live. But they stood little chance of succeedding in any large sense. They were outnumbered and outflanked by the bureaucrats and their red tape and the many interests they fronted. Somehow the country functioned, the democratic process worked, and sometimes decency and what was right did win out. But not nearly often enough.

  Bolan stayed as far away as possible from the fat-cat lawyer legislators and what they were trying to do to a great nation. Col. Phoenix was a man of direct action surviving in a complicated world. He did his part away from sticky-fingered senators and silver-tongued diplomats. He cast his vote in every election, and he hoped that enough people who felt the way he did were doing likewise. In a democracy there is always hope. But he generally stayed away from Washington proper unless his work called him there.

  It was calling now.

  He sensed Carol Nazarour growing tense in the Corvette's bucket seat beside him as he steered off Persimmon Tree, onto the road that fronted the northern wall bordering General Nazarour's temporary home.

  Nobody could have guessed what she had been through. Bolan realized that this was a strong woman sitting next to him. As strong as she was beautiful. Sure, he could see the strain she was under — the tightness around the eyes and mouth. But she was keeping a stiff upper lip, too, and he liked her for that.

  There was no sign of the Datsun that the kidnappers had left behind. It had probably been driven off by one of the backup team.

  Bolan braked to the shoulder and killed his lights at the spot where he had first seen the woman moving furtively along the wall only a scant twenty minutes earlier. He turned in his seat to study her.

  "How did you get out from in there?" he asked, nodding toward the property. "It wasn't by the front gate. You looked like someone crashing out of prison."

  "I was," the blonde replied softly. But she ignored his question.

  "You didn't have to come back here with me," Bolan reminded her sharply.

  The woman sighed. A defeated, beaten sound. "He would have found me," she said, looking out through the windshield at the wall. "I've tried running before. He's always found me and brought me back. Or had me brought back.'' She seemed to realize for the first time that Bolan had pulled the car over. "Why did you stop?" she asked, turning to eye him with a new curiosity.

  There was much that Bolan wanted to ask this woman. But there was little time. Much as his heart went out to Carol Nazarour and all she had been through, Bolan's top priority tonight was to nullify the Iranian commando team led by Karim Yazid. Bolan would not forget Mrs. Nazarour or her obvious plight. He would do what he could for her, tonight and later. But only after the top priority had been dealt with. For now, he had been delayed long enough.

  He leaned over and unlatched her door, pushing it open for her. "I'm letting you out so you can break back into prison. Good luck, and keep your head down."

  She didn't budge. "Who are you? I thought you were one of Eshan's goons."

  "That's an interesting word for your husband's business associates."

  The blonde made an unladylike sound. "My husband's business associates are some of the lowest scum walking this earth. Sure, they all wear expensive suits and are chauffered around in limos, but they're the people who are robbing their own country blind."

  "Oil?"

  "Some of them."

  "Mafia?"

  Her feminine blue eyes were dagger points of ice. She considered that for a moment. Then she blinked and the spell was broken.

  "Maybe. Listen, if you aren't one of my husband's goons, then who in hell are you?"

  "You'll find out soon enough. Now get a move on, lady. We'll talk later."

  She studied him for another moment, then reached over and touched his wrist with her fingertips. "Thank you for the ride, and for saving my life."

  Then she was out of the car. The leather coat and bouncing head of blonde hair disappeared into the darkness.

  Bolan slipped the car into gear and continued on toward the front gate of the grounds. The skin of his wrist seemed to tingle where Carol Nazarour had touched him.

  A beauty.

  A tragic beauty.

  She had tossed in her thanks for saving her life almost as an afterthought, as if she herself had doubted whether that life was really worth saving.

  * * *

  The main entrance to the grounds was set in the northwestern corner of the wall. And the general had gone hard. Yes, indeed.

  The wall itself was twenty feet high and three feet thick. At first glance it appeared like that of any of a number of similar walled properties Bolan had noticed along the outer reaches of Persimmon Tree. This was horse estate country. The wealthy liked their privacy. But the aura of respectability was dispelled when one reached the front gate, which looked like nothing so much as Leavenworth Prison. The entrance had been designed to discourage the most determined gate crasher. The drive to the gateway was angled so that no vehicle seeking forceful entry could pick up enough speed to ram through the gate or the reinforced fence. Entrance onto the property was not gained: it was permitted. There were two brick guardhouses situated one after another, at opposite sides. A gate stretched across the entrance in front of each gatehouse.

  A cold-eyed guard checked Bolan's id while the man's twin stayed behind bulletproof glass, cradling a Ruger Mini-14, little brother to Bolan's Ml. Guard Number Two never took his eyes off Bolan while the other okayed the id and moved to unlock the fence barring entrance to the narrow corridor.

  The scene was repeated at Gatehouse Two.

  Bolan was impressed with the general's security. Vehicles had to pass through a two-stage entrance, stopping and slowly negotiating the narrow corridor, which was barely wide enough to accommodate a standard American car.

  There was a third backup guard at Gatehouse Two. And fifty feet beyond the checkpoint, snaking off in both directions in the darkness, stretched another chain-link fence laced with barbed wire, the upper four feet angled outward and probably electrified. Beyond the fence, the grounds of the estate extended in a rolling, gradual incline toward the house. The pebblestone driveway was about eighteen hundred yards long.

  Bolan coasted toward the house in second gear. He was seeing and absorbing all he could that was relevant to the terrain where the coming battle would be fought.

  Halfway to the house he passed another guard shack, this one discreetly nestled amid a dense cluster of dogwoods. But Bolan was not required to stop. Two guards were visible, and one of them waved the car by. The upgrade became more pronounced, and moments later, the driveway arced onto a sort of plateau and widened into a parking area.

  Bolan parked amid a handful of darkened vehicles and unloaded his gear from the sports car.

  An Olympic-sized swimming pool, empty now, and a cluster of cabanas separated the parking area from the house.

  Bolan hurried along a stretch of cobblestone walkway that encircled the pool. The grounds were dark. Moments later the main house began taking shape in the moonlight.

  The red brick structure was a two-story holdover from the nineteenth century. Dated, but with its elegance intact. Several of the windows were lighted.

  A man stood in the open front doorway, waiting for Bolan. An Iranian, early forties, of rather slight build, whose outstanding feature was the set of deep worry lines that furrowed his face.

  "Colonel Phoenix? We expected you some time ago. I just finished speaking with Mr. Brognola. I'd called to ask if you'd run into any delays."

  "No more than usual," Bolan grunted, declining further explanation. He thought quickly of the background data that Aaron Kurtzman had supplied on the cassette regarding the general's group. "You must be Dr. Nazarour."

  The Iranian nodded, visibly impressed. "I am Mehdi Nazarour. I serve as my brother's physician," he confirme
d. He spoke with the perfect clipped cadence of a foreigner, but Bolan sensed a barely subdued nervousness about the man. The general's brother stepped aside, holding the door open for Bolan. "I will tell Eshan that you have arrived," he said as Bolan stepped into the front foyer.

  The physician indicated a door across the hallway that led off the foyer. "Perhaps you would care to wait in the study. Mr. Rafsanjani is in there now — my brother's secretary and assistant. My brother will be only a few minutes, and I'm sure Mr. Rafsanjani will make you comfortable and fill you in on any details about our place here. As I say, we've been expecting you."

  Then the front door was closed behind Bolan. The brother exited to another area of the house. There was a deathly stillness about this building. Bolan crossed to the study door. He could not ignore the feeling in his gut that he had just stepped into a nest of vipers.

  The study was warm, comfortable, softly lighted, and lushly appointed. Two of the walls were lined with books, ceiling to floor. Another wall boasted a well-stocked bar and video setup. The wall behind the wide desk must have been a picture window. At the moment a curtain covered it, draped against the night.

  A short, somewhat effeminate man of indeterminate middle age rose from behind the desk as Bolan entered and set his ordnance temporarily across the surface of the bar. The man reminded Bolan of Peter Lorre, the forties movie actor.

  A smile seemed to slide onto the man's bland face. He leaned across the desk with arm extended as Bolan approached. His handshake was loose and cool. "Ah, Colonel Phoenix." The guy even had a high-register Lorre voice. "We had begun to worry about you. May I fix you a drink?"

  "No, thank you."

  "I am Abbas Rafsanjani," the man said with a slight bow. "It has been my privilege to serve General Nazarour both in Iran and in our travels. In our exile. I want you to know that I am at your disposal, Colonel. As are all the members of the security force outside."

  "I appreciate that," Bolan said with a nod. He was trying to penetrate those poker eyes and coming up with zero. "What about the house staff? Cooks and such?"

  "The entire house staff was dismissed at the close of yesterday's workday," said Rafsanjani. "As you may know, we had intended to be out of your country by this time. The staff has been reduced to the general's two personal bodyguards, myself, and of course the general's brother and Mrs. Nazarour." At a sound from the door, the aide looked past Bolan. "Here is the general now."

  Bolan turned to see the study door behind him opened by a burly guy in a security guard uniform that matched the ones of the men outside. The guy held the door open while another uniformed man wheeled in General Eshan Nazarour. The man in the wheelchair waved a curt dismissal, and the bodyguards walked out.

  The general swung his wheelchair around in a decisive, abrupt swivel that brought him face to waist with Bolan.

  The man in the wheelchair was in mufti, but he was military right down to the tips of the spit-polished shoes on his artificial legs. He was considerably older than his brother, and his face was strong. The general's hair, which was brushed straight back, was bristly and streaked with iron gray, and thinning at the top. Unlike his brother, Eshan Nazarour had no worry lines to mar his countenance. Here was a man, wheelchair-bound or not, who took life by the throat; he commanded his life and the lives of those about him, and expected blind obedience. A savage. Right. And the savage was lord of his jungle.

  "Colonel Phoenix," he rasped without introduction, "we will discuss your business here later — perhaps. First, there is something else to be dealt with."

  "There is security to be dealt with," Bolan replied coldly. "You know what we're expecting here tonight, General. It's going to be one helluva ruckus. And it's going to happen any minute. I suggest that one of your men give me a tour of the house and grounds immediately. I want to have a closer look at your security. Then we'll talk."

  Nazarour wore the frigid, adamant expression of a man whose authority is rarely questioned. "We will talk now, Colonel," he hissed. "I demand to know why you were delayed in getting here tonight. And I want to know why you thought you could smuggle my wife back onto these grounds without my being aware of it."

  Rafsanjani seemed stunned.

  It had, yeah, become a very complicated mission.

  Very suddenly.

  Very unexpectedly.

  Very definitely.

  5

  As Stony Man Farm's liaison with the Pentagon, with CIA headquarters, and with the White House, Harold Brognola had done his share of worrying since Mack Bolan's "new war" had commenced three missions ago. There was no way around it. Worrying just had to be a way of life when yours was a desk job and it was your best buddy out there in the field taking on the hairiest missions anybody could throw at him.

  This latest task, the one Brognola had dropped in Striker's lap before the guy's heels had even cooled from his last assignment, was no exception.

  A crack paramilitary assassination team: that's what Striker was out there taking on tonight. These dudes who intended to hit Nazarour were the absolute best in the business. Their record was proof enough of that. They had traveled the globe, systematically terminating "with extreme prejudice" those who had been marked for death by Iran's kangeroo-styled "holy courts." And now they were reportedly here in Washington, in Bolan's backyard. No exotic locales this time. No jumping on board a jet for some foreign trouble spot. It was all going down less than one hundred miles up the pike in sedate, upper-class Potomac.

  Yet it could be the toughest mission of Bolan's new career if this hit team was even half as good as their record indicated, and Brognola had to acknowledge inwardly, glumly, that they were that good. Bolan was out there tonight — a bone-weary man still drained from his previous mission, which had concluded only hours ago — and he was going up against a disciplined unit, each man of which would be Bolan's equal in combat training and skills.

  Fourteen of the bastards! And they would not be bone weary. Bet on that: they would not be tired. They would be open for business. There was no telling how or when they would strike. Each previous hit had been different, under different circumstances, with no discernible M.O.

  Yeah. Tonight Potomac would see one shit of a firefight. Of that, Hal Brognola was certain.

  Damn Nazarour! A good man was out there risking his life because of that Iranian jackal. How had Nazarour been allowed into the country in the first place? Or rather, whose palms had been greased? When this thing was over and he had a few spare seconds to breathe, Brognola promised himself that he would find out. Sure, there was a good reason for Striker to be out there tonight. A damn good reason, the way things stood now. This hit team had to be stopped.

  Brognola fired the cigar jutting from the corner of his mouth. He glanced at his watch. Ten-fifty-nine. The team was going to hit within the next seven and a half hours. Before dawn. That was the one thing the previous hits did have in common: Karim Yazid and his men preferred night work.

  April walked into the room, interrupting Brognola's thoughts. She was carrying two cups of coffee.

  She handed one to Hal. "Nothing new out of Tehran," she reported. "Except positive confirmation from an additional source that the attempt is scheduled for tonight. Yazid's team caught a flight to Paris out of Tehran yesterday morning, just as our first source reported."

  Brognola grunted. "And at Paris they separated, picked up their phony ids, and caught separate flights into the States, to rendezvous somewhere in the D.C. area — It's easy to backtrack after the fact."

  "You're really upset, Hal," April said. "What is it? Bad news?"

  "I don't know." Hal was scowling at the phone in front of him. "I got a call from Abbas Rafsanjani ten minutes ago. As of then, Striker hadn't shown up at Potomac yet."

  "He must've run into something between here and there." April's voice was carefully emotionless, concealing the ache that had begun to gnaw at her.

  "I hope it's some sort of a lead," said Brognola, not looking at April. "I
t can't be the enemy. Tehran has no pipeline into Stony Man. To waylay him, they'd have to know where Striker was coming from. They don't know that. And we didn't get the mission data ourselves until two hours ago."

  "Mack's all right," said April quietly, firmly. "He'll be at Nazarour's shortly. Obviously something has slowed him up, and he hasn't been able to get through to us. It's when he does get there that the trouble starts." The pain was reasserting itself. The dull anxiety of not being able to help in any way.

  "It's going to be tough," nodded Hal, looking at her directly now. "But they've all been tough, April, since the beginning. Even before you came aboard."

  "I know. I know. I just hope and pray he's ready to take these people on. He must be exhausted from the ordeal with Toni...."

  "I've had my mind on that," mused Brognola. "But let's look at the facts. He's equipped with his usual hardware, and it's never let him down yet." The fed's voice, slightly gravelly, was getting firmer and more confident as his enthusiasm mounted.

  "He can do spectacular things with the Auto-Mag and the Brigadier. The Uzi, as far as I'm concerned, was invented for him. He's also carrying some flash and concussion rifle grenades, and I know he'll use them with considerable imagination.

  "Hell, when my people at Justice were up against Mack, he scared them half to death regardless of his physical condition, regardless of how well he was armed. He can break a man's back with his bare hands, and he has done so.

  "But Yazid's crew," he added, "God knows what they'll be carrying. AK-47s and AKMs probably. That's what the Cherikhaye have used in the past. Got them from Libya. They'll have been smuggled into this country months ago.''