Assassin's Tripwire. Don Pendleton
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without evidence of government presence, the more likely that seemed.
Bolan was mildly surprised when they stopped not at a booth but at the door of a stone building that faced the bazaar at the far end. The female guerilla fighter rapped on the rough-hewn wooden door with her knuckles, waited, then rapped again. Finally, the door opened. A man in a white robe and red-checkered head scarf, with a Skorpion machine pistol hanging from his right shoulder on a leather strap, glared at them both.
Yenni spoke a few words Bolan could not understand. Her tone was urgent, her pace quick. The guard—for that was most certainly what he was, and Bolan had met the type countless times—squinted at them. He hesitated, but finally stepped back, gesturing impatiently for them to follow.
Bolan entered the building behind Yenni. The guard slammed the door shut behind them and waved with his Skorpion toward the narrow hallway ahead. The cloying smell of hashish was almost overpowering. At the guard’s glowering encouragement, they made their way down a narrow stone-walled hallway and through a beaded curtain.
The room they entered was vast. Bolan scanned the ceiling and walls and, from the marks on them, assumed this chamber had been made by removing interior walls. At an immense octagonal poker table, of all things, a fat man in a bright white robe and matching head scarf sprawled on a brown leather recliner. The poker table was gray with age and matched the enormous man’s skin.
The fat man smiled. Three of his teeth were gold. His face was covered in a few days of stubble and a sheen of perspiration. He wore multiple gold and gem-studded rings on his thick fingers. On the table before him, he was shuffling an oversize deck of playing cards. Bolan did not let the motion draw his eyes. The man cut the deck, shuffled and riffled the cards in a practiced motion. He wore a diamond-studded gold watch on one thick wrist. A hookah stood on a shabby ottoman next to him, while a plate of dates sat on the poker table amid several greasy paper wrappers. Bolan assumed these were from whatever passed for take-out food in this place.
The pearl grip of a revolver jutted from the fat man’s armpit. He wore his shoulder holster over his robe. A pair of designer sunglasses, probably counterfeit, was perched on his forehead.
The guard with the Skorpion was joined by two others. One of the newcomers held a machete. The other had no weapon visible, but he was easily the biggest of the three, with hands that looked as if they could crack walnuts. Unlike the man at the poker table, nothing about the big guard looked soft or fat.
“How curious,” the fat man said in excellent English, “that you would bring a stranger, a Westerner, here to this place, Yenni.”
“Khasky,” Yenni said, offering a slight bow from the waist. “We have money. We come to buy weapons.”
Khasky squinted at them. He had one lazy eye. Bolan was careful to make no sudden movements. This man was a predator. There was no mistaking the hollow look in his eyes. He would order their deaths the second he thought it would profit him.
“What is it you require?” he asked.
Yenni glanced at Bolan. “Heavy weapons,” he said. “An assault rifle and grenade launcher combination. Explosives, preferably Semtex or something similar. Light enough to be portable, powerful enough to be effective. Detonators. Loaded magazines for the rifle. Grenade rounds for the launcher.”
“Hmm,” Khasky said. “You sound like a man who is preparing for war. What war do you fight here, American? And what makes you think I will help you fight it?”
“We have money,” Yenni interjected. “You sell weapons.” Her tone seemed to say this should be the end of any debate on the matter. Bolan would have grinned if he was not keenly aware of the iron in Khasky’s eyes.
“I do not think you understand.” Khasky’s gold-toothed grin grew wider. From under the table he produced an ancient tape recorder.
“What is this?” Yenni asked. Bolan shot her a glance. It was best not to ask more questions than necessary when you had a blade at your throat, figurative or otherwise.
“I have conducted business here for a long time,” Khasky said. “Things were much better before Hahmir took over. My profits are down. My people suffer. The Wolf’s patrols do not come near Al Tabkah. They know better now. But this did not come without a price. Many of my best fighters died.”
Bolan risked a reply this time. “That has nothing to do with us,” he said.
“Does it not?” Khasky asked. He pressed the play button on the tape recorder with one fat finger.
“…American interference,” said a distorted voice. “Highest alert. The Americans seek the weapons.” The voice continued, but was too garbled to understand. The words had been in English but with a heavy accent. That was curious.
“We do not know who sent this,” Khasky said. “We recorded it from the radio. Now you, Yenni, bring me an American.”
“He is Canadian,” she said.
“And I am king of this land,” Khasky replied. His evil grin never wavered. “No. He is an American. He is an American come to find Hahmir’s American weapons. And this will not do. For if Hahmir and the Wolf secure these weapons, those who believe as I do will suffer more. And my control of Al Tabkah may be broken. I cannot allow this.”
They were loyalists. Whoever had tipped them off—possibly the same person who had told the Wolf’s men to expect an incursion in Bolan’s drop zone—wanted to make sure Bolan didn’t find those weapons. Was it the Wolf himself, pursuing his own agenda? Was it some other force? Was Hahmir hiding the weapons and claiming they were stolen, in order to deceive his newfound Western allies? There was no way to tell yet.
Before he could learn more, Bolan was going to have to survive the next thirty seconds.
Khasky drew a machete from under the table, where it had probably been in a sheath affixed beneath.
“Khasky, this is a mistake,” Yenni said. “We will pay you double.”
“Kill them,” the fat man told his guards.
Hal Brognola watched his .45-caliber Glock disappear into the metal tray and reappear on the other side of the blast-reinforced Plexiglas. The stone-faced attendant logged the weapon into his computer, nodding the big Fed through the door at the other end of the chamber. That door was tempered steel and opened on hydraulic pistons. Brognola ducked his head to clear the upper edge, mindful of the teeth that meshed with slots in the floor, then waited for the door to close behind him.
The hardened black site, a stone’s throw from the Potomac in the subbasement of a nondescript government building, employed a level of security that made Guantánamo Bay look like a summer camp. No weapons were allowed except those wielded by the staff. Potential recruits were drawn from the same pool of men who eventually became the blacksuits of Stony Man Farm. The counter-terrorism facility, hidden in plain sight in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, used them for its day-to-day operations and to occasionally assist Mack Bolan or the action teams when needed. The blacksuits were seasoned police officers and military personnel, extremely capable. Looking at these guards, Brognola did not have to remind himself that he was dealing with equally capable professionals. They moved like panthers and they carried their M4 rifles with easy familiarity.
The public would go apoplectic if people knew that a “black prison” was operating right in Wonderland, a cab ride away from the Capitol. Still, sites like these were necessary. As much as Brognola hated to skirt the Constitution, he was forced to do so on a regular basis. The nation’s enemies didn’t follow the rules, nor could he afford to have his hands bound by idealism. There were times when it was necessary to go the black-bag