Throw Down. Don Pendleton
Читать онлайн книгу.
final weapon was the newly manufactured Spyderco Navaja. With the ancient Spanish navajas—sometimes known as “caracas” due to their ratcheting sound when opened—as its prototype, the Spyderco was an updated, four-inch-blade version built with the latest innovations in steel and technology.
Bolan had found the Spyderco folder with its one-handed opening hole to be an indispensable tool, and sometimes weapon.
He sat on the edge of the bed closest to the door, facing a man who was just as unique, in his own way, in the cookie-cutter motel room. Father Patrick O’Melton wore a black suit and cap-toed black dress shoes. But above the equally dark tunic, his white Catholic priest’s collar stood out in bold relief. His sandy-red, wavy hair had been combed straight back, barely covering the tips of his ears at the sides. The priest’s nose appeared to have been broken more than once, and a long scar, almost as white as his collar, extended from his left ear down the side of his face to his chin, parting the short, stubby beard that covered the rest of his jaw.
The two men had just entered the room and sat silently for the few seconds it took to check each other out. Bolan, never known to beat around the bush, broke the silence. “My people tell me you were a U.S. Army Ranger.”
O’Melton nodded slowly and his lips curled into a small smile. “That’s right,” he said pleasantly. “First Gulf war. I got to sneak around Baghdad dressed like an Iraqi, and help guide our missiles and bombers onto target.”
Bolan tapped his throat, then gestured to the priest’s collar. “This was a pretty dramatic career change, wouldn’t you say?”
“Oh, it was dramatic,” O’Melton agreed, his head still bobbing. “But not as strange as it might seem at first.”
When Bolan didn’t respond, the priest went on. “It was toward the end of the war,” he said. “When Saddam Hussein was pulling his troops back to Iraq and setting fire to all the oil wells he could on the way. The deciding moment wasn’t all that colorful, I’m afraid. I just pretty much thought okay, you’ve killed a lot of bad guys, and that was what you were supposed to do. But now it’s time to do your best to save some.”
Bolan finally nodded in understanding. He leaned forward slightly, clasped his hands together and said, “Tell me about this snitch of yours.”
“He’s a diamond in the rough,” O’Melton said. “Former Hezbollah terrorist. He knows a lot of the ins and outs of the organization—but not everything, of course. Each cell in each terrorist organization—Hezbollah, al Qaeda, or any of the others—operate on a need-to-know basis, just like a lot of our own intelligence agencies. But my man says he’s willing to help.”
“How’d he come to tell you about the attack on Saint Michael’s?” Bolan asked.
“He told me in confession,” the priest said. “And since it was a crime that hadn’t yet occurred, I wasn’t bound to the confidentiality pact. In fact, I was bound by law to report it.” Father O’Melton held a fist to his mouth and coughed slightly.
“He was in confession,” Bolan said. “Are you telling me that he’s given up Islam for Christianity?”
“That’s what he told me.”
“Well, his intel was great,” the soldier said. “The attack on the chapel came off just as he told you it was going to. If the Detroit PD hadn’t gotten advance notice, instead of a few dozen bullet holes in the walls, your chapel wouldn’t even be standing now.”
“He was on the money right down to the tiniest detail,” O’Melton agreed.
“And he’s willing to help us go after Hezbollah and other terrorists, as well?”
“That’s what he said.”
For a moment, the two men fell silent, staring into each other’s eyes. But Bolan hadn’t missed the slight tone of voice change, or the ambiguity, in two of Father O’Melton’s answers. When he asked if this snitch had converted to Christianity, instead of a simple yes, the priest had said, “That’s what he told me.” And when questioned about the informant’s willingness to help, O’Melton had answered, “That’s what he said.”
Father O’Melton might be a man of God, but he wasn’t naive by any means. He knew what double and even triple agents were made of, and that there was always the possibility his informant was trying to play him and the feds rather than help them.
Bolan finally broke the silence again. “There’s something in how you’re answering my questions, Father. The tone of your voice. And the fact that your answers come in sort of a neutral way, such as ‘that’s what he told me’ instead of just a simple ‘yes.’”
“I’m just reporting to you as best I can,” O’Melton said.
“That’s good,” Bolan stated. “But there’s one thing that bothers me.”
“It bothers me, too,” the priest said. “Christianity and Islam are similar in some ways, but quite different in others. For a Christian to deny Christ is a mortal sin. But Muslims are allowed to masquerade as Christians or Jews or anything else they find advantageous in order to further their Islamic jihad.” He paused to cough again, then said, “The typical American—and I might also include the typical American Christian—either doesn’t know that or chooses to ignore it. But it’s right there in black-and-white in the Koran.”
Bolan nodded. “I’ve read it.”
O’Melton smiled again, but this time looked more sad and weary. “What that means for us,” he said, “is that if we use this guy, we can never be sure we can trust him until the op is completed.”
Bolan leaned back on the bed. “You say ‘us,’” he said. “What exactly do you mean by that?”
“I want to go with you,” O’Melton said. “I feel a calling to help. I speak reasonably good Arabic and Farsi. And I’m well-trained to assist you, both in combat and in helping interpret any theological leads that might come up.”
“The heavens didn’t open this time, either, I’m guessing,” Bolan said.
O’Melton threw back his head and laughed. “No, again it wasn’t that dramatic. Just a feeling God’s given me. Like maybe this was my calling all along—to be trained as an Army Ranger, then go to seminary for training as a priest, then combine the two in order to help save the world from...well, who knows what?”
The Executioner sat quietly for a moment. If Father O’Melton could remember what it was like to use a gun, he might indeed be valuable during this mission. And what, exactly, was that mission? Bolan wondered. At this point, it was to meet the priest’s informant and run him for all he was worth, taking out every Hezbollah terrorist or other threat to the world until they’d exhausted the man’s use.
But Bolan was getting his own “feelings” at the moment. And one of them told him that this could turn into a much larger operation than they were able to see at the moment.
He sat up straight again. “Well,” he said, “let’s take your man and go with him. Where is he?”
The priest didn’t answer verbally. He just stood up and walked to the side of the room. Bolan had noticed that they were in a connecting room when he’d first entered. He watched O’Melton unlock their side of the twin doors and rap his knuckles on the other.
A moment later, that door opened, too.
And standing in the doorway, Bolan saw one of the scruffiest looking men he’d ever seen.
* * *
ZAID AHMAD WAS PERHAPS five feet five inches tall if he stood on his toes and stretched his neck as high as it would go. Bolan estimated he’d tip the scales at a hundred forty pounds—if the dirty BDUs he wore were soaking wet. Ahmad sported long hair like some young prophet from another century, and his beard looked to be at least a foot long. Both hair and beard were just beginning to sparkle with tiny patches of white.