Treason Play. Don Pendleton
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with us, obviously. First, we pull a covert move in their town and then we lock them out of a crime scene. But they are cooperating, which is about the best we can hope for. You already met Potts?”
“I did.”
“He’s handling things on our end. He’s really got the touch with the locals.”
“What about Lang? At least in some circles, he was a high-profile figure. He can’t just disappear.”
“Right. Fortunately he was a private pilot. According to a press release that should be going out within the next few hours, he died in an accident. His plane crashed while he was flying from Dubai to Tel Aviv to conduct an interview.”
“Sounds plausible.”
“The family will issue a press release, too. Because he worked in a nonofficial cover capacity, his family has no idea that he was an espionage agent. They think he was just a reporter, which is just as well for all involved. I guess everyone is sitting on the story until the next of kin are notified. Once that happens, the story goes out, runs a couple of days and should disappear after the family has a funeral for him.”
“And since the plane was lost at sea, there’s no need for them to ever see his body so they’ll never need to know that he was tortured to death.”
“If everything goes to plan,” the big Fed said.
“We’ve had such good luck so far.”
“Cynic. Look, I’ll stress to Potts that if he or any of his crew find anything, they should pass it along to you.”
“Good,” Bolan replied. “I may need him to dig up some other information, too.”
Bolan paused and tried to gather his thoughts. “Let me ask you something, Hal. What else do we know about Lang? I mean, about the guy.”
“What are you driving at? Do you think he’s dirty?”
“Not necessarily. Frankly, I’m not sure what to think. But I do wonder how the guy got so over his head in this whole thing. And I have to wonder whether everyone’s telling us everything we need to know, including our friends in Washington.”
“Do they ever? Brognola replied.
“Think about it. You have an experienced agent who goes up against Nawaz Khan, a major weapons dealer. And he does it all by himself? No support? Nothing? I have an arms-length relationship with the government and can do that stuff. But I can’t envision Lang doing the same thing. I’m sure he wasn’t stupid. But was he enough of a cowboy to go out and get himself killed? And he took important information with him to the grave.”
“I don’t like where you’re going with this,” Brognola said. “But damn it, I also can’t refute it. Let me rattle some cages here and see what else I can learn.”
“Thanks.” Bolan raised his mug to his lips and slurped some coffee.
“Look, Bear has been looking through Lang’s phone records, trying to chart out who the guy was talking to and when. The rest of the cyberteam is working through the guy’s bank records and whatever else they can get their hands on. Maybe we’ll know more later.”
“Keep me posted,” Bolan said before terminating the call.
SEVERAL MINUTES LATER Bolan’s cell phone rang again. He took the call.
“Go.”
“Jesus, Cooper, that’s how you answer the phone?” It was Potts.
“You get the building cleaned out?”
“About fifty percent. Not too bad, considering the mess you left behind. It was like the Valentine’s Day massacre on steroids. The harder part was convincing the state security forces that they needed to let you go about your business and ignore the death of an American journalist and several Pakistani nationals. But I think we’re in the clear, at least for the moment.”
“How’d you manage it?”
“Would you believe I’m a good diplomat?”
“No.”
“Would you believe I dropped some names of people in Washington? The kind who approve arms sales to the United Arab Emirates?”
“That I believe. You have that kind of clout?”
“Nah, I just said I dropped names. I didn’t say I knew them.”
“Just the same, thanks for sticking your neck out.”
“Don’t mention it. Hey, the real reason I called was to let you know a couple of things. First, I got a phone call from a reporter, a lady named Tamara Gillen. She left me a message, said she’d heard through the rumor mill that Terry Lang may have been lost in an airplane crash. She said she might have some important information about that.”
“I guess I don’t need to tell you to ignore the call.”
“Aren’t you a genius? Thanks for the tip. Maybe if the bottom falls out of the paramilitary business, you can jump over to public relations.”
Bolan grinned.
“Anyway,” Potts continued, “she said she thought that the whole notion that Terry died in a plane wreck was bullshit.”
“She say why?”
“Negative. Probably because she doesn’t want to believe the guy’s dead.”
“That a theory?” Bolan asked.
“Call it an educated guess.”
“Based on?”
“On the fact that Terry boned everything in a skirt in Dubai. You call five people who knew him, and they’d tell you the same thing. The bastard couldn’t keep it in his pants to save his life. I barely knew him, but he was notorious among the reporters, politicians and government people for screwing everything he could get his hands on,” Potts said.
“Good to know,” Bolan said. “You know anything about this reporter?”
“She’s little more than a name to me. I went back through my Rolodex and I had a card in there from her. She probably interviewed me at a press conference or some such. I try to avoid the press like the plague, but sometimes it just can’t be helped.”
“You think she knows anything about Lang?”
“She probably knows a lot about him. Whether any of it’s useful is another matter.”
“Maybe it’s time I checked.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
I can’t stay here! The thought boomed in Tamara Gillen’s head and jolted her into action. She stepped away from her window and grabbed a handful of the curtain, ready to pull it closed. She stopped herself.
React and they’ll know you’re on to them, she thought. If they know that, they’ll move and be on you in a heartbeat. Then what?
She glided away from the window, and made her way down the hall to her bedroom. Inhaling deeply, she held the breath for a couple of seconds, exhaled heavily, hoping it would calm her racing mind and equally rapid heartbeat. It did neither.
Concentrate on what you know, she told herself. When she’d arrived home earlier, she’d spotted two men positioned on the sidewalk across the street from her building. She’d recognized the bigger of the two immediately. She’d seen him skulking around Lang’s building on at least one occasion. The man looked like he’d come straight from central casting for a thug—wide shoulders and chest, thick hair gleaming from hair gel, and a white scar that bisected his forehead.
“He shouldn’t be here,” Lang had told her at the time.
“Who is he?”
“Never mind,” Lang had replied through clenched