Читать книгу Crisis Nation - Don Pendleton - Страница 11

Safehouse, San Juan

“The decapitations were performed wth an ax.” Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman transmitted some very gruesome autopsy photos of the bodies Bolan had witnessed being pulled from the lagoon. Technical medical data scrolled down a sidebar, listing vertebral splintering, soft tissue compression and shearing and frontal bruising of the trachea. Bits of wood had been compressed into the front of the remaining neck tissue. What it meant was that someone had bent the necks of three U.S. Military Policemen over a stump and taken their heads like they’d been splitting kindling.

Kurtzman highlighted some of the text. “There was metal residue in some of the sheared bone. The ax was made out of iron.”

That was interesting. “Not steel?”

“No, the CIA had one of their metallurgy specialists run it. The weapon was smelted through traditional African methods.” Kurtzman warmed to his subject. “The African Iron Age preceded Europe’s by four centuries or more, but once they’d established their smelting methods they didn’t change much. Smelting in sub-Saharan Africa was always artisanal and guarded by secretive guilds. Just about every piece forged, from an ax to a hoe blade to a spear point or even a cook pot, had to be individually commissioned. A single iron piece could take several days to manufacture. It stayed this way right up until the modern era. During the colonial period, European metal goods of all kinds flooded Africa. It was easier to buy or trade for a cheap tin pot than have an iron one commissioned. By the 1950s traditional blacksmithing in Africa had just about disappeared.”

Bolan considered that. “So the weapon in question is an antique.”

“Weapons, plural.” Kurtzman smiled. “Between the bodies taken from the lagoon on your arrival and those of some cops from the week before we got at least three murder weapons in play. All antique, all iron, all clearly smelted by African methods. All probably between seventy-five to a hundred years old.”

Bolan saw where Kurtzman was going. “If the Orishas de Chango are passing out antique African war axes to the members like party favors, then somewhere in the Caribbean we have some museums missing some pieces.”

“We’ve already started on museums in Puerto Rico that have West African collections as well as collections of Santería and voodoo artifacts. We’re hacking their computers, discreetly looking for traditional axes and cross-referencing for reports of stolen artifacts.”

“Bear, the axes might not be stolen. The curator or people who work there may have given the weapons away if they were approached correctly. They might even be part of the movement. Check Puerto Rican police files for antiquarians, museum workers or culturalists who are under any sort of political suspicion.”

“I’ll have Barb contact the local—”

“Have Akira hack their files,” Bolan countered, referring to one of the Stony Man Farm’s top hackers. “We have strong reason to believe elements of local law enforcement are involved in what’s going on, and a request like this could tip our hand. The majority of the cops aren’t active in the revolution, but most of them are taking the warning not to cooperate with outside investigations seriously. Even if they don’t actively obstruct us or give us away, they’ll sit on their hands and push paper for days. I want Akira inside their network and getting the information we need ASAP.”

“Gotcha.”

“Thanks. What have we got on Yotuel?”

“Nothing.” Kurtzman frowned. “He’s gone underground. In fact, most of La Neta has gone to ground. People are still protesting and rioting in the streets but the gangs have suddenly gone as quiet as church mice.”

“They’re waiting for something,” Bolan stated. “How’s our little friend Nacho?”

“He’s still in Miami. As requested, Miami-Dade has a loose tail on him.”

“What’s he been up to?”

Kurtzman snorted. “He likes strippers and betting on jai alai. He has two goons with him. One Raciel de Regla and Cuco Juanmanuel. Raciel is street muscle and a real piece of work. He did a nickel for aggravated assault against two police officers. Cuco’s record is so clean it’s creepy. Rumor is he’s an enforcer. A real bump-in-the-night kind of guy.” Kurtzman was suddenly suspicious. “Why?”

“Things are quiet here. I think I’ll go goose Nacho and see what happens.” Bolan turned to Gustolallo, where she sat on the couch drinking rum and coffee. “You want to go goose Nacho and see what happens?”

The detective’s eyes gleamed. “Miami? Yeah.”

“Bear, it looks like I’m going to Miami with Detective Gustolallo. Have Barb get me the first flight to the mainland and coordinate me with the local law that’s tailing Nacho.”

“I’m on it.”

Wahoo Lou’s Double D, VIP room, Miami

BOLAN WATCHED AS A woman bumped and ground her posterior inches from Detective Gustolallo’s face as rap music pumped at eardrum-shattering decibels.

Gustolallo caught Bolan looking. She pointed a finger at him over her rum and Coke and shouted over the noise. “You know? I don’t swing this way, but I can see why you guys dig this!”

Bolan sipped his fifteen-year-old single-malt whiskey and shrugged as six feet of Icelandic inbreeding gyrated to gain his attention. “Yeah.”

The VIP room was a long balcony encased in one-way mirror glass. Bolan watched Nacho and his muscle downstairs. Nacho had a bandage over his nose and was wearing a new sling. He and Raciel were taking in everything from liquor to lap dances with economic abandon. Bolan eyed Cuco. He was neither tall nor short, fat nor thin. His graying hair was a brush cut and unkempt, as was his mustache. His suit was cut cheaply, and he wore thick glasses with thick black plastic frames. Cuco Juanmanuel was nondescript to the point of being a cipher. The single vodka martini he’d ordered sat untouched by his left hand. His right hand was out of sight beneath the table. Nacho and Raciel elbowed him from time to time and cajoled him to enjoy himself, but he ignored them. His head slowly swiveled like a surveillance camera, cyclically taking in everyone and everything in the club. Bolan had watched him behave exactly the same way at Miami Jai-Alai, except there he’d scanned the players on the frontón the same way and placed occasional bets.

Cuco was the dangerous one, and that was why the Lion had sent him.

Miami-Dade plainclothes Detective Marcus Mandela Mitchell’s eyes moved between the stripper on his lap and Gustolallo and her pair of surgically enhanced dancers. He’d obviously developed a crush on his Puerto Rican counterpart and just as obviously had never made the VIP room at Wahoo’s. The detective grinned at Bolan and toasted him with his mostly untouched snifter of brandy. “Yo, man! I dig the way you Justice Department dudes roll!”