Читать книгу War Drums - Don Pendleton - Страница 11

Aqaba, Jordan

Bolan’s flight touched down in Jordan just after noon. He hailed a taxi and headed to Le Meridien Hotel, where a room had been booked for Novak. Bolan checked in, went to his room and settled down to wait. When he had collected his key card, there had been a message waiting for Mr. Novak. It had informed him that he would be contacted and to wait at the hotel until then. There wasn’t much Bolan could do until that contact was made. Nothing happened during the rest of the day, and after a meal, he turned in and slept.

BOLAN SAUNTERED OUT OF the bathroom of his hotel room, towelling his hair dry after a cooling shower. He dressed in black, lightweight clothing and lace-up boots, then crossed to look out the second-story window. The sun was already up over the busy city.

Because of the high security in Jordan, Bolan had been forced to enter the country without the benefit of weapons. He hadn’t been happy with that idea, but he had been left with little choice. Somehow he was going to have to get his hands on some weapons.

As he considered his options, there was a light tap on his door.

“Who is it?”

“Clean towels, sir.”

When Bolan cautiously opened the door he was confronted by a lean man in a creased, cream linen suit. The man held a well-used Browning Hi-Power pistol, and was pointing it directly at Bolan.

“Please step back, Mr. Novak,” the man said politely. “I would hate to have to shoot you out here.”

Bolan retreated. The man knew his business. He stayed far enough away from Bolan to avoid being jumped while keeping the 9 mm gun on target. However much he might have disliked the situation Bolan wasn’t reckless enough to try to take the gun away from the man just yet. Not until he had gained some information at least.

The man followed Bolan inside, pushing the door shut with the heel of one worn and scuffed brown shoe. The cuffs of his pants were grubby around their frayed edges, and the overlong legs dragged on the floor when he stood still.

“Am I supposed to be expecting you?” Bolan asked. “Or is this just some local custom?”

The man’s wrinkled brown face creased into a semblance of a smile. “You had a message waiting when you arrived?”

Bolan nodded. “It said to wait, so I waited.” He turned and indicated his breakfast cart that had arrived minutes earlier. “You mind if I finish my coffee before it goes cold?”

The man gestured with the Browning, then went and sat on the other side of the room, the gun still trained on Bolan.

“You want any?”

The man shook his head. His black hair was worn thick and long, and kept sliding over his left eye. He brushed it back with a flick of his hand.

Bolan drank his coffee. “You know who I am.”

“Forgive me. I am Salim.”

“And your job is to…?”

Salim smiled. “I am your escort.”

“Why the gun?”

“To maintain mutual trust and ensure your good heath.”

“You speak good English.”

“Thank you. For an Englishman you have a very good American accent.”

Bolan didn’t miss a beat. “That’s what happens when you spend too much time over there. I do a lot of business with the Yanks. Goes down better if they understand what I’m saying.”

“I need to see your passport and a certain letter.”

Bolan handed over the items and watched the man study them. Finally satisfied, Salim pushed them into a pocket.

“Time to go,” he said.

Bolan pulled on his jacket. They left the room and made their way out of the hotel lobby without incident. Once outside, Salim guided Bolan to a black Audi. A solidly built man sat at the wheel. All Bolan saw were wide, powerful shoulders and a shaved head set on a thick neck.

“In the back,” Salim said. He followed Bolan inside, then spoke in rapid Arabic to the driver. The Audi swung around and out of the hotel parking area, merging with the traffic.

“Are we doing business, Salim? Or are we just going to tour the city?”

“Enjoy, Mr. Novak. This is a beautiful city. Look at the architecture. The sea.”

“I can do that on the travel channel.”

“True, but not with all the ingredients. Television is a false medium. Not real. Like you, Mr. Novak. It only pretends to be what is is.”

In that instant Bolan knew his claim to be Jason Novak hadn’t been believed. He was ready to make a move when Salim suddenly lashed out with the Browning Hi-Power, striking him across the skull.

BOLAN AWOKE IN A SHADED room that held the stale odors of casual existence in the dusty shadows and a scent of danger that heightened his awareness.

He sat up, leaned against the wall at his back and took a look around. Shabby furniture occupied a shabby room. Sunlight permeated the thin blinds drawn across the windows. He was facing the door and as he focused his eyes, pushing back the dull ache from where Salim had struck him, he saw the man watching him. Salim said something and a second figure materialized from the far side of the room. The driver. On his feet he was tall. His dark features held an expression that suggested he was more than ready to inflict harm on Bolan.

“Tell me where Novak is. And refrain from maintaining this deception. I know you are not Novak. Your false identity was spotted at the airport. Whatever your intention, it has failed.”

“It got you out in the open.”

“Much good that will do.”

“The game isn’t over yet, Salim.”

“If I shoot you now, it will most certainly be over.”

Bolan ignored that. “I’d guess you need to know why I took Novak’s place.”

Salim stepped forward. “And you are going to tell me.” It wasn’t a question. “I am also still curious about Novak himself. Is he dead?”

“I’m sure you’d like that to be true. Novak dead means he can’t talk about you and your people. Sorry, but he’s very much alive. The people who have him are very good at getting what they want. He’ll tell them everything in time.”

Salim closed in on Bolan, raising the pistol in his hand. “Death comes quickly in this country. Life can be cheap.”

“But not from you, Salim. You need my secrets. Kill me, and you’ll never find out what I’ve learned about your organization.”

“Nothing. You know nothing.” The words were spit out in an angry moment. He didn’t believe Bolan. Salim was eager to inflict harm, but something held him back and the soldier figured he had his orders. His threats were threats and little more.

“Your employers believe that? Razihra? Yamir Kerim? Anatoly Nevski? Hard men to keep happy I’d say.”

Bolan was deliberately goading Salim, using names he hoped would get a reaction. And they did. Salim failed to conceal his surprise. The man was nervous. Excitable. He turned and said something to his helper. The big man came forward, his large hands forming even larger fists.

“You will tell me all you know,” Salim said. “I need to understand.”

Bolan pushed slowly to his feet, watching the advancing figure. The man was slow, his movements heavy. No fast mover, Bolan realized. He’d work on that. The man depended on his strength, not his speed.

Salim was urging on his man now, his Arabic racing out in a continuous stream. The guy reached behind him and produced a broad knife. He cut the air with it to show Bolan what was coming.

“Yusef is very skilled with the blade,” Salim said. “He can cut you and you will still live. Save yourself the pain and give me what I need.”

Yusef leaned forward, the gleaming steel blade threatening Bolan.

“It is not too late.”

Bolan ignored Salim’s taunt. He stayed where he was a second longer, then spun hard and went low, driving a clenched fist into Yusef’s groin, catching him unprotected. Bolan’s fist went in deep, drawing a high yell from the guy. While Yusef’s attention was centered on his pain, his stride faltered and Bolan reached out, grabbing the wrist of the knife hand. His grip secured, the Executioner turned his back on the guy, twisting the arm and bringing it across his shoulder so that when he applied unrelenting pressure against the natural bend of the arm, bone snapped.

The knife slipped from loose fingers. Keeping hold of the wrist, Bolan turned, staring directly into the face of the moaning assailant, then launched a crippling punch that crunched the side of Yusef’s jaw with force enough to fracture the bone. The guy went down on his knees, lost in his new world of pain, blood dribbling from a slack mouth where teeth had dug into his cheek. Bolan slammed a brutal, sledgehammer blow to the back of Yusef’s neck and he flopped to the floor and lay still.

Salim had moved up behind Yusef, not wanting to miss what was supposed to happen to the American. When Yusef went down, Salim was left exposed. Before he could recover, Bolan was on him. He closed his left hand over the barrel of the pistol, twisted hard. Salim’s trigger finger, caught in the guard, snapped like a twig. He howled in pain and didn’t stop until Bolan backhanded him across the side of the face, the blow stunning the man. Salim started to transfer his pistol to his other hand and Bolan kicked his feet from under him, dropping him to the dirty floor. He bent and took the pistol from Salim.

Bolan stepped close, running skilled hands over the man as he checked for more weapons. He found a couple of filled magazines for the Browning and little else except for some coins and crumpled banknotes. He found his passport and the Novak letter, which he retrieved. He slipped the Browning mags into his pocket. Taking hold of Salim’s coat Bolan pulled him across the room and swung him into a sagging cane chair. He raised the man’s head and stared into his pain-dulled eyes.

“Is this the way it works, Salim?”

The man in the chair clutched his broken finger and shook his head. Up close his brown face was a mass of fine wrinkles, his slack jaw unshaved and he was sweating heavily.

“Maybe I should break the rest of your fingers. Just to show you I don’t play games.” The man shrank away Bolan. “Your choice,” the Executioner said. “Personally, I don’t care if I have to break both your legs, as well.”

“You are a cruel man.”

Bolan found it hard to hold back a smile. “That from the guy who just tried to have a knife stuck in me? What was that, a local greeting?”

“That was business. Nothing personal.”

“Wrong there, friend. When someone comes at me with a knife, it gets very personal.” Bolan straightened, regarding the man silently, waiting.

“What do you expect of me? Should I tell you who wants you dead?”

“It would be a start. Right now all I want to know is where they are.”

“You expect me to take you to them?”

“Why not?”

“You expect me to betray them? That will never happen.”

“Wrong answer. I’m not happy with that and you are getting closer to having something else broken. Maybe I’ll just shoot you now and get it over with.”

Salim’s eyes widened and the man sweated even more. He regarded the tall, cold-eyed American closely. The man had a look about him that indicated he meant what he said. He handled the pistol with authority, and it was plain to see he had killed before.

Salim, in fact, had a long acquaintance with violence. It had been his business for many years. In that time he had come up against many men of violence, and he had dispatched many of them. Always in the line of work. Never with any personal animosity. His killing trade was just that—his trade. He worked quickly and efficiently, mostly with his knife because it was that weapon he had mastered at an early age. He had killed his first victim when he was fifteen and ever since it had been the way he had earned his livelihood. Salim had an excellent reputation among his people. In some quarters he was feared. Others envied him his skill and his discretion. Yet here he was another man’s prisoner. The man he had been paid to capture. It was, above everything else, humiliating. To have been overpowered and wounded by an American. If the story got out, Salim would lose much of his status.

“So if you will kill me, do it. There is nothing I can tell you.”

Bolan backed away, turning to peer through the window. The narrow, sunlit street below had little traffic. Between the houses he could see the glittering water, boats bobbing gently. Here, away from the tourist hotels and the busy shops, life went on its slow-paced way. Just as it probably had for a thousand years. Change here was slow to the extreme. It didn’t stop the shadow people from plying their back-street trade in arms dealing. Weapons were always in demand, and the enterprise was thriving. The merchandise was no longer the usual crates of Kalashnikovs and RPGs. The stakes were far higher.

Nuclear stakes.

“If they know I’m not Novak, they must be concerned,” Bolan said. “Worried I might be close to discovering something about them. Like the location of the desert camp.”

Bolan watched Salim’s eyes as he spoke. Though he tried not to, Salim made an involuntary movement with his head when Bolan mentioned the camp.

“There is nothing to say,” Salim muttered, avoiding looking directly at the big American.

“I’ll be sure to let your employers know you helped me find them. Yamir Kerim especially.”

Salim became instantly alert, eyes wide with alarm. “You cannot do this…”

“You haven’t told me anything. Yet. But you will.”

Bolan let his words hang in the silence that followed. He could almost sense Salim’s mind working overtime, assessing and debating which way to go. He was caught in a dead end. No matter which way he turned, he was facing threats. Bolan on one side, Kerim on the other.

“Why should this happen to me? I only offer my services as a business. Not to become involved like this.” His voice had taken on a whining tone as he tried to worm his way into Bolan’s sympathy. “I am just a poor man struggling to make a living.”

“About now might be a good time to consider a change of occupation.”

Salim stared at the American. When he looked deep into the hard blue eyes he saw no consideration. Only the steady gaze of a man who knew his own mind.

“What do you want from me? If I offer you information, how do I know you will not betray me?”

“I don’t go back on my word. All I want is to find the camp. Give that to me and I’ll let you go.”

“Why should I trust you?”

Bolan leaned in close, his blue eyes looking directly into Salim’s.

“I never lie. If I give my word, I don’t go back on it.”

Salim knew instinctively that the American was telling the truth. There was no guile in his voice. It was that of an honest man, which was something of a novelty in Salim’s world. He lived in the shadows, surrounded by lies and cheating. Truth and honesty were items in short supply, so to be confronted by such things left him briefly at a loss for words.

“You tell the truth? What guarantee do I have?”

“How about I let you live.”

Salim recalled how easily this man had broken Yusef’s arm. The easy way of violence was in him.

“What do you want?”

“Get me to the camp. I need to go there. If you don’t I’ll kill you here. Now.”

“If I do this, you will set me free?”

“As I said, you walk away. No strings.”

Salim sighed. He had little choice. If he gave this American what he wanted, at least he would have his life. He would need to have his injuries attended to, collect his money from his apartment and take the first coach heading up country. He could always find work. His expertise was always in demand. After that…

“Do I need to explain what will happen if you betray me?” Bolan asked. “Just remember one thing. I’m very good at finding people.”