Читать книгу Final Coup - Don Pendleton - Страница 10

The strong odor of trash and human waste nearly blocked out the smell of the other odors in Yaounde’s darkened business district. The area was half-deserted. Bolan watched through the back window of the taxicab and saw gangs of young men walking up and down the streets. The teenagers were doing their best to look and act like American gangbangers, and wore an almost laughable combination of Western attire— baseball caps turned backward, and sleeveless T-shirts that emphasized elaborate tattoos—mixed with dashikis and other African attire. He remembered the cabdriver asking if this was really the part of town they wanted to visit. Bolan had said simply, “Yes.”

He continued to use all of his senses as he took in the atmosphere of this neighborhood. Barely present above the nauseous odors was the scent of oil, freshly cut pine and other woods, and coffee beans. But he saw no one on the streets who looked like they worked in any of those enterprises.

The workmen, he suspected, scuttled out as soon as closing time came each day, giving way to the human “vampires” who ruled the night. He remembered what Jean Antangana had said earlier, back at the hotel, about this being the most dangerous area of the city. And although the Executioner had seen even more poverty and crime in places like Calcutta and the fish market area of Iquitos, Peru, he sensed that violence could break out at any time.

Like in most Third World countries, tourists were forbidden to bear weapons, and their clothing and the large sums of money they likely carried made them easy targets. Bolan knew that while he—with the ripped shoulder and torn lapel of his coat—didn’t look like the typical tourist, the semi-ruined jacket could be misinterpreted as the result of an earlier mugging.

Lareby’s multipocketed vest, faded blue jeans and Timber-land hiking boots shouted “Visitor,” and even Antangana, with his expensive dashiki and carefully pressed slacks, looked out of place.

The soldier glanced at the scrap of paper Antangana had given him. The address of the warehouse where Menye and the men still loyal to him were supposedly hiding was accompanied by a crude, hand-drawn map of the area.

Bolan looked up at a street sign as they passed. Unless he had misinterpreted the map, they were roughly three blocks away from the address he had given the cabbie. Not wanting the driver to know their exact location lest he alert one or more of the roving gangsters of the “easy pickings,” he had told the man to drop him off two blocks before they reached the warehouse in question.

This was Yaounde—the capital city of a nation in tremendous upheaval.

And Bolan didn’t trust anyone.

The cabdriver finally pulled to a halt and Bolan leaned forward, handing him several Communauté Financière Africaine franc bills. He added several more to what would have been a normal tip, and said, “You never saw us. Right?”

“Right,” the cabbie said, smiling. But then his smile turned quickly to a frown. “One last time, my friends. Are you sure this is where you desire to be let out?” He paused for a second, then started to speak again before Bolan could answer. “I could take you to a very fine brothel in a safer part of the city. The women are all beautiful, and—”

Bolan interrupted with, “No thanks,” as he shut the door behind him. He stood silently as the cab drove quickly away. It was obvious that the driver didn’t care to spend any more time in this neighborhood than he had to.

Antangana stepped up next to Bolan. “According to my informant, there is a rear exit that Menye’s men use. Menye, of course, does not leave at all. He is too easily recognized. I suggest we follow the alleys, then make our entrance into the building in the same way.”

Bolan nodded. “You were the prime minister, right?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Then why is it that the only thing even resembling a weapon you have is that cheap Okapi?” Bolan asked. “I remember seeing pictures of Menye and some of his other cabinet members. They were always in uniform and always armed.”

“I am not a fighter,” Antangana said. “I am a strategist.”

“Then strategize from a point about ten feet behind us,” Bolan said as he led the way down a darkened alley. “And don’t get in our way if trouble breaks out.”

Antangana nodded.

But trouble came even before the three men were expecting it.

The first thing Bolan saw as they entered the alley was the beam of a flashlight, aimed directly into his eyes. For a second, he was blinded. Then he closed his eyelids as quickly as he could. He knew the light had shifted when he felt the heat of the strong beam leave his face, and when he opened his eyes again he could see only blurry forms of Lareby and Antangana. Their eyes had been forced closed as well.

Bolan grimaced. He knew that they’d all lose their night vision for several minutes.

Turning back to the oncoming light, the Executioner saw the distinctive outline of a large halogen torchlight. It contained both a huge spotlight-style plastic beam, which was the one being used on them, and a softer, more regular flashlight mounted on the top. Holding the heated beam, Bolan could make out the dark and fuzzy form of a man wearing his baseball cap backward. A dashiki rivaling Antangana’s in flashy color fell halfway down his thighs.

To his sides and behind him, Bolan saw other barely visible forms in the darkness. He counted a total of six in addition to the torchbearer, and knew they were another of the roving night gangs he’d seen since entering the slum.