Читать книгу The Killing Rule - Don Pendleton - Страница 8

CIA safe house, London

“Running the prints now, Striker.”

Bolan had taken the woman’s fingerprints and faxed them to Kurtzman. She sat on a chair with her hands cuffed together in front of her and her ankles bound to the front chair legs with plastic zip restraints. The gun Bolan had held in his hand during the ten-minute drive to the safe house had kept the woman docile. Bolan had washed out her eyes with water. They were still red-veined from the gas and still glared bloody murder at Bolan.

Kurtzman got back to him almost instantly. “I have a hit on the Interpol database.”

The woman went rigid on the chair.

“What have you got?”

The computer whiz hit a key and a police photo of the woman popped up on the screen. “Sylvette MacJory, born in Aberdeen, Scotland. Attended Strathclyde University and received her degree in computer science. In 2005 she was accused and convicted of cybernetic crimes in the U.K., including identity theft and criminal hacking into the databases of several major U.K. financial institutions. Sentenced to five years, sentence reduced to two years probation and public service. Current residence in London. No further criminal record.”

Sylvette’s face clouded with rage.

“So who are your South African friends?” Bolan asked.

“Piss off, Yank!”

“You should try to come up with something more original than that.”

“You’re no cop, then.” The woman’s eyes narrowed. “You’re holding me illegally. I want my lawyer.”

“You’re right. I’m not a cop, and you’re not being held.” Bolan clicked open his phone and punched a button. “You’ve been abducted.”

MacJory swallowed with difficulty as her position became more clear to her.

Assistant Director Finch answered on the first ring. “Where are you?”

“Did you get the package I left you?”

“Yes,” Finch admitted.

“I have another.”

There followed an appalled silence. “Listen to me. You really must—”

“Her name is Sylvette MacJory. You’ll have her in your files. Felony computer hacker. She was attempting to get into my laptop.”

“Did you know we detected pepper spray within the room?”

“She tried to get into my laptop,” Bolan reiterated.

Finch tried a different tack. “You shot one of the suspects twenty-two times. He survived only because he was wearing body armor.”

“I shot him twenty-two times precisely because he was wearing body armor and I knew you would want him alive.”

“Mr.—”

“The large one out in the hall is South African. Did you get an ID on the other two?”

Bolan was pretty sure she would have hung up had she not been attempting to trace the call. The NSA satellite Bolan was bouncing his signal through made that a losing proposition, but it would take the MI-5 communications people a little while to figure that out. Finch let out a long, grudging breath. “You’re correct. The large one is Ruud Heitinga, South African citizen, as is the other, one Kew Timmer.”

“You get a bead on the man inside?”

“He was a bit of an anomaly. His papers say he is a French citizen named Guy Diddier. All of them have clammed up, however, call it a hunch, but I found Monsieur Diddier most un-Gallic in his behavior.”

Bolan was swiftly coming to the conclusion that Assistant Director Heloise Finch had earned her hunches the hard way. “So what did you do?”

“I called in a favor with French intelligence and ran the name. Diddier is a French citizen, but not by birth.”

Bolan’s intuition spoke to him. “He served a tour in the French Foreign Legion.”

Finch seemed pleased. “That is correct. He was originally an American citizen by the name of Gary Pope. He served four years in the California National Guard’s 223rd Infantry Regiment. Somewhere along the line, he got the romantic notion of joining the Legion. Once he’d been accepted, he took advantage of the Legion’s opportunity of identity change and after serving his tour successfully he accepted French citizenship.”

“Any line on the two South Africans?”

“Not yet, but I have every faith they are veterans of the South African Defense Force.”

Bolan agreed. “Ms. Finch, these individuals are mercenaries.”

“So it would seem, and how do you believe the girl fits in?”

Bolan glanced over at the hacker. “She may use a computer rather than a silenced submachine gun, but she’s a hired gun, nonetheless.”

“I agree.”

“Director, I find it very strange that the IRA is employing mercenaries.”

MacJory stared at Bolan strangely and then snapped her poker face back on. Bolan pretended to ignore the slip as Finch continued.

“It is indeed odd. It goes completely against their method of operation. By nature, mercenaries work for money and historically are notorious for switching sides. The terrorist wing of the IRA chooses its members for their absolute loyalty. They would never entrust any kind of sensitive operation to outsiders.”

“So someone else is in the game.”

“So it would appear.”

“Any ideas?”

“None whatsoever. The appearance of mercenaries in this situation is positively anomalous.”

“What’s their legal status, currently?”

“Well, their visas and passports are in order, and while they weren’t guests of the hotel there is currently no law in England against being beaten to a pulp in a hallway. However, we did find three automatic weapons on the premises. They are currently being held on suspicion and possible weapons charges.” Finch’s voice went slightly dry with sarcasm. “Since you took the liberty of kidnapping Miss MacJory, I suspect any evidence concerning her will be inadmissible in an English court of law.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

“So what do you intend to do with her?”

Bolan raised the BXP. “Shoot her.”

MacJory started in her seat.

Finch shouted in alarm. “You can’t—” Bolan clicked his phone shut and stepped forward. MacJory cringed as far as her restraints would let her. Bolan pressed the muzzle of the BXP between her eyebrows and pinned her head to the back of the chair like an insect.

“You’re of no more use to me.”

“No!”

The safety clicked off beneath Bolan’s thumb with grim finality.

MacJory screamed. “Please!”

“Who do you work for!” Bolan roared.

The woman shook her head, crying. “I don’t know!”

“You’ve got five seconds.”

“Please—”

Bolan knew MacJory’s type. She wasn’t a terrorist. She was a genius. Breaking code and committing crimes in cyberspace was a game to her. Even after her conviction, she still didn’t believe she had done anything wrong. He wouldn’t shoot her, but he had to make her believe he would.

Nothing had prepared her for gutter-level, get-your-hands-dirty fieldwork.

“One…”

“Please!”

“Two…”

“I don’t know who I work for!”

“You’re working for the IRA. You’re a traitor to the U.K. Three.”

“I didn’t know!”

“Four…”

“I don’t know anything about the IRA!” The woman wept uncontrollably. “I swear it!”

Bolan read her body language and pulled the gun back. MacJory started to suck in a breath of relief and gave a strangled shriek as Bolan fired a burst into the ceiling. Plaster rained down on her, and he aimed the weapon at her again. “Okay, you’re a merc. Who brokered the deal? Who pays you?”

She shuddered with her betrayal. “Aegis…”

Bolan cocked his head slightly. “Aegis Global Security?”

“Yes! I swear! I freelance for Aegis!”

That was not good news. Aegis was one of the oldest, and in the controversial world of executive VIP protection, military advisement and “solutions by other means,” Aegis Global Security was one of the most respected.

Bolan clicked his phone open. Finch picked up midring. “Jesus, bloody—”

“She’s still alive and unharmed. She freelances for Aegis. I suspect the other three are permanent men on the roster.”

Finch was flabbergasted. “Aegis Global Security?”

“That seems to be the situation.”

“Not good.”

“No, it’s not. I’m going to turn Miss MacJory loose in a couple of hours, and I’ll let you know where you can find her.”

“Listen, I need you to—”

Bolan clicked off and went back to his computer. “You get all that?”

Kurtzman nodded. “Oh, yeah.”

“Get me everything you can on Aegis.” Bolan already knew a lot about it. “Where’s David McCarter?”

“You’ve got a bit of luck there. He’s in the U.K. right now visiting family.”

Bolan nodded. “I need him.”

Guernsey, The Channel Isles

“RED-HOT WILLY.” David McCarter stared at Bolan accusingly as he drove the Land Rover over the bleak, bumpy countryside of the island. “You know the man’s a bloody legend.”

Bolan glanced off across the gray chop of the English Channel toward Normandy. “Red-Hot” Willy was indeed a legend. The man’s biography read like an adventure novel. A television series on the BBC and two lines of pulp fiction paperbacks had been loosely based on his life. Just about anyone who had ever been in the military community had heard of Colonel William Glen-Patrick. However in England, formally, he was Lord William Glen-Patrick. The Glen-Patrick line had held the title of baron in England since the Middle Ages. Like a Dickens novel, little Lord Willy had been orphaned at the age of five when his parents had crashed their Lotus Elan into the wall of a cattle enclosure. The executors of his estate had been unscrupulous and absconded with the greater part of the family fortune, and by the time Willy had reached the age of seventeen the Glen-Patrick family had been bankrupt. Unable to pay his taxes, Lord William had sold the family castle and estates and used his family name to wangle a commission in the Life Guards, the most senior regiment in the British Army. He had served with distinction in Aden and Borneo and become the British army welterweight boxing champion. In the late 1970s he had joined the SAS, being one of the few members of the English peerage to ever successfully qualify and serve in English Special Forces. During the Falkland Island War, he had won the Victoria Cross for conspicuous bravery.

The wounds he’d received in the Falklands had forced him to retire from the British army, so he had taken his name and reputation and gone to West Africa, where he had gotten himself involved in the constant wars and revolutions. He’d come back with a personal fortune in diamonds. Throughout the 1980s Lord William had been famous for winning and losing fortunes at the baccarat tables in Monaco, reaching a respectable ranking on the Grand Prix circuit when not crashing his own personal sports cars, climbing Mount Everest and K2, sailing around the world, dating a different girl every month and even occasionally flexing his hereditary right as an English peer to cast his vote in the House of Lords. He was a nobleman, a hero, a mercenary, a professional adventurer and a dilettante. For decades he had been constant fodder for the British tabloids and earned the sobriquet “Red-Hot” Willy.

In the military community he was known most for pioneering what may have been the first VIP/executive protection mercenary outfit. In West Africa, war and violence had been and still were endemic. At the same time gold and diamonds flowed out of the area and guns and money flowed in. Glen-Patrick had seen the need not just for bodyguards for VIPs, but men who were soldiers in their own right. Developers, businessmen, African royalty and heads of state needed more than just bullet shields. Glen-Patrick had used the contacts he’d made in the army and the SAS, finding highly qualified men from around the world not just to guard VIPs, their families and business interests, but men who would act proactively. Glen-Patrick had developed a simple, three-step plan. When a threat was determined, it would be bought off. If it couldn’t be bought off, it would be intimidated. If it couldn’t be intimidated, it would be eliminated.

The work had been lucrative, but it was the international business contacts he had made that had made him a millionaire.

Lord William had slowed down upon reaching the age of sixty and retired to an estate on the Isle of Guernsey, living with three women, none of whom he was married to, and again, very occasionally, casting his vote in the House of Lords, usually on environmental issues. His mercenary group had gone from Aegis Incorporated to Aegis Global Security and was reputed to be less bloodthirsty in the new century. According to its prospectus, it was doing a thriving business in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Bolan took note of Lord William’s service record with the Life Guards and the SAS. He’d seen service in Northern Ireland with both units. What he had done there with the SAS had been redacted.

Bolan closed the file. “I see a few red flags, David.”

“Oh, I know, millionaire playboy entrepreneur moves to a tiny island in his dotage, goes quietly bloody bonkers and starts engaging in crazy politically motivated actions.” The former SAS man shook his head as the Land Rover rumbled and bumped along the narrow, muddy lane between the hedgerows. “Don’t think I haven’t thought it.”

David McCarter was the leader of Stony Man Farm’s Phoenix Force and another man whose instincts Bolan trusted. “You knew him?”

“I met him. We’re two different generations of SAS. He was ending his career when I was starting mine. But he’s peerage and he won the Victoria Cross.” McCarter glanced meaningfully at the brown gorse all around them. “That bloody well means something in these islands.”

Bolan knew by “islands” McCarter meant the entire United Kingdom.

“I called him, like you asked,” McCarter continued. “He remembered me and agreed to see us, but he didn’t sound too happy about it. I’m—There are men in the hedgerows.”

Bolan had noticed them, too. McCarter brought the Land Rover to a halt as a man stepped out into the lane in front of them.

The man was about five foot ten. White hair fell around his ears in a shag that seemed to be three weeks past due for a cut. A white mustache draped across his upper lip. He wore a tweed hacking jacket with leather patches on the elbows and a quilted leather patch on the right shoulder for shooting. His heavy wool pants were tucked into stained Wellington boots. A tweed cap was perched on his head at a rakish angle. He looked lean and fit and every inch a British squire out for a morning hunt. All he needed was a double-barrel shotgun broken open and crooked in his elbow.

Instead Lord William stood in the misting rain cradling an L-2 A-3 Sterling submachine gun.

A pair of Great Danes flanked him. One had the black-and-white markings of a Dalmatian while the other was a startling, near-hairless pink. A human argyle vest with the sleeves cut off strained at its seams to insulate the giant furless dog against the cold.

The Sterling’s muzzle was not quite pointed at the Land Rover. Lord William’s finger was not quite on the trigger. His men came out of the hedgerows; there were four of them, two on each side of the lane. They were dressed in heavy wool sweaters, and all carried double-barrel shotguns.

McCarter glanced over at Bolan. The Land Rover’s armor package was rated up to direct hits from .30-caliber weapons. He was waiting for Bolan’s signal to run over the baron and his men.

“I say, David!” Lord William jerked his head. “Why don’t you and your friend come out, stretch your legs! We’ll chat a bit!”

Bolan caught motion out of the corner of his eye. The hedgerow was six feet tall, but a barn was visible above it some fifty yards away. A pair of men were atop it now, and Bolan recognized the 84 mm profile of a Carl Gustaf recoilless antitank rifle across one of the men’s shoulder.

The seven-pound, rocket-assisted warhead would light up the Land Rover like the Fourth of July.

Lord William shrugged. “Of course I could just bloody well light you up like November Fifth!”

November Fifth was Guy Fawkes Day in England, commemorating the day in 1604 when Guy Fawkes had stockpiled thirty-six barrels of black powder in a cellar beneath the House of Lords and tried to blow up Parliament.

Bolan turned to McCarter. “Let’s go stretch our legs and chat a bit.”

“Right.”

“Slow and easy!” Lord William called. He nodded at his yeomen. “Steady on, lads.”

Bolan and McCarter stepped out of the Land Rover and moved to stand in front of it. McCarter grinned. “Hello, Bill!”

Bolan nodded. “Your lordship.”

The two dogs quivered at the sounds of their voices. Lord William spoke soothingly. “Spot…Starkers…” Bolan looked into Starkers’s colorless albino eyes and saw cold, pale murder. Only their master’s will kept the giant dogs rooted in place in the muck instead of savaging the intruders.

Lord William ignored Bolan’s and McCarter’s greetings. “Lunk, their pistols, if you please.”

The man behind them was very good. Even in the squelching mud he’d barely made any noise on his approach. Bolan and McCarter slowly opened their jackets. A huge hand reached around Bolan and drew the Beretta 93-R. The Executioner spoke quietly. “Ankle holster and right pocket.” He was relieved of his snub-nosed 9 mm Centennial revolver and his Mikov switchblade.

The Executioner slid his eyes to look at the man as he moved off to disarm McCarter. Lunk had earned his name. He was huge. Not big like a bodybuilder or an athlete, but a human built to a different scale. He was running six foot six with shoulders that were axe-handle broad, from which hung arms like an orangutan. He had the pale complexion, anvil jaw, snub nose and tightly curling brown hair that fairly screamed Welshman.

He took McCarter’s Hi-Power pistol, noting the shortened Argentine “Detective” slide and the chrome base plate of the Israeli 15-round magazine with one raised brown eyebrow.

McCarter kept his smile painted on his face. “Not the warmest welcome I’ve ever had in Guernsey, Bill.”

“Can’t be too careful these days, David.” The aging lord stared at McCarter long and hard. “These days, in this business, it’s your friends who come to kill you, and they come smiling.”

“You sound like you’re speaking from recent experience, Lord William,” Bolan commented.

“A Yank, then?”

“Yes, your lordship. I’ve been having a few people coming by to kill me, as well. David was kind enough to arrange a meet so that you and I might compare notes. I think we have a few things in common.”

Lord William turned to McCarter. “I haven’t seen you in years, David. Then you call me out of the blue sky and tell me it’s urgent and come armed with an American in tow. What’s this all about?”

“Well, it’s a fine, soft morning, Bill. Shall we take that stretch of the legs and talk?”

Lord William stared up into the misting rain. “Oh God, no. I’m an old man. It’s worth my life to be out in this mist and muck.” He slung his weapon and suddenly grinned. “Let’s go inside and drink whiskey.”