Читать книгу Diplomacy Directive - Don Pendleton - Страница 10

The tail initiated when Bolan and La Costa were no more than a mile outside Veda’s estate and maintained a discreet distance on the return trip to San Juan. As Bolan swung into the small drive and stopped beneath the overhang in front of the hotel, the other vehicle edged to the curb about half a block back. It was still early afternoon, so traffic didn’t clog the thoroughfare, and a minute adjustment to the side mirror earlier afforded the soldier a direct line of sight.

“Are they still there?” La Costa asked, tension in her voice.

“Yeah.” Bolan unbuckled his seat belt. “Stay here.”

“But—”

“No buts, stay here.”

Bolan left the car, walked around the front of the vehicle and pushed through the revolving door that led into the hotel foyer. He walked straight to the courtesy phone and dialed his room. Jack Grimaldi answered on the first ring.

“It’s me,” Bolan said. “I’ve picked up watchers.”

“Friendly?” Grimaldi asked, voice immediately alert.

“Not sure yet,” Bolan said. “I need to know their real interest. They’re in a late-model, silver Toyota. I’ve also picked up a reporter named La Costa. I need you to come down here, go straight out front where her car’s parked. Blue Toyota. Get behind the wheel and drive away. Keys are in the ignition.”

“Where to?”

Bolan thought on it a moment. “Airport. When you get there, requisition us a light chopper. Where’s your rental?”

“Hotel garage, ground floor. White Ford Escape. Keys are under the front wheel well in a magnetized case. What’s your angle?”

“If they follow you, they’re after La Costa. If they don’t, then their only interest is in me. Either way, any contact will be on my terms.”

“Understood.”

“Out here.”

The soldier dropped the phone in the cradle, already formulating a plan of action as he went out the back door of the hotel to the open-air, two-story parking garage. He went straight to the SUV, retrieved the key, got behind the wheel and left the garage. Bolan checked his watch, confident in the timing, and swung in behind the enemy’s sedan just as Grimaldi pulled from the curb. The enemy’s sedan left the curb to enter the flow of traffic. Bolan saw his opportunity and pulled out behind it; obviously, their interest lay in La Costa, and the soldier felt a bit of responsibility for her since she’d agreed to take him to Veda.

Bolan waited until their vehicle had entered the thoroughfare before driving the nose of his SUV into the rear of the fender at the seam of the driver’s door.

The jolt caught the wheelman off guard, the surprise evident on his face even as Bolan backed up a foot, then went EVA with Beretta in fist and leveled the pistol at the driver’s head. He’d hit that target with a very specific purpose in mind. He’d damaged the sedan in such a way that the door would jam against the fender if the man attempted to open it. The pair were effectively trapped since the passenger’s door would not open as it was now wedged against the rear bumper of the car behind, which they had parked.

“Stay right there, hands clear!” Bolan ordered.

The two men complied and Bolan quickly sized them up. Both Hispanic males, about equal in physical size, clean-shaved and with hard expressions that spoke of experience combined with training. If he hadn’t known better, Bolan would have sworn he was looking at a couple of federal agents—maybe FBI or U.S. Marshals—given the way they carried themselves. Well, at least they weren’t extremists, because if they had been Bolan knew his warnings would have gone unheeded. No, these weren’t fanatics; they had too much of a sense of self-preservation to try anything while he had them at gunpoint.

Bolan ignored the honking of angry motorists who had to maneuver around the crash site. He kept his eyes on the pair, watchful for movement while he occasionally scanned the area surrounding them for any sort of backup. Convinced they were operating alone, Bolan approached the driver’s door until the muzzle of the Beretta came within a few yards of the man’s head but still afforded Bolan a clear field of fire in the passenger’s direction.

“Which of you boys would like to explain?” Bolan said.

“We mean you no harm,” the driver replied.

“Could have fooled me. I saw you the moment you picked up my tail. You obviously aren’t interested in me, so that means you’re after the woman. I want to know why.”

“We work for the Internal Security office,” the passenger protested.

“Fonseca sent you?”

He nodded. “We’re just following orders, Colonel.”

Bolan gestured toward the driver. “Show me ID. Slowly.”

The man reached into his jacket pocket. If these guys were legit—and Bolan had the sneaking suspicion they wouldn’t have made up such a ridiculous story on the fly—neither of them would try drawing down on him. The driver held his ID card out the window for inspection. Bolan took it from him, perused it for any hint of forgery, then flipped the holder back through the window, satisfied it was the real thing.

Bolan holstered his pistol. “What’s Fonseca’s interest in the woman?”

“She’s been consorting with known political criminals,” the passenger answered.

Bolan frowned. “I wouldn’t put it that way.”

“What way would you put it?”

“That you should drop it,” Bolan replied with a hard edge to his voice.

“Mr. Fonseca—”

“Is out of line sending you to tail her. I’m here operating under the authority of Governor Hernandez. You go back and tell your boss I said to remind him of that. And no more covert ops against the woman.”

“We got orders.”

“Like I said, drop it.”

Bolan didn’t wait for any further arguments. He returned to the SUV, reversed easily from his contact with the sedan and swung into traffic. He checked the side mirror once and caught the pair of stony faces watching him go, glanced again in the rearview to make sure they didn’t follow him and then pointed his vehicle in the direction of the airport. He turned on the wipers as an early-evening rain had begun to fall while the sun dipped toward the horizon.

Something didn’t make sense here. Why would Fonseca tell Bolan about Veda and the Independents and then put a pair of his men on La Costa’s tail when he knew his tip would have to lead Bolan right to her? The soldier didn’t believe for a second that Fonseca didn’t foresee his information would lead the Executioner straight into a hornet’s nest. For one, he could hardly have called Fonseca’s intelligence leads solid. If he knew about Veda already, why not just send Bolan straight to the source? Moreover, why wouldn’t he mention someone like La Costa as a potential lead? No, Bolan was beginning to see a lot more at work here than met the eye.

From this point on, he knew he couldn’t afford to take anything in Puerto Rico at face value. It wouldn’t have been the first time the corruption went deep within the halls of political power. Bolan’s instinct told him somewhere along the way something, or someone, had gone awry inside Governor Hernandez’s political circle. Maybe the tale Veda had spun for him about the disinformation campaign within the present governing body wasn’t such a preposterous idea after all. Well, one way or another he’d get to the bottom of it.

And then Mack Bolan would deal with it in his own unique way.

“ANY IDEA WHY the governor’s security advisor would have an interest in you?” Bolan asked La Costa as the pair stood on the tarmac at Marín International.

“No.”

“Those the cats who were following us?” Grimaldi asked.

Bolan nodded to his friend and then pinned La Costa with a searching gaze. “If there’s something you know and you haven’t told me, it’s time to come clean.”

La Costa’s expression hardened. “I’ve told you everything I know. Okay? I told you about the Independents, I took you to see Veda and I’ve even risked my job, since I’ve been out carousing with you and I’m three hours overdue at the studio. I don’t know what the hell else you want from me.”

“Nothing, not a thing. I appreciate all your help, as does your country.” Bolan handed her a card. “In fact, if you get any trouble with your employer, just tell them to call that number and ask for Hal.”

La Costa stared at it a moment and then looked up. “The U.S. Justice Department?”

Bolan shrugged. “I have a few friends.”

“Yeah.”

“Now I have a plane to catch.”

Grimaldi took the cue and climbed into the requisitioned civilian version of the OH-58 Kiowa on which he’d done a preflight while waiting for the Executioner.

Bolan put out his hand. “It’s been a pleasure, La Costa. Good luck with your story.”

“What?” La Costa looked at his hand and blinked. “You mean that’s it?”

“What’s it?”

“I mean, that’s just it?”

“What were you expecting?” Bolan asked.

“Something,” she replied. “Maybe some solid leads on my story, an exclusive…something!”

“Listen, La Costa, if Veda is right about someone high up in the government being dirty, and that same someone’s on to you, that makes you a liability to my mission. I appreciate your help, but I didn’t promise you anything and I don’t have time to be yanking your butt out of harm’s way at every turn.”

Yeah, that was for sure. The numbers were running down, Bolan knew it, and he didn’t have time to explain it to La Costa in detail. He couldn’t allow her to get in any deeper.

“I’m sorry if I’ve somehow affected your sensibilities of fair play,” Bolan told her, “but time is a resource luxury I don’t have. And every minute we stand here arguing could turn into a cost in more human lives. Understand?”

La Costa stared him in the eyes a moment, then nodded. “Oh…yeah. I understand perfectly, Colonel.”

She whirled on her heel and stomped toward her car. Bolan watched her a moment, then turned and boarded the helicopter. He pushed thoughts of the reporter from his mind. He really did feel a twinge of remorse because while he hadn’t made a direct promise, he had implied a potential reward for her cooperation. Now he was taking to the skies and telling her she couldn’t go along like an older brother telling the younger sibling she couldn’t hang out with him.

By the time Bolan dropped into the copilot’s seat and Grimaldi had the helicopter moving, La Costa’s vehicle was nowhere to be seen. He donned the headset so he could communicate with the pilot.

“Whoa, Sarge,” Grimaldi said immediately. “She did not look happy.”

“She wasn’t,” Bolan said.

“Didn’t like the travel arrangements, eh?”

“No.”

“Well, Hal called while I was in preflight. Needs you to contact him ASAP.”

Bolan nodded as he turned the receiver channel on his headset to the frequency that interfaced with a secure, onboard communication satellite uplink. He could only hope that Fonseca’s goons would carry the message back to their boss and lay off the woman reporter. Deep down, his gut told him they would. It was the same gut feeling that told him that somehow he had neither seen nor heard the last of Guadalupe La Costa.

BY THE TIME La Costa arrived at the AP offices, Julio Parmahel had already packed the van and departed.

La Costa could see by the stern look on her producer’s face, visible through the blinds spanning the office windows, that she’d really blown it this time. Well, who the hell gave a damn? She felt betrayed by the man she knew only as Colonel Stone and just rebellious enough that if her producer confronted her she’d likely lose her job for telling him exactly where he could shove his disapproval.

Fortunately, she managed to get to her desk, retrieve a bag from the bottom drawer where she kept a spare change of clothes and a toiletry bag, and beat feet out of the office before the man saw her. La Costa knew exactly where to find Parmahel as he’d probably gone with a sub—or by himself—to cover a small, red-carpet political fund-raiser. It took only one time circling the block before she spotted the van. To no surprise, she found her friend and colleague slumped with his head against the window and snoring loud enough for it to be audible outside the news van. She found more amusement in the fact he’d been sleeping long enough to fog part of the driver’s window he used as a pillow.

La Costa rapped her knuckles on the van and startled Parmahel awake. He immediately rolled down the window when he recognized her.

“Well, where in the hell have you been?” he asked. He looked at his watch as he smacked his lips, his mouth dry from his nap. “You realize we were supposed to be on a segment almost half an hour ago?”

“Screw the segment,” La Costa said through clenched teeth. “We got a much bigger story.”

“Says who?”

“Me,” she said. She tried to look over the window to see the gas gauge, but the angles were wrong. “How’s this thing fixed for gas?”

“Just topped her off before I left.”

“Good, we got a long trip ahead of us,” she replied as she dashed around the front of the van.

When she’d jumped into the passenger seat, Parmahel asked, “Trip to where?”

“Las Mareas.”

CODE NAME: AD-DARR. Mission: eliminate the American military officer attached to the Diplomatic Security Service.

For lesser men it would have been potentially impossible, but for Afif Ad-Darr—an expert in the killing arts—it was simply another job. Not that he underestimated the man calling himself Colonel Stone. Siraj Razzaq’s spies inside the U.S. military hadn’t been able to come up with a thing on Stone. According to their records, there was no Colonel Stone in any of the four major branches of the military or the U.S. Coast Guard. That meant either a covert, military operative or civilian black ops using a military cover.

As he stared through the open window of the bar at the rain-streaked streets of downtown Las Mareas, Ad-Darr wondered how this Stone’s people could be so sloppy. After all, when providing a cover it seemed only natural that cover would be in place, so if someone did a routine personnel check they would find the person existed. By virtue of the fact this enigmatic Colonel Stone allegedly didn’t exist at all troubled Ad-Darr. Would the American intelligence community be so careless? He didn’t think so.

Maybe the record had been removed permanently from U.S. military personnel files when Stone went to work for the DSS. Unfortunately, Razzaq’s connections didn’t go wide or deep enough to get that kind of information, and Ad-Darr didn’t consider it important enough to pay the hefty price it would probably require, not to mention he didn’t have the time. Already the Americans were apparently ahead of the game and only Razzaq’s puppet, the man named Veda, had managed to divert this Stone to Las Mareas, where he would be out of the way and Ad-Darr could deal with him neatly.

Although why Razzaq had agreed to work with that imbecile Veda was anyone’s guess. Ad-Darr had been in the employ of this cell of the New Revolutionary Justice Organization for many years now. Razzaq was legendary for spearheading such operations, and this one had proven to be no exception. A fully equipped base nestled in the swamplands of the East Gulf Coastal Plane of Georgia—the name of which escaped him at the moment—that boasted an army of nearly thirty men. Razzaq had ears all over America, with satellite areas spread throughout the United States that consisted of maybe one or two members, at most. Once firmly ensconced, Razzaq had turned his sites toward his plan for Puerto Rico. The independence of this island territory would prove to be a major coup for Razzaq. Perhaps he would be able even to unite the disaffected among their ranks and restore the former glory of their cause.

For now, Ad-Darr would draw consolation from performing the duty for which he’d earned his name. “Professional assassination” and “Ad-Darr” were practically synonymous terms. Whenever the NRJO wanted to make sure a mission succeeded, they called on him. It was a compliment to his craft, and one Ad-Darr didn’t mind exploiting to maximum benefit. And benefit, he had. By his twenty-second birthday Ad-Darr had become a millionaire; by his twenty-fifth, a multimillionaire. What was the old saying: he was in the business of killing and business was good? Something to that effect.

Ad-Darr had also turned out to be the perfect tool because he’d been born in the United States. Technically, he was an American citizen, but in the depths of his soul he knew that was only a birthright of pure circumstance. No, at the very core Ad-Darr was Lebanese, and a Muslim. His brothers in Hezbollah were still in need. The war against the Americans, British and Israel had to survive, and their ability to set up a massive base in Puerto Rico from which to strike would indeed provide them distinct advantages in their war, not to mention the rich natural resources of this sizable island.

The NRJO was operating in America’s own backyard, and they didn’t even know it.

Ad-Darr smiled at the thought as he watched the rain consume everything, washing the streets clean of dirt and detritus from the lives of squalor lived here. Somewhere out there he would find this Colonel Stone, then Ad-Darr would conclude his business for the glory of his faith and heritage.

And the American would die a slow, painful death.