Читать книгу Carnage Code - Don Pendleton - Страница 7

Bolan heard a sharp cracking sound as Urgoma opened the door, stepped back and ushered him into the interrogation room. As he walked through the opening, he saw the head of a man wearing a lightweight tropical suit snap backward. The suit was white.

Or at least it had been at one time.

As he entered the room, the Executioner saw the bloodstains covering the light material of the man’s jacket. It looked almost as if it had been tie-dyed. So did his head, for that matter. Bumps and bruises of every color and description covered his face, and a good deal of once-red blood had already dried into dark brown crusts, telling Bolan that the beating had been going on for some time.

The Executioner stopped just inside the door. The room was even more grungy than the rest of the building, with candy wrappers and other papers littering the floor. Cobwebs grew in every corner, and from the ceiling a spider was working its web down toward the table behind which the bloody man sat.

But the man the Executioner had just seen punched wasn’t alone. Next to him sat another, equally beaten face. In contrast to his clean-shaved partner, this man wore a thin, carefully manicured mustache. But it was due for a shampoo. Blood had seeped from the nostrils above it and matted it wetly against his upper lip until it looked as if it had been soaked in some sort of setting gel. And this man’s lightweight suit—similar to his partner’s—was in no better shape, either.

Two uniformed Sudan National Police officers were in the room, and they both turned toward the door as it opened. One, a tall, lanky man exhibiting more Arabic than African heritage, wore black leather gloves. It had been he who had just delivered the punch, and now he smiled at Urgoma as the colonel closed the door behind them.

The other SNP officer’s hands were bare. But from the fingers of his right extended the weighted end of a leather-covered sap. The black leather was as shiny with blood, mucus and other body fluids as the bloody mustache.

A third man, smoking an unfiltered cigarette, stood in the corner next to a table that held an old black rotary telephone. Like the beaten men at the table he, too, wore a suit of light color and material. But it was spotless, and the man wearing it smiled as if he were enjoying a good movie, stage play or opera.

The CIA man, Bolan had to figure. For a moment, a rush of anger flooded over the Executioner. The anger was directed at the Sudanese National Police but even more so at the CIA operative who stood by, excitedly watching this torture, and knowing he would never be held responsible because the Sudanese were the actual torturers.

If for nothing but pragmatic reasons, the agent should have learned through his training that torture was never called for. First and foremost, physical torture wasn’t a reliable way to obtain the truth. Men being beaten told those beating them whatever they thought was most likely to halt the beating. Sometimes that was the truth. Other times it wasn’t.

Bolan turned to Urgoma. “Can I see you in the hall for a moment?” he asked.

“Certainly.”

“You, too, my friend,” the Executioner added, turning toward the CIA agent.

The CIA man dropped the butt of his cigarette on the floor and ground it out with the heel of his shoe.

Bolan opened the door. “Tell your men to take a brief break, will you, Colonel?”

Urgoma nodded, turned toward the table and said something in Arabic. The other two uniformed men nodded, then walked to the wall and leaned against it, both pulling their own cigarettes from shirt pockets.

When they were in the hallway with the door closed again, the Executioner turned toward the CIA man. “What’s your name?” he demanded.

“Sims,” the man said, still grinning. “Bill Sims.” He paused for a moment, the smile staying on his face but turning more sarcastic than happy. “And you must be the hotshot superagent we got the call about from our director. The one who’s so damn good we’re supposed to just follow him around like puppy dogs.”

“It sounds like you have a smart director,” Bolan said. “One who listens to the President.”

Sims snorted. “What was your name again?” the CIA man asked.

“Brandon Stone. And I’ve got just one question for you.”

“Shoot,” Sims said.

Bolan stepped forward and shot a hard right fist into the CIA operative’s belly.

Sims doubled over as if he’d been cut in two.

The Executioner slammed the CIA man against the wall, straightened him back up and said, “What did you say your name was?”

Sims was red-faced and choking, trying to catch his breath. “Sims,” he finally sputtered.

“No, it isn’t,” Bolan said, and hit him in the abdomen again. “It’s Cash. Johnny Cash.” Grabbing a handful of the man’s hair, he forced Sims’s shoulder blades against the wall again. “Let me hear you say, ‘Hello, I’m Johnny Cash.’”

“But my name’s—”

A third punch, this time in the sternum, caused the last remaining air to rush from Sims’s lungs. The Executioner’s fists were painful, and would probably leave Sims with some sore abdominal muscles the next day. But none of the Executioner’s blows would do any permanent harm.

Bolan waited while the vacuum in the man’s chest cleared, then repeated himself. “Say it. ‘Hello, I’m Johnny Cash.’”

“Hello,” Sims said in a faint whisper. “I’m…John…ny…Cash.”

The Executioner stepped back a pace, then turned to Urgoma. “Do you get my point?” he said.

The colonel nodded. “I do,” he said. “Torture can make a man say anything you want him to say.” His face reflected no sign that he had taken the demonstration as an insult. Instead, he looked slightly embarrassed. And as if he had just learned a valuable lesson that he would put it to good use in the future.

Bolan reached forward and straightened Sims back up yet again. “Get lost,” he told the red-faced CIA man. “And don’t get in my way. I don’t want to see you again while I’m here in Sudan. Understand?”

Sims nodded, then staggered off down the hall.

“You are a very direct person,” Urgoma said, chuckling.

The Executioner nodded. “Do me a favor, will you?”

“Anything you like,” Urgoma said.

“Assign a couple of men to Sims. Make sure he doesn’t burn me.” Bolan paused for a moment, then said, “You understand the term burn? ”

“Expose you,” Urgoma said.

“Exactly,” the Executioner said. “I’ve already had too much exposure.”

“I will tell the men inside this room,” Urgoma said, nodding toward the door, “to change into plainclothes and tail Sims. That way, we will keep the number of my own men who know you are here down to a minimum.”

“Good thinking,” the Executioner said. “But is there some particular reason—some suspicion you have—to make you want to play this close to the vest?”

Urgoma lowered his eyes to the floor for a moment, then raised them again. “I have, for some time now,” he said, “suspected that there is a rogue element operating within the law-enforcement community and other governmental offices in Sudan. And I suspect they have a mole right here. In my own Sudan National Police.” He paused a moment, then said, “That is why our government called your President for help. We do not know exactly who can be trusted and who can’t.”

Urgoma was regaining Bolan’s respect quickly with his fast thinking, and the honesty he displayed even when it was embarrassing to him personally. And as far as the beatings of the men inside the next room went, the Executioner had to remind himself that he was in a part of the world where torture had been used, and accepted as just another part of life, since the dawn of time. Urgoma might be Western-educated but he had been born, and had grown up, here in North Africa. It was impractical to think that the man would have vaulted, head-first, into the twenty-first century in every area of life.

“Tell me one thing before we go back inside,” Bolan said, leaning an elbow against the wall next to the door.

“I will be happy to do so,” Urgoma said. “What do you wish to know?”

“Did you learn anything from Sims? Anything the CIA might have found out that you, yourself, weren’t aware of?”

Urgoma frowned and the wrinkles in his forehead extended up onto his bald pate. “He did let one thing slip,” the colonel said.

“And that was…?” Bolan asked.

“I cannot remember exactly how it came up,” Urgoma said. “But I gather that the CIA has been following the progress of Sudan’s nuclear program closely.”

Bolan nodded. Every Third World country on the planet seemed to have a nuclear program in progress these days. Although they all claimed it was to harness energy for nonviolent purposes, in many cases, Sudan being one of them, it was the equivalent of cocking a loaded gun and then handing it to a child. But there was no point in saying anything more on the subject at this time. So he simply filed the information away in the back of his mind for future use. Somehow—he didn’t know in exactly what way yet—this so-called passive nuclear-energy program was linked to the two men in the interrogation room and the shipment of plutonium coming into Sudan to which they’d already admitted.

“Tell me more about this rogue operation,” the Executioner said.

“I would if I knew more,” Urgoma said, “but they are very secretive. Also, very violent in the way they view the Ethiopians who are encroaching on our borders. They would not be against just sending in troops and killing everyone who stepped over the line from Ethiopia to Sudan, I do not believe.”

“Do you think they’re tied into this plutonium shipment in any way?” Bolan asked.

Urgoma shrugged. “I cannot say,” he told the Executioner. “But it is hard for me to imagine that any group of my own fellow countrymen—regardless of how unhappy they are with the current Ethiopian government of the CUD rebels—would go to such extremes.”

“I’ve seen far worse extremes in my time,” Bolan said. “I think it’s a possibility we need to keep in mind. This plutonium is most likely going one of three places. The Ethiopian army, the CUD rebels or to this rogue element within Sudan.”

Urgoma just looked at him. The expression on the colonel’s face told Bolan he still hated to believe it was a possibility.

“And, I think,” the Executioner went on, “the answer to that secret—the who, why, where, when and how—lay somewhere in the limerick which the Sudanese CIA informant handed off to the young American reporter. Now. Let’s go back inside and try a new line of questioning, shall we?”

The colonel opened the door and again ushered Bolan in first. The look on his officers’ faces showed confusion as he gave them their orders to follow Sims in Arabic. But they nodded and quickly left.

Bolan sat down across the table from the two blood-soaked men. Quickly, he surveyed the damage to both faces. It wasn’t as bad as it had looked at first—certainly nothing permanent. “Colonel,” he said over his shoulder, “do you have someone who can get these men some towels? They’ll need a little medical attention, too.”

Urgoma lifted the phone receiver from the table and spoke into it. A few minutes later, another officer carrying a first-aid kit entered the room. The Executioner and the colonel waited silently as the officer slid rubber gloves over his hands, then dotted and dabbed at the cuts and bruises on both faces with cotton balls soaked in rubbing alcohol. Both men winced as the alcohol stung their wounds.

After applying several small bandages here and there, the man with the first-aid kit turned to Urgoma, nodded and left the room again.

The “good cop, bad cop” technique was the oldest trick in the book, the Executioner knew. But the stage had already been set so he decided to take advantage of it. “Do either of you speak English?” he asked the two men wearing the bandages.

Both heads nodded. “A little,” the man with the mustache said.

“Good,” Bolan said. “Then we’ll speak English. If there’s any misunderstanding, Colonel Urgoma can translate and help us out.”

The heads nodded again.

“I’ve got a few questions for you,” the Executioner said. “And I’d like you to answer them. But even if you don’t, you’re not going to get hit anymore. Do you understand that? Is that clear?”

The two men turned to look at each other in confusion. They obviously weren’t used to such kind treatment, and couldn’t quite figure out what Bolan was up to.

Then the clean-shaved man turned back to the Executioner. “If we do not answer, and you do not hit us, then what do you plan to do?”

Bolan shrugged. “Just get up and leave, I guess,” he said. He glanced at the door. “You’ll both be held on murder charges, so I’ll know where to find you if I decide I need to come back.”

The two men in the bloody suits turned to each other yet again. They suspected that more officers with leather gloves and saps might take this big American’s place if he left unsatisfied, and it showed on their faces.

“What do you wish to know?” the man with the mustache asked.

“First, why did you kill the old man?”

“To get the envelope, of course,” the clean-shaved man answered. One of his bandages covered part of his upper lip, and it caused his words to come out with a slight lisp and a slur that sounded as if he’d been drinking.

“What did the envelope contain?” Bolan asked. He knew about the limerick, of course. But he wanted to know if they did. And there was always a chance that if they did, they’d also know the code to break down the words and make sense out of them.

“We did not know what was in the envelope,” the man with the mustache replied. “And we still do not know. We had only just learned that the man who was carrying it was an informant, working for your CIA.” He glanced toward the corner where Bill Sims had stood earlier, then back to the Executioner. “May I ask you a question?” he said.

“Certainly,” Bolan said.

“Are you CIA, too?”

“No,” Bolan said promptly.

The answer seemed to satisfy the man, and he visibly relaxed.

“What happened to the envelope?” Bolan asked. Again, he knew. But he wanted to know if they did.

“Just before we shot him, the old man gave it to a very young man,” the clean-shaved man said. “He was American. Or maybe European. But somehow, I did not get the impression that he was a CIA man. Perhaps that was because of his age.”

“Why didn’t you go after this younger man?” the Executioner asked. “Like you did the older one?”

“We did,” the man with the mustache said. “But, like has already been said, he was very young. And fast on his feet. He escaped.”

Bolan turned to where Urgoma stood against the wall. “Do you have the death penalty here in Sudan?” he asked.

“Indeed, we do,” the colonel said, quickly picking up on the Executioner’s direction. “And these men will likely receive it for the murder they have committed.”

“No,” the man with the mustache said. “You cannot do that to us.” The clean-shaved man was shaking his head in agreement.

“And why can’t he?” Bolan asked.

“Because we were only doing our jobs,” hissed the man with the bandage half-covering his lip.

The Executioner frowned. “What jobs?” he asked. “What do you mean you were just doing your jobs?”

The two prisoners looked at each other again, whispering in Arabic.

“We are,” the man with the mustache said slowly and hesitantly, “both agents with the Department of Defense.”

For a second, silence reigned over the room. Then Urgoma said, “What Department of Defense?”

“The Sudan Department of Defense, of course,” the man with the bandaged lips replied.

The Executioner looked up from his chair as Urgoma straightened.

The colonel looked surprised, but not as surprised as he might have.

The Executioner nodded toward the door, opened it and they went out into the hall. “Where’s this reporter who turned the limerick over to Sims in the first place?” he asked.

“Just down the hall in a holding cell,” Urgoma said.

“You jailed him?” Bolan frowned.

“At Sims’s request.” Urgoma nodded. “Besides, he is a material witness to a murder. And we could not be certain he would stay in the country. Particularly considering the fact that we were afraid another attempt would be made on his life.”

Bolan nodded. It might not have been the way things would have been handled in the United States but it made sense. “Did Sims run any kind of background check on him?” he asked. “Anything that might lead us to believe he’s reliable or isn’t? And make him understand that we can get any information we need? Coax him into helping us?” The young man appeared to be a journalist, and journalists by nature seemed to almost always be uncooperative with police and government-intelligence agents.

Urgoma nodded. “Sims may be a prick, but he is still a very thorough agent for your country. He did, indeed, check into this man’s background, and it appears he was able to learn a lot about him in a very short period of time.”

Bolan nodded. “Let’s go talk to him,” he said. “You can fill me in on the details on the way.”

Colonel Urgoma reached back, locked the door to imprison the two murderers still in the interrogation room and started off down the hall. As they walked, he briefed the Executioner on what Sims’s background investigation had turned up.

R ONNIE C ASSETTI SAT on the hard steel platform that served as a bed in the holding cell. Leaning back, he felt the cold concrete wall through the thin material of his tank top and especially on his arms and shoulders where the shirt didn’t cover his skin. His life had been turned upside down, and he had yet to have time to really sit down and make any sense of it.

But he had time to do that now. Plenty of time. More time than he needed or even wanted.

Cassetti had gone to the American Embassy in Khartoum, the limerick safe in its envelope in the side pocket of the sport coat he’d thrown on over his tank top after the cab had returned him to his hotel. First, he’d had to talk the Marines on guard at the gate into escorting him inside. That hadn’t been an easy task to begin with, and now he wished it had failed altogether. But in any case, after he’d cleared the metal detector the Marines had taken him to an outer reception area where he’d asked to see a CIA representative.

By the look on the face of the woman behind the desk you’d have thought he’d just asked her to lie down and take off her clothes. She’d told him that no CIA agents worked out of the embassy, of course, and at that point he had suspected he was about to be thrown back out on the street again.

Instead, he’d been told that there was a “plainclothes Marine” who might be willing to talk to him.

That was when he’d met that son of a bitch Bill Sims.

Sims, he had quickly surmised after being led into one of the rear offices, was actually CIA. At least his stiff-necked attitude reminded Cassetti of all the spook supervisors he’d seen in a million movies. Maybe that was the way CIA operatives really acted. Or maybe Sims had just seen the same movies and believed that was how he was supposed to act.

Life was either imitating art or art was imitating life. Cassetti didn’t know which, and didn’t really care. He just wanted to be out of this cage and as far away from Sudan as possible.

Cassetti remembered that he had sat across the desk while Sims looked at the sheet of paper inside the envelope. And while the agent had done his best to keep his face deadpan, it was obvious that the limerick was having some kind of effect on him. But it was also evident that Sims didn’t fully understand what the words meant any more than Cassetti did.

The young journalist shifted uncomfortably on the steel ledge. The first thing Sims had done was looked at his passport, then gotten his home address and Social Security number from him. Then he’d made a call to Langley, where a background check on Cassetti would be conducted.

“Simply routine,” Sims had said. “You can understand. We have to weed out the nuts somehow. Not that I think you’re crazy—but it’s procedure.”

At this point, Cassetti had still been nodding and cooperating.

But before he and Sims had a chance to speak about the limerick, the CIA man’s phone had rung. He’d picked it up, listened for a moment, then said, “They have them in custody now?”

Then he’d hung up, looked at Cassetti and said, “You’re a good and patriotic American, son. Now, suppose we take a little ride together. The Sudanese cops have just picked up the two men who killed the old man and they need you to identify them.”

Cassetti’s mistake had been trusting Sims. On the ride to the SNP’s central station, the CIA man’s cell phone had rung and he’d done more listening than talking. The next thing the young American knew, he was at the headquarters of the Sudan National Police and in this jail cell sitting on the steel sleeping platform. And he still didn’t know what the hell was going on.

He had evidently stumbled onto something big, and for all he knew, the next trip he took might be out into the desert where Sims, or some Sudanese cop, would put a bullet in the back of his head.

Cassetti’s thoughts returned to the present as he heard two sets of footsteps coming down the run outside his cell.

“As I said, we booked him in as a material witness,” a heavily accented Sudanese voice said in English, “because we had no assurance he would not flee the country. Not to mention the fact that the men who killed the old man would probably find him and kill him, too. “

An American voice answered, but Cassetti could not make out the words.

“That, too,” the Sudanese said. “I find it funny that he is right down the hall from the two murderers, and they do not even know it.”

“I find it even funnier that they’re employees of your government and claim they were just following orders,” the American answered, still out of sight.

“Yes,” the Sudanese said. “I will check into that. But I will have to be very discreet.”

Now the two men came into view, stopping in front of Cassetti’s cell. It was easy to tell which was which. The uniformed man with the nearly bald head was built like a brick wall. But the American, taller and even broader in the shoulders, looked to be even more powerful.

Ronnie Cassetti wasn’t too sure his martial-arts expertise was going to work on either one of them.

The Sudanese man produced a huge key ring from somewhere behind his back and jammed one of the keys into the door. “Come on,” he said to Cassetti. “You’re being sprung, as you Americans say.”

“For what?” Cassetti answered, not moving. “So this big son of a bitch can kill me? He CIA, too?”

It looked as if the big American was trying not to laugh. The he said, “No, son, it’s because I need your help.”

“I’ve already given you all the help I can give anybody,” Cassetti said, not moving from the sleeping ledge. “I gave Sims the limerick.”

“Yes, but Sims is off the case now and I’m on it. And as I understand it, you’ve studied English literature.”

“How did you know that?” Cassetti asked.

“We may be a rather backward country with limited resources—” the Sudanese cop laughed “—but we have a rather good relationship with the local CIA. Mr. Sims checked into your background and shared that information with us. Your full name is Ronald Delbert Cassetti. You were born in Enid, Oklahoma. Until a few short weeks ago you were a college student at Georgetown. Then, through a friend, you lucked into a job with the Washington Post. ”

“You’ll have to excuse me,” Cassetti said with as much sarcasm as he could put into his tone of voice. “if I don’t exactly consider the Post job as a stroke of luck at the moment.” He pulled his feet up under him and sat cross-legged on the steel bench.

“The most interesting thing the CIA learned,” the big American added, “is that you’re quite a ladies’ man. But right now you’ve found your butt caught in a crack. You’ve fallen in love with a woman while your steady girlfriend is out of town and you’re trying to decide what to do when she gets back.” He paused, looked at his watch and Cassetti figured he must be checking the date, then finished with, “And you don’t have much time left to make that decision.”

“Dammit!” Cassetti yelled, uncrossing his legs and jumping to his feet. “That’s none of your damn business. You spook bastards ever heard of the right of privacy?”

Now the big man did laugh. “First off,” he said, “if by spook you mean CIA, I’ve already told you I’m not a spook. Second, whether or not I’m a bastard depends on which side of right and wrong you stand. But third, yes, the CIA does know about the right to privacy. They just don’t always pay a lot of attention to it when the safety of America, and sometimes the world, is at stake.”

Cassetti walked forward, ready to punch the big man out even if he got his own ass kicked in the process. “You are too with the CIA, you liar,” he said, clenching his fists.

“No, I told you I’m not, and I meant it. Just that they did run an investigation on you, which included your private life, and part of what they learned was about your problem with women.”

He had barely gotten the words out of his mouth when Cassetti lunged forward and snapped a fist at his face. A second later, the young man found that his arm had been blocked, caught, twisted behind his back, and that the big man had reached up with his other hand and grasped him by the hair.

“That’s not something you really want to try again, is it?” the big American asked.

Cassetti felt as if his shoulder was about to come out of the socket as his arm was pushed up and his head pulled down. He knew this technique. In fact, he taught it. But he had never seen it performed with the speed or fluidity this big American had just demonstrated.

“I guess not,” Ronnie Cassetti grunted.

The big man dropped his arm and hair and stepped back. “Then let’s go, kid,” he said. “We’ve got work to do.”

Cassetti turned to face the man. “What do I call you?”

“Brandon or Stone will do.”

“All right, then,” Cassetti said. “Brandon or Stone. I’ll come with you and I’ll help you. But I’ve got one demand.”

“You are not in any position to make demands,” the Sudanese police officer warned.

“Go ahead,” Bolan said. “Let’s hear it.’

“You call me Ron. My name’s not kid. ”

Bolan’s face was serious as he nodded. “All right, then, Ron,” he said. “Let’s go. Like I said, we’ve got work to do.”

B Y NOW , B OLAN KNEW the layout of the Sudan National Police headquarters building almost as well as Urgoma. So he led the way down the hall, with the colonel and Ron Cassetti close at his heels. He had already formed a quick impression of the young American journalist, and as was the case with most human beings, it contained both positive and negative aspects.

On the negative side, Cassetti was inexperienced, short-tempered and impatient. He was also royally pissed off that the CIA had pried into his private love life, and for that the Executioner wasn’t sure he could blame him.

Bolan continued to think about the young man as they neared the locked door where the two blood-soaked hit men still waited. Cassetti had some positive attributes, too. First, the same lack of age that made him somewhat immature gave him energy, and the Executioner knew a lot of energy was going to be expended before he got to the bottom of what was happening in Sudan. And Bolan sensed that even though he certainly had a tendency to lie to women—at his age, a young man often did more thinking with his hormones than brain cells—deep down, Ron Cassetti was an honest man.

Nor could the Executioner discount the kid’s education in writing and literature. To decipher the limerick, an in-depth understanding such as Cassetti’s might prove vital.

Bolan had intended to walk on past the door behind which the Sudanese Department of Defense men sat. He might find it useful to talk to them again later but for now he had learned all he could. Besides, they weren’t going anywhere.

But as he neared the room, Bolan suddenly heard a gagging sound from behind the wood. It was followed by yet another cough-wretch, and he stopped and turned quickly toward Urgoma.

The SNP colonel already had his key ring out.

A second later, the door was open and the Executioner saw that both the man with the mustache and his clean-shaved friend were lying on the floor, racked with convulsions. The corners of their mouths were drawn up and their faces fixed in eerie grins. The man with the mustache lay on his stomach but his spine was arched backward.

His clean-shaved partner was on his back. But his chest was raised high off the ground, and his arms and legs had been drawn stiffly together as he balanced oddly on the back of his head and his hips.

“What the—” Ron Cassetti started to say as the Executioner rushed into the room. “Hey, those are the guys who—”

He was cut off by Urgoma, who quickly said, “Shut up!”

Bolan dropped to one knee next to the man with the mustache, immediately seeing the symptoms and noting them for what they were. Both men had been poisoned. Probably by strychnine. The Executioner glanced up at the table where the two men had been seated earlier.

Two trays of food lay on the tabletop. It looked as if both men had taken only a few bites before ingesting enough poison to fall out of their chairs.

By the time he looked back down, the two men on the floor were dead.

“Damn,” Cassetti breathed out loud behind the Executioner. “That’s one hell of a way to go.”

Bolan rose to his feet and turned. “Who had access to this room while we were gone?” he asked Urgoma.

For the first time since they’d met, the colonel looked visibly shaken. Cassetti had been right—it had been one bad way to die.

“Any number of men could have brought in the food,” Urgoma finally said. “There are numerous keys to this room.”

“How long will it take to find out?” Bolan asked. It was a sure bet that the two men who had killed the old man for the encrypted limerick had in turn been killed to keep them from talking. The Executioner knew he was just lucky to have gotten the little he had out of the shooters before they became corpses.

Urgoma stepped forward and looked down at the top of the table. “It could take a long time,” he said. “These trays are from our cafeteria, but the food is not. It had to have been brought in from somewhere else where it was doctored.”

“Where are the trays located?” the Executioner demanded.

“Right next to the door. As soon as you come into the cafeteria.” Realizing the motive behind Bolan’s question, Urgoma added, “Someone could have simply reached though the door, grabbed two trays and been gone down the hall without anyone in the cafeteria seeing them.”

Bolan nodded. A man—or men—going through the cafeteria line, then taking two trays full of food out of the SNP cafeteria might have been noticed by the kitchen staff or other cops who were eating. But if the trays could simply be taken unnoticed, then filled with a poisoned lunch, it would have been easy. And the man with the mustache and his clean-shaved friend would not have recognized the food as being atypical of the cafeteria’s cuisine. They’d have eaten their deaths without suspecting a thing.

“Order an autopsy and see what you can find out,” the Executioner said. “You’re right about the fact that there’s got to be some renegade outfit operating in your government. These two men were part of it, knew too much and had to be silenced.” He paused. “But that’s the good news.”

“If that is the good news,” Urgoma said, “what could the bad news be?”

“The fact that you were right earlier when you said you thought they might even have a mole planted in your national police,” the Executioner said simply. “And we don’t have any idea who it is.”

Urgoma nodded. “I must be very careful as I try to determine who it is,” he said. “I will conduct this investigation personally. And discreetly.”

Bolan turned toward Cassetti.

The young man looked as if he might have been poisoned himself. His face had turned a pale shade of green, and he was holding his throat with one hand, trying not to vomit.

“You have an unmarked car we can use?” the Executioner asked Urgoma.

“Many,” the colonel said. “But if any of my officers—or anyone else with access to our files—runs the tag, they will find that the vehicle belongs to the SNP.”

Bolan shook his head. “That’s a problem I can take care of myself,” he said.

Urgoma frowned. “How?”

The soldier hesitated, then looked the man squarely in the eyes again. “It’s better that you don’t know,” he said bluntly.

Urgoma frowned deeper, then let a thin smile curl his lips. Out of the corner of his eye, the Executioner could see the death-grins of the two poisoned men on the floor. The colonel’s smile looked much friendlier.

“I understand,” he said. “If something should come up…” He paused for a moment, looking at the ceiling as he tried to decide exactly what words to use in English. “I do not want you suspecting me.”

“It’s nothing personal,” Bolan said. “It’s just a way of eliminating one of the officers who had access to the room—or could have ordered someone else who had access—to kill these guys.”

Urgoma nodded and his face relaxed. “I am certain I would handle it the same way if I was in your place.”

Cassetti was getting a grip on himself again now, and he said, “Would someone please tell me what the hell’s going on around here?”

Bolan turned to face him. “All in good time, Ron,” he said. “All in good time.” He stepped back out of the interrogation room and waited for Urgoma and the young American to follow. Then he said, “You and I are going to hit the streets in a minute. But first, there’s something we need to get.”

“What is that?” Urgoma asked.

“A couple of copies of the limerick,” the Executioner replied.