Читать книгу Shadow Search - Don Pendleton - Страница 9

Back in his hotel room Bolan tossed his jacket on a chair. He crossed to the small refrigerator and took a look inside. There were some bottles of water. He took one and opened it, taking a drink as he settled on the bed to read the file Karima had given him.

The information was scant, direct, and it only took a few minutes to digest. Karima’s children had been picked up from his home on the outskirts of the city to be driven to meet Karima. The drive should have taken no more than twenty minutes, but when an hour had gone by, the president received the phone call telling him that the children had been taken. He had ten days in which to carry out the terrorists’ demands. If he failed to do so the children would be killed and their bodies returned to him. The terrorists also demanded that news of the kidnap be kept from the media. As proof the kidnappers were serious, Karima was given instructions to check his garage at home. When he did he found his car had been returned, minus the children and with the driver’s body in the trunk. The man had been brutally knifed to death, his throat cut in a final gesture.

That had been two days ago. Enough time for the terrorists to travel a good distance from the scene of the kidnapping. Bolan considered the facts, and the more he thought about it the more he became convinced there was an inside connection. He opened the slip of paper Karima had given. There were only three names written on it. Karima had identified one of them as the driver of the car carrying the children. The second was Simon Chakra, whom Karima listed as his military commander. The last name, and Bolan had anticipated this, was Raymond Nkoya.

Vice-president or military commander?

It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that either of them might be involved. Given the restless nature of African politics, Bolan was aware of the way matters could evolve. There were still undercurrents of tribal loyalties endemic to the African makeup. Civil wars, the struggles between filial groups and the eternal fight against an often harsh land, these were large issues facing the continent. Some countries had weathered the transitions and were growing into stable, forward-looking regimes. Others were still making their way through the troubled times, and in some instances solid regimes crumbled under attacks from within that weakened their power base, sometimes toppling the elected government and allowing an opposition party to gain control.

Joseph Karima looked to be slipping into that kind of maelstrom. It was far from his own making, but he would have little choice if the rebel threat wasn’t reversed. They could continue to chip away at his hold on the country, destabilizing everything he was trying to create. Attacks on the infrastructure, the terrorizing of the populace, the slow wearing down of confidence and security, these were the tools of the terrorist. Karima on his own might have weathered all of these things—but now there was an added element. His children. They were being used to coerce him into meeting the rebel demands.

Bolan set aside the file. He found his bag and reached inside for the tri-band cell phone Aaron Kurtzman had furnished him with. Bolan switched it on and waited until it had located the satellite receiver. He tapped the key that speed-dialed the Stony Man number that would connect him directly with Kurtzman’s cyber complex.

Kurtzman’s gruff tones came through loud and clear.

“Bear, I need you to check out two people for me,” Bolan said. “Simon Chakra. He’s the military commander here. Then vice-president Raymond Nkoya. Everything you can find out about them. Political leanings. Family backgrounds. As far back as you can go.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

Bolan quoted Karima’s cell phone number.

“The names I gave you are the only people who should have access to that number. Gives them a direct connection through to Karima. There was a third name. The driver of Karima’s car. He was delivered back to Karima’s house in the kidnapped car. But he was dead.”

“And Karima was told about the kidnapping over this phone?”

“You got it. We may be way off but it’s all we have at the moment.”

“I’ll get back to you.”

Bolan picked up the room phone and rang the number McReady had given him. “I may need transport,” Bolan told him when the man answered.

“City use, or something to take you farther?”

“Better make it the latter. I might need to go outside the city limits.”

“Nice way of putting it. Leave it to me. I’ll have something delivered to your hotel soon as I have it ready.”

“That’s fine.”

Bolan replaced the receiver. As he did he felt the room shake. The floor vibrated then the main window blew in, showering the room with glass. He felt something catch his left cheek, a sharp sensation. When he touched his hand to it his fingers came away bloody. All this happened in a micro-second, and following in the next heartbeat came the sound of the explosion. Hot air gusted in through the shattered window. The room shook for long seconds. Bolan could hear rumbling continuing outside.

As Bolan moved to the window, the rumble of the blast fading away, he picked up the rattle of debris banging against the outside wall. More windows had been shattered. People began to shout and scream. Some of shock, others spoke of pain, and Bolan knew there would be casualties. He pulled a leather jacket from his bag and zipped it over his holstered gun as he reached the window. Across the street he saw a dust cloud settling around the remains of a building. The street was littered with debris—and people. Even from his position Bolan could see the mark of bright blood against exposed skin and clothing. He turned from the window and made his way downstairs and out of the hotel.

The building, from his brief moments passing it on the approach to the hotel, had been a shop of some kind. A couple of stories high, with wide display windows showing merchandise. Those windows were gone now, as was most of the frontage. The upper floors were exposed. The street was covered with chunks of concrete, and glass lay everywhere. Cars that had been parked outside the store were half buried under fallen masonry. One was burning, throwing dark smoke into the sky. More smoke was rising from the wrecked store.

No one seemed to be in any state to help. There were a lot of walking wounded. People moving around in a daze, bloody and with clothing in tatters. The concussion had caused many of them to bleed from the ears and nose. They were wandering aimlessly.

Bolan saw his first casualty. A young man struggling to stand, unaware that his right leg was dragging behind him, reduced to bloody tatters. Splintered bone protruded through the lacerated tissue. Blood was pulsing from a severed artery. Bolan knelt beside him, his strong hands settling the man.

“Try to stay still. We’ll get help as soon as possible.”

Bolan searched for a pressure point, pressed firmly over the spot and managed to reduce a degree of blood loss.

The man stared up at Bolan, his eyes wide with shock. His face was streaked with blood from numerous cuts and gashes. “Why has this happened?”

“Right now we don’t know.”

The sound of a police vehicle reached Bolan’s ears. He looked around and saw a blue-and-white Ford 4×4 rolling to a stop. Armed police officers leapt out, staring around the site of the explosion.

“Over here,” Bolan shouted.

One of the officers crouched beside him. He seemed genuinely shocked by the condition of the injured young man.

“We need ambulances. Emergency services. Now,” Bolan snapped. “Call it in now.”

The officer reached for the transceiver clipped to his belt and began to call in rapid instructions. Two more police vehicles sped into view. Uniformed officers spilled out. One of them was a tall, powerfully built man, with sergeant’s stripes on his shirt sleeve. He began to yell orders to the other officers, directing them to specific tasks. The sergeant crossed to where Bolan was kneeling beside the injured man.

“You managing?” he asked, taking in Bolan’s bloody hands clamped about the victim’s leg.

“For the moment,” Bolan answered.

“What a mess,” the sergeant said. “Why can’t these bastards come out and fight like men? What do they expect to gain from this kind of thing?”

“Confusion. Intimidation. Anything to upset the status quo.”

“If I ever get my hands on them I’ll upset more than that.”

The sergeant glanced around and found himself face-to-face with the young officer who had called in for backup. He was about to yell at the man when he saw the shock etched on the man’s face.

“Go to the hotel, Kunda. Tell them we need blankets, sheets and towels,” he said in a gentle tone that belied his powerful physical appearance.

The officer looked at him, then turned and headed for the hotel.

“He needed that,” Bolan said.

“Ah, youngsters. We were all there once,” the sergeant replied.

Over an hour later, Bolan, dusty and bloody, sweat soaking his clothing, leaned against the side of the sergeant’s patrol vehicle. He had spent the intervening time helping to pull casualties out of the demolished store. Ambulances were still ferrying the injured to the city hospital. The dead were laid out on the road, covered with sheets. Bolan had counted sixteen. Five of them had been young children. The rescue teams were hard at it, digging through the rubble, searching for others who might still be trapped inside the building.

A group of people was clustered around a car listening to another repeat of the taped message that had been sent to the station within minutes of the bomb blast. The rebels claimed responsibility for the explosion and were threatening more if the government did not accede to their demands. They had been forced into this position because the government had refused to compromise. So the people of Tempala would pay the price. The voice on the tape made the usual excuses, used the same condescending tones as he claimed that what had happened was the fault of a repressive administration. The rebels had been forced to make this dramatic gesture. Not once during the tape did the man even hint at any kind of regret over the deaths of innocent people.

The scenario wasn’t unfamiliar to Bolan. He had seen and heard the same in other locations around the world. The work of savages who considered this kind of thing a legitimate part of their agenda. The senseless death and destruction was intended to cow the populace into favoring the demands of the opposition. In Bolan’s estimation these people had just crossed the line. They were using the most base form of coercion, and as far as the soldier was concerned, Tempala’s rebels—as he had said to President Karima—had stepped into the shadow land that marked them down as nothing more than terrorists.

“They talk as if it’s our fault,” someone close by said.

Bolan looked up and saw the big sergeant bearing down on him, clutching mugs of steaming coffee in his hands. He handed one to Bolan. The sergeant’s uniform was stained and bloody, his black skin streaked with dust and gleaming with sweat.

“That’s what they want you to believe,” Bolan said. “Make the people feel guilty so they come around to the way of the terrorist.”

“Don’t you mean our glorious rebels?” the policeman said with more than a hint of irony in his voice.

Bolan looked him in the eye. “No, I mean terrorist.”

The sergeant sized up the tall American as if he hadn’t quite made up his mind about the man yet. “You know about this kind of thing?”

“A little.”

The sergeant shook his head. “I think a lot, my friend.”

He stuck out a large hand. Bolan took it and they shook.

“Now tell me who you are. And why you are wearing a gun under that jacket you haven’t taken off even in this heat.”

There was no threat in the man’s tone.

“Name’s Mike Belasko. I arrived a few hours ago. I’m part of Leland Cartwright’s team. The man who…”

The sergeant nodded. “I know who he his. So, Mr. Belasko, what is your job on the team?”

“Security advisor.”

“That would explain the gun.”

Bolan smiled. “No fooling you.”

“My job.”

“You have a name, Sergeant?”

“Christopher Jomo.”

“You been a policeman long?”

Jomo gestured at the destruction. “When I see things like this I think too long. Then I remember why I became a police officer and I get angry. Angry at the bastards who do such things. Tempala is not a bad country. Because of President Karima things are getting better all the time. They are not perfect yet, but we’ll get there. If we weren’t being plagued by these damned…terrorists…we would get there a lot faster.”

“Nothing worth having comes without a fight, Jomo.”

“I can accept that,” the policeman said. “But not when they wage war on children.”

Jomo was looking at the five small forms covered by sheets. In death they seemed to shrink even smaller. The big man’s shoulders sank and he bent his head for a moment.

“Not the children,” he said, almost in a whisper. “Now these men receive no mercy.”

No mercy. The policeman’s words might have come from Bolan himself.

“You know one of the crazy things here,” Jomo said. “Many of the injured are Kirandi. The idiots have killed their own people as well.”

“Belasko?”

Bolan glanced round and saw McReady pushing through the crowd. The man looked genuinely concerned when he saw the state of Bolan’s clothing.

“Jesus, are you okay?”

“Yes. I’ve been giving a hand.”

McReady recognized Jomo. “I see you two have met.”

Jomo smiled. “Mr. Belasko has been a good friend today. It will not be forgotten. I must go and see how my men are doing. We’ll meet again, Belasko.”

Bolan nodded briefly. He watched the big policeman walk away. Jomo hesitated as he passed the bodies of the five children, and Bolan realized just how badly the man had been affected.

“Hey, you sure you’re okay?”

“Phil, don’t worry. I just need to get cleaned up.”

McReady sensed the hardness in Bolan’s words. “Belasko? What is it?”

Bolan took a long, hard look at the death and destruction surrounding them. He listened to the faint cries of the injured.

“This has just become a war,” Bolan said and walked away.

BACK IN HIS HOTEL ROOM Bolan used the number Karima had given him and spoke briefly with the president.

“Have you heard personally from the terrorists, sir?”

“I received a call minutes after the explosion. It was a taped message.”

“Justifying what they had done?”

“It stated that the bombing was a show of commitment by the rebels,” Karima said. “That they meant business. They threatened there could be more of the same.”

Bolan considered the implications of the statement. Something didn’t sit right. “Why now?”

“I don’t understand, Mr. Belasko.”

“The ten days they gave you are not up yet. So why suddenly embark on a bombing campaign before they know whether you are going to accede to their demands?”

“As they said, it was to show they are serious.”

Bolan shook his head. “I don’t buy that. They took your children and murdered your driver. How much more serious does it get than that?”

“Mr. Belasko, what are you suggesting?”

“I’d rather not say anything until I’m sure. I’ll contact you again once I have some news.”

“Very well. I have to leave now. I’m going to the scene of the explosion, to see for myself what these people have done.”

Bolan put down the phone. He was thankful Karima hadn’t pressed him on his thoughts as to why the terrorists had set off their bomb. At the back of his mind lurked the possibility that the president’s children were no longer a bargaining ploy. Maybe they were already dead and lost as a lever by the terrorists? It was a tenuous strand but one the Executioner had to consider. He knew he was looking at the worst-case scenario—but in his line of work looking on the dark side was a common practice. In this case he hoped it was no more than speculation.