Читать книгу Survival Reflex - Don Pendleton - Страница 9

San Diego, California

Mack Bolan took his time on Harbor Drive, westbound, checking his rearview mirror frequently. He hadn’t been in San Diego for a while, no reason anybody should be looking for him here, but vigilance was the price of survival. The first time Bolan let his guard drop, taking personal security for granted, it was safe to bet that negligence would turn and bite him where it hurt.

No tails so far.

His progress in the rented Chevrolet was leisurely enough that other motorists were glad to pass him, but he wasn’t driving slow enough to risk a ticket for obstructing traffic. Just the right speed, Bolan thought, for someone seeking a specific address in an unfamiliar neighborhood.

The address in question belonged to a block of professional offices, one of those buildings designed to resemble a twenty-first-century bunker. It was bronze and brown, metal and stone, with windows that reflected sunlight in a painful glare across the nearby lanes of traffic. In short, it was an eyesore, but the ritzy kind that advertised the affluence of those who had their offices within.

He wheeled into the parking lot and checked the rearview mirror once more, just to play it safe. Nobody followed him, none of the other drivers slowed to track his progress as they passed.

Now all he had to think about was what might be inside the ugly building, waiting for him.

Theoretically, it was a friend he hadn’t seen in better than a year. The contact had been clean, secure on Bolan’s end, no glitches to excite suspicion. Still, he was alive this day because he always took that extra step, preparing for the worst while hoping for the best.

The parking lot was only half full at this hour, approaching lunchtime, and he found a space within a short sprint of the revolving glass door. No one was loitering outside, but tinted windows wouldn’t let him scan the lobby from his vehicle.

Twelve minutes left.

He didn’t have the hinky feeling that an ambush often prompted, small hairs bristling on his nape, but Bolan didn’t live by premonitions. Instinct, training and experience all went together in the mix, occasionally seasoned by audacity.

Do it or split, he thought.

He didn’t need to check the pistol slung beneath his left armpit in fast-draw leather—fifteen cartridges in the Beretta’s magazine and one more in the chamber—so he simply had to squeeze the double-action trigger. Two spare magazines in pouches underneath his right arm gave him forty-six chances to kill any assailants who might try to jump him at the meet.

Relaxed? No way.

Frightened? Not even close.

He locked the car and left it, crossed the sidewalk, stepped into the maw of the revolving door. This was the first chance for an enemy to take him. Shooters waiting in the lobby could unload on him while he was sandwiched between panes of glass, most likely take him down before he could retaliate. It didn’t happen, though, and in another moment he was standing in the lobby, bathed in frosty air-conditioning.

There was an information desk to Bolan’s left, manned by a senior citizen. Off to his right, a wall directory served those who didn’t want the human touch. Bolan ignored them both, sweeping the empty lobby as he moved directly to the dual elevators.

Bolan didn’t need to check the floor or office numbers. They had been supplied, and he’d memorized them, end of story. Now he simply had to hope there would be no nasty surprises waiting for him on the seventh floor.

The smooth and solitary ride lasted no more than ninety seconds, but it gave him ample time to think about the call that had surprised him, coming out of nowhere with a plea for help. The caller was a man whose martial prowess nearly rivaled Bolan’s, one who rarely bluffed and never folded if he had a prayer of staying in the game.

They hadn’t talked details, an indication that the caller was concerned about security, despite precautions taken when he made the link-up. The arrangement of their meeting was another warning sign, behind closed doors, using the office of a lawyer Bolan didn’t know from Adam.

Hinky? Not so far.

Cautious? Believe it.

Bolan’s circle of devoted friends was small and dwindling over time. It was the nature of his life and his profession that attachments came with price tags. Sudden death or worse lay waiting for the careless. He had more friends in the ground than standing on it, and the trend would always run that way.

It was a law of nature in the hellgrounds where he lived.

Bolan had no suspicion that the caller might betray his trust. It was unthinkable. That didn’t mean, however, that some rude third party couldn’t find a way to horn in on the meet. Technology was only one short step behind imagination, these days, and he couldn’t discount pure bad luck.

There was a chance, however minuscule, that Bolan’s contact might be followed to the meet, or that a leak inside the lawyer’s office might produce a most unwelcome welcoming committee. Bolan doubted it, but it was possible, and that meant he would have to be on full alert throughout the interaction.

SOP, in other words.

Another normal day in Bolan’s life.

He felt the elevator slowing into its approach and stepped back from the door, to the left side. A straight-on spray of bullets when the door slid open wouldn’t take him, though he’d have to watch for ricochets.

Jacket unbuttoned for swift access to his pistol, Bolan stood and waited with his hand almost inside the jacket, feeling like a caricature of Napoleon. The elevator settled and its door hissed open to reveal an empty corridor.

A small sign on the facing wall directed Bolan to his right. He moved along the hall with long strides, radiating confidence and capability. He had no audience, but they were qualities the tall man couldn’t hide. He might not stand out in a crowd on any given street corner, but when push came to shove he was the leader of the pack.

Make that lone wolf, most of the time.

But not today.

His destination was a door like every other on the floor, with a bronze plate that gave a number and the lawyer’s name. The knob turned in his hand and Bolan stepped into a small but suitably luxurious reception room.

Four empty chairs faced an unattended desk. No sign of a receptionist or anybody else.

He didn’t need to check his watch. A stylish wall clock told him he was right on time.

Bolan was running down a short list of his options when a door behind the vacant desk swung open to reveal a smiling face.

“I’m glad you found the place okay,” Rosario “The Politician” Blancanales said.

BLANCANALES HAD EARNED the “Politician” nickname in another life, a tribute to his skill at soothing fear and agitation among Asian villagers whose lives and homes were threatened daily by the ever-shifting tides of war. He had been part of Bolan’s Special Forces A-team, one of several thrown together in the hellfire moment who had forged lifelong alliances.

One of the few who somehow managed to survive.

“I guess the staff is out to lunch,” Bolan remarked as they shook hands.

“We have an hour to ourselves. Friend of a friend, you know?”

He didn’t bother running down the details of a family in peril, spared against all odds, with gratitude that reached beyond the limits of a long lunch on a busy afternoon. Pol knew that Bolan didn’t need the details, didn’t really care how they had come to find themselves alone in an attorney’s office on the seventh floor of a building he’d never visited before this day and wouldn’t see again.

“He sweeps the place, I guess?” Bolan asked, thinking of security.

“I swept it, coming in. It’s clean.”

“Okay.”

“You want to talk out here or use the inner sanctum?”

“This is fine.”

Bolan took one of the four matching chairs. Blancanales noticed that he didn’t touch the arm rests with his hands. It was a small precaution, probably unnecessary since his law-enforcement files across the country had been closed and marked “Deceased,” but playing safe was second nature to the Executioner.

“I’m glad you had some time,” Blancanales said, easing into it.

“No sweat,” Bolan replied. “What’s going on?”

“I caught a squeal the other day, through Toni.”

Toni Blancanales was the Politician’s sister. She was also CEO of Team Able Investigations, a private security firm Rosario Blancanales had launched years ago with another war buddy, electronics wizard Hermann “Gadgets” Schwarz, to make ends meet in peacetime. Now that Pol and Gadgets operated more or less full-time for Hal Brognola and Stony Man Farm—the same covert nerve center that fielded Bolan for various do-or-die assignments—Toni ran the show and rarely needed her big brother’s help.

“Why that route?” Bolan inquired.

“Long distance. A long time out of touch.”

“A mutual acquaintance?” Bolan asked him, frowning.

“You remember Bones.”

Blancanales didn’t phrase it as a question. There was nothing wrong with Bolan’s memory, and he saw instant recognition in the warrior’s eyes.

The nickname came from “sawbones,” as in “doctor”—or from Star Trek, same damned thing. In their Special Forces days together there’d been many medics, too many M.A.S.H. units, but only one Bones.

“Nate Weiss,” Bolan said.

Blancanales nodded. Make it Captain Nathan Weiss, M.D. A wizard with a scalpel, long on empathy for patients, short on tolerance when military red tape hampered his attempts to care for sick and wounded soldiers. Thinking back, Blancanales could remember Weiss cutting and stitching under fire, while Bolan’s team faced down the enemy, one of their own guys on the table leaking life.

The frown was still on Bolan’s face. “I haven’t thought about him in…”

“About a hundred years?”

“Seems like it. How’d he track you down?”

“It wasn’t him, exactly.”

“Oh?”

“An intermediary. Bones gave her my last name and remembered that I came from San Diego. No real hope of getting through, I guess, but Toni’s in the book. She caught a break.”

“And ‘she’ is…?”

“Marta Enriquez. She knew some jungle stories that could only come from Bones. It feels legit.”

“So what’s the squeal?”

“Long story short, the way she laid it down, he’s in Brazil, running some kind of floating hospital for anyone who needs him in the bush. Somewhere along the way, he started stepping on official toes.”

“How’s that?”

It was Blancanales’s turn to frown. “She claimed it has to do with Indians. The Amazon is one huge place, as you well know. We hear a lot about the forest being cut and burned for shopping malls, whatever, but the fact is, they’ve got tribes down there no white man’s ever seen. Some others sit on land the government and certain multinationals are anxious to ‘improve’ and put a few more millions in their pockets. When the honchos in Brasilia want a stubborn tribe to move, it can get Wild West messy. I’ve seen some of that, up close and personal.”

“But you have doubts about her story,” Bolan interjected, going to the heart of it.

“Let’s say I have some reservations, pun intended.”

“Why?”

“You know the history. They’ve had civilian government for only twenty years or so. Before that, it was hard-core juntas all the way. Some wouldn’t mind a switch back to the bad old days. You’ve got guerrillas in the backcountry, fighting for one thing or another, and banditos everywhere you turn. I wasn’t kidding when I mentioned the Wild West. Jivaro headhunters, covert Indian wars—Bones could be into damn near anything.”

“And someone’s hunting him?” Another cut, right to the heart.

“Sounds like it, yeah.”

“Whatever it is, he can’t turn to the law.”

“The way it was explained to me,” Blancanales said, “that’s not an option.”

“So, either the government is hunting him or it doesn’t mind someone else doing the dirty work.”

“I’d say that sums it up.”

“It’s not like Bones to ask for help.”

“Unless he really needs it, no.”

“I’m guessing, since you called, that Able Team can’t take it on,” Bolan said.

Blancanales shook his head. “Not soon enough. I’m stealing time as it is from a job in Baja.”

“Have you talked to Hal?”

“He isn’t thrilled about it, but he says it’s up to us. Resources as available, but no hands-on collaboration till we’ve got a clear fix on the problem.”

Bolan’s smile took Blancanales by surprise. “‘We’ meaning me,” he said.

“If you decide to do it, right.”

“And is the woman still around? This Marta?”

“Waiting for a verdict as we speak.”

“Not here?”

“Nearby. The way it seems to me, she’s used to hiding out.”

“When can we talk?”

Blancanales felt himself start to relax inside. “How do you feel about right now?” he asked.

THEY TRAVELED separately, Bolan trailing his old friend to form a little two-car caravan that traveled half a dozen blocks on Harbor Drive, then swung inland. Blancanales led him to the spacious parking lot of a motel located near the U.S. naval station, then drove around the back with Bolan following, and parked close to the open stairs. The Executioner said nothing as he trailed his friend upstairs and left along a balcony to Room 252.

“I called ahead,” the Able Team commando told him, “so we wouldn’t spook her.”

Blancanales knocked and waited while the tenant of that room surveyed them through the peephole’s fish-eye lens. There came a fumbling at the locks, and then the door swung open to admit them. Only when they were inside, door locked again, did Bolan have a clear view of the woman he had come to meet.

Marta Enriquez was approximately thirty-five years old, a slim Latina with a curvaceous figure. A pinched look almost spoiled the face, framed by a fall of raven hair, but large, dark eyes and high cheekbones redeemed it.

Blancanales made the introductions, using Bolan’s relatively new Matt Cooper pseudonym, and the woman surprised him with the strength of her handshake.

“If we could all sit down,” Blancanales said, “this won’t take long.” He settled on one corner of the queen-size bed, leaving the room’s two chairs for Bolan and their nervous hostess. “Marta, why don’t you tell my friend what brings you here.”

“I want to help O Médico,” she said. “He has done so much for my people in the past three years, I must somehow repay him if I can. The danger that he faces now is too much.”

“What kind of danger?” Bolan asked her.

“From the army and the death squads,” she replied. “I know your press tells you Brazil is free and all are equal there, but things aren’t what they seem. My people—the Tehuelche—have been driven from their homes and deep into the forest, where the hunters seek them still. They are shot on sight. Sometimes a ‘gift’ of food or clothing is delivered, and more of us die.”

“It’s classic,” Blancanales interjected. “Your manifest-destiny types did the same thing right here, with poisoned grain and blankets spiked with smallpox. Talk about weapons of mass destruction.”

“O Médico—Dr. Weiss—has helped us without charge since he arrived. He offers care to anyone in need, and for that crime, the state will kill him, or at least expel him from Brazil.”

“You’ve witnessed these attempts?” Bolan asked.

Enriquez nodded. “Once, when we went to Diamantino for supplies, three men approached us. They insulted me, touched me and Dr. Weiss told them to stop. They turned on him then, but he left all three of them unconscious in the street.

“Later,” she continued, “they sent helicopters to the village of my people, shooting from the sky. O Médico treated the wounded, even while bullets flew around him.”

“I don’t know what you’re asking us to do,” Bolan told her. “If the government wants to get rid of him, they’ll find a way to do the job. We can’t declare war on Brazil.”

“Nathan told me that he had friends of great ability in the United States. He sent me here to ask for help, but I am not a fool. I know he cannot stay and help my people any longer without giving up his life.”

“What, then?”

“You must persuade him to give up, go home, before he’s killed. Take him by force, if necessary. Be his friend and save his life.”

“Just drop into the jungle there and kidnap him.”

“Maybe he’ll listen if you talk to him,” she said. “Remind him that he is American and not Tehuelche.”

“Couldn’t you do that?” Bolan asked.

“To my people, Nathan—Dr. Weiss—is almost like a god. They need him to survive and love him for the help he offers them, but they think first about themselves. Sometimes, it seems as if they think he is immortal and cannot be harmed by common men.”

Bolan had picked up on her use of Weiss’s given name and wondered whether there was something more between them than a simple doctor-patient relationship. Despite the time they’d spent together under fire, some jungle R and R between engagements, Bolan didn’t know the details of his old friend’s private life, his taste in women, anything along those lines. He knew the man’s determination, though, and the soldier didn’t like the odds of him persuading Bones to leave his self-appointed mission.

“You say he’s being hunted just because he helped your people?” Bolan asked.

“It’s one reason,” the woman answered, “but the government has ample cause to hate him. Before us, he was in Rio de Janeiro. There, he had a clinic for street children. Did you know that some policemen, after hours, drive around the streets and shoot the homeless children as if they were rabid dogs?”

“I’ve heard the stories,” Bolan said.

“They’re true, and sometimes worse than what you read in newspapers or magazines. After six months in Rio, the police got an injunction to prevent Nathan from treating children without the consent of their parents. Orphans! You see? When he continued, they put him in jail. Before he was released, they burned his clinic and declared the fire an accident.”

“So he moved on?”

“To spare the children, after a police lieutenant told him every one he treated would be thrown in prison to amuse the perverts. It hurt him, but he left to find new patients.”

“It’s a jump from Rio to the Mato Grosso jungle,” Bolan said.

“He tried some other places first. AIDS patients in São Paulo. Plantation laborers at Uberlândia. Guarani Indians in the Serra Dourada. Each time it was the same. Suspicion, threats against his life and those he tried to help.”

“It’s obvious he isn’t listening,” Bolan replied. “What makes you think that he’ll hear anything I have to say?”

“Because he asked for you, his friends.”

“Unless you’re holding back, he didn’t ask us to come down and snatch him out of there.”

“Perhaps he’ll listen. But if not, when it is done, at least he will be safe.”

“What’s to prevent him turning right around and going back?” Bolan asked. “We can’t lock him up and throw away the key.”

“Perhaps, when he has time to think in peace, he’ll realize that nothing can be gained by what he’s doing in my country.”

“What about your people?” Blancanales inquired.

Stone-faced, she said, “We’re finished, don’t you see? Nathan can’t save us. No one can. He’ll only waste his life, when he could be of such great help to others, somewhere else.”

“Would you be coming with him?” Bolan asked.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “Perhaps, if Nathan wants me.”

“When are you going back?”

“Tomorrow. One way or another, I must give him your decision.”

“I’ll tell him myself.” Turning to Blancanales, he said, “We need a minute to ourselves.”

THE MOTEL BALCONY was adequate, no one in the adjoining rooms to eavesdrop as they leaned against the rail in hazy Southern California sunshine.

“Now I’ve heard her,” Bolan said, “give me your take on this.”

“I think Bones may be losing it. Looking for a cause, some way to make his life count for something. Hell, for all I know it could be your basic midlife crisis.”

“Maybe. But who’s picking up the tab? Free clinics may be free to patients, but they eat up money just the same, and plenty of it.”

“I can answer part of that,” Blancanales said. “I ran a check on Bones through Stony Man. He had some money from his family, back East. Not Rockefeller money, but they did all right. He’s the last of the line, never married, no siblings. Had a good adviser, made some smart investments. Most of it was liquidated when he left the States. Call it a cool half million, give or take.”

“That’s seed money,” Bolan replied. “A big seed, sure, but he’s been working with the lady’s tribe for three years now, no charge, and all the other deals she talked about before he focused in on them. The Rio clinic and what-have-you. Would half a million last that long, paying for medicine, equipment and facilities, travel?”

“I doubt it.”

“So, I’ll ask again. Who’s picking up the tab?”

Blancanales shook his head. “Don’t know.”

“One thing we do know,” Bolan said. “If Bones has his mind set on helping these people, he won’t be talked out of it.”

“No.”

“And I don’t fancy trying to carry him out of Brazil on my back, bound and gagged.”

“Why are you going, then?”

“First thing, to have a look and see what’s really happening.” He nodded toward the door numbered 252. “I think we’ve got a case of hero-worship here, or maybe love. I don’t believe she’s told us everything she knows about what Bones is doing in the big, bad woods.”

“You figure it’s political?”

“She talks about a man who’s looking for a cause. Maybe he wants to be a martyr. I won’t know until I see it for myself.”

“Wish I could back you up,” Blancanales said.

“I’m just observing,” Bolan told him.

“Rii-iight. And I’m the next Olympic figure-skating champion.”

“I’ll need a flight. One way for now,” Bolan said. “Find out where she’s touching down and send me somewhere else. I’ll catch a shuttle to the airstrip nearest Bones. Don’t tell her when I’m flying.”

Blancanales frowned. “You figure she’s a sell-out?”

“Why take chances? If she’s straight, there’s still at least a fifty-fifty chance she’ll be picked up when she gets home. If someone sweats her, I don’t want her spilling my itinerary.”

“Right,” Blancanales said. And then again, “You’re right.”

“I’ll need a contact on the other end for various supplies, including hardware. Play it safe and don’t use anyone connected to the Company or NSA.”

“I know an independent dealer in Belém.”

“That’s fine, if I can get a charter flight from there to Mato Grosso with no questions asked.”

“I’ll check it out today,” the Able Team commando promised. “If it doesn’t work, your best bet for a touchdown where you want to go will be Cuiabá. I’ll find somebody there.”

“Before you cut her loose,” Bolan said, “get the best fix that you can on where Bones has his chop shop. If he’s mobile, try for base coordinates, at least. I’ll GPS it and go solo in the bush.”

“That’s risky, man.”

“Hiring a guide is worse. I won’t know who he’s really working for until it hits the fan.”

“You’re right again. Has anybody ever told you that’s an irritating habit?”

Bolan smiled. “My childhood aspiration was to be a know-it-all.”

“And how’s that working for you?”

“I’m still working on it.”

Blancanales went somber, then. “I’m having second thoughts about this whole damn thing,” he said.

“It’s Bones,” Bolan reminded him.

“I know that, but you’ve got me thinking now. Suppose someone’s already bagged him, squeezed him. Now they’re putting out feelers to see who’ll try a rescue mission. Pick off Santa’s little helpers one by one.”

“It doesn’t have that feel about it,” Bolan said. “Somebody wants to take out Bones for helping Indians, whatever, why would they go fishing in the States?”

“Because they can?”

“It’s thin,” Bolan said, “but I’ll keep an eye peeled, just in case.”

“It may be too late, once you’re down there.”

“Maybe not. Let’s see what happens.”

“The more I think about it,” Blancanales said, “the more I wish I hadn’t called you.”

“Spilled milk, guy. Just make those calls and let me have the word before you head back down to Baja.”

“It’ll be a couple hours, give or take.”

“You’ve got my number.”

“That’s affirmative. Where will you be?”

“Around.”

“Okay. I’ll be in touch.”

Blancanales lingered on the balcony as Bolan went downstairs. No one was lurking near the rented Chevy, no one peering from the nearby rooms. Behind the wheel, the soldier took time to stop and think about the mission he’d accepted and what it would mean to follow through.

A friend in trouble, right.

But he could only help the willing.

And if Nathan Weiss had asked for help, that made him willing, on the surface. But what kind of help was Weiss expecting?

Extrication or combat support?

Bolan had no illusions concerning his ability to make a one-man stand against the whole Brazilian army, even if a friend’s life might be riding on the line. Weiss might be looking for a martyr’s end, but that would never be a part of Bolan’s plan.

Die fighting if he had to, absolutely.

But to throw his life away?

Forget about it.

He would have a look, as promised, and take it from there. The next step would be up to Bones.

And Bolan hoped the bones he left behind him in the jungle wouldn’t be his own.