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Only one gunner remained, and Bolan watched him drop his rifle and throw up his hands as he realized he was alone. Fear fell across his face like a suddenly raging rainstorm.
Bolan was pleased. It would be good to have at least one man still alive to question. He wanted to know who these men were.
Just as importantly, he wanted to know how they knew he was coming. And when.
But it was not to be.
The fear on their adversary’s face suddenly disappeared. He reached behind his back and seized a Russian Tokarev pistol. He raised the weapon, aiming it at the Executioner.
Bolan and Grimaldi fired simultaneously.
Both rounds struck within an inch of each other, destroying the man’s heart, as well as their chances of finding out who he was. And who he represented.
By now, several airport security officers had arrived at the plane, and one had squirmed under the Learjet’s belly to join them.
Bolan turned his head and looked at the man with contempt. What had taken them so long to enter the foray? Cowardliness? Laziness? A lack of discipline, perhaps?
Whatever the reason, the airport cops had been of little help. Bolan and Grimaldi had taken out ninety percent of the attackers themselves. But there was another possibility. Could the Khartoum airport cops have been in league with these men, whoever they were? It would help explain how all of the men had gotten their AK-47s, Uzis, pistols and other weapons through the metal detectors and other security controls around the airport’s perimeter.
The Executioner made a mental note not to trust the police—at least not the ones at the airport. Maybe none of the Sudanese National Police, for that matter.
Now, with the battle finally over for real, Bolan, Grimaldi and the security cop all rose to their feet.
“I am Captain Makkah,” the man in the blue uniform said. “You are the American we were told was coming?”
Bolan nodded.
“Then please accept my apology for the way you were welcomed. As well as my apology for the fact that these men somehow got onto the premises. And the tardiness of my men in coming to your aid.”
“Who are they?” the Executioner asked.
Makkah shrugged. “My guess is that they are Ethiopians. Either regular army or CUD rebels. Both wear these unmarked fatigues when they illegally enter our country.”
Bolan frowned. “But we’re in Khartoum,” he said. “I was told the civil war in Ethiopia had crossed into Sudan. But this far away from the border?”
Makkah shrugged again. “With these greenies, which is what we call both sides since they remain unmarked, you never know.” He coughed into a closed fist, then said, “Please, then.” He turned back toward the Learjet. “I think your craft will need some repair work.”
The Executioner took a step back and looked at the plane. The wild shots of the attacking greenies had left holes up and down the plane. He looked at Grimaldi.
The pilot nodded sadly.
Makkah leaned down, yelling under the plane. “Sergeant Hara!” he shouted. “Come forward!”
A chubby black man with sergeant’s stripes on the upper arms of his blue uniform blouse crawled awkwardly under the plane, then rose to his feet. “Yes, sir!” he said, offering a stiff salute.
“See to it that this plane is checked out completely.” Makkah turned toward Grimaldi. “You are the pilot, I assume.”
Grimaldi had already started walking the length of the plane, checking the damage. He nodded.
“Please feel free to accompany the sergeant and assist our mechanics in evaluating and repairing the damage,” the captain said. “And, of course, all work will be paid for by the airport.”
Bolan studied the man closely. He still didn’t trust him. “What’s CUD stand for?” he asked.
Makkah looked his way. “The Coalition for Unity and Democracy. But do not let the democracy part fool you. They are everything but democratic in their thinking. As you seem to already know, both they and the Ethiopian government troops themselves commit atrocities such as this unwarranted assassination attempt on you and your pilot. But as you said, it is usually closer to the border. In any case, both wear unmarked clothing when they operate in our country.” He shook his head in disgust. “But come with me, please, if you would. We must talk, and then I am to take you to the main station downtown.”
Bolan holstered the Desert Eagle, then followed the captain toward the terminal.
No, he decided, he wouldn’t trust this man as far as he could throw the damaged Learjet.
B OLAN DID HIS BEST to keep his face turned away from the passenger’s window as Makkah drove him from the airport toward Khartoum’s downtown area. While he had never planned to enter Sudan undercover, he had not counted on the gunfight at the airport to announce his arrival with such fanfare.
Then again, he reminded himself, this was Khartoum. This was Sudan. The country might be experiencing a brief period of relative peace at the moment, but it had a history of violence that would relegate his and Jack Grimaldi’s shootout beside the Learjet to the back pages of the local newspapers.
Still on the outskirts of the city, the Executioner could readily see why Khartoum had been given the nickname “City of Ten Thousand Trees.” They grew everywhere around this oasis on the edge of the Baiyuda Desert, and here and there he saw high chain-link fences where exotic cats and other animals roamed within the confines of outdoor zoos. The city was famous for creating habitats for such animals that were as close to natural as could be made by human hands.
As they grew closer to the center of town, both pedestrian and auto traffic thickened to an almost maddening density. Not to mention the many camels, donkeys, horses and other animals pulling carts and wagons mixed in with the more modern means of transportation. The Executioner sat back against the front seat of the airport police car and tried to remember all he could about both the city of Khartoum and Sudan in general.
Sudan’s ivory, ebony, gold and myrrh had been sought by men from other regions of Africa and the Middle East for more than four thousand years. Indeed, some Bible scholars suspected that the wise men from the east who had followed the star in the sky to visit the baby Jesus had picked up their incenses and sweet-smelling gums in the Sudan.
Here and there, Bolan saw stalls along the sidewalks selling panther and other animal skins. Sudan was home to more than sixty different exotic high jungle and plains animals, as well as the exotic herbs and fragrances, and the hides of giant elands, bushbucks, yellow-backed duikers and hippopotami could be purchased on almost any block of any commercial street.
Sudan was composed of wide-ranging deserts and steppes north of Khartoum, and tropical jungle just below the twelfth parallel to the south. Its coastline ran along the Red Sea, with Saudi Arabia just across the water. Northern Sudan was rumored to be one of he hottest areas in the world during the summer, with temperatures rising to 125 degrees and higher.
At least two-thirds of Sudan’s eighteen million inhabitants were of mixed Arab and African blood, which had been superimposed over more ancient ancestors who were Hamitic. Such racial mixing was to be expected considering Sudan’s geographic location, especially from Khartoum northward. The southern three provinces of the country were inhabited by true Africans, mostly of the Dinka tribe.
Bolan opened his eyes as soon as Makkah said, “We are here.” He saw that the man was trying to turn down an alleyway behind a more modern building. Leaning on the horn, the airport police captain waved his other hand wildly through the open window to his side, trying to coax the pedestrians crossing the alley on the sidewalk to break up and let him through. When this didn’t work, Makkah let out a long string of what the Executioner had to believe were curses in some Arabic dialect he didn’t understand. When hitting the red lights and siren proved no more effective, the captain drew his .357 Magnum Taurus revolver from his shiny Sam Browne belt, transferred it to his left hand, then stuck it out the window and fired two shots into the air.
This demonstration of firepower produced the desired break in the crowd, and Makkah turned into the alley. Bolan did his best to lower himself farther in his seat and reached up, ostensibly rubbing his forehead with both hands but in reality trying to shield his face.
The Executioner had already had far more exposure to the public than he felt comfortable with. And he made a snap decision to make some major changes to his appearance as soon as he was finished inside this building.
Makkah pulled the car into a parking spot that read Police Only. “You are ready?” the captain asked as he pulled the keys from the ignition.
Bolan nodded and opened the door to his side. What he was about to do was simple. At least simple in theory.
A Washington Post journalist named Ronnie Cassetti had somehow gotten between a CIA informant and his U.S. handler. The two men who had murdered the informant in Cassetti’s presence—and tried to kill the American writer—had been taken into custody by Sudanese police. Fearful for his own life, Cassetti had turned a white envelope over to a CIA officer stationed at the American Embassy. The envelope contained some kind of mysterious limerick, which the CIA operative suspected contained important encrypted information.
Unfortunately, the snitch’s handler had been an older man, about to retire. Since his last encounter with the informant, he had suddenly keeled over with a heart attack and died.
And the limerick code was not known by anyone else in Khartoum, Washington or anywhere else in the world.
The CIA had opened a case. The President had caught wind of the details and ordered the Agency to take its cues from a man named Brandon Stone who would be taking charge of the investigation.
Bolan closed the car door and followed Makkah through a back door into the building. It seemed to him sometimes that he had more names than a heavyweight boxing champion. Mack Bolan, the Executioner, Matt Cooper and Brandon Stone were only a few of the appellations under which he sometimes went.
This time he would be Special Agent Brandon Stone.
T HE BUILDING THAT HOUSED the Khartoum office of the Sudan National Police might have been of more recent structure than many of the ancient wood-and-clay edifices the Executioner had seen on his drive with Captain Makkah. But the inside was every bit as dirty and unkempt as downtown Khartoum itself. Trash littered the hallway down which Makkah now led Bolan. And the walls were a dingy, begrimed gray from cigarette, cigar and pipe smoke. And from somewhere in the building, Bolan’s well-trained nostrils picked up the faint scent of burning marijuana.
Someone, somewhere behind one of the closed doors, was smoking dope, maybe on duty.
The Executioner didn’t let that bother him. He hadn’t come to Khartoum to make piddling little arrests of marijuana users, even if they were cops. He had far bigger fish to fry, and he was about to begin cooking by stepping right into the middle of the pan.
Makkah led him through several turns before stopping at a paint-chipped door at the end of a short side hall. The airport captain seemed to hesitate for a moment as he raised his fist, the collar of his uniform blouse suddenly becoming too tight. Pulling it away from his throat with his other hand, he finally rapped lightly on the wood.
Words in Arabic came from the other side of the door, and Makkah reached out and tried to twist the knob. When it wouldn’t budge, he knocked again, speaking in Arabic himself this time.
A second later a click sounded, then the door swung wildly open, and a burly man with coffee-colored skin and wearing a uniform similar to Makkah’s glared out at the captain. Though the man was bald on the top of his head, a thick matt of black hair grew over his ears and on the back of his head.
Makkah visibly shrank, and the Executioner noted that instead of captain’s bars on the collar of the burly man’s shirt, he wore the markings of a colonel.
The bald-pated colonel glowered at Makkah for another second, then turned his attention to Bolan. Immediately his composure changed. He smiled widely, his lips seeming to stretch across his entire face. “So,” he said with the formal English indicative of a British public-school education, “may I assume that you are Special Agent Stone?” He stuck out his hand.
Bolan felt the firmness in the man’s handshake and, for reasons as mysterious at this juncture as those behind his dislike of Makkah, suddenly felt as if he was finally meeting a man who could be trusted. While he couldn’t always explain his own instincts—even to himself—he had learned to trust them over the years.
The Executioner couldn’t discount one other fact that probably played a role in his instant trust. The colonel obviously shared Bolan’s contempt for Makkah.
“I’m Stone,” the Executioner said as he dropped the strong hand. “But there’s no need for formalities here. Just call me Brandon.”
This seemed to please the colonel. “Then I will be known to you as Abdul,” he said. “Although for future reference, should you need this information, my official title is Colonel Urgoma.”
Bolan nodded.
Urgoma stepped back and waved for Bolan to enter. But when Makkah tried to cross the threshold, a stocky forearm shot out and a big palm rammed against the captain’s chest. “Thank you for your assistance, Captain Makkah,” the colonel said, “but your services are no longer required. You may return to the airport.”
Makkah’s caramel-colored skin took on a slight tinge of gray. He saluted, turned on his heel and walked off without saying another word.
Urgoma closed the door and the Executioner found that they were in some kind of outer office. One desk and one desk chair was all he could see in the room. There was probably a presently absent secretary who worked there.
“Did you speak much with the captain?” Urgoma asked in a low voice.
Makkah was long gone by now, so the Executioner had to assume there were other men in adjacent offices whom Urgoma didn’t want to hear the question.
“No,” Bolan said in the same low voice. “Not a lot. We were too busy shooting men wearing unmarked green fatigues to grow real close.”
Urgoma nodded. “Ah, yes, the greenies,” he said. “So I heard. Please accept my sincere apology. Bullets are hardly the way to welcome a guest into the country. Particularly a guest who has come, at our request, to help us.”
Bolan stared deeply into the man’s eyes. Unlike the phoniness that Makkah generated, Urgoma appeared sincerely sorry for what had happened at the airport. “Well,” he said in response, “even without the distraction of all the firepower whizzing past us, I wouldn’t have gotten to know Makkah very well.” He paused, taking in a breath as he watched Urgoma’s forehead furrow into a frown. “He and his men didn’t even show up until most of the fight was over.”
Now Urgoma’s frown became one of disgust. “I am not surprised,” he said. “The man is assigned to be in charge of the airport. But he must spend much time here, as well. He is a coward. Nor do I trust him. He is what you Americans call—” the burly colonel frowned once more, this time looking up at the ceiling for the right word before he brought his eyes back down “—a slumbag?”
Bolan smiled at the man’s attempt. “You’re close,” he said. “The term’s actually scumbag. ”
“Ah, yes,” the colonel said, clasping his hands together. “I have heard that many times in your American movies.
“Now, if you would please, Brandon, we have captured the two men who killed your government’s informant by shooting him in the back.”
The Executioner stiffened for a moment. Such open discussion of one government working clandestinely within the borders of another country was all but unheard-of.
Urgoma was, indeed, honest. Maybe too honest for his own good.
“The two men are being interrogated even as we speak,” Urgoma went on. “One of your CIA officers is also here.” The smile he gave Bolan held both mirth and a tinge of sadism. “He is observing.”
Bolan started to speak but Urgoma cut him off. “Please,” the colonel said, holding up a hand. “I have always been a good judge of character, and my intuition about you tells me you are a realist like myself. And between men like us, there is no reason to play games. So let us lay our cards on the table, so to speak. Everyone knows that CIA agents work out of your American Embassy. It is that way all over the world. We accept that fact.” He paused and laughed. “And as I am sure you are aware yourself, we have our men who do the same spy-work using the Sudanese Embassy in Washington.”
Bolan smiled. Yes, Captain Abdul Urgoma was a realist, and obviously didn’t like wasting time any more than the Executioner did.
Bolan was liking this stocky man more and more as he got to know him.
‘So,” Urgoma said, “let us go see if my men have learned anything new since I left the room to answer this door.” He nodded toward the splintered wood where Makkah had exited, then turned and started down another short hallway.
Bolan followed. “That last statement,” he said as they walked. “It implies that you’ve already learned something. Care to share it with me?”
Urgoma continued to walk but twisted his head as he did. “I am afraid we have not learned a great deal,” he said. “And my men have been extremely…well, shall we say, persuasive? ”
The Executioner knew exactly what that meant. Beatings. Or other torture. Or both.
When Bolan didn’t respond, Urgoma went on. “But what we have learned, I sincerely believe, is of the most extreme importance.”
“And that would be…?” Bolan asked, letting the sentence trail off to become a question.
Colonel Abdul Urgoma stopped in his tracks. He was several inches shorter than Bolan, so to look him in the eye he had to tilt his chin upward. He did so now. Then, taking a deep breath, he said, “We have learned that someone is about to ship a large amount of plutonium into Sudan.”
The Executioner stared back down into the dark brown eyes. So that was why he’d been sent by the President to Sudan.
Urgoma had been right.
Suddenly, the investigation had taken on a whole new level of importance and urgency.
2
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.
