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“I suppose so,” Hagen said, opening the door some and stepping aside to allow Bolan to enter. “Lupe, make some coffee, will you? Agent Cooper, would you like anything?”
“No, thanks,” Bolan said.
Hagen showed the Executioner into a massive den. The walls were covered with trophies from bowling to golf, not to mention a decent taxonomical collection that included a goat, bear, elk and deer. One wall sported a very old Lee-Enfield rifle that Bolan dated from about a 1946, and twin stainless M1911-A1 trophy pistols mounted on a burnished wooden plaque. The room couldn’t have been more sporty and masculine.
“Have a seat,” Hagen said, waving toward a leather armchair as he took a seat in a recliner directly across from it. He yawned as he asked, “Now what do you need to know, Agent Cooper? I had a very long day, I’m very tired, and unfortunately for you I’m short on patience for night-owl visits from the Feds.”
“As I said, this won’t take long,” Bolan replied. “You were a lead scientist with the NSA throughout most of the 1990s, is that right?”
“You obviously know the answer to that already. So why ask?”
Okay, so Hagen wanted to be a hard-ass. Bolan couldn’t say he blamed the guy in one respect. After all, he’d dragged Hagen out of bed at a late hour and then started off the conversation by asking an obvious question. So now he had an idea of Hagen’s personality. The guy was no idiot, and he certainly didn’t mince words.
“Fair enough,” Bolan replied. “I’ll get right to the point.”
“Please,” Hagen interjected.
“Last night, twenty people were gunned down in an apartment complex in one of the poorest sections of Atlanta,” Bolan said.
“I saw it on the news.” Hagen yawned again.
“The perpetrators used automatic firearms. Thirteen of the targets were French Arabs. The other seven were innocent bystanders.”
“Again, I saw that on the news. I already know about it.”
“Then you also know the man who claimed responsibility for it is Garrett Downing.”
“What?”
Bolan scrutinized Hagen’s reaction. It was hokey.
“That’s preposterous!” Hagen said, jumping to his feet. “I’ve known Garrett Downing for more than twenty years. He’d never hurt a fly.”
“Yes, he would, and you know it,” Bolan said, jabbing a finger at Hagen. “Now sit down, Doctor. I’m not finished.”
“I think you are,” Hagen snapped. “You come in here, wake me up, start accusing a close friend of murdering innocent people, and then—”
The windows of Hagen’s den suddenly exploded. Fragments of glass and wood framing shrieked through the room, followed by the reports of automatic weapons fire. Hagen’s body danced and twitched under the impact of dozens of rounds. Angry slugs punched through his back and blew large holes up and down his front torso. Flesh and entrails splashed across Bolan’s face and shirt before the Executioner hit the floor with a speed that only came with years of experience. Bolan landed and turned to find Peter Hagen’s lifeless eyes staring at him.
CHAPTER THREE
A hot, humid gust of wind swept across the nearly barren streets of south Manila.
Late afternoon was the hottest part of the day this time of year, hot enough that not even the monsoon rains had any effect. These were the same times where Warren Levine wondered how he ended up with a thirty-six-month assignment in this godforsaken hellhole. The fact he’d spent the better part of his teenage years here—a bit of an occupational hazard for the child of a widowed Navy father—had apparently left the higher ups with the impression he actually liked the Philippines.
A crazy notion on their part. Almost as crazy as standing on a corner near a market, chain-smoking cigarettes and drinking Gatorade by the bucketfuls. Why he couldn’t have simply paid the houseman of his air-conditioned office to keep up this vigil and notify him of any changes he’d never understand. But the call earlier that day had come directly from the deputy director for Foreign Operations.
“What’s so important about this Neely anyway, sir?” Levine asked the DDFO after his brief.
“It’s not my place to ask why, Warren, and it’s not yours, either,” was the reply. “I don’t like it any more than you, but those are our orders and so we follow them. We can’t screw this up. Understand? You keep on this Neely and don’t let him out of your sight.”
“But, sir, I have a lot of work—”
“Your other duties are rescinded. You just keep this guy under surveillance until you hear otherwise. Got it?”
The next thing Levine heard was a dial tone.
So he’d packed up his stuff, changed into the lightest and most comfortable clothes he had and then set out for the address the DDFO had given him. Six hours later, he was still hanging around and this Neely character hadn’t made a move. Levine tried to remain inconspicuous, but after hanging around so long he figured it was about time to hang a sign around his neck and shoot off fireworks.
What he knew about Neely wouldn’t have fit written in the palm of his hand. The guy was ex-NSA and “of special interest to certain members on Pennsylvania Avenue.” Or at least that’s how the DDFO had painted the picture. Okay, so either Neely was dirty or so important that Levine could shirk all of his other ridiculously important tasks to baby-sit. Not to mention he wouldn’t fool someone with Neely’s training.
The door to Neely’s apartment building swung open and Levine would be damned if it wasn’t Roger Neely who stepped into the afternoon sunlight. Levine turned so he could keep the guy in his peripheral vision, but not so as to pretend he had any interest in the man. He counted fifteen seconds before risking a fresh glance in time to see Neely making distance with a vigorous stride.
Levine cursed the insanity of it all. On an almost deserted street this time of day he’d most likely draw Neely’s attention if he followed him, and that would blow his cover, as if he really had any to start with. If he lost this guy he’d attract attention from the boss, and that led down a path of career destruction. Of course, maybe unemployment would get him home.
Levine considered this a moment longer but finally opted to pursue his quarry.
ROGER NEELY SPOTTED the observer almost immediately when he stepped out the front door of his Manila apartment. He’d seen the guy earlier, watched him while sitting in the window ledge smoking a cigarette after a two-hour romp with Malaya. The man had Agency written all over him, which of course didn’t surprise Neely in the least. Well, as long as he didn’t have to face that big bastard with the cold, blue eyes one more time. Especially not now, after he found himself at the mercy of Garrett Downing.
There had been a time when Neely felt good about what he was doing for his country. He didn’t know exactly who Matt Cooper worked for—and obviously he knew that wasn’t the guy’s real name—but he did believe Cooper was on America’s side. Neely was on America’s side, too, but he couldn’t risk Malaya and his baby. How Downing had ever managed to find out about his wife and child, secreted in Manila to protect them from exposure to danger, he couldn’t be sure. Then again, what did it matter? Downing had connections everywhere and could get to just about anyone; at least, that’s what Neely believed and that’s what mattered.
Neely had hoped once he did what Downing asked, the guy would leave him alone. After all, he’d arranged to get Neely secretly out of the country and back to Manila, and to protect him. Of course it didn’t seem he was doing a very good job of that now. Once Neely gave him the information on the location of the New Corsican Front’s underground headquarters, he figured that would square things.
Apparently not.
Downing’s representative, a muscular and intense man with a brush cut and Russian accent, had first made contact. Neely had never met Downing in person and had only spoken to him once by phone. The Russian-American, who Neely later discovered was named Alek Stezhnya, apparently headed “the Apparatus,” a group of highly specialized commandos hailing from nearly every continent, and they served to enforce the goals of Downing’s Organization of Strategic Initiative. Somehow, Neely had become a full-fledged member of the OSI and he’d never had any interest to start. But the threat against Malaya and Corinne, whether direct or implied, was more than enough to keep Neely interested. He would have joined the AARP if Downing had told him to.
Neely cursed himself for allowing this kind of manipulation. How many times had he been taught not to develop any strong bonds to anyone with whom he’d had a professional affiliation? It made innocent people a target, and the agent a test bench for blackmail. But his love for Malaya and his daughter went well above any of the NSA’s regulations, and he would do anything to protect them. Even swear allegiance to a man like Downing.
Neely slowed his pace, listened carefully to ensure the man followed, and then set his eyes upon the goal. He considered this a defining moment since the Russian-American had called to say Downing wanted to meet personally. He had a plan in place, and once he heard what Downing had to say he planned to tell the guy where to get off, then take Malaya and Corinne and beat it out of here.
Neely took comfort in the weight of the 9 mm SIG-Sauer pistol concealed at the small of his back beneath the loose flower-print shirt he wore. His clothing would have seemed absurd most anywhere else, but it fit the part of a gaudy, wide-eyed tourist perfectly. The short haircut would have most pegging him as a career military, probably Navy, on shore leave and looking for a bit of action. And that was exactly what he wanted them to think.
Neely rounded the corner and found the first cab in a group lined along the sidewalk. As the afternoon turned toward evening, people would start leaving the cool interiors and enjoying the ocean breezes that blew off the Pacific. The cabbies waited for them like vultures circling desert carrion, hopeful for an easy fare to the uptown area of Manila crammed with clubs and local watering holes.
Neely leaned through the window and handed the cabdriver a twenty-dollar bill. “This is yours if you agree to leave here now, drive to the downtown area and then circle back.”
The cabbie expressed suspicion as he pulled an unlit cigarette from his mouth. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch,” Neely said. “Another cab might follow you, but don’t worry about that. Now I’m out of time, so do it or don’t.”
“Done,” the cabbie said as he snatched the twenty.
While the cabbie started his engine, Neely turned and found shelter in the vestibule of an apartment complex. The follower rounded the corner a moment later as the cab sped from the area. The man obviously figured Neely was in the cab, because he jumped into the back of the next available car and gestured for the driver to follow. Neely watched through the long, narrow window of the apartment building as they pulled away. After about a minute lapsed, Neely stepped onto the street and continued toward the address the Russian-American had given him for the meet.
Neely took personal satisfaction at the thought of surprise on the man’s face once he realized he’d been duped.
GARRETT DOWNING SAT with Alek Stezhnya and awaited Neely’s arrival. Stezhnya had seemed impatient during the vigil, and Downing couldn’t resist a smile. Despite the fact Stezhnya was a professional soldier, his youth and inexperience in some matters made him a bit impetuous. Not that Downing minded all that much. Downing had a special interest in games like chess, where only his intellect and savvy would see him through. He’d excelled at these things at the War College in Bethesda and later in the NSA.
If there was one thing people couldn’t have said about Downing, though, it was that he was self-serving. He believed in America—cherished the Constitutional concepts of freedom and security—but he thought enough time had gone by that the government should be doing a better job of protecting the country. Sure, the President and his predecessors had talked up a great game about pursuing the terrorists abroad, not giving them a chance to attack the country once more, but Downing didn’t see much accomplishment. If anything, the American taxpayers had shelled out billions of dollars to bring down the dictators and political radicals of the world, and really very little to combat true terrorism.
Well, Downing believed they had reached a point where enough was enough. The people were sick of paying the high price of freedom, and seeing nothing in the results to make it seem as if the investment were paying off. In the next forty-eight hours, Downing planned to change all that.
Downing stood and went to the portable bar of his makeshift office. These weren’t ideal surroundings, but it worked for this kind of meeting.
“Would you like a drink?” Downing asked Stezhnya.
“No, sir,” Stezhnya replied. “You know I don’t drink.”
Downing shrugged, poured a double malt Scotch whiskey over rocks and then turned and smiled at Stezhnya as he studied him over the rim of his glass. “That’s right. Dulls the senses, clouds the mind, and all that rot. Right?”
Stezhnya’s smile looked forced. “Something like that, sir.”
“Do you think I’m crazy?”
“Sir?”
“Don’t be surly, Alek,” Downing said as he took another sip of his drink and returned to his seat. “I asked you if you think I’m crazy.”
Stezhnya shrugged. “I suppose some people might think of you as crazy, sir.”
“I didn’t ask you what other people think, I asked what you think.” Downing didn’t make it a habit to let people off the hook so easily.
“No, sir. I don’t think you’re crazy. I think you’re eccentric.”
“Good,” Downing said. He slapped the thigh of one leg crossed over the other and leaned back in the chair. “I’d hate to think you see yourself as working for some crazy. I’m not a nutcase, you know.”
“I never thought you were, sir,” Stezhnya replied evenly.
Downing considered his glass for a time, and finally said, “I love my country, is all. Perhaps too much. And I’m sorry about the loss of innocent people. Very sorry.”
“As am I,” Stezhnya interjected in a quiet voice.
“Bah, I don’t blame you, Alek,” Downing said. “You were responsible for the mission, sure, and it didn’t go as planned. Still, you got the job done. That’s the important thing. What I am trying to say, and not very well, is I’d trade the lives of a few countrymen over an entire country. Including my own.”
Stezhnya nodded and then looked at his watch. “Neely’s late.”
“He’ll be here,” Downing said.
A rap at the door caused the Russian-American commando to jump to his feet and reach beneath his jacket. Downing raised a hand to signal he should relax and then gestured toward the door. Stezhnya padded across the room and opened the door a crack, one hand inside his jacket. He opened it a little more to admit a somewhat haggard-looking Roger Neely.
“Ah, Mr. Neely,” Downing greeted. He rose from his chair and extended a hand. Neely looked behind him and noted Stezhnya had closed and locked the door before he shook Downing’s hand. “We were just talking about you. Please, have a seat.”
Neely took the seat Stezhnya had occupied. The Russian chose to stand over his shoulder, a move Downing noticed made Neely nervous. Well, that was fine because he needed Neely’s cooperation. Downing hated having to put Neely in a situation like this—forcing him to betray trusts and leak sensitive information—but it was for a much greater cause. Downing would not, of course, have brought any real harm to Neely’s family but he couldn’t let Neely onto that secret. Downing knew Neely would eventually attempt to escape with his wife and daughter, but he hoped it wouldn’t come to that before he’d finished with the man.
“So, we finally meet face-to-face,” Downing said with a deep sigh. “What a moment, yes?”
“I’m thrilled to be here for it,” Neely said drolly. He cast another suspicious glance over his shoulder.
“You’ve been a great service to us, Mr. Neely,” Downing said. “I do hope we can count on your continued cooperation.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Oh, come now. Your NSA file suggests you’re quite the patriot. I’m positive you would want to further show your support if you better understood our mission and goals.”
“What I understand is thirteen dead people who should still be alive,” Neely said. “Somehow, I don’t think much else matters when you go around wasting kids and grandmothers.”
Downing shook his head with sadness. “We were just speaking of this. It was not my desire that innocent people suffer. It was an unfortunate accident. But in war we must accept the fact that innocent lives can and often are lost, that casualties are a consequence to both sides, and we must come to terms with that fact.”
Neely’s smile lacked warmth. “We’re not at war, Downing.”
“Oh, but we are,” Downing replied. He rose and went to the small window overlooking the street below the three-story building. “In fact, we’ve been at war for some time now. We declared that war when the terrorists chose to attack us on our own soil. Even before that, I’m afraid.”
He turned to look at Neely, folded his arms. “You see, we’d been battling terrorism for years. You know the history of our secret societies. Of course, we’d done a good part of it behind the backs of our fellow citizens, but that was only so we could protect them from the horrors of our war. And yet after all this time, how far have we really come? I ask you, Mr. Neely, how much closer are we to victory? So we’ve overthrown a dictator here and there, kept one or two network cell leaders on the run. But what real benefit has this reaped for us? Nothing.
“Our people continue to live in fear, and we still issue regular high-level alerts for terrorist threats. We scan air and sea alike for any danger, search our people at airports and train stations and bus depots without evidence of wrongdoing. We detain citizens at border checkpoints, thereby restricting freedom of movement. And what I find most detestable is that we permit our government, under the guise of that ridiculous and unconstitutional Patriot Act, to impose any sort of order it sees. Washington bureaucrats continue to operate unchallenged and unchecked, Mr. Neely, and good Americans continue to die. So while we do what we think needs to be done to stop terrorism, groups like the New Corsican Front are smuggling in an army of devils right under our very noses. And what do we do about it? Again nothing!”
“And you plan to change that?”
“We’ve already changed it,” Stezhnya barked.
Downing nodded with a smug and satisfactory expression. “Alek is correct. The New Corsican Front lost thirteen of their men in our operation in Atlanta. That’s thirteen who won’t threaten our country with suicide bombs. Thirteen who won’t shoot or blow up any American children tonight. Thirteen who won’t hijack any planes or kill any service people in defense of some outdated religious ideology.”
Neely’s sneered. “That’s also seven people who won’t watch their sons and daughters graduate high school, or spend Christmas with their families. Seven people who won’t kiss their children good-night. Seven people who won’t attend church this Sunday. Doesn’t sound like much to be proud of.”
“So, you’re not going to let go of that,” Downing said. “I see. That’s too bad, Mr. Neely, because I had big plans for you.”
“Really.”
“Indeed. You’re well respected in the intelligence community, with many good connections. You could probably provide me with significant information. At best, you could identify the individual who keeps meddling into these affairs.”
“I’ve already told you, I don’t know who he is,” Neely protested. “He uses the name Matt Cooper, but it’s an alias and not one I can find in any of our systems. He’s probably some kind of black ops. We were friends…sort of. But I’m sure by now he knows I betrayed him. Plus, I don’t know how much more use I could be to you. Somebody was following me.”
Downing could see Stezhnya become immediately alert. “Who followed you?”
“Don’t worry,” Neely said. He waved it away. “I made sure to lose him well before I got here. But I don’t know who he is. I’m assuming he’s either with the NSA or a Company man.”
Downing looked at Stezhnya and frowned. “You need to take care of that.”
“Yes, sir,” Stezhnya replied.
“Now just wait a goddamned minute,” Neely cut in. “Don’t start going around killing our spooks, or you’re going to bring a whole shitload of people down on your operations here, and I’m sure you’re anxious to avoid that kind of attention. Besides, this guy isn’t important enough to worry about.”
“What makes you think so?” Stezhnya asked.
Neely looked at the man and expressed incredulity. “What are you, some sort of ignoramus? If he knew anything about you two, he wouldn’t have been assigned to watch me. You go and off the guy, you’re just proving to whoever he’s working for that there’s something to have them concerned. That’ll just send a message they need to come down and look at things more closely.”
Neely looked at Downing and pleaded, “That’s why you should forget about me. I’m no more good to you, because I don’t know anything else. I just want to be left alone. If I don’t do anything to arouse this guy’s suspicions, then that should be enough to throw him off your trail.”
