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“What airline?” the Executioner asked. “At what airline company’s area did you let him out?”
“Ah,” Bartovi said. “Yes. Iran Aseman Airlines.”
Bolan handed him roughly half of the bills.
Bartovi took them and stared down at his hand in shock, as if he had never truly believed that the big American with the big gun would really keep his word.
With the rest of the money still in his hand, Bolan said, “Did the man say anything about where he was going?”
Again, the eyes closed in concentration. When they opened again, the cabdriver said, “No.”
Bolan’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sure?” he said, the hand with the money in it moving a little closer to the Desert Eagle again. He wanted to make sure Bartovi understood he would be rewarded for telling the truth. But the Iranian cabbie also needed believe that punishment awaited any lies.
“Yes, yes, I am sure,” Bartovi said quickly. “I only hesitated because I was trying to remember.”
Bolan nodded and divided the money in his hand in half again. “Do you have a car?” he asked. “I’ll pay you to use it if you do.”
Bartovi shook his head, glancing regretfully at the bills remaining in the Executioner’s fist.
Bolan shoved the rest of the money into his hand. “Take this anyway,” he said. “You’ve cooperated.” Bartovi was trembling slightly again. It was evident that he still couldn’t believe the big stranger wasn’t going to kill him, then take the money back. “I doubt anyone will know I was here,” he finished. “But if they ask, you never saw me. Right?”
Bartovi nodded. “I never saw you,” he repeated.
The Executioner left the cabdriver in his toolshed and hurried back along the side of the house, exiting the courtyard through the same gate by which he’d entered. Turning, he started down the sidewalk. He had dumped the Mustang because, even though he’d paid the owner three times its worth, the man had probably reported it stolen. By now every cop in Tehran would have the license tag. He needed new wheels.
Less than half of the streetlights were working and Bolan stayed in the shadows as he jogged back to the Archaeological Museum. There was a mechanic’s shop across the street with two cars in the parking lot: a Pontiac Bonneville and a Dodge Dart GT that dated back to the mid-1960s. As he got closer, Bolan saw that the Bonneville’s front wheels were gone and it rested atop concrete blocks.
The Dodge Dart was old and required hot-wiring beneath the dash. But its 273-cubic-inch engine purred easily. With “four on the floor” and a silver T-handled gearshift knob, it was obvious that it was the pride and joy of some wannabe racer.
Bolan pushed in the clutch, threw the car in reverse and backed it away from the building. Pushing the T-handle forward into first gear, he slowly let the clutch out and eased back toward the street.
TRAFFIC THINNED as he left Tehran and headed for Rey again. Bolan manipulated the vehicle deftly up and down through the gears, staying just below the speed limit and keeping a low profile. When he hit a stretch where he could glide in fourth, he reached into the leather jacket to his side and pulled out his cell phone.
A few moments later Price answered. “Hello again, Striker.”
“I need Bear again, Barbara,” Bolan said as Tehran proper faded in his rearview mirror.
“Then you’ve got him.” The line clicked.
A second later Kurtzman lifted the phone. Bolan quickly summed up what he’d learned about Sobor going to the airport. “There’s no sense my going out there,” he told Stony Man Farm’s computer ace. “I don’t know who to ask for and don’t even speak the language.” He stopped talking, knowing there was no need to verbalize his next request; Kurtzman would know what he wanted.
“I think I might be able to help,” the computer man said. “I’ve been doing a little playing around since we talked. But first, you might want to know that you’re big news all over right now.”
Bolan frowned. “How’s that?”
“Iran’s riding the bust at the safehouse for all it’s worth, trying to use it to show the world how tough they’re getting on terrorism.”
“I’m not surprised. Since their terrorist buddies are already dead, they might as well get some use out of them.”
“Exactly,” Kurtzman said. “There are pictures of dead terrorists all over Al-Jazera and the other networks over there. Not to mention CNN, MSNBC, FOX—you name it.” Half a world away, the man in the wheelchair chuckled. “The holes in the dead men’s bodies look strangely .44 caliber to me, but then, what do I know?”
Bolan guided the Dodge on through the night, nearing Rey. “You said you’d been playing around,” he said. “I assume your magic machines have told you something?”
“Oh, yeah,” Kurtzman said. “Just thought I’d let you in on what the whole world knows first. Now, for your ears only, as the saying goes, I tapped into the Iranian secret police radio frequency and our translator’s been listening and jotting down everything that might be pertinent.
VEVAK, Bolan thought silently. The Islamic Iranian government’s secret police which had replaced the Shah’s ruthless SAVAK assassins and torturers. And become twice as ruthless as its predecessor. “What have you learned?” he asked.
“Well, for one thing, it appears they’ve got you and Sobor confused. Maybe that’s on purpose, but I don’t get that feeling. VEVAK’s radio frequency isn’t even open to the regular cops, and they’re pretty straightforward most of the time.” He stopped, cleared his throat, then went on. “They know there was a Russian there at the house, and a guy they think was Russian got away across the rooftops.”
“That was me,” said Bolan. “I’m the one they saw. Sobor was already gone when they got there.”
“Well, at this point, they seem to think it’s all one and the same man. They’ve found close to a dozen passports and supporting identification with the same picture on them, and the guy’s Caucasian.”
Bolan’s eyebrows lowered in concentration.
“You still there?” Kurtzman asked several seconds later.
“Yeah, just thinking, Bear.” He paused again. All he could learn from the passports and other ID Kurtzman had just mentioned would be names Anton Sobor wasn’t using. “Any way you can find out if there were any passports missing?” he asked. “Like, maybe they found just part of an identity?”
“I get your drift,” Kurtzman said. “But that’s gonna be tough. Give me a little while to come up with a plan, okay?”
“I’ve got another hour’s drive before I get back to the helicopter,” the Executioner said. “If you can find a name, great. If not, hack into the Iranian Aseman Airlines files and check the rosters for every flight out of Tehran since the bust, okay?”
“Okay. I’d better get on it.” Kurtzman hung up.
Bolan drove on. Rey appeared, and then the Dodge Dart GT’s headlights flickered across the deserted water hole where the women had washed the carpets earlier in the day. Lifting the phone again, he dialed another number.
“Get that bird revved up,” he said when Grimaldi answered. “I’m ten minutes away. I don’t know where we’re going yet, but we’re going somewhere.”
BOLAN PULLED to the end of the road and parked the Dodge Dart GT in the same spot where he’d left the Mustang hours earlier. Reaching beneath the dashboard, he killed the engine and got out. Below, in the valley where the Bell was hidden, he heard the soft purr of the chopper warming up. The OH-58D advanced scout helicopter had a mast-mounted sight and two Stinger missile pods. It had been designed with its main mission being to locate and designate targets for the Apache AH-64’s Hellfire missiles. This one was unmarked, and had been painted an unintimidating light tan that helped it blend in with the surroundings without screaming out “Camouflage!” in case it did happen to be seen. Stony Man Farm’s chief armorer, John “Cowboy” Kissinger, had disguised the Stingers and also rigged up a hidden 60 mm machine gun.
Bolan’s hope was that the machine gun and Stingers would still be unfired when the mission was over. The situation would develop much more smoothly if the Bell could simply be used as a means of transportation and not be forced to fight. But the weapons were there in case they were needed.
The half moon was high overhead, casting an eerie luminescence down over the rocky hills around the ancient city of Rey. Remembering the path he had taken earlier down into the valley, Bolan retraced his steps in half the time. When he reached the bottom, he ducked low beneath the twirling helicopter blades and climbed on board.
Jack Grimaldi was already strapped into the pilot’s seat behind the controls. Bolan saw him checking the various gauges in front of him as he buckled his own seat belt. He remained silent while the pilot finished his last-minute checklist. Seemingly satisfied, Grimaldi finally looked up and said, “You heard anything back from Stony Man?”
Bolan shook his head. “Not since we talked last.”
“Barb tried getting you,” Grimaldi said. “You were probably in a dead zone.” He glanced down at the cell phone that Bolan had just pulled from the pocket of his leather jacket. “Lot of them around in a place like this.”
The Executioner nodded. Stony Man Farm’s cell phones—like all of their other equipment—was top of the line, state of the art. But even though they had access to every satellite circling the planet, they were pushing contemporary technology too far expecting to be able to make phone calls around the world as if they were talking to the neighbors next door. At least each, and every, time. “I need to call in?” Bolan asked.
“Wouldn’t hurt,” Grimaldi said. “But I’m gonna take her on up while you do. I suspect I know where we’re headed, and if you decide different, I can always change course once we’re in the air.”
Bolan tapped the number to the Farm and got Price again. “Sorry your call didn’t come through earlier,” he said.
“Hardly your fault. Besides, I relayed the intel to Jack. He tell you?”
“Yeah,” the Executioner said. “But not the details. He’s leaving that to you.”
“And I’ll leave it to Bear,” Price said, and Bolan heard the familiar click of the call being transferred.
“I think I’ve got something for you, Striker,” the wheelchair-bound computer man said without bothering a “hello.” “I was able to tap into the VEVAK frequency again, and figured out a way to transmit as well as receive. It took a little doing, but Ron Touchie and I finally caught on to the passwords and code names and numbers, came up with one that sounded real.
“The passports and supporting IDs—everything from a couple of German driver’s licences to a Swiss voter’s registration card—were dumped in a cardboard box on the top shelf of an upstairs closet.”
Bolan frowned. He had checked all of the closets during his search of the house, and remembered several boxes. But he had been looking for men, not documents, and there had been no time to sift through the contents. “Go on,” he said.
To his side, Grimaldi said, “Ready?”
The Executioner nodded.
As the chopper began to rise, Kurtzman went on. “VEVAK assigned one of their men to put the IDs together, and they came up with thirteen different names. Eleven had passports with them. But they found a couple of supporting credentials for two other names—actually, the German and Swiss stuff I just mentioned—but no passports.”
The Executioner nodded. “Meaning that as soon as the shooting started, Sobor reached up into the box, grabbed a couple of passports and probably a few other things to back them up, and hightailed it out of there.”
“That would be my guess,” Kurtzman agreed.
The Bell had risen into the air and was now flying low over the rocky hills. Grimaldi left the lights off, using nothing more than the light from the half moon to guide him.
“What were the two names, Bear?” Bolan asked.
“Dieter Schneider’s the German,” the computer man said. “The Swiss voter’s card and a couple of credit cards were in the name of Jean-Marc Bernhardt.”
“I take it you followed up on them?” the Executioner said.
“Yes indeed,” Kurtzman responded. “No idea where Bernhardt is, but I suspect he’s in Dieter Schneider’s suitcase, and Schneider took the early evening junket out of Tehran to Isfahan.”
Bolan smiled. “Good work, Bear,” he said. He looked out into the darkened sky as a light snow began to fall over the rocky hills. “Jack’s got us headed toward Isfahan now. Anything else?”
“Uh-huh,” Kurtzman said. “But it’s only a ninety-minute flight so he’s already been on the ground in Isfahan for a couple of hours.”
“He didn’t take any connecting flights?”
“No. At least not under Dieter Schneider or Jean-Marc Bernhardt.” The computer man paused. “And he hasn’t checked into any of the major hotels yet, either. I tapped into them, too. Of course, all that could mean anything. Or nothing. The name Dieter Schneider’s sort of the German equivalent of John Smith—there could have been a real Dieter Schneider on the Tehran to Isfahan flight. And even if it was Sobor, he may have checked into one of the dozens of unregistered inns and boarding houses in Isfahan. Or some of his cronies may have picked him up and taken him straight to another safehouse. Actually, that’s where I’d put my money if I was betting. He’s probably hooked up with more of his terrorist buddies.”
“Thanks, Bear,” Bolan said. “Stay close.”
Grimaldi continued south, hugging the hilly terrain below radar. The flight from Tehran to Isfahan was almost directly south. It would be primarily flat land they covered until they reached the mountains near Oom, but even so there were enough dips and rises to slow them down if they stayed low. What was a ninety-minute flight by plane, as Kurtzman had said, could turn into a trip of several hours in the Bell.
And each minute’s delay gave Anton Sobor more time to disappear.
“Any way we can speed things up, Jack?” Bolan asked.
Grimaldi nodded. “Sure. But not without rising up into the radar zone and taking the chance of getting shot down.”
“I think we may have to take that chance,” Bolan said. “We’re racing the clock. We don’t know what Sobor might do now that he’s on the ground. He could even pick up another new passport from a contact in Isfahan and be on the next flight to Timbuktu. Or he could fade into the woodwork there. For that matter, he might take off over land—maybe even double back to Tehran. What I’m getting at is, we don’t know where he’ll go from Isfahan. But if we don’t pick up his trail somewhere near the airport, we’re likely to lose him for good.”
“You’ve got a point,” the pilot said. “Okay, if you say so, let’s chance it. At least we’re not marked and the guns aren’t showing.” He chuckled under his breath. “Which at least means we might be able to stall them a little before they blow us to kingdom come.”
“If they pick us up, they’ll try to make radio contact first,” Bolan said.
“Well, we can hope so.” Grimaldi didn’t sound as sure as the Executioner.
“They will,” Bolan said. “They won’t be certain it’s not one of their own craft until we don’t answer their calls.”
Grimaldi nodded and began raising the helicopter higher into the air. Farther from the ragged and unpredictable terrain now, he was able to increase the speed. “Maybe I can answer their calls,” he said. “At least enough to keep them confused for a while.”
Bolan turned to look at his old friend. “They’ll be speaking Farsi, Jack,” he said. “When you don’t respond, they’ll probably switch to Arabic, which you don’t speak, either. You’ll be ordered to land—in both languages—and neither of us will even know it.” He glanced at the interior controls which operated the Stinger missile pods and the 60 mm machine gun, and saw Grimaldi looking the same way.
The Bell continued to rise, then finally darted forward, tripling its former speed. Grimaldi was still chuckling to himself, as if he knew some secret to which Bolan wasn’t privy. “We’ve still got the guns,” he said.
“And we’ll use them if it comes to that,” Bolan replied. “But they’re our last resort. Now, tell me what you aren’t telling me—whatever it is that’s got you looking like the cat that swallowed the canary.”
“Oh,” Grimaldi said. “Nothing much. Just that I actually know a few phrases in Farsi. Not a lot, but like I said, maybe enough to keep them confused long enough to buy us a little wiggle room if we need it.”
The Executioner frowned. “Where’d you pick up these ‘few phrases of Farsi’?” he asked.
Grimaldi continued to grin as the Bell flew on into the night. “I dated a Persian girl for a while a few years ago.”
“I didn’t know that.”
Grimaldi’s chest moved up and down in a chuckle. “I don’t share all of my sordid love life with you, Striker,” he said.
The Executioner smiled. No, Grimaldi didn’t kiss and tell like some high school jock in a locker room, and Bolan wasn’t the type to pry into his friends’ personal lives. So he asked no more questions. Instead he settled back into his seat. It was a relatively short flight, and they were dealing with a Third World country here. Iran didn’t have the sophisticated radar and other detection devices a country like the U.S., Russia or Great Britain employed, nor did their personnel have the same professionalism. There was every chance in the world that they’d lay the chopper skids down somewhere near Isfahan with no one the wiser.
On the other hand, Bolan reminded himself as they flew through the dark night beneath the half moon, the smart warrior never underestimated his enemy. Technology never had, and never would, replace human beings, and while they might be behind in the science department, the Iranians had proved that they were willing to fight during their eight-year war with Iraq.
There was one more aspect to the whole equation, and the Executioner was aware of it, too. New, and better, technology didn’t mean that older technology quit working. There were still people getting killed with single-action revolvers in this day of high-capacity automatic pistols, and an aircraft like the Bell could still be picked up on World War II–era radar.
The Executioner hadn’t slept since the mission began and now he closed his weary eyes. Long years, and many battles in many missions, had taught him that the wise warrior took whatever rest he could get when he could get it. It wasn’t just the ability to fight that kept a man alive during the heat of battle—it was also the ability to think sharply. And no one, no matter how tough, how smart or how well trained, thought as well when they were exhausted as they did rested.
But Bolan’s mind didn’t close as quickly as his eyelids and he found himself reasoning out the decision he had just made. He had ordered Grimaldi into the radar zone to save time, and there was no use in second guessing himself now. They’d either be spotted or they wouldn’t, and there was nothing he could do about it. He had all the faith in the world in Grimaldi’s ability to elude attack if it came to that, and knew that it made far more sense for him to try to catch a nap than to worry about it.
Besides, the real danger wasn’t being shot down—Stony Man’s ace flyboy would see to that. What worried the Executioner was the fact that, if their presence was discovered, word of it would travel fast. Which would put the cops and military in Isfahan on high alert before they even reached the city.
As if to emphasize Bolan’s concern, Grimaldi broke the silence that had fallen over the helicopter. “Isfahan isn’t quite like Tehran, you know,” he said. “The city sits on top of a high plateau in the Kuhha-Zagros. I can probably find a place to hide this baby but it may not be as easy as Rey was.”
Bolan opened one eye and saw the pilot hook a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll come up with something,” he said. “I’m going to sleep. Wake me when we get there. Or if anything interesting happens on the way.”
“Like, if we’re about to be blown out of the air?” Grimaldi asked with a deadpan expression.
“Yeah,” Bolan said. “That would qualify.” He drifted off, wondering what he’d do first in Isfahan if he was in Anton Sobor’s shoes.
It had been close to an hour, but seemed like seconds, when the Executioner felt Grimaldi’s hand on his shoulder, awakening him.
“Up and at ’em, Sarge,” the pilot said. “We have company.”
