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He held a bottle of grain alcohol in one hand, and the other rested on the pistol grip of a French MAT-49 submachine gun hanging from a strap slung across his neck like a guitar. He leaned forward, crowding Bolan’s space. The big American made no move to back up.
“Cooper?” the man asked.
His breath reeked with alcohol fumes, and the light around him reflected wildly off the glaze in his eyes. His words were softly slurred, but his gaze was steady as he eyed Bolan up and down. The finger on the trigger of the MAT-49 seemed firm enough.
“Yes.” Bolan repeated. “Is Le Crème here?”
“Colonel Le Crème,” the man corrected.
“Is Colonel Le Crème here?”
“You have the money?”
Bolan lifted the attaché case, though he knew the man had already seen it when he’d opened the door. The gendarme ignored the displayed satchel, his eyes never leaving Bolan’s face. His hair was closely cropped, and Bolan could see bullets of sweat beading on the man’s forehead.
“Give me the pistol,” the man ordered.
“Go to hell,” Bolan replied.
The drunken gendarme’s eyes widened in shock and his face twisted in sudden, instant outrage. He snapped straight up and twisted the MAT-49 around on its sling, trying to bring the muzzle up in the cramped quarters.
Bolan’s free hand shot out and grabbed the submachine gun behind its front sight. He locked his arm and pushed down, preventing the gendarme from raising the weapon. The gendarme’s eyeballs bulged in anger, and the cords of his neck stood out as he strained to bring the submachine gun to bear.
“Leave him!” A deep bass voice barked from somewhere behind the struggling gendarme.
The man cursed and tried to step back and swing his weapon up and away from Bolan’s grip. The Executioner stepped forward as the man stepped back, preventing the smaller man from bringing any leverage to bear.
They moved into the room, and Bolan heard chair legs scrape against floorboards as men jumped to their feet. He ignored them, making no move for the butt of the Desert Eagle sticking out of his jeans.
The man grunted his exertion and tried to step to the outside. Bolan danced with him, keeping the gendarme’s body between him and the others in the smoky room. Bolan’s grip on the front sling swivel remained unbroken. Finally, the gendarme dropped his bottle and grabbed the submachine gun with both his hands. The bottle thumped loudly as it struck the floor but did not break. Liquid began to gurgle out and stain the floorboards.
“I said enough!” the voice roared.
The gendarme was already using both his hands to snatch the submachine gun free as the order came. Bolan released the front sling swivel and stepped to the side. The gendarme found his center of balance around the struggle abruptly gone and overextended himself. Already drunk, he toppled backward and struck the floor in the pool of alcohol spilling from his fallen bottle.
Cursing and sputtering, the man tried to rise. Bolan surveyed the room. He saw four other men in the same soiled and rumpled police uniforms, each one armed either with a pistol or a submachine gun. All of them were gaunt and lanky with short hair, except for the bear of a man with the gold braid epaulets of an officer.
The officer rose from behind a table and hurled a heavy glass tumbler at the gendarme Bolan had left on the floor. The glass struck the man in the face and opened a gash under his eye.
“I said leave him!”
The shock of being struck snapped the embarrassed man out of his rage. He touched a hand to the cut under his eye and held up his bloody fingers. He looked away from his hand and nodded once toward the man looming behind the table.
The officer turned toward Bolan. “My apologizes,” he said. “My men worry about my safety.”
“Understandable, Colonel Le Crème.” Bolan nodded. “I worry about my own safety.”
“Come now, you are in the company of police officers.”
“Yes, I am,” Bolan agreed.
“Foreigners are not usually permitted to carry weapons in our land.”
Bolan threw the attaché case on the table. “That should more than cover any administrative fees.”
“Is it in euros?”
“As you specified.”
Le Crème nodded, and one of the gendarmes at the table reached over and picked up the case. He had a sergeant’s chevrons on his sleeve. Bolan saw there were two very young girls pressed up against the back wall of the shack. Their eyes were as hard as diamonds and glittered as they took him in.
The sergeant pulled the case over and opened it. The sudden light of avarice flared in his eyes, impossible to disguise. Bolan shrugged it off. He was tempted to believe that if he’d been born into the kind of poverty these men took for granted he might have been just as greedy.
While the sergeant counted the stacks of bills, the colonel reseated himself. He snapped his fingers at one of the girls, and she jumped to pick a fresh glass off a shelf beside her. She brought it over to the table and poured the colonel a drink from an already open bottle. Bolan could feel the intensity of her gaze.
Le Crème regarded Bolan through squinty, bloodshot eyes. He picked a smoldering cigar off the table and drew heavily from it. His men made no move to return to their seats. Le Crème pulled his cigar out of his mouth and gestured with it.
“Sit down.”
Bolan pulled out the chair opposite Le Crème and eased himself into it. The two men regarded each other with coolly assessing gazes while the sergeant beside Le Crème continued counting the money. Le Crème lifted his new glass and downed its contents without changing expression.
“Shouldn’t a man like you be out hunting terrorists?” Le Crème asked.
“Shouldn’t you be down in Banfora with the fighting?” Bolan asked.
Le Crème shrugged. “That’s what the army is for. I fight crime.”
“Just so.”
The sergeant looked up from the money. Le Crème’s eyes never left Bolan. “Is it all there?” he asked.
“More,” the sergeant replied.
“Why?” Le Crème asked Bolan.
“There’s a bonus in there. The shipment came in at a few more kilos than we’d originally talked about.”
“Still tractor parts?”
“Yes.”
“Okay then, no problem. It’s St. Pierre’s day on the Customs Desk,” Colonel Le Crème said, smirking.
Bolan followed the line of Le Crème’s sight across the room to where the gendarme Bolan had scuffled with stood glowering.
“Any way you want it, Colonel,” Bolan said.
“Yes. Yes, it usually is.”
Le Crème leaned back from the table and stretched out his arm. The girl who’d poured his drink slid into his lap. She regarded Bolan from beneath hooded lids. He guessed she could have been no older than sixteen. She was beautiful, her eyes so darkly brown they were almost black, but still nearly luminescent. The effect was disquieting. In America she would be in high school. In Burkina Faso she was the paramour of a corrupt warlord three times her age.
Bolan forced himself to look away.
The sergeant on Le Crème’s right shut the briefcase and placed it on the floor at his colonel’s feet. Bolan looked around the room. An expensive-looking portable stereo played hip-hop music featuring a French rapper. A bar stood against one wall and a motley collection of bottles sat on it, devoid of import tax stamps. Cigar smoke was thick in the room.
Bolan placed his hands palm down on the table and pushed himself up. He rose slowly and nodded to the colonel, who didn’t bother to return the favor. Bolan looked over at the gendarme who had opened the door. The man’s eyes were slits of hate.
The big American crossed the room, keenly aware of how many guns were at his back. He placed his hand on the door and slowly turned the knob. Coolly he swung it open and stepped out into the falling rain.
As he pulled the door closed behind him, Bolan saw headlights coming down the road. He stepped into the shadows beside the door and let his hand rest on the butt of the Desert Eagle. He didn’t want to offer too great a silhouette in case this was some kind of hit squad, nor was he eager to be splashed by any of the offal in the ditches lining the road.
The headlights slowed and finally the car stopped directly in front of Bolan. He saw it was a taxi, not unlike the one he had waiting for him around the corner. The back door opened and a big man climbed out. He was Caucasian, and as he climbed out his windbreaker swung open. Bolan saw two pistols tucked into twin shoulder holsters.
Bolan let his hand fall away from the butt of his pistol and assumed a neutral stance. The man rose to his full height and turned toward Bolan. He was square jawed and wide shouldered, his hair and beard both full and reddish tinged. When he faced the Executioner they stood eye to eye.
A scar turned the corner of the man’s mouth up in a perpetual sneer, and his skin was ruddy and heavily pockmarked over strong, almost bluntly Germanic features. He was holding a battered leather briefcase in one big hand. A gold signet ring sat on one thick pinkie.
Bolan nodded. The man sized him up like a professional boxer and then, almost grudgingly, nodded back. The man obviously knew why Bolan, a Westerner, was there. It was the same reason the man himself had come to this place.
Bolan turned and began walking down the street toward where he had instructed his own taxi to wait for him. Behind him Bolan heard the man knock on the same door he himself had, just minutes before. A voice answered from inside, and the man said something in a crude French patois. His accent was unmistakably Afrikaans.
As soon as he heard the voice any doubt Bolan might have held was gone. That was the man he had been sent to stop.
6
After the initial burst of automatic weapons fire riddled the wall outside the window to her room, the firing simply stopped. Remaining in a low profile, Saragossa waited out a tense fifteen minutes.
She heard movement in the street and she went carefully over to the shot out window. In the street below she saw armed men running through the square. The motley crew of brigands ran in and out of the UNICEF offices and the front gate of the mudbrick wall surrounding the main Yendere mosque. Islam was by no means the dominant religion in Burkina Faso, but the mosques were almost always the most dominant buildings in any given town in the country.
Weak, Saragossa leaned back against the wall of her room. She thought about making for the roof and decided against it. From the lobby below her she could hear men calling back and forth to each other in rough voices.
She felt flushed with fever, and perspiration dripped off her in sheets. She hurt all over, and she knew she had been irrevocably slowed down. She was no longer confident in her ability to hold out if she had to fend off another attack. She hadn’t packed enough ammunition to recreate the Bay of Pigs. The entire Burkina operation had been planned for one hell of a lot lower profile than it had turned out to be.
Saragossa went over to the bed and searched among her gear until she found her cell phone. She knew better than to think she’d get a signal, but the battery was fresh and other usage options on the device worked.
She crossed to the dresser and pulled out of the top drawer the legal tablet she used for her notes. On the first page, written in her tight, neat hand, was a summary of the information she had gathered about the Iraqi laboratory. This included a brief physical description of the building, its architecture and structural capabilities, a ten-digit grid coordinate and a precise GPS listing, as well as concise notes on the surrounding topography. It was everything she had been paid to deliver stripped down to the bare bone essentials. Using those notes, her intention had been to type up a full report for delivery to the principal in Caracas.
If push came to shove, however, everything they needed, all the information they had paid for, was on that sheet of paper. Saragossa settled herself back down below the window. The rain coming in through the shattered pane felt good against her feverish skin. With her back to the wall she could cover the door, and she kept her mini-Uzi close.
She placed the legal pad between her legs and opened her cell phone. She quickly tapped through her menu and selected the camera option. Carefully she centered the lens on the page. She drew the camera back, bringing the words on the paper into sharp focus. She held her hand steady and clicked the picture.
When that was done, she shut the phone and tore off the sheet with her notes on it, separating it from the legal pad. She folded the paper into quarters, then began ripping them into tiny pieces. When she was done she made a pile on the floor between her legs and used a match from her medic kit to light them.
The paper was consumed in seconds.
Still nauseous Saragossa leaned her head back against the wall. She cradled the mini-Uzi and prayed for her rescue to arrive.
7
Bolan walked into the airport terminal out of the rain. He wore a dark, hooded poncho, and water ran off him in erratic rivers. He scanned the waiting area of the open room and saw the gendarme from the previous night lounging against the wall by a folding table set in front of the small side room that was the customs station. Three other gendarmes and two men in army uniforms were scattered around the nearly deserted room.
The Banfora airport was an international operation. Burkina Faso was so small that it was possible to reach a host of other countries from any of the country’s thirty-three airports, only two of which boasted paved runways. Because of this even the smallest of air terminals held a gendarme contingent for customs administration and at least a small force for security against insurrection. From the looks of the nearly empty terminal, it appeared that almost the entirety of the army had been moved toward the border with Ivory Coast to meet the incursion there.
The gendarme turned toward Bolan as soon as he saw him. Bolan pulled a manila envelope out from under his poncho as the man began walking toward him. The big American tossed the thick envelope onto one of the seats in a row of hard plastic chairs. He saw the man’s eyes follow the envelope. When he looked up at Bolan again, the Executioner tapped the face of his watch meaningfully, then turned and walked back out into the rain.
Bolan walked around the edge of the terminal and crossed a muddy stretch of grass before walking into the tall grass bordering the airport. The land was mostly undulating plains filled with tall grass and short, brushlike trees. Bolan knew as he moved closer to the border the terrain would become increasingly hilly.
Setting up behind a stand of short acacia trees, Bolan watched the area through a pair of binoculars. After several minutes he saw a soldier leave the terminal and run over to a vehicle parked beside a rusting hangar. The soldier started up an old truck with a canvas-covered bed and drove to the front of the airport terminal. As soon as the truck pulled to a stop, Le Crème’s gendarme strolled out of the building and climbed up into the cab beside the driver.
Behind him the rest of the security unit followed, clambering over the tailgate and into the back of the truck. As soon as the last man was in, those in the back shouted something and the truck pulled away from the terminal and drove down the access road toward the highway leading into the township.
Bolan watched them go, satisfied for the moment. The operation had been so rushed there had been no time to implement a more comprehensive strategy than the one just executed. When Bolan was finished, it would take even more cash at even higher levels of government to smooth the incident over. What Le Crème thought was a smuggling operation was something very different.
Briefly, Bolan considered moving his operations into one of the hangars or even inside the terminal itself. It mattered little if the few remaining civilian officials saw his face. But he dismissed the idea. If everything didn’t unfold precisely, he wanted as little potential for collateral damage as possible. In a country where the life expectancy was barely fifty years of age, the people didn’t need to be shot for political machinations for which they weren’t responsible.
Bolan looked at his watch. Communication with Stony Man pilot Jack Grimaldi was based on an arranged timetable. Grimaldi would begin his approach in the Cessna Conquest I in ten minutes. Once he landed the pilot would turn the airplane and point the nose straight back up one leg of the twin strips with engines idling, prepared for an immediate takeoff.
Bolan caught a flash of movement and turned. A Land Rover pulled off the highway and began to speed down the terminal access road. Bolan zeroed in the binoculars on the vehicle windshield. James du Toit’s square head came into focus behind the wheel. Bolan felt a grim satisfaction. Du Toit appeared to be grinning madly at some private joke. His lips moved as he said something to someone else in the vehicle.
Bolan frowned and refocused the binoculars. He zoomed in on the South African mercenary again.
Suddenly a pile of black hair rose from du Toit’s lap, standing between him and the steering wheel. Bolan cursed in frustration. The girl from Le Crème’s shack snuggled into the comfortable passenger seat of the vehicle. The Land Rover pulled up to the airport terminal. Bolan ground his teeth together in frustration.
He didn’t know why the girl was there. Maybe du Toit had given Le Crème such a generous payoff the corrupt gendarme colonel had simply thrown the girl in as a bonus. Maybe du Toit had just bought her. Hell, Bolan thought, maybe she was the guy’s wife, the why didn’t really matter at the moment.
The steady drizzle of rain began to increase. The stiff breeze shifted slightly, and the orange wind sock on top of the terminal spun in a different direction. Bolan watched as the pair got out of the Land Rover and entered the terminal. He had just minutes to figure out how to change his plans.
She’s not important, Bolan tried to tell himself. He didn’t like how it sounded, even in his head. She had chosen her company, and he couldn’t be held responsible for that. His life and the life of Marie Saragossa were on the line. Bolan frowned. He knew what he was getting into, had always known, and it had been his choice. Saragossa was a mercenary at heart. She’d turned down a hundred opportunities to get out of the game since Noriega had fallen. She was in Burkina Faso by choice.
Bolan knew it would be easy for him to extrapolate how many lives could depend on the information that Marie Saragossa held, but it didn’t feel right in the face of a girl cursed by poverty to a short, brutal life. He couldn’t kill her. She was, when all was said and done, an innocent.
Bolan looked at his watch, then back up to the sky. Right on time Bolan’s sensitive ears picked up the sounds of the Cessna Conquest’s big, prop-driven engine. Grimaldi was approaching for his landing. Bolan reached for his sat phone, prepared to scrub the mission. His eyes fell across his little cache. He saw the clackers for the Claymore mines he had set out along the runway where the helipad was located. It was more than enough to take out a Super Puma as it landed, destroying du Toit’s transportation and putting down his eighteen-man strike force.
Claymores were indiscriminate killers, and the back blast area was significant. If du Toit pulled the Land Rover up next to the helipad to rendezvous with his team, the girl would be gravely injured. At best.
Grimaldi landed the plane smoothly despite the heavy rain and crosswind. He began to brake the aircraft as he guided it toward the terminal. Its rear end skidded out to the side slightly as the rear landing gear slid in the mud on the runway. On board the plane the rest of Bolan’s equipment for the mission was secured. Bolan knew he needed his long weapons. While he had wreaked considerable havoc before through the use of his Beretta and the Desert Eagle, he was going into a war zone when he left Banfora. It would be suicide to consider completing the operation armed as he was.
Bolan, his mind racing, debated with himself as Grimaldi taxied the plane into position. At that moment, from over Bolan’s shoulder, came the rhythmic thumping of a powerful helicopter engine. Du Toit had managed to place his troops and equipment in the area of operations in just hours despite the heavy rains.
Bolan watched the terminal, hoping du Toit would leave the girl in the building when he came out to meet his men.
Grimaldi reached the end of the runway and turned the plane smoothly, his tires leaving deep ruts in the muddy strip as he did so. From above Bolan’s head the racket of the helicopter coming in obscured all other sounds. A doorway set next to the observation window opened and du Toit walked out, heading toward the helicopter pad.
Bolan gripped the binoculars. Stay inside, he silently willed the girl. But she emerged from the terminal right behind du Toit.
The pair approached the landing pad as the helicopter hovered into position and the pilot began to lower the powerful aircraft. Bolan had placed his mines on either side of the pad, away from the raised dirt mound, camouflaging them and the detonation cord carefully so they were positioned in a V-pattern facing out from the rear of the helipad.
Bolan watched du Toit and the girl standing on the edge of the landing pad. The South African gave the pilot a thumbs-up as the skids touched down on the muddy soil. Bolan made up his mind. He was willing to risk detonating the Claymore on the far side.
