Don Pendleton - The Iranian Hit

It took Bolan and Rafsanjani only seventeen minutes to complete their security check of the house, but it was a thorough job. Bolan had inspected every room, every nook and cranny in that old pile of brick.

Except for one.

The door to Carol Nazarour's room was locked. No one responded to Rafsanjani's discreet but distinct rapping on the wood panel. And Rafsanjani claimed not to have a key.

"My orders are never to disturb Mrs. Nazarour unless it is under the most extreme conditions," the aide explained. They were waiting for a response that was not forthcoming.

"Have you seen her since she came back into the house?" asked Bolan.

"I have not."

"Has the general spoken with her?"

Rafsanjani's hooded eyes became wary. "I do not know. As I explained earlier, Colonel, my allegiance is to the general. This is purely a logistical alliance between you and us. Do not involve yourself in analyzing the relationships that confront you here, Colonel. We will separate in a few hours, never to see each other again. Mrs. Nazarour's room is identical to her husband's. That is all you need for our purposes tonight." He turned away from the door. "Let us continue...."

"Relax, buddy," Bolan replied. "If the lady needs privacy, that's all right with me. I'll be around if she wants to talk to me later." He made sure he was close to the door and speaking loudly.

A simple mission. Uh huh.

As he and Rafsanjani moved on to the next room, Bolan found himself formulating a theory about Carol Nazarour and those hoods who had tried to become kidnappers and ended up dead men in the C&O Canal Park — and about the man Nazarour's wife had been on her way to meet. The man Bolan had seen gunned down.

If Bolan's theory was correct, then Carol Nazarour's intentions and allegiance would be a crucial factor in the general's safety tonight.

Bolan hoped like hell that the lady had been listening behind that bedroom door. That she would make contact with him.

The blonde was a beauty. Of that there was no doubt.

But Bolan wondered what else Carol Nazarour was.

Where would her allegiance rest when the coming battle was raging? Would she be friend?

Or foe?

He had doubts about her capacity for what might be called civilized behavior. She seemed to have bartered her integrity for a lousy price already. Though it was not yet possible to be sure of that.

But about the civilized behavior of the non-nationals in this place he had no doubts whatsoever. All politeness was show. Gentility was a sham. The true nature of these exiles was barbarous: for them, life was cheap — unless it was their own.

"Any other hidden access to the house?" Bolan asked Rafsanjani. "A bricked-up rear porch, or conservatory, greenhouse?"

"Ah, the greenhouse," said Rafsanjani, his face lighting up. "Acute of you to mention it." The little man raised a forefinger and shook it at Bolan in mock admonition. "That is my favorite adjunct to the house, my personal play space. Mine alone.

"I shall show it to you because it will give me pleasure. It is in fact attached to the building, but there is no way into the house from it. It is accessible only from the outside. Come."

The two men proceeded downstairs and out through the front door. Bolan maintained his appearance of alertness, though he was endeavoring to pace his energy for the crisis to come. His reserves were already sorely taxed.

Around the back of the building stood a small greenhouse with a roof that sloped against the wall of the house itself. It was lit from within.

As they entered it, Rafsanjani pointed to a wooden hutch on the outside of the door. "Rabbits," he said simply. "My idea."

Inside the greenhouse, the humidity gave forth a rank odor of unusual plant life. Bolan surveyed the structure swiftly. There was nothing of interest to him there.

"These are exotic herbs I am growing," said the Middle Easterner in his whining voice. He intended to capture the American's interest in an obscure hobby. "The protecttion of them is everything to me. They are my sole existing connection with the homeland, apart from the general, of course."

He waved his small hand in a gesture of territorial power, his plants tall but slightly bowed in the artificial atmosphere. "I would not advise entering farther than this point," he added.

"No?" queried Bolan. He was becoming aware of a sinister delight in this unpleasant little man's attitude.

"It would not harm you lethally, but it will kill all vermin of lesser scale.'' Rafsanjani pointed to the slanting roof. "The metal bar crossing the roof there — it is emitting a silent scream!''

His eyes were now blazing with intensity. He was looking at Bolan with the gaze of a mad scientist. These people gave the big guy the creeps; he was beginning to feel alien in his own land.

"You have a sonar device at danger pitch there? Why?" he rasped. He was going to cut through this crazed man's crap with brutal force if need be.

"To preserve and protect, of course," giggled the Iranian. "Watch."

He stepped out of the greenhouse to the rabbit hutch, opened the hutch door and, clutching the animal around the neck, pulled out a piebald rabbit from its bed of straw.

Before Bolan could stop him, Rafsanjani flung the creature through the air. As it traversed the space beneath the bar across the roof, suddenly the animal plummeted to the ground. It was screeching eerily as it lay spreadeagled on the dirt of the floor. Then two streams of blood poured from the helpless animal's ears, and its eyes all but popped from its head. A sickening twitch or two and then silence.

It had been struck stone-dead by the invisible force of sound. Bolan was speechless. The act was wanton and disgusting, the sight of it was an ugly, nauseating thing.

But Rafsanjani was thirsty for more.

"Again?" he squealed as he moved toward the cage.

"Enough," shouted Bolan. With the side of his hand he chopped at Rafsanjani's arm as it reached for the cage.

The act paralyzed the cruel man on the spot. Far from dropping from the blow, Rafsanjani's arm sprung back and stayed outstretched, stiff with shock, as his jaw dropped and he stared at the spreading welt with watering eyes.

"Damn you," he gasped, shaking his arm and dancing about like a struck ape.

"Damn you," spat Bolan. He had no patience with indiscriminate animal killers. Self-defense he applauded, some revenge he could condone, but the careless arrogance of super-predator Man sickened him with its spoiled, idle abuse of the lesser creatures. "You touch another animal in that cage and I'll jam your face into the back of your head.''

He pushed Rafsanjani impatiently to one side, sending the dazed Iranian staggering along the pathway. He swung the wooden-framed wire door of the hutch wide open.

"I'm releasing these toys of yours," he said. "Better they face the danger of dogs and highways than your sick whims.

"They'll be a damn sight safer away from this place tonight anyway," he added. "You'll all be like scared rabbits when this invasion comes down. And frankly," he said, turning to offer Rafsanjani an open sneer, "I'm beginning to look forward to it."

The head honcho of the security force was a surly, heavyset dude named Minera. Bolan and a chastened Rafsanjani found him in what had once been the estate's stables. But no fine-muscled racing champions were being bred here now. The old wooden structure had been renovated to serve as the security force command post.

Minera wore the same navy blue uniform as the other guards. His right hand rested habitually on the butt of a Dirty Harry model .44 Magnum holstered at his hip.

When Rafsanjani informed Minera who Bolan was and why he was there, the guy's response was an angry glare at the newcomer. "Nobody told me there was gonna be help rung in from the outside," he groused. "What's wrong?" he demanded of the Iranian. "You don't think me and my boys can handle this tonight?"