Don Pendleton - The Iranian Hit

"Uh, Colonel. May I have a word with you?"

The American swung around, iced-over eyes scanning the darkness, making sure the speaker was alone.

His response came in the same low whisper.

"Hello again, Doctor. What can I do for you?"

"I must speak with you on a matter of utmost urgency, Colonel. Please. Step back here where we won't be seen."

Dr. Nazarour returned to where he had been standing, and the American accompanied him.

All the while it was obvious to Medhi that the big man was keeping his fingers only inches from the butt of the impressive weapon that rode low on his right hip.

"Yes, Doctor, what is it?"

Medhi Nazarour felt drops of perspiration beading along his forehead, in spite of the chill.

"I, uh, only wanted to say, Colonel, how much my brother and I appreciate you lending your time and expertise to insuring our protection."

"You could have told me that inside," replied the man in black. "You'd better get to the point, Doctor, before we're missed and people come looking for us."

"Yes. Yes, of course. I only wish to say that — well, that you have many enemies here this night... if you understand my meaning."

Medhi Nazarour inwardly cursed the shivers that were coursing through him, causing him such difficulty in speaking. But he could see that the real meaning of his words had gotten through. The American's eyes glinted with interest.

"You suspect there's a traitor among you?" asked the man called Phoenix. "Are you talking about your brother's wife and Rafsanjani? Or about Minera down at the gatehouse?"

Medhi felt his shivers intensifying. "Please. I can say no more. But be warned. Expect trouble from any quarter."

He began edging away, anxious to end this confrontation. He was already wondering if he had made a terrible mistake.

"One moment, Doctor." Medhi felt himself frozen to the spot by the authority in the American's voice. "I'm glad I ran into you out here, away from the others. I'm curious. I haven't seen your brother's wife since I got here. Not even when Rafsanjani took me on a tour of the place. Where is she? Have you seen her?"

Medhi Nazarour wanted to hurry away, but instead he heard words escape his lips. "I was told by my brother that Carol had been through an unsettling experience. I was... instructed to administer a sedative."

"And did you?"

"Yes. She's asleep in her room."

"How long ago was this?"

"Shortly after you arrived. About forty-five minutes."

"How long does it take for the sedative to take effect?"

"Approximately fifteen minutes. It's a... very powerful sedative."

The American's eyes were now colder than before. So was his voice. "How was the sedative administered? What was Mrs. Nazarour's reaction to all this?"

"The sedative comes in tablet form. She understood that it was her husband's implicit order that she take the tablets or face some sort of punishment. This has happened in the past. Rafsanjani has had to... to deal with her several times. Tonight he locked her into her room after I had given her the sedative."

"Locks? Punishments? That sounds more like a living hell than a marriage, Doctor."

Medhi's mind was screaming to him, You must go! Be gone! He began moving backward again, melting in deeper with the shadows, away from this American giant and his fierce glare, back toward the side door by which he had silently left the house.

"Please, Colonel. I must return before I'm missed. I simply wanted to warn you."

"Then one last question, Doctor. Why are you telling me these things? What is your motivation in this?"

It was the question Medhi Nazarour had dreaded hearing. It would be foolish to tell him too much. It could be a fatal error.

"I... must do as my brother says."

The words came to Medhi as if spoken by another. He barely recognized his own voice; it sounded weak and afraid. But the big American made no attempt to stop him or question him further, and before he knew it, Medhi was back inside the house and moving on soundless feet toward the back stairway that led upstairs to his room.

Medhi Nazarour detested himself and his weakness. He detested his love and physical addiction for the little packet of heroin that awaited him, hidden in his room.

But he needed the blissful release that the drug provided. It was his only escape from the horror that had become his life during these past two years of exile with his brother.

Medhi had been able to handle his addiction back in the days before the revolution in Iran. That was when he had been a successful physician appointed to the Shah's personal court. But now his entire existence revolved around that little packet of white powder and the bliss that was his at the stab of a syringe.

As a doctor in Iran, it had been possible for him to dose himself with small amounts of the purest heroin from his own practice. But here in the United States, he had no access to pharmaceutical narcotics, and was at the mercy of his brother, Eshan, who had become his sole supplier of the powder since they had fled Iran. Eshan had American connections that Medhi knew nothing about. These connections furnished Eshan with the drugs that his brother craved. Medhi's addiction had increased dramatically as the quality of what he injected into himself decreased, and he was forced to take more and more.

The doctor reached his room, padlocked the door behind him, and went directly to where he had hidden his kit.

He had done what needed doing.

Now he could step out of this horror.

He began preparing his fix, heating the spoonful of white powder over the candle flame, the syringe held at the ready.

The horror was for men with the strength to face it. Men like his brother, Eshan. And the big American fighting man, Colonel Phoenix. It was their horror now.

Medhi's only real concern, which he also wanted to escape thinking about, was that Eshan's safety be insured. Medhi could not bear to think of facing reality without heroin. And by warning the American as he had, Medhi was sure that he had helped ensure the odds for his and Eshan's survival. And poor Carol's.

Medhi Nazarour held a firm, instinctive conviction that the fate of all of them rested in the hands of the big American.

Whoever he was.

Mack Bolan turned away from the confrontation with Medhi Nazarour with several answers to the puzzle that was tonight's mission.

He now knew, for instance, that the reason Carol Nazarour had not responded to his knock at her door when he had been on his security tour with Rafsanjani was that her husband had ordered her heavily sedated, and Rafsanjani had locked her in her room as an added precaution.

Yeah. A great marriage.

And Bolan knew Medhi Nazarour's motive in coming to Bolan, even if the good doctor had evaded the issue.

Dr. Nazarour was a junkie. Bolan had seen enough, of the type in his two bloody miles through the Mafia hellgrounds. The eyes, the body language, a doctor who sweats at night — the guy was a walking advertisement for stiffer drug controls.

The trouble was, for every answer, more questions seemed to pop up behind it.

Like what exactly had Dr. Nazarour been warning him against? Who was it who was working with Yazid's hit squad from the inside?

In this short hiatus before the bloody storm, Bolan could not ignore the other questions screaming for answers. It was time for another talk with General Nazarour himself. It was eyeball-to-eyeball, lay-the-cards-on-the-table time. Bolan stepped up his pace toward the front entrance to the house.

He had taken four steps when the small object landed at his feet.

He halted, crouched, reached for the Auto-Mag rather than the Beretta. Then a closer inspection revealed that this was not danger.