Don Pendleton - The Iranian Hit

"I can handle it, Colonel," she said softly.

She leaned forward on her tiptoes one more time and planted a warm, moist but very chaste kiss on his right cheek. Then she spun around and was gone.

Bolan stared off into the darkness even after that damn fine set of curves had disappeared from sight. There are some women on this planet capable of getting that reaction from a man, and Carol Nazarour had the ability in spades. The exotic, erotic fragrance of her perfume swirled on the air in her wake, tantalizing Bolan's senses like the vague memories of a half-forgotten dream.

Some lady, yeah.

No one tried to stop Bolan as he passed through the front entrance of the house and crossed the hallway to the study door. The two security guards were stationed just outside the study, so Bolan knew exactly where to find General Nazarour.

The guards tensed and started to rise, hands reaching for their side arms, but they relaxed when they eyeballed the formidable figure of Colonel Phoenix. They let him pass.

Bolan entered the study without knocking. His eyes made a quick sweep of the room.

General Nazarour was seated in his wheelchair behind his desk.

Abbas Rafsanjani, looking more like Peter Lorre than ever, had been in earnest conversation with the general. Rafsanjani shot a cautious, conspiratorial glance over his shoulder toward Bolan, who was standing in the doorway.

Nazarour was first to speak.

"Come in, Colonel," he invited dryly. "You have about you the air of a man who has something on his mind and needs to say it."

Bolan heeled the door shut behind him without taking his eyes off either man.

"Your security looks good, General. But a few other things have changed."

"What impertinence," Rafsanjani rasped under his breath. "You, Colonel, are in severe need of some lessons in protocol."

"I'll take them on my own time," Bolan barked. He glared at Nazarour. "I need to speak with you, General. Alone."

The general acquiesced with a nod to his aide. "You may leave us now, Abbas. I'm sure I'll be quite safe alone with Colonel Phoenix." The general didn't take his eyes off Bolan as the eyes narrowed. He added pointedly, "Only please tell the guards to listen closely for any... unusual sounds. Just in case.''

"But I do not understand your asking me to leave," Rafsanjani announced in injured tones.

"Yours is not to think or understand," Nazarour snapped sternly. "Yours is to obey. Now begone."

The aide had no recourse but to depart. He stared darkly at Bolan as he passed.

When the study door had closed behind Rafsanjani, Bolan said, "I've put a few things together, General. I know who those men were who tried to kidnap your wife tonight. They were sent by you, weren't they?

"You discovered that your wife was having an affair, and you sent some hired muscle around to make things tough on her for a while and teach her one of your 'lessons.'"

"Who have you been speaking to?" Nazarour demanded icily.

Bolan ignored the interruption. "Those men I blew away tonight by the C&O Canal were probably another shift from your own security force. Some of Minera's boys, doing a little moonlighting on one of their own and the boss's wife. You were paying them. And they were shooting at me. That is what's got me real mad at the moment, General."

The man in the wheelchair didn't flinch.

"You will kindly refrain from this discussion immediately, Colonel. My marital affairs are none of your concern. You will cease diverting energies from your given task."

"Your marital status is one of the things that has changed," said Bolan. "When you climb on board that jet tomorrow morning in Rockville — if you survive to board it — your wife will not be leaving with you. She's staying here in America. She's asked me to back her up on this, and I will."

Nazarour's swarthy expression darkened ominously. "Then it must have been my dear wife herself with whom you spoke."

"Don't worry yourself about the details," Bolan told him. "And if anything — anything — happens to that lady, General, you will answer directly to me. Do you understand?"

Bolan didn't know what kind of response to expect. But he was surprised anyway.

Nazarour hardly seemed to consider the matter.

He nodded and waved a hand almost absently. "Fair enough. There are many fish in the sea, my good Colonel, as one of your American songs once proclaimed so eloquently. If the plaything wishes to be played with no more, she is free to go."

"That's real fine of you," growled Bolan with no attempt to hide the sarcasm. "And while we're so chummy with each other, there's another matter that needs to be dealt with."

Nazarour looked at him long and hard. He knew that the American had divined the one weak link in the chain that surrounded and protected this exile of his. It was a weak link invisible to the eye, but it resounded in the mind.

"My compliments, Colonel. Let me anticipate this matter that you speak of. It does credit to your powers of analysis.

"You are concerned as to how Khomeini's hoodlums have located me here at all, is that it?"

"Exactly," responded Bolan, laying down the ordnance he carried on the bar in the corner of the general's study; it clattered on the polished surface. "You have remained successfully undercover for the past nine months. So why the attack now?"

The crippled exile stared gloomily out of the window into the darkness. "It is a strange thing about my country," he said. "Iran is in the throes of a revolution, and Khomeini's high virtue and heartless terror reign hand in hand in the union of moral absolutism. And yet there is treachery everywhere, despite this terrible unison.

"It is not only outcasts like me who must fear disloyalty. Over one thousand of Khomeini's own imams have been assassinated in recent months. One thousand!

"However much one would like to believe that these killings are some sort of American revenge for the hostages..." and here Nazarour glared at Bolan, who was quietly observing the general as he expounded on his twisted world " — the fact is Khomeini has seen fit to execute twenty-five hundred of his own people in retaliation. So he must believe in the enemy within.

"And so do I. I believe I face an enemy within.

"Is it coincidence that I am to be a target tonight, on my last night in your country? Your Mr. Brognola informs me only a few hours ago that a murder squad has located me. How can it have done this?

"In the hours since, I have given it some thought, I can assure you. And so have you. But I know certain facts. I know that I have nothing to do with Iran's real enemies. I sincerely doubt that I am a victim of Tehran's secret intelligence. I am not worth it to them.

"The real enemies are the young people of what is called the People's Mujadeen. They are well-educated Islamics who think Marxism. This has nothing to do with me. I am not and never have been a socialist."

"Excuse me, General," interrupted Bolan, "But I believe Khomeini's enemies are also those who stole money from the country. Are you not the target of the Ayatollah's revenge because you systematically ripped off your own nation...?"

"Bah!" stormed Nazarour, banging his fist on the arm of his wheelchair. "That is bullshit, Colonel, if you'll permit me my favorite American expression.

"Iran can survive any number of capitalists, as it has in the past. My country has certain strengths, you know. It may puzzle you as to how Iran has survived the murderous regime of the Ayatollah.

"I will tell you how. It is in the ingenuity of the peasants, the slum dwellers of South Teheran and the folk of the rural areas. Their strengths once outsmarted the Shah's businessmen, and these strengths continue to overcome the privations of the strife and the embargoes of today.