Don Pendleton - Beirut Payback

Chehab got a tightness to his eyes, but he held himself in check and glanced at Weizmann.

"Do you wish to be left alone with this, uh, gentleman?" Weizmann glanced at Bolan's pistols.

"I don't seem to have much of a choice, General. But yes, do as Mr. Bolan suggests. And of course keep this extremely confidential. A government car... that means we're dealing with someone on the inside. But I think I shall be safe here. We're on the same side, Bolan and I, after all."

"As you wish," the general grumbled.

Chehab left them.

Bolan watched the Arab get out of the Renault and amble down the crowded street.

"Don't be too sure about the same side. The Phalangists have committed as many or more atrocities against civilians as the Muslims in this war."

"It is difficult to take either side," Weizmann conceded. "There are no good guys."

"Except maybe the guys who are trying to put a stop to it."

"Like us, eh? And is that what you wish to discuss?"

"Let's settle something first, then maybe I can dispense with this." Bolan motioned with the AutoMag stiff aimed at the man who called himself Uri Weizmann. "Your orders from Tel Aviv are that I'm top-priority TOS. Terminate on Sight. Your showing up to sit over in that pub and wait for me for half an hour, just the two of you, no backup, calls for an explanation and a good one."

"If what I have heard about you is true, Mr. Bolan, you will understand when I tell you that Chaim Herzi and I had been friends since childhood. Chaim saved my life twice. I never had the chance to repay him and now he is dead. Zoraya told me all about it when she called. And so I must repay Chaim some other way.

"It is ironic, is it not, that we do not know which side actually killed Chaim in the cross fire between Phalangists and Muslims. Does it matter, really? I don't know if Chaim knew the truth about you, or if he but followed his Uncle Yakov's instructions without question. I know he respected his uncle greatly.

"But Chaim did understand that only swift, decisive measures can achieve lasting peace in Lebanon and prevent more slaughter at this late date. I have been stationed in Beirut with Mossad for three long years and have seen the situation here only deteriorate. Perhaps it is time the Executioner got here. You may already be too late." Bolan holstered his weapons.

"It's never too late." He reached for a pack of cigarettes, offered Uri one and lit them both. "Do you know where Zoraya is now?"

"I thought with you. She said she was returning to be with you when she telephoned me to arrange our meeting."

"I'll need help, Uri. Strakhov has called a meeting of the Muslim factions for noon today at the base at Zahle."

"I already know of this, my friend." Weizmann smiled. "We have our ear to the ground, as you Americans would say. In fact, the information has already been processed. The base at Zahle will be leveled by Israeli aircraft at precisely 12:10. Approximately one hour from now."

"Then you've got to pass on additional intel and call off that strike."

"Call it off?" Bolan told Weizmann what happened to Zoraya's uncle at the garage. And his thoughts on what could have happened to Zoraya.

"If the Syrians have connected her with you and Chaim and me, then the Russians have her," said Bolan, "probably at Zahle."

Weizmann frowned.

"I'm not sure I can do it. Get the Israeli air force to call off the air strike, I mean."

"The people Strakhov is bringing together could still escape," growled Bolan. "An air strike is too chancy. I've got to hit that summit meeting and make sure every damn one of them is dead. I have the chance to disassemble their entire infrastructure and that would cancel their effectiveness long enough for some real peacekeeping negotiations to take place."

"And the fanatics of the Arab Christians?" asked Uri. "The Phalangists have run wild, massacring every civilian in sight, many times after ceasefires have supposedly taken place... as you yourself pointed out."

"Squeeze every source you've got and pin down the government car that showed up at Biskinta last night," said Bolan. "Tap your pipelines into Syrian and KGB intel sources. Strakhov is working it right now, and it could move up standard channels before they realize how important it is."

"And you? What of the Executioner?"

"I told you. I hit the Russians and the Syrians at Zahle. And I've got to find out what happened to Zoraya. She's done too much for me just to write her off now. Do the Russians and the Syrians have her? Or is she working for them?" Weizmann's frown deepened.

"You have reason to suspect that? It seems rather coldblooded considering what she has done."

"Hot blood gets you killed at a time like this, Uri. You sound like you might be in love with Zoraya yourself."

"That... that's ridiculous," the Mossad man bristled without much conviction. "I... I am concerned about her. Yes, of course I am... I don't know...." The indignation faltered. "Perhaps..."

"Some other time," growled the big guy. "I know what you mean. Every man who's ever met that lady has probably fallen a little in love with her. Some women are like that and she's one." He saw no reason to tell Uri of Strakhov. "There are stakes in this that you don't know about and I don't have the time to tell you. There's only time now to do it. Will you help me take these warmongers apart or not?" Reason won the Israeli over.

"I will do what I can, certainly... Your points are well taken. I may be able to delay the air strike perhaps a short time, perhaps not, but I'm afraid that is all."

"It will have to do," the Executioner said. "I need a way onto that Syrian base. The site will be vacuum tight after what happened this morning. Is there any possible way your Mossad connections could get me on base for what I have to do?" Weizmarm nodded thoughtfully.

"Yes, but it will be extremely dangerous."

"What in Lebanon isn't?"

Bolan left Weizmann and returned to his Saab, which was parked nearby. He checked below the car and under the hood this time for explosives, but found nothing. Then he climbed in and gunned the Swedish relic to life.

He consulted his map for the most direct route to the Druse militia position in west Beirut.

Time had run out. The summit gathering of insurgents called by Strakhov would be getting under way at the base at Zahle within the hour.

Bolan had the in he needed, thanks to Uri Weizmann, who had broken all the rules of his organization and training to avenge a friend's death.

And maybe because he was in love with the friend's lady.

All that mattered now was that time had run out.

Bolan's knuckles shone white around the steering wheel. He bit off a curse at every delay he encountered through the bustling streets of this sector. His destination: the Druse militia position occupying what had been a small shopping mall, now concertina wired, the "liberated" shops functioning as offices and to billet fighters between rounds in the ongoing fight for the city.

The "Paris of the Mediterranean" throbbed and echoed under a white sun to the sounds of exploding rocket-propelled grenades. The sporadic popping of Soviet-made rifles intermittently chorused the throatier staccato of heavy machine-gun fire. Most thoroughfares were clogged with civilians being forced steadily from the densely populated neighborhoods near the front line.

At one point Bolan crossed an untraveled side street that bisected his route. He happened to glance down the alley and saw something he didn't like. He yanked the steering wheel, upshifting, and came down on the tableau of three Shiite punks towering over a woman in dark traditional Lebanese garb. Huddled next to her was a boy of about eleven and they were both cowering against a pile of rubble, each clinging to two bottles of water.