Don Pendleton - Shadow Search

McReady smiled. “I’ll say one thing for you, Belasko. You can sum up the problem without taking a breath.”

“I don’t see any reason to walk around the block.”

“I guess not.”

That summed up Belasko as a whole, McReady decided. The man would tackle anything that came his way in the same manner. Direct, to the point. Given why he was there it was probably the only way to go.

It took just under thirty minutes to reach the city. They drove along a straight, tarmac road cutting through fringes of lush forest and grass. Along the way they passed gas stations and a couple of small settlements. There was a fair amount of traffic.

“Tempala is a nice place,” McReady said. “Developing at a steady pace. Joseph Karima is a good man. Runs a straight government and deals honestly with the people. The only problem he can’t get settled is the old tribal affiliations. Africa still has a hell of a time with these blood ties and such. You can have the most democratic government, build houses and power stations, run a stable economy, but it can all be knocked off track by these tribal issues.”

“And it’s Karima’s stumbling block, from what I heard.”

“You said it,” McReady agreed. “He has an internal struggle going on that’s threatening his whole power base. Rebel forces want to turn their backs on everything he’s done because they believe it will ruin the country. Damn it, the place was in ruins when Karima came into power. What he’s done in twelve years is a miracle. The people have never been so well off and they don’t want change. So the rebels have turned to terror tactics. The worst thing they’ve done is to orchestrate this kidnapping. The way Karima tells it, they want him to step down and hand over all power to the rebels. Allow them to form a new government on their terms.”

“How widespread is the news of the kidnapping?”

“As of last night it’s still in-house, so to speak. Karima has kept it under wraps. If the news does get out there would be an outcry. Family is everything to this country, and Karima’s kids are part of his strength in the eyes of the nation.”

“Ten-year-old twins?” Belasko said.

McReady nodded.

“Boy and girl. Randolph and Katherine. Karima’s wife died six months after the kids were born. Since then he’s brought them up himself.”

“What does he know about me?”

“Only that you’ve been brought in by Ambassador Cartwright, via the U.S. President. You will handle the affair on your own without interference.”

“How does Cartwright know about the kidnapping?”

“Karima trusts him. Cartwright was appointed by the U.S. President to help organize the Rugendi Bay negotiations. When Karima contacted the President and asked for his help the President told Karima he could trust Cartwright. Seems the President and Karima are old friends. Dates back to when Karima was in the States, going through law school. The men and their wives were good friends. As soon as the President heard about the kidnapping he pulled some strings.” McReady grinned. “Which is why you’re here, I guess.”

“Pays to have powerful friends,” Belasko observed.

“I’ll have to remember that,” McReady said wryly.

They reached the hotel. It was a large, modern structure set in cultivated grounds. As McReady drew up outside the main entrance, a uniformed doorman stepped out to open the car door. Belasko carried his leather shoulder bag as McReady led the way inside and up to the reception desk.

The attractive girl behind the desk smiled at him. “Back so soon, Mr. McReady?”

“With a guest,” McReady said. “You have a room reserved for him.”

“This will be Mr. Belasko?”

Belasko nodded. He signed in and took the key card the girl handed him.

“Fourth floor, Mr. Belasko.”

“Thanks,” Belasko said as he picked up his bag.

“Meet you here in the lobby in thirty minutes?” McReady asked.

“Fine.”

MACK BOLAN TOOK the elevator up to the fourth floor, then followed the wall signs until he located his room. The key card opened the door and he went in, dropped his bag beside the bed and slipped out of his suit jacket. He tossed it on the bed before crossing to the large window. He stared out across the open view of the city. In the far distance he could make out the hazy outline of a mountain chain. He stood at the window for a while, simply enjoying the view.

When he did move he picked up the shoulder bag and placed it on the bed. Taking a small key from his pocket he unlocked the zipper restraint and opened the bag. He reached to the bottom and pulled out a packed shoulder-holster rig. When the rig was unrolled, a handgun was exposed. It was a 9 mm Beretta 93-R machine pistol. He laid the rig on the bed. He took a clean shirt from his leather bag and placed it beside the Beretta. Removing his tie he went to the bathroom, stripped off his shirt and washed up. Emerging from the bathroom, Bolan pulled on the fresh shirt and put on the tie again. Before he slipped into his jacket he put on the shoulder holster.

Checking himself in the mirror on the wall he ran his fingers through his thick black hair, nodding at his reflection. “So let’s get this mission on the rails, Mr. Belasko,” Mack Bolan said to himself.

24 hours earlier

HAL BROGNOLA SEARCHED the pockets of his jacket for a cigar, sighing audibly when he found one. The director of the Sensitive Operations Group unwrapped it and stuck it between his teeth, looking ready to chew it into oblivion. He looked as if he had resigned himself to the fact that all he could do now was wait for Mack Bolan to make his decision.

The man known as the Executioner, sitting across from the head Fed, was aware of Brognola’s agitation. Bolan had been ready to take off on a few days’ R&R when Brognola’s call had reached him at the ultracovert Stony Man Farm. Within twenty minutes Bolan was on board one of the Farm’s helicopters, being flown to Washington by Jack Grimaldi.

“What’s up, Sarge?” Grimaldi had asked.

“If I knew I’d tell you,” Bolan had answered truthfully. “Only thing I am sure of is I can kiss my vacation goodbye.”

“Situation normal then,” Grimaldi said, smiling.

“You said it, Jack.”

Brognola was waiting for Bolan when the helicopter touched down. The soldier transferred to the big Fed’s car and settled back for an explanation. Brognola didn’t say a great deal as he drove to a nearby diner. They went inside and ordered coffee.

“Hal, you’re looking smart,” Bolan observed, taking in the neat shirt and tie. Even Brognola’s suit looked as if it had just come off the hanger. “Been to see the head man?”

“As a matter of fact, that’s exactly where I’ve been,” Brognola said. “He asked to see me. Urgent meeting.”

Their coffee came and they sat drinking until the waitress had moved on.

“Urgent meeting?” Bolan reminded his friend.

“Yeah. The President wanted to ask a favor.”

“From you?”

“Christ, Striker, you don’t let even me off the hook.”

Bolan smiled, shaking his head. “Come on, Hal, we don’t need to pussyfoot. What does the man want?”

“You heard of Tempala?”

“On the west coast of Africa. Democratic independent state. The British ran the place about a hundred years ago. President is Joseph Karima. Right now he’s in some kind of talks with the U.S. Wants to offer the Navy the use of a deepwater facility. And there’s something about copper concessions as well.”

Bolan picked up his cup and drank. He waited for Brognola to speak.

“You amaze me. You’re right up to date. Karima is going through a hard time at the moment. He’s fighting a rebel faction from the Kirandi tribes who are resisting any changes that will benefit the country. These people are doing everything they can to cancel out the deep-water offer and the deal for the copper with U.S. companies. Things are starting to get serious. The rebels have started to use harassment and scare tactics against the general population. Karima has stood up to them until the latest escalation, and that’s where we come in.”