Don Pendleton - Rebel Trade

And, as an afterthought, he picked up half a dozen Mini MS-803 mines with radio-remote ignition switches, the South African equivalent of Claymores manufactured in the States.

He paid the tab with cash acquired before he’d left the States.

Once he left the shop, the next matter on Bolan’s mind was a meeting with a target who had no idea The Executioner existed, much less that he’d flown to Namibia specifically for their impending tête-à-tête. Forewarned, the man might have tried to leave the city—or the country—and that didn’t fit with Bolan’s plans.

One unexpected meeting coming up.

Whether the stranger Bolan sought survived the meet or not would be entirely up to him, depending on his level of cooperation and the prospect that he’d keep his mouth shut afterward.

On second thought, his chances didn’t look that good at all.

* * *

NITO CHIVUKUVUKU MISSED the nightlife in Luanda, where five million people thronged the streets, not counting foreign visitors, and anything you might imagine or desire was readily available for sale. Windhoek, one-fifth the size of the Angolan capital, had opportunities for sin, of course, but they were limited, mundane. It was like hoping for a giant, super-modern shopping mall and being stuck inside a rural village’s pathetic general store.

The bottom line: Chivukuvuku wished he could go home.

The other bottom line: if he went home, he likely would be dead within a month.

He had worn out his welcome in Luanda and—to be honest—throughout his homeland generally. The Angolan National Police would love to lay their hands on Chivukuvuku, and he did not relish the idea of screaming out his final breaths inside some filthy dungeon. When he went home, if he ever went home, it would be as a heroic liberator of his people, honored for his sacrifice on their behalf.

And yes, beloved by all the ladies, too.

But in the meantime, there was work to do in Windhoek and along the cruel coast of Namibia. So close to home, and yet so far away. Until the final day of victory, there would be guns and drugs to smuggle, ships to loot or hold for ransom, building up the MLF’s war chest. And if he skimmed some off the top, who in his right mind would suggest that any soldier in the field should be denied a taste of pleasure, every now and then?

On this night, for instance.

He had started off at the Ten Bells, a pub on Werner List Street that displayed no bells, much less the ten it advertised. From there, glowing from the Starr African rum inside him, he was headed for the brothel run by Madame Charmelle Jorse on Sam Nujoma Street. The night was warm, as always, and the four-block walk would sober him enough to make sure that he chose a pretty girl and not a discount special.

Buzzed as he was, and looking forward to the climax of his evening. Chivukuvuku paid no real attention to the traffic flowing past him. He kept his distance from the curb, where a less steady man might lurch into the street and spoil his happy ending. If questioned afterward, Chivukuvuku could not honestly have said he saw the white Volkswagen pass him by and turn into a cross street one block farther south. In terms of model, year or who was at the wheel, he would have been a hopeless case.

If anyone had asked.

As it turned out, however, no one would.

When Chivukuvuku reached the corner where the Volkswagen had turned unnoticed, he was mildly startled by the vision of a white man dressed in casual attire. Mildly surprised, because he knew, on some level, that roughly one-sixth of the city’s populace was white. And he saw them every so often, particularly if his dealings took him to the central business district, but he rarely met a white man on his nightly prowls.

Not quite anticipating trouble, Chivukuvuku edged a little closer to the curb, putting some extra space between the white man and himself, still conscious of the traffic passing on his left. A tight spot, viewed from one perspective, but he had survived in tighter and emerged the winner.

Besides, Chivukuvuku had a gun.

So did the white man, as he soon found out. One moment, as they stood at the corner, waiting for the light to change, there was a safe six feet between them. The next, he saw the white man moving, felt the firm touch of a gun’s muzzle against his ribs.

“It’s silenced,” the stranger said, speaking perfect English. “You can come with me or have a fall in traffic. Time to choose.”

“Who are you? What do you—”

“I’ll ask the questions, somewhere else. Time’s up.”

“All right! I’ll come with you.”

A hand snaked underneath Chivukuvuku’s lightweight jacket, found his gun and made it vanish.

“This way,” the white man said, steering Chivukuvuku to their right, along a side street that seemed suddenly deserted. When they reached a white car and the right rear door was already opened for him, his abductor said, “Climb in and take a nap.”

“A nap?” Chivukuvuku was confused, as well as frightened.

“In,” the stranger said, his silenced pistol prodding.

Chivukuvuku stooped to do as he was told, felt something strike his skull behind one ear and tumbled into darkness streaked by shooting stars.

* * *

THE YOUNG ANGOLAN REBEL didn’t want to die. That much was clear when he awoke, bound to a tree with duct tape, on the outskirts of a Windhoek suburb curiously called Havana. There’d been no time for The Executioner to rent a private space, and he had not believed that there would be a need.

His business with the captive wouldn’t take that long.

“I only have three questions,” Bolan said. “The first—where can I find your boats?”

“What boats?” the prisoner replied. “I don’t know—”

The Beretta coughed. Its bullet clipped the target’s left earlobe. His mouth fell open and a cry of pain was building in his throat when Bolan plugged it with the pistol’s silence.

“I don’t like torture,” he informed the prisoner. “I’ve never trusted it, and, frankly, don’t have time to do it properly this evening. I’ll ask again and you can live or die, okay?”

The rebel tried to nod, then settled for a grunt that Bolan took for his agreement. With the silencer removed, the young man made a gagging sound, then spat, careful to turn his face away from Bolan as he did so.

“So? The boats,” Bolan said.

“They’re upriver from Durissa Bay,” his prisoner replied. “About a mile inland.”

“How many men will I find there?”

“It varies. Twenty-five or thirty usually. Sometimes more, sometimes less.”

It sounded reasonable, but Bolan had no way to verify it short of visiting the site, which he planned to do tomorrow night. First, though, there was more shopping to be done in Windhoek. Final preparations to be made.

“Last question,” he informed the hostage. “Where’s the MLF headquarters in Windhoek?”

“What do you want with—”

“Simple question, simple answer,” Bolan warned him.

The taped-up man gave him an address in the Hakahana suburb, translated in Bolan’s travel guide as hurry up.

And that was sound advice.

“You said three questions, eh? So, can I go now?”

“What’s your name?” Bolan asked.

“Nito—”

The Beretta came down on the man’s temple and temporarily silenced him. Bolan didn’t want the rebel running back to his comrades, telling tales. This way, when he was found, likely in a few days at the earliest, it would confuse them, maybe even bring some heat down on his fellow rebels from police. What Bolan absolutely didn’t need was anyone alerting his intended targets as to where he might be going next.

Not Hakahana. Later, certainly, but not this night, and not tomorrow.