Don Pendleton - Treason Play

“Did?” Bolan said. “I don’t like where this is going.”

“It gets even worse,” Brognola interjected. “Lang relocated to Dubai several months ago. It gave him a better perch to watch for any illicit shipping of nuclear technology or radioactive materials. Despite all the glitz, the country has become a hotbed for arms and drug smugglers and their fellow travelers. That’s included nuclear smuggling, too.”

Bolan nodded.

“Lang has lots of sources,” Brognola continued. “Some damn fine ones. White hats and black hats. And he could consort with them easily because of his cover. With all that information coming in, he had a lot of irons in the fire, a lot of cases working. The guy dug up loads of good information.”

Bolan arched an eyebrow. “And the problem is?”

“He went missing about forty-eight hours ago,” Brognola said. “Bam, just disappeared. That’s not necessarily a big deal, considering the nature of his cover. But he was supposed to check in with his handlers in Langley and never did. According to the CIA, Lang never, and I mean ever, misses a check-in call. He always made his contacts, except this time.”

“And now everyone’s worried.”

“Yes.”

“He clean?”

Brognola nodded. “Best we can tell. The counterintelligence people are poring over their files. They want to make sure they haven’t missed anything. According to what the President has told me, though, the Agency has yet to come up with anything bad on the guy.”

Bolan considered what he was being told. “You need what from me?”

“Go to Dubai,” Brognola said. “Find out whatever you can. Frankly, there doesn’t look to be any good outcomes here. If the guy has disappeared of his own accord, it’s probably because he’s gone rogue. If he’s vanished because he’s been kidnapped, that could be even worse. Regardless, we need to know what happened to him. You game?”

“How soon can Jack fire up a plane and fly me to Dubai?”

Dubai, United Arab Emirates

The C-37 jet airplane stood on the tarmac at Dubai International Airport, parked near a hangar that housed government-owned planes. Heat rose from its engines and caused the air above them to shimmer. The craft’s side door popped open and a small stairwell dropped from the plane.

A tall figure, his eyes obscured behind aviator-style sunglasses, a large duffel bag slung over one shoulder, disembarked from the craft’s air-conditioned interior. He scowled involuntarily as he collided with a wall of scorching heat. A sheen of perspiration formed on his forehead almost immediately. Dry heat, my ass, he thought.

The Executioner descended the steps, walked onto the tarmac and swept his gaze over his surroundings. The soldier spotted a black sedan parked perhaps a dozen yards away. A short slender man, with hair trimmed down to stubble, stood next to the vehicle, his arms crossed over his chest. Light gleamed off the lenses of his mirrored sunglasses.

When Bolan reached the car, the man bent his head a bit and peered over the rims of his glasses at Bolan.

“You Cooper?” he asked Bolan, referring to the soldier’s Matt Cooper alias. Bolan nodded.

“You Carl Potts?”

“None other,” Potts said. He produced a black wallet, unfolded it and showed Bolan his FBI credentials.

“Special agent in charge,” Potts said. “That means I work ninety hours a week instead of seventy like the rest of my people do.”

“You probably have two alimony payments to prove it.”

“Three,” Potts said, holding up as many fingers. “Fortunately, I think this job will kill me before I get a fourth.”

“We all need a bright spot.”

Potts nodded over Bolan’s shoulder at the plane. “You got more gear?”

“The pilot can take care of it,” Bolan said. “You guys get us a rental?”

“Better,” Potts replied. He nodded toward a gleaming black Mercedes parked next to a terminal building. “Just remember to fill the tank and wash the windows before you bring it back.”

“Nice,” Bolan said.

“Just don’t say Carl Potts doesn’t take care of his friends. Or friends of friends. How’s Mr. Brognola doing these days?”

“Works like a dog.”

Potts shook his head. “Some things never change.” He tossed the soldier the keys for the car. Bolan caught them with his free hand.

“We appropriated it,” Potts said. He made air quotes with his fingers when he said appropriated. “Got it from some Russian gunrunner. He forfeited it.”

“I don’t have the greatest track record with cars,” Bolan said.

Potts scowled and shook his head. “Washington always sends me the prizes.”

THE FBI’S DUBAI OFFICE was located on the top floor of the U.S. Embassy. Bolan was in Potts’s office, seated across the desk from him. The Executioner studied the various certificates and awards on the office wall. He noted that Potts had a bachelor’s degree in international studies from Princeton University and a law degree from Harvard University.

“You didn’t strike me as an Ivy Leaguer,” Bolan said.

“You can see how far it’s gotten me,” Potts replied. “The second wife tried to take the law degree and divorce. She offered me a dog in return. Hell of a deal in retrospect. You want some coffee?”

Bolan nodded. Potts picked up a mug that stood next to the coffeemaker, peered inside it, wrinkled his nose as though he had seen something disgusting. Shrugging, he filled it with coffee and handed it to Bolan. The soldier waited while the federal agent rounded his desk and fell into his chair. Leaning forward, Potts reached into a side drawer, grabbed a folder and set it on his desk. He opened it and picked through the contents, his brows furrowed in concentration. From his vantage point, Bolan could see several pictures mixed in with the paperwork.

Finally, Potts stopped rooting through the dossier. He removed a picture and tossed it across the desk at Bolan, who studied it.

The picture depicted three men. The man closest to the lens, his head topped by a thick, gray mane, was scowling. Bolan pegged him in mid-fifties. The other two men looked younger, with full heads of hair, sunglasses covering their eyes. Bolan guessed they were the muscle even before Potts told him as much.

“The silver-haired devil’s the guy you want. That’s Khan. Just how you get to the guy, I can’t say. He moves around a lot both in this city and throughout the Middle East. There’s rumors that he has body doubles, but I have no idea whether that’s true. A lot of these gunrunners have massive egos. They like to lie to one an other, build legends about themselves. Seems pretty damn silly.”

“So what’s the best path to finding Khan?”

“Funny you should ask, my friend,” Potts said. Shuffling through the folder, he found another photo. This one contained three men. With what appeared to be a black permanent marker, someone had circled the face of a thickset bald man. The guy was cradling an FNC assault rifle and grinning from ear to ear.

“It’s a surveillance shot,” Potts said. “The moron in his natural habitat, I call it. Guy’s name is Adnan Shahi. He’s one of Khan’s lieutenants. If Khan passes gas, this guy probably can tell you what the old man’s been eating.”

Potts paused, sipping some coffee while Bolan studied the photo, memorizing the guy’s face.

“He doesn’t look like much,” Potts said. “That’s because he’s not. But he tends to travel very heavily guarded. He knows everything Khan does. If Khan took Lang, Shahi will know about it. He’ll know which doors to kick in.”

“You have a location for him?”

Potts nodded. “We’ve had him under surveillance for the past several hours, ever since I first got the call from Washington. Like I said, though, if the heat’s on, he’s not going to be calling his BFFs and talking about it. He’s going to stay quiet. He’s a bad human being, but he’s not a moron. Once I heard about Lang’s disappearance, and that Khan might be involved, I wanted to go in and shake down Shahi. Hal asked me to stay cool. Goes against my grain, but I did it anyway. He thought it best that you make the first contact.”