Don Pendleton - Lethal Diversion

“Striker, it’s Hal,” the reply came. “We’ve got a situation.”

“Don’t we always?” he asked.

Brognola chuckled, but he had to force it out.

“Okay, so it’s a serious situation,” Bolan intimated. “What’s going on?”

“Have you made any progress on your investigation in Detroit?” he asked.

Stepping back from the window, he took a seat on the bed. “Not very much,” he admitted. “It’s slow going. Why?”

“I’d like you to change focus. This is more pressing than any pipeline heroin and comes straight from the White House.”

Bolan could almost hear his old friend chewing his cigar stub to shreds. “Fill me in,” he said.

“There’s a potential nuclear threat inside the city,” Brognola said. He quickly filled him in on the boat found by the Coast Guard, along with the results of their sweep, and Denny Seles’s quick response so far.

“That works out pretty well,” Bolan said. “I did a passing-through hello with him when I got here. So he’s already got my DEA credentials and we got along well enough. What’s the status of local law enforcement?”

“Right now, they just got their Emergency Operations Center up and running. There’s a woman in charge there, Allison Hart, but Denny will take the lead on field operations. You’ve got White House clearance to do whatever needs to be done to find the uranium rods and stop whoever is behind it.”

“I’m game, Hal,” Bolan said, “but it sounds like they’re doing all the right things.”

“They are,” he agreed, “but you and I—and the President—all know that over the next few hours, every federal law agency in the country is going to start fucking around with protocol this and red tape that. The President wants a man there who can cut through all that and just get the job done.”

“And he doesn’t think Seles is that man?”

“He’s the Special Agent in Charge of the Detroit Field Office, so he’s going to be by the book from beginning to end. I’ve read his file and he’s a good man, but he’s not you. We need you on this one, Striker.”

“All right, Hal,” he said. “I’ll close up shop here and head over to the EOC and see what I can stir up. Do they have any leads?”

“Nothing concrete yet.”

“A target? A threat? Anything?”

“We’ve got three dead guys on a yacht in Lake St. Clair and some missing weapons-grade uranium. I’ll shoot the file to your handheld via a secure uplink. The rest is up to you,” Brognola replied. He laughed drily. “Situation enough for you?”

“Sounds like it,” Bolan said. “I’m on my way. I’ll check in with you when I know more.” He disconnected the call and put the phone back on his belt, his mind considering the possibilities. A moment later, the file came through and he looked it over. The dead men were all Middle Eastern. Not much more information than that.

Before he went to see Denny Seles, there was another man who might be able to help, even if it blew his cover. Weapons-grade uranium took precedence, and right at this moment, he needed information more than anything else.

Bolan quickly packed up his few things, making a quick sweep to ensure that the room was empty of his belongings. Slinging his bag over one shoulder, he slipped out of the room and down the hall to the stairs. If he moved fast enough, he might be able to talk to the man he needed to see before his evening prayers.

* * *

THE ISLAMIC TEMPLE OF TRUTH was a combination mosque and community center at what Bolan had come to think of as ground zero of the 8 Mile region. Over the past couple of weeks, he’d come to believe that the man who ran it, Imam Aalim Al-Qadir, genuinely cared about the Muslim community and he’d been willing to share information so long as it didn’t lead to more trouble for anyone.

The imam was in his mid-forties, with skin the color of a French-roast coffee bean and a white goatee and mustache that few men could pull off, but the imam somehow did. Bolan had never seen him in anything other than traditional Muslim garb, complete with a dark red tarboosh that sported golden tassels. He wore silver-framed glasses and a smile that could disarm the angriest members of his mosque.

Bolan pulled his car—a nondescript sedan that had already come close to being stolen several times—into a parking space in the back of the building. Al-Qadir had been forthcoming about his concerns in regards to the 8IM gang, and he’d shared them with Bolan. He had to hope that the man’s contacts in the community would help with something far more pressing and important than the illicit activities of the 8IM gang.

He locked the car and went to the back door, where he rang the bell and waited. From experience, he knew that there was a camera positioned on the roof of the hall beyond the door, and that the imam would be checking his video feed before he answered. It was only a minute or two wait before Al-Qadir appeared, unlocking the door and greeting him warmly in the traditional fashion. “Assalamu alaikum, my friend,” he said.

“Wa alaikum assalaam,” Bolan replied. “It is good to see you. Can we talk in your office?”

Al-Qadir nodded pleasantly and led the way, offering tea once they’d reached the small space. It was a small rectangle, perhaps ten by fourteen, with a large metal desk that looked as though it came straight out of a 1960s school, several bookcases, and many pictures of the Muslim children in the community on the walls.

Bolan turned the tea down with a shake of his head, and took a seat across from the imam.

“Your face is serious, Matt,” he said, using the name Bolan had given. “What troubles you?”

“You have been honest with me,” he said, “and we’ve had a good dialogue. I think we’ve come to know each other a little bit. I am troubled because of news I received today and that my original intentions here have to change.”

“Go on,” Al-Qadir said, sipping his tea. “I sense your hesitation, Matt, but I cannot help you or our community without information.”

Bolan nodded. “As I told you when we met, I work for the DEA. But often, I hear about things from other federal law-enforcement agencies. A short time ago, I heard from someone at the FBI. A ship was found in Lake St. Clair with three dead men aboard—all of them from the Middle East. They found evidence that weapons-grade uranium—the kind used to make nuclear weapons—was on board the ship, too.” He watched the man’s face carefully as he shared these last words, but all he saw was shock and sadness.

“This...this cannot be related to anyone I know, Matt,” he said. “Many of the young people here are in gangs and involved with drugs. I would be foolish to deny it. But no one has said anything about acts of terrorism!”

“I believe you,” Bolan assured him. “But someone in the Muslim or the Islamic community knows, Aalim. Someone knows something. I need your help.”

The imam sat quietly for several long seconds, considering his words, then he sighed and nodded. “What do you want me to do?”

“I need you to start asking questions, pressing people a little just to see if you get a reaction of any kind. We don’t know who’s behind this, but I think it would be safe to assume that whoever it is has a lot of money, and, in this neighborhood, that means drugs and possibly prostitution. Even if they haven’t done anything themselves, someone may have heard something.”

“In my experience, Matt, extremists in this country do their best to stay quiet,” the imam said, shaking his head. “Unless I happen to stumble upon the person who is actually involved, it is unlikely that someone will have heard something.”

Bolan shook his head. “Maybe, but something like this takes a lot of planning, a lot of men. Please, Aalim.”