Don Pendleton - Survival Reflex

Brognola needed to check his firewalls, but first he asked Blancanales, “Did Toni get names?”

“Smith and Thomas, if you can believe it.”

He didn’t, but that was par for the course. The CIA had covert millions to spend, but Langley often suffered from a near-criminal lack of imagination. Mr. Smith, for God’s sake. Mr. Thomas.

“I’ll do what I can on this end,” Brognola said. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

“About our friend…”

“No word, so far. I don’t really expect to hear from him, since this is unofficial.”

“Then we won’t know if he hits a snag.”

Brognola had considered that when Blancanales briefed him on the woman’s story, asking for a dossier on Dr. Nathan Weiss. It made him nervous, then and now, but there was little he could do about it. Part of Bolan’s deal with Washington and Stony Man included freedom to reject assignments, or to tackle missions of his own when he was off the clock. It hadn’t often been an issue in the past.

But now…

It galled Brognola, thinking that his best field agent, one of his oldest living friends, might come to fatal grief while handling a private errand on the side. He’d braced himself a hundred times for news of Bolan’s death, had privately rehearsed the secret eulogy, but this eventuality had troubled him beyond all else.

The Executioner was only human, after all.

Like all flesh, he was prey to accidents, disease and plain bad luck. The fact that he had led a more or less charmed life to this point didn’t mean it would continue.

Luck could turn in a heartbeat.

Life could stop on a dime.

“I need to make some calls,” Brognola said. “Take care, and call me back if anybody gets in touch.”

“Will do.”

Brognola cradled the receiver, scowling at the modest clutter on his desktop. Life went on in Washington, no matter who was being threatened, maimed or killed halfway around the world.

He started taking stock.

Brognola knew where Bolan was, at least approximately, and he knew one contact’s name. He had a slim file on the man Bolan had gone to see, perhaps to extricate from trouble of the killing kind—and possibly in contravention of local authority. Now Langley had a fat thumb in the pie, and that potentially changed everything.

Except the fact that Bolan’s mission was a private one, unsanctioned by Brognola’s superiors. And if Bolan’s personal pursuits placed him in conflict with the government, where did Brognola’s loyalty lie?

His paychecks came from Uncle Sam, but Brognola had forged a bond with Bolan long ago, back in the days when the Executioner was a Top Ten fugitive and the big Fed had been assigned to bring him in, dead or alive. He’d bent the rules to work with Bolan then, against the Mafia—but could he do the same against the CIA, despite the closed-ranks posture of the War on Terror?

Maybe. Maybe not.

Before he made his choice, Brognola needed more hard information.

And he needed it right now.

Cuiabá, Brazil

“I UNDERSTAND,” Anastasio Herreira said. In his rage, he clutched the telephone so tightly that his knuckles blanched from olive to a shade of ivory.

“Do you?” the sharp voice in his ear demanded. “Do you really understand our problem? I’m not sure you grasp it, Major. I don’t think you’re up to speed on this at all.”

Stiffly, cheeks aflame, Herreira answered, “Mr. Downey, I assure you that I’m doing everything within my power to locate this rogue American. He has invaded my country, not yours, where he would be at home. He serves my enemies, not those of the United States. And frankly—”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” Downey said, interrupting him. “I hear you say something like that and I can tell you haven’t got a clue about the big picture. When we talk about big pictures in the States, we don’t mean giant paintings on the wall. Understand?”

“Senhor Downey—”

The caller forged ahead, oblivious. “When we say big picture, we’re talking the long view, wide-screen, all-inclusive. A man coughs in Moscow, they catch cold in China and sneeze in Manila. You get me?”

“If you have some point to make—”

“That is my point, amigo. Right there, in a nutshell. You’ve got creeping Red cancer in your country, and it’s going to eat you alive if you cut it out, root and branch. Now, if you think that only affects Brazil, and not the States—or the whole freaking world, for that matter—you’re not only blind, you’ve got your head stuck in your ass.”

Major Herreira wasn’t sure how many more insults he could endure from the crude Yankee before he exploded in fury. That, of course, would jeopardize his agency’s relations with the CIA, which in turn would outrage his none too tolerant superiors. Better, perhaps, to rage in private and placate the Yankee. They were allies, after all, engaged in a common struggle.

“What would you have me do?” Herreira asked Downey.

“I’m sending a couple of men out to help you,” Downey said.

Herreira bristled at the notion. He needed Yankee “helpers” as he needed jungle rot or syphilis—and having suffered both, the major knew the irritations they produced.

“Senhor Downey—”

“Before you get all territorial, they have information that can help you wrap this up, okay? They’ve seen the new kid on the block, this guy recruited by your woman for whatever reason.”

“She is not my—”

“Anyway, they’ve met him. They can spot him, where your men might think he’s just another gringo tourist looking for some action.”

“Photographs would do as well,” Herreira said.

Downey ignored him, saying, “More importantly, my men can take him out with no reflection on your team.”

Herreira wasn’t easily deceived by specious arguments. The Brazilian government had no qualms about jailing foreign intruders or killing those who resisted arrest. A simple-minded blind man could’ve seen that Downey’s primary concern was to prevent embarrassment for the United States.

The doctor had been bad enough, but if he’d started to recruit allies from the U.S., some might regard it as more than intrusion. It could mean invasion, perhaps an act of war.

“Your men must willingly submit themselves to my authority,” Herreira said.

“Sure thing, Major,” Downey answered with a broad smile in his voice.

Herreira knew that he was lying, that his agents would behave as they had always done in “Third World” countries for the past two hundred years. Imagining that only the U.S. was fit to form opinions, dictate terms, decide what should be done in any given situation from Latin America to Europe and Southeast Asia.

“In that case,” Herreira replied, “I welcome their assistance.”

“That’s my boy. Expect a call within the hour.”

So, Herreira thought, they were already in Cuiabá or well on their way. His agreement, once more, meant no more to Downey than a rubber stamp on plans already finalized. He’d have to watch them every moment, to be certain they didn’t overstep their bounds.

Or if they did, and tragedy ensued, Herreira had to make sure that he couldn’t be blamed.

And if some accident befell them in the process, it was Downey’s job to deal with it, smother the breath of scandal.

Let the Yankee do his job, then. And together, they might just manage to save Herreira’s career.

“I STILL THINK it’s a bad idea,” Bolan insisted.

“Senhor Cooper, I’m Tehuelche. What you see—” the hands that smoothed her dress had polished nails “—is only one facet of what I am.”

“I understand that, but—”

“I know the jungle,” she informed him. “I was born and raised there, educated in a mission school. Your high technology may locate map coordinates, but it won’t tell you if the doctor has been forced to flee again or where he’s gone this time.”