Don Pendleton - Gathering Storm

The man facing him was leanly fit. He had strong shoulders under the long leather coat he wore. It was buttoned right up under his chin. His face was shadowed in the dim light, the curve of his shaved skull gleaming softly. His eyes shone like bright pinpoints as he leaned forward to stare at Keen.

“No time-wasting, Mr. Keen. We both know why we are here and what we want. Let us take it and this can be over quickly.”

His voice was soft, with a Middle East accent.

“And then you’ll let me go so I can report it to the police? You must imagine I’m stupid.”

“Taking those photographs was not exactly the act of a smart man. Did you not think we would have taken precautions against such things?”

“We all make mistakes.”

The man nodded.

“Certainly so in your case. Now, the photographs?”

“In my bag,’’ Keen said. “The middle-size one.”

His luggage was dragged off his shoulder. Keen, still in the grip of one of the other men, watched as the bag was opened and the contents spilled out across the wide work surface.

“Are these the only copies?”

“I only need one set to prove my case.”

“Have you shown the photographs to anyone?”

“In the time I had in San Remo? Go figure.”

The man in the leather coat pawed through the rest of the bag’s contents. He held up a packet.

“These are the negatives?”

“Fuck you, find out for yourself. I don’t figure I’m coming out of this alive, so why the hell should I make it easy?”

Leather Coat sighed as if he was disappointed. He said something to his two men that Keen barely heard.

The man gripping his arms swung Keen around suddenly. He placed one hand at the back of Keen’s head and smashed the journalist facedown against the work surface. Keen’s world exploded in stunning pain as his nose was crushed flat under the impact, blood squirting across the pale wood surface. His left cheekbone cracked and his lips split open. He groaned, trying to pull free from the grip of the man who had pushed his face into the work surface. Pain rose, engulfing his battered face.

He was in no condition to see Leather Coat reach out and pick a heavy cast-iron fry pan from the hook on the wall. Leather Coat stepped up behind Keen and slammed the pan down against the back of Keen’s skull. Keen grunted in shock, arms flailing helplessly. Leather Coat repeated the blow over and over, the thick cast iron descending with terrible effect against Keen’s skull. Flesh lacerated, bone crumbled and Keen’s skull became a bloody, misshapen mess. The journalist’s shuddering, twitching form became still. It was only the grip of Leather Coat’s partners that kept Keen from falling to the floor. Leather Coat, breathing strongly, threw aside the iron pan. It was slick with blood and had fragments of bone and flesh adhering to the underside. The work surface itself was streaked with more blood and broken skull pieces.

On Leather Coat’s orders Keen’s body was allowed to slip to the kitchen floor. The killer gathered up the photographs and the negatives. He placed them inside his coat. He gestured to his pair of helpers and they followed him out of the kitchen, along the hall and out through the front door.

Memo: Barbara Price/Aaron Kurtzman to Hal Brognola

Recommendation for action based on collated data.

Major Kamal Rasheed. Member of the Ba’ath Party. Loyalist fedayeen. Hard-line Hussein man. He got out of Iraq once the writing was on the wall. He dropped out of sight for a while, but rumors started to circulate he’d been seen in Iran, then Afghanistan. As with other members of the inner council, this man won’t let go. We’ve picked up Internet chatter he’s working with other members of the old regime to make some kind of comeback. There’s all kinds of speculation flying around, but there has to be some truth in among all the rumors. There are too many messages flying around the Middle East, calls for Islamic loyalists to come together to oust the Americans and their stooges from Iraq.

When we picked up details of increased movement down in Santa Lorca, Central America, concerning the increase in illegal arms, it didn’t come as a surprise when information was received about a Middle Eastern buyer looking for small arms. The other matter tagged on to this was the hint that these weapons might be destined for the U.S. This could tie in with the information we’ve picked up from our main security agencies about upcoming strikes within the U.S. and their connection with the resurgence of ex-Hussein loyalists. One of our contacts came through with a photograph. Not the best, but when it was put through the computer program the closest match it gave was Kamal Rasheed.

We need to confirm just who it is buying weapons down there, because if it does turn out to be Rasheed, it more or less confirms that the data we were receiving about the old regime getting its act together is genuine.

I suggest we set up an operation. Get a team into Santa Lorca, offering a good deal on the kinds of weapons being sought, and identify the main buyer. If it does put Rasheed in the frame, our suspicions will be confirmed. An added bonus would be to get our hands on Rasheed and bring him back. Let our security services put him through a debriefing session. See what they can get out of him.

Santa Lorca, Central America

THE MAN’S NAME WAS REGAN. His gaunt, lined face was tanned and unshaven. He was wearing a crumpled white suit. On the beer-stained table in front of him was a sweat-stained Panama hat, the brim curled and frayed. He watched the man across the table from him through watery blue eyes, constantly blinking as he toyed with the squat bottle of local beer.

“You better be straight with me, Bubba,” he rasped. His voice was coarse, low, as if he was unable to raise it above a whisper. “This ain’t fuckin’ Paducah. Mess with the locals here and they’ll cut off your balls and barbecue them in front of you. Understand me?”

The tall, rangy man facing Regan made no comment. He was calm, his hands mobile and sure as he rolled a cigarette using paper and tobacco. He stuck the finished cigarette between his lips and lit it with a battered black lighter. He took a long draw, visibly enjoying the taste of the smoke.

“You been listening to me, Bubba? I don’t make speeches just to hear myself talk.”

“You had me fooled,” the other man said. His accent was British, hard-edged, and Regan became aware that he wasn’t dealing with a novice. “Let’s stop buggering about, Regan. Neither of us is here for the beer—and I can see why after tasting it. We arranged a deal. Why don’t we cut to the chase so I can move on and you can count your money. Two weeks in this bloody place is playing hell with my social life.”

“You can provide me with the ordnance I need? Anything from handguns to rocket launchers?”

“And everything in between.”

Regan rubbed his stubbled chin. He glanced over the Briton’s shoulder, just to make sure his two bodyguards were still in place. The pair sat at a table near the door, doing nothing except making their beer last as long as possible.

“Understand what I’m going to say next, Bubba. It isn’t that I don’t trust you, but the people I’m brokering this deal for are fussy. You know what I’m sayin’?”

“They want to see I’m not peddling you a load of scrap iron?”

Regan spread his hands. “You show up hawking a cargo of weapons. So you say. How do I know you ain’t screwin’ me around?”

The Briton nodded.

“I guess with the kind of money they’re offering they have a right to see the merchandise.”

“So it’s no problem?”

“No.”

“How soon can you show me samples?”