Don Pendleton - Blood Tide

Kurtzman blinked. “Well, that’s good news.”

“I think he’s taken a shine to me.”

Kurtzman paused. “That’s a good thing?”

“If we want his cooperation, yes. I get the impression he’s been kind of lonely since the triads pushed him out of Shanghai. He’s been wasting away in exile like fallen royalty. I got his blood moving again. He really seems to be enjoying having a student.”

“That’s all well and good, but where’s the mission payoff?”

“In China, the criminal underworld and the martial arts are deeply intertwined. Both have their code of honor. By taking me on as his student, his code obliges him to help me against my enemies. It’s his plausible excuse to himself and his superiors for getting involved in business he shouldn’t.”

“So what have you learned?”

“So far, not much. Ming apparently got a few nibbles, and his agents promptly got their heads cut off. The interesting thing was that they were spread out. One was in the Philippines, one in Malaysia and one in Java.”

“A real pan-Southeast Asian movement.” Kurtzman chewed his lower lip. “It’s not good, but if it’s a charismatic movement like you suspect—”

“Then I’ll have to find that charismatic head and cut it off,” Bolan finished.

Kurtzman scowled. “That’ll be a neat trick, especially doing it without turning him into a martyr.”

“Yeah.” Bolan considered the fanatical movements he’d fought before. “I’ll just have to do it in a way that doesn’t leave any doubts.”

“First, you’ve got to find him.”

“Speaking of which, where’s Rosario?”

“He’s in Central America. He says he and Calvin can extract and be in Manila in twenty-four hours.”

“Good enough. Tell them I’ll meet them in the Polillo Islands safehouse. That should do for our purposes.”

“What kind of purpose?”

“How’s our young friend doing in custody?”

“According to Manila station, the Philippine military police have stopped just short of rubber hoses and jumper cables, and that was only at the direct request of the station chief.”

“Good, I think in twenty-four hours he’ll be about ready to see a friendly face.”

Kurtzman grimaced. “You’re playing kind of rough with this kid, aren’t you, Striker?”

“That kid boarded a private yacht in the middle of the night, blade in hand, with the intention of beheading every man, woman and child he found, Bear.”

“Well…granted,” Kurtzman replied. “But he was under the influence of drugs, and—”

“Running juramentado is an all-volunteer activity. You sign up. Our boy was excited about the plan and thankful to be a part of it, and that was before the hash, the trance and the ball-binding.” Bolan’s voice went ice cold. “Young, dumb and brainwashed, I’ll grant you. We’ll let him live. But he’s going to make good on what he owes humanity, one way or the other.”

“Yeah.” Kurtzman shifted uncomfortably in his wheelchair. “I hear you. So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to fly back to the Philippines and take a meeting with Pol and the kid. Assuming all goes well, I’ll leave Pol to it and come back here to Macao. The last leads we generated came by setting out bait. I figure I might as well try it again while Pol goes to work.”

“The yacht trick again?”

“Yeah, but I’m thinking bigger.”

“Bigger?”

“Ming’s had a few interesting suggestions.”

Kurtzman raised a bemused eyebrow. “I bet he has.”

Bolan ignored the innuendo. “Meantime, I’ve got a job for you, Bear.”

“Oh?” Both of Kurtzman’s eyebrows rose with interest. Aaron Kurtzman was a genuine, certified genius, and when Mack Bolan said “I have a job for you, Bear,” it meant the big guy had a whopper of a challenge for him.

“Yeah, this is a Southeast Asian mission.”

“Yes…” Kurtzman waited for the rub. “And?”

“And I need a Muslim cover.”

Kurtzman stared blankly into the Webcam.

Bolan nodded in empathy. “Work on it.”

Polillo Islands, Philippines

“Has he snapped, yet?” Bolan walked up the steps to the beach house. The yellow Piper Super-Cub seaplane lay at anchor in the lagoon. Rosario “Politician” Blancanales’ bull-like figure stood on the veranda holding two cups of coffee in one hand. Bolan could smell it as he mounted the steps.

Stony Man Farm’s psychological warfare expert shook his head. Bolan tossed a manila folder onto the table as both he and Blancanales sank into rattan chairs.

“Not yet,” Blancanales said over his mug, “but he’s just about ready.”

Bolan nodded. “Snapping” was the point in cult deprogramming when the cultist realized he had been deceived by his cult and snapped out of his delusion. “So what’s the hold up?”

“Well, your boy wasn’t exactly wearing saffron robes and handing out flowers at the airport. He’s more than just a true believer. We’re dealing with a genuine holy warrior here, with martyrdom on his mind.”

“So what’s your strategy?”

“Same as always. Force Ali to think. Someone once said thinking is the hardest activity man is capable of, and that’s why so few men do it. People in cults have surrendered their minds. In many respects, their minds are actually turned off.” Blancanales stared intently at the seaplane as it bobbed on the water. “The first time you lay eyes on a person, you can tell if their mind is working or not. As you question them, you can tell exactly how they’ve been programmed. I agree with your initial assessment. It began in prison. Ali was fifteen when he was incarcerated. As you can imagine, a fifteen-year-old boy is in for some very rough times in prison. He hasn’t come out and said it, but I suspect the cultists inside saved him from being punked, which immediately engendered gratitude, and more importantly, trust. The minute a cult gains your trust—” Blancanales snapped his fingers “—they have you. You’re in.”

“And to snap him out of it?” Bolan asked.

“Like I said, this isn’t some rich man’s daughter signing away her trust fund at an ashram. Ali’s a hard case. He came from poverty-stricken parents and grew up on the streets. He went in for robbery and assault, and when the cult sucked him in it gave him instant family, instant support, instant purpose. That’s a tough one to beat.”

Bolan waited. “And?”

“And it’s a matter of language. It’s talking and knowing what to talk about. I’ve started moving his mind around, slowly pushing it with questions. Ali hasn’t just turned his mind off, he’s given it to someone else. He’s been taught that thinking and questioning are wrong. They’re the equivalent of doubting. Thinking is a sin. He’s been told not to think, but to implicitly trust.”

“Our boy is operating on faith.”

“Exactly. As I question him, I watch every move his mind makes. I know where it’s going to go, and when I hit on a point or question that sparks a response, I push it. I stay with it and don’t let him get around it with the lies he’s been told or circular dogma. I drive it home.”

“And then you snap him.”

“Sooner or later.” Blancanales leaned back and sipped his coffee.

“So how’s it been going?”

“Pretty rough on everyone. His first instinct was violence, so we had to restrain him. Even shackled, he made a pretty decent attempt at taking my head off with a standing mule kick. When he realized I wouldn’t let him hurt me, he went sullen and refused to talk at all. That’s par for the course. At that point, I had Calvin treat his injuries and administer him two low doses of sodium Pentothal to loosen his inhibitions. Then Calvin pulled his Black Muslim routine. Once Ali started talking to Calvin as his doctor and a fellow Muslim, Ali’s strategy turned to feigned compliance while looking to escape. That, however, was a strategic mistake on his part.” Blancanales grinned. “Because that got him talking to me.”