Don Pendleton: War Drums

“I believe this is what you’ve been waiting for, Cooper,” he said, using Bolan’s cover name.

“Thanks.”

They were standing in the gloom of the apartment, all the lights turned off following Stratton’s supposed departure.

“Novak?” Bolan asked.

“Don’t worry about him. Where he’s going they don’t have guest telephones. He’ll be out of circulation big-time until we get the word. Could be useful. We’ve been dying to get our hands on that character for some time. This gives us the opportunity to talk to him without his legal team breathing down our necks.”

“If you get anything that might be of use to me, I’d appreciate the information.”

“We know where to pass it along.” The man pointed at the laptop. “Likewise, anything we can use.”

“I’ll give my people the word to download the contents soon as they can.”

The apartment had offered up nothing else in the way of information. Bolan and the cleanup man slipped out of the apartment, pulling the door shut behind them. They stayed out of the security light and left the quiet mews. Bolan crossed to his rental car, the cleanup man already out of sight on the far side of the street. He started the vehicle and swung it around, his destination the military airfield where he had landed in the UK.

Military Airbase, Oxford, UK

“DOWNLOAD COMPLETE,” KURTZMAN said over the com link. “We’ll go to work on the files and give you anything useful.”

“Once I get to Jordan I might be out of touch for a while. There’s no way of knowing how this is going to play out.”

“Take it easy, big guy.”

Brognola came on the line. “The package you asked for?” He was referring to the passport Bolan had requested.

“Looks good. I don’t know how far it’s going to get me,” Bolan said. “If someone over there already knows Novak…”

“This is not a good idea,” Barbara Price said over the multilink. “You’re going to walk in blind.”

“It’s a chance I’ll have to take,” Bolan said. “I don’t have much more to go on, so I have to take what I’ve got.”

“Just watch yourself, Striker. Backup’s here. Just remember that.”

BOLAN, DRESSED CASUALLY AND carrying a small flight bag, arrived at Heathrow Airport well ahead of his flight time. He checked in and went to the departure lounge, bought himself a light snack and a coffee, and took a seat. He used the time to go over what he had already learned from his encounter with Stratton and Novak.

Prior to the arrival of the cleanup team, Novak had given Bolan what he wanted. The destination and time of a shipment that would complete his transaction with the group based in Jordan. Novak had finally accepted his delicate position in relation to staying alive. Stratton’s unexpected death had shaken the man, and Bolan’s cool demeanor had convinced him his continuing existence was dependant on cooperation.

Armed with that and the documents he had found, Bolan was going to step into the viper’s nest willingly. It wouldn’t be the first time. He knew he was putting himself at risk, but there was no way he could control all aspects of any mission. A degree of calculated risk was there, and Bolan had to chance it. There was no other way of moving forward.

At the back of his mind lingered the suggestion of some kind of Agency involvement. And that was something that would keep the Executioner looking over his shoulder.

Aqaba, Jordan

Bolan’s flight touched down in Jordan just after noon. He hailed a taxi and headed to Le Meridien Hotel, where a room had been booked for Novak. Bolan checked in, went to his room and settled down to wait. When he had collected his key card, there had been a message waiting for Mr. Novak. It had informed him that he would be contacted and to wait at the hotel until then. There wasn’t much Bolan could do until that contact was made. Nothing happened during the rest of the day, and after a meal, he turned in and slept.

BOLAN SAUNTERED OUT OF the bathroom of his hotel room, towelling his hair dry after a cooling shower. He dressed in black, lightweight clothing and lace-up boots, then crossed to look out the second-story window. The sun was already up over the busy city.

Because of the high security in Jordan, Bolan had been forced to enter the country without the benefit of weapons. He hadn’t been happy with that idea, but he had been left with little choice. Somehow he was going to have to get his hands on some weapons.

As he considered his options, there was a light tap on his door.

“Who is it?”

“Clean towels, sir.”

When Bolan cautiously opened the door he was confronted by a lean man in a creased, cream linen suit. The man held a well-used Browning Hi-Power pistol, and was pointing it directly at Bolan.

“Please step back, Mr. Novak,” the man said politely. “I would hate to have to shoot you out here.”

Bolan retreated. The man knew his business. He stayed far enough away from Bolan to avoid being jumped while keeping the 9 mm gun on target. However much he might have disliked the situation Bolan wasn’t reckless enough to try to take the gun away from the man just yet. Not until he had gained some information at least.

The man followed Bolan inside, pushing the door shut with the heel of one worn and scuffed brown shoe. The cuffs of his pants were grubby around their frayed edges, and the overlong legs dragged on the floor when he stood still.

“Am I supposed to be expecting you?” Bolan asked. “Or is this just some local custom?”

The man’s wrinkled brown face creased into a semblance of a smile. “You had a message waiting when you arrived?”

Bolan nodded. “It said to wait, so I waited.” He turned and indicated his breakfast cart that had arrived minutes earlier. “You mind if I finish my coffee before it goes cold?”

The man gestured with the Browning, then went and sat on the other side of the room, the gun still trained on Bolan.

“You want any?”

The man shook his head. His black hair was worn thick and long, and kept sliding over his left eye. He brushed it back with a flick of his hand.

Bolan drank his coffee. “You know who I am.”

“Forgive me. I am Salim.”

“And your job is to…?”

Salim smiled. “I am your escort.”

“Why the gun?”

“To maintain mutual trust and ensure your good heath.”

“You speak good English.”

“Thank you. For an Englishman you have a very good American accent.”

Bolan didn’t miss a beat. “That’s what happens when you spend too much time over there. I do a lot of business with the Yanks. Goes down better if they understand what I’m saying.”

“I need to see your passport and a certain letter.”

Bolan handed over the items and watched the man study them. Finally satisfied, Salim pushed them into a pocket.

“Time to go,” he said.

Bolan pulled on his jacket. They left the room and made their way out of the hotel lobby without incident. Once outside, Salim guided Bolan to a black Audi. A solidly built man sat at the wheel. All Bolan saw were wide, powerful shoulders and a shaved head set on a thick neck.

“In the back,” Salim said. He followed Bolan inside, then spoke in rapid Arabic to the driver. The Audi swung around and out of the hotel parking area, merging with the traffic.

“Are we doing business, Salim? Or are we just going to tour the city?”

“Enjoy, Mr. Novak. This is a beautiful city. Look at the architecture. The sea.”

“I can do that on the travel channel.”

“True, but not with all the ingredients. Television is a false medium. Not real. Like you, Mr. Novak. It only pretends to be what is is.”