Appointment In Baghdad
Bolan turned a corner in the hallway and exposed metal pipes suddenly erupted from the packed earth, ran for a length of several yards then just as abruptly turned back into the wall. Up ahead he saw two heavyset Chinese men standing in front of a door set back in the hallway wall. Both 426 grunts openly sported Beretta 92-F pistols. Despite the damp, they wore stylish black T-shirts and tan slacks with shiny dress shoes. Their arms crawled with tattoos.
Though the hallway ran down a ways past them and split off into an intersection, Bolan felt sure he had found Jigsaw Liu’s office. He walked up to the men, who watched him from beneath hooded lids, their hair slicked back in pompadours.
“Cooper,” he said, giving his cover name. “Jigsaw Liu.”
They seemed to recognize the name, and Bolan sent a silent thanks to the Agency case officer who had cleared the way. One of the guards knocked softly on the door. At a muttered response from within the man opened the door and stuck his head inside.
Bolan heard a rush of whispered Cantonese, the name “Cooper” and then a gruff response from deeper within the room. The bodyguard pulled his head out from behind the door and indicated with a curt gesture that Bolan should enter.
The soldier stepped forward and crossed the threshold. The interior of the office couldn’t have been more at odds with the general atmosphere of the pit. Bolan stepped onto thick carpet accented by tasteful lighting. A massive desk of Oriental teak dominated the room. The narrow, vertical paintings popular in Asian cultures hung from walls made of the same teak as the desk.
The desk itself could have belonged to any successful businessman. It was neatly organized and two separate laptops flanked the main PC screen, all done in a lacquered ebony sheen. One of the screens was turned in such a way that Bolan could see it. He recognized software designed to track up-to-the-second stock market variations.
The man behind the desk regarded Bolan with the eyes of a reptile. He did not rise as the big American entered. His dark, Western suit was immaculate and in sharp contrast to the jigsaw patterns of scars that traversed his almost moon-shaped face. Bolan knew from Jigsaw Liu’s file that the Hong Kong mobster had gotten the scars when he’d been propelled through the windshield of his car during an assassination attempt. In the parlance of his kind, Jigsaw Liu was the Red Pole of the Shimmering Raindrop Triad.
Behind him a long, low cabinet ran the length of his office wall. Books in stylish and expensive leather bindings took up one side. The other held two closed-circuit television monitors. The screens were divided into four squares, each revealing a different image as captured by Liu’s security system.
Bolan noted that one screen showed the alley where he had first entered the pit. The three youths he had witnessed loitering there were now gone. Another screen showed the mahjong parlor Bolan had cut through. On a third, potbellied and middle-aged Chinese men lounged as young girls in skimpy costumes and heavy makeup pampered them. On the other screen one of the picture sets showed the two men standing guard outside of Liu’s office door.
Set on the wall above the cabinet was a plasma-screen television. The HDTV was on with the volume turned down. Bolan was surprised to see that it was turned not to a Hong Kong or even Chinese station but to Al Jazerra. To the left of the plasma screen a single door made of dark wood was set into the wall. Bolan could tell at a glance that the door was very heavy and solid in construction.
“You come with impressive introductions,” Liu said.
When the Red Pole spoke there was a slur to his voice that Bolan immediately attributed to the facial scars and not to alcohol or drugs. The man’s black eyes glittered like a snake’s.
“As do you.” Bolan inclined his head.
The soldier had no use for the excessive manners common in the Orient, or the preoccupation with “face” that was almost stereotypical but still entirely prevalent. However he had a larger agenda than a Hong Kong kingpin. He had no intention of stepping on the CIA’s toes unless it became very necessary.
Because of that he remained standing until Jigsaw Liu indicated he should sit. When the Hong Kong gangster gestured, Bolan took a seat in a comfortable, wingback chair set on Liu’s right side. Bolan inquired after Liu’s health. The Hong Kong killer snorted his laughter.
“I appreciate the effort,” he continued in heavily accented English. “But I assure you it is unnecessary. I know how important it is for you gwailo to get down to business. So—” Liu templed his fingers in front of his double chin “—let us get down to business.”
“Good enough,” Bolan said.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope and a photograph. He leaned forward in his chair and casually tossed both onto the top of Liu’s desk. The gangster reached out with one hand and pulled the items toward him, his eyes never leaving his visitor.
Bolan leaned back in his chair and absentmindedly scratched at his new beard. It was filling in nicely, and more quickly that he’d hoped.
Liu opened the envelope and ran a thumb across the tightly packed bank notes. He opened a drawer in his desk and slid the money into it.
Only after he had securely closed the drawer did Liu look at the picture. His eyebrows furrowed slightly as he inspected the image on the photograph Bolan had given him. He looked up and his eyes were quizzical.
He grunted. “I recognize al-Kassar, but who’s this with him?”
“Scimitar.”
“Scimitar?” Liu snorted.
“Isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“You know Scimitar, don’t you? My people think you do.”
Liu regarded Bolan, his face expressionless, but a certain low, animal cunning made his black eyes glisten. He reached out and pushed the photograph back across his desk in Bolan’s direction.
“My establishment is a good place to hear rumors, you understand?” Liu said carefully. “I have heard that certain men of…influence, sometimes move certain contraband products out of Laos and into the Middle East. As I do not engage in such illicit activities, I do not have firsthand knowledge of these things myself, you understand?”
Bolan nodded. If Liu was uninterested in admitting his part in moving heroin out of the Golden Triangle and into Europe, then Bolan wasn’t going to challenge him. At the moment, anyway. Everything he learned would go into Stony Man files, and Bolan new that sooner or later such a heavy hitter as Liu would screw up and the Executioner would have him.
“Go on,” Bolan said.
“I can tell you that none of the people involved in that enterprise have ever dealt with the men in that picture.”
“But they have dealt with Scimitar?”
Liu held his hands up as if to say “who can tell” and smiled. “So they say. I am told, and I’m quoting now,” he continued. “I am told ‘Scimitar is a lie.’”
Bolan pondered Liu’s words and their implications. He felt deeply dissatisfied. He looked away from Liu’s sneering mask of a face and tried to decide on a fresh avenue. His gaze drifted to the CCTV monitors and a flurry of motion caught his attention.
The guards outside Liu’s office door staggered backward, their bodies jerking in crazy, disjointed dances. Blood spurted from their blossoming wounds. One 426 sentry stumbled back against the door and simultaneously Bolan heard the thump from behind him.
Liu cursed at the interruption and turned to look at his CCTV displays. He nearly screamed at what he saw.
Three men with balaclava masks burst into the camera view. One wielded a cut-down Remington 870 pump-action shotgun. He was flanked by a man with a mini-Uzi machine pistol, the sound suppressor nearly as long as the weapon itself. This man was still firing, and he raked the downed bodies of Liu’s 426s with ruthless abandon.
Behind the two men a third stepped into view. He wielded twin Beretta 92-F pistols, and he fired one several times back down the hall toward the mahjong parlor and off camera.
Bolan was going for the Beretta 93-R under his shoulder when he saw the shotgun-wielding hit man level his weapon at the door to Liu’s office and begin pumping blasts into the wooden structure. Behind Bolan 12-gauge slugs slammed through the lock mechanism and he heard the booms of the Remington 870.
Hell had found the Executioner one more time.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Time seemed to unfold in slow motion. Bolan came up out of his wingback chair as the door to Liu’s office banged open, Beretta in his hand. Behind the desk Liu had grabbed a custom-engraved .45ACP pistol.
Bolan swept up the Beretta in a two-fisted grip. The shotgun-perforated door had swung wide and bounced off the inner wall of the office. The hit man wielding the mini-Uzi rushed into the room, his silenced subgun cycling fast, flame spitting from the muzzle.
Bullets sprayed the room. Liu’s computer exploded with a shower of sparks and his laptops were torn apart and swept to the floor. The twin CCTV screens caught a single 9 mm slug apiece and went dark as the glass cracked open like eggshells.
The fusillade continued unabated until the room was destroyed.
Jigsaw Liu went out like a warrior.
No matter how despicable his crimes, the triad Red Pole showed courage as he died. Bullets struck him in rapid-fire torrents. Blossoms of scarlet bloomed on his expensive dark suit, spilling blood in surging fountains across his wide desk. Liu shook under the impact, and the sound of lead slugs burning through his torso was clearly audible to Bolan.
Liu was rising as he caught the first burst, swinging around his .45ACP pistol. The six rounds that struck his chest and gut knocked him back into his seat as he leveled the pistol. The Hong Kong crime lord triggered his handgun twice, the reports sounding like a cannon in the confines of the room. The shots flew wide as more of the submachine-gun rounds drilled into him.
Liu’s jigsaw face disappeared in a splashing wave of crimson and flying bone chips as a 3-round burst smashed into his head. The force of the 9 mm bullets bounced him off the back of his seat and he pitched forward, a bloody ruined mess sprawled across his desk.
Blood gushed across the flat expanse of the table top and spilled over the edges to stain the thick carpet burgundy. As he tumbled forward, Liu’s hand jerked on the trigger and the pistol fired one last time.
The .45ACP round burned across the office and struck the submachine-gunner in the thigh, causing the man to crumple and almost fall. Blood spurted bright against the dark material of the hit man’s pants. He looked up from behind his balaclava mask and tried to bring the mini-Uzi back under control.
Bolan’s single pistol shot from off to the side and just behind the wingback chair took the assassin in the temple. The man’s head snapped sharply on his neck, and blood spurted from the wound as a red halo appeared behind his ruined skull.
As the first hit man fell, Bolan’s perception of time caught up with his adrenaline and everything began to unfold in fast forward. The gunman folded at the waist, his submachine-gun bouncing off the carpet. From behind him the shotgun-wielding killer charged into the room. The man moved in with the Remington 870 held out in front of him, the weapon’s stock tight against his shoulder.
The cavernous muzzle of the 12-gauge swept the room for a target. Bolan stepped forward and kicked his heavy chair across the room. The hit man tried to swivel as he caught the motion, and the barrel of the shotgun dipped as the shooter instinctively drew down on the object. The chair bounced off the floor and struck him in the shins, causing him to stagger, one hand slipping off the shotgun.
Bolan fired three times in rapid succession on semi-auto. His rounds burrowed through the flesh of the second hit man’s throat to pulverize his spine.
The gunner fell, and Bolan dropped to one knee as he shifted aim with the Beretta 93-R. The third hit man was already entering the room, his arms extended straight out in front of him and his hands filled with blazing automatic pistols. Bullets passed harmlessly through the space where Bolan had been standing, whizzing over his head.
The soldier’s pistol barked and the face showing in the balaclava mask became a gaping red gash. The dead man’s momentum carried him farther into the room until his feet tangled up with corpses of his crew and he pitched forward, his head rapping against the floor.
Through the ringing in his ears Bolan heard angry shouts from the hallway. He knew there was no way that members of the Shimmering Raindrop Triad would believe that he’d had nothing to do with the death of their warlord. They’d shoot first and ask questions later.
Bolan quickly crossed to the desk and grabbed the picture of the individual Stony Man had thought was Scimitar. Whether Liu’s reaction was an indication that his intelligence was wrong or that Scimitar was simply cagey, Bolan had no way of verifying at the moment.
He stuffed the picture into the pocket of his jacket, yanked open a desk drawer and plucked the envelope full of cash he’d given Liu for the information. He saw a little black address book and took that, as well.
As he shoved the book into his pants’ pocket, he heard a rush of movement outside of the door and dropped behind the desk. The slap of footsteps became muffled on the carpet, and he stood out of his crouch. A Chinese gangster with a ponytail and an M-4 carbine held at port arms stood in the doorway, stunned by the carnage. Bolan took him down with a single Parabellum round.
Hearing more shouts from the hall, the Executioner spun and tried the door set in the back of Liu’s office. It was locked. He shifted the fire selector switch to 3-round-burst mode.
Checking first to ensure that the hinges were on the other side of the door, Bolan fired two bursts into the wood around the polished silver handle. The knob burst apart, and the soldier kicked the door open before darting through the opening.
As he passed into a small antechamber at the foot of a short staircase, an automatic weapon cut loose behind him. A storm of bullets cracked into the door frame.
Bolan twisted in the cramped space of the stair landing and thrust his pistol around the corner of the door, triggering two bursts of blind harassing fire, hoping to drive back the triad gunmen. He pulled his hand back and sprinted up the stairs, taking them two at a time, soaking in his environment on the run. Liu’s private access stairs were plush and well lit. Bolan’s pounding footsteps were absorbed almost completely by the thick, luxurious weave of the carpet. He could see the top of the stairs just ahead and the teak door to the right of the next landing. Before going on, he dropped the clip from the Beretta and rammed home a fresh one.
The door from Liu’s office had swung shut behind him, and Bolan heard it slam open. He whirled and leveled the Beretta, tracking for a target. Below him on the stairs a wild-eyed triad gunner leaped through the doorway, an MP-5 submachine-gun in his fists.
The 426 screamed and lifted the weapon. Bolan stroked the trigger on the Beretta 93-R, putting a burst just to the left of the thug’s sternum. The gunner buckled at the knees and pitched forward, triggering a burst into the carpet on the stairs.
Knowing the Red Pole had to have fielded numerous 426s in defense of the pit, Bolan spun and continued racing back up the stairs. He bounded to the top and tried the door. It was locked, but this time he could see the lock on his side of the door. He worked the latch and pushed through. His plan was fluid. From the harbor he would make his way to Ladder Street. Once he had climbed that steep incline he’d make his way to Tak Ching Road and begin extraction procedures.
Questions swirled in his mind. Had that hit been a triad business dispute? Had Bolan been the target? Or had it been designed to keep Liu from talking to him?
The Executioner moved through the door and stepped into a crowded kitchen. The room was big and white, and filled with staring Chinese cooks and busboys alerted by the gunfire on the stairs. They shouted in fear and began to scramble over one another in panicked efforts to escape.
Sensing no threat, Bolan cut through the kitchen, heading for a swing door set in a far wall. He followed close behind two teenage dishwashers who were running screaming through the exit just steps ahead of him. Bolan burst into a crowded restaurant filled with stunned Chinese couples and a smattering of Occidental tourists.
He raced up an aisle between semiprivate booths, heading for the front door of the restaurant. He caught a flash of motion and tried to turn. A lithe 426 in a heavy leather jacket leap toward him from around a decorative support beam, a long-bladed knife naked in the snarling man’s fist.
Blocking the wild thrust with the hand holding his Beretta, Bolan twisted at the waist, diverting the man’s energy. The triad gunner was tossed around Bolan’s center of gravity and crashed into a deserted table, spilling bowls of steamed noodles and Kung Pao chicken. The man’s blade sliced a six-inch shallow wound along Bolan’s arm, splitting the sleeve of his jacket.
The pain was sharp and intense and his clothes were soaked with blood, but the wound was superficial and Bolan was able to raise the Beretta. The 426 twisted smoothly as he slid across the table, recovering with the agility of a cat.
A slim dagger flew from the thug’s hand and tumbled smoothly. Bolan managed to jerk his head to one side as the knife spun past him and stuck in the support beam, pinning a narrow silk painting to the lacquered wood.
Bolan’s finger was already on the trigger as he ducked, and the Beretta spoke once. Avoiding the knife throw pulled the soldier’s aim and the rounds meant for the heart punched through the gangster’s upper abdomen instead.
The man shrieked at the sudden agony and Bolan put a second burst under his jaw, silencing the knife fighter before turning and running toward the front door of the restaurant. He could see a knot of panicked people blocking the entrance. Desperate men and women clawed at one another to escape as a tight group of 426s attempted to punch and kick their way into the restaurant. A tall 426 gunner fighting through the doorway recognized Bolan. The man’s eyes widened in the shock and he raised his Type-64 Chinese submachine-gun.
Civilians screamed and parted like the sea in front of the 426 death squad as the man unleashed a blast of 7.62 mm rounds. Bolan turned and dived backward over the corpse of the knife fighter as the submachine-gun began to chatter.
Bullets chased Bolan, 7.62 mm slugs tearing into the dangling feet of the 426 knife fighter’s corpse. As the Executioner rolled over the table and landed in the next aisle, the 426 he’d killed soaked up more submachine-gun rounds.
Bolan hit the ground, rolled over a shoulder and came up with the Beretta in a two-handed grip. He put the sights on the submachine-gunner and drilled him with a neat 3-round burst. The man fell and Bolan shot the man standing directly behind him. The third 426 staggered backward as the weight of his dead brother in arms pitched back into him. He fired a sloppy shot that sang wide and tried to turn and run. Bolan’s next triburst struck the gunner in the neck, knocking him into the street.
Bolan struggled to his feet, reloading on the run. He passed huddle knots of terrified people who watched his rapid progress with wide, unblinking eyes. He stepped over the sprawled corpses of the men he’d shot and left the restaurant to emerge onto a quiet street. No cars moved on the thoroughfare. He could discern no sound of approaching sirens. No other Triad soldiers rushed him. The third 426 he’d killed lay in the gutter.
Bolan lowered the smoking Beretta to his side and jogged across the street. He had rented a nondescript Isuzu Rodeo at the airport under his cover name and parked it several streets over. Once he was at his rendezvous point on Tak Ching Road he’d prep for exfiltration.
The scream saved him.
He heard the angry cry and flung himself flat in the middle of the street. Even as he hit the ground shards of gravel kicked up from the road as bullets slammed into the street all around him. He heard the high chatter of a submachine-gun and caught the muzzle flash blinking out of the darkness at the mouth of the alley.
He saw the shrieking 426 walking toward him, eyes narrowed into slits like an angry cat’s, the Type-64 bucking wildly as the man fired from the hip. Behind the gangster two more triad soldiers, each armed with twin Beretta 92-Fs, spilled out onto the street.
Bolan rolled up onto his left side and swung out his right arm, triggering the Beretta. His rounds cut into the crazy 426 just under the man’s bucking submachine-gun, ripping open his stomach. The man staggered to one side and fired his weapon into the ground. He stumbled then went down, dropping his weapon to the street.
The two 426 gunners behind him stood their ground, side by side, each man blazing away with the 9 mm Beretta pistols they held in either hand. Bolan sighted in on one, moving too fast for anything other than instinct, and drilled the man through his open, screaming mouth.
The gangster’s head jerked and a bloody halo framed his head as he pitched over backward. The triggerman beside him stopped firing as his partner went down. His face registered horror, and he thrust out his arms as he began to run back into the cover of the alley, his pistols belching flame and lead in a sporadic, indiscriminate pattern.
Bolan drew down on the man and put a burst into his torso under his waving arms. The man shook with the impact and staggered, then went down like a tree in a high wind. His pistols fell from slack fingers and clattered on the pavement.
The Executioner pushed himself up from his prone position, weapon at the ready. He shuffled backward across the street, his eyes scanning the restaurant and alley for even the slightest hint of hostile movement. He made it across the street and onto the sidewalk, then turned and sprinted down a small side street, putting solid cover between himself and the battlefield.
The CIA would be unhappy about a back door source into the People’s Republic CCI being shot to pieces, but Bolan could legitimately argue that it hadn’t been his fault. Gangsters killed off one another on a frequent basis. The higher the profits at stake, the more likely violence became.
Jigsaw Liu worked a dangerous profession but Bolan didn’t believe in coincidences. It was a very real likelihood that Liu had been silenced because of him, which meant his mission was compromised from the very beginning.
The Executioner would be leaving Hong Kong with unanswered questions.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Bolan took a commercial flight into Zagreb International Airport.
He navigated the transglobal route with an almost mechanical competency. Weapons and identification were dumped with the CIA in Hong Kong after he made one report to the case officer and a second one to Stony Man. A layover in Manila was followed by a connecting flight to Bangkok, Thailand. In Thailand he destroyed his papers and obtained new ones from a dead drop in an airport locker.
Under his new papers he flew out of Bangkok and into Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. There he noticed a marked increase in Westerners in both the airport and on his own flight to Izmir, Turkey.
In Izmir, Bolan used a safehouse to shift identities once again while he waited during a four-hour layover for a flight into Zagreb on Turkish Airlines. At the safehouse he was able to utilize secure communications to catch up on the progress Encizo and James had made so far. After a nap and a shower, Bolan was in the air to Croatia.
As the plane veered into its runway approach, Bolan was able to see the gleaming ribbon of the Sava river just to the south of the city. Zagreb, Croatia’s capital, was situated between the southern slopes of the Medvednica Mountains and the north bank of the Sava river. The commercial flight touched down and Bolan was able to sail through customs with his immaculate paperwork and only a small carry-on to check.