Diplomacy Directive
“Says who?”
“Me,” she said. She tried to look over the window to see the gas gauge, but the angles were wrong. “How’s this thing fixed for gas?”
“Just topped her off before I left.”
“Good, we got a long trip ahead of us,” she replied as she dashed around the front of the van.
When she’d jumped into the passenger seat, Parmahel asked, “Trip to where?”
“Las Mareas.”
CODE NAME: AD-DARR. Mission: eliminate the American military officer attached to the Diplomatic Security Service.
For lesser men it would have been potentially impossible, but for Afif Ad-Darr—an expert in the killing arts—it was simply another job. Not that he underestimated the man calling himself Colonel Stone. Siraj Razzaq’s spies inside the U.S. military hadn’t been able to come up with a thing on Stone. According to their records, there was no Colonel Stone in any of the four major branches of the military or the U.S. Coast Guard. That meant either a covert, military operative or civilian black ops using a military cover.
As he stared through the open window of the bar at the rain-streaked streets of downtown Las Mareas, Ad-Darr wondered how this Stone’s people could be so sloppy. After all, when providing a cover it seemed only natural that cover would be in place, so if someone did a routine personnel check they would find the person existed. By virtue of the fact this enigmatic Colonel Stone allegedly didn’t exist at all troubled Ad-Darr. Would the American intelligence community be so careless? He didn’t think so.
Maybe the record had been removed permanently from U.S. military personnel files when Stone went to work for the DSS. Unfortunately, Razzaq’s connections didn’t go wide or deep enough to get that kind of information, and Ad-Darr didn’t consider it important enough to pay the hefty price it would probably require, not to mention he didn’t have the time. Already the Americans were apparently ahead of the game and only Razzaq’s puppet, the man named Veda, had managed to divert this Stone to Las Mareas, where he would be out of the way and Ad-Darr could deal with him neatly.
Although why Razzaq had agreed to work with that imbecile Veda was anyone’s guess. Ad-Darr had been in the employ of this cell of the New Revolutionary Justice Organization for many years now. Razzaq was legendary for spearheading such operations, and this one had proven to be no exception. A fully equipped base nestled in the swamplands of the East Gulf Coastal Plane of Georgia—the name of which escaped him at the moment—that boasted an army of nearly thirty men. Razzaq had ears all over America, with satellite areas spread throughout the United States that consisted of maybe one or two members, at most. Once firmly ensconced, Razzaq had turned his sites toward his plan for Puerto Rico. The independence of this island territory would prove to be a major coup for Razzaq. Perhaps he would be able even to unite the disaffected among their ranks and restore the former glory of their cause.
For now, Ad-Darr would draw consolation from performing the duty for which he’d earned his name. “Professional assassination” and “Ad-Darr” were practically synonymous terms. Whenever the NRJO wanted to make sure a mission succeeded, they called on him. It was a compliment to his craft, and one Ad-Darr didn’t mind exploiting to maximum benefit. And benefit, he had. By his twenty-second birthday Ad-Darr had become a millionaire; by his twenty-fifth, a multimillionaire. What was the old saying: he was in the business of killing and business was good? Something to that effect.
Ad-Darr had also turned out to be the perfect tool because he’d been born in the United States. Technically, he was an American citizen, but in the depths of his soul he knew that was only a birthright of pure circumstance. No, at the very core Ad-Darr was Lebanese, and a Muslim. His brothers in Hezbollah were still in need. The war against the Americans, British and Israel had to survive, and their ability to set up a massive base in Puerto Rico from which to strike would indeed provide them distinct advantages in their war, not to mention the rich natural resources of this sizable island.
The NRJO was operating in America’s own backyard, and they didn’t even know it.
Ad-Darr smiled at the thought as he watched the rain consume everything, washing the streets clean of dirt and detritus from the lives of squalor lived here. Somewhere out there he would find this Colonel Stone, then Ad-Darr would conclude his business for the glory of his faith and heritage.
And the American would die a slow, painful death.
CHAPTER FIVE
While Jack Grimaldi would have preferred better weather, he managed to land the helicopter safely with only minutes to spare before the skies overhead released a warm and thunderous tropical downpour.
“Remind me next time to bring an umbrella,” he told Bolan.
The Executioner didn’t really have a retort, as his conversation with Brognola, albeit brief, had put him into a deep contemplation.
“We may have a problem,” Brognola had told him.
“Lay it out,” Bolan said.
“One of Bear’s sniffer programs picked up that a computer query was performed on the military jacket we provided for your Colonel Stone cover.” “Bear” was Aaron Kurtzman, Stony Man’s resident computer wizard.
“You flagged it?”
“Well, we did what we would normally do, and that’s simply to say the jacket is restricted only to eyes with a class six or higher security clearance. The troubling thing here is that this query came from inside a military facility, and what’s worse is that because of the odd way the hacker tried to move around the system to get the information it came up as a null.”
“In other words, I never existed.”
“Right.”
Bolan could hear the grimness and regret in Brognola’s tone, and decided to go easy on the guy. “It’s water under the bridge, Hal. I’d concentrate on finding out who made the query and not worry about my cover. I’d have to guess after my little run-in with some hostiles earlier today my cover doesn’t mean much now anyway.”
“Sorry, Striker,” Brognola said.
“Don’t be.”
“What about you? Everything okay?”
“Peachy if I can just figure out what’s really going on here.”
“Anything we can do to help?”
“I’d like Bear to dig a bit deeper into the staff in Governor Hernandez’s office, particularly Alvaro Fonseca.”
Bolan then elaborated on his encounter with Fonseca’s men and his meeting with Veda.
“That doesn’t make sense,” the Stony Man chief said when Bolan had finished. “Governor Hernandez requested this intervention and in complete agreement with the president. Why would Fonseca try to undermine that?”
“I don’t know, but I need you to give me something more,” Bolan said. “Preferably something I can use for leverage if the need arises.”
“We’ll get on it right away.”
“I’ll reconnect for it when I can.”
“Be careful, Striker.”
“Roger. Out.”
Bolan now reconsidered his conversation with the Stony Man chief as he and Grimaldi walked from the chopper to the small office east of the runway. They needed some wheels and spotted a row of cars, identical makes of American Chevy Aveos, aligned against one side of the makeshift tower and airport office.
Grimaldi jabbed his chin at them. “Wonder if any of those are for rent.”
“Guess we’ll find out,” Bolan said.
“I imagine anything’s for rent or sale here at the right price,” the Stony Man pilot replied.
They stepped into the comparative coolness of the office that was divided into a few spacious cubicles against one wall, a row of offices opposite that and a long service counter just inside the double-door foyer. The furnishings were modern and the rooms spacious. There were also a few private areas where travelers could hook up to the Internet or make a phone call by credit card.
“Gentlemen, good evening!” the proprietor said. “How may I help you?”
Bolan held the man with an expression that implied he didn’t have time for any nonsense. “Those cars out there for rent?”
“Of course, sure,” the guy answered, rubbing his hands. “How long will you need one?”
“Not sure,” Bolan replied. “Not more than a couple of days.”
The man perfunctorily reached beneath the counter and brought out a few forms. It took only ten minutes to fill in the forms, pay the rental fee by cash and load the weapons bags from the chopper into the trunk. The rain began to let up as they headed toward Las Mareas, a mere five minutes away.
“So what’s the plan?” Grimaldi asked after a few minutes of riding shotgun in silence.
Bolan’s reply seemed a bit grim. “Truthfully, I don’t have one yet. Veda didn’t give me any indication as to who or what to look for, but I got the impression from the way he said it we wouldn’t have to look hard.”
“You think one of his people will make contact,” Grimaldi said.
“Yeah.”
“Can we trust Veda?”
Bolan shook his head. “No. But then again, who can we trust? The fact someone in Hernandez’s office might be involved in this supports one of two theories. Either the local government here is planning a coup or Veda’s lying to throw me off his trail.”
“What’s your gut tell you?”
“That theory two’s the most plausible,” Bolan replied. “But then my run-in with two of Fonseca’s goons gave me pause to wonder. Now I have to at least consider the possibility Veda’s on the level and there’s an internal conspiracy at work here.”
“Well, Veda does seem pretty well-informed, Sarge. He managed to know you were involved from practically the moment we arrived here.”
“A guy like Veda has far-reaching contacts. His information could have come from anywhere.”
“Yeah, except for the fact that only a few people outside of Stony Man even knew about your mission here, and all of them were inside Hernandez’s office.”
Bolan nodded. “Yeah, I thought about that, too. That’s why what Veda told me makes so much sense.”
“You think La Costa will be okay?”
“If Fonseca gets my message and backs off her, she’ll probably be better off than we will.”
They rode the remainder of the trip in silence. When they reached the town, the two men could see why the dinky airport didn’t have much business. Las Mareas couldn’t have been comprised of more than five or ten streets. As a barrio in Guayama—a municipality of less than fifty thousand—only one of those streets even sported a commercial section. Bolan almost drove past the half-lit sign that boasted “—OTEL” and swung precariously in the damp breeze. He slowed and gently pulled over, careful to pump the brakes so he didn’t skid the vehicle into the high curb. The sharp, jagged edges that protruded from years of disrepair would have torn those cheap, economy tires to shreds like cat claws through tissue paper.
Grimaldi gave the place a once-over, peered at the sidewalk and then grinned at Bolan. “Think I’ll wait here.”
Bolan nodded and left the car. The rain had stopped, but the mock flagstone steps leading up to the narrow house were still slick with water. Bolan ascended them carefully and rapped on a screen door that had metal bars mounted to it. He didn’t get any response, then noticed a thick piece of twine dangling to his right he hadn’t seen before in the gloom. He gave it a yank and somewhere inside a bell jangled. Two minutes passed before Bolan signaled again and just about that time the inner door opened and a heavyset, middle-aged Hispanic woman stepped onto the porch.
“I’m coming. What you want?”
“I’m looking for someone,” Bolan said, not even sure he knew why he was doing this. Something just told him it was right.
“You no want room?”
“No.”
“Then go on, I don’t want know your business.”
As she started to turn and go inside, Bolan called, “Miguel Veda sent me.”
The woman froze in her tracks. So, he’d been right about Veda—the guy had connections everywhere. She’d obviously been told to expect him; either that or he had a name the poor and disheartened of the country knew all too well. Whatever the case, she turned and cocked her head. She had an entirely different expression, a smile, and in one sense it almost creeped Bolan out.
At least she hadn’t slammed the door in his face. “You come inside. It’s wet out there.” As she opened the door to admit Bolan, she nodded at Grimaldi, who she obviously noticed still sat in the car. “What about you friend? He come inside, no?”
As he followed the woman inside, Bolan shook his head. “He’s kind of shy.”
The woman led Bolan through a cramped hall littered with tables of knickknacks and other cheap junk. It took some flexibility and catlike grace to avoid knocking over something on at least one of the tables. After negotiating the obstacle course they made it into an equally cramped kitchen, where Bolan discovered a young, fair-skinned male sitting at a two-seat table in the corner. The man didn’t even look at Bolan, but was satisfied to grunt and wave Bolan to the unoccupied chair.
As he sat, Bolan glanced at the woman, who didn’t meet his gaze. Instead, she turned her attention to whatever she was cooking on the stove. The young guy looked like a first-rate hood, between the tattoos adorning both arms from the knuckles to the shoulders, and the gold tooth that glinted through slightly parted lips. A two-inch-wide line of hair ran Mohawk-style from front to back on an otherwise bald head. He wore baggy jeans and a white muscle shirt that was yellowed and tattered with age.
“You Stone?” he asked.
Bolan nodded.
“Okay, like, I got told that if you managed to find your way here that I was to tell you what you wanted to know.”
The soldier considered that for a moment and then replied, “You work for Miguel Veda?”
The guy half laughed and half belched and then took a deep pull from the sweating, long-neck bottle. “Why do you care?”
Bolan tried an easy smile. “I like to know where my information’s coming from.”
The young man tried to look puffed up, his wiry frame all but puny against Bolan’s combat-honed mass of sinew and muscle. He might have intimidated lesser men, but the Executioner didn’t see him as a threat. The possibility existed, of course, the guy had ten or fifteen guns waiting in the next room, but Bolan knew if he gave even the slightest impression of weakness he would lose all respect. And maybe get his throat cut, too. He thought about an additional rejoinder, but he decided a steady look would suffice.
When the guy sensed Bolan wasn’t a pushover, he said, “Yeah, okay, so who doesn’t work for Miguel?”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“Yeah, okay. I work for Miguel. Whatever gets you through the day. Okay, man?”
The guy made some kind of gang sign, but Bolan let it pass. “You were going to tell me something.”
“Yeah, sure,” the guy said, taking another drink as if trying to build up courage. “You want to know who did the deed the other night in San Juan, no?”
“Yeah.”
“It was them dudes down here. Guys over on the north side of town.”
“What guys?”
“I don’t know, man,” the young man said irritability. “They some guys from the States, man. Guys from your home turf, man.”
“Americans?”
“No, these no Americans. These guys aren’t even white, man. These dudes are like al Qaeda or something.”
The hairs stood on the back of Bolan’s neck. “You’re saying these men are terrorists?”
“I guess so, if that’s what you say.”
“It’s not what I said, it’s what you just said.”
Bolan found this guy more frustrating by the moment. Right now, he didn’t have time for games. He couldn’t understand why Miguel Veda would have sent him on a wild-goose chase to Las Mareas if he didn’t have anything to hide. Unless Veda was stalling, in which case that would’ve clinched the party leader’s guilt. For now Bolan knew he’d have to find a way to work with this guy. Yet something deep in the Executioner’s gut told him he could be walking into a trap.
Bolan shook his head. “Look, if you have information for me then spill. Otherwise, I’m out of here.”
“Look, man, all I do is what Mr. Veda says. I tell you only what I see, which is all I can tell you, ’cause I don’t know nothing else.”
“All right,” Bolan said. “Tell me where I might find these terrorists.”
“They have a club on the north side of town, I think.” He leaned back in his chair and scratched his belly thoughtfully. “I can give you an address, but if you want it you got to pay.”
“First the address and then the money,” Bolan replied coolly.
The man stared at Bolan for a time and then finally shrugged, leaned forward, grabbed a pen from the table and quickly scribbled a barely legible address on a scrap of paper. He then set the pen down with a pronounced movement and promptly held out his hand. Bolan scooped up the paper, made sure he could read the address and then dug into his pocket. He handed the guy a fifty-dollar bill as he rose and turned to leave. Under other circumstances he might not have turned his back on a crew like this, but he didn’t think they would try to burn him at this point. They had plenty of opportunities to take him out, and neither of them had given him any reason to suspect they would try something now. Bolan traversed the hallway as quickly as possible, went out the door and within a minute he and Grimaldi were headed for a barrio in uptown Guayama.
“FOR PITY’S SAKE!” Guadalupe La Costa snapped. “Will you step on it already, Julio? At the rate we’re going I’ll have grandkids before we get there.”
“I’ve got it pegged now,” Parmahel protested. “These things won’t go over fifty-five miles per hour. If you’d like to get out and push, that might help.”
La Costa thought about cursing him out with a string of obscenities, but she knew it wouldn’t do any good. She considered apologizing, but then simply sighed, slid down the seat and closed her eyes. She was acting like a bitch and she knew it, but in her defense that damned Colonel Stone had utterly messed with her head. La Costa knew better than to have trusted him; she learned many years ago that most men eventually lied, cheated or just simply broke hearts. They couldn’t help it—it was in their blood.
Julio had always been different though, which is probably why their partnership had worked out so well over the past year. In one way, she regretted the thought of parting company with Stone, but this story would make her career and she wasn’t about to let anyone hold her back. Especially not some cocky and arrogant military type with a Neanderthal protective instinct.
Of course the possibility remained that she wouldn’t find Stone in time, in which case she’d not only be out of a story, but also most likely a job. It still made sense on some level, however, to risk it. Beside the fact, she stood a pretty good chance of finding out what was going on without Stone’s help, and if she came back with exclusive news and videotape her producer couldn’t possibly be angry with her. Yeah, that was the answer. She had to come back with something really big and really juicy. How else to keep her job?
She opened her eyes just in time to catch the sign marking the city limits of Guayama.
At long last they had arrived!
“Well, it looks like we finally made it. Now all we have to do is find Stone.”
“What’s so important about this Colonel Stone?” Parmahel asked. “I mean, it’s not like the guy’s going to tell you anything. He already screwed you over once. What makes you think he won’t do it again?”
“My goodness, Julio. Haven’t you learned anything working with me? You don’t honestly think I’m going to let Stone rip me off from my story, do you? He told me I had to stay in San Juan, but you see how that worked out.”
“Why do I get this strange feeling that you’re getting us into something really messy and really dangerous?”
“I don’t think it is dangerous,” La Costa replied. She batted her eyelashes at Parmahel. “You don’t honestly think I would jeopardize your life and mine on a whim.”
Parmahel scratched absently at his neck. “Well, after working with you for this long I’m not exactly sure what kind of crazy stunts you might pull. And the last time I checked, there were guys with guns shooting at us.”
“They weren’t really shooting at us.”
“Okay, my bad, they were shooting around us! Which is pretty much the same as shooting at us in my book.”
“Where’s your sense of adventure, Julio?”
“Guess I’m just addicted to breathing,” he said.
La Costa chuckled and punched his arm. “Just stick with me, my friend. I’ll show you the time of your life.”
CHAPTER SIX
Guadalupe La Costa knew of only one person in all Guayama who would answer to Veda, and subsequently have the kind of information that Stone would seek.
La Costa knew him only as Frederico, a drunken and tattooed fool living in Las Mareas who would do anything for a quick buck. And usually did. Not that a little cash didn’t go a long way in Puerto Rico—certainly way more than it did in the States. And if there was anything La Costa had it was cash. Actually, the AP compensated her pretty well. In addition to providing her travel expenses while she worked, they had also arranged for very affordable housing through coop apartment homes and condos. La Costa shared a two-bedroom apartment with another reporter who handled the night beat. This way, she was able to sock away a lot more than if she had a place on her own.
They found Frederico in his usual place, doing his usual drinking and scratching his rear and avoiding anything resembling hard labor, seated on the front porch of the run-down motel owned by his aged mother. Frederico didn’t look terribly happy to see her, and he seemed even less enthused when setting eyes on Julio Parmahel. La Costa would never have admitted it but she figured Frederico had somewhat of a crush on her, and he probably viewed Parmahel’s presence as an infringement on his territory.
“Hello, Frederico,” she said.
“What do you want?” He was slurring his words, and even in the dim porch light she could see his eyes were bloodshot.
She nodded toward the whiskey bottle on the small table next to his chair. “I see your tastes have moved up in the world. You must have come into some money recently, because you’re not drinking that rotgut you normally do. And Canadian whiskey no less. Fancy, fancy. I don’t suppose that money happened to come from a tall American who asks too many questions, did it?”
“What kind of a businessman would I be if I talk too much about my clients?” He belched.
“Frederico, you are disgusting,” La Costa replied. “But unfortunately, we don’t have time to go into proper etiquette and manners around a lady.”
Frederico squinted. “Yeah, man, especially since I no see a lady here.”
“I think I’ll just let that one go by, since I know it’s a bunch of false bravado anyway. What I need to know from you is real simple. What did he ask you and where did you send him?”
“Why should I tell you? Huh? What you do for me?”
“First, I won’t ask any of my friends on the Guayama police to kick your head in the next time they catch you downtown.” She produced a roll of money. “Second, I have here what I’d bet is at least twice what he offered you.”
Frederico grinned broadly as greed filled his eyes. “What was the question again?”
MACK BOLAN DROVE SLOWLY past the address he’d been provided and scoped out the area.
The address happened to be a club of some kind nestled in what he quickly surmised to be Guayama’s red-light district. Pedestrians of every ethnicity hung out on the sidewalks, a good number of them obviously out to do nothing more than take in the sights. However, that left plenty who clearly had another purpose in mind. Some wore the clothing and colors and stances of gang members; some were out to sell flesh; some were simply out to peddle their wares, be it drugs, guns or knockoffs.