Lethal Payload

2

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

“Well, you’re the hero of the hour.” Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman said, “That was about as slick a rescue op as has ever been done. One for the textbooks.” Kurtzman made a show of cringing in disgust and waving his hands. “An Adamsite gun, ugh! Gives me the heebie-jeebies just thinking about it. The Cowboy is a sick man.”

Bolan stared into the distance, distracted.

Kurtzman grinned hopefully. “I hear a certain supermodel was suitably grateful.”

Bolan frowned slightly but not at Kurtzman.

The computer expert sighed. “What’s bothering you?”

The soldier glanced at the sketch he had made. “What’d you make of the tattoo and the dog tags?”

“A little, why?”

“That guy was in command.”

Kurtzman cocked his head. “What about Regog and Al-Juwanyi?”

“It was their show,” Bolan agreed. “But the guy in the cellar was in command, at least tactically, and he wasn’t part of the ceremony. He was wearing a red turban. He was Javanese. He may have been Muslim, and he was definitely more than just another member of the pandekar’s sect.

“Really?” Kurtzman’s interest was piqued. “How so?”

“I don’t know.” Bolan shook his head slowly. “His vibe. He didn’t act like some fanatic on guard duty who was missing out on the show of a lifetime. He was way too cool. If he was part of the congregation, he should have come up out of the cellar in berserker mode, foaming at the mouth with two feet of steel in each hand. Instead, he starts making like an FBI negotiator. I don’t think the riflemen he sent out were part of the party, either. I wish I’d had time to check them out.”

Bolan sat back in his chair. “What’d you get on the sketch I gave you and the dog tags?”

The Bear held up the tags. “These were simple enough. We’ve got his name, Pak Widjihartani, and his serial number, which implies to me that he at least made sergeant.”

“You think he’s Indonesian army?”

Kurtzman put down the tags. “I would, except that at the top of the tags are the letters LE.”

Bolan raised an eyebrow.

The computer expert grinned. “Légion Étrangère.”

Bolan raised his other eyebrow. “You think our boy is French foreign legion?”

“I’m betting he was. I’m running what I can on his dog tags now, but I don’t think I can get much without actually trying to break into Legion records, and I’d like to try and go the legitimate route first. We do not want to officially piss off the French foreign legion.” Kurtzman let out a long breath. “But I doubt very much your pal was acting in any official Legion capacity when you met him.”

Bolan was forced to agree, but something about the scenario still bothered him. “How about the tattoo?”

“I don’t know.” Kurtzman grunted noncommittally. “Some kind of insignia? I couldn’t find anything exactly like it in any open military databases, but soldiers have been giving themselves unofficial unit or specific mission patches and insignia since the French and Indian wars. If this is a legion insignia, I bet it’s an unofficial one, and not tolerated on formal uniform dress. I suspect it’s a custom job. Probably has to do with his company’s special role or a mission.” Kurtzman sighed again. “Assuming of course that he didn’t have it done when he was in the Indonesian army and then joined the legion later. A fair number of legionnaires are veterans of other services. I’m running a check to see if his name or the insignia pops up on any Indonesian or Asian military database we have, but so far we haven’t turned up anything. Of course, people who join the legion are allowed to change their names, and often do, so the one on the tag may not be the one his daddy gave him.”

“Any other good news?”

“Yeah.” Kurtzman grinned lopsidedly. “It’s a tattoo. He could have made the damn thing up when he was drunk.”

“Bear,” Bolan said, sighing wearily, “what would you make of it?”

“All right. Best guess.” He peered at the sketch again. “The dragon could mean anything, though if I had to bet, it probably has something to do with service in Asia. The owl might mean some kind of night operations. It’s a specialization in the legion. The parachute’s a no-brainer. Your boy was airborne, and in the French foreign legion, the paratroops are the elite.”

Kurtzman wasn’t telling Bolan much he didn’t already know, but he was confirming his suspicions. The computer wizard stared at the sketch again. “These guys could be mercs. It’s not unknown for guys to get out of the foreign legion and go to work for someone else. ‘Legionnaire’ certainly has some prestige attached to it. Maybe the mullah felt that he needed some extra muscle with the United States and Australia hunting him.”

Bolan had considered that. “He already had an island full of muscle with the pandekar and his boys. Both men were also very religious. Al-Juwanyi is Taliban and Regog is part of the al Qaeda cell network in Indonesia. Neither organization is known for hiring outsiders. These guys are definitely part of the puzzle.”

“Okay, but making them fit isn’t going to be fun.”

Bolan was all too aware of that. He trusted his instincts, but there were no facts to back them up or leads to take them anywhere. “What about the cell phone and the documents I collected on the island?”

Kurtzman clicked a few keys on his keyboard. The monitor showed Carmen Delahunt rapidly pounding the keyboard at her workstation. She looked up and blew a lock of red hair away from her eyes. “What’s up, Aaron?”

“Striker is here, and he’s hoping for some answers. Got any?”

She punched up information. “The cell phone’s memory had some numbers in it. Several were to Jakarta, and not surprisingly, they were to phones that were stolen. One led to Bali, and again, dead-ended to a stolen phone. One anomaly was a number that led to French Guiana, which, as you can guess, dead-ended.”

“The French foreign legion has its Jungle Warfare School in French Guiana,” Bolan said. “Bear, I want a country study, now.”

Kurtzman began tapping keys, and a map of South America popped up on his screen. Information began scrolling. They read an encyclopedia-like description of the French colony.

Bolan stared hard at the map inset on the screen. “What kind of transnational issues are we looking at?”

“Very few. They’re always asking for increasing autonomy from France, but in public votes only a small percentage of the population supports seceding from France, and they’re not a violent faction. Their neighbor, Suriname, claims a strip of their territory between the River Litani and the River Marouini, but it’s never come to a military struggle. There is limited illicit marijuana growing along the coast, but that’s mostly for local consumption. Interpol considers them to be a minor drug transshipment point to Europe at best. Unemployment is a problem, but not monumental.”

“What’s the Muslim population?”

Kurtzman could see where Bolan was going. “Miniscule, not enough to register in official population charts. French Guiana is overwhelmingly Roman Catholic. The Muslim community are immigrants, and most likely to be businessmen or university-educated professionals working for French companies.” The computer expert’s brow furrowed in thought, and he hit more keys. His map tracked westward and information scrolled. “Suriname, however, does have a significant Muslim population.”

“From Java,” Bolan concluded.

Kurtzman hit a key triumphantly. “Bingo. Suriname was a former Dutch colony, just like Indonesia, and the Dutch imported a lot of Javanese for labor.” He lost some of his exuberance. “But that still doesn’t get us anywhere. The Javanese are in Suriname, and there are almost none to speak of in French Guiana. It’s a nonissue.”

“But our boy had a contact there.”

“He called a phone number there. They’re two tiny countries on the northern tip of South America, and it’s a small world.”

“Our boy was al Qaeda.” Bolan shook his head. “They don’t do anything small. He was on a mission, a high profile kidnapping and murder, and he had presets in his cell phone. Those would all be important contact numbers. One of them was in French Guiana.”

“Well, it is intriguing, I’ll grant you.” Kurtzman leaned back in his wheelchair and laced his fingers behind his head. “But how you’re going to string this all together into anything significant is beyond me.”

“I’m not.” Bolan leaned back and matched his comrade’s posture. “You are.”

“You know, I knew you were going to say that.” Kurtzman sat straight up. “How do you want to play it?”

“Suriname has a significant Muslim population, predominantly Javanese, and Regog was a Jokuk stylist, heavy into religion and mysticism, and now it looks like at least some splinter sect of it has gone militant. Do whatever you have to to find any practice of Jokuk-style pentjak-silat in Suriname. Find a connection, no matter how tenuous, and then make it lead to French Guiana.”

“All right.” Kurtzman chewed his lower lip in thought. “But this is getting thin, sniper. I trust you, and I trust your instincts, but we are officially grasping at straws.”

“I know,” Bolan said. “But I trust you, Bear. I trust your instincts, and you’ve worked with a lot less.”

Kurtzman laughed. “You keep talking like that, and you’re gonna have a date for the prom.”

Bolan smiled. “Here’s the part where you lose that lovin’ feeling.”

Kurtzman read Bolan’s mind. “You want Akira and me to hack the French foreign legion’s military records.”

Bolan nodded once. “Yeah.”

“Striker, if you’re accepted into the legion and want to change your identity and get away from your past, they do everything in their power to help you. This is the kind of info they’re going to keep protected. You know what kind of a stink it’s going to raise if we get detected breaking into their military databases?”

“So don’t get detected,” Bolan replied.

“Jeez, Striker, hacking France is—”

“Keep it real mission specific. Find Pak Widjihartani if you can, and any other aliases he may have. Find out where’s he’s from and where he’s been. If he was a legionnaire, find out what regiment he served in and where. Other than that specific info, no sight-seeing. Don’t download anything else France or the legion would find sensitive, but I have got to have Pak.”

“All right.” Kurtzman considered the enormity of the task before him. “I’ll lay out a battle plan for Akira and pull up our French translator programs. I can’t even begin to imagine what kind of operating systems and safeguards the French foreign legion is using, but I’ll start on the assumption it’s using the same protection of information protocols as the regular French military. I’ll have Carmen download and collate every useful piece of information on the legion that she can find and get a copy made for us. The legion is one of the most colorful military units in the history of mankind, and it should make interesting reading on the plane.”

Kurtzman’s eyebrow rose once more. “I’m assuming you’re getting on a plane.”

“Yeah.” Bolan yawned and nodded. “But I need a nap. I’m gonna take twenty-four hours’ downtime. Then I want to meet with you again to see what we have. Assuming it’s anything, I’ll need Barbara to arrange a flight to Suriname. I’ll need an updated passport and a French visa, and get me a full warload delivered to the U.S. Embassy down there.”

“I’m on it.”

“Okay.” Bolan rose. “I’m sacking out. As soon as you have that information package on the legion, call me.”

“One thing, Striker.”

“What’s that?”

“You be careful about messing in legion business. They have a reputation for killing people who mess with them.”

“I’ve heard that.”

3

Paramaribo, Suriname

Bolan removed the bandage and surveyed the handiwork on his arm. It would have to do.

Sweat stung his arm as he stepped out from the air-conditioned hotel, and his shirt soaked through from the ninety-degree heat and the matching humidity. Suriname sat at the top of South America less than two hundred kilometers from the equator. As a nation, Suriname consisted almost totally of its coastal strip; and once one strolled half a kilometer from the surf and sand, the sea breeze ended and the cloistered heat of the tropical rainforest began. The capital city followed the geography. The Europeans clung to the coast. Modern European Dutch-style businesses and homes clustered along the beaches and the waterfronts of the capital. Once one went inland, the tin shacks of the ever-growing ghettos clawed space out of the jungle.

Bolan put the blissful breeze of the sea to his back and walked into the blast furnace.

He was walking into a part of the capital that most people avoided after dark, and where police went only when heavily armed and in number.

Bolan got the directions from the U.S. Embassy, but he could have followed his nose. It was evening, and with the setting of the sun the act of cooking had become tolerable. Bolan walked the invisible borders of the shantytowns by scent and turned to follow the aroma of jasmine rice, curry and simmering coconut milk to the Javanese quarter.

Bolan had few illusions. He was barely armed, and his ruse was as thin as hell. He would not be able to withstand more than a few moments of scrutiny, and if it came to a fight he would never live to reload the little .22 Walther PPK/S tucked in the small of his back. The knife tucked in his boot would be of even less use against men who had spent their entire lives practicing the dances of death with foot-long kris knives and parangs.

People sat outside on the stoops and rattan chairs, taking their ease, or leaned out the windows to try to catch some hint of the evening breeze. They smoked cigarettes and looked sidelong at Bolan with undisguised suspicion as he passed.

Bolan consulted his mental map and approached the practice hall of Pandekar Ali Soerho.

Soerho was a pandekar of high repute, of the Jokuk style, from the same lineage as Regog. In this confrontation, Bolan would not have tactical surprise or Adamsite gas to back him up against this mystic warrior and his circle.

The hall was a WWII-vintage Quonset hut that had been repaired many times. Tin siding had been used to patch the walls and the roof. Woven rattan screens covered the windows. The scent of sandalwood incense drifted from an open door that was obscured by hanging strings of cola nut beads. Two men sat on the stoop smoking pipes with incredibly long stems. They wore T-shirts, shorts and sandals and looked like everyone else in the quarter seeking relief from the evening heat. The veins crawling across their corded, rock-hewn forearms, and callused hands bespoke of long weapons training with blades and staves.

The two men watched Bolan approach with supreme disinterest.

When Bolan neared to a few feet, the two men suddenly rose with fluid grace. They flared out heavily developed shoulders and stood in his way like temple guardians carved of stone. Bolan smiled, but the smile he gave them was very sad, as if he were in mourning. He bowed his head toward both men respectfully. “Asalaam aleikum.”

The two sentries blinked in surprise as Bolan greeted them in Arabic. They bowed back, but their wary eyes were still hooded like hawks considering prey.

“What do you want?” the taller of the two men asked in French.

“I need to speak with Pandekar Soerho.” Bolan bowed slightly again. “One of us is fallen.”

Bolan took out the knife he had liberated from Pak Widjihartani’s corpse in Indonesia. Widjihartani’s legion dog tags were wrapped around the hilt. The two men sucked in their breath in dismay. The taller one surveyed Bolan intensely. “And you?”

Bolan pulled up his sleeve. His arm still burned where the tattoo had been scrawled into his skin. The tattoo was not deep, but direct injections of cortisone had been required to get rid of the swelling. The CIA developed inks would dissolve within days. The job had been done by a former Navy SEAL who owned his own tattoo parlor and contracted out tattoos needed by agents going undercover. The man was a pro, and even though the tattoo was less than forty-eight hours old, it looked like Bolan had borne it for years.

The tattoo was of a shield. A dragon was scrawled across its background, and a stylized owl parachuted across the front of it.

The sentries stared at the tattoo and nodded slowly. The taller one took the knife from Bolan and motioned for him to follow them inside.

The scent of sandalwood was very strong. The walls were covered with crossed spears and staves. Short swords and knives with blades that curved in every possible direction were everywhere. Batik prints of gods, heroes and demons covered the patched, steel walls. The incense sticks near the altar had burned low. The evening’s instruction was over. Two men swept the floor, and another dusted the altar.

Ali Soerho sat cross-legged on a mat. Bolan scrutinized the pandekar carefully as he unfolded his legs and seemed to grow out the mat like a tree. He was a slightly built man who looked to be around fifty. Bolan knew that looks could be quite deceiving in martial-arts masters. Soerho could be anywhere from fifty to seventy, and to have reached the rank of pandekar his slight build and gentle features hid his power like silken cloth wrapped around an iron dagger.

The taller of the men escorting Bolan approached the pandekar and bowed deeply. He leaned in close to his master and whispered to him for long moments before presenting him with the knife Bolan had brought. Soerho accepted the weapon reverently and went to lay it upon the altar. His man and the two men sweeping fell into rank behind the pandekar as he approached Bolan.

The man dusting the altar ceased his cleaning and pulled out a cell phone.

Bolan bowed low to the pandekar. The master bowed back and spoke in very rough, halting French. “You speak Arabic?”

Bolan bowed again and replied, “I am only just learning, to further my studies of the Holy Koran.”

One of Soerho’s men quickly translated. The pandekar nodded at Bolan’s wisdom. The tall disciple took over as interpreter. “You knew Pak?”

Bolan pulled false foreign legion dog tags up from around his neck. “We served together in the legion. It was there that I converted to Islam.”

The man with the phone clicked it shut and went back to his dusting. Bolan noted he was working his way back the way he had just come and was putting himself between Bolan and the door. The pandekar spoke through his translator as he gestured at the knife and the dog tags on the altar. “How did you come by these things?”

“How much have you been told?” Bolan countered.

The Javanese had a very rapid discussion in their own language. Bolan decided to interrupt it. “There was an attack. Pak and his men were overcome and killed. We believe it was done by special forces, most likely Australian SAS.” Bolan let his eyes harden. “We believe we were betrayed from within.”

The taller disciple looked shocked as he translated.

Bolan’s face was stony as he openly scrutinized the men before him. One of the disciples flinched as he met the soldier’s tombstone stare. The big man had come looking for a traitor. It was very clear that he did not consider them above suspicion. The Executioner repeated himself slowly. “How much have you been told?”

The taller disciple cleared his throat. “Only Ki has been—”

“Where is Ki?” Bolan demanded.

“I am here.” A man parted the strings of beads blocking the door. He was short but had almost inhumanly wide shoulders. He was naked save for shorts and sandals. Every muscle in his body stood out in high relief, as did numerous scars, some of which Bolan recognized as bullet and shrapnel wounds. Tattoos crawled along his biceps and shoulders. Both the man’s physique and the way he carried himself were reminiscent of a brutal and battle-hardened Bruce Lee. The two men measured each other. Bolan was relieved that the man did not sport the owl and dragon tattoo.

The man wore round, French military dog tags.

Bolan nodded at him. “Ki.”

“Ki” looked at the sheathed kris and the dog tags on the altar. He then stared long and hard at Bolan’s tattoo. “You served with Pak?”

Bolan threw caution to the wind. “We met in the Pacific. I was in the 5th Foreign Regiment. I spent most of my time at Fantagataufa and a number of the other atolls.”

It was a wild gamble. The 5th Foreign Regiment had been stationed in support of France’s nuclear testing in the South Pacific. Their activities had great political sensitivity, and the regiment had since been dissolved. Their top-secret duties and subsequent disbandment allowed Bolan to make up almost any kind of story. The Achilles’ heel of the ruse was that French-owned atolls were tiny communities. The communities of the legionnaires even tinier. If Ki had served in the same theater, Bolan was toast.

Ki watched Bolan like a hawk as he digested Bolan’s story.

Bolan met his gaze without flinching. “How much have you been told?”

Ki never stopped trying to read Bolan’s eyes. He looked down at the tattoo on Bolan’s arm once more. “I do not know you,” he finally announced. “This will require verification.”

“Of course.” Bolan frowned impatiently but nodded. “I am going to give you a telephone number.” He reached slowly into his shirt pocket and pulled out a small pad and a fountain pen. “Memorize it and destroy it.”

Bolan flipped open the pad and turned the pen over. Suddenly he pressed the pocket clip.

The pen hissed in Bolan’s hand as it shot a stream of pressurized CS tear gas directly into the pandekar’s eyes.

Bolan flicked the notebook into Ki’s face as the pandekar staggered back into his disciples. The blow had no impact but Ki brought his hands up to cover his eyes. Bolan put his thumb on the butt end of the pen and thrust the blunt object into Ki’s esophagus.

Ki’s knees wobbled as he gagged.

Bolan jumped to put Ki between himself and the rest of the disciples. Blades appeared in their hands.

With his free hand, Bolan ripped the dog tags from around Ki’s neck.

The man by the door ripped a rattan stave from the wall, and it blurred about his body like a propeller as he came for Bolan. The Executioner emptied the rest of the gas-pen at the men surrounding the pandekar and broke for freedom as they flinched. Bolan broke sideways and ran at a dead sprint for the eastern wall of the hut. He chose a rusty looking five-foot section of tin siding that had been used to patch a hole in the ancient structure, and hit it like a fullback.

Metal screamed. The rivets holding the siding tore free, and Bolan and the entire section of siding exploded into the night. He rolled in the muck of the alley and came up running.

The disciples boiled out of the hole Bolan had made. They were shouting at the top of their lungs. The soldier could guess what they were yelling to the barrio around them at large.

“Stop him!”

A man rose from a stoop and raised his hands as he stepped into Bolan’s path. The Executioner ripped him off his feet with a forearm shiver without breaking stride.