Renegade. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ as ruthless as its predecessor. “What have you learned?” he asked.

      “Well, for one thing, it appears they’ve got you and Sobor confused. Maybe that’s on purpose, but I don’t get that feeling. VEVAK’s radio frequency isn’t even open to the regular cops, and they’re pretty straightforward most of the time.” He stopped, cleared his throat, then went on. “They know there was a Russian there at the house, and a guy they think was Russian got away across the rooftops.”

      “That was me,” said Bolan. “I’m the one they saw. Sobor was already gone when they got there.”

      “Well, at this point, they seem to think it’s all one and the same man. They’ve found close to a dozen passports and supporting identification with the same picture on them, and the guy’s Caucasian.”

      Bolan’s eyebrows lowered in concentration.

      “You still there?” Kurtzman asked several seconds later.

      “Yeah, just thinking, Bear.” He paused again. All he could learn from the passports and other ID Kurtzman had just mentioned would be names Anton Sobor wasn’t using. “Any way you can find out if there were any passports missing?” he asked. “Like, maybe they found just part of an identity?”

      “I get your drift,” Kurtzman said. “But that’s gonna be tough. Give me a little while to come up with a plan, okay?”

      “I’ve got another hour’s drive before I get back to the helicopter,” the Executioner said. “If you can find a name, great. If not, hack into the Iranian Aseman Airlines files and check the rosters for every flight out of Tehran since the bust, okay?”

      “Okay. I’d better get on it.” Kurtzman hung up.

      Bolan drove on. Rey appeared, and then the Dodge Dart GT’s headlights flickered across the deserted water hole where the women had washed the carpets earlier in the day. Lifting the phone again, he dialed another number.

      “Get that bird revved up,” he said when Grimaldi answered. “I’m ten minutes away. I don’t know where we’re going yet, but we’re going somewhere.”

      BOLAN PULLED to the end of the road and parked the Dodge Dart GT in the same spot where he’d left the Mustang hours earlier. Reaching beneath the dashboard, he killed the engine and got out. Below, in the valley where the Bell was hidden, he heard the soft purr of the chopper warming up. The OH-58D advanced scout helicopter had a mast-mounted sight and two Stinger missile pods. It had been designed with its main mission being to locate and designate targets for the Apache AH-64’s Hellfire missiles. This one was unmarked, and had been painted an unintimidating light tan that helped it blend in with the surroundings without screaming out “Camouflage!” in case it did happen to be seen. Stony Man Farm’s chief armorer, John “Cowboy” Kissinger, had disguised the Stingers and also rigged up a hidden 60 mm machine gun.

      Bolan’s hope was that the machine gun and Stingers would still be unfired when the mission was over. The situation would develop much more smoothly if the Bell could simply be used as a means of transportation and not be forced to fight. But the weapons were there in case they were needed.

      The half moon was high overhead, casting an eerie luminescence down over the rocky hills around the ancient city of Rey. Remembering the path he had taken earlier down into the valley, Bolan retraced his steps in half the time. When he reached the bottom, he ducked low beneath the twirling helicopter blades and climbed on board.

      Jack Grimaldi was already strapped into the pilot’s seat behind the controls. Bolan saw him checking the various gauges in front of him as he buckled his own seat belt. He remained silent while the pilot finished his last-minute checklist. Seemingly satisfied, Grimaldi finally looked up and said, “You heard anything back from Stony Man?”

      Bolan shook his head. “Not since we talked last.”

      “Barb tried getting you,” Grimaldi said. “You were probably in a dead zone.” He glanced down at the cell phone that Bolan had just pulled from the pocket of his leather jacket. “Lot of them around in a place like this.”

      The Executioner nodded. Stony Man Farm’s cell phones—like all of their other equipment—was top of the line, state of the art. But even though they had access to every satellite circling the planet, they were pushing contemporary technology too far expecting to be able to make phone calls around the world as if they were talking to the neighbors next door. At least each, and every, time. “I need to call in?” Bolan asked.

      “Wouldn’t hurt,” Grimaldi said. “But I’m gonna take her on up while you do. I suspect I know where we’re headed, and if you decide different, I can always change course once we’re in the air.”

      Bolan tapped the number to the Farm and got Price again. “Sorry your call didn’t come through earlier,” he said.

      “Hardly your fault. Besides, I relayed the intel to Jack. He tell you?”

      “Yeah,” the Executioner said. “But not the details. He’s leaving that to you.”

      “And I’ll leave it to Bear,” Price said, and Bolan heard the familiar click of the call being transferred.

      “I think I’ve got something for you, Striker,” the wheelchair-bound computer man said without bothering a “hello.” “I was able to tap into the VEVAK frequency again, and figured out a way to transmit as well as receive. It took a little doing, but Ron Touchie and I finally caught on to the passwords and code names and numbers, came up with one that sounded real.

      “The passports and supporting IDs—everything from a couple of German driver’s licences to a Swiss voter’s registration card—were dumped in a cardboard box on the top shelf of an upstairs closet.”

      Bolan frowned. He had checked all of the closets during his search of the house, and remembered several boxes. But he had been looking for men, not documents, and there had been no time to sift through the contents. “Go on,” he said.

      To his side, Grimaldi said, “Ready?”

      The Executioner nodded.

      As the chopper began to rise, Kurtzman went on. “VEVAK assigned one of their men to put the IDs together, and they came up with thirteen different names. Eleven had passports with them. But they found a couple of supporting credentials for two other names—actually, the German and Swiss stuff I just mentioned—but no passports.”

      The Executioner nodded. “Meaning that as soon as the shooting started, Sobor reached up into the box, grabbed a couple of passports and probably a few other things to back them up, and hightailed it out of there.”

      “That would be my guess,” Kurtzman agreed.

      The Bell had risen into the air and was now flying low over the rocky hills. Grimaldi left the lights off, using nothing more than the light from the half moon to guide him.

      “What were the two names, Bear?” Bolan asked.

      “Dieter Schneider’s the German,” the computer man said. “The Swiss voter’s card and a couple of credit cards were in the name of Jean-Marc Bernhardt.”

      “I take it you followed up on them?” the Executioner said.

      “Yes indeed,” Kurtzman responded. “No СКАЧАТЬ