Carnage Code. Don Pendleton

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      The Executioner stopped just inside the door. The room was even more grungy than the rest of the building, with candy wrappers and other papers littering the floor. Cobwebs grew in every corner, and from the ceiling a spider was working its web down toward the table behind which the bloody man sat.

      But the man the Executioner had just seen punched wasn’t alone. Next to him sat another, equally beaten face. In contrast to his clean-shaved partner, this man wore a thin, carefully manicured mustache. But it was due for a shampoo. Blood had seeped from the nostrils above it and matted it wetly against his upper lip until it looked as if it had been soaked in some sort of setting gel. And this man’s lightweight suit—similar to his partner’s—was in no better shape, either.

      Two uniformed Sudan National Police officers were in the room, and they both turned toward the door as it opened. One, a tall, lanky man exhibiting more Arabic than African heritage, wore black leather gloves. It had been he who had just delivered the punch, and now he smiled at Urgoma as the colonel closed the door behind them.

      The other SNP officer’s hands were bare. But from the fingers of his right extended the weighted end of a leather-covered sap. The black leather was as shiny with blood, mucus and other body fluids as the bloody mustache.

      A third man, smoking an unfiltered cigarette, stood in the corner next to a table that held an old black rotary telephone. Like the beaten men at the table he, too, wore a suit of light color and material. But it was spotless, and the man wearing it smiled as if he were enjoying a good movie, stage play or opera.

      The CIA man, Bolan had to figure. For a moment, a rush of anger flooded over the Executioner. The anger was directed at the Sudanese National Police but even more so at the CIA operative who stood by, excitedly watching this torture, and knowing he would never be held responsible because the Sudanese were the actual torturers.

      If for nothing but pragmatic reasons, the agent should have learned through his training that torture was never called for. First and foremost, physical torture wasn’t a reliable way to obtain the truth. Men being beaten told those beating them whatever they thought was most likely to halt the beating. Sometimes that was the truth. Other times it wasn’t.

      Bolan turned to Urgoma. “Can I see you in the hall for a moment?” he asked.

      “Certainly.”

      “You, too, my friend,” the Executioner added, turning toward the CIA agent.

      The CIA man dropped the butt of his cigarette on the floor and ground it out with the heel of his shoe.

      Bolan opened the door. “Tell your men to take a brief break, will you, Colonel?”

      Urgoma nodded, turned toward the table and said something in Arabic. The other two uniformed men nodded, then walked to the wall and leaned against it, both pulling their own cigarettes from shirt pockets.

      When they were in the hallway with the door closed again, the Executioner turned toward the CIA man. “What’s your name?” he demanded.

      “Sims,” the man said, still grinning. “Bill Sims.” He paused for a moment, the smile staying on his face but turning more sarcastic than happy. “And you must be the hotshot superagent we got the call about from our director. The one who’s so damn good we’re supposed to just follow him around like puppy dogs.”

      “It sounds like you have a smart director,” Bolan said. “One who listens to the President.”

      Sims snorted. “What was your name again?” the CIA man asked.

      “Brandon Stone. And I’ve got just one question for you.”

      “Shoot,” Sims said.

      Bolan stepped forward and shot a hard right fist into the CIA operative’s belly.

      Sims doubled over as if he’d been cut in two.

      The Executioner slammed the CIA man against the wall, straightened him back up and said, “What did you say your name was?”

      Sims was red-faced and choking, trying to catch his breath. “Sims,” he finally sputtered.

      “No, it isn’t,” Bolan said, and hit him in the abdomen again. “It’s Cash. Johnny Cash.” Grabbing a handful of the man’s hair, he forced Sims’s shoulder blades against the wall again. “Let me hear you say, ‘Hello, I’m Johnny Cash.’”

      “But my name’s—”

      A third punch, this time in the sternum, caused the last remaining air to rush from Sims’s lungs. The Executioner’s fists were painful, and would probably leave Sims with some sore abdominal muscles the next day. But none of the Executioner’s blows would do any permanent harm.

      Bolan waited while the vacuum in the man’s chest cleared, then repeated himself. “Say it. ‘Hello, I’m Johnny Cash.’”

      “Hello,” Sims said in a faint whisper. “I’m…John…ny…Cash.”

      The Executioner stepped back a pace, then turned to Urgoma. “Do you get my point?” he said.

      The colonel nodded. “I do,” he said. “Torture can make a man say anything you want him to say.” His face reflected no sign that he had taken the demonstration as an insult. Instead, he looked slightly embarrassed. And as if he had just learned a valuable lesson that he would put it to good use in the future.

      Bolan reached forward and straightened Sims back up yet again. “Get lost,” he told the red-faced CIA man. “And don’t get in my way. I don’t want to see you again while I’m here in Sudan. Understand?”

      Sims nodded, then staggered off down the hall.

      “You are a very direct person,” Urgoma said, chuckling.

      The Executioner nodded. “Do me a favor, will you?”

      “Anything you like,” Urgoma said.

      “Assign a couple of men to Sims. Make sure he doesn’t burn me.” Bolan paused for a moment, then said, “You understand the term burn? ”

      “Expose you,” Urgoma said.

      “Exactly,” the Executioner said. “I’ve already had too much exposure.”

      “I will tell the men inside this room,” Urgoma said, nodding toward the door, “to change into plainclothes and tail Sims. That way, we will keep the number of my own men who know you are here down to a minimum.”

      “Good thinking,” the Executioner said. “But is there some particular reason—some suspicion you have—to make you want to play this close to the vest?”

      Urgoma lowered his eyes to the floor for a moment, then raised them again. “I have, for some time now,” he said, “suspected that there is a rogue element operating within the law-enforcement community and other governmental offices in Sudan. And I suspect they have a mole right here. In my own Sudan National Police.” He paused a moment, then said, “That is why our government called your President for help. We do not know exactly who can be trusted and who can’t.”

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