Gathering Storm. Don Pendleton

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      CHAPTER ONE

      Memo: Barbara Price/Aaron Kurtzman to Hal Brognola

      Recommendation for action based on collated data.

      Major Kamal Rasheed. Member of the Ba’ath Party. Loyalist fedayeen. Hard-line Hussein man. He got out of Iraq once the writing was on the wall. He dropped out of sight for a while, but rumors started to circulate he’d been seen in Iran, then Afghanistan. As with other members of the inner council, this man won’t let go. We’ve picked up Internet chatter he’s working with other members of the old regime to make some kind of comeback. There’s all kinds of speculation flying around, but there has to be some truth in among all the rumors. There are too many messages flying around the Middle East, calls for Islamic loyalists to come together to oust the Americans and their stooges from Iraq.

      When we picked up details of increased movement down in Santa Lorca, Central America, concerning the increase in illegal arms, it didn’t come as a surprise when information was received about a Middle Eastern buyer looking for small arms. The other matter tagged on to this was the hint that these weapons might be destined for the U.S. This could tie in with the information we’ve picked up from our main security agencies about upcoming strikes within the U.S. and their connection with the resurgence of ex-Hussein loyalists. One of our contacts came through with a photograph. Not the best, but when it was put through the computer program the closest match it gave was Kamal Rasheed.

      We need to confirm just who it is buying weapons down there, because if it does turn out to be Rasheed, it more or less confirms that the data we were receiving about the old regime getting its act together is genuine.

      I suggest we set up an operation. Get a team into Santa Lorca, offering a good deal on the kinds of weapons being sought, and identify the main buyer. If it does put Rasheed in the frame, our suspicions will be confirmed. An added bonus would be to get our hands on Rasheed and bring him back. Let our security services put him through a debriefing session. See what they can get out of him.

      Santa Lorca, Central America

      THE MAN’S NAME WAS REGAN. His gaunt, lined face was tanned and unshaven. He was wearing a crumpled white suit. On the beer-stained table in front of him was a sweat-stained Panama hat, the brim curled and frayed. He watched the man across the table from him through watery blue eyes, constantly blinking as he toyed with the squat bottle of local beer.

      “You better be straight with me, Bubba,” he rasped. His voice was coarse, low, as if he was unable to raise it above a whisper. “This ain’t fuckin’ Paducah. Mess with the locals here and they’ll cut off your balls and barbecue them in front of you. Understand me?”

      The tall, rangy man facing Regan made no comment. He was calm, his hands mobile and sure as he rolled a cigarette using paper and tobacco. He stuck the finished cigarette between his lips and lit it with a battered black lighter. He took a long draw, visibly enjoying the taste of the smoke.

      “You been listening to me, Bubba? I don’t make speeches just to hear myself talk.”

      “You had me fooled,” the other man said. His accent was British, hard-edged, and Regan became aware that he wasn’t dealing with a novice. “Let’s stop buggering about, Regan. Neither of us is here for the beer—and I can see why after tasting it. We arranged a deal. Why don’t we cut to the chase so I can move on and you can count your money. Two weeks in this bloody place is playing hell with my social life.”

      “You can provide me with the ordnance I need? Anything from handguns to rocket launchers?”

      “And everything in between.”

      Regan rubbed his stubbled chin. He glanced over the Briton’s shoulder, just to make sure his two bodyguards were still in place. The pair sat at a table near the door, doing nothing except making their beer last as long as possible.

      “Understand what I’m going to say next, Bubba. It isn’t that I don’t trust you, but the people I’m brokering this deal for are fussy. You know what I’m sayin’?”

      “They want to see I’m not peddling you a load of scrap iron?”

      Regan spread his hands. “You show up hawking a cargo of weapons. So you say. How do I know you ain’t screwin’ me around?”

      The Briton nodded.

      “I guess with the kind of money they’re offering they have a right to see the merchandise.”

      “So it’s no problem?”

      “No.”

      “How soon can you show me samples?”

      “Boat is standing by. I can pick up what we need and have it here later tonight. Your warehouse?”

      Regan nodded, smiled and picked up his beer.

      “Four a.m. I’ll bring along my client. Let him check the stuff out. If everything is okay, we can complete by tomorrow evening. Just remember he’ll want the full shipment up front before he hands over any cash.”

      The Briton stood. “I’ll go and get my people working on it.” He dropped a folded paper onto the table. “My hotel and room number. Give me a call if anything crops up.”

      As soon as the Briton had left the bar, Regan beckoned to his men. They came to his table.

      “Follow him. Let’s see if he’s who he says. I don’t want this deal screwing up.”

      “Don’t you trust him?”

      Regan smiled, scrubbing at his unshaven jaw. “I don’t trust anyone.”

      One of the bodyguards grinned. “You trust us.”

      “Do I? Who the fuck ever said that, Bubba?”

      THE BRITON LEFT the bar and made his way along the street. It was already dark. The night warm and sticky. He took his time, knowing full well that Regan would have him followed. It was what he would have done in Regan’s place. He returned to his hotel, collected his key and went directly to his room. Inside he crossed to the window overlooking the street and saw one of Regan’s bodyguards lounging against a storefront on the far side, half hidden in shadow. The man was lighting a cigarette and trying to look as though he belonged. He failed badly. No matter how casual his attitude, he still identified himself as an overmuscled hardman, even down to the bulge where his too-tight jacket fitted over the shoulder-holstered gun he was carrying. The other man had obviously gone into the hotel and was, even now, probably paying the desk clerk to take a look at the Briton’s details in the guest register.

      George Reese, British National. Home address, London.

      That was what it said in the register. If a deeper probe into Reese’s background was carried out, his background in dubious operations would show. Suspected СКАЧАТЬ