Full Blast. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ didn’t take it too kindly when you told him we couldn’t divulge any information Justice had on file.”

      Schwarz took out his cell phone and contacted the Farm.

      “Our friendly senator got a little frosty. I got the feeling he didn’t like being spoken to by a pair of lowly Justice agents,” he told Brognola. “My guess is he’ll be talking to Gardener as soon as he can get in touch. Which is just what we wanted.”

      “What next?”

      “We figure a little desert air is in order. A trip out to Arizona and Leverton.”

      “The town near Gardener’s base?” the big Fed suggested.

      “Fort Leverton, home to Gardener’s command. We’ll do a little prowling around. See if there’s anything to stir up.”

      “Stay sharp,” Brognola warned. “If there is something going on, Gardener won’t be such a soft mark if he gets wind you’re checking him out.”

      “What’s he going to do? Court-martial us?”

      “Arizona. Big, lonely place. Lots of sand and desert. Easy to get lost out there. Accident or design.”

      “Come on, Hal, stop dressing it up. Tell us what you really mean.”

      “Call in when you get there,” Brognola directed.

      “Will do.”

      Grimaldi glanced at Schwarz as he put his phone away, noticing the faint smile edging his partner’s lips.

      “Something funny?”

      “Only Hal telling us to be careful.”

      “He say that?”

      “Not in so many words. That’s the funny part.”

      Neither man spotted the plain, light-colored car that fell in line with the traffic and trailed them out of Washington. It followed them all the way to the commercial airstrip where a twin-engined Beechcraft sat waiting for them. The pilot was ready to go. He had his flight plan already filed, and the minute his passengers were settled, he spoke to the control tower and taxied out to the runway.

      Razan Khariza’s Camp, Chechnya

      RAZAN KHARIZA had completed his prayers and as he returned from the small, bare room he used for his devotions, he picked up excited sounds from outside the stone house. The door opened and Wafiq stood there.

      They have a prisoner,” Abdul said. “Dushinov has a prisoner.”

      Khariza followed Wafiq outside, pulling on his thick leather coat against the damp chill. He saw Zoltan Dushinov drag a bound figure from the rear of a battered pickup and throw it to the stony ground. When Dushinov looked up and saw Khariza, he raised a hand to beckon the Iraqi to join him, a satisfied smile on his bearded face.

      “Didn’t I tell you they were looking for you?” Dushinov said. “Now you see I was right.”

      “I believed you before, Zoltan. Why would I not?”

      Dushinov dismissed the words with a shrug.

      “This one was found trying to locate the camp. He had a guide. Some local from one of the villages. My men dealt with him. When the villagers find him and see what my men did, they will think twice before selling us out next time.”

      Khariza reached the pickup and stood over the bloody, huddled figure on the ground. His clothing was torn and filthy. His feet were bare where someone had taken his boots and socks. His arms had been pulled behind him and tied high up his back with a length of rope taken around his neck.

      “Who is he?”

      Dushinov reached down and caught hold of the man’s hair, using it to pull him to his knees. The man’s face turned up, eyes meeting Khariza’s. He had already undergone a severe beating. His skin was heavily bruised and bloody. There was a deep gash across one cheek, bone gleaming white through the blood.

      “He is an American,” Dushinov said loudly so that everyone could hear. “One of our enemies to be feared. Look at him, my brothers. Look at him and tremble. This is the great enemy who is going to conquer us all. Are you afraid?”

      There was a raised yell of defiance from the gathered men. They moved to stare at the man on the ground, gesturing with their weapons and voicing their contempt.

      “Here is your American, Razan. I give him to you as a gift. If you ask he may tell you why he is looking for you.”

      “Take him inside,” Khariza ordered.

      The American was dragged to his feet and taken to one of the buildings. Khariza followed slowly, his mind busy with questions he wanted to ask the prisoner. He wished he had Barak with him. The man had the skill to pull information from anyone. He was patient, thorough and dedicated to his work. And he was extremely loyal to Khariza. But now he was on Zehlivic’s motor vessel, Petra, somewhere off the North African coast where he was dealing with a matter allied to a Mossad agent named Sharon. The Israeli had been part of the group that had intercepted the team inserted into Israel as part of the strike against the nuclear plant at Dimona. The advance team had been killed, the plane on its way to carry out the attack intercepted and brought down.

      The mission to destroy Dimona had been important—planned to demoralize the Israelis—and its loss was a definite blow. Khariza had taken the news badly at first but had pushed aside his disappointment, especially in front of his people. He had to remain strong and to show that defeats had to be borne with strength. Later, alone, he had reviewed the way his plans were going. The strike at Bucklow had achieved its purpose: a significant blow against the Americans. An added disappointment had come with the news that the second MOAB had been retaken by an American strike team and Khariza’s men defeated.

      Khariza, in his solitary room, had sat facing the blank wall. His mind alive with thought. So many things he was dealing with; ongoing plans, logistics, financial matters. The dealing and bargaining to obtain the Massive Ordnance Air Burst and allied equipment he needed. The endless conversations with his people who were located in many different places. There was a great deal to maintain. So many people to keep updated and at one with their faith. For some, the smallest loss became almost total defeat. Khariza had had to employ his skills as an orator to allay their fears. Persuading, promising, soothing, he became all things to all men, and it was only when he was alone that he found himself questioning and calming his own deep, inner fears.

      It wasn’t that he was ready to surrender, to call off the campaign that stretched across the Middle East and all the way to the American mainland. Khariza was, if nothing, a man at ease with himself and his objectives. His cause was just. He was doing it for God and for Iraq. Secretly, almost with a little embarrassment, he admitted that he was also doing it in part for himself. Since the capture of Iraq’s ex-president, Saddam Hussein, there had been a leadership vacuum. The current structure wasn’t proving fully successful. The diversity of tribal culture, of in-fighting and mistrust between interested groups, had led to a continual atmosphere of hostility. The random acts of violence perpetrated by insurgent groups, the destruction and killing, went on. Khariza had seen all this and the opportunity for someone to step in a take the country back—by force if necessary. He saw himself as that man. The prize was worth the risk.

      Stakes СКАЧАТЬ