Survival Reflex. Don Pendleton

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      Bolan considered making him explain his business in the hallway, but security took precedence. His cover might be blown, but that was still a long way from announcing his mission to every guest on the hotel’s fifth floor.

      “Five minutes,” Bolan said, “is all I have to spare.”

      “Suits me,” Downey said, brushing past him in a beeline for the small room’s single chair. He sat, leaving Bolan to pick a corner of the bed or stand.

      He stood.

      “My hope, in a nutshell,” said Downey, “is to save you from a world of hurt.”

      “How’s that?”

      “You’re in Brazil on business that is bound to turn out badly,” Downey said.

      “Which is?”

      “Marta Enriquez. She’s a subject of some interest to the U.S. government, as well as to authorities here in Brazil. You met her yesterday, in San Diego. Now you’re here. I don’t believe in that kind of coincidence.”

      “Nobody asked you,” Bolan said.

      “That’s right. Nobody did. Sometimes, unfortunately, there are situations where you have to deal with consequences, even if you’d rather not. Catching my drift?”

      “Not even close,” the Executioner replied.

      “I’ll spell it out, then. Whatever Marta Enriquez and Mr. Rosario Blancanales may have told you in Dago, whatever they asked you to do, whatever they offered in return—you don’t want to go there.”

      Denial seemed pointless. Confession, while possibly good for the soul, was unthinkable.

      Time to stall.

      “Because…?”

      “Because I say so, Mr. Cooper. And because I represent the U.S. government.”

      “We’re not in the United States.”

      “You weren’t born yesterday,” Downey replied. “In fact, according to your social security records, you’re almost two years old. Happy birthday, Mr. Cooper.”

      Bolan had decades of practice at keeping surprise off his face. Instead, he smiled and asked, “You’re IRS?”

      “Heaven forbid! I couldn’t care less what you do with your hard-earned money, friend. Declare it, don’t declare it. All the same to me. But if you travel any further down this particular road, you’ll be stepping on some very tender toes.”

      “You’ve got sore feet? Try Dr. Scholl’s.”

      Downey put on a deprecating smile. “I’m just the messenger. You get one warning, friend.”

      “What happens next?”

      “I don’t believe you want to know.”

      “No hints?”

      “Let’s say you won’t enjoy it.”

      “I should turn around and go back home, you’re saying.”

      “To the Richmond mail drop, or wherever home may be.”

      Showing his hand like that, Downey had to think he had it covered. Bolan, on the other hand, wasn’t convinced.

      Not yet.

      “I’ll think about it.”

      Downey rose, rubbing his hands together like a miser in a high school play. “That’s all we ask,” he said, mock-cheerful. “Somber thought about the risks of pissing off your Uncle in D.C. and various locals who may have even shorter fuses.”

      “Hey, I thought Brazil was friendly.”

      “That depends,” Downey replied, “on you.”

      “I get your drift.”

      “Smart man. I thought you would.” There was a brief pause on the threshold, Downey turning with another phony smile and parting shot. “Enjoy your flight.”

      I must be slipping, Bolan thought. He’d missed the watchers back in San Diego, and again at the airport. It was an inauspicious start, but Bolan didn’t feel like backing down.

      Not yet.

      He thought of calling Hal Brognola in Washington and then decided not to risk it. If they had his room, they likely had the telephone, as well.

      He’d have to fix that, taking one step at a time.

      Slight change of plan.

      He had a tail to shake before he could begin his shopping spree.

      THE TAIL WAS obvious.

      Either they wanted it that way or Downey had a bunch of amateurs on staff, and Bolan didn’t think that was the problem.

      They were dogging him to send a message and to make sure Bolan—or Matt Cooper—didn’t rendezvous with anyone he may have come to meet. They would observe him every moment he was in Brazil, and thus prevent transaction of whatever covert business he’d agreed to in the States.

      But how much did they know?

      If they had Marta Enriquez covered, why not wait until Bolan made contact, then drop the net over all of them at once?

      Because they don’t know where she was, thought Bolan.

      And they wouldn’t get a fix from him.

      Not here. Not now.

      The black American sedan trailing his rented car was obvious. He drove around downtown Belém for fifteen minutes, circling blocks and twice ignoring stoplights, to make sure the glaring tail was no coincidence. When he was satisfied on that score, Bolan turned his mind to losing them and treating Downey to a message of his own.

      Step one was getting out of the hotel. They didn’t try to stop him when he walked out empty-handed, confident that even if he lost them somehow in the city, he would have to come back for his bag.

      But they were wrong.

      Bolan had packed light for the trip, knowing that most of his civilian trappings would be useless in the bush. Stuffing his pockets with the necessary items—wallet, money, passport, cell phone and GPS unit—he walked out of the place without a backward glance.

      The black sedan was waiting for him, and it had been on him ever since.

      After the downtown circuit, Bolan reckoned that he wouldn’t shake his watches by racing through alleys or running red lights. He’d satisfied himself that there was only one team watching him, which made it easier.

      Not easy in the classic sense, of course, but better than a running battle СКАЧАТЬ