Blood Testament (7 page)

But he was counting on the Executioner to grant him some alternative, an escape hatch from what appeared to be a hopeless situation. Bolan had a knack for turning circumstances upside down, attacking hopeless problems with unique solutions. Given any chance at all, the soldier would retrieve Brognola's family — or wreak such awesome vengeance on the enemy that Hal might find some private solace in the ashes.

Gruffly he dismissed the morbid thoughts and concentrated on the image of a family reunion. He could not afford to write his family off so early in the game, when there was still a fighting chance of their recovery. He had until six o'clock, and in that time he would be scanning the computer files for any Dino/Gino sound-alikes who fit the bill.

The operation reeked of Mob involvement, and he had already put the several groups of active terrorists out of mind. Despite their tendency toward violence and abduction, none had any use for the existing roster of protected witnesses. The rare defectors, others who were brave enough to testify in trials resulting from the recent wave of urban terror, were too well-known already, marked for death on sight. As far as undercover operatives, there had been slim success at infiltrating terrorist brigades, and Justice had no agents currently in place.

It would be syndicate or nothing, and the thought did not restore Brognola's confidence. He knew the kind of talent readily available for jobs like this and realized that any one of — what, a thousand mercenary guns? — might whack his family for the hell of it, regardless of his acquiescence to demands.

So many enemies, and every one a proved killer. He could never hope to see his family alive again without a killer of his own to even up the odds.

A killer like Mack Bolan, sure. An Executioner.

The charter flight dropped Bolan at an airport near the University of Maryland, three miles from Hyattsville. It offered him the dual advantages of light security and close proximity to Washington, his final Georgetown destination only ten miles as the crow flies. Bolan tipped the pilot from his war chest — heavily enough to keep him happy, not so heavily that it would set him talking in the local bars — and headed off in search of a rental car.

He would have saved an hour with a scheduled direct flight to Washington, but Bolan wasn't interested in taking chances with security. His luggage held enough assorted hardware to ignite a minor war, and he would be needing it if Leo's problem was as serious as it had sounded on the phone. Hal's problem, he corrected as he spied the Avis window. Either way it cut, he was needed, and the knowledge of a friend in danger left him no alternative.

He took a midsize Ford and stowed his luggage in the trunk then retrieved the Beretta 93-R with its shoulder rigging, tucking it beneath his jacket as he slid behind the wheel. A roadside turnout halfway into Hyattsville provided Bolan with an opportunity to slip on the rigging, and he felt better as he nosed the Ford back into traffic. Whatever happened next, he was prepared to answer fire with fire. No longer feeling naked, vulnerable, Bolan focused upon his mission in D.C.

There had been no time for elaboration on the telephone, no inclination for Sticker to discuss his business on an open line. The urgency was obvious, and Bolan knew it was not in Leo's nature to exaggerate. The open conversation would be enough to ruin him if anyone was tapping in. By the very nature of the risk involved he had communicated desperation, and it wasn't Leo's style to overdramatize.

The Executioner recalled another time, in Pittsfield, when the undercover Fed had sounded equally upset. On that occasion, Turrin's wife had been abducted and held hostage by a group of renegades within the Marinello Family. The hostiles had him pegged for an informer and were planning to exert the kind of leverage that never failed. But they failed disastrously by omitting Bolan from their calculations. They had not prepared themselves for hell on earth, and in the end they were unable to stand hard before the flames.

Bolan knew Hal and Leo would brief him when they met. For now, his sole objective was to arrive at the contact point. Before he flew, a call from Kennedy had netted him the address of a townhouse in Georgetown, and he stopped again in Hyattsville to phone ahead, confirm that he was on the ground and homing in. The traffic worsened mile by mile, became a snarl as Bolan crossed the line from Maryland to D.C. proper. The final run to Georgetown was a short six miles, but it took the soldier forty minutes, hitting every red light on the way.

The neighborhood was quiet, stately, home to senators, diplomats and cabinet members. Turrin's safe house, purchased in the early days of the protected witness program, was a condo overlooking the Potomac, with a striking view of Arlington across the water. Bolan found a parking space and locked the Ford, secure in the knowledge that police patrols would keep the average car thief off those cloistered streets. Avoiding the flamboyance found in certain areas of Southern California, for example, the neighborhood still exuded affluence and style. His car, big enough and new enough to pass a rough inspection, would no doubt remind the neighbors of a poor relation visiting from out of town.

He crossed the sidewalk and climbed a flight of steps with decorative hedges on either side. Another moment and he would be swallowed up, invisible to neighbors on the north and south. Behind him, at a distance of some fifty yards, the dark Potomac swept along its timeless course, conveying passengers and cargo toward the sea.

The townhouse was defensible, he saw at once, its proximity to the adjoining structures limiting the opposition's angle of attack. Determined shock troops, striking with the full advantage of surprise, could storm the place, but they would pay a price in blood before they cleared the windows. Aside from that, the first barrage would send the neighbors into shock and have them reaching for their telephones to call the police.

The uniformed response to any shooting call in Georgetown would be swift, decisive. Washington had heard enough of senators attacked while walking to and from the parking lots around the Capitol. Determined to survive with dignity, despite the proximity of reeking ghettos and a violent crime rate equal to some cities twice her size, the seat of government was going hard. The soldier wondered if it might be too late. He knocked and waited for a moment, hearing footsteps from within and standing tall before the unobtrusive spy hole mounted in the center of the door. Leo fumbled with the double lock then stood before him, grinning weakly. "Hey, long time."

They shook hands warmly, then the soldier followed him inside.

"Looks cozy."

"It'll do." He hesitated, finally beckoning the Executioner to follow him. "I'm glad you could make it."

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that, guy." The sunken living room was on their left as Bolan followed Leo down a narrow hallway. Hal Brognola rose to greet them, setting down his whiskey glass. Bolan shook his hand then sat down beside him on a sofa facing picture windows, which were curtained now against the threat of prying eyes.

"You made good time," Brognola said. "I caught a charter."

Bolan cleared his throat, aware that there was no time to be wasted on preliminary small talk. "So, let's have it."

And Brognola gave it to him, everything that had happened in the hours since he signed off work on Friday evening. Bolan took it in, refraining from the vacuous commiseration that does nothing to relieve the suffering of the bereaved. He understood Hal's pain, had been there — and beyond — on more than one occasion, and he knew that what Brognola needed at the moment was decisive action to retrieve his loved ones. Platitudes and sympathy were useless in the present situation. If he couldn't get the big Fed's family back, his most sincere condolences wouldn't be worth a damn.

"No progress on the name?"

It was a long shot, almost laughable, and when Brognola shook his head, the Executioner felt no surprise.

"It's hopeless. I've got seven different guys who might be 'Gino' in the local Family alone. That's seven guys we know about, and never mind the other Families from coast to coast."

"You have some reason to believe it's national?"

"I haven't got the faintest fucking notion
what
it is," Brognola said, disgusted with himself. He downed his whiskey and started for a refill, then thought better of it and pushed back the empty glass.

The Executioner relaxed a bit. Despite his pain Brognola was maintaining self-control. A lesser man, with booze at hand, might have been verging on unconsciousness by now.

"Let's call it local for the moment," Bolan said. "What's going on that might provoke this kind of action?"

Leo glanced at Hal and answered for his boss.

"I'm running down a drug connection that involves some congressmen. It's youngbloods, mostly, but we've locked in on a heavy name or two along the way."

"How strong is the connection?"

"That's the problem. We can prove possession based on what we have right now. I've got a junior senator set up to fall for dealing. As for the supplier..."

"Is there any doubt?"

He shook his head.

"No doubt at all, except we haven't got a thing to hang indictments on. This time next month we might be ready for arrests."

It was a tantalizing lead, but years of jungle warfare had conditioned Bolan to search for hidden traps before he forged ahead.

"I understand that Gianelli's still in charge."

"You called it."

"And he has some difficulties at the moment?"

Turrin smiled.

"What Nicky has right now are multiple indictments charging tax evasion, a subpoena for the President's commission and the makings of a shooting war with Cuba's finest."

"Plus your own investigation."

Leo nodded.

"Right."

"So there's a motivation. With your witness list, he has the chance to plug some leaks and maybe win some points with other Families."

"I know a dozen capos who would kiss his ass on Pennsylvania Avenue to get those names," Brognola growled.

"And with the names of undercover officers..."

"He cripples out continuing investigations," Leo finished for him.

"So."

"It fits."

"All right, it fits," Brognola snapped. "But what about this other bullshit at the office?"

Bolan spread his hands. "Somebody wants that information," he reiterated. "Call it Gianelli for the moment. But he also wants you out, discredited before you have a chance to blow the whistle. As it is, you'll be suspected of delivering the information for a price. Two birds with one stone, Hal. Case closed."

"Okay, so what's the answer?"

Bolan's smile was thin, devoid of warmth. "The shortest route is still a straight line," he replied. "Remember Boston?"

Something dark and fearful flickered in Brognola's eyes. "It's not the kind of thing you're likely to forget."

"I'm turning on the heat, beginning now. Let Gianelli simmer for a while and see what comes up to the top."

"I may not have a while," Brognola told him earnestly. "They're calling me at six, remember?"

Bolan checked his watch. "Go home and wait. Hang tough. No matter what they say, you need more time. If the snatch and frame-up are connected, then they have to know you're working with a handicap."

"My family..."

"Is safe until you make delivery."

And even as he spoke, the soldier wondered if his words were true. There was no guarantee that someone on the firing line would not get hinky, blow it in an angry moment. Hal Brognola knew it too, but in the absence of alternatives he would be forced to follow Bolan's lead.

"All right."

"With any luck, I should have time to make a tag or two before you take that call."

Brognola cleared his throat, his weathered face a study in anxiety. "You've got another stop to make," he told the soldier haltingly. "Somebody wants to see you."

Bolan stiffened. "Come again?"

"The Man is anxious for a face-to-face. He's waiting for my call."

The soldier shook his head. "No good. We've played that scene before."

It was as if Brognola's frown were etched in stone. "He's given me two days. The sit-down was his price."

"You made the deal. You call it off."

"I can't do that. Considering the so-called evidence, this meeting is the only thing that's kept me on the street. You need me on the outside if we're going to make this work."

And Bolan couldn't get around his logic. The abductors would not deal with intermediaries if Brognola was arrested. Bolan needed time in which to rattle cages, turn the heat up under Nicky Gianelli and his outfit, but the time could only be obtained through Hal's negotiations with the enemy. If he should disappear, break contact suddenly, his family was as good as dead.

The news of an impending sit-down with the President had taken Leo Turrin by surprise, as well. Before the Executioner could grudgingly consent, the former mafioso blurted out a cautionary warning.

"I don't like it," he declared. "It's got the makings of a setup."

Bolan smiled. "I don't think so," he said at last. "Okay, confirm the meet and give me the coordinates. I want it somewhere public, where I won't get claustrophobia."

"No problem." Hal was on his feet, already moving toward the kitchen and the telephone. He hesitated in the doorway, cleared his throat again. "Uh, Striker..."

Bolan heard it coming, moved to squelch the words of gratitude. "It's premature," he said. "Let's see what happens."

With a thoughtful nod, Brognola disappeared. A moment later they heard his muffled voice in conversation on the telephone.

"I didn't know about this meeting," Turrin told him.

"Forget it. If the Man was working on a scam, he'd have the troops outside right now. I'm just concerned about the wasted time."

And time was one commodity that they were short of at the moment, Bolan realized. Within the hour, Hal would be receiving his instructions for delivery of the information, stalling if he could, and listening to threats against his family. The Executioner had never seriously entertained the thought that Hal would fold, deliver names of undercover officers and witnesses in hiding, but he was afraid of the alternatives. The guy might crack, agree to the delivery with an eye toward laying hands on someone he could squeeze for information. In his emotional state, Brognola might react with violence that would doom himself and seal his family's fate — unless he had the nerve to sit and wait, ride out the threats and anything that followed, placing all his faith in Bolan and the Executioner's ability to turn the heat on his enemies.

There was an outside chance that Gianelli's family had no hand in the abduction, but it didn't matter in the long run. Nothing on this scale could happen in a capo's jurisdiction if he had not granted his approval. Gianelli was the key, regardless of his personal involvement in the plot. If he was innocent, so much the better; it would make him that much more inclined to cut his losses and reveal the guilty parties once he felt the heat of Bolan's wrath.

Whoever was behind the scam, they had been making use of Gianelli's Washington connections, and from all appearances the tentacles at Justice had been long enough to touch Brognola where he lived. It would be part of Bolan's mission to identify those tentacles, to search them out and sever them before their probing grip became a stranglehold.

If he was not too late.

The recent revelations of corruption in the FBI and NSA had shaken confidence in national security, but random spies imparting information to the Soviets were few and far between. The greater risk by far was the domestic threat of infiltration and subversion by the native cannibals who had so much to gain by undermining honest government: the lobbyists who lavished cash and gifts on pliant legislators; corporation presidents who kicked through with illegal contributions in the nick of time; the manicured mobsters standing ready with their payoffs and assorted favors in return for service rendered — venal politicians, outlaw businessmen, and gangsters fattening on both.