the blood Hassan saw that the hilt of a broad-bladed dagger still extended from his coat just beyond where he had felt the pinprick. He pulled out the knife and saw only the tiniest drop of blood on the tip. The wide, leaf-shaped blade had been a poor choice for assassination through heavy clothing.
It was not the kind of weapon a professional killer would choose on a cold night when men wore heavy layers of clothing. Which led him to believe the would-be assassin was an amateur, and that, in turn, answered his earlier question.
His relationship with the Americans was still secure. This attack was directly related to his personal sin rather than his work for them.
The man lying dead in the doorway had come to kill him for reasons personal rather than political.
2
“They told me you speak Dutch and Arabic,” Bolan said to Paxton as he grabbed the man’s elbow and pointed him toward the passenger terminal’s freight reception area in the distance. They had excited the plane through a hatch that led to the cargo hold, where they donned the overalls that baggage handlers wore.
“More Dutch than Arabic,” the Army Ranger said. “I’m not exactly what you’d call fluent in either. But I can hear enough Dutch right now to know that everybody—cops, reporters and airport officials—are all looking for us. The passengers are keeping their word and covering for us, saying we’re getting off last.”
“That should give us some time, then,” the Executioner said. “Come on.”
They quickly reached the freight area, where they passed several other men dressed in similar coveralls. The men didn’t give them a second look. Ducking into a stairwell to the side of the large room, Bolan led Paxton up the steps to the next landing and peered through a window in the door. What he saw looked more like a freight expedition area than what he wanted, so he said, “Let’s try one more level.”
The two men jogged up the next flight of steps, taking them two at a time.
This time, the Executioner looked through the window and saw what appeared to be a boarding room. Quickly stripping off their coveralls, he and Paxton dropped them in the stairwell and stepped out onto the carpet.
The excitement created by the attempted hijacking hadn’t seemed to reach this level of the terminal yet, and Bolan led the way past a duty-free shop and several ticket desks to a sign that read Passport Control in a variety of languages. He waited as an elderly couple got their passports stamped, then stepped up to the desk and pulled his own small blue book from inside his coat.
The uniformed man behind the counter glanced at the picture in the American passport, then Bolan’s face, and asked in English, “Business or pleasure, Mr. Cooper?”
“Primarily business,” Bolan answered. Then he smiled. “But I’ve never been to Amsterdam without having a good time, either.”
The uniformed official chuckled under his breath, stamped the passport and handed it back. “Have fun,” he said.
Bolan waited to the side as Brick Paxton handed the same man the passport Stony Man Farm had come up with for him. He was traveling under the name John Henry McBride, who was a general building contractor. The Executioner had learned that Paxton had worked construction during the summers when he’d been in high school, and had more than a passing knowledge of the business. So that was to be both men’s cover from now on. If anyone asked, they were in the Netherlands to check into both commercial and residential construction for the Brown Realty Holdings Company, out of Chicago, Illinois.
As soon as “McBride’s” passport had been stamped they were waved quickly through customs. They didn’t look like drug smugglers, but it wouldn’t have mattered much if they had in a country where most drugs were legal. The nonchalance shown by the Dutch customs officers reminded the Executioner of an old saying among drug abusers: “Taking your own dope to Amsterdam is like taking your wife to Paris.”
An elevator took them back down to the ground level, and they stepped out through the revolving doors of the terminal. Two minutes later Bolan had flagged down a cab. The cabbie took one look at the two men and immediately sized them up as Americans. “No luggage?” he asked in a thick Dutch accent.
Bolan shook his head. “We shipped it ahead of us.”
The cabbie wore a plaid driving cap with a short bill as he got back inside behind the wheel. “Where to?” he asked.
“The American Embassy,” the Executioner said.
The driver glanced up into the rearview mirror, the fact that he was impressed evident in his eyes. Without another word, he threw the cab into Drive and took off at breakneck speed, dodging in, out and around other vehicles with the daring for which certain cabdrivers are known the world over.
Forty-five minutes later they came to a screeching halt beneath an American flag mounted atop a pole sticking up out of a thick concrete wall. It waved in the breeze as if welcoming them as they got out.
Two U.S. Marine Corpsmen stood guard at the gate. Bolan and Paxton showed the men their passports. One of the Marines checked the list on the clipboard in the guard cubicle just inside the walls, then opened the gate and waved them in. The other Marine escorted them up a set of steps and into the building. He knocked loudly on a first-floor door at the rear of the embassy and waited for it to be opened.
When the door was answered, a short, overweight man chewing on one of the earpieces of a pair of reading glasses stood just inside the office.
“Mr. Cooper and Mr. McBride,” the Marine said. Then, with a stiff salute, he pivoted away from them and marched back down the hall.
“Come in. My name is Felix Young,” the short man said with one of the least enthusiastic tones of voice Bolan had ever heard. He was dressed in brown slacks below a pale blue sweater vest, with white shirt sleeves rolled up past his elbows. The knot of his necktie had been pulled down almost to the end of the V in the vest, and his general appearance was one of slovenliness. The office was in a similar state, with stacks of paper cluttering his desk, several tables and the tops of a half-dozen filing cabinets. Ashtrays scattered throughout the room overflowed with cigarette butts, and the stale smell of smoke hung in the air like the fog of a London morning.
Bolan’s eyes fell to a stack of luggage in the corner of the office. The suitcases and other bags were the only items in the office not covered in a thin coat of gray ash—which meant they couldn’t have been in the room very long. They likely contained Bolan’s and Paxton’s clothing and other gear, including their weapons, all of which had been flown over from America in diplomatic pouches.
Felix Young dropped into his seat behind the desk. Bolan and Paxton both looked around, but the chairs in front of the desk were as cluttered with paperwork as the rest of the furniture so they remained standing.
“I don’t know exactly who you are,” Young said in a tone that had only slightly more character and inflection in it than had his self-introduction. “And I don’t know exactly why you’re here.” He opened the top middle drawer of his desk, retrieved a crumpled package of unfiltered cigarettes. When he’d lit a cigarette, he went on. “And I’m not sure I want to know.” He drew in a lungful of smoke and looked up at the ceiling with complete uninterest.
Bolan was quickly tiring of the listless bureaucrat. The man was CIA—that much he knew because Hal Brognola had told him. As to any further
