pain in his head. Blood had run heavily down his face and soaked the front of his shirt. He struggled against the bonds at his wrists and ankles. He finally raised his head and stared across the room at Bolan.
“What’s your game?”
Bolan remained silent. He let it stretch, waiting until Novak looked around the room and saw Stratton’s corpse.
“Jesus, is he dead?”
“He’s dead. You can be next, Novak.”
The man shook his head. “If you wanted that, I’d already be dead. You want something. So we have a trade-off coming.”
“You can still end up like the deceased Mr. Stratton. Let’s be clear, Novak. If I can get what I want, fine. If not, I can go with what I have.”
“And what’s that?” Novak’s voice held a trace of a sneer.
“Your inventory. Your flight ticket and the reservation at Le Meridien Hotel in Aqaba, Jordan.”
“Maybe I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Then we don’t have anything to discuss,” Bolan said, and reached for the Beretta on the coffee table. “Like I said, it makes no difference to me. Two dead is just as acceptable. Actually it would make my life easier.”
BY THE TIME THE CLEANUP team arrived it was dark. Bolan had received an advance call and was there to let the four men into the apartment. They worked quickly and efficiently. Within twenty minutes Stratton’s body had been taken outside and placed in the trunk of Novak’s car. One of the men took the keys, slid behind the wheel and drove off. Novak, hands cuffed and mouth gagged, was taken out of the building and placed in the rear of the Rolls. All this was done with the minimum of fuss and at chosen moments so as not to alert anyone in the other apartments. There was only one of them that showed any light in a window, and close observation by the cleanup team ensured no one was watching. After the Rolls had driven out of the mews, the remaining member of the team handed Bolan a package.
“I believe this is what you’ve been waiting for, Cooper,” he said, using Bolan’s cover name.
“Thanks.”
They were standing in the gloom of the apartment, all the lights turned off following Stratton’s supposed departure.
“Novak?” Bolan asked.
“Don’t worry about him. Where he’s going they don’t have guest telephones. He’ll be out of circulation big-time until we get the word. Could be useful. We’ve been dying to get our hands on that character for some time. This gives us the opportunity to talk to him without his legal team breathing down our necks.”
“If you get anything that might be of use to me, I’d appreciate the information.”
“We know where to pass it along.” The man pointed at the laptop. “Likewise, anything we can use.”
“I’ll give my people the word to download the contents soon as they can.”
The apartment had offered up nothing else in the way of information. Bolan and the cleanup man slipped out of the apartment, pulling the door shut behind them. They stayed out of the security light and left the quiet mews. Bolan crossed to his rental car, the cleanup man already out of sight on the far side of the street. He started the vehicle and swung it around, his destination the military airfield where he had landed in the UK.
Military Airbase, Oxford, UK
“DOWNLOAD COMPLETE,” KURTZMAN said over the com link. “We’ll go to work on the files and give you anything useful.”
“Once I get to Jordan I might be out of touch for a while. There’s no way of knowing how this is going to play out.”
“Take it easy, big guy.”
Brognola came on the line. “The package you asked for?” He was referring to the passport Bolan had requested.
“Looks good. I don’t know how far it’s going to get me,” Bolan said. “If someone over there already knows Novak…”
“This is not a good idea,” Barbara Price said over the multilink. “You’re going to walk in blind.”
“It’s a chance I’ll have to take,” Bolan said. “I don’t have much more to go on, so I have to take what I’ve got.”
“Just watch yourself, Striker. Backup’s here. Just remember that.”
BOLAN, DRESSED CASUALLY AND carrying a small flight bag, arrived at Heathrow Airport well ahead of his flight time. He checked in and went to the departure lounge, bought himself a light snack and a coffee, and took a seat. He used the time to go over what he had already learned from his encounter with Stratton and Novak.
Prior to the arrival of the cleanup team, Novak had given Bolan what he wanted. The destination and time of a shipment that would complete his transaction with the group based in Jordan. Novak had finally accepted his delicate position in relation to staying alive. Stratton’s unexpected death had shaken the man, and Bolan’s cool demeanor had convinced him his continuing existence was dependant on cooperation.
Armed with that and the documents he had found, Bolan was going to step into the viper’s nest willingly. It wouldn’t be the first time. He knew he was putting himself at risk, but there was no way he could control all aspects of any mission. A degree of calculated risk was there, and Bolan had to chance it. There was no other way of moving forward.
At the back of his mind lingered the suggestion of some kind of Agency involvement. And that was something that would keep the Executioner looking over his shoulder.
CHAPTER FOUR
Aqaba, Jordan
Bolan’s flight touched down in Jordan just after noon. He hailed a taxi and headed to Le Meridien Hotel, where a room had been booked for Novak. Bolan checked in, went to his room and settled down to wait. When he had collected his key card, there had been a message waiting for Mr. Novak. It had informed him that he would be contacted and to wait at the hotel until then. There wasn’t much Bolan could do until that contact was made. Nothing happened during the rest of the day, and after a meal, he turned in and slept.
BOLAN SAUNTERED OUT OF the bathroom of his hotel room, towelling his hair dry after a cooling shower. He dressed in black, lightweight clothing and lace-up boots, then crossed to look out the second-story window. The sun was already up over the busy city.
Because of the high security in Jordan, Bolan had been forced to enter the country without the benefit of weapons. He hadn’t been happy with that idea, but he had been left with little choice. Somehow he was going to have to get his hands on some weapons.
As he considered his options, there was a light tap on his door.
“Who is it?”
“Clean towels, sir.”
When Bolan cautiously opened the door he was confronted by a lean man in a creased, cream linen suit. The man held a well-used Browning Hi-Power pistol, and was pointing
