style="font-size:15px;"> Bolan retreated. The man knew his business. He stayed far enough away from Bolan to avoid being jumped while keeping the 9 mm gun on target. However much he might have disliked the situation Bolan wasn’t reckless enough to try to take the gun away from the man just yet. Not until he had gained some information at least.
The man followed Bolan inside, pushing the door shut with the heel of one worn and scuffed brown shoe. The cuffs of his pants were grubby around their frayed edges, and the overlong legs dragged on the floor when he stood still.
“Am I supposed to be expecting you?” Bolan asked. “Or is this just some local custom?”
The man’s wrinkled brown face creased into a semblance of a smile. “You had a message waiting when you arrived?”
Bolan nodded. “It said to wait, so I waited.” He turned and indicated his breakfast cart that had arrived minutes earlier. “You mind if I finish my coffee before it goes cold?”
The man gestured with the Browning, then went and sat on the other side of the room, the gun still trained on Bolan.
“You want any?”
The man shook his head. His black hair was worn thick and long, and kept sliding over his left eye. He brushed it back with a flick of his hand.
Bolan drank his coffee. “You know who I am.”
“Forgive me. I am Salim.”
“And your job is to…?”
Salim smiled. “I am your escort.”
“Why the gun?”
“To maintain mutual trust and ensure your good heath.”
“You speak good English.”
“Thank you. For an Englishman you have a very good American accent.”
Bolan didn’t miss a beat. “That’s what happens when you spend too much time over there. I do a lot of business with the Yanks. Goes down better if they understand what I’m saying.”
“I need to see your passport and a certain letter.”
Bolan handed over the items and watched the man study them. Finally satisfied, Salim pushed them into a pocket.
“Time to go,” he said.
Bolan pulled on his jacket. They left the room and made their way out of the hotel lobby without incident. Once outside, Salim guided Bolan to a black Audi. A solidly built man sat at the wheel. All Bolan saw were wide, powerful shoulders and a shaved head set on a thick neck.
“In the back,” Salim said. He followed Bolan inside, then spoke in rapid Arabic to the driver. The Audi swung around and out of the hotel parking area, merging with the traffic.
“Are we doing business, Salim? Or are we just going to tour the city?”
“Enjoy, Mr. Novak. This is a beautiful city. Look at the architecture. The sea.”
“I can do that on the travel channel.”
“True, but not with all the ingredients. Television is a false medium. Not real. Like you, Mr. Novak. It only pretends to be what is is.”
In that instant Bolan knew his claim to be Jason Novak hadn’t been believed. He was ready to make a move when Salim suddenly lashed out with the Browning Hi-Power, striking him across the skull.
BOLAN AWOKE IN A SHADED room that held the stale odors of casual existence in the dusty shadows and a scent of danger that heightened his awareness.
He sat up, leaned against the wall at his back and took a look around. Shabby furniture occupied a shabby room. Sunlight permeated the thin blinds drawn across the windows. He was facing the door and as he focused his eyes, pushing back the dull ache from where Salim had struck him, he saw the man watching him. Salim said something and a second figure materialized from the far side of the room. The driver. On his feet he was tall. His dark features held an expression that suggested he was more than ready to inflict harm on Bolan.
“Tell me where Novak is. And refrain from maintaining this deception. I know you are not Novak. Your false identity was spotted at the airport. Whatever your intention, it has failed.”
“It got you out in the open.”
“Much good that will do.”
“The game isn’t over yet, Salim.”
“If I shoot you now, it will most certainly be over.”
Bolan ignored that. “I’d guess you need to know why I took Novak’s place.”
Salim stepped forward. “And you are going to tell me.” It wasn’t a question. “I am also still curious about Novak himself. Is he dead?”
“I’m sure you’d like that to be true. Novak dead means he can’t talk about you and your people. Sorry, but he’s very much alive. The people who have him are very good at getting what they want. He’ll tell them everything in time.”
Salim closed in on Bolan, raising the pistol in his hand. “Death comes quickly in this country. Life can be cheap.”
“But not from you, Salim. You need my secrets. Kill me, and you’ll never find out what I’ve learned about your organization.”
“Nothing. You know nothing.” The words were spit out in an angry moment. He didn’t believe Bolan. Salim was eager to inflict harm, but something held him back and the soldier figured he had his orders. His threats were threats and little more.
“Your employers believe that? Razihra? Yamir Kerim? Anatoly Nevski? Hard men to keep happy I’d say.”
Bolan was deliberately goading Salim, using names he hoped would get a reaction. And they did. Salim failed to conceal his surprise. The man was nervous. Excitable. He turned and said something to his helper. The big man came forward, his large hands forming even larger fists.
“You will tell me all you know,” Salim said. “I need to understand.”
Bolan pushed slowly to his feet, watching the advancing figure. The man was slow, his movements heavy. No fast mover, Bolan realized. He’d work on that. The man depended on his strength, not his speed.
Salim was urging on his man now, his Arabic racing out in a continuous stream. The guy reached behind him and produced a broad knife. He cut the air with it to show Bolan what was coming.
“Yusef is very skilled with the blade,” Salim said. “He can cut you and you will still live. Save yourself the pain and give me what I need.”
Yusef leaned forward, the gleaming steel blade threatening Bolan.
“It is not too late.”
Bolan ignored Salim’s taunt. He stayed where he was a second longer, then spun hard and went low, driving a clenched fist into Yusef’s groin, catching him unprotected. Bolan’s fist went in deep, drawing a high yell from the guy. While Yusef’s attention
