was frightened beyond the point where he could even concentrate. “No!” he said in a loud voice, his eyes clenched shut against the light. “No! I am not Hezbollah! I am not a terrorist! I am—”
There were men who wouldn’t talk unless you threatened them and other men who turned incoherent when frightened for their lives. Bartovi fell into the second category, and Bolan brought him back to reality with a light slap across the face. At the same time he dropped the beam to the ground. The light, reflecting off the steel inner walls of the shed, was still bright enough to illuminate the entire area.
Bolan holstered the Desert Eagle. “Relax, Mani,” he said. “I know you aren’t a terrorist—you’re a hardworking cabdriver trying to support a family. Now, let me tell you what I am. I’m a man of my word. You tell me what I need to know and you’ll be fine.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of large denomination bills. “And I told you I’d pay you. I will.”
Bartovi slowly opened his eyes. The expression on his face was one of relief that the huge Desert Eagle was no longer in sight. Then it changed to nothing short of lust when he saw the money that had replaced it in Bolan’s hand.
“The man with the limp,” the Executioner repeated. “He may have spoken Farsi. But he would have done it with either an American or Russian accent.”
For the first time, Bartovi looked up at Bolan. “I remember him, yes,” the cabdriver said. “The accent was…very odd. Not really Russian. Not really American. More a little of both.”
The Executioner nodded. That made perfect sense for a man who had been raised in the Soviet Union but had spent the majority of his adult life in the U.S. “Where did you take him?” he asked.
Bartovi closed his eyes again but this time it was in concentration. “To the airport,” he said.
Bolan frowned. “Which terminal?”
“I am sorry,” Bartovi said, frowning. “I do not know that English word.”
“What airline?” the Executioner asked. “At what airline company’s area did you let him out?”
“Ah,” Bartovi said. “Yes. Iran Aseman Airlines.”
Bolan handed him roughly half of the bills.
Bartovi took them and stared down at his hand in shock, as if he had never truly believed that the big American with the big gun would really keep his word.
With the rest of the money still in his hand, Bolan said, “Did the man say anything about where he was going?”
Again, the eyes closed in concentration. When they opened again, the cabdriver said, “No.”
Bolan’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sure?” he said, the hand with the money in it moving a little closer to the Desert Eagle again. He wanted to make sure Bartovi understood he would be rewarded for telling the truth. But the Iranian cabbie also needed believe that punishment awaited any lies.
“Yes, yes, I am sure,” Bartovi said quickly. “I only hesitated because I was trying to remember.”
Bolan nodded and divided the money in his hand in half again. “Do you have a car?” he asked. “I’ll pay you to use it if you do.”
Bartovi shook his head, glancing regretfully at the bills remaining in the Executioner’s fist.
Bolan shoved the rest of the money into his hand. “Take this anyway,” he said. “You’ve cooperated.” Bartovi was trembling slightly again. It was evident that he still couldn’t believe the big stranger wasn’t going to kill him, then take the money back. “I doubt anyone will know I was here,” he finished. “But if they ask, you never saw me. Right?”
Bartovi nodded. “I never saw you,” he repeated.
The Executioner left the cabdriver in his toolshed and hurried back along the side of the house, exiting the courtyard through the same gate by which he’d entered. Turning, he started down the sidewalk. He had dumped the Mustang because, even though he’d paid the owner three times its worth, the man had probably reported it stolen. By now every cop in Tehran would have the license tag. He needed new wheels.
Less than half of the streetlights were working and Bolan stayed in the shadows as he jogged back to the Archaeological Museum. There was a mechanic’s shop across the street with two cars in the parking lot: a Pontiac Bonneville and a Dodge Dart GT that dated back to the mid-1960s. As he got closer, Bolan saw that the Bonneville’s front wheels were gone and it rested atop concrete blocks.
The Dodge Dart was old and required hot-wiring beneath the dash. But its 273-cubic-inch engine purred easily. With “four on the floor” and a silver T-handled gearshift knob, it was obvious that it was the pride and joy of some wannabe racer.
Bolan pushed in the clutch, threw the car in reverse and backed it away from the building. Pushing the T-handle forward into first gear, he slowly let the clutch out and eased back toward the street.
TRAFFIC THINNED as he left Tehran and headed for Rey again. Bolan manipulated the vehicle deftly up and down through the gears, staying just below the speed limit and keeping a low profile. When he hit a stretch where he could glide in fourth, he reached into the leather jacket to his side and pulled out his cell phone.
A few moments later Price answered. “Hello again, Striker.”
“I need Bear again, Barbara,” Bolan said as Tehran proper faded in his rearview mirror.
“Then you’ve got him.” The line clicked.
A second later Kurtzman lifted the phone. Bolan quickly summed up what he’d learned about Sobor going to the airport. “There’s no sense my going out there,” he told Stony Man Farm’s computer ace. “I don’t know who to ask for and don’t even speak the language.” He stopped talking, knowing there was no need to verbalize his next request; Kurtzman would know what he wanted.
“I think I might be able to help,” the computer man said. “I’ve been doing a little playing around since we talked. But first, you might want to know that you’re big news all over right now.”
Bolan frowned. “How’s that?”
“Iran’s riding the bust at the safehouse for all it’s worth, trying to use it to show the world how tough they’re getting on terrorism.”
“I’m not surprised. Since their terrorist buddies are already dead, they might as well get some use out of them.”
“Exactly,” Kurtzman said. “There are pictures of dead terrorists all over Al-Jazera and the other networks over there. Not to mention CNN, MSNBC, FOX—you name it.” Half a world away, the man in the wheelchair chuckled. “The holes in the dead men’s bodies look strangely .44 caliber to me, but then, what do I know?”
Bolan guided the Dodge on through the night, nearing Rey. “You said you’d been playing around,” he said. “I assume your magic machines have told you something?”
“Oh, yeah,” Kurtzman said. “Just thought I’d let you in on what the whole world knows first. Now, for your ears only, as the saying goes, I tapped into the Iranian secret police radio frequency and our translator’s been listening and jotting
