full of bleating goats. There were at least another four cars in front. The barricade was no more than a couple of military-style jeeps parked on either side of the road and two wooden barriers, which could be raised and lowered. Half a dozen soldiers milled around.
The Executioner closed his eyes again. There was no point in looking nervous. It was just another day for a freelance journalist with a job to do. Just another checkpoint. Thompson didn’t seem nervous, either. The man had to pass through roadblocks every time he left the city. Three cars, then two, then one. It was the truck’s turn. The driver chatted with the soldiers a few minutes before being waved through.
Thompson drove the car to the makeshift barrier, smiling at the soldiers. They didn’t seem impressed, especially after spotting a white man in the passenger seat. Thompson was instructed to turn off his engine. A young soldier held his hand out for papers, never taking his eyes off Bolan or Thompson. The others stood back, hands on their AK-47s. The young soldier scanned the documents for a few seconds, discovered a small pile of US dollars hidden within and slid the money into his top pocket. He looked down at Thompson.
“Who this?” he asked in heavily accented English, indicating Bolan with his chin.
“Why, my new colleague!” Thompson said. “We came out looking for a story for our newspaper.”
“How you find story in desert?”
“Well—” Thompson lowered his voice conspiratorially “—I have a friend in the glorious Yemeni army, quite high up, a colonel, and he told me that you guys had a big gunfight out here somewhere in the desert. So my friend and I, well, we came looking. But then some soldiers turned us back, saying they would shoot us if we didn’t go away. So now we’re going to the airport to see what story is there.”
How much the soldier understood wasn’t clear, but he seemed to get the gist of it. He continued to stare suspiciously at Bolan and Thompson before finally waving them through. Whether it was the bribe that convinced the soldier, the mention of knowing a colonel or a combination of both, Bolan didn’t know. Thompson let out a breath, muttered something about good luck and drove away from the checkpoint at a cautious speed, apparently not wanting to raise further suspicion.
“The first of many,” he said.
Bolan closed his eyes again. The sun beat down. Thompson turned his inefficient car cooling system to full. Warm air blasted into Bolan’s face. He adjusted the vents so that they pointed toward his feet, then he dozed off.
They passed through another army checkpoint on the outskirts of the city. The situation was no different from the first: some money in one of the passports, answer a few questions about journalism, mention a nonexistent colonel and be waved through.
The city appeared in the distance. They passed the outlying buildings, billboards advertising cola, jeans, cars. Bolan asked for the cell phone, and Thompson passed it over. There was a strong signal. The soldier typed in a long number and waited for it to ring. The number was good for one call. Once used, the number would be reassigned by one of the phone companies, becoming a launderette or pizza parlor. The signal would pass through many cell phone providers and bounce off several satellites before being answered. The entire electronic journey took two seconds.
“Yes,” a disembodied voice answered.
“Six Alpha Green,” Bolan replied.
The phone clicked a few times, then Barbara Price came on the line.
“Striker?”
“Affirmative. The line is unsecure.”
“Understood.”
Bolan reached for the dashboard and turned the car’s roaring air system down in order to hear what was being said.
“Our friend was at the location, but had to depart quickly to meet his maker.”
“Understood.” There was slight relief in Price’s voice at the confirmation that Qutaiba was confirmed dead.
“I’m now heading back I’ll check in again at our other friend’s house.”
“Understood. Be advised that the boys in green have found a burning car in the desert. The local police have been informed.”
“Roger that.” Bolan broke the call and handed the cell phone back to Thompson.
“They found the burning UAZ,” he said, “and have informed police.”
“Yeah, I was afraid of that. The police won’t be as easy to please.”
“I could bail out and make my own way in.”
“What would that achieve? If you get caught, then you’ll have even more explaining to do. Stick together and we can give them the old dumb-Yankee-journalist routine.”
Thompson had a point, and Bolan decided to go with it. The concealed weapons were the only problem. The Executioner spotted an industrial building with several large garbage containers outside. There wasn’t much activity around the place.
“Pull over here.”
Thompson complied, driving the car up to the containers. Bolan reached behind the seat, to the compartment, and removed the two weapons and the blue notebook. Working quickly he stripped the two pistols to their component parts, emptied the magazines of bullets, then spent several moments spreading the contents among the garbage, ensuring that no two pieces could be found together. The ammunition was similarly dealt with. Bolan climbed back into the car, and they left the scene without anybody taking any notice.
Bolan flicked through the pages of the notebook. Some of it was in English, but the car bounced too much for him to be able to read anything clearly. He looked up from the book when Thompson began to slow the car. A police checkpoint loomed ahead, consisting of several police cars and an armored vehicle. The police were stopping and searching every vehicle entering the city. They watched as an officer mounted the tailgate of a truck before clambering in among the goats and sheep. The animals could clearly be heard bleating in protest. The policeman jumped out, the truck was waved on and the procedure began again with the next car. And the next. After ten minutes it was finally Bolan and Thompson’s turn.
The police officer who leaned into the vehicle was instantly suspicious. He held out his hand for their papers, while several armed colleagues moved up close. One began to check under the car. Bolan knew that if they had the equipment to check for traces of cordite, he would light up like a Christmas tree. The officer instructed them to get out. Bolan and Thompson complied. Bolan had tucked the blue notebook into his shirt’s top pocket, where it was clearly visible, hiding in plain sight. They were ushered away from their car as several policemen began the search, popping the trunk, the hood and clambering inside. They found the empty compartment easily. The first officer finished examining the two men’s papers and looked at them, staring coldly. Bolan knew he could easily stare back but didn’t, knowing that the challenge could be construed the wrong way. Instead he wore the air of someone slightly cowed and intimidated. Thompson remained cool, smiling at the official.
“No problems?” Thompson asked.
The man continued to stare. Eventually he broke his silence. “Where have you been?” he asked. The question sounded like an accusation.
“Well,” Thompson began, but the officer silenced him.
“I
