is simple. I changed my mind. You see, we have had this butcher,” Tachjine said, and spit on Kairoush’s corpse, “under surveillance for months. He and his murderers are responsible for close to eighty dead in this city. We’re aware of his dealings with the Americans and the North Koreans. I needed to be sure you gentlemen were not part of the conspiracy that is brewing in my country.”
“You’ve got a damn strange way of seeking the truth.” Dawkins was out in the open still, square in the spotlight, his Glock trained on Tachjine.
“It was the only way.” Tachjine lowered his subgun, waved at his commandos to stand down. “My government has pledged cooperation with your country in the war against the terror savages. We have been receiving these past months aid from the United States. You send your operatives here with money, weapons, intelligence. You have further built our Special Forces with helicopter gunships, high-tech equipment we desperately needed to keep Morocco from becoming like our filthy dogs of neighbors, the Algerians.”
“Tell us something we don’t know, Tachjine,” Dawkins snapped.
Tachjine nodded at Kairoush. “As for this jackal, he is only one more dead terrorist who can never again murder innocents.”
Bolan wasn’t quite buying Tachjine’s crusading act. “So where do we go from here, Commander?”
“Why, we go get the Suitcase from God the North Koreans smuggled into my country.”
“You know where it is?” Dawkins said.
“Or did you know where it was all along?” Bolan added.
“A reconnaissance aircraft, with the help of your people stationed in the city,” Tachjine said, “has pinpointed the location of the Americans and the North Koreans. It is a large camp, used by this dead jackal to train and build his fundamentalist army. I have transport arranged and a battle strategy mapped out.”
“And you’re going to cut us out?” Bolan demanded.
“Hardly. I need your assistance. I will even allow you,” Tachjine told Bolan, “to review my strike plan, as co-commander. I regret this encounter, but as I said, I needed to know which side you were on.”
Bolan grunted. “We could wonder the same about you.”
“Indeed.”
“Why do I get the feeling I’m not getting the whole picture?” Bolan posed.
“There is no picture,” Tachjine said, “other than my desire to rid my country of terrorist vermin.”
Dawkins chuckled as he lowered his weapon. “You want that suitcase nuke, don’t you? You want a trophy, something to hold up to your bosses so you can—”
“Nonsense!” Tachjine growled. “I am one of the most powerful men in Morocco. As for career advancement, I have gone as far as I wish to go, and politics has no appeal to me. I do not wish for my country to be viewed as a safe haven where tactical nuclear devices or any other weapons of mass destruction can be shipped and purchased here as easily as one might buy a carpet in the souk.”
Bolan stowed the Beretta, but held on to the Uzi, dropping it by his side as he stepped out into the open. “I needed this man, Tachjine. I suspected he knew where I could find three assassins who call themselves Al-Jassaca.”
“Yes, I know of whom you speak. They are in Pakistan.”
“That much I could have figured out on my own,” Bolan said.
“There is a strong possibility I can steer you to a cell here in the city who can give you the information you seek on Al-Jassaca. But, first—do you wish to assist us in our surgical strike against the camp?”
Bolan felt Dawkins staring at him as he stepped toward the Moroccan counterterrorist commander. “Let’s hear what you have.”
BARAKA FELT HIS NERVES, taut as a garrote around some victim’s neck, a hot anger bubbling in his gut the longer he stood around, sensing the heat build in the tent, mentally hashing over everything that could go wrong. The NKs were busy rolling the cash through their battery-powered money counters, grunting, mumbling to one another in their native tongue, while he and his men stood their ground like lackeys waiting for approval. Their granite expressions didn’t shift an inch from what he read as either contempt or disdain, their stares fixed on the numbers scrolling up on the digital readouts. And Baraka was on the verge of a quasi-tirade, figured to kick some life into their smug asses, eager for Colonel Kimsung to show him how to activate the suitcase nuke. He wanted out of Morocco, every bit as bad as the NKs, his paranoia radar all of a sudden blipping off the screen. So far the operation was running smoothly, but when it all looked and felt too easy…
He’d never known easy. Easy street was for brass, or the fat cats of the Consortium.
To throw gasoline onto the potential firestorm, Baraka could tell Engels and Morallis had shot themselves up with Z-Clops. Of course, he had passed on the order—it was up to each soldier whether he chose to inject the steroid-meth derivative—but this was the first time he was watching his own men morphing into possible rabid werewolves before his eyes. Even with the bite of the cold night air seeping into the tent, beads of sweat were mottling their faces, eyes bugging, the air practically whistling out their nostrils as if they were on the verge of hyperventilating or exploding out of their skin. A glance at their hands, and he found them trembling, knuckles stark white as if they were about to snap their subguns in two or rush the North Koreans in a wild cannibal frenzy. How many others under his command had gone ahead and fueled themselves with Z-Clops?
Baraka silently cursed. This wasn’t good. The stocky little Kimsung was throwing them dark looks, eyelids slitting so narrow Baraka could barely see his beady eyes, but suspected the North Korean Special Forces colonel knew they weren’t playing with a full deck, or were so edged out on fear and paranoia he believed they might start blasting any second. Baraka knew there were soldiers under his command who had track records of drug and alcohol abuse, wouldn’t think twice about juicing their systems with Z-Clops, if only to propel them into battle with an edge. Luckily the North Koreans only toted shoulder-holstered pistols, but the last problem Baraka needed was a shootout when he was surrounded by a few platoons of fanatics, many of whom, he was sure, wanted to seize that suitcase for their jihad.
“It’s all there, Colonel,” Engels suddenly said, eyes bulging, flickering over the North Koreans like ricocheting pinballs. “Close to ten mil, just like we said. So how much longer do we need to stand here and watch you count Kim Jong’s booty?”
Morallis jumped into the act, as Kimsung glowered at Engels. “Your little tyrant-buffoon you bow and scrape before while millions of your countrymen starve to death? That pint-size clown who spends his day swilling imported Scotch and watching Star Trek reruns and Rambo, and who claims he’s a god descendant from the UFO mothership? He isn’t going let you see the first Franklin of that, so let’s stop dicking around here and break open that suitcase.”
“Other words,” Engels growled, “we’re busy men. Places to go, things to do, Angolans to kill.”
“Take it easy,” Baraka snapped, his heart racing, poised for the worst as Kimsung wheeled on him.
“What is wrong with your men to talk to me with such insolence and disrespect?” Kimsung rasped.
“They’re tired and they’re
