lifted the nylon shoulder rig that bore his sound-suppressed 9 mm Beretta 93-R and slid into it, fastening the retainers at the bottom to his belt. A close-fitting plastic belt holster went onto his hip, and he removed the.44 Magnum Desert Eagle from the web belt he’d worn over the blacksuit and snapped it into place.
Extra magazines for the Beretta, and a TOPS SAW—Special Assault Weapon—knife, in a sheath—hung under his right arm, helping to balance out the weight of the Beretta and sound suppressor. Pouches on his belt carried spare .44 Magnum magazines. He covered all of the weapons with the sport coat, then slid back between the seats as Platinov had done a few moments earlier.
By the time the Executioner had taken the passenger’s seat, the Russian woman had guided the Nissan out of the Notre Dame district into a quieter part of town. People still walked up and down the sidewalks, but those sidewalks were lined with hostels, hotels and bed-and-breakfasts.
“Where do you want to stop?” the Russian agent asked.
“One’s as good as another as far as I’m concerned. Just find a place to park.”
Platinov let a tiny laugh escape her lips as she spotted an open space along the street and pulled up to the side of the car in front of it, preparing to parallel park.
“Did I miss something?” the Executioner asked.
“Only something in my mind,” Platinov said as she twisted the wheel and her neck, backing up into the open space before pulling forward again. “I was just thinking about the fact that everywhere else I go, and everyone else I go there with, takes orders from me. When I am with you, however, I seem to automatically follow your lead.”
When Bolan didn’t respond, Platinov added, “I wonder why that is?”
Bolan still remained silent.
“Perhaps it is because we have slept together,” Platinov went on as she twisted the key and killed the Nissan’s engine. “I do not sleep with every male I work with, you know,” she added somewhat defensively as she pulled the key out of the ignition.
“I never thought you did,” Bolan replied. “Now, let’s get checked in and see what leads we can find in that bag, okay?”
Platinov nodded. “Okay,” she said simply and exited the vehicle.
Bolan and Platinov entered the lobby of a hotel directly in front of their car. Letting the straps from their nondescript equipment bags slide onto the hardwood floor as they reached the front desk, Bolan stared at an open door behind the counter. When no one appeared, he tapped a bell on the countertop.
A surly faced, unshaven man wearing a coffee-stained white undershirt and dark trousers appeared in the doorway, then waddled to the counter. The shirt stretched across his immense belly as tight as one of the Executioner’s own blacksuits, and the ribbed stitching threatened to burst apart with every bounce brought on by the man’s steps. The stub of a cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth, sending wisps of smoke upward into the air. Without bothering to greet them, the man in the filthy undershirt reached beneath the counter, pulled out a registry card and slid it across the slick top.
Bolan registered them as Mr. and Mrs. Josh Murphy, of Enid, Oklahoma.
The unshaven man dropped a key attached to a large wooden stick on the countertop and said simply, “Passports.”
Bolan reached into one of the bags and pulled out a pair of the blue booklets. They had been made up for both him and Platinov by experts at Stony Man Farm, the top-secret counterterrorist installation with whom the Executioner sometimes worked.
The man in the dirty clothing glanced at the pictures inside the passports. As the Executioner and Marynka Platinov moved toward the elevator, Bolan noticed him leering at the Russian woman’s buttocks as she walked.
Platinov appeared to notice it, too. A slightly disgusted frown spread across her face.
A few minutes later, Bolan unlocked a door beneath the number 307. Holding it open for Platinov, he looked in to see the sparsely furnished room. A threadbare brown plaid bedspread was stretched tightly across the twin bed, and a chipped wooden table and two chairs set against a wall. Other than that, the room was empty.
“You always take me to the nicest places, Cooper,” Platinov said, dropping her bags on the bed.
“Thanks, Plat,” he said simply. He dropped his own luggage on the ragged rug on the floor. But immediately, he picked up the canvas bag that contained what they had collected from the corpses at the safe house. Setting it on the table, he took a seat in one of the splintery wooden chairs.
Platinov sat down across from him.
Bolan unzipped the bag, then turned it over, dumping the contents onto the tabletop. Out came a wide variety of objects, from key rings and more hideout guns and knives, to folded papers, receipts, chewing gum wrappers, billfolds, money clips and broken cigarettes. One man had been a cigar smoker, and a leather cigar case carried three medium-sized cigars with Cuban wrappers.
Bolan examined the cigars, careful not to touch the label, which might retain a fingerprint. Rising to his feet, he dropped the cigar and moved to the bed. From one of the black, zippered cases he produced a small fingerprint kit and a package of blank index cards. He returned to his chair.
“Separate everything that might hold a print,” he told Platinov. “And get the laptop up and ready.”
The Russian woman rose to her feet as Bolan unscrewed the lid off of a small bottle of black fingerprint powder. Setting it down carefully, he did the same with a bottle of white powder.
The dark powder would be used on light-colored objects such as the keys. The white was for the cigars, the smooth leather cigar case and other darker items.
Fifteen minutes later, the tabletop was covered with both white and black powder. But the Executioner had lifted seven full prints and fourteen partials from the items that had been in the terrorists’ pockets. Two of the best had come from the cigar case itself.
“Is the computer up and running?” Bolan asked as he pressed the clear plastic tape of the last print onto its index card.
“Ready,” Platinov replied. She took the stack of index cards he pushed across the table to her and began to scan them via the mini-scanner plugged into one of the laptop’s USB ports.
Pulling his satellite phone from the front breast pocket of his blazer, the Executioner tapped in the number for Stony Man Farm. The call took several seconds to connect, bouncing off numerous satellites and running through various dead-end numbers to throw off anyone who might be trying to tap in to the call.
It was a precaution that everyone associated with Stony Man Farm always took.
Thirty seconds later, though, the Executioner heard Barbara Price’s voice on the other end of the call. “Yes, Striker?” she said.
“Tell Bear I’m getting ready to send him seven full fingerprints and fourteen partials,” Bolan answered. “I want him to run them through AFIS. But he also needs to hack in to the similar systems in Europe. Especially France.”
“Affirmative, Striker,” Stony Man Farm’s honey-blond mission controller replied. “Send them on.”
Bolan shut the phone
