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  “We join with the European Union and what does this mean? More people can move in and dilute our purity. We should be looking to strengthen our race, not pollute it.

  “We of the Baltic and Scandinavian states recognize one another. We recognize that we are proud, pure people who stand together because we stand alone. That is why we can work with each other to rid our lands of the foreigner. But in order to do that, we must first make the world sit up and take notice. We need a gesture, an action that has meaning. Do you follow me?”

  Hades and Visigoth each nodded, though in truth they were too scared to listen properly, and both had lost track of what he was saying to them. His careful rhetoric to set them up as sacrificial lambs was wasted. It was also unnecessary. They would, at that moment, have agreed to anything if they thought it would keep them alive a little longer.

  Something the man said penetrated their fog of fear: Ripper was still alive and had been charged with complicity in the murder of Count Arsneth. He had a court appearance to set a trial date this morning. Once set, then action could be planned. Action in which they were to play a vital role.

  The prospect of staying alive, no matter that it may be for a dangerous mission, cheered them immensely.

  “I will give you this chance to prove yourselves to us,” the thin-lipped man continued. “You will go back to Oslo with two of our men and some weapons. Your task is simple. You will take your friend Ripper away from the police and return him to us. He is like you—young, scared—and can reveal too much. But we want him alive.”

  “So we can be of use to you?” Hades queried, his spirits rising.

  Those were quashed by the words that came through a thin, humorless smile.

  “No. It is so that you can flush out the one who has caused us all these problems. He must be eliminated before we proceed to our final objective.”

  * * *

  BOLAN ARRIVED BACK in Oslo via a NATO ticket, passing through customs without having his baggage checked. That was just as well, since the case he carried had a greater amount of ordnance than the last time he had arrived in the city. He had been caught short before, and that lack had influenced his previous decisions, making choices that perhaps he would not have if greater firepower had been available. He may not have to use the full range. Having it now, however, gave him one less variable to worry about.

  Having booked into a hotel, showered and rented a car, he made his way to the courthouse. It was approaching half past eleven, and from the court schedule supplied to him, he knew that Stein Sundby’s hearing for a trial date would be directly after the lunch break. That gave Bolan time to conduct a recon of the courthouse before the judge opened the afternoon session.

  The building itself had visible security, but the team’s body language and interaction with the public suggested that they were rarely in any danger of seeing action. Bolan had little doubt that the uniformed men would be found wanting if called on to act, even if there was prior warning.

  There were no extra guards, police or military this day. That was dangerous enough. He would have to ask Brognola to put some kind of pressure on to make this place secure during the dates when the trial took place.

  Once inside the court itself, Bolan found that, despite the age of the building, the refurbishment inside made the room comfortable, and the public gallery evinced a clear view of all of it. Whether that was a good thing was debatable. It would be easy from here to cause some serious collateral damage to judges and defendants; it was also simple for any security to survey the entire room—and, most important, those in it—with ease.

  Which was exactly what the soldier did as Sundby was brought before the court. Manacled, he stared morosely and sullenly around the courtroom, speaking only to mutter assent to his own name, and to plead “not guilty” without once looking at the bench.

  If he recognized Bolan, Sundby showed no sign. Neither did he show any sign of recognizing anyone else in the room. That meant nothing. Freedom Right could easily have sent men that the erstwhile Ripper had never met. Still, if there was anyone from the terrorist group in the room, they had damn good cover. Bolan, who usually had an instinct for such things, could not pick out anyone from the few people—court reporters, interested parties—scattered around the room.

  It was only when the date had been set, and Sundby remanded for five days until his trial began, that the man showed anything other than a studied disinterest. As he was being led away, he looked up and a momentary flicker of disbelief and amusement crossed his face. Almost before it could be noticed, he had set his expression once more.

  Almost. Bolan noticed and also heard the sound. It was the door to the public gallery opening.

  Casually the soldier got to his feet and made to leave. As he did, he caught from the corner of his eye the latecomer who had caused the flicker of recognition.

  It was all he could do to keep such an expression from his own face. There, seated at the rear of the gallery, was the lookout he had last seen running away into the cover of the fir forest.

  Erik Manus.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Oslo was a municipality. It stretched over a vast tract of land that belied the relatively small—around half a million—population. Like many of the cities in Norway, it had large areas that were mountainous forests studded between the urban and suburban areas. That meant that it could be easy for a man to hide during the warmer months, if he really wanted to. These were the colder times of the year, but still Bolan would not have put it past Manus to have found himself a forest refuge. If this was the case, then Bolan could kiss goodbye ever finding Manus if he managed to give the soldier the slip.

  Norway was a country of long coastlines, an oddly narrow shape and a population that was low in density. The public transport system was rail based, in places sparse, which could be a problem if a person was trying to tail a man who didn’t appear to have a private vehicle and was jumpy.

  Manus was unshaved, his jaw and scalp with a two-day growth that showed that wherever he was staying, he was living roughly. He moved quickly, nervous glances over his shoulder and around him betraying the anxiety that he felt. Even in the center of Oslo, where the courthouse was located, there were relatively few people about in the early afternoon, and Bolan had to put considerable distance between himself and his target in order to remain unobserved.

  Manus took the train to an area of the city far removed from his empty house. Bolan knew from his intel that it had not been linked to the incident in Arsneth’s apartment complex and so was not under observation by the authorities. Manus either did not know that or feared someone else.

  Bolan didn’t blame him. The two Norwegians who had engineered an escape would have been pumped for every last detail about why their operation had gone wrong. Manus had committed the cardinal sin— desertion—and his cowardice would mark him as a security risk. Two reasons to eliminate him, and he had to know that.

  Bolan kept a railcar between himself and his target, and got off the train at the last moment to remain unobserved. As far as he could tell, as he left the station and followed Manus through almost barren streets, they were alone. Freedom Right had not yet caught up with the deserter. He could still be of use to the soldier.

  Turning off the street, Manus made his way through a small industrial park. Wherever he went in the world, Bolan found that these areas always had the same basic, easy-to-assemble design, and they all looked the same. That was sad if a person had a sense of aesthetics, but in his case made it easy for him to follow and conceal himself, as he was only too familiar with the way they were laid out.

  Despite his care in checking out his environment, Manus did not see Bolan on his tail. Manus did not see Bolan approach as Manus tapped in the entry code to the small side door on a unit. In fact, the first he knew of Bolan’s presence was when the soldier rushed Manus, bundl
ing him through the door as it opened and slamming it behind them as Manus tumbled to the floor. As Bolan stood over him, the music producer put his hands up to his face, his eyes staring wildly.

  Bolan shook his head. “I’m not here to kill you. I might just save your life, if you’re lucky.”

  * * *

  “YOU KNOW, I REALLY NEVER wanted to get into this crap,” Manus said as he made them coffee from the few supplies he had in the small kitchenette.

  “Then how did it happen?” the soldier asked, taking the proffered mug.

  On the second level of the industrial unit, behind a security-locked, fire-and soundproofed door was a recording studio. It stank of tobacco, stale alcohol and body odor. The recording room was tiled with carpet felt, many instruments and amplifiers laying under a tangle of wires and leads, some of which led into the control booth. In there—where Manus now led Bolan—was a mixing deck, analog and digital equipment, two swivel chairs and a sunken sofa, with a pillow and duvet. Manus pushed them to one side before sitting down. Bolan sat facing him, in one of the swivel chairs.

  Manus rubbed the stubble on his scalp. “It happened by accident. Like things do. John Lennon said that life is what happens while you’re making plans. He was wrong. Life is what happens when you’re not paying attention. That’s what happened to me. I like the music. Who gives a shit about the lyrics? You can’t make out what they are anyway.”

  Bolan’s lip quirked; he felt exactly the same.

  Manus continued. “I’ve got good ears. If you don’t like the music, you might not think so, but engineering and producing is not about what you like so much as what you can hear, identify and make more like the sound the band wants. I can do that. And the image makes me laugh. It pisses people off, and I like pissing people off—”

  “You’ve pissed off the wrong people this time,” Bolan commented.

  Manus gave a sour grin. “I knew some of the bands actually believed the shit they sing, but I didn’t know they were truly into the really heavy shit. Asmodeus is a good band...were a good band...and when they talked about me helping them with something—and some guys that were coming from Estonia—then I thought they were just more fanboys with fantasies. Instead I got a couple of guys who looked like they were on the run from a war crimes trial. By then it was too late. I’d seen them. If I said no, I was a marked man.”

  Bolan wasn’t sure how much was true, and how much was a revision of the truth, but there was no mistaking the fear. He could smell it on the producer.

  “The police haven’t linked you to Asmodeus and Arsneth. Your home is not being watched by them. That’s one less thing for you to worry about. Your problem is Freedom Right. I don’t need to tell you—but I will anyway—that you ran out on them, and by now they’ll know about it from the guys who got away.”

  “Got away?”

  “Two guys with long hair—”

  “Hades and Visigoth?”

  “Yeah, or whatever their mothers call them. Everyone else was taken down.”

  Manus looked puzzled. “Everyone? But there was only—”

  “The men he must have been expecting turned up. They just didn’t get far.”

  “How do you know that?” Manus asked, then, realizing the stupidity of the question, added, “You were there. And now you’ve come for me. Make it quick, please.”

  “Listen, I’m your best chance of staying alive. But I need you to trust me.”

  “I don’t have much of an option, do I?” Manus said softly.

  * * *

  HADES AND VISIGOTH had been let out of the basement. For the first time they walked the streets of Tallinn, able to breathe the air and feel free. They had an escort, of course, but freedom was a relative concept to the captive. Word had reached the Estonian capital that Ripper’s trial had been set, and they had readily agreed to the proposal that would save their skins and free their friend.

  Now they sat in an airy, sun-filled upper room, feeling optimistic that they could turn around what had seemed to them a hopeless situation and so become heroes of a forthcoming revolution.

  The whip-thin Freedom Right leader, whose hawklike visage they had become familiar with—although they still did not know his name—looked down on them with an indulgence born of experience. There would be no revolution—only a hard, long-drawn-out fight that could well end in defeat. Let them believe in their fantasy, if it was necessary to spur them on.

  He placed a laptop in front of them and went over the plan.

  “You arrive in Oslo the night before the trial begins. We will have the authorities believe that you have been there longer. Let them search, and when they do not find you, their impotence will be obvious to the world. We have a man placed within the courthouse security who will allow you access to plant the device. The government will have to release your friend, or else they will find the center of their city devastated. Let them see what can be done by my organization.

  “You will go with three of my men. They will lay down a diversion while you place the device. The authorities will be looking for a cell that is based in their city, while we will go in, attack and be gone before they realize we are there.

  “But first this will have to go,” he added, indicating their hair and piercings. “Your appearance must be changed.”

  “But, dude, this is our identity. This is who we are,” Hades said lamely.

  Their captor’s face hardened as he leaned over them. “No. You have no identity now. You are who we say. That way, you stay alive.”

  He left the two metalheads to digest that. Outside the room, he found one of his men waiting for him. “Velio? You look concerned,” he greeted him.

  “Not concerned, Andrus, vengeful,” the stocky terrorist replied. “That traitorous Manus has returned to his house. And he’s not alone.”

  Andrus smiled a mirthless grin. “This could be very interesting.”

  * * *

  THE HOUSE WAS AS MANUS had left it. He moved around the interior as though it was somewhere he was seeing for the first time. Bolan went ahead and checked the outside. When he had secured the grounds, he returned to the kitchen at the back of the house, where Manus was waiting for him.

  “They’ve got two watchers. One is using the house at the north end of the street. The second is roaming and is working on a fifteen-minute patrol. I figure the back is too dense with forest for a permanent watch, which is why they’re using the mobile patrol.”

  “How the hell do you know that?” Manus asked.

  “The house was obvious. That’s why I drove past twice—to identify which one. Field glasses always give themselves away if you know what to look for. Do you have neighbors on vacation?”

  “Not everyone lives here permanently—too far from the center of town. It’s a weekend suburb.”

  Bolan nodded. “Good. I’d hate to drag anyone else into this. The roaming patrol is easily identified. You just need to watch and be patient.”

  Manus shrugged. Since the soldier had taken him from the studio, he had meekly allowed himself to be led—first back to Bolan’s hotel, while the soldier had equipped himself for what lay ahead, and then by rental car to the very place Manus had tried to avoid. Now that he was here, he felt the pull of the inevitable was too great for resistance.

  “What do we do now?” he asked Bolan.

  “We wait. If they want a warning shot across the bow, they can have it. You know what you have to do?”

  Manus nodded. “It’s not like there’s any real choice, is there?”

  * * *

  BROGNOLA SAT IN his office, poring over reports on paper and on screen. There were some days when it felt like his entire working existence was devoted to explaining the actions of Bolan, making conciliatory apologies to outraged authorities in far-flung countries, wondering how he could m
ake the expenses incurred by Bolan’s actions in populated areas fit the budget Brognola had. There were few in Washington who knew what he really did.

  His cell phone buzzed on his desk, and he picked it up.

  “Make it quick,” he growled. Then, as the big Fed listened, his expression changed from annoyed to concerned.

  * * *

  BOLAN DISCONNECTED HIS smartphone and put it on the kitchen table.

  “It looks like your favorite Estonians have just upped the stakes,” he told Manus. “If Sundby isn’t released to them before the trial begins, they’ll detonate a bomb in the center of Oslo that will decimate the city. They’ve released the ultimatum virally, and some wire services have already picked it up. Your government is saying that it would be impossible, but I think we both know they have the firepower.”

  “Those cylinders. I don’t know much about weapons, but Seb was sure keen to move those before all else.”

  “With good reason. They have nuclear capability. Small scale, sure, but small scale in nuke terms—”

  “Is horrific,” Manus finished.

  Bolan nodded. “I was going to let them come for you, then use them to find where their headquarters are located. Now that they’ve put me on the clock, it looks like I’m going to have to force their hand. You know how to use a gun, right? I saw you with one—”

  Manus shook his head. “I took it, pretended... I’ve never used one.”

  “Then listen very carefully,” Bolan said as he opened the duffel bag he had brought with him, taking out a Heckler & Koch MP5. “You’re going to get a crash course in using one of these. And these,” he added, placing two grenades on the table. “You may well need them.”

  * * *

  BOLAN HAD SLIPPED out the back of the house. The lawn fell away sharply to a dense knot of trees that clustered by a brook that ran the length of the street before disappearing into a culvert that ran under the road.