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  Some distance from Schucker's car were three cargo vehicles. Gunnar Heinriksen and a team of security operatives stood guard over the three panel trucks, which contained the contents of the secured storage area that had been emptied on his order. This overt act would surely draw Dumar Eon's attention, eventually, if the man ever bothered to check the stockpiles. If he was planning some cataclysmic event to spread his death cult's message, he would check sooner rather than later. Schucker had advanced the timetable because of that, and he had dealt with considerable complaining from Bashir as a result. The Syrian, who was some sort of heir to power in his native land, was a petulant and stubborn man. He liked things to occur on his terms, and disliked being told when and where to appear. Schucker has placated him by reducing the asking price, which was still very handsome. Some part of that galled Schucker, but he suppressed it as he did most such emotions. There was no room for regret or resentment; it was enough that the sale was made.

  The handheld radio on the seat next to Schucker crackled as one of his men keyed his own unit. "The car is here," the voice said in German. "We are following."

  Schucker nodded to himself. All was proceeding according to plan. His men would follow Bashir's car up from the entrance level, and they would stand off at a discreet distance with their weapons ready. There was little chance the Syrians would attempt a double cross, but when dealing with such individuals, Schucker believed in taking all possible precautions.

  The limousine pulled slowly into position. Schucker stepped out of his car and moved forward into the small circle of light afforded by one of the fluorescent overheads. He waited for some time. He had expected this; Bashir would make him wait in payment for forcing the Syrian to change his schedule and arrive earlier than originally agreed, when the sale of the weapons had first been brokered. Schucker endured this childishness, knowing that provoking Bashir could only make matters worse and prolong the exchange further.

  Finally, the doors of the limousine opened. Several large men in expensive suits climbed from the car. They brandished small submachine guns of a type Schucker didn't recognize. No doubt they were the latest thing, and very expensive. For Assan Bashir, only the best would do.

  Schucker was dimly aware of Bashir's aspirations. There was some sort of power play among those in line for the throne, or the presidency, or whatever the Syrians had that constituted their government. It was all so incredibly boring that Schucker forced himself to be deliberately ignorant of it. It was his way of marginalizing beasts like Bashir in his mind. Regardless, possession of the proverbial "weapons of mass destruction" that the Consortium could offer him would give Bashir the leverage he needed to accomplish his goals — or at least Bashir thought so. Schucker didn't care if the man attained his vision of power or not, as long as he paid.

  Finally, Bashir deigned to make an appearance. He was dressed much like his men, though his fingers were dripping with gold and diamond-inset rings. He was shorter and squatter than his security people, with a wide face and broad cheeks. His eyes were a mystery, for Schucker had never seen them. Bashir affected a pair of sunglasses at all times. The lenses were so dark that no hint of the eyes behind them ever showed.

  "Assan," Schucker said obsequiously. He spoke in English because it was a language they shared. "Thank you for gracing me with your presence."

  Bashir waved one pudgy hand. "Spare me your false pleasantries, David," he said. "Let us not waste time with lies and shows of affection."

  Schucker's face hardened. "Very well, Assan. You have the money?"

  "I have the money." Bashir motioned to his guards. One of them went to the limousine's trunk and, very slowly, removed a briefcase from it. Bashir smiled, looking past the vehicle to the darkness of the parking garage.

  "Something distracts you, Assan?" Schucker asked.

  "Again, you waste my time with pretense," Bashir said. "Your men are not as invisible as they believe. I know they are there. I know you have instructed them to shoot me if you think we mean to betray you."

  Schucker shrugged. "It is what you would do."

  Bashir looked at him. His thick lips parted in a toothy smile. His teeth were capped and seemed too large for his mouth. "Yes," he said, chuckling. "Yes, it is what I would do." He spoke a word in his native tongue and the guard brought the briefcase forward. He presented it to Schucker, who took it, placed it on the hood of the Mercedes and opened it.

  The bills inside were crisp and neatly stacked. Schucker suppressed a smile. He snapped the briefcase shut.

  "I will take my merchandise now," Bashir commanded.

  It was Schucker's turn to motion for an underling. At his gesture, Heinriksen approached and held out three sets of keys. Without prompting, Bashir's men took them. Heinriksen pointed each man to the correct vehicle. The Syrian drivers stepped forward, two to a truck. The engines started up almost before the doors were closed.

  "We are done here," Bashir said. He climbed back into his limousine without another word. The limo slowly turned in the space available and then disappeared down the ramp, followed by the panel trucks. The smell of exhaust lingered in the air.

  "All is in order, sir?" Heinriksen asked. He pointed to the briefcase.

  "Yes, Gunnar, stop worrying," Schucker said dismissively. He handed him the case. "Let's get out of here."

  One of the guards began shouting animatedly.

  "What the hell is that?" Schucker said.

  "I'll go see, sir," Heinriksen said. He drew a Skorpion machine pistol from within his jacket, a weapon he sometimes favored. Schucker didn't know and didn't care. Heinriksen was loyal and obedient, and that was why Schucker valued him.

  There was a scuffle, followed by the sound of someone being punched in the stomach. Schucker grimaced as the man who'd been punched began to retch. The sound echoed through the parking garage. Finally, the security operatives dragged a figure from the darkness.

  "Ziegler?" Schucker asked. "What in hell are you doing here?"

  "You know this man, sir?" Heinriksen asked, confused.

  "Yes," Schucker said. "Search him."

  Heinriksen patted Ziegler down and tossed the man's personal effects on the pavement before Schucker's feet. There was a billfold, some keys and a very expensive wireless phone. Finally, Heinriksen found the identification wallet.

  "Interpol!" Heinriksen said, beginning to raise the Skorpion.

  "A moment, please, Gunnar," Schucker waved him off. "And do stop it. Your agitation does nothing for my mood. This is our spy within Interpol. Tell me, spy..." he directed the question to Ziegler "...would you care to tell me why you are not, at this moment, within Interpol?"

  Ziegler floundered. "Sir, I was, I mean to say I was simply returning to report, that is..."

  "Come now," Schucker said with contempt. "You can manage better than that."

  Heinriksen flipped open the double agent's wireless phone and began thumbing through menus.

  "You see, sir, Dumar and his people, they are, I mean, as a group they are..." Ziegler began again.

  "Sir," Heinriksen said, "look at this." He held out the open phone. There was a text message: Follow David Schucker. I have my suspicions. It was signed D/E.

  "Yes," Schucker said, disgusted. "I had figured that much out, Gunnar."

  "Sir?"

  "Isn't it obvious?" Schucker said. "This little fool is the reason Dumar and his amateurs have been one step ahead of us. Somehow he's been co-opted by more than the money we offered him to turn informant for us. Isn't that right, Ziegler?"

  Ziegler looked at him but didn't say anything.

  "Now you are silent?" Schucker said. "You've certainly done your share of talking until now. Tell me, Ziegler, is there anyone or anything you will not betray?"

  "I am loyal to Iron Thunder!" Ziegler said suddenly. "Dumar Eon has shown me the way! You, all you care for is money. Interpol is a joke. The international law-enforcement community... Law enforcement for what? All of you are worms! There is only one t
ruth, one reality, and that is the reality and the finality of death!"

  "Gunnar," Schucker said, "shut him up."

  Heinriksen dropped the phone on the pavement and threw a vicious straight punch into Ziegler's stomach. The agent bent double again, dry-heaving.

  Schucker sighed. "That is revolting. Hit him in the head next time."

  "Yes, sir," Heinriksen said.

  "No, wait." Schucker held up a hand. "I'm sorry, Gunnar. I've been wasting your time. You are a loyal man and you deserve better."

  "Sir?"

  "Shoot him."

  Heinriksen nodded. He brought up the Skorpion. The men holding Ziegler backed off several paces. Heinriksen put the stubby barrel of the crude little weapon to Ziegler's forehead. The man managed to recover sufficiently to look up defiantly, but when he saw the looming muzzle of the machine pistol, he paled.

  "That final rest Dumar and your fellow maniacs are always going on about?" Schucker said. "I'm giving it to you, Ziegler. And for the miserable job you've done, I'm going to have your family killed, too."

  Ziegler opened his mouth to scream in protest.

  Heinriksen shot him.

  Schucker was turning away before the body had finished hitting the pavement. "See to it," he said.

  "Sir?" Heinriksen asked.

  "The family. I wasn't kidding. I'm in a very bad mood, Gunnar, and I intend to make certain that mistakes like this do not happen in the future. I was an idiot to think someone we'd turned could not be turned again."

  "Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir, you're not a fool. But I will see to it, sir."

  "Good man, Gunnar," Schucker said, staring into the depths of the parking garage. "Let's get out of here before the police forget I've bribed them to stay away." Followed by his contingent of security operatives, he climbed into his car and removed his own phone from his jacket. He flipped the unit open and dialed a number from memory.

  "Sir," came the reply.

  "Niclas," Schucker said into his phone. "I assume you and your teams are in place?"

  "Yes, sir," Niclas, another of Schucker's field men, answered. "We await your orders."

  "I am accelerating the timetable. Do not wait," Schucker said. "Hit them now. Make them pay. It's time we removed this cancer. I am sick to death of these idiots."

  "Yes, sir, of course, sir. Uh, sir?"

  "What?"

  "Sir, the munitions with which you equipped us. Do you really believe we may use them?"

  "Yes!" Schucker yelled. "Use them! Spare nothing! I don't care what you have to do. I don't care who I have to pay off. I will have these damned Iron Thunder fools out from underfoot now. We'll spread enough money around after to make it work. Once word gets out that dangerous, armed cult members were entrenched in a Berlin apartment building, no one will question the methods used to remove them. We can cover up the rest. In this, we can take a cue from the Americans."

  "Sir?"

  "A terrorist group in an American city some years ago, Niclas," Schucker said. "So dug in were they that the authorities chose to drop a sizable bomb on them. This is no different. Clear them all. We will deal with the consequences later."

  "Understood, sir."

  12

  "Yes, Bear has Akira going through the specifications of the phone now," Barbara Price said to Bolan over the soldier's secure wireless cell, "which were transmitted to us after you had the courier run the device to the drop house. They did a thorough job in only a little time. Akira thinks there may be a way to reverse-engineer this so we can use the phones to track Iron Thunder's members. If we can do that, we can have them picked up."

  "On what grounds?" Bolan asked, curious.

  "Conspiracy to commit terrorist acts, officially," Price said. "A recording of Dumar Eon's speech, minus his discussion with you, has already hit the file- and video-sharing Web sites. It's pretty obvious Iron Thunder is working itself up to something. We just don't know what yet."

  "What's Hal got to say about that?" Bolan said. "Officially, he was hoping to get the powers that be on the same page, to avoid diplomatic troubles."

  "He hasn't commented," Price replied, "but you know how that goes. I'd say we're pretty far into this now. I imagine preventing loss of life takes precedence over procedural wrangling."

  "I agree," Bolan said. "I need a next step. What can your analysis provide, based on everything that's happened? I have to believe our priority list is shot to hell."

  "Yes," Price said, "but we have a new target for you. Bear has had the team working overtime, cracking the accounts used to post and trade Iron Thunder videos, not to mention Internet discussion board accounts used to post messages sympathetic to the cult. It took some time, for obvious reasons, but of course even the most anonymous Internet post isn't as untraceable as the user thinks. After cracking account after account and cross-referencing what available data could be had for the names and addresses associated with the Internet service providers' customers..." Price paused to inhale "...Bear says he's got a curious anomaly. There's a block of flats right there in Berlin that appear to be occupied solely by Iron Thunder members."

  "A clubhouse?" Bolan asked.

  "You could call it that," Price said. "The best way to hide is in plain sight, and it helps if all your neighbors share your passion for murder."

  "How hard a target will it be?"

  "Possibly very," Price said. "We've traced the ownership records as well as leasing agreements and other public data. The Consortium owns a company that owns a company that holds the property, and Iron Thunder's people have slowly been renting units and displacing former residents for what looks like a couple of years. There's no telling what sort of complex they've got inside."

  "Understood," Bolan said. "Give me the address."

  "Transmitting files to your phone now."

  Bolan reviewed the files, which consisted of address information, some layout on the building that may have changed since the plans were drawn up — and probably had — and exterior photographs. He toweled his hair dry and donned a fresh blacksuit. He had ordered Rieck to go to a safe location to recover and regroup, and had taken the opportunity to move to a different hotel and do the same. He had ordered a little room service and spent some time reviewing his mission data while silently refueling. He had then cleaned and reloaded his weapons, and now he replaced them in their holsters under his drover coat. It had been a long day, and would be longer. He was ready. Nighttime Berlin awaited him. He glanced at his heavy-duty stainless-steel watch, once again on his wrist. Rieck would be out front again by now. Bolan had let him borrow the BMW.

  True to his word, the Interpol agent was waiting at the curb. He had a new aura of ready action. His hand was inside his coat, no doubt resting on the little H&K submachine gun. Bolan climbed into the car and nodded to him.

  "Cooper," Rieck said.

  "Rieck. Feeling better?"

  "My head hurts, and my face feels like it's been stomped into a puddle. Oh, and I am told I have a cracked rib. But I'll live."

  "Good," Bolan said. "Ready for more?"

  "Very," Rieck said. He smiled grimly through his split lip. Bolan didn't blame him. After being captured, threatened and beaten, any man would be looking to inflict a little payback on his enemies. Bolan was long past that, given his experience, but there was no harm in Rieck's emotions unless he let them get the better of him. From what the soldier had seen of his Interpol liaison, the man's head was on straight and he had his fair share of psychological fortitude. Bolan didn't think there would be a problem.

  Bolan gave him the address. "My people have identified a nest of Iron Thunder members," he explained. "The entire place is owned by the Consortium. They may be dug in deep. It's our best link to their membership here in Berlin, apart from the Consortium itself, and right now I'm more interested in Iron Thunder than in the company that finances it. The Consortium's offices can wait, but I don't think this can."

  "All right," Rieck said. He pulled away from the curb and
put his foot to the pedal, taking them briskly through Berlin. It had started raining heavily again. The pavement reflected the BMW's headlights. The city, alive with the night, blinked and flashed and glowed in all its incandescent, neon and digital glory. The rain turned the highways into molten rivers of color. Bolan watched intently as the streets passed by, committing as much of the German metropolis as possible to his memory.

  "All right, let's review. Our objective," he said, "is to locate those missing chemical weapons. The cult has them, and got them through the Consortium."

  "And it seems pretty likely they'll be used for whatever big event Dumar Eon is planning," Rieck said.

  "Right." Bolan nodded. "But for some reason the weapons have been taken or moved, and the group of Iron Thunder members we encountered wasn't told of it. That means either they're even more disorganized than they seem, at times, or there's trouble between Iron Thunder and the Consortium's security force."

  "You think Ziegler was telling the truth about that?"

  "The most convincing way to lie," Bolan said, "is to use the truth most of the time. I'm willing to bet he told us more or less what he knew. He just left out that critical part about the phones, and probably warned Eon that we were on the way over once we left. We probably won't ever know if he was loyal to Iron Thunder all along, a mole planted within Interpol, or if he was turned by them."