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  Bolan held on to Hasan’s hair, shoving the barrel of the Desert Eagle up under the man’s chin. “That was your free one,” he said. “But you only get one. You try to take this away from me again and I’ll turn your head into scrambled eggs.” He swung his gaze toward Mohammed. “Drive,” he said simply.

  Hasan looked almost comical, turned around on his knees, with Bolan holding his throat down against the top of the seat. By this point, many of his hair plugs had come loose, some falling over the man’s face and ears. With the Desert Eagle still under his chin, Hasan stared cross-eyed at the barrel as they left the parking lot.

  Bolan had no need to give Mohammed directions. During the time between his afternoon visit to the university and while they waited for Hasan’s arrival that evening, they had scouted the area for a good place to interrogate the al Qaeda contact. Mohammed drove a somewhat confusing route of both left and right turns as he headed for the spot Bolan had finally decided upon.

  “Where...where are we going?” Hasan asked in a trembling voice.

  “I believe I told you to shut up,” Bolan said, jamming the barrel of the big Desert Eagle a bit harder against the loose flesh beneath Hasan’s chin. “I’ll tell you when it’s time for you to talk. And then you’ll talk plenty. Or else you’ll die.”

  But it had not just been finding an interrogation location that had occupied Bolan’s brain during this interval. He had also been plotting exactly what strategy he could follow to get him and the other men into the Traditional Pharmacy Research Center without alerting the military guard. The first thought to come into his mind had been a clandestine full blacksuit entry. But with the exception of former Army Ranger O’Melton, none of the others were experienced in such black op maneuvers. And if they were spotted during their approach, or after retrieving the WMD cultures—and that was almost a certainty, considering the fact that the men had no idea what they were doing—there would be no explaining their garb, weaponry, or the other equipment carried openly on their persons.

  Another possibility was a clandestine entry in the street clothes they all wore at the moment. If they were seen by the soldiers guarding the labs then, at least they would not be shouting to the world, “We’re enemy agents!” But they were still likely to be searched, and when the guards found their weapons, they’d be in the same boat as if they’d gone full-blacksuit.

  So Bolan had decided upon a plan that would have seemed insanity to many top agents around the world.

  They would go in the front door as if they owned the Traditional Pharmacy Research Center.

  This would, of course, require some special preparation. But Bolan would get to that soon, after he’d talked further with Hasan.

  Soon after Mohammed made the final turn, the overhead streetlights faded behind them and they came to a dead end. Ahead of them was a large construction site. When they had arrived here earlier in the day, Bolan had noted that the dirt work and foundations had already been completed, and two-by-fours, one-by-tens and other pieces of lumber were in the process of going up in what was obviously a new complex of apartment buildings.

  Bolan squinted through the darkness. Earlier, the frame carpenters had been putting up the wood that would eventually be insulated and covered with Gyp-Lap, before brick or whatever other outside wall material was chosen. But before Bolan and his entourage had left the site, the framers had begun shutting things down for the day, rolling up the electrical cords to their nail guns, sliding hammers back home into the loops on the sides of their work pants, and performing other tasks in preparation for their departure for the night.

  Mohammed pulled to a halt at the dead end.

  Bolan kept hold of the hair plugs left on top of Hasan’s head, but said, “If I let go, do you think you can behave yourself?”

  The Persian nodded as best he could. It was obvious he was trying to keep as many of the plugs in place as possible.

  Bolan let go of the man’s stubs. But a multitude of short, nappy hairs came out between his fingers. He wiped his hand on the back of the seat, then said, “Ajib, you know where the smallpox and weaponized anthrax cultures are, don’t you.” The words were spoken as a statement rather than a question. But just as Bolan had expected, Hasan answered in the negative.

  “I know nothing about any such thing.”

  Bolan took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You know, Ajib,” he said in a disgusted tone, “I can’t tell you how tired I get having guys like you lie to me and try to play games.” He waited a second, then went on. “We’ve got a busy night ahead of us and I just flat don’t have time to play twenty questions. Let me see your hand.”

  “What?” Hasan asked, his expression one of confusion.

  “I said let me see your hand,” Bolan said. “Are you right- or left-handed?”

  “Right-handed.”

  “Let’s start with your left, then.”

  Hasan extended his left arm over the seat for what he must have guessed was an inspection.

  It wasn’t. Bolan grasped the man’s wrist, brought the Desert Eagle slightly over his head, then slammed the barrel down onto the back of the man’s hand.

  Everyone in the Highlander heard several of the delicate bones there snap.

  Hasan let out a howl even louder than he had before.

  “Shut up,” Bolan said again. “You give our position away and you’ll die immediately.”

  His words had their desired effect, and Hasan’s scream descended to a mere whimpering.

  “I don’t like doing things like that,” Bolan said, still grasping the man by the wrist. “But you’ve been responsible either directly or indirectly for the deaths of who knows how many innocent people. Women and children included. So I doubt I’ll lose much sleep over what I just did. And I doubt that I’ll lose sleep over doing the same to your right hand in a few seconds, either. If you still aren’t cooperating after that, I’ll move on to your feet. And after that...who knows.”

  Hasan had pushed his face as far as he could into his shoulder. The whimpering continued, but in between the pathetic moans he was able to spit out, “I will...cooperate. Just...tell me...what you want me to do.”

  “Very good,” Bolan said. “Okay, I’ll tell you exactly what you’re going to do.” He finally let go of the man’s wrist and Hasan immediately grasped his left hand with his right. “You’re going to walk us right past the guards at the Traditional Pharmacy Research Center, then into whatever lab the smallpox and anthrax are stored.”

  “But how can I do that?” Hasan moaned. “They will never let us in.”

  “By the time we go in,” Bolan said, “we’ll all have appropriate credentials as scientists.”

  Hasan shook his head. “The soldiers will not believe you,” he said, his voice calming somewhat. “With the exception of Ali and him—” he raised his clasped hands to indicate Ahmad, who sat between Bolan and O’Melton “—none of you even remotely resemble Iranians.”

  “We don’t plan to even try to,” Bolan said. “This guy—” he extended an elbow slightly toward Father O’Melton “—and I will be posing as Russian scientific consultants. He speaks Farsi. I don’t. But being Russian explains that away quite nicely.”

  “Where are you going to get documentation like that?” Hasan asked.

  “Good question,” Bolan said. “And the answer is I don’t know yet.”

  As the occupants of the Highlander fell silent, Bolan pulled his satellite phone from his pocket and tapped in the number to Stony Man Farm. After the usual “bounce around” to assist in keeping the line secured, he heard Price say, “Hello, Striker.”

  Bolan held the phone tightly against his ear on the off chance that Hasan—or any of the other men, for that matter—might pick up on something from the other end of the conversation. Stony Man Farm was the best kept secret in the world. They did
n’t even share their business with allies, let alone enemies.

  “I’m in Tehran,” Bolan said into the mouthpiece. “And I need some falsified documents pronto. Alert the Bear, and ask him to check his files for the nearest “paperboy” we can trust.”

  “Hang on a moment,” Price said.

  There was a click, then Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman came on the line. “Barb says you need a paperboy?” the wheelchair-bound computer expert said.

  “And I need him fast,” Bolan said.

  “Give me a second....” In the background Bolan could hear the man typing on his keyboard. A moment later, Kurtzman said, “There’s a guy right there in Tehran that Phoenix Force used a couple of years ago. It sounds like the same situation as Ali—this guy has done jobs for the CIA.” The man in the wheelchair paused a moment. “I’m remembering it now,” he said. “Yeah. That’s right.” Another pause. “Phoenix Force needed quick creds and I hacked into the CIA and located this guy.”

  “What’s his name?” Bolan asked.

  “Don’t know his real name,” Kurtzman said. “He just goes by Kutbah. It means sermon.”

  “Sermon?” Bolan said.

  “Yeah,” Kurtzman replied. “The sermon that comes after the Islamic hours of prayer.”

  Bolan became silent for a moment. Finally, he said, “Just how dedicated to sermons and hours of prayer and Islam in general is this guy, Bear? I don’t want him tipping our hand before we even use the credentials he makes for us.”

  “Can’t answer that one, big guy. But he didn’t have any trouble working with Phoenix Force.”

  “Okay,” Bolan said. “Just one more ‘unknown’ aspect in a mission full of them.” He glanced from Hasan to Mohammed and finally to Ahmad, realizing that the men in the car who he couldn’t completely trust far outnumbered the ones he could. And he was about to add yet another to the list. Then, into the phone, he said, “Give me his location, Bear.”

  Kurtzman complied.

  “We’ll head that way,” Bolan said. “Do you have a phone number for him?”

  “Give me a second,” Kurtzman said, and a second was all it took. “Yeah. Got one. Don’t know if it’s still good, though.”

  “Well, try to give him a call while we’re en route,” Bolan said. “If you can get him, remind him of the Phoenix Force deal and tell him we’re on our way.” He gripped the satellite phone harder with his fist. “And see what kind of reading you get from him. I don’t want to walk blindly into the lion’s den.”

  “You got it, big guy,” Kurtzman said. “I’ll call you back.”

  Both men pressed their respective buttons to end the call.

  And Bolan began giving Mohammed directions to where they were supposed to find the paperboy who went by the name of Kutbah.

  10

  The process at the paperboy’s lair went far smoother than Bolan had expected it to. Even though the man calling himself Kutbah spoke extremely broken English.

  “Your man...Bear-man...he call me,” he said in greeting, instead of “Salaam” or “Hello.”

  Bolan looked him up and down as he stood in the doorway. The man wore tortoiseshell eyeglasses, a stained white shirt and frayed brown slacks that looked as if they’d once been part of a suit. When Kutbah smiled, Bolan saw that he was missing several front teeth. And a few more had turned a sickly greenish-brown and looked as if they’d be falling out soon, too.

  Bolan and his entourage had just descended the steps to Kutbah’s subterranean space beneath a wrestling gymnasium on the ground level. They had driven past the Iranian Ethnological Museum and Gulistan Palace to get there, then found themselves having to park the Highlander several blocks away and stroll through a pedestrians-only bazaar area. The colorful market sold everything from cones of sugar—some of which extended over two feet in the air—to donkey and camel bridles, saddles and saddlebags. The merchants kept up a constant patter as the men passed.

  Hasan kept his broken hand in his pocket as he’d been ordered. But the grimace on his face betrayed the pain he was feeling. Bolan wasn’t concerned. A few broken bones in the back of the man’s hand was nothing compared to the slaughter of innocents for which his al Qaeda friends had been responsible.

  Many curio shops met their eyes as they walked. The smells of roasted lamb and other meats filled their olfactory glands. But Bolan had not come to shop or eat.

  He had come to change into another person.

  “You come in,” Kutbah said, standing back and holding the door as Ahmad, O’Melton, Mohammed and Hasan entered the underground den. Bolan was the last to leave the stairwell, and the smell of printer’s ink immediately hit his nostrils as he entered the dimly lit room.

  Kutbah must have seen one of the men react to the strong smell because he laughed softly. “You not worry,” he said when they were all inside. “No print much anymore. Most done with computer these days.”

  “Fine,” Bolan said. “Just so long as it gets done. And done well.”

  “Get done pretty good,” Kutbah said as he turned and led them deeper into his underground operation. “Bear-man, he tell me you need it fast. Like last time with other men—Bear-man’s friends. Make fast means make pretty good, not perfect.”

  “Just how good is ‘pretty good’?” Bolan demanded as he followed, speaking to the back of the man’s head. “They have to be good enough to fool—”

  “They be good enough to fool anybody not testing them in laboratory,” Kutbah said as they entered a back room that looked more like a Best Buy electronics store than a print shop. The number of computers scattered around almost rivaled Kurtzman’s computer setup back at Stony Man Farm. “They look real to naked eye,” Kutbah went on. “Just tiny differences if lab tests run.”

  By this point the printer had turned around and was facing them, smiling, showing off both the dying brown teeth and the black spaces where the already-dead had once lived. “You take seats over there,” he said, pointing to a row of straight-backed wooden chairs against a wall. “First thing, pictures.”

  As Bolan and the rest of the men dropped into their chairs, the Iranian paperboy moved to a camera mounted on a stand on the other side of the room. Bolan saw another wooden chair directly across from it.

  The setup looked no different from an American state tag agency where motorists went to obtain or renew their driver’s licenses.

  When Kutbah had the camera up and running, he looked back at the men and said, “Okay. One at a time, please.”

  Bolan stood up, moving toward the chair in front of the camera.

  Kutbah snapped several pictures, then said, “Need clothes change.”

  “What for?” O’Melton asked from the other side of the room.

  Kutbah had already walked to a large wooden chest against the wall. Digging through it, he came up with a variety of jackets, a few shirts and several neckties. Then, turning back to O’Melton, he said, “Because you not get all IDs at same time, on same day. You wear same clothes every day?” He tapped two fingers against the side of his head, indicating that O’Melton might want to think a little deeper on this, and perhaps other subjects.

  Bolan switched jackets for a few more pictures. Then he added a tie to his costume for even more. When Kutbah had finished, the Executioner had five different “looks” for the forged documents he would need.

  Father O’Melton went next. Then Ahmad and Mohammed. Hasan already had his own Tehran University staff card and other ID.

  “Now,” Kutbah said. “You want what?”

  Bolan stood up from the chair he’d slipped into as he waited for the other men’s pictures to be taken. “He and I are going to be Russians,” he said, hooking a thumb at O’Melton. “We’ll need driver’s licenses, passports and identification cards as members of the Russian Academy of Science.”

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p; Kutbah looked at them doubtfully. “You are sure?” he said.

  “We’re sure,” Bolan said.

  “You speak Russian?” Kutbah’s voice was skeptical.

  “He doesn’t,” Bolan said. “But I do.”

  Kutbah shrugged. “If you say,” he said. “How about other men?” His eyes went to Mohammed and then Ahmad.

  “Make them Iranian,” Bolan said. “This man—” he pointed to Mohammed “—really is Iranian.” The Executioner had been careful not to use any of their real names since they’d arrived. “All he needs is a phony ID for the university medical school.” He paused a second, thinking. “Make him a doctor,” he finally said.

  “And him?” It was Kutbah’s turn to point, and his index finger aimed at Ahmad.

  “I must be Iranian, too,” the former Hezbollah man said.

  Kutbah looked skeptical again. “You speak Farsi?”

  “I do.” Ahmad rattled off a few sentences that Bolan couldn’t understand.

  Kutbah shook his head. “Your accent is Arabic,” he said.

  “My story will be that I come from Abadan,” Ahmad said. “On the Iraqi border. The speech of people from border areas is often influenced by the neighboring countries.”

  Kutbah shrugged again. Then he said, “Someone once told me an American saying.”

  “What’s that?” Bolan asked.

  “They said ‘The customer is always right.’”

  “Words to live by,” Bolan said.

  “Gentlemen, then please take seats again,” Kutbah said. “This not take long.”

  Bolan and the others returned to the wooden chairs against the wall and waited as Kutbah went to work on his computers. Every so often a printer would cough into life and a document would come sliding out into the tray. As soon as it had, Kutbah would go to work with a large pair of scissors, cutting the ID card out before reaching for a huge roll of lamination plastic.