Death Has a Name Page 15

  "Yeah," Bolan said. "Gather your people, then let's go out the way we came in."

  Hillel nodded and called to the others in Hebrew, then he turned back to the Executioner. "It's the most amazing thing," he said.

  "What?"

  "The wall… it's undamaged. Not a nick, not a bullet hole. It's totally untouched."

  Bolan smiled. "I guess we're better shots than we thought," he said.

  The warriors gathered. They moved in a group toward the far end of the courtyard where they had come in, two thousand people breaking into spontaneous applause and cheers as they passed.

  "What now?" Hillel asked as they walked.

  Bolan looked at him with raised eyebrows. "You're still with me?"

  "As long as you want us," one of the others said.

  The Executioner nodded, knowing they were his kind of warriors. No other words were necessary. "You know," he said, "Johnny and I came here for a reason. We haven't accomplished it yet."

  "Metrano," Johnny said.

  "He's at the Rosh Hanikra kibbutz," Hillel said.

  "I know," Bolan said.

  Hillel chuckled. "He's got many hostages and several hundred soldiers with him."

  "I can hardly wait," the Executioner said.

  Johnny raised a clenched fist. "Me either."

  Bolan looked at the others. "It won't be easy," he said. "We'll probably get ourselves killed at a party like this. Are you with me?"

  They yelled affirmation. "Try and keep us away," Hillel said.

  They reached the end of the courtyard and climbed the stone stairs to the guard shack. There, trying to crawl across the ground, was Tony Metrano. One hand was gone, nothing but a bloody stump. His face was only half there, one of his eyes gone completely.

  "Well," said Johnny. "Look what we have here. The man who likes penknives."

  Johnny bent down, his face contorted by rage. "Hurt your hand, Tony?" he said. He was about to stomp on Metrano's ruined arm, when Bolan rushed up to him.

  "No!" Bolan said. He pulled Johnny away from the man.

  "What the hell are you doing?" Johnny asked.

  "If you do this, then you're the same as they are," Bolan said.

  Bolan pulled the .38 out of his waistband. He moved to the pathetic figure and put a mercy round through his brain.

  Johnny just stared at him.

  "Listen to me," the Executioner told his brother. "I know how badly you hurt right now. Believe me, I know the anger, the frustration. But if we act like them, if we take pleasure from the killing… we don't deserve life either."

  Johnny Bolan looked at the ground, the shame welling up in him. In that instant, he truly understood his brother completely and knew the face of real compassion.

  27

  Abba waited until the first tear gas canister bounced against the wall, then decided it was time to move on. He skirted the wall, gaining passage through one of the doors that led out of the courtyard and into the Arab quarter. Arab soldiers manned the door, passing him on recognition.

  "Lock this," he said. "Let no one else through."

  Within seconds, the fighting started in earnest. He hurried away, putting distance between himself and the battle. Abba was angry. It was all Tony Metrano's fault. If he had let Abba kill the Americans when he wanted to, none of this would have happened. Instead, the Executioner was running around loose, causing havoc.

  Well, no matter. By now, Arman had probably talked the Mafia man into continuing their relationship on a regular basis. They could do this again next week, next month, whenever they wanted.

  He found his white Mercedes where he had left it near Dung Gate. He climbed behind the wheel and got out of there, passing truckloads of Israeli military when he turned onto Derekh Yeriho Street, and out of the Old City.

  He pointed the car east, back in the direction of Rosh Hanikra. Because of the damned American, things hadn't gone according to plan, but the campaign hadn't been entirely unsuccessful, either.

  It had thrown the Jewish entity into a panic and would continue to do so.

  Terrorism is the absolute, most effective means of waging war. It strikes at the very heart of a people, destroying their will by attacking without reason their most sacred institutions and their weakest numbers. Fear is the key.

  Next time, Abba thought, they would concentrate totally on schools, hospitals and retirement homes-easy targets with high visibility.

  But for now, they still had Rosh Hanikra and all its hostages. Even now the organization was moving more troops to the border, ready to bring in the captives. Rosh Hanikra was a toehold. With luck and proper manipulation of the hostages, it could be the beginning of the Palestinian state. And even if the Israelis were to attack the kibbutz, they would lose all their hostages, a demoralizing victory, and one that would make the citizens live in fear wherever they were.

  Abba got out of Jerusalem; very little traffic was moving now because of Shabbat. He drove through the hills, his hills. Though he had been born in Lebanon, this was where he intended to live. He'd always have a job, too — killing Jews. He would hunt them down wherever they hid and end their miserable existence. But they were tough, he knew. They had outlived others who had tried to put an end to them. But that was before Abba. Killing came as naturally to him as breathing. He would never rest until every Jew had been wiped off the face of the earth. That was his mission. That was his reason for living.

  There were those who would probably chastise him for leaving his troops at the Western Wall, but they simply didn't understand his mission. Allah had planned bigger things for him than dying at the hands of a crazy American. He had to live, to fulfill his purpose.

  * * *

  Jamil Arman and Tomasso Metrano sat in the small office and watched the news reports on the portable black and white television. A young Israeli boy sat trembling beside them, stark fear in his wide eyes as he interpreted the Hebrew spoken by the newsman.

  The boy spoke in a faltering voice, translating into English, which both men understood. "He says that men tried to blow up the HaKotel but did not succeed…."

  Arman banged his fist on the desktop, the first time Metrano had seen the man lose his temper. "Go on," Arman growled.

  "Eyewitnesses say that American men leading a small force shot the terrorists… nearly fifty of them killed… along with an American…"

  "Tony," Metrano said, his fists clenching. Arman had managed to kill off his entire family.

  "Your friend Bolan did this," Arman said. "If you had let Abba kill when…"

  "Go to hell," Metrano said. "My boys are dead. All my boys, dead. I'm holding you responsible."

  Arman shrugged without concern. "You are all a part of the glorious revolution," he said matter-of-factly. "They have given their lives for Islam. Allah will make a special place for them with many houri…"

  "I don't care about your revolution!" Metrano said. "You have my children's blood on your hands."

  Arman gazed at him through heavy-lidded eyes, then reached for an apple from a fruit basket. "Please, spare me the theatrics," he said, taking a bite of the apple. "Surely you have other sons… other wives…."

  "I'm no pervert!" Metrano said. "I'm a good Catholic, and I made this deal with you straightforward with no bullshit."

  "We are partners sharing a common cause. Sometimes we must share common sorrow."

  Big Tommy wanted to ice him right there, but he held back — waiting, wanting to have as much chance to escape as was possible under the awful circumstances.

  The office door flew open, Abba standing there, his dark eyes smoldering.

  "Well, I see you made it out okay," Metrano said, pointing a shaking finger. "Did you turn tail and run?"

  "I have a duty here," Abba said, not even looking at Big Tommy. He pointed to the child. "Get the Jew out of here."

  Arman remained silent, nodding to the boy who hurried to leave. Abba grabbed the child as he ran past, slapping him viciously about the face, then pushing h
im into the hall.

  "Tough guy with little kids, aren't you, you bastard," Metrano said. "When the real men show up, you turn tail. Where's my Tony?"

  Abba shrugged. "What's another American to me?"

  Metrano jumped to his feet, throwing all his weight on the slight man. He pushed him up against the wall, the air going out of him. As he cocked a beefy fist to take out the bastard's nose, Arman spoke.

  "That will be sufficient."

  Big Tommy turned to see the man pointing an Uzi pistol at him. He glared at Arman, then released Abba, who slid to the floor, holding his stomach.

  Then Abba pulled out the MR 73 and cocked the hammer.

  "No," Arman said, turning the gun on Abba. "I will not permit any of that in here."

  Abba glared darkly at him, then stood, holstering the pistol without a word. Arman set the automatic gently on the desktop.

  "If you would kindly leave us," Arman told Metrano. "I have something to discuss with this man. Our celebration is in the reception hall in thirty minutes."

  "Yeah," Big Tommy replied. "You and me got some stuff to talk about, too."

  "All in good time, my friend."

  Metrano left, slamming the door behind him.

  Abba moved closer to the desk as Arman reached out to shut off the sound on the television. "All of Israel has been broadcasting your failure and shame," Arman said.

  Abba's lips tightened to a slash. "It wasn't my fault," he said.

  "You were in charge," Arman replied. "The fault can be no one else's."

  "That is not fair."

  Arman laughed. "Fair is not a word to be applied to guerrilla fighters. There is only success...or failure."

  "The circumstances were extremely difficult to work under," said Abba, talking quickly, nervously. "I shall succeed next time. I have had a great many ideas riding back here, I…"

  Arman put up a hand to silence him, then took another bite from his apple, crunching loudly. "You are right in one thing," he said. "We will, indeed, do better next time. But next time, we will be doing it without you."

  "What?"

  "Your father is a very wealthy man, Abba," Arman said as he chewed. "He gave us a great deal of money, and asked in return that we find a good place for you in the organization. You kept getting in the way here, so I sent you to America to wash you off of me. But you just can't stop causing the wrong kind of trouble, can you?"

  "Please," Abba said. "I am a Palestinian, I will do what…"

  "You are a mad dog, Abba. And a coward on top of that. There is no longer a place for you in our organization. It is only because of your father's money that I let you live. Now get out. If I see you again, I shall kill you."

  Abba brought out the gun again, its long barrel looking ridiculous in the closed-in office. His hand was shaking slightly. "Suppose I kill you instead?"

  Jamil Arman laughed loudly, a rumble that came from deep in his huge stomach. "A formidable weapon, to be sure," he said. "But something tells me you won't kill me. You do not have the guts to face the consequences. Now go, quickly. I can't stand the sight of you."

  Abba turned and strode from the office, walking into the hot, moonless night. He'd go, all right, but not before exacting his revenge on Jamil Arman. His eyes fixed on the buildings holding the two hundred hostages, the only thing that was keeping the Israel army at bay. He felt his pockets for matches.

  * * *

  Tomasso Metrano stood in his tiny bedroom and stared at the grim faces of his seven remaining men. They were all bound tightly to the Family, their loyalty solid. He felt a responsibility toward them.

  "Tony's dead, too," he said, and put his hand up when the expressions of regret poured forth. "We'll have more than enough time to feel sorry later, but right now we've got to worry about gettin' out of this damned hellhole alive."

  He walked to the bed and sat heavily. "I think that asshole, Arman, is tryin' to stiff us, too. First off, I want you to know that whatever money we come out of this thing with, we'll split even, all our shares equal."

  Grunts of affirmation filled the room.

  "But we got a lot to do first," Metrano said. "We got blood to be repaid, and we got a damned war zone to get out of. I got an idea to start with. Me and Arman and some of his soldiers are having a dinner in the reception hall in a few minutes. They won't really be expectin' nothin'. Now most of these bums are camped out at the perimeter. We need to take care of the ones left inside here, then maybe we can punch a hole through the damned fence or somethin' and get back over the border while we got the chance. You with me?"

  The answer came back to Big Tommy loudly and enthusiastically. But, then again, what choice did any of them have?

  28

  Mack Bolan drove the coast highway, passing Haifa, then Acco as he moved inexorably toward Rosh Hanikra and the man who started all this. Johnny sat beside him, both men weary from two days of living hell, both pumping enough adrenaline to slide them through the confrontations yet to come.

  The others followed in two cars, the big man's mission now their own. Bolan had confidence in his little force now. They had been honed to a cutting edge on a whetstone of horror and death.

  Yeah, they were ready.

  Five miles from the kibbutz, a government roadblock was turning back all traffic. Bolan pulled off the road well before the brightly lit blockade, the others parking behind him on the gravel shoulder. Everyone climbed out of the cars.

  "The countryside isn't great," Bolan said, pointing off into the night, where the hills of Lebanon cast shadows in the distance, "but I think we can go overland. If we take all three cars, maybe one or two will get through."

  "You lead," said a young bearded man named Moshe. "We'll follow."

  Bolan nodded. "No lights," he said.

  They climbed back into the vehicles. Bolan pulled his vehicle off the paved road and bounced onto pitted, hard-packed earth. He drove a half mile into the scrub brush, then turned north again, resuming the trek.

  "How long do we stay off the roads?" Johnny asked.

  "Until we can get past the roadblock."

  "But what about the army? We'll run into them sooner or later."

  "Right. We'll deal with them when we get there."

  Johnny smiled at him across the expanse of darkness. "Just business as usual, huh?"

  Bolan nodded. "You got it, brother."

  One of the cars went into a ditch, breaking its front axle. The occupants split up into the two remaining cars. Once they had put sufficient distance between themselves and the roadblock, Bolan hurried back to the road, narrowing the gap between them and destiny.

  It didn't take long. Thousands of troops were camped on the road ahead, with tents and portable buildings. Members of the news media roamed freely because it was one of the terrorist demands. There were trucks and tanks everywhere. Cars with the letters U.N. painted on them in black sat on the periphery of the activity. Bolan couldn't believe it. Civilian negotiators were involved, too.

  And apart from it all, Bolan could see the PLO observation team, two men in black sitting in a jeep. They seemed to be in fine spirits, undoubtedly pumped up by all the uproar they had caused. They had fifty feet of free space around them in all directions.

  As Bolan drove into camp, a whistle shrieked nearby. Within seconds the car was surrounded by uniformed troops, their faces grim, the Uzis they pointed at the Executioner itchy in their hands.

  "I guess if you've got a plan," Johnny said, "now's the time to use it."

  * * *

  Abba set the timer on the second incendiary bomb for one hour and started the clock mechanism. He smiled broadly, picturing Jewish bodies roasting in the fire storm of their dormitories when the bomb set off the wooden tinderboxes they were held in. But his greatest pleasure came in the thought of what would happen to Jamil Arman when the bombs went off. The troops would pour in, angry, seeking vengeance.

  They all deserved to die, every one of them. Besides, with Arman out of the
way, there would be no one to report Abba's failure to the organization. All would be as it had been, and his father would still love him.

  He rose from his bed and stuffed the bombs in the small bag he had slung over his shoulder. He looked around the room to see if he had forgotten anything. A long stiletto that Tony Metrano had given him lay on a rough wooden desk.

  He walked over and picked it up, the blade so narrow, so erotic. He had set the bombs for an hour. That would give him plenty of time to have a last friendly visit with one of the female prisoners, his blade doing most of the talking for him. Then he'd leave, crossing the border to await his next opportunity to enter his beloved Palestine.

  So far, no one knew of his shame except for Arman. That would give him complete freedom of movement in camp. Good.

  He left the room, moving swiftly through the wooden building and out into the night. He crossed the courtyard and approached the men's detention building. Very few guards maintained the camp interior; Arman wanted as many eyes on the perimeter as possible.

  He moved to the building, pausing to converse for a moment with one of the guards there. Then, when the man had his back turned, he dropped one of the bombs on the ground and kicked it into the crawl space beneath the structure. Fifty-five minutes were left on the timer.

  The building that housed the female captives was thirty feet away. Abba moved to it quickly, anxious now. His frustration levels were high — he needed an outlet.

  He planted the bomb before rounding the corner of the building that housed the front entry. His friend, Irfan, was on duty there.

  "Abba!" the man said, leaning his M-16 against the building. "I haven't seen you today."

  "Important business," Abba returned. He pulled a package of cigarettes out of his pocket and shook one out for the man.

  Irfan hesitated; Arman could sometimes be a stickler for Muslim custom. "Go ahead," Abba said impatiently. "No one will see you with the tobacco."