Death Has a Name Page 16

  The man beamed. "Many thanks." He lit the smoke and drew on it, exhaling a long streamer.

  "Is anyone in there?" Abba asked, thinking of Arman's ban on murdering the prisoners.

  Irfan shook his head. "Broad daylight is the time for that," he said. "At night Arman wants us watching and relieving one another for sleep."

  Abba smiled broadly. "I guess I shall have my pick then, eh?"

  Irfan rolled his eyes and opened the door. "Tell them I send my love."

  Abba moved into the dark recesses of the building — the prisoners weren't allowed lights at night. He took a small flashlight from his bag and shone it around. He was at the end of a long hallway, doors set on both sides, room after room of them. A flight of stairs was before him, the second floor above just like this one. He thought to go upstairs, better to muffle with distance any screams.

  He climbed the steps, then walked the hall. About halfway down he began opening doors, shining his light on the frightened faces of the women in the rooms, moving along until he found what he was looking for.

  He found her near the end of the hall, a blond woman, built large. His dark eyes danced as he moved into the room.

  She said something to him in Hebrew that he didn't understand. Then in English she said, "Please leave. Please."

  All the better. He walked up beside her, gently stroking her hair, her eyes shining, frightened in the darkness.

  "It's going to be all right," he purred, then punched her hard in the jaw, knocking her flat on the bed. Twisting her long hair in his fist, he ripped her nightclothes off and fell upon her, enjoying her protests. He set the knife on the night table. He'd get to that later.

  * * *

  Allie Yeager lay in bed and listened to the sounds of Shareen crying next door. The Arab was hurting her, she could tell that much, maybe killing her. This was a new direction, one that augured ill for all of them.

  Shareen cried out loudly, in pain, and Allie sat up straight, putting her hands over her ears to try to shut out the sound. But she couldn't. She didn't need ears to hear inside her head what was going on.

  She got out of bed, pacing the room. She walked back and forth, her mind whirling. She had to do something — and quickly.

  Her pacing took her near the window. She glanced out by chance and saw a strange sight. Several of the American men, the Mafia she'd heard them called, were moving across the yard, their small group splintering off in all directions. They were moving their heads from side to side, looking all around. Something was happening.

  Several of them disappeared from view, but her second-floor vantage point gave her a good view of many of them. She saw one coming toward her building. He walked up to the guard called Irfan and pulled a gun out of his pocket.

  It went off silently. Irfan fell to the ground. The man grabbed the guard under the arms and pulled him into the building. She strained her eyes to see in the darkness. Another guard fell, then another.

  The Mafia men moved quickly through the yard, disposing of the Arabs who guarded the women and the interior of the compound. Allie was frozen by several seconds of indecision, then a muffled scream from next door made up her mind for her.

  They would never have a better chance to save their own lives than right here, right now. She thought of millions of Jews going off to German gas chambers without resistance. Then she thought of a handful of Jews holding off the whole German army for forty-two days in the Warsaw ghetto before escaping through the sewer systems.

  "Never again," she whispered. "Never."

  She quickly drew her clothes on and slipped out of her room. Moving quietly down the hall, she went . from room to room, waking the others and preparing them to take their futures into their own hands again.

  29

  Mack and Johnny Bolan stepped out of the car with their hands in the air. "Nice day," Bolan said, hoping everyone here had been too busy with the current crisis to have seen his picture on television. Rough hands grabbed them, stripping their weapons, shoving them and the Sabras through the crowd toward an Israeli colonel who stood talking with a group of civilians.

  The colonel, face drawn and pale, turned angrily toward them as they approached. "Mah zeh?" he said.

  "I don't speak Hebrew," Bolan replied, putting his hands down and pushing away the Uzi barrel that was jamming him in the chest. "Are you in charge?"

  "My name's Wolfson," the colonel said in English with a thick accent. "What do you want here?"

  One of the civilians grabbed the colonel by the arm and spun him, completely ignoring Bolan. "What if we offered to trade some of your men for the same number of hostages? That would show our good faith."

  "No, no," another man said angrily. "That would only make the problem permanent. I say, give them a deadline, then go in with the artillery if they don't meet it."

  A tall, red-haired man laughed. "Will we take that on your authority, Isaac? Are you in charge of the military now?"

  "I can't take orders from you," Wolfson told Isaac.

  "Let's be realistic," the red-haired man said. "We haven't exhausted all the peaceful possibilities yet. I'm sure there must be a reasonable person in that kibbutz. Let's find him and negotiate."

  "One of them committed suicide on command, to demonstrate their singlemindedness," Wolfson said. "They don't want to negotiate."

  "Of course they want to negotiate," someone else said. "Everybody wants something. We just need to find out what it is they want."

  "They want to kill us all," Wolfson said.

  "Colonel," Bolan said curtly.

  The officer turned back to Bolan, staring, while the civilians continued to argue among themselves.

  Bolan met his stare. "I'm the man who saved the wall. I've got some ideas on this, but I'll need your help."

  Wolfson just stared, his face rock-solid. "I'm up to my armpits in people with ideas," he said finally, spitting out the words. "I just don't have the time for you."

  He looked at the soldiers holding Bolan's party. "Get them out of here," he said, turning back to the argument.

  The Executioner pivoted quickly, planting an elbow in the stomach of the Israeli behind him. He grabbed the guy's Uzi and ran toward the terrorists, who sat, incredulous, in the jeep.

  They were caught off guard, slow to react to Bolan's charge. They were still reaching for their weapons when the Executioner unleashed a couple of 3-shot bursts from the Israeli-made SMG.

  He caught them both chest-high, the looks of surprise frozen on their faces as their lungs and hearts exploded under the impact. One of them fell out of the vehicle, the other collapsing across both seats.

  Bolan swung around to face Wolfson across the open ground. The whole camp had stopped, everyone staring at him and what he had set in motion. Johnny was smiling broadly, nodding his head.

  Bolan tilted the Uzi back on his shoulder and walked to Wolfson while people charged to the jeep. He stood in front of the man. "Now will you listen to me?" he said.

  "You've just condemned those people to death," Wolfson said.

  Bolan shook his head. "I can save them."

  "Get on the phone," the red-haired man said. "We'll call them and ask their forgiveness, tell them a… crazy man did it."

  "No," Isaac said. "They'll never believe it. Let's keep it quiet and bide our time for now."

  "Oh, they'll handle that well," a tall man with a long-stemmed pipe said sarcastically.

  Wolfson grimaced, then looked at Bolan. "What do you have in mind?" he asked.

  Bolan pointed to the civilians. "Get rid of them, first off."

  Wolfson looked from Bolan to the negotiators, then smiled. "Lieutenant Potock!" he called, and the man ran from the jeep to where they stood. "Both of them dead?"

  The man nodded. "Yes, sir."

  Wolfson grunted. "I want you to escort the negotiators back to their vehicles and safely beyond the roadblock. Don't let them back in." He put his hands on his hips and looked around the camp. "And get these damned r
eporters out of here, too."

  "Yes, sir!"

  Potock hurried to comply, everyone complaining loudly.

  Bolan took the opportunity to retrieve his hardware and confer with Hillel, then he, Johnny and Colonel Wolfson walked to the jeep. "You've put my reputation on the line," the colonel said. "I hope you know what you're doing."

  "My life will be on the line," Bolan said, pulling the body out of the jeep and onto the ground. "I'd better know what I'm doing." He patted Johnny on the shoulder. "This one looks about your size. Get into his clothes."

  The Executioner began stripping the terrorist and putting on his clothes. "You speak their language?" he asked Wolf son.

  The man nodded, his small mustache twitching. "I can get by."

  "Good. There's a field phone in the jeep. Use it to call them up. Pretend you're one of these jokers. Tell them we're coming up with a message from the negotiating team."

  "They'll be suspicious," Wolfson said.

  "Of two men?" Bolan countered. "I don't think so."

  "What will I do?" Wolfson asked.

  "Get ready for the fireworks," the Executioner said. "When you hear shooting, move in with everything. The prisoners will be safe."

  The two men exchanged looks, Bolan's even stare building Wolfson's confidence. The man made the call, speaking in Arabic. When he got off, he shrugged.

  "No problem," he said.

  Bolan had just finished dressing in the terrorist's blacks. He straightened and slung the dead man's M-16 over his shoulder, donning the man's olive-drab hat as an afterthought. "You know which buildings the hostages are in?" he asked.

  Wolfson pulled a map out of his trouser pocket and pointed out the buildings. An aide hurried up to the jeep, saluting Wolfson. "Sir! The prime minister is calling. He wants to talk to you."

  Wolfson folded up the map and gave it to Bolan. "Tell him I'm indisposed."

  The aide's mouth fell open. "Sir, I…"

  "Tell him, son," Wolfson said as he watched Bolan intently.

  The aide ran off, Wolfson still watching Bolan. "I hope to God I see you again," he said, then pointed a finger. "I don't even know your name."

  The Executioner climbed behind the wheel of the jeep, keying it to rattling life. "You just get your troops up there quick," he said, putting the machine in gear and lurching off.

  * * *

  Tomasso Metrano was so sick of lamb, he thought he'd never wear another wool suit as long as he lived. He sat at the long banquet table, roast lamb piled in front of him on a platter, dripping fat. He'd had lamb for nearly every meal since coming to this damned country. There was rice also, and a great deal of fruit. To either side of him sat his chauffeur and his bodyguard, places of honor that were meant for Guido and Tony.

  The thought of his sons made him stiffen with anger. But he kept it in check. He had learned to channel his anger many years before. It was an art form he was particularly well tuned for. He'd wait. Just a little while.

  The table formed an L with another table. At this one sat Jamil Arman, resplendent in a white silk suit and white ghutra, plus eight of his officers, all dressed in what passed as uniforms in an illegal army.

  The fat man was stuffing his face, grease glistening on his triple chin. Rings adorned every finger of both hands. Metrano looked at his watch. It was time to check the arrangements.

  He scraped his chair back loudly, standing.

  "Is something wrong?" Arman called to him, his face concerned.

  "Naw," Metrano said. "I gotta go to the little boys' room."

  The man looked at him quizzically.

  'The water closet," Metrano said.

  Arman nodded happily, returning to his food as Big Tommy made his way out of the narrow, long room.

  He moved into the vestibule, ignoring the short hallway that led to the men's room. He opened the door to the outside.

  One of his men, Angie, was waiting for him.

  "Is it taken care of?" he asked.

  The man nodded. "And we got a truck parked around back of this building."

  Metrano nodded. "Good. Wait fifteen minutes. If there's any cash, we'll know by then. Go in and take care of the cooks, then come for me. We'll have to fight our way out of the banquet hall, but after that we can probably just drive out of the gate, free as the breeze."

  Angie nodded and moved off into the darkness. Metrano spit on the doorstep and closed the door, walking back to the hall. Arman was dead, one way or the other, but if he did, indeed, have any money, it wouldn't hurt to take it out of there, too.

  * * *

  Abba smiled down at the naked woman on the bed. Her face was battered and swollen, her blond hair matted with dried blood. Purple bruises covered her entire body. She moaned softly, clenching her teeth against the pain.

  Abba moved to the night table, picking up the stiletto slowly, the woman following his movements with terrified eyes.

  "Abba will give you an experience you'll never forget," he said in Arabic. "At least for the few minutes you have left."

  He sat beside her on the bed and looked at his watch. He was running short on time himself. He needed to be out of there and gone in fifteen minutes.

  "I am sorry I do not have the time to spend with you," he said. The woman forced herself to look at him. What she saw on her torturer's face was beyond the human imagination. She began to whisper a prayer in Hebrew.

  He laid the point on her stomach gently, watching the slight indentation of the skin, the small trickle of blood right under the point. He wished he had set the timers for an hour and a half.

  Suddenly a noise startled him; he turned to see a group of women coming into the room, one after another, five of them, ten, filling the small space.

  "Get out of here!" he said in English. "Get out or you'll get the same!"

  A searing pain in his wrist made him drop the knife. The woman on the bed had sat up and was biting his wrist, tearing a bloody section out of his arm.

  He screamed, and the others descended on him, tearing at him with their hands and nails and teeth. Through waves of pain, he could feel his legs being forced apart…

  30

  "They're keeping it pretty dark," Johnny said, pointing to Rosh Hanikra, a half mile ahead.

  "They don't want to be good targets," Bolan replied, gearing down to second to take a series of dips on the dirt road.

  "You scared of this, Mack?" Johnny asked.

  The Executioner smiled slightly. "I'd be crazy not to be. You?"

  Johnny set his jaw. "Yeah. A bit. But I'm not worried about it."

  "It all depends on the gate. If they open it before we get there, we're okay. If not, we lose it on the spot."

  Johnny shook his head. "Now I'm worried about it."

  "Here we go," Bolan said, the kibbutz looming large in their vision. Soldiers were everywhere, fanned out around the fenced perimeter.

  "It's a whole army," Johnny said. "There's hundreds of them."

  "And they've got cars pulled in front of the gate. Quick, stand and start waving your arms for them to move the cars."

  Johnny stood, as his brother jammed on the horn, both of them yelling and gesticulating wildly with their arms. They were approaching the gate at thirty miles per hour, a quick enough flash that no one could tell who they were. But if they had to stop, they'd never get in.

  The gate was fifty yards away, forty. Bolan slowed to twenty-five, but they had mere seconds left before…

  They were in the midst of the terrorist army, men running out of their path, diving for cover. All at once, the curtain of cars parted and they zipped through without slowing, just barely missing the fender of a truck. Someone was yelling at them in Arabic, pointing to a one-story building off to the side of the main cluster of structures.

  "What's he want?" Johnny said.

  "I'll bet that's where our boy is," the Executioner answered, as he tried to cover his face from the lines of troops blurring past. Then, all at once, they were through the cong
estion onto open, clear ground. There wasn't a uniform in sight.

  Johnny turned around to see the cars close up the opening again. "Doesn't make sense that there aren't any troops in this part of the compound."

  Bolan shook his head, steering the car toward the building the man pointed out. "Something's not right," he said.

  The Executioner drove up close to the building, turning off his lights. Then he circled, taking note of a deuce and a half parked behind the place, and took off toward the dormitories where the hostages were being held.

  "You ready?" he asked his brother.

  "What do you think?" Johnny replied, as he checked the silencer on his MAC-10.

  They pulled into the shadows of the men's dormitory, and shut off the engine. It was deathly quiet as they slipped from the vehicle and moved up to flatten themselves against the structure.

  "The prisoners would be under guard, wouldn't they?" Johnny whispered.

  Bolan shrugged, pointing to a door at the far end of the dorm.

  They crept toward the entry, hugging the shadows. The door stood ajar, two boots visible in the spill of light from outside.

  Eyes searching the night, Bolan hoisted himself up the stairs and into the building, passing a dead terrorist stretched out in the vestibule.

  Johnny was up seconds later. "There's a dead man stuffed under the building…" he began, eyebrows jumping when he saw the one inside. "What in the hell is going on here?"

  "Somebody's doing our job for us," Bolan said, moving through the entry to the hallway. Men were peeking out of their doors in the darkness, some of them moving into the hall.

  "Shalom," Bolan whispered harshly into the dark. "We're here to help you."

  A crowd ran to greet them, others hurrying down the stairs. They were all dressed, ready to go.

  "Did you kill the guards?" the Executioner asked.

  "No," a man said. "We saw them that way. We thought you did it."

  "Never mind," the nightfighter said. "Just be prepared. We're going to the women's building, then we're getting out of here. The enemy are defending the perimeter, but most of them are jammed up by the front gates. My men will be there to help us where the back fences run into the hills in the southwest corner."