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  At least, if he was not abandoned by his allies in the government.

  Money would be required to soothe them, certainly. And Boavida might be forced to scale back operations temporarily to keep a low profile. He could do that, make all required assurances and follow through on them, if given half a chance.

  But all of that demanded that he stay alive.

  And any hope of that, right now, lay in the desert.

  At the ghost town known as Kolmanskop.

  Chapter 15

  In its heyday, Kolmanskop—Afrikaans for Coleman’s Hill, named for a nineteenth-century teamster who lost his ox and wagon on the site during one of the Namib Desert’s hellacious sand storms—rivaled any boom town of the old American West. Built in the style of a traditional German village, it included a school and a ballroom, a theater and sporting hall, a casino and bowling alley, an ice factory, electric power plant and a hospital with the first X-ray station in the southern hemisphere. Africa’s first tramcars carried shoppers through the streets of Kolmanskop, while a rail line hauled its diamonds six miles westward to the seaport of Lüderitz.

  All gone? Not quite.

  Though Kolmanskop’s last human residents bailed out in 1954, the desert’s arid climate has preserved their former lodgings and amenities. Windows devoid of glass admit the searing wind, and rooms have been carpeted in sand, knee-deep in some buildings, and the paint has been sandblasted from the walls.

  But uninhabited? Not even close.

  Despite its desolation, the Namib—like all of Earth’s great deserts—teems with life. Reptiles abound, including dune lizards that survive on scorching sand by keeping two feet elevated at all times. Barking geckos utter a nocturnal call that mimics an elusive bird. Twenty species of snakes call the desert home, thirteen of them venomous. Mammals also survive in the dunes, ranging in size from mice and rats to jackals and the pony-size gemsbok, a spiral-horned antelope. Scuttling through the vacant homes and shops of Kolmanskop beside the rats are scorpions, beetles and baboon spiders the size of your hand.

  Regardless of the climate, there is no eradicating life—or death.

  Bolan had driven south from Windhoek on the B1 highway to Keetmanshoop, then west from there on the B4 to Lüderitz. In Lüderitz he’d swapped the Jetta for a Nissan Xterra N50. The road to Kolmanskop from Lüderitz was clear, at least in theory, but he would be leaving it for navigation on the dunes, hence the requirement for a vehicle with four-wheel drive. The Xterra compact SUV could handle anything he might encounter in the Namib, short of sinkholes that could swallow semitrailers, drowning them—and any human passengers—in tons of shifting sand.

  The sun was setting by the time Bolan had finished packing his gear in the Nissan. After a quick meal at a German buffet on Hafen Street, overlooking the harbor, he was on the road again. He’d wanted Boavida’s caravan to reach the ghost town first and settle in before he showed up to disrupt their evening.

  Half a mile from Lüderitz he killed his high beams, navigating through the moonless night with aid from his night-vision goggles. Bolan also kept the dashboard lights turned low, with only enough illumination to allow reading of the Nissan’s odometer. He watched for the sign that marked his turnoff for the access road to Kolmanskop and followed it for half a mile, then went off-road with the Xterra.

  Bolan wondered how many adversaries waited for him in the ghost town up ahead. He would find out when he got there and had come to grips with them. Until then, speculation was a waste of time and energy. He took for granted that they’d be expecting trouble, but they couldn’t know the form that it would take, or when it would arrive. None of them knew that they were dealing with the Executioner.

  And by the time they found out, it would be too late.

  * * *

  BOAVIDA PACED AROUND the lobby of an inn that had once housed guests and served fine meals to residents of Kolmanskop. Although the floor had been swept clear, as far as possible, sand still crunched underneath his boots with every step. A gecko watched him from the northeast corner of the ceiling, hanging upside-down with toes like suction cups, apparently bemused by obsessive movements of the khaki-clad intruder on its normal hunting ground.

  It had been years since Boavida had personally fired a weapon, but he wore an AK-47 slung over his shoulder like a soldier at the battlefront—which was exactly how he felt this night. Hounded from Windhoek by an enemy he’d never met, spattered with blood and brains as bullets dropped his bodyguards within arm’s reach of Boavida, he felt cornered, driven to distraction in his desert exile.

  Would the enemy pursue him there? Did he have knowledge of the hideaway that Boavida had prepared soon after coming to Namibia?

  A part of Boavida’s mind hope that the bastard would come. Let him walk into the trap that Boavida had prepared for him and meet his death where so many had died before, away from prying eyes. Perhaps he could be captured and interrogated, grilled for information, then dissected for the amusement of the men whose friends he’d killed over the past day and a half.

  If Boavida found out who had sent him, who’d unleashed this plague of torment, then what? He could always find an address, send the hunter’s ears or other parts of him back to his masters as a souvenir. Teach them the folly of intruding where they were not wanted. Where they had no place as westerners.

  The CIA had learned that lesson over time, grudgingly, during the long war in Angola, but it seemed that someone in authority had not absorbed the message. Africa was different. It had devoured European armies in the past, and could again, if necessary. Solitary meddlers might succeed in the short term, but they could not subdue the continent. Its native people would prevail, outlasting any white men who were sent against them, from whatever source.

  But, then, why did the fear keep Boavida pacing restlessly by lamplight? Why was he unable to sit still and rest?

  Because he was not Africa. In truth, as Boavida knew too well, he did not represent the best inhabitants of that dynamic continent. He’d been a warrior once, and proud of it, but times had changed. He was an officer these days, which meant directing others, letting them do all the fighting, while he sat behind a desk and issued orders.

  Boavida had grown soft in his position of security, behind the lines.

  And soft men frightened easily.

  The best way to regain his strength and the respect of those who served him was to get his hands bloody again. To prove that he was not a coward, but a soldier who could kill without remorse and glory in it.

  Possibly, this night, he’d have that chance.

  Redemption could be his.

  And still he trembled, pacing while the lizard watched him from above, wearing its mirthless smile.

  * * *

  “AND THE SNIPER FIRED FROM…over there?” Captain Gurirab asked, turning to stare across Ompilo Street.

  “Yes, sir,” the burly sergeant answered. “Five casings recovered from the rooftop. Five kills over here.”

  They stood together in the parking lot behind the building leased by the Mayombe Liberation Front as a headquarters for its so-called philanthropical activities. Large bloodstains baked in abstract patterns on the pavement at their feet.

  “It still surprises me,” Gurirab said.

  “What does, sir?” the sergeant asked.

  “So much blood inside one person.”

  “Ah. Yes, sir.”

  “We’re dealing with a marksman now,” Gurirab said. “The other cases, it was all machine guns and explosives. This one, if he’s not the same one, hits his target five times out of five at…what? A hundred yards?”

  “About that, sir.”

  “It wouldn’t be a challenge with a stationary target, granted. But with five men moving—rapidly, we may assume—it adds a new level of complexity.”<
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  “Yes, sir.”

  “And none of them was Boavida?” Gurirab asked, for the second time since he’d arrived on site.

  “No, sir, unless their immigration cards were forged.”

  Too bad, the captain thought. That might have ended it. He said, “No, I suspect their papers are in order. Boavida doesn’t fool with dicey paperwork. His crimes are of a grander nature.”

  “Yet we don’t arrest him,” the sergeant observed, his tone cautiously neutral.

  “It prompts curiosity, eh?”

  Gurirab thought of Sergeant Ulenga, asked himself if the man who stood before him was also seething at frustration over favors done for certain violators of the law. How many Nampol officers already felt the same?

  “You’ve searched the building?” Gurirab inquired.

  “No, sir. We’re waiting for a warrant.”

  “Never mind that. It’s a murder scene. For all we know, the killer may be hiding in there at this very moment, Sergeant.”

  “Sir? He fired from over— Ah, I see. Of course, you’re right, sir. We’ll begin the search at once.”

  The sergeant hustled off to follow his instructions, leaving Gurirab alone with remnants of the dead. Their blood on blacktop, and the crude chalk marks outlining where they’d fallen after someone with a decent rifle and a better eye had blown the brains out of their skulls. Five head shots at a hundred yards in rapid semiauto fire took practice and experience.

  If he was still up there…

  A sudden chill gripped Captain Gurirab, despite the sun that did its best to bake him in his wilted uniform. There was no sniper on the rooftop presently, of course.

  Where had he gone?

  Perhaps to finish what he’d started with the MLF. Stalking his targets to wherever they had gone, believing they could either hide from him or lure him in and kill him.

  Kolmanskop? Why not?

  Captain Gurirab had a choice to make. He could stand back, let nature take its course, and see which way the bureaucratic wind blew when the gunsmoke cleared away. Or he could lead a troop of officers to Kolmanskop and try to intervene. Which could mean clashing with the MLF commandos Boavida would have gathered to protect him from his unknown nemesis.

  Gurirab had the blood of Ulenga on his hands already. Should he risk more men without consulting his superiors? And if he sought direction, how would they respond?

  He knew what a policeman dedicated to the law would do, but he had slipped so far beyond the pale, that knowledge did not make his grim decision any easier.

  Five minutes later, cursing bitterly, the captain opened his cell phone.

  * * *

  CAPTAIN RODRIGO ACOSTA lit his third cigar of the day, sitting in his comfortable leather chair, his feet propped on a corner of his desk. Life at the Cuban Embassy was good, all things considered, but he wondered if it was coming to an end for him.

  The worst thing that a diplomat could do, short of provoking war without approval of superiors, was to embarrass his homeland. The same was doubly true for consular officials like Acosta, who were actually covert operatives pledged to keep their covert actions secret, running smoothly, without any of the difficulties known as “blowback” to his counterparts from the United States.

  Acosta’s illegal support for the Mayombe Liberation Front had been approved by all the relevant officials in Havana, and he had received cooperation from the men who mattered most in Windhoek. However, with everything seemingly about to blow up in his face, Acosta had no doubt who would receive the lion’s share of blame for any headlines about Cuban spying and subversion—or for any shock waves that disrupted Cuban dealings with Angola.

  Certainly, it would be his head on the chopping block. And while the scandal might not mean the end of life itself, as would have been the case in days gone by, it would undoubtedly spell doom for his career. If scapegoats were required, Acosta would be first to feel the heat—and hear his sentence read in court.

  Acosta was aware of the conditions found in Cuban prisons—Mango Jobo, El Sinfín, Sandino and the rest—and he had no intention of becoming one more starving scarecrow in a cage. Defection would be preferable, as would suicide. But thankfully, if the Namibian assignment blew up in his face, he had a third alternative available.

  Spies, by definition, deal with shady people every day. They are involved in criminal activity, either supporting or opposing it, and frequently enjoy an opportunity to profit from those illegitimate transactions. Some focused on duty and denied themselves that chance. Captain Acosta, on the other hand, had never seen any reason why he should not mix business and pleasure.

  At the present time, he had anonymous accounts at banks in the Bahamas and the Cayman Islands, one in Liechtenstein and one in Switzerland. Who could predict where fate might lead him in the years to come? He also had an emergency bankroll concealed in the floor safe beneath his desk, with passports in two different names. One Cuban and one Argentinean, just for variety.

  Acosta was ready to go at a moment’s notice—but would it be necessary?

  There was at least a chance, he thought, that his potential problem would resolve itself. So far, Boavida and his men had proved inept at dealing with their enemies. Their only victory so far was killing a policeman whom they’d trapped at home, after a source inside his own department had supplied his name and address. Left to do it by themselves, Acosta thought they’d still be flailing aimlessly and losing more men by the hour—as, in fact, they had outside their own headquarters, after Boavida made his plan to flee Windhoek.

  And if the enemy who still survived should find them there? If he should wipe them out entirely, who would then be left to spill the details of Acosta’s dealings with the MLF?

  No one.

  Smiling, the hopeful Cuban let himself relax and savor his cigar.

  * * *

  WALKING THROUGH THE DUNES of the Numib Desert, all green before the LUCIE night-vision goggles he wore, Bolan was reminded of his first strike in Namibia, against the pirates at Durissa Bay. There was no river here to guide him, but he had a compass and his GPS device to keep him well on course. The goggles penetrated shadows and dispensed with any risk of stepping on a cobra or viper in the darkness.

  Even so, the warrior took his time. Rushing to Kolmanskop accomplished nothing, since the MLF had found the ghost town months ago, according to Ulenga. More than ample time to rig defenses for a last-ditch stand, and Bolan would gain nothing through a swift approach that led to him blundering into a trap. Better to scout the unfamiliar ground while his intended prey relaxed, feeling secure in safety, relaxing their guard somewhat. When he was ready, and he sensed that Boavida’s men were not, then he would make his move.

  As far as Bolan knew, he had all night.

  And that would be a lifetime for his enemies.

  There was a chance, of course, that someone in officialdom would try to help the MLF with reinforcements. That idea assumed that other Nampol officers or military personnel knew the location of his fallback hardsite in the desert. If they did, and if they chose to help him, Bolan might be forced to cut and run. In the Namib, he’d be exposed, an easy target if they came in helicopters or in dune buggies. And if they were police-protected, he would have to abandon his plan because of his private vow against the use of deadly force on cops.

  No part of that scenario encouraged him to rush headlong against his adversaries. Bolan was adaptable in combat situations—proof of that being the fact that he was still alive—but he had never changed a plan because of fear that something might occur. If the police or army showed up, he would deal with it by means he deemed appropriate. Until then, he was sticking with plan A.

  Another half mile to the ghost town where his enemies were waiting for a date with Death.

  * * *

>   THE WIND WAS PICKING UP, a constant feature of the open desert, shifting sand so that the landscape sometimes changed dramatically between dusk and dawn. Large moths had blown in through the open windows of the inn where Boavida had his quarters, fluttering around his lamp, casting their giant spastic shadows on the walls and ceiling.

  Ghosts, he thought, and barked a note of hollow laughter. He’d been raised by parents mired in superstition, who believed the spirits of their ancestors were constantly on watch around them, while a shadow world of demons waited for an opening, a chance to rob them of their souls. That thought had terrified him as a child, until he came to realize that all the demons found on Earth were human beings, capable of any vile atrocity without the goading of an insubstantial wraith.

  Still, waiting in the ruins of the ghost town for some word from Windhoek, hoping to be told his enemies had all been found and executed, Boavida felt some of the dread from childhood creeping back. The darkness and the atmosphere of the deserted settlement almost convinced him that a doorway could be found between the world he understood and mad realms of the supernatural, where ghastly things lay waiting for a chance to strike at mortal men.

  “Ridiculous,” he said aloud, forgetting that there was a guard on station in the room, within earshot. Turning, embarrassed, Boavida silenced any questions with a glare, waiting until the guard’s eyes were averted to resume his restless pacing.

  He thinks I’m crazy, Boavida thought. And would the soldier necessarily be wrong? Pacing and talking to himself might be interpreted as symptoms of a mental breakdown, all the more so under pressure such as Boavida had experienced of late. Who could dispute his right to lose touch with reality?

  That almost made him laugh, but Boavida swallowed it, refusing to provide his bodyguard with any further evidence of lunacy. The very last thing that he needed, while holed up in Kolmanskop, a fugitive, was for his men to lose whatever dwindling vestige of respect for him they still retained by spreading rumors that he’d gone insane.