Assault Page 2

  He gave the clerk another hasty glance and took the service stairs.

  * * *

  Saddam Kassim believed it was an honor to be chosen as a martyr for jihad. To die in the United States, battling against the Great Satan, was the highest aspiration of a Shiite warrior. And if by the grace of God he should manage to survive, so much the better.

  Kassim had been allowed to leave Teheran with only vague instructions, free to strike against the targets of his choice, selected in agreement with his comrade, Abdel Bazargan. New York had been selected as their field of operation as it was the largest, richest city in America, its teeming streets jam-packed with Jewish banks and infidels of every stripe. You couldn't fire a shot or detonate a hand grenade in New York City without killing several of the enemy. It was a zealot's happy hunting ground.

  Kassim and Bazargan had spent their second morning in the city scouting out prospective targets, killing time until the hour of the one and only task that was specifically ordained by their superiors. They'd been told to purchase lunch in a specific restaurant on Bleecker Street, at noon, and to accompany the man who met them there. The stranger would convey them to his master, and Kassim had been instructed what to say upon their meeting. He didn't approve of catering to infidels, but this one knew the city inside out, and he had access to the weapons they would need to carry out their mission. In return for his cooperation, he would be allowed to prosper from the fallout of jihad.

  Despite his Shiite fundamentalist beliefs, Kassim wasn't put off by dealing drugs. He saw the poison as another weapon, no different than an automatic rifle or grenade — except that drugs could undermine the whole American society, instead of merely picking off a politician or a group of soldiers here and there.

  In retrospect Kassim was startled by the ease with which they had been able to invade America. There had been routine questions at the customs terminal in Buffalo, but no one seriously questioned any of the counterfeit ID they'd been issued in Teheran. He had been nervous on the flight from Pakistan to London, cautious on the transatlantic journey to Toronto, shaking off his final apprehension as they entered the United States without a hitch. The prophet was correct about the holy power of jihad. Kassim thought nothing could delay them now.

  Their escort smelled of olive oil and garlic, the aromas conjuring an image of Kassim's home village near the western border with Iraq. Five years of fratricidal warfare destroyed the village and surrounding farms, wiped out his family and friends, but still Kassim survived. His mother, had she lived, wouldn't have recognized him on the street. He was a new man, forged in white-hot flame and dedicated to the cause of vengeance. He knew well enough whose money had supplied Iraqi soldiers with their weapons and the lethal gas they used against civilian populations in the hinterlands. America, as always, was the author of atrocity.

  And it was time to pay her people back.

  On the street outside the restaurant, Kassim imagined they were being followed, glancing surreptitiously across his shoulder, but the streets were crowded and he caught no glimpse of a familiar face. It had to be paranoia, he decided, the result of plotting covert action in a country where the enemy was all around him, everywhere he turned.

  If Abdel Bazargan felt any apprehension on the walk up Bleecker Street, he kept it to himself. Kassim had watched his partner closely through their journey from the east, and he had finally decided Bazargan was either fearless or a fool. The simple faith of God was enough to keep him satisfied, whereas Kassim required some vestige of a strategy incorporating safety measures, backup systems for escape.

  The hotel lobby was a musty cave that smelled of age and long neglect. Their escort led them past the registration desk, the clerk oblivious to their arrival. Waiting for the elevator to arrive, Kassim experienced a sudden tingling of the scalp, the short hairs rising on his nape. He swung around to face the lobby's only entrance from the street, too slow to catch the figment of his own imagination. He was being foolish, acting like a child afraid of shadows, and he steeled himself against anxiety as listless bells announced the elevator's slow return.

  Their escort punched the fifth-floor button, and the sliding door wheezed shut. Had there been just a hint of movement on the street, a dark shape stepping into the revolving door before his view was blocked?

  Kassim ignored the worm of doubt that wriggled in his belly, concentrating on the context of his scripted conversation with the infidel. An hour, give or take, and he could go about his business, carrying the torch among his enemies. Before his work was finished, they would tremble at his name.

  * * *

  When Anthony Silvestri checked his watch again, he discovered that the Iranians were late. They seemed to exist in a state of culture lag that left them trailing well behind the pack. Before you made a lunch date with a Persian, you were wise to fix yourself a sandwich for the road and count on sitting down to lunch at dinnertime.

  If anyone had asked, Silvestri could have told them why a state the size of Israel had been kicking ass in the Middle East for over forty years. The Jews were punctual — compulsive, even — and they seldom made mistakes. The Arabs spent their free time stabbing one another in the back and pumping up the artificial price of oil until the bubble burst and they were left without a pot to piss in. Snakes and sand dunes, sheikhs all parking brand-new limousines outside their tents — and the peasants didn't get a dime. Silvestri knew he could have broken OPEC in a week if he was president. Cut off the food handouts and you'd see how fast the sons of bitches fell in line.

  Unfortunately he was being forced by circumstance to deal with people he despised. It wouldn't be the first time, but it rankled all the same. The Golden Crescent of the Middle East was turning out some heavy stuff these days in terms of heroin and hash, supplying ample quantity to balance deficits of quality compared to more expensive China White from Southeast Asia. At the moment, the Iranians were selling cheap, and if the Ayatollah's successors wanted help with certain special projects in return, it served the Family's interests to cooperate.

  Silvestri wasn't thrilled about the prospect of a bargain with the Shiites, and he worried that the shock waves of a terrorist attack on U.S. soil might harm the Family, but the word had come direct from Don Grisanti. They were dealing with Iran; case closed, next case. If anybody didn't like it, he could argue with the boss one-on-one and name his beneficiary.

  Silvestri had no secret death wish. When the boss of New York's second-largest Family told him it was time to deal with Iranians, Anthony was ready to oblige. If Don Grisanti ordered him to jump, he asked: On who?

  The good news was that pushing Golden Crescent heroin and hash could make him filthy rich. Silvestri wasn't poor by any means, but there was no such thing as too much money. He remembered playing store in kindergarten, stealing from the till and squirreling plastic coins away until he found out they were worthless. From the time that he was old enough to count his pennies, he'd wanted more.

  The Iranians could be helpful with their bargain-basement smack. Silvestri didn't care why Teheran was underselling everybody else in town. If they were doing penance by forsaking profits, it was fine with him, and if the new Shiite leader had some wild idea about destroying the United States with smack, well, let him try. Silvestri was an expert on the subject, and he knew his fellow countrymen were indestructible. They had an infinite capacity for chemicals in every form, from sleeping pills and steroids to the goodies that you wouldn't find in any local drugstore. Americans were snorting, toking, mainlining fools, and they spent more money on recreational drugs in one year than most Third World nations earned in a decade. The Islamic revolution would be ancient history before Americans burned out on doing drugs, and in the meantime, Anthony Silvestri was prepared to do his bit for the promotion of supply-side economics.

  Footsteps in the hallway slowed outside his door. The hotel was a dump, but dumps had their advantages — like creaky floors to let you know when you had company. Silvestri slipped the single bu
tton on his jacket open, reaching for the automatic that be wore beneath his arm. He knew it would be Shelly, bringing the Iranians for their little rendezvous, but there was still one chance in ten or fifteen thousand that a wild card might attempt to take him by surprise. The world was full of losers looking for that one big score, and when they interfered with business, there was nothing you could do but whack them out.

  He listened for the knock — two quick ones followed by another after six or seven seconds, then two more — and let himself relax. Ten minutes late, but that was pretty good for Iranians. Straightening his tie and buttoning his jacket, Anthony Silvestri checked the peephole just to put his mind at ease. The fish-eye lens made Shelly look like Jackie Gleason, risen from the grave.

  He slipped the double latch and threw the door wide open, putting on the plastic smile he always used when he was dealing with inferiors. "Good afternoon," he beamed at the new arrivals. "You're right on time."

  * * *

  It was a gamble from the start, and halfway up the stairs. Mack Bolan knew that be was bound to lose. The elevator was a clunker, granted, but it had a fair head start, and there was no way the Iranians would hang around the corridor outside their destination. By the time he got to the fifth floor, the Executioner was mulling over ways to single out their room without disturbing every tenant on the floor and putting the Iranians to flight.

  The worst scenario would be a total miss, if they had punched up number five, then ridden to a different floor in an effort to confuse pursuers. Bolan shrugged the notion off. If they were conscious of the tail, they'd have bolted and scrubbed the meeting From the look of their companion in the restaurant, he'd be used to breaking legs, not cracking codes and running rings around surveillance. No, the meet would be on the fifth floor, but where?

  When Bolan cracked the access door and pressed one eye against the narrow opening, a wedge of empty hallway was all he saw. He shifted his position, opening the door another inch or two and praying that the hinges wouldn't squeal in protest. Scoping out the left-hand side, he spied a slouching figure halfway down the hall, on guard outside a door, and recognized the contact from the restaurant on Bleecker Street.

  He pegged the range at close to sixty feet, the dingy light a handicap to accuracy. Still, he had no choice. A rush would leave him open to defensive fire, and even if the sentry missed, his enemies inside the room would be forewarned of danger. They might bolt or arm themselves and stand their ground, but Bolan would have sacrificed surprise in either case.

  A distance shot was risky, too. The Executioner might miss, or only wound his target, leaving time enough for shouted warnings. If his aim was true, the sound of a collapsing body might alert the others, prompting them to flee or fight.

  Another gamble. And again he had no choice.

  He palmed the sleek Beretta 93-R, balancing the weapon to accommodate the extra weight of its suppressor. Flicking off the safety, Bolan thumbed the hammer back and raised his free arm, crooked to grant support across the elbow as he aimed.

  One shot, to make or break the game, and it would have to be a killer. Bolan fixed his sights upon the target's head, the dark face offered up in silhouette.

  One shot…

  He stroked the trigger, riding out the automatic's recoil, retinas recalling vivid images of muzzle-flash. Downrange the sentry lurched and staggered, slumping back against the wall where abstract patterns had been etched in something that resembled crimson ink. The dead man's legs began to fold a heartbeat later, and he ended in a crouch, buttocks resting on his heels before he toppled over, sprawling on his side.

  No time to waste. Emerging from the stairwell, Bolan double-timed in the direction of the fallen sentry and the door that he had guarded with his life.

  His ears picked up no sounds of voices from behind that door, but he could almost feel the concentration of his enemies concealed from view. As Bolan braced himself to crash the gathering, a shadow fell across the built-in peephole's tiny lens, approximately level with his chin. The Executioner was moving forward, one leg raised to smash a heel against the lock, when instinct made him change direction, veering to the left and going down.

  Behind him bullets ripped the flimsy wooden panels, slicing through the empty space that he had occupied earlier and drilling the opposite wall.

  Chapter Two

  "Supply's no problem, then?" Silvestri asked.

  "No problem whatsoever," replied the Iranian on his left.

  Deliberately they had avoided introductions. The Iranians were worried that their holy mission in America might come to grief unless they kept their names a secret, and Silvestri, for his part, didn't want them naming him if they were captured and interrogated. Don Grisanti had a lot of blue-suits on his payroll, and they closed their eyes to gambling, drugs, a murder now and then. But it would be a different story if the Iranians started tossing bombs in school yards, sniping politicians on the street. There would be hell to pay, and when the dust began to settle, Anthony Silvestri meant to have his own hands clean.

  "Okay," he said. "The price is fair enough. If you can guarantee supply…"

  "No problem whatsoever," said the man on his right.

  Silvestri forced a smile. "You realize that we'll be taking all the risks of importation. I'd be interested to know exactly how your people plan to make delivery."

  The dark men traded shifty glances. Neither one had cracked a smile since their arrival. He'd seen hit men have a better time in jail than these two seemed to have while they were laying down a multimillion-dollar deal.

  "When all has been agreed, you will receive the name and address of a trusted friend in Nicosia. He will handle all the details of delivery in bulk. From Cyprus, transportation of the merchandise is, as you say, your problem."

  "Right. I understand you need some special items while you're in the city?"

  "Uzi submachine guns," said the dark man on his left, "with ammunition. Hand grenades, fragmentation type. Perhaps one dozen. And automatic pistols, chambered for the Uzi's parabellum round. With extra magazines."

  Silvestri had expected worse, and he refused to think about the hell two men could raise in Macy's or Grand Central Station with that kind of hardware.

  "That's easy," he said. "Where and when?"

  "At six o'clock. Our room…"

  "No good," he interrupted, frowning. "Nothing personal, but you two boys are new in town. For all I know, the Feds may have you spotted. It's a gamble meeting here, but my employer owns the place, okay? I can't send anybody up to your hotel with Uzis and grenades."

  Another glance between them, and they seemed to grasp the logic of his argument. "Perhaps the restaurant," one said, "on Bleacher Street."

  "That's Bleecker, and it's not a bad idea. Go in at six and order dinner like it's no big thing. I'll give you half an hour, and…"

  The sound was difficult to place. It came from just outside the door, Silvestri knew that much, but what the hell would make a noise like that? At first it sounded like a clump of soggy paper towels thrown against the wall, and then there was a heavy shuffling and sliding, like Shelly might have tripped and fallen on his ass.

  The Iranians stiffened in their seats, exchanging pointed looks before they focused on Silvestri. He was on his feet before they had a chance to start with any questions, moving toward the door and hauling out his automatic on the way.

  "Hey, Shell?"

  No answer came from beyond the door, although he knew damn well that Shelly should have heard him. Smelling trouble, he stepped closer to the door, the automatic cocked as he leaned forward, listening.

  Silvestri glanced across his shoulder and discovered that the Iranians both had fisted snubby.38 revolvers. It crossed his mind to wonder what they needed pistols for, and he decided that it didn't matter either way. If they were being raided — by the Feds, for instance — he was up shit creek and no mistake.

  Silvestri turned away from the Iranians and pressed one eye against the peephole.
He was hoping desperately for Shelly's Jackie Gleason imitation, but instead he saw a tall, dark stranger with a jazzy automatic in his fist. The guy was standing back and taking stock, as if he were about to kick the door, and that meant they were being raided.

  Or worse.

  Silvestri didn't waste his energy on calculating the possibilities for rip-offs, double crosses and the like. Relying on his instinct now, he took a short step back and snapped off three quick rounds directly through the door, chest-high. He was retreating toward the startled Iranians when a rapid, 3-round burst ripped through the door, immediately followed by another.

  Silvestri figured Shelly must have bought it right away. That meant the sons of bitches didn't plan on leaving any witnesses, and he'd have to kill them all or find another exit in a hurry. Wasting precious heartbeats on a rundown of his possible assailants, anyone who might have tried to queer the old man's action with Iran, he saw the other men breaking for the window and the fire escape beyond.

  The mafioso scowled. They might be late for meetings, but the bastards didn't mess around when it was time to hit the bricks and save their asses. Bringing up the rear, Silvestri felt a fleeting urge to waste them both, and then the world fell in behind him.

  Someone gave the door a flying kick, and by the time Silvestri turned to face the opposition, it was too damned late to save himself. He recognized the big guy, startled to discover that there was no one crowding in behind him, but he only had a fraction of a second as their guns went off together.

  Anthony Silvestri saw his single bullet strike the wall, and then three rounds punched through his rib cage, knocking him off balance. Sprawling on the floor, he felt a seeping wetness through his clothes, but nothing else. That was strange.

  Silvestri thought that dying was supposed to hurt.