Assassin's Code Page 3

“Ismaili,” Ous allowed.

  Muhammad ibn Abd al-Wahhab had been an eighteenth-century scholar from Arabia. He considered anything but the strictest adherence to Sunni Islam and Sharia Law to be “innovations” that needed ruthless and violent crushing. The Taliban took much of their doctrine from Abd al-Wahhab’s teachings and had applied it with fanatic zeal during their five-year reign of religious terror as the governing body of Afghanistan.

  “The attack in the village yesterday wasn’t exactly what I would call Taliban standard tactical procedure,” Bolan ventured.

  “Both the attack against us and the slaying of your envoy were very unorthodox.” Ous puffed his pipe for a contemplative moment. “I have operated with the United States Marine Corps in the past. I found this morning’s incident profoundly disturbing.”

  Soldiers refusing to take prisoners during the war on terror wasn’t unknown. Some prisoners had been mistreated. A U.S. Marine fragging an infirmary with U.S. personnel inside was positively anomalous. Ous took another sip of beer. “What have you learned?”

  There wasn’t much. “Corporal Saulito Convertino, from New York City, a strict Catholic. The chaplain says he attended services every Sunday. No known radical, terrorist or criminal affiliations. Was recommended for the Bronze Star in action during the surge into Helmand.”

  “And his disposition now?”

  “In custody, not talking to his appointed lawyer, not talking to anyone.”

  Ous eyes narrowed. “You said he was weeping when you apprehended him?”

  “Yeah.” Bolan nodded very slowly. “Yeah, he was.”

  “You fear he was coerced,” Ous surmised.

  “It’s the only thing that makes sense. But he didn’t owe anybody money, wasn’t on drugs, the preliminary FBI investigation back in New York states his family is fine and has no idea how this could have happened.”

  “You believe the coercion had to be local,” Ous suggested.

  “We brought in the prisoner last night and he got fragged this morning. Corporal Convertino hadn’t been planning this, he was activated.”

  “Sleeper cells,” Ous said incredulously, “in the United States Marine Corps?”

  “More like a mole.”

  “So how was he recruited, locally, as it were?”

  “I can think of only one thing, Convertino was an exemplary Marine except for one thing,” Bolan said. “Oh?”

  “On three separate occasions he was found AWOL, but each time the statement of charges was dropped.”

  “And why should this be?” Ous asked.

  “Because Convertino was a scrounger.”

  “I am not aware of this term.”

  “He was good at getting things,” Bolan explained. “I spoke with a few of the men on his squad. If you wanted beer or liquor in Afghanistan, he’d find a way. If you couldn’t find any Marlboro, he’d get you Tajiki Kahons at half the price. U.S. and European pornography is almost impossible to sneak into Afghanistan, but if you wanted some, he could find you the Russian stuff that flows down through the northern border by the bushel basket. Every unit has a scrounger, and by all accounts Convertino was a scrounger par excellence. He was born in Puerto Rico, and they’re the last bastion of bartering culture in the United States. From what I hear he had the gift of gab, everybody liked him, and he had been to the language school and spoke some Arabic.”

  “So why would the statement of charges be dropped if he was dealing in contraband?”

  “Because he acquired contraband for his superiors,” Bolan said.

  “Ah, yes, I see. Truly the world is the same all over. So, you believe it was in the midst of this scrounging that he was seduced?”

  “I’m thinking seduced is exactly the right word. When he was in Iraq, Convertino had the reputation of being one hell of a charming horn dog. Female soldiers and Iraqi women liked him, a lot. Here in Afghanistan the female soldiers are a lot fewer, the Afghanis are far more violent about protecting their women. What little prostitution there is takes place in the big cities, and those are few and far between. A woman in Afghanistan who has been reduced to prostitution has seen a lot of hard miles, and that’s not Convertino’s type. The real brothels are run by Russians and Turks, are stocked with Eastern European and Russian women and cater to rich Afghans and foreign visitors with money. Out of Convertino’s league. After being transferred to Afghanistan I’m thinking Convertino was jonesing pretty hard.”

  “Jonesing.” Ous nodded as he pondered this bit of American slang. “I believe I understand what you are saying.” His eyes suddenly went wolflike. “You are saying we must find Corporal Convertino’s sexy girlfriend.”

  “Something like that.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sangin Base stockade

  “Where the hell have you been?” Agent Kathryn Keller struggled to keep up with Bolan and Ous without breaking into a trot in the hallway.

  “Drinking beer,” Bolan replied.

  “Hey!” Keller snarled.

  Bolan stopped and turned. “What?”

  “Well…” Keller suddenly grinned. “How come you didn’t invite me?”

  Bolan considered his answer and jerked his head at Ous. “He doesn’t drink beer with women.”

  “What in God’s name leads you to conclude that I do not drink beer with women?” Ous asked.

  “My mistake,” Bolan admitted. “Can you give me a sitrep, Keller?”

  “Convertino talked.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “Just that he admits to the murder of Dr. Early, the John Doe suspect, and the attempted murder of you and Mr. Ous.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He’s dismissed his appointed council, says he will plead guilty to all charges and requested the death penalty.”

  “He seems dedicated,” Ous said.

  “Down right self-sacrificing,” Bolan agreed.

  Keller looked back and forth between the two men. “What can I do to help?”

  Bolan’s cobalt gaze burned into Keller’s eyes. “NCIS is still in charge of this case?”

  “Not for much longer,” Keller said. The MPs outside the cell snapped to attention and saluted the woman as she and her party approached. “And then God only knows who is going to take over. When this goes public, it’s going to turn into a real dog-and-pony show.”

  “Then I want you to flash that NCIS badge, say ‘agent in charge’ and give me five minutes with the suspect,” Bolan said.

  Keller squeezed her eyes shut as if she had just developed a headache. She opened her eyes and grimly flashed her badge. “Keller! NCIS! Agent in charge! This man is a liaison from the Justice Department to see the prisoner!”

  The ranking guard looked upon Keller with grave uncertainty. “Um…yes, ma’am?” The other unlocked the door. “Uh, sir? Just so you know, the prisoner is not currently under restraint but we are on suicide watch.”

  “Thank you, Private,” Bolan said.

  “And what shall I do?” Ous inquired.

  “No one comes in or out, and I mean no one,” Bolan said.

  The MPs looked on in alarm as Ous took one of their folding chairs beside the door, pulled a huge Khyber knife and began cleaning his fingernails. Keller just rolled her eyes. “That’s it. I’m dead.”

  Bolan stalked into the holding cell and slammed the door shut behind him. There was nothing inside other than a single bunk and chair. Corporal Saulito Convertino jerked erect in his chair. His eyes widened in horror at the sight of Bolan. “Oh God! No!”

  Bolan’s open hand cracked across Convertino’s face in textbook bitch-slap perfection.

  “You—”

  Bolan’s hand cracked across Convertino’s face once, twice, three times. The Executioner didn’t believe in pliers and blowtorch torture. He had been tortured himself, and all it had ever engendered within him was hatred. But crime and terror were slippery slopes that men could find themselves in against their will, sometimes finding themselves ensnared before the
y knew it, and Bolan could recognize a repentant sinner. Corporal Saulito Convertino’s salvation was between him and his Maker, but Bolan was perfectly willing to take him behind the woodshed and hear his confession. Minor pain and intimidation worked wonders.

  Bolan’s blue eyes burned down on the traitor like the embodied anger of an Old Testament God of the desert with no sense of humor. Convertino was a good-looking man. His slightly hooked nose, high cheekbones, curvy lips and Kirk Douglas chin were all set in toffee-tinted skin that bespoke his Spanish, African and Taino Indian blood. His copper-colored hair was cropped into USMC regulation skull-hugging curls, and he was built like an NFL defensive end.

  Tears streamed down his face as he pushed himself up to his knees.

  “Where’s your girlfriend?” Bolan asked.

  Convertino went slack-jawed in horror.

  “Your girlfriend? You know, the one who put you up to this?”

  “I can’t! They’ll kill h—”

  Bolan bodily heaved Convertino to his feet and slammed him against the wall of the cell. “What’s her name?”

  “Reema! Her name is Reema!”

  The first admission in a situation like this usually opened the floodgates. “Tell me the whole story, Corporal.”

  Convertino looked up in despair. “I love her…?.”

  “And they’ll kill her if you talk?”

  The Marine looked down miserably. Bolan’s eyes went cold. “Did you know I was in that tent?”

  “No!”

  “Mr. Ous?”

  Convertino blinked through his tears. “Who?”

  “You know there were Marine Corps medical personnel in that tent when you fragged it?”

  Convertino sagged again. “I was hoping not.”

  Bolan’s voice was merciless. “Dr. Early threw himself on that grenade to save everyone in that tent, including myself and your target. He’s going to get the Congressional Medal of Honor, presented to his widow. What do you think you deserve, Corporal?”

  Convertino’s voice dropped to a dead whisper. “Court martial and death by lethal injection.”

  “You deserve a lot worse than that. There’s a special place in hell for Marines who kill their own.” Convertino held his head in his hands and sobbed. “Now where’s the girl and who has her?” Bolan continued.

  “They’ll kill her, they—”

  “They already killed her!” Bolan’s voice thundered in the cell. “She’s the only link! The only chance she has is that a hot piece of tail is a valuable commodity and they might have sold her. That is, if she’s not in on it!”

  A flicker of anger kindled in Convertino’s agonized eyes. “What?”

  “Don’t you get it? She’s a whore!”

  “What did you say?”

  “You pussy-whipped son of a bitch! Afghan girls don’t put out! And if they do, they sure as hell don’t risk it for loser corporals like you! She’s Taliban!” Bolan spit, turning the provocation dial all the way up to high.

  “No, she loves me! She said yes. She was going to be my wife.” Fresh sobs racked the conflicted young soldier. “She’s pregnant with my kid.”

  Bolan relented, just slightly. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to you, Corporal. It’s been a long time since the U.S. Military put anyone to death, but you’re a prime candidate.

  “But I’ll tell you this. If you’re the one who’s right, and she’s innocent like you say, I’ll save her, if I can. I’m the only chance either one of you has.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  “Three things,” Bolan said. “One, NCIS is going to get a sketch artist on a live feed and you’re going to describe Reema. Two, you are going to tell me everything, and I mean everything that happened right up to the point you pulled that pin.”

  Convertino nodded. “And three?”

  “Three? You’re busting out of here.”

  NCIS temporary office, Sangin Base

  “NO, NO, NO, and no.” Keller looked about to explode. Farkas stared out the window at the rain with a very unhappy “Don’t know, don’t have an opinion” look on his face. At that time of year Helmand Province averaged about two inches of rain. Right now they were getting three and on the tail of the dust storm it turned the world from a Martian landscape to gray floods and muck.

  “Oh, come on, Keller,” Bolan cajoled, “What could happen?”

  Agent Keller’s eyes flew wide in outrage. “He fragged a goddamn Marine Corps medical station! He killed a Navy doctor, and my suspect, and I’m personally going to see to it that the Navy reinstitutes death by firing squad! And if they don’t, I’m going to shoot Corporal Convertino myself!”

  Bolan shrugged. “Give him to me.”

  “No!”

  “You can shoot him later.”

  “What if he escapes?” Keller asked. Bolan smiled.

  “Okay,” Keller acknowledged. “Maybe he can’t escape you, but what if you get your head blown off?”

  “Where’ll he go? A Puerto Rican Marine in Afghanistan? He’s dead meat wherever he runs.”

  “Yeah, and our boy is borderline suicidal.”

  “And he wants redemption. Let him fall going forward,” Bolan said.

  “Damn it! You know my orders were to extend you every courtesy! Every courtesy! This? This is pushing it!”

  “Give him to me.”

  “No!” Keller replied.

  “What? You don’t trust me?”

  “I don’t know! And stop smiling at me!”

  “Give him to me,” Bolan pressed.

  “God have mercy on us all…”

  “Good.” Bolan nodded. “I’m glad we have that settled.”

  “What!”

  Bolan switched gears. “What did the sketch artist in D.C. come up with?”

  Farkas opened a laptop and clicked an icon. Bolan could almost sympathize with the corporal. “Reema” was something right out of an old Arabian Nights movie: huge dark eyes, sensuous lips, perfect cheekbones and chin. All she was missing was a see-through pink veil and a ruby in her belly button. Bolan flicked through the multiple sketches he had ordered. Reema in Western-style clothes, Reema in the traditional long pants and tunic, Reema naked, Reema with just her eyes and the bridge of her nose peering out of a veil. Bolan downloaded the sketches into his highly modified tablet computer.

  “Assuming I agree to go along with this,” Keller said, “which I haven’t, how do you want to play it?”

  “Close to the vest. Convertino is on suicide watch. He makes an attempt, and busts out on the way to the infirmary. He steals a Humvee, crashes the gate and tries to contact his woman or whoever has her.”

  “Or whoever has her, if anyone has her, takes him out.”

  “That’s about it,” Bolan said.

  “That’s just about a death sentence, not to mention that during the manhunt, not many of our guys are going to try to bring him back alive.”

  “He’s looking at life in prison or the death penalty anyway. He wants redemption, he wants his woman safe, and if his woman was in on it, he wants payback. And he’s volunteered. He’s already sworn he won’t resist if captured.”

  “You know how many things can go wrong on this?” Keller asked.

  “He’s being implanted with a tracking device as we speak. I had to slap him around a bit to get him intimidated, so he has enough bruises on him no one should notice. The damage should help make his case.”

  “You know, even if they bite, the only reason will be to kill him,” Keller said.

  “I know.”

  “How big a team do you want?”

  “Just me, and I’ll take Ous along in case I need to talk to any locals,” Bolan replied.

  “No backup? No surveillance?”

  “I’ll have my own surveillance, but I’d take it as a favor if you were to pick me a crack team and keep a chopper hot on the pad in case I call. If things get hot, they’re going to get hot fast.”

  Keller gave Bolan a very frank
look. “I hope to God you’ve got some kind of pull with the Attorney General, or we are looking to get seriously rat-screwed on this one.”

  “Never met the man,” Bolan admitted.

  Keller just stared.

  “But I know his boss,” Bolan stated.

  Keller opened her mouth and closed it. The Attorney General of the United States served at the pleasure of the President. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “You can ask.”

  “Who are you?”

  Bolan shrugged. “I’m Batman.”

  “I’m not surprised at all.”

  He gazed at Keller speculatively. “You speak Arabic?”

  “Yeah, that’s why I’m here.” The NCIS agent’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “How’d you like to be a caped crusader, too?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Sangin

  “Yeah, nice cape, buddy!” Agent Keller sat in the battered Toyota pickup, mildly outraged, swathed in a full burka and sandwiched between Ous and Bolan. “It suits you,” the soldier said.

  “Indeed, you look most fetching,” Ous agreed.

  “No woman looks fetching in a pup tent,” Keller muttered.

  Ous sighed. “You have no idea how much time and energy we men spend, our eyes attempting to burn through the burka. We gasp at the accidental flash of an ankle, but much more can be told by a moment’s fall or fold of cloth, the change in drape as a woman sits or stands, the sway of it as she moves, and we yearn, burning, to catch a heartbeat’s glance of approval from a pair of shining eyes. I assure you, Agent Keller, our eyes are well practiced, and were you to walk across the bazaar, garbed as you are, all eyes would be upon you.”

  Keller turned to Bolan. “You know you could take some charm lessons from him.”

  “Actually, I may be the first man in Afghanistan to have charmed a woman into a burka rather than out of one,” Bolan replied.

  The radio link crackled with Farkas’s voice. “Batman, this is Control, do you copy?”

  “Loud and clear, over.”

  “Mission is go.”

  Bolan mentally counted down the seconds. Ous sat behind the wheel looking at his watch.

  “Batman!” Farkas’s voice rose slightly with excitement across the link, “The rabbit has run!”