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  The driver had explained the situation to his passenger in broken English. Bolan caught the gist of it, his eyes on Harrigan. Kasm stood off to Bolan's right, endeavoring to look relaxed. He smiled too much, like someone who believed good-natured banter will disguise his guilt. The Arab had been cool enough in handling the bandits, but their plan had been considered in advance. He hoped Kasm would not do anything to botch the plan he had in mind.

  The plan had sprung to life spontaneously, when he made the roving IRA ambassador. It was apparent from the escort, the direction of their travel, that the government was introducing Harrigan to the Assassins. Training camps for fedayeen and other terrorists were to the south, below Damascus, but the Irishman was headed north. It didn't matter how he had persuaded members of the Ba'ath regime to set the meeting up; his topic of discussion with the Old Man of the Mountain, though predictable, was also momentarily irrelevant.

  What mattered was that Bryan Harrigan must have a scheduled meeting, an appointment, with Sheikh al-Jebal. He had an in. And if the government believed an escort necessary, there were decent odds that Harrigan had never made the trip before. It was a gamble, but it was a good deal more than Bolan had to work with at the moment.

  "Can we get a move on, then? I've got a schedule to keep, you know."

  The Makarov was in his hand before the driver could respond, and Bolan never let him have the chance. Round one ripped through his temple at a range of twenty feet and dropped him in his tracks without a sound. His partner was off-balance, taken by surprise, and was clawing for his weapon when another head shot sent him sprawling, wet brains glistening in the dust.

  Kasm and Harrigan were staring at him, open-mouthed, each equally surprised. Bolan kept the IRA man covered, putting no faith in the fact that he appeared to be unarmed, and nodded toward the fallen driver as he passed the Syrian.

  "He looks about your size. We'll need that uniform."

  "You're not a wog at all!" Surprise was giving way to curiosity as Harrigan removed his sunglasses, examined his enemy more closely. He didn't seem to be afraid. "American?"

  "That's right."

  "Small world, eh?"

  "Getting smaller all the time."

  "I know the feeling. Bloody countries like a bunch of postage stamps, all sand and stone."

  "You're not on a vacation, I take it."

  "Well, I'm not at liberty to say."

  "Too bad." He raised the Makarov and sighted on the sole survivor of the party.

  "Is this the part where I'm supposed to piss myself? You're wasting time, you know. I've seen it all before."

  He could have killed the terrorist at once, but Bolan tried a different tack. "Okay," he said, "you're right. Suppose I do the talking?"

  "It appears that I have nowhere else to go, just now."

  "All right, let's start with introductions, Mr. Harrigan. The sun's a little hotter here than in Belfast, isn't it?"

  The Ulsterman was unruffled. "It appears you have me at a disadvantage, sir. You mentioned introductions?"

  "Call me Belasko. You're en route to meet Sheikh al-Jebal, at Alamut. I'll have to wing it on the topic of discussion. An assassination, possibly? A second front in London?"

  "Just my bloody luck. I travel halfway round the world and run into the bleeding CIA."

  "Not even close."

  "Oh, no? You've piqued my interest, I'll give you that. Who am I talking to?"

  "Let's say we have a similar idea. I'd like to meet the sheikh myself, but invitations are in short supply."

  "And you'd be after taking mine."

  "That's it."

  "I don't appear to have much choice."

  "No choice at all."

  "I reckon you know where you're going, then?"

  "We'll manage."

  "Ah. I've never seen the place, but I've been told its deuced difficult to locate."

  "Nothing ventured…"

  "Nothing gained. I understand. You're sure you haven't got a mite of Irish blood, besides?"

  "You never know."

  "Aye, that's a fact." The Irish terrorist was eyeing him with interest. "You could use a guide, I'm thinking."

  "Got one, thanks. Besides, you've never seen the place, remember?"

  "It was worth a try. I really wouldn't trust the wogs if I were you. Look what it did to me."

  "You pick your side and take your chances."

  "Aye, I've always been one for that."

  He took his chances then, without a flicker of an eye for warning, digging for the shoulder holster beneath his open jacket as he sidestepped, dodging to his left.

  And it was almost good enough. Almost. He had a pistol in his hand as Bolan let the Makarov take over, round one catching Harrigan off-center, splintering his collarbone without inflicting mortal damage. Driven to his knees, blood soaking through his tunic, Bolan's adversary was returning fire when he was toppled by a rifle shot, heels drumming on the sand for several seconds as his death throes ran their course.

  Hafez Kasm glanced from Bolan to the fallen Irishman and back again. His face looked haggard, weary, and there was confusion in his eyes.

  "Why have we killed these men?" he asked. "I understood the other ones, but these?"

  Bolan pointed to the latest casualty. "This one is known in Europe as a murderer of women, children. Bombing theaters and markets was his specialty. The soldiers were his escort."

  "He is bound for Alamut?"

  "He was. We're going in his place."

  "I see."

  The Arab's eyes spoke volumes, but he kept his apprehension to himself. He set down his rifle and went back to stripping the late driver of his uniform. Bolan used the time to drag the other bodies out of sight, depositing them with the bandits, then moving back to help Kasm when he had finished dressing. After topping off the canteens, they made a final sweep for blatant evidence of what had transpired, then prepared to leave.

  "There may be recognition signals we are not aware of."

  Bolan had considered that and saw no viable alternatives. He put the problem out of mind.

  "We'll wing it. Military inefficiency. Somebody botched the password. Harrigan's a stranger to these people, and unless they're holding photographs, we ought to be all right."

  "And if they have such photographs?"

  Bolan shrugged. "We'll get a chance to do some thinking on our feet."

  "You Americans are impetuous."

  "We have our moments."

  "Are you also indestructible?"

  "We're working on it," Bolan said. "There are still a few bugs to be ironed out."

  "Too bad."

  "We'll see."

  The soldier shed his caftan, kept the keffiyeh on for shade. His own fatigues would do as well as Harrigan's, and his companion made a perfect soldier, baggy uniform and all. Kasm deposited his rifle and revolver in the jeep, encumbered with the dead man's automatic now. A pair of Uzi submachine guns, stacked against a leather satchel in the rear, appeared to lift his spirits slightly.

  Bolan sprang the satchel's latch and found it stuffed with Syrian pound notes, a small fortune in paper. Kasm whistled softly.

  "Praise Allah."

  "Praise Harrigan. This is the IRA's greeting card."

  "We are in business?"

  "We might be, Hafez. We might be."

  It would take more than cash, Bolan knew, to deceive the Assassins, but it was a point for their side, all the same. He could speak with a greater degree of authority now, and command more respect while he sought out a chink in his enemy's armor. With luck, it just might be enough.

  Then again, it might not.

  If they fumbled a password, or Sheikh al-Jebal had a snapshot of Harrigan, they were in trouble. If two men arrived, and the Old Man was looking for three, they were dead.

  Bolan knew all the risks, and he still had no choice.

  He was there. He was forging ahead.

  To the end of the line.

  6

  A
set of wheels made all the difference in the world. Their risks were multiplied tenfold by sticking to the highway, but it would improve their time, potentially by hours, and the ache in Bolan's legs was fading rapidly. If nothing else, he would be able to conserve some energy, confront the enemy more swiftly, if and when the ambush came.

  He rode the shotgun seat, the AK-47 muzzle-up between his knees. Kasm was driving with an Uzi in his lap, the other stuttergun between them on the floorboards. Given half a chance, they were prepared to answer a surprise attack with concentrated firepower, but a shoot-out on the highway was not Bolan's goal. He had not come this far and risked so much to throw his life away in futile confrontation with a gang of roving bandits. He was looking forward to a meeting with the Old Man of the Mountain, and from that point on he would have to play the cards as they were dealt.

  Kasm was nervous, checking out the rearview mirror frequently, examining the wooded slopes on both sides of the road. His hands were steady on the wheel, but he was rigid, like a mannequin — or like a man expecting unseen enemies to take his head off any moment. Bolan would have offered to relieve him, but the Arab knew their destination, and it made no sense to spell him. Besides, if trouble came, the soldier wanted both hands free.

  The countryside bore no resemblance to a desert now. As the Syrian took them higher, the straggling cedars grew thicker, becoming a forest of sons. When it rained, upper slopes took the brunt of the water, and life was abundant here, birds and small animals streaking for cover at the sound of the jeep. Bolan was reminded, vaguely, of the Colorado Rockies, but the Elburz range rode lower on the skyline, and there was no trace of snow. A glance down at the weapon braced between his knees reminded Bolan that he was not bound for Vail or Aspen. He was in search of a resort whose clientele was more exclusive, where the dues were paid in blood.

  "How long?"

  Kasm was startled by his voice, a sheepish grin replacing momentary fright. "I beg your pardon?"

  "How much longer?"

  "Possibly an hour on the road. From there, we must walk again."

  "The Old Man doesn't have a driveway?" Bolan grinned.

  "There is a road that leads to Alamut, but it has no connection with the highway."

  "Makes it hard for anyone to take him by surprise."

  "I should imagine a surprise would be impossible."

  "There's no such word."

  "I'm sure there must be."

  "No, I mean… forget it." Bolan tried another tack. "Their guns and ammunition have to get there somehow. Have you got a handle on supply lines?"

  "I suspect they are supplied by air, although I have no proof."

  "And food?"

  "The Eagle's Nest commands a fertile valley. Farmers there have fed the rulers of the castle for a thousand years."

  It played. A fortress, virtually self-contained except for arms and ammunition, which were readily available by airdrop. Mother Russia was a short five hundred miles by air, and night flights under radar would be simple for the KGB to orchestrate. If it came down to that, a seaplane, from the west, could cut that time dramatically, the in-and-out as simple as Grimaldi's own incursion eighteen hours earlier.

  The thought of Jack reminded Bolan he was running out of time. The best part of a day was gone, with one remaining, and he meant to meet that deadline if it was within his power. If he blew it, failed to make connections somehow, Jack would have no target and the scheduled strike would not proceed. The Old Man of the Mountain would be safe inside his lair, protected by the ancient walls of stone and modern government indifference to humanity.

  He shrugged the morbid thoughts away and concentrated on the road ahead. They had been climbing steadily for half an hour, and the air, if not precisely cool, was at least better than the hell draft of the flats they had left behind. The winds below would bake a man and make him old before his time; up here, while falling short of a caress, the breeze was softer, less inclined to claim its pound of flesh.

  For all his mental preparation, his belief that he could not be taken wholly by surprise, the horsemen were an unexpected touch. Four of them filled the road, their mounts deployed at alternating angles, compact submachine guns leveled at the windshield of the jeep. The bearded faces were serene, almost lethargic, as they closed the trap.

  Immediately Bolan ran the short list of his options. They could try to ram the living roadblock, batter through the flesh of animals and men, but they would be exposed to concentrated automatic fire, and there was almost certainly a backup team, prepared to hit them with a broadside if they tried a rush. Retreat was tantamount to suicide; Kasm would have his hands full backing down the mountain at the best of times, and bullets crashing through the windshield, through the engine block, would not improve his chances.

  "Bandits?"

  Bolan's driver tried a shrug and settled for a jerky movement of his shoulders. "I don't know. I'm sorry."

  "Never mind. We'll find out soon enough."

  As if in answer to his words, the rider on their starboard flank immediately broke formation, urging his mount toward the jeep. He stopped abreast of Bolan, glancing at their weapons, frowning to himself as he addressed Kasm in Arabic.

  "They are Ismaili," Bolan's driver told him. "And they were expecting three."

  "Last-minute change of plans."

  Kasm relayed the message, and they waited while the rider thought it over, staring deeply into Bolan's eyes as if he sought to probe the warrior's soul. As Bolan met his gaze and held it, their interrogator seemed to make his mind up, swiveling around and barking orders toward the wooded slope on Bolan's left. Another trio of Assassins clattered into view, the new arrivals leading horses that were saddled, but without riders.

  Three fresh horses, for the visitors whom the Ismailis were expecting.

  The extra weapons in the jeep might prove embarrassing, but Bolan was prepared to make himself seem paranoid, if necessary, to explain the surplus hardware. If their contact was suspicious, he concealed his feelings well — a trait that, Bolan reasoned, the professional Assassins would be forced to cultivate.

  Had they already been marked as impostors? Was their fate already sealed? And if they had been marked for death on sight, why were they still alive?

  No time for questions. The leader of the escort team was barking orders, and a gesture from his submachine gun made his meaning plain before Kasm had time to translate.

  "They will take the vehicle from here."

  "I gathered that."

  "We are to leave our weapons."

  Bolan stiffened. Giving up the jeep was one thing; handing over their hardware might be suicidal. Bolan took a chance and tried to put himself inside the mind of Bryan Harrigan.

  "Hold on a second. Tell him I said honest friends should not attempt to leave their comrades naked and defenseless in a hostile world. I give my gun to no man."

  Kasm stared at Bolan for a moment, as if pondering his sanity.

  "Go on."

  Reluctantly his contact passed the word, and Bolan watched the members of their escort stiffen, fingers tightening on triggers. If he pushed too far, too fast, they were as good as dead.

  The leader eyed him coldly for a moment, chewing on his indignation, finally snapping out a comment to the Syrian.

  "He says that you may keep a pistol, for the ride to Alamut. Beyond those gates, no man goes armed without permission of Sheikh al-Jebal."

  "That's fair enough." Bolan put a touch of arrogance behind the smile and left his AK-47 in the jeep as he climbed down. The holstered Makarov would scarcely measure up to seven submachine guns, but it beat the thought of unarmed combat all to hell. If they were marked for execution where they stood, at least he might have time and opportunity to take a couple of the bastards with him.

  Reaching back to fetch the loaded satchel, Bolan felt the gunners watching him, alert to any trick. He let them see the bag, approached the point man's mount and held it open, waiting while he probed inside to check for an
y weapons hidden underneath the bundled cash. When he was satisfied, the gunman nodded, waving Bolan off.

  As they retreated from the jeep, the leader of their escort barked an order to his team. One of the riders hastily dismounted, passed his reins to a companion and went on to take his place behind the steering wheel. The roadblock parted as he put the jeep in motion, his companion trailing at a distance, with the driver's mount in tow. Another moment, and the jeep had disappeared around the next sharp curve, its engine noises swallowed by the mountains.

  Bolan took his cue from the commander of the troops and chose a mount, Kasm proceeding to the next horse in line. Bolan used the saddle's ornate horn for purchase, mounting on the left and settling in, his boots a snug fit in the stirrups. At his side, unused to horseback riding, Kasm made it on the second try.

  They left the road immediately, two Ismailis leading, Bolan and his native contact in the middle and three more armed Assassins bringing up the rear. Bolan saw that it was an adequate arrangement, covering the possibilities in case he had a change of heart and tried to bolt. He might be able to eliminate the point men, if he did not spook his mount with sudden gunfire, but the three men at his back would bring him down before he had a chance to turn around. And if he attempted to reverse directions suddenly, he would be trapped and pinned before he could complete the move. A break to either side was simply not an option, as he saw once they were off the road.

  Their path, at first, led up a rocky slope. Bolan could hear Hafez Kasm cursing underneath his breath, absorbing each new jolt as if it were a personal affront, eyes tightly closed until their mounts reached something that approximated level ground. The slope behind them, Bolan's contact risked a shaky smile, embarrassed by his momentary fright. The Arab pride was showing through again, but he was still a little green around the gills.