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  Ahmad just nodded.

  “So tell me what you know,” Bolan said.

  “I know that Saddam Hussein did have weapons of mass destruction,” the little man on the desk chair said. “But he had time to ship them out of Iraq to sympathetic and allied countries before the United States invaded.”

  For a moment, the Executioner was struck silent. He had expected Intel, but nothing this big. “Do you know what they were and where they went?” he asked.

  “There were large stores of chemical and biological weapons, and one medium-range rocket with a nuclear warhead.”

  “Tell me,” Bolan said, with a trace of suspicion in his voice. “How does a Hezbollah soldier such as yourself come by such ‘inside’ information?”

  Ahmad shrugged. “For many years now, Hezbollah has transported both weaponry—rifles, ammunition and the like—as well as documents from Iraq to Syria and back. We did not always know what we were delivering. It is one of the duties we perform in return for the protection both countries provide for us.” He stopped speaking for a moment, then said. “Allow me to rephrase that last part. My English is not always so good, and I should have spoken in the past tense. These jobs are done in exchange for the protection both countries provide for my former comrades in Hezbollah. In any case, as you might guess with any peoples, rumors abound under such conditions. I cannot be certain, but I suspect Syria took possession of large quantities of biological or chemical agents. My reasoning for this is that only a few days before the U.S. invaded Iraq, we drove the largest and longest convoy of supply trucks we had ever taken from Iraq to Damascus.”

  “And you had no idea what you were carrying?” Bolan asked.

  “Not officially,” Ahmad said. “But it did not take an Albert Einstein to make an educated guess. There were many fifty-five gallon barrels in the trucks—all unmarked. They looked identical to the drums that contained the chemical weapons Saddam used on Iran during their war, then later on his own Kurdish people.”

  “Do you still have contacts in Iraq and Syria?” Bolan asked.

  “Yes,” Ahmad said. “At least I think I do. Once again, it depends on whether or not word of my conversion was sent back overseas.”

  Bolan motioned for Ahmad to stand up, and he complied. “We’ll get into the details in a little while,” he said. Bolan reached into his pocket and produced a roll of hundred-dollar bills. He dealt off several like a blackjack dealer in Las Vegas, then shoved them into the man’s hand. “As for now, go downstairs to one of the shops in the lobby and buy some American-looking clothes. We can’t have you running around here in dirty BDUs. But don’t throw away your kaffiyeh or turban, or anything else you wear at home. We’ll need that look on you when we get there.”

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  Bolan reminded himself that Ahmad had still not proved his trustworthiness. So far, he was all talk. “I’ll let you know when the time comes,” he said simply. Bolan returned the rest of the money to his pocket as the man left the room and entered the hall.

  As soon as Ahmad was out of earshot, Bolan turned back to Father O’Melton. “I’d like to know a little more about you, Father,” he said. “You’re hardly the run-of-the-mill Irish-American Catholic priest. So could you explain why you’re here in this room instead of comforting the parishioners whose chapel was just attacked?”

  O’Melton smiled, and the gleam in his eyes told Bolan this wasn’t the first time he’d been asked such a question. “Like I told you,” he said. “I was a U.S. Army Ranger before becoming a priest.”

  Bolan nodded, continuing to stare the man in the eye. But O’Melton’s gaze was almost as firm. “And I’ve told you what I did during the first Gulf War,” he said. “Undercover in Baghdad, and wrapped up in all the Moslem trappings I could find to hide my pale Irish skin. Even used that spray-on tan stuff some actors wear.”

  “You guys did a good job bringing in the smart bombs,” Bolan said.

  O’Melton grinned slightly. “Were you there?” he asked.

  Bolan let a smile curl the corners of his mouth. “Not officially,” he said. “But yeah, I was there.”

  “I thought you must have been,” the priest said. “I was outside Saint Michael’s with the SWAT teams and cops when you bounced down onto the roof on the end of that big rubber band. Then you systematically engineered the retaking of the chapel practically alone. I can’t imagine our government not using a man with your abilities in any war or conflict which came up.”

  “Thanks for the compliment,” Bolan said. “But we’re here to talk about you, not me. So, how’d you go from Ranger fatigues to that white collar? The whole story.”

  O’Melton let out a loud laugh that had to have come from the pit of his stomach. “It’s difficult to explain to most people,” he said. “But, like I already said, I got a calling from God.”

  Bolan waited silently for him to continue.

  O’Melton smiled genuinely. “Don’t worry—I’m not crazy. The clouds didn’t part and I didn’t hear any voice or anything. Fact is, I was on the phone, guiding a USAF sortie to its target, when I suddenly got a feeling more weird than anything I’d ever experienced in my life.”

  The Executioner leaned forward. “That you shouldn’t be helping kill your fellow man?”

  “No,” the priest said. “Not at all. It was a feeling that I was doing exactly what I was supposed to be doing with my life at that moment. That I was doing exactly what God had put me on this planet to do. But with that knowledge came another feeling—that it wasn’t all God had planned for me. A feeling that there would be a major change in my life as soon as the war was over and I got back stateside.”

  “The knowledge that you should become a priest?” Bolan asked.

  “No, not yet.” Father O’Melton crossed his legs on the bed opposite Bolan before he continued. “You need to know a little back story on me first, before I go on. You see, before all of this happened, I’d planned on making the Army my career. I was hoping to go from the Rangers to Delta Force. To me, up until then, that seemed like the ultimate goal I could achieve.”

  “So what changed that goal so drastically?”

  “Another feeling,” O’Melton said. “And I’m sorry but it wasn’t any more outwardly dramatic or theatrical than the one I’d had in Baghdad. What happened was that as I was coming down the steps of the transport plane when I got back home, I looked into the crowd that was there to greet us, and saw an elderly priest near the front of the pack. He didn’t say anything to me. Our eyes didn’t even meet. I just saw him and suddenly knew that my Army days were over, and as soon as my enlistment was up, I’d be heading for a seminary.”

  Slowly, Bolan nodded in understanding. He had experienced a similar “calling” years before, when he first realized it was his duty to fight evil in whatever form it attacked. “So you went from warrior to priest,” he finally said.

  O’Melton grinned again. “I suppose you could say that.” Grabbing the lapel of his suit jacket with his left hand, he pulled it back to expose a Smith & Wesson, 5-shot, Chiefs Special .357 Magnum revolver in a well-worn, brown leather shoulder holster. “I prefer to think of it more like I went from being a simple warrior to being a Christian warrior,” he said, as his jacket fell back into place.

  The priest held a fist to his mouth and coughed. Then he continued. “Now, the next thing people usually ask me about when I tell them all this is what Jesus said about ‘turning the other cheek.’ I agree with that, of course. But I interpret it to mean that you shouldn’t retaliate to an insult, or a minor attack that would stop on its own. Like a slap.” He paused a moment, then went on. “What people forget is that Jesus also said, ‘Let him who has no sword sell his cloak and buy one.’ You can look it up if you want to. Luke 22:36. Jesus, you see, knew the difference between an insult and a deadly attack, and he knew hi
s disciples would be violently opposed when they set out to spread the word about him after he’d ascended to heaven.”

  Bolan had been listening, and now said, “Okay, then, Father. What—”

  O’Melton interrupted him. “Just call me Pat, if you would. When the gunfire starts on this mission we’re about to undertake, it’ll be a lot faster and easier.”

  “That answers the question I was about to ask,” Bolan said. “What role do you see yourself playing from here on in?”

  “I’m supposed to go with you and help you,” the priest said simply.

  “Another one of those ‘feelings’?” Bolan asked.

  O’Melton nodded. “Just as strong as the others I mentioned. That’s what God has me here for. He saw to it that I was trained as a Ranger and in the seminary. And now these two diverse forms of education are coming together to complete the Lord’s plan.”

  Bolan hesitated a moment. “Okay then...Pat. It won’t hurt to have somebody watching my back. And I could do a lot worse than a former Army Ranger.” His eyes strayed from the priest’s face to the shoulder where the small revolver was hidden. “We might want to upgrade your armament a little, though.”

  “Suits me fine,” O’Melton said. “Small arms were one of my specialties.”

  Bolan pointed past the desk, toward the corner of the room where he had dropped his suitcases and equipment bags. “Look through the stuff in there, Pat,” he said. “Take what you think you’ll need, and don’t be timid. If there’s anything you want that I don’t have, I can get it for you. While you’re doing that, I’ve got a call to make.”

  As Father O’Melton began sorting through the guns, knives and other items in the black nylon ballistic bags, Bolan sat back down on the bed and pressed the satellite phone to his ear. A moment later, he had Barbara Price on the line. “I’m going to have Jack fly us back to Stony Man Farm in his chopper,” he said. “In the meantime, get a plane ready to take us overseas.”

  “That’s affirmative, Striker,” Price said. “Anything else you’ll need?’

  “Yeah,” Bolan said. “I’ve got all of my alternate ID with me. But we’re going to need two extra sets. Passports, driver’s licenses and some phony family photographs and other simple things that tend to confirm an identity.” He described Father O’Melton and Zaid Ahmad in detail. “We’ll get their photos just as soon as we land, before we transfer to the plane.”

  “I’ll have the aircraft fueled, checked and ready,” Price said. “What’s your destination?”

  Bolan hesitated for a second. Then he said simply “Damascus,” and pressed the button ending the call.

  3

  Damascus, Syria, was known as the oldest continually inhabited metropolis in the world. The city’s appearance, however, seemed to defy that fact. Here and there, one could see an ancient ruin, but each was surrounded by modern office buildings and wide, carefully landscaped streets. Flower gardens and tended lawns ringed the villas of the wealthy, giving the municipality its reputation as one of the most beautiful cities in the Middle East.

  Damascus could be summed up in one simple legend: apparently, Mohammed himself had been reluctant to visit there because he desired to enter paradise only once.

  Bolan parked the rented Escalade on the street and opened the driver’s-side door. Father O’Melton got out on the other side, while Ahmad crawled from the backseat. Bolan waited, letting Ahmad lead the way down the narrow street. Above him, on both sides, Bolan saw mashrabiyah balconies, domed stone khans and mosque tombs. The streets were busy with foot traffic. Many of the men and women wore modern-day business attire. But others were clothed in traditional Arabic robes and headgear, and carried baskets containing everything from pastries to brass and iron items for sale.

  “These are the streets the apostle Paul was led down as he contemplated his meeting with Christ on the Damascus Road,” Father O’Melton said. Bolan glanced out of the corner of his eye at the priest and saw a lone tear sliding down his cheek. “I can’t believe I’m finally seeing it.”

  The Executioner reached out and placed a hand on Ahmad’s shoulder. “Hold on a minute,” he said, turning him around. “It’s time to regroup.”

  The three men stepped inside the entryway to a flower shop and dropped their voices to whispers.

  “There’s no way Father O’Melton or I can pass as Arabs,” Bolan said. “So while you point out this café where Hezbollah meets, we’ll need to stay far enough away that they don’t see us with you.”

  “I understand,” Ahmad said. “You have...what is it you call them? Bugs?”

  “I’ve got a bug,” Bolan answered. “It’s actually a transmitter. It’ll fit in your pocket and transmit any conversation back to Pat and me. But keep in mind that there’ll be a short time delay before we understand what’s being said. Father O’Melton speaks Arabic. I don’t. French, Spanish, Russian and a few others yes, but Arabic, no.” He stared down at the shorter man. He still didn’t know if he could trust Ahmad, and that was something he could never let himself forget. The Arab’s conversion to Christianity and willingness to turn against his former fellow-terrorists might be sincere. Then again, it might be a masquerade. So to be on the safe side, Bolan added, “We’ll be recording the conversation, however. So we can play it back and pick up on any little nuances we might miss in real time.”

  The statement had been made to let Ahmad subtly know that he had not yet fully gained Bolan’s trust. But if it bothered the former Hezbollah man, he didn’t show it. He just nodded in understanding.

  Bolan pulled the tiny transmitter from a pocket of his sport coat and handed it over. “Are they likely to search you?” he asked.

  “I do not know,” Ahmad said. “By now, they will know all about what happened at Saint Michael’s Chapel. And they will be curious as to why I am the only survivor.” He licked his lips nervously. “And, of course, word of my changing sides may have reached here. I suppose we are about to find out.”

  “We’ll be as close as possible,” Bolan said. “But it’ll still take us a while to get to you if things go south. So keep that in mind—we can’t guarantee you protection.”

  “I understand,” Ahmad said.

  “Still willing to go through with it?” Bolan asked.

  Ahmad nodded.

  “Well, then,” Bolan said, turning the transmitter over to the former terrorist. “Put this thing somewhere they won’t check.”

  Ahmad didn’t hesitate. He stuffed the device into his underwear.

  “You’ve got your story down, right?” Bolan asked. He, Ahmad and Father O’Melton had had plenty of time to come up with a cover story as Grimaldi flew them from the U.S. to Damascus in one of Stony Man Farm’s Learjets. They had decided that the best cover was a partial truth: Ahmad was going to tell the Hezbollah at the café that he had pretended to convert to Christianity, and the priest had taken him out through a secret underground tunnel when the shooting started. He would stress that he had not deserted his comrades, but rather that the other Hezbollah members—those who had stayed in the chapel and died for the jihad—had all encouraged him to go.

  They wanted at least one of their party to survive in order to report what had happened.

  The story wasn’t perfect. But it was the best they could come up with under the circumstances.

  “Yes,” Ahmad said reluctantly. “I have my story. Let us pray that they believe it.”

  “That’ll all be up to you, Zaid,” Bolan said. “And your attitude when you talk to them. You’ll have to practically convince yourself it’s the truth. You do that, and your sincerity will help convince them.”

  Ahmad nodded again.

  Leaving the entryway, the three men walked on, reaching what for centuries had been known as the Street Called Straight. They made their way around other pedestrians coming toward
them through the bazaarlike neighborhood, where old men in white turbans sat cross-legged in front of their shops. Bolts of striped djellaba and red calico were stacked and on sale everywhere. The three passed the House of Saint Ananias, and then the ruins of the Wall of Saint Paul, where, nearly two thousand years ago, the apostle had escaped persecution by being let down in a basket.

  Finally, Ahmad stopped and turned to Bolan. “The coffee shop is two blocks from here,” he said. “If you accompany me any farther, the men inside smoking hookah pipes and drinking sweet coffee will be able to see you through the glass front.”

  The Executioner nodded. “Okay, then.” He reached into another pocket and switched on the receiver and attached recorder. “Go on. We’ll monitor you. And Father O’Melton will translate as fast as he can. But remember—Arabic is a second language for him, so speak as slowly as you can without tipping them off. We should be able to tell a lot just by the tone of everyone’s voices.” He paused, staring down at the man again. “And we’ll hear any gunshots.”

  Ahmad gulped, and it looked as if he were trying to swallow a softball. “If you hear gunshots, it will be too late to help me.”

  “That’s right,” Bolan said. He waited a moment, then intensified his stare. There were a lot of things Ahmad could do without broadcasting his betrayal over the transmitter, and Bolan wanted the man to know he knew it. The “converted” informant could even pull out the transmitter and silently show it to the Hezbollah terrorists. They would know something was going on without a word being said, and feed back misinformation.

  Or come out of the café ready to kill Bolan and Father O’Melton.

  “We’ll be listening,” Bolan finally said. “So don’t mess up—on either end.”