The Iranian Hit te-42 Read online

  The doctor reached his room, padlocked the door behind him, and went directly to where he had hidden his kit.

  He had done what needed doing.

  Now he could step out of this horror.

  He began preparing his fix, heating the spoonful of white powder over the candle flame, the syringe held at the ready.

  The horror was for men with the strength to face it. Men like his brother, Eshan. And the big American fighting man, Colonel Phoenix. It was their horror now.

  Medhi's only real concern, which he also wanted to escape thinking about, was that Eshan's safety be insured. Medhi could not bear to think of facing reality without heroin. And by warning the American as he had, Medhi was sure that he had helped ensure the odds for his and Eshan's survival. And poor Carol's.

  Medhi Nazarour held a firm, instinctive conviction that the fate of all of them rested in the hands of the big American.

  Whoever he was.

  9

  Mack Bolan turned away from the confrontation with Medhi Nazarour with several answers to the puzzle that was tonight's mission.

  He now knew, for instance, that the reason Carol Nazarour had not responded to his knock at her door when he had been on his security tour with Rafsanjani was that her husband had ordered her heavily sedated, and Rafsanjani had locked her in her room as an added precaution.

  Yeah. A great marriage.

  And Bolan knew Medhi Nazarour's motive in coming to Bolan, even if the good doctor had evaded the issue.

  Dr. Nazarour was a junkie. Bolan had seen enough, of the type in his two bloody miles through the Mafia hellgrounds. The eyes, the body language, a doctor who sweats at night — the guy was a walking advertisement for stiffer drug controls.

  The trouble was, for every answer, more questions seemed to pop up behind it.

  Like what exactly had Dr. Nazarour been warning him against? Who was it who was working with Yazid's hit squad from the inside?

  In this short hiatus before the bloody storm, Bolan could not ignore the other questions screaming for answers. It was time for another talk with General Nazarour himself. It was eyeball-to-eyeball, lay-the-cards-on-the-table time. Bolan stepped up his pace toward the front entrance to the house.

  He had taken four steps when the small object landed at his feet.

  He halted, crouched, reached for the Auto-Mag rather than the Beretta. Then a closer inspection revealed that this was not danger.

  The object was a woman's low-heeled shoe with a folded piece of paper tucked inside.

  Bolan retrieved the shoe, and faded back against the deeper shadows close to the house. The paper was white stationery; Bolan detected a faint whiff of exotic perfume on the night air as he unfolded it. He read the note, obviously written in hurried feminine script:

  In back of house right now.

  Please. Tell no one. C.N.

  Bolan tossed the shoe behind a thicket, pocketed the note, and moved cautiously around toward the back of the building. He unleathered Big Thunder.

  So Carol Nazarour, if the note was to be believed, had not taken the sedative as ordered by her husband.

  Bolan smiled to himself in the darkness.

  Yeah.

  He'd had the lady pegged as a special kind of woman, and she was proving him right.

  He found her waiting for him under an ancient tree beside the rear of the house. She looked like a pretty college student. Jeans, the same leather jacket as before, and a canvas backpack slung over her shoulder. Her perfectly sculpted face beneath that breathtaking head of hair was taut with anxiety.

  Bolan holstered the .44 and approached her, touching her lightly on the arm for obviously needed reassurance. He nodded at the backpack. "Running away from home, Carol?"

  "Please. I'm an American citizen. I want to get out of here." Her voice was a desperate plea. A visible shiver coursed through her. "I don't want to leave the country with...these people."

  Bolan recalled the shivering fear of Medhi Nazarour only moments before. "Life with the general must be a real bowl of cherries," he grunted.

  "It's worse than you could imagine," she told him bluntly. "I stopped trying to run away after the first year. He usually sent Rafsanjani after me. Once they tracked me across Europe. I thought I'd got away. Rafsanjani waited until I was in line at the Frankfurt airport. After he had me alone, he had me...beaten. But always with leather gloves so there were few marks or bruises."

  Bolan felt a red-hot rage building deep in his gut. "Why didn't you take off earlier tonight when I gave you the chance?"

  "Because I thought you were one of them! Rafsanjani did that to me one time. He offered me a chance to leave. When I started to leave, he said it was only a test. And I had failed. So I was beaten again."

  "But now you know that I'm not one of them, is that it?"

  "Yes. Medhi, the general's brother, told me who you are and why you're here.''

  "I met Dr. Nazarour."

  "He's the only one I can even halfway trust around here," said the blonde. "I feel sorry for Medhi, but I don't always trust him. He's a slave to his brother. He'll do whatever the general tells him."

  Bolan was working at cooling the burning anger that was ripping at his insides. Rage would do him no good when the fighting began. It would only get him killed.

  "How did you fall in with these creeps?"

  "I was an army brat," she said simply. "And a rebellious one at that. A real terror. A real ignorant little jerk who was too stupid to trust the wisdom of her parents. Dad was stationed with the NATO forces in Turkey. So was Eshan.

  "I didn't fall in love with Eshan so much as I fell in love with his image. He wasn't in a wheelchair then, of course. That happened during the revolution, just before we had to flee the country. Before we started this life on the run.

  "But when I met Eshan in Turkey, he was tall, dark, dashing, and mysterious. My parents objected furiously, but I guess I was also in love with the idea of one final rebellious gesture to let them know that I didn't need their guidance. That Iknew exactly what I was doing." She shook her head and looked down at the ground, laughing softly without humor. It was the sound of irony. "If only they could see me now. But they're dead. They died in an automobile accident six months after I left home."

  Bolan's senses were finely tuned to the immediate surroundings, but he heard no sounds of anyone in the area. Time was running out. The numbers were falling away.

  "Who was the man you met outside the wall this evening?" asked Bolan. "The one who was killed."

  "That was Tony. He was one of the men on the guard crew. But he didn't seem like the others. He could be...kind when he wanted to."

  "Were you in love with him?"

  She looked squarely up at Bolan. There was a bitter twist to her mouth. "Love? I don't think I remember what that word means anymore, Colonel. Tony was just someone to pass away the time with, when I needed someone to be kind."

  "Was Tony going to take you away from your husband?"

  "No. Tony was too weak to go against the men he worked for. And I think they discovered our relationship anyway. Or my husband did. My husband sent those men tonight, Colonel. They killed Tony and they were going to 'punish' me for my indiscretion, no doubt. Until you came along."

  "And all on the last night that you were in the country," Bolan muttered. "Your husband has a flare for the dramatic. How did you get outside the wall?"

  "I thought that I'd found a hidden tunnel. I discovered it one afternoon when I was exploring the house. I used it often to meet Tony. The tunnel looks as if it hasn't been used in a hundred years. But if Eshan had those men waiting to jump us when I met Tony tonight, then he must know all about the tunnel and everything else."

  Again he nodded at her backpack. "And now you want me to help you run away, is that it?"

  Her eyes pleaded desperately with him. An edge of panic slipped into her voice as she sensed his hesitancy. "Please, Colonel. I'm an American citizen, and you're an agent of this gover
nment. Please get me away from here! I don't want to leave the country with these people. I need your help."

  "And you'll have it," Bolan assured her. "But I can't help you now, Carol. I'm here on a specific mission, and I've got to commit myself to that first.

  "I'll see that your rights aren't violated further. But I'm needed here right now. I can't leave to accompany you somewhere else. I'll take you with me when I leave. That's the best I can do."

  She glided close to him as he said that, molding herself to him until he could feel every warm, feminine curve of her body pressing against him. There was a subtle erotic fragrance to her blonde hair, which he recognized from her stationery. She entwined the fingers of her right hand through his and moved the palm of his hand upward across her leather coat, squeezing the hand fiercely when it was over her left breast. Bolan could feel the warmth of her even through the layers of clothing.

  "Please," she whispered in a husky voice near his ear. "Get me out of here and I'll do anything you ask...."

  But he already had her by the arms and was pushing her back.

  "You've been around people too long who think sex is for power," he growled sternly. "I said I'd take you with me when I leave, Carol. But the mission comes first. There are no ways around that." He dropped his hold on her arms, and the icy blue eyes warmed a little. So did the voice. "Now get back to your room and don't budge. Wait until I come for you."

  There was a pause. Then she seemed to accept that. She eyed him with the trace of a smile.

  "You sound very confident, Colonel."

  "It helps. You should try it yourself."

  "You're right. I have been around creeps for too long. I forgot that there were men...like you. But what if you don't come back?"

  Bolan did a quick weighing of priorities. The lady was an unknown factor, sure. But only in what she might do, not in the awful situation in which she was trapped.

  He reached under his jacket and unleathered the Beretta Belle. "Take this," he said, handing it to her. "But use it with extreme discretion, Carol. A gun can get you into as much trouble as it can get you out of." He took another ten seconds to explain the basics of firing the weapon. "Can you handle it?" he asked as she took the weapon and slipped it into her backpack.

  "I can handle it, Colonel," she said softly.

  She leaned forward on her tiptoes one more time and planted a warm, moist but very chaste kiss on his right cheek. Then she spun around and was gone.

  Bolan stared off into the darkness even after that damn fine set of curves had disappeared from sight. There are some women on this planet capable of getting that reaction from a man, and Carol Nazarour had the ability in spades. The exotic, erotic fragrance of her perfume swirled on the air in her wake, tantalizing Bolan's senses like the vague memories of a half-forgotten dream.

  Some lady, yeah.

  10

  No one tried to stop Bolan as he passed through the front entrance of the house and crossed the hallway to the study door. The two security guards were stationed just outside the study, so Bolan knew exactly where to find General Nazarour.

  The guards tensed and started to rise, hands reaching for their side arms, but they relaxed when they eyeballed the formidable figure of Colonel Phoenix. They let him pass.

  Bolan entered the study without knocking. His eyes made a quick sweep of the room.

  General Nazarour was seated in his wheelchair behind his desk.

  Abbas Rafsanjani, looking more like Peter Lorre than ever, had been in earnest conversation with the general. Rafsanjani shot a cautious, conspiratorial glance over his shoulder toward Bolan, who was standing in the doorway.

  Nazarour was first to speak.

  "Come in, Colonel," he invited dryly. "You have about you the air of a man who has something on his mind and needs to say it."

  Bolan heeled the door shut behind him without taking his eyes off either man.

  "Your security looks good, General. But a few other things have changed."

  "What impertinence," Rafsanjani rasped under his breath. "You, Colonel, are in severe need of some lessons in protocol."

  "I'll take them on my own time," Bolan barked. He glared at Nazarour. "I need to speak with you, General. Alone."

  The general acquiesced with a nod to his aide. "You may leave us now, Abbas. I'm sure I'll be quite safe alone with Colonel Phoenix." The general didn't take his eyes off Bolan as the eyes narrowed. He added pointedly, "Only please tell the guards to listen closely for any... unusual sounds. Just in case.''

  "But I do not understand your asking me to leave," Rafsanjani announced in injured tones.

  "Yours is not to think or understand," Nazarour snapped sternly. "Yours is to obey. Now begone."

  The aide had no recourse but to depart. He stared darkly at Bolan as he passed.

  When the study door had closed behind Rafsanjani, Bolan said, "I've put a few things together, General. I know who those men were who tried to kidnap your wife tonight. They were sent by you, weren't they?

  "You discovered that your wife was having an affair, and you sent some hired muscle around to make things tough on her for a while and teach her one of your 'lessons.'"

  "Who have you been speaking to?" Nazarour demanded icily.

  Bolan ignored the interruption. "Those men I blew away tonight by the C&O Canal were probably another shift from your own security force. Some of Minera's boys, doing a little moonlighting on one of their own and the boss's wife. You were paying them. And they were shooting at me. That is what's got me real mad at the moment, General."

  The man in the wheelchair didn't flinch.

  "You will kindly refrain from this discussion immediately, Colonel. My marital affairs are none of your concern. You will cease diverting energies from your given task."

  "Your marital status is one of the things that has changed," said Bolan. "When you climb on board that jet tomorrow morning in Rockville — if you survive to board it — your wife will not be leaving with you. She's staying here in America. She's asked me to back her up on this, and I will."

  Nazarour's swarthy expression darkened ominously. "Then it must have been my dear wife herself with whom you spoke."

  "Don't worry yourself about the details," Bolan told him. "And if anything — anything— happens to that lady, General, you will answer directly to me. Do you understand?"

  Bolan didn't know what kind of response to expect. But he was surprised anyway.

  Nazarour hardly seemed to consider the matter.

  He nodded and waved a hand almost absently. "Fair enough. There are many fish in the sea, my good Colonel, as one of your American songs once proclaimed so eloquently. If the plaything wishes to be played with no more, she is free to go."

  "That's real fine of you," growled Bolan with no attempt to hide the sarcasm. "And while we're so chummy with each other, there's another matter that needs to be dealt with."

  Nazarour looked at him long and hard. He knew that the American had divined the one weak link in the chain that surrounded and protected this exile of his. It was a weak link invisible to the eye, but it resounded in the mind.

  "My compliments, Colonel. Let me anticipate this matter that you speak of. It does credit to your powers of analysis.

  "You are concerned as to how Khomeini's hoodlums have located me here at all, is that it?"

  "Exactly," responded Bolan, laying down the ordnance he carried on the bar in the corner of the general's study; it clattered on the polished surface. "You have remained successfully undercover for the past nine months. So why the attack now?"

  The crippled exile stared gloomily out of the window into the darkness. "It is a strange thing about my country," he said. "Iran is in the throes of a revolution, and Khomeini's high virtue and heartless terror reign hand in hand in the union of moral absolutism. And yet there is treachery everywhere, despite this terrible unison.

  "It is not only outcasts like me who must fear disloyalty. Over one thousand of Khomeini's own i
mams have been assassinated in recent months. One thousand!

  "However much one would like to believe that these killings are some sort of American revenge for the hostages..." and here Nazarour glared at Bolan, who was quietly observing the general as he expounded on his twisted world " — the fact is Khomeini has seen fit to execute twenty-five hundred of his own people in retaliation. So he must believe in the enemy within.

  "And so do I. I believe I face an enemy within.

  "Is it coincidence that I am to be a target tonight, on my last night in your country? Your Mr. Brognola informs me only a few hours ago that a murder squad has located me. How can it have done this?

  "In the hours since, I have given it some thought, I can assure you. And so have you. But I know certain facts. I know that I have nothing to do with Iran's real enemies. I sincerely doubt that I am a victim of Tehran's secret intelligence. I am not worth it to them.

  "The real enemies are the young people of what is called the People's Mujadeen. They are well-educated Islamics who think Marxism. This has nothing to do with me. I am not and never have been a socialist."

  "Excuse me, General," interrupted Bolan, "But I believe Khomeini's enemies are also those who stole money from the country. Are you not the target of the Ayatollah's revenge because you systematically ripped off your own nation...?"

  "Bah!" stormed Nazarour, banging his fist on the arm of his wheelchair. "That is bullshit, Colonel, if you'll permit me my favorite American expression.

  "Iran can survive any number of capitalists, as it has in the past. My country has certain strengths, you know. It may puzzle you as to how Iran has survived the murderous regime of the Ayatollah.

  "I will tell you how. It is in the ingenuity of the peasants, the slum dwellers of South Teheran and the folk of the rural areas. Their strengths once outsmarted the Shah's businessmen, and these strengths continue to overcome the privations of the strife and the embargoes of today.

  "Persia is historically a land of thousands of tiny workshops that improvise brilliantly the production of otherwise unavailable spare parts. It is also a land of smugglers. That is how it is done. People like myself are not a central threat to Iran's destiny."