State Of Evil

“Not even close.”

“But if we rescue Patrick Quinn, and he agrees to talk, it may all be explained.”

“Maybe,” Johnny agreed.

“Or maybe not,” Bolan counseled. “Even if he turns and gives you everything he knows, the rank and file in cults don’t often know what’s going on behind the scenes with their gurus.”

“It’s still a chance,” Val said. “And Pat deserves his chance to live a normal life.”

“Can you define that for me?” Bolan asked her, smiling.

“You know what I mean.”

“I guess.”

She saw concession in his eyes, knew he was leaning toward agreement, but she couldn’t take a chance on losing him. No matter how it hurt them both, she gave a quick tug on the line, to set the hook.

“So, will you help us, Mack?”

CHAPTER THREE

Five days after he looked into those eyes and said he would help, Bolan was marching through the Congo jungle, guided toward his target by the handheld GPS device. He found it relatively easygoing but still had to watch his step, as much for normal dangers of the rain forest as for a human threat.

Contrary to the view held by most people who have never seen a jungle, great rain forests generally weren’t choked with thick, impenetrable undergrowth. Where giant trees existed, their canopy blotted out the sky and starved most smaller plants of the sunshine they needed to thrive. Ground level, although amply watered by incessant rain, was mostly colonized by ferns and fungus growths that thrived in shade, dwelling in permanent twilight beneath their looming neighbors.

Walking through the jungle, then, was no great challenge except for mud that clung to boots or made the hiker’s feet slide out from under him. Gnarled roots sometimes conspired to trip a passerby, and ancient trees sometimes collapsed when rot and insects undercut their bases, but the jungle’s greatest danger was from predators.

They came in every size and shape, as Bolan realized, from lethal insects and arachnids to leopards and huge crocodiles. He had the bugs covered, at least in theory, with his fatigues. An odorless insect repellent was bonded to the garment fabrics, guaranteed on paper to protect against flies, mosquitoes, ticks and other pests through twenty-five machine washings. As for reptiles and mammals, Bolan simply had to watch his step, check logs and stones before he sat, beware of dangling “vines” that might have fangs and keep his distance from the murky flow of any rivers where he could.

Simple.

Camping wasn’t a problem, since his drop zone was a mere three miles from Bolan’s target. The extraction point was farther west, about five miles, but he could make it well before sundown, if all went according to plan.

And that, as always, was the rub.

Plans had a way of turning fluid once they left the drawing board and found their way into the field. Experience had taught Bolan that almost anything could happen when time came to translate strategy to action. He’d never been struck by lighting, had never watched a meteorite hurtle into the midst of a firefight, but barring divine intervention Bolan thought he’d seen it all.

People were unpredictable in most cases, no matter how you analyzed and scoped them out before an operation started. Fear, anger, excitement—those and any other feeling he could name might motivate a human being to perform some feat of cowardice or daring that was wholly unpredictable. Vehicles failed and weapons jammed. A sudden wind caused smoke to drift and fires to rage out of control. Rain turned a battleground into a swamp and rivers overflowed their banks.

One thing Bolan had learned to count on was the unexpected, in whatever form it might assume.

The jungle climate that surrounded him decreed a range of possibilities. It wouldn’t snow, he realized, unless the planet shifted on its axis—in which case it likely wouldn’t matter what a Congo cult leader was planning, one way or another. He had no reason to suspect that a volcano would erupt and drown the cult compound in molten lava. Sandstorms were unlikely in the middle of a jungle.

He started to watch for traps and sentries when he was a mile east of Obike. Bolan wasn’t sure if Gaborone’s people foraged in the jungle, but he took no chances. If the guru truly thought the Last Days were upon him—or if that was just a scam, and he was double-dealing with some kind of slick black-market action on the side—it was a fair bet that he posted guards. More likely now, if Val and Johnny were correct in their suspicion that the cult had killed a U.S. congressman and members of his entourage.

If Rathbun and his crew weren’t dead, it posed another kind of problem for the Executioner. He’d come prepared to lift one person from the compound, not to rescue seven. Even if he managed to extract that many souls, the chopper rented by Grimaldi wouldn’t seat eight passengers. He couldn’t strap them to the landing struts, and who would Bolan ask to stay behind?

Forget it, Bolan thought. They’re dead by now.

If not…

Then he’d jump off that bridge when he got to it, hoping there was time to scan the water below for hungry crocodiles.

Meanwhile, he had a job to do and it was almost time.

The GPS system led Bolan to Obike with no problem. He could smell the compound’s cooking fires and its latrines before he saw the barracks and guard towers ranged in front of him. And there were sentries, yes indeed, well armed against potential enemies.

Bolan stood watching from the forest shadows, working out a plan to infiltrate the camp to find one man among seven hundred people known to occupy this drab, unlikely New Jerusalem.

After an hour, give or take, the Executioner knew what he had to do.

“GIVE ME THE PEOPLE’S mood, Nico. I need to know what they are thinking, what they’re feeling now.”

Mbarga had expected it. The master often hatched a plan, then put it into motion, only later thinking of the consequences to himself and those around him. That was genius, in a sense—fixation on a goal, a means of solving problems, without letting daily life intrude.

But that could also be a self-destructive kind of genius, doomed to early death.

“I move among them, Master,” he replied. “And as you know, my presence urges them to silence. They work harder and talk less when I am near. We have no listening devices in the camp, so I—”

“Give me your sense of how they’re feeling, Nico. I don’t ask you for confessions of betrayal.”

Nico swallowed hard. Telling the truth was dangerous with Gaborone, but if the master later caught him in a lie that had already blown up in their faces, it could be worse yet.

“Master,” he said at last, “some of the folk are worried. Naturally, they trust your judgment in all things, but still some fear there may be repercussions over the Americans. In these days, when the White House orders bombing raids, invades whole nations without evidence, they fear our actions may yet bring about the Final Days.”

“And they fear that?” Gaborone asked. He seemed confused.

“Some do. Yes, sir.”

“After I’ve told them time and time again they must fear nothing? That the Final Days will simply be our passport into Paradise? Why would they fear a moment’s suffering, compared to that eternal bliss?”

“They’re only human, Master,” Mbarga said. “They know pain and loss from personal experience, but none have shared your glimpse of Paradise.”

“They share through me!” Gaborone said, now seeming on the verge of anger. Mbarga knew he had to calm the guru swiftly or his own well-being might be jeopardized.

“They share in words, Master, but it is not the same. You’ve seen the wonders of the other side. Despite your eloquence, unrivaled in the world today, word pictures still fall short of all that you’ve experienced in Heaven.”

“Paradise,” Gaborone said, correcting him.

“Of course, sir. I apologize.”

“How can we calm the people, Nico?”

“They need time, Master. And I will watch them closely.”

“In the matter of our visitors,” Gaborone said, “are they content?”

The delegation had arrived that morning, ferried from the jungle landing strip by Mbarga and his men. No more Americans this time, but men with money in their pockets, anxious to impress the master and do business with him. It was Mbarga’s job to keep them happy in between negotiations, and he took the job seriously.