Renegade

“Yeah,” the Executioner said. “But not the details. He’s leaving that to you.”

“And I’ll leave it to Bear,” Price said, and Bolan heard the familiar click of the call being transferred.

“I think I’ve got something for you, Striker,” the wheelchair-bound computer man said without bothering a “hello.” “I was able to tap into the VEVAK frequency again, and figured out a way to transmit as well as receive. It took a little doing, but Ron Touchie and I finally caught on to the passwords and code names and numbers, came up with one that sounded real.

“The passports and supporting IDs—everything from a couple of German driver’s licences to a Swiss voter’s registration card—were dumped in a cardboard box on the top shelf of an upstairs closet.”

Bolan frowned. He had checked all of the closets during his search of the house, and remembered several boxes. But he had been looking for men, not documents, and there had been no time to sift through the contents. “Go on,” he said.

To his side, Grimaldi said, “Ready?”

The Executioner nodded.

As the chopper began to rise, Kurtzman went on. “VEVAK assigned one of their men to put the IDs together, and they came up with thirteen different names. Eleven had passports with them. But they found a couple of supporting credentials for two other names—actually, the German and Swiss stuff I just mentioned—but no passports.”

The Executioner nodded. “Meaning that as soon as the shooting started, Sobor reached up into the box, grabbed a couple of passports and probably a few other things to back them up, and hightailed it out of there.”

“That would be my guess,” Kurtzman agreed.

The Bell had risen into the air and was now flying low over the rocky hills. Grimaldi left the lights off, using nothing more than the light from the half moon to guide him.

“What were the two names, Bear?” Bolan asked.

“Dieter Schneider’s the German,” the computer man said. “The Swiss voter’s card and a couple of credit cards were in the name of Jean-Marc Bernhardt.”

“I take it you followed up on them?” the Executioner said.

“Yes indeed,” Kurtzman responded. “No idea where Bernhardt is, but I suspect he’s in Dieter Schneider’s suitcase, and Schneider took the early evening junket out of Tehran to Isfahan.”

Bolan smiled. “Good work, Bear,” he said. He looked out into the darkened sky as a light snow began to fall over the rocky hills. “Jack’s got us headed toward Isfahan now. Anything else?”

“Uh-huh,” Kurtzman said. “But it’s only a ninety-minute flight so he’s already been on the ground in Isfahan for a couple of hours.”

“He didn’t take any connecting flights?”

“No. At least not under Dieter Schneider or Jean-Marc Bernhardt.” The computer man paused. “And he hasn’t checked into any of the major hotels yet, either. I tapped into them, too. Of course, all that could mean anything. Or nothing. The name Dieter Schneider’s sort of the German equivalent of John Smith—there could have been a real Dieter Schneider on the Tehran to Isfahan flight. And even if it was Sobor, he may have checked into one of the dozens of unregistered inns and boarding houses in Isfahan. Or some of his cronies may have picked him up and taken him straight to another safehouse. Actually, that’s where I’d put my money if I was betting. He’s probably hooked up with more of his terrorist buddies.”

“Thanks, Bear,” Bolan said. “Stay close.”

Grimaldi continued south, hugging the hilly terrain below radar. The flight from Tehran to Isfahan was almost directly south. It would be primarily flat land they covered until they reached the mountains near Oom, but even so there were enough dips and rises to slow them down if they stayed low. What was a ninety-minute flight by plane, as Kurtzman had said, could turn into a trip of several hours in the Bell.

And each minute’s delay gave Anton Sobor more time to disappear.

“Any way we can speed things up, Jack?” Bolan asked.

Grimaldi nodded. “Sure. But not without rising up into the radar zone and taking the chance of getting shot down.”

“I think we may have to take that chance,” Bolan said. “We’re racing the clock. We don’t know what Sobor might do now that he’s on the ground. He could even pick up another new passport from a contact in Isfahan and be on the next flight to Timbuktu. Or he could fade into the woodwork there. For that matter, he might take off over land—maybe even double back to Tehran. What I’m getting at is, we don’t know where he’ll go from Isfahan. But if we don’t pick up his trail somewhere near the airport, we’re likely to lose him for good.”

“You’ve got a point,” the pilot said. “Okay, if you say so, let’s chance it. At least we’re not marked and the guns aren’t showing.” He chuckled under his breath. “Which at least means we might be able to stall them a little before they blow us to kingdom come.”

“If they pick us up, they’ll try to make radio contact first,” Bolan said.

“Well, we can hope so.” Grimaldi didn’t sound as sure as the Executioner.

“They will,” Bolan said. “They won’t be certain it’s not one of their own craft until we don’t answer their calls.”

Grimaldi nodded and began raising the helicopter higher into the air. Farther from the ragged and unpredictable terrain now, he was able to increase the speed. “Maybe I can answer their calls,” he said. “At least enough to keep them confused for a while.”

Bolan turned to look at his old friend. “They’ll be speaking Farsi, Jack,” he said. “When you don’t respond, they’ll probably switch to Arabic, which you don’t speak, either. You’ll be ordered to land—in both languages—and neither of us will even know it.” He glanced at the interior controls which operated the Stinger missile pods and the 60 mm machine gun, and saw Grimaldi looking the same way.

The Bell continued to rise, then finally darted forward, tripling its former speed. Grimaldi was still chuckling to himself, as if he knew some secret to which Bolan wasn’t privy. “We’ve still got the guns,” he said.

“And we’ll use them if it comes to that,” Bolan replied. “But they’re our last resort. Now, tell me what you aren’t telling me—whatever it is that’s got you looking like the cat that swallowed the canary.”

“Oh,” Grimaldi said. “Nothing much. Just that I actually know a few phrases in Farsi. Not a lot, but like I said, maybe enough to keep them confused long enough to buy us a little wiggle room if we need it.”

The Executioner frowned. “Where’d you pick up these ‘few phrases of Farsi’?” he asked.

Grimaldi continued to grin as the Bell flew on into the night. “I dated a Persian girl for a while a few years ago.”

“I didn’t know that.”

Grimaldi’s chest moved up and down in a chuckle. “I don’t share all of my sordid love life with you, Striker,” he said.

The Executioner smiled. No, Grimaldi didn’t kiss and tell like some high school jock in a locker room, and Bolan wasn’t the type to pry into his friends’ personal lives. So he asked no more questions. Instead he settled back into his seat. It was a relatively short flight, and they were dealing with a Third World country here. Iran didn’t have the sophisticated radar and other detection devices a country like the U.S., Russia or Great Britain employed, nor did their personnel have the same professionalism. There was every chance in the world that they’d lay the chopper skids down somewhere near Isfahan with no one the wiser.

On the other hand, Bolan reminded himself as they flew through the dark night beneath the half moon, the smart warrior never underestimated his enemy. Technology never had, and never would, replace human beings, and while they might be behind in the science department, the Iranians had proved that they were willing to fight during their eight-year war with Iraq.

There was one more aspect to the whole equation, and the Executioner was aware of it, too. New, and better, technology didn’t mean that older technology quit working. There were still people getting killed with single-action revolvers in this day of high-capacity automatic pistols, and an aircraft like the Bell could still be picked up on World War II–era radar.

The Executioner hadn’t slept since the mission began and now he closed his weary eyes. Long years, and many battles in many missions, had taught him that the wise warrior took whatever rest he could get when he could get it. It wasn’t just the ability to fight that kept a man alive during the heat of battle—it was also the ability to think sharply. And no one, no matter how tough, how smart or how well trained, thought as well when they were exhausted as they did rested.

But Bolan’s mind didn’t close as quickly as his eyelids and he found himself reasoning out the decision he had just made. He had ordered Grimaldi into the radar zone to save time, and there was no use in second guessing himself now. They’d either be spotted or they wouldn’t, and there was nothing he could do about it. He had all the faith in the world in Grimaldi’s ability to elude attack if it came to that, and knew that it made far more sense for him to try to catch a nap than to worry about it.

Besides, the real danger wasn’t being shot down—Stony Man’s ace flyboy would see to that. What worried the Executioner was the fact that, if their presence was discovered, word of it would travel fast. Which would put the cops and military in Isfahan on high alert before they even reached the city.

As if to emphasize Bolan’s concern, Grimaldi broke the silence that had fallen over the helicopter. “Isfahan isn’t quite like Tehran, you know,” he said. “The city sits on top of a high plateau in the Kuhha-Zagros. I can probably find a place to hide this baby but it may not be as easy as Rey was.”

Bolan opened one eye and saw the pilot hook a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll come up with something,” he said. “I’m going to sleep. Wake me when we get there. Or if anything interesting happens on the way.”

“Like, if we’re about to be blown out of the air?” Grimaldi asked with a deadpan expression.

“Yeah,” Bolan said. “That would qualify.” He drifted off, wondering what he’d do first in Isfahan if he was in Anton Sobor’s shoes.

It had been close to an hour, but seemed like seconds, when the Executioner felt Grimaldi’s hand on his shoulder, awakening him.

“Up and at ’em, Sarge,” the pilot said. “We have company.”