Colony Of Evil

“And what else?”

“I won’t pretend to know all that your people suffered,” Bolan said, “although, I’ve seen enough man-made catastrophes to have at least a general idea. Israelis aren’t the only ones who’d like to nip these bastards in the bud.”

“Too late for that,” she said. “The old men I referred to have been living here, and living well, for fifty years.”

“I found that out for the first time, this week,” Bolan replied. “Your people must’ve known it—what? For years?”

“Decades,” she said. “It shames me to admit it, but we fight the battles that demand immediate attention. Eichmann was a symbol. Everybody knew his name and what he’d done. As for the rest, we had our Arab neighbors to contend with. No one gave much thought to aging Germans squatting in a jungle, halfway around the world.”

“One of your agents took a shot in 1995,” Bolan replied.

“You’re well informed. Then you must know what happened afterward.”

“The bombing and retaliation, right.”

“Of course. But I’m referring to the cover-up by leaders of the DAS, perhaps Colombia’s own president, himself. Who do you trust here, Mr. Cooper?”

He had given her the cover name, and now said, “Make it ‘Matt.’ And trust is earned where I come from.”

“You’ve met this one before?” she asked, nodding toward Guzman, huddled in the rear.

“I checked his references,” Bolan replied. “He hasn’t let me down, so far.”

“How did Herr Krieger and his men know you were coming to Colombia?”

“Who’s Krieger?” Bolan asked, buying some time to think about her question.

“Krieger, Horst Andreas,” she replied, as if reading the label on a file. “Until this evening, he was one of old man Dietrich’s young elite. But now you’ve killed him, I believe. At least, I didn’t, and he would have shot us both if he was still alive.”

“Blond guy, midtwenties, maybe six feet tall?”

“The classic Aryan,” Cohen said.

“You’ve seen the last of him.”

“Good riddance. I am satisfied to have eliminated Arne Rauschman and at least two of their mercenaries. It’s amazing, isn’t it? How people they despise as less than human still work for the Nazis, seek to curry favor with them? Truly, wonders never cease.”

“About this house of yours…”

She turned into a quiet residential street and then into a driveway two doors from the corner.

“As you say,” she said. “We’re here.”

GUZMAN WAS SILENT, for the most part, while she cleaned his wound with alcohol. It had to have burned like fury, but he clenched his teeth and swallowed any sounds of pain that tried to struggle free. Granted, there was a little moan when she applied the iodine, but nothing that should shame a man concerned about his macho image.

“That’s the worst of it,” she said. “I’ll stitch it now. Unfortunately, I have nothing for a local anesthetic.”

“Any whiskey? Rum? Tequila?” Guzman asked.

“Sorry. I have some wine.”

The wounded man looked glum. He shook his head. “No wine.”

The tall American watched as Cohen removed a curved needle from her first-aid kit and began to thread it. She had used it on herself once, closing up a razor slash in Paris, and she never traveled far without the means to clean and patch most wounds that did not call for major surgery.

“You’ve done this kind of thing before,” Bolan observed.

“It’s good to be prepared for an emergency,” she said.

“And use a Jericho sidearm. It sounded like the .40 caliber.”

“The .41 Action Express, in fact.”

“You like an edge,” he said.

“Whenever I can get one.”

“Still, it isn’t much for going up against an army.”

“You’re prepared to try it with an IMBEL .45,” she hastened to remind him.

“I was on my way to do some shopping when we got sidetracked.”

“That’s inconvenient. Can you still keep the appointment?”

Bolan glanced at his companion, Jorge Guzman, who responded with a cautious nod and said, “I will make the arrangements.”

“Maybe we should just surprise him,” Bolan said. “I’d hate to find another welcoming committee waiting on the doorstep.”

Guzman flared. “You think I told them where to find us? If you doubt me—”

“Chill out,” Bolan warned. “If I thought you were doubling on me, you’d be lying back there at the factory.”

“What, then?” Guzman asked, slightly mollified.

“There are too many leaks around this town. Make that, around this country. We don’t telegraph our moves from this point on. No tip-offs to our plan for friend or foe. We’ll drop in for the hardware when your dealer least expects it, and he won’t know where we’re going when we leave.”

Finished threading the needle, Cohen dipped it into alcohol and turned toward Guzman. He observed the needle, nodded grimly, and she went to work, distracting Guzman and herself with words.

“Krieger and Rauschman met you at the airport,” she reminded Bolan. “That means they were either following your friend here, or they knew beforehand when you would be landing.”

“I’d prefer the first choice,” Bolan said.

“Of course. In that case, they may not know who you are, or why you’re here in Bogotá. You’d have a chance—although a slim one—to surprise them, yet.”

“That’s still the plan,” Bolan replied.

“Americans are always optimistic.”