Assassin's Tripwire

“Something like,” the big Fed told him. “The militia is the reason Hahmir took power in the first place, but it’s starting to look like Hahmir’s operatives within the military have ambitions of their own. Specifically, a vicious character named Sudhra ‘the Wolf’ Fafniyal. It’s Fafniyal’s secret police that your contact is supposed to be spying on the loyalists for.”

“Can’t tell the players without a scorecard,” Bolan said drily.

“They’re color-coded,” Brognola said. “The previous Syrian regime’s color was royal red. The loyalists wear red armbands as a result. Fafniyal’s troops wear black. Hahmir’s regular militia wears blue, if I remember correctly.”

“And this Sabeen Yenni? What color does she wear, working for us while ratting out the loyalists to Fafniyal?”

“It’s safe to say her loyalty is to herself,” Brognola admitted, “but her track record as a freedom fighter is well documented. It’s why she was approached by US Intelligence in the first place.”

“Trust, but verify,” Bolan said. “I’ve got it. I’ll just have to watch out for knives at my back.”

“And bullets. And grenades,” Brognola said.

“So where does that leave us?” the soldier asked. “Any chance of support from the Farm?”

“Able Team and Phoenix Force are otherwise engaged,” Brognola told him. “Although we do have the support of the cyberteam. We’ve been monitoring Syria with real-time satellite imagery retasked for this mission.”

“That will help,” Bolan commented.

“The Man is grateful to his new friend, but he isn’t stupid. The Farm was told to track that weaponry shipment through to its destination. Thermal imagery shows us multiple locations in remote areas of Syria where we believe the weaponry has been cached. It’s only a matter of time before the loyalists, without the benefit of US technical advisors, figure out how to deploy the missile systems. When they do they’re going to set that region on fire. We’re looking at all-out war.”

“So I go in, find the weapons and destroy them, with Sabeen Yenni to show me all the local highlights.”

“That’s the upshot, yes,” Brognola said. “But it’s more complicated than that.”

“It always is.”

“No matter what you do there, Striker,” the big Fed said, “it could touch off a war for control of Syria at the very least. The United States cannot be seen as interfering on the ground, or the resulting backlash could cause us problems almost as bad as losing a sympathetic government. Your presence in Syria isn’t sanctioned by Hahmir’s government, and we couldn’t allow them to know about it for fear of compromising you. That’s the official word. Unofficially, they know damned well we’re sending someone to track the weapons, even though everyone involved is going to play dumb. The Man has even shared some intelligence with them, as a good-faith gesture.”

“That leaves me plenty vulnerable,” Bolan said.

“There’s no other way to put a team, or even a single man, on the ground,” Brognola said. “Hahmir’s government claims it will play ball, at least off the books. But if they’re pressed, they, too, will claim they have no knowledge of your mission. They’ll treat you accordingly.”

“You drop me into the nicest meat grinders, Hal.”

“We need you to ferret out who has done what, if you can, but under the cloak of plausible deniability,” Brognola went on. “That means we’re giving you an internationally available electronic tablet that you can use for mission data and so on. There can be no way of tracing you back to us should you end up in enemy hands. And there’s no shortage of potential enemies who might want to put you down.”

“Understood,” Bolan said. He understood, all right. It was a familiar story…as familiar as the thin ice on which he now stood.

“Striker, there’s one more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“If you do find evidence of perfidy on the part of Hahmir or elements within his government, you do have one more option.”

“And that is?” Bolan asked.

“Option Zeta,” Brognola said. “It’s a file in your dossier. Read it thoroughly and memorize the codes. You might need them.”

“Got it,” Bolan had said. “Striker, out.”

And now he was here, in Syria, with his boots—and his back—on the actual ground. He would either return the weapons systems to Hahmir’s government or he would destroy them. And along the way he would determine, if at all possible, whether the President could trust the Hahmir regime. But right now, there was the matter of the dead men who had been lying in wait under the ground.

“This is a problem,” Bolan said, indicating the bodies. He took Yenni’s hand when she offered it, and allowed her to help him to his feet. The freedom fighter draped her desert scarf around her neck, pocketed her lighter and crouched next to him.

“They are dead,” she said. “And we are alive. This is not a problem.”

“Not in the immediate sense,” he replied. “But the drop coordinates were known only to your network. These men were waiting for me. Right here.” He knelt and played the beam of his tactical flashlight over the nearest body.

“Black scarves,” Yenni said. “These are the Wolf’s men.”

“You’re supposed to be working as an operative for Fafniyal, right?”

“Yes,” Yenni replied, nodding, “but it would not matter. There is very little trust between the Wolf’s people and all others. If they find us they will kill us immediately.”

“So somebody knew about the meet,” Bolan said. “Which means our operation may be compromised before it begins.”

“Someone in the network, or with access to it, intercepted coordinates,” Yenni said. “These men were left to conceal themselves beneath the dirt. They did not know what was coming. Do you think they would have worn oxygen masks and let the sand fleas bite them for just one American?” She held up the mask the nearest corpse had worn on a rubber cord around his neck.

Bolan had to admit that she had a point, but he was still worried about the implications. There was no telling where the leak came from. The entire process was potentially porous, from Hahmir’s government—which knew that a force of some kind was to be inserted by the United States to track the missing weapons—all the way down to boots on the soil.

“Your move, then,” he told her. “I’m counting on you.”

“And I am counting on the Americans. I’ll help you to free Syria. Whether that happens now or twenty years from now does not matter. What matters is that the work is done.”

“We’ll need to bury these men,” Bolan said.

“No,” Yenni replied. “There is no time. There are frequent patrols. The gunfire will have attracted one of these.”

“Fafniyal’s people?”

“Yes,” she said. “Leave them. I will take their magazines.” She went from soldier to soldier, stripping the bodies of ammunition, adding it to her gear. She also reloaded the little Krinkov.

“Are we on foot?” Bolan asked.

“I have a truck half a kilometer east, under a camouflage net.”

Bolan patted down his web gear. The little ruggedized tablet was right where it should be. He used it to access a real-time topographical overlay of their position against a satellite map of the area. The encrypted tablet also contained the coordinates of the weapons caches. He noted the position of several icons on the screen and read through the captions.

“We should get moving to the closest target site,” he told Yenni. “Before…” He let his words trail off. He could hear something on the night wind.

“Cooper,” Yenni said. “Do you hear that?”

“Trucks.”

“It is a Fafniyal patrol. We must go quickly.”

“That’s not all,” Bolan said. “I hear a helicopter.”