Carnage Code

Only one gunner remained, and Bolan watched him drop his rifle and throw up his hands as he realized he was alone. Fear fell across his face like a suddenly raging rainstorm.

Bolan was pleased. It would be good to have at least one man still alive to question. He wanted to know who these men were.

Just as importantly, he wanted to know how they knew he was coming. And when.

But it was not to be.

The fear on their adversary’s face suddenly disappeared. He reached behind his back and seized a Russian Tokarev pistol. He raised the weapon, aiming it at the Executioner.

Bolan and Grimaldi fired simultaneously.

Both rounds struck within an inch of each other, destroying the man’s heart, as well as their chances of finding out who he was. And who he represented.

By now, several airport security officers had arrived at the plane, and one had squirmed under the Learjet’s belly to join them.

Bolan turned his head and looked at the man with contempt. What had taken them so long to enter the foray? Cowardliness? Laziness? A lack of discipline, perhaps?

Whatever the reason, the airport cops had been of little help. Bolan and Grimaldi had taken out ninety percent of the attackers themselves. But there was another possibility. Could the Khartoum airport cops have been in league with these men, whoever they were? It would help explain how all of the men had gotten their AK-47s, Uzis, pistols and other weapons through the metal detectors and other security controls around the airport’s perimeter.

The Executioner made a mental note not to trust the police—at least not the ones at the airport. Maybe none of the Sudanese National Police, for that matter.

Now, with the battle finally over for real, Bolan, Grimaldi and the security cop all rose to their feet.

“I am Captain Makkah,” the man in the blue uniform said. “You are the American we were told was coming?”

Bolan nodded.

“Then please accept my apology for the way you were welcomed. As well as my apology for the fact that these men somehow got onto the premises. And the tardiness of my men in coming to your aid.”

“Who are they?” the Executioner asked.

Makkah shrugged. “My guess is that they are Ethiopians. Either regular army or CUD rebels. Both wear these unmarked fatigues when they illegally enter our country.”

Bolan frowned. “But we’re in Khartoum,” he said. “I was told the civil war in Ethiopia had crossed into Sudan. But this far away from the border?”

Makkah shrugged again. “With these greenies, which is what we call both sides since they remain unmarked, you never know.” He coughed into a closed fist, then said, “Please, then.” He turned back toward the Learjet. “I think your craft will need some repair work.”

The Executioner took a step back and looked at the plane. The wild shots of the attacking greenies had left holes up and down the plane. He looked at Grimaldi.

The pilot nodded sadly.

Makkah leaned down, yelling under the plane. “Sergeant Hara!” he shouted. “Come forward!”

A chubby black man with sergeant’s stripes on the upper arms of his blue uniform blouse crawled awkwardly under the plane, then rose to his feet. “Yes, sir!” he said, offering a stiff salute.

“See to it that this plane is checked out completely.” Makkah turned toward Grimaldi. “You are the pilot, I assume.”

Grimaldi had already started walking the length of the plane, checking the damage. He nodded.

“Please feel free to accompany the sergeant and assist our mechanics in evaluating and repairing the damage,” the captain said. “And, of course, all work will be paid for by the airport.”

Bolan studied the man closely. He still didn’t trust him. “What’s CUD stand for?” he asked.

Makkah looked his way. “The Coalition for Unity and Democracy. But do not let the democracy part fool you. They are everything but democratic in their thinking. As you seem to already know, both they and the Ethiopian government troops themselves commit atrocities such as this unwarranted assassination attempt on you and your pilot. But as you said, it is usually closer to the border. In any case, both wear unmarked clothing when they operate in our country.” He shook his head in disgust. “But come with me, please, if you would. We must talk, and then I am to take you to the main station downtown.”

Bolan holstered the Desert Eagle, then followed the captain toward the terminal.

No, he decided, he wouldn’t trust this man as far as he could throw the damaged Learjet.

B OLAN DID HIS BEST to keep his face turned away from the passenger’s window as Makkah drove him from the airport toward Khartoum’s downtown area. While he had never planned to enter Sudan undercover, he had not counted on the gunfight at the airport to announce his arrival with such fanfare.

Then again, he reminded himself, this was Khartoum. This was Sudan. The country might be experiencing a brief period of relative peace at the moment, but it had a history of violence that would relegate his and Jack Grimaldi’s shootout beside the Learjet to the back pages of the local newspapers.

Still on the outskirts of the city, the Executioner could readily see why Khartoum had been given the nickname “City of Ten Thousand Trees.” They grew everywhere around this oasis on the edge of the Baiyuda Desert, and here and there he saw high chain-link fences where exotic cats and other animals roamed within the confines of outdoor zoos. The city was famous for creating habitats for such animals that were as close to natural as could be made by human hands.

As they grew closer to the center of town, both pedestrian and auto traffic thickened to an almost maddening density. Not to mention the many camels, donkeys, horses and other animals pulling carts and wagons mixed in with the more modern means of transportation. The Executioner sat back against the front seat of the airport police car and tried to remember all he could about both the city of Khartoum and Sudan in general.

Sudan’s ivory, ebony, gold and myrrh had been sought by men from other regions of Africa and the Middle East for more than four thousand years. Indeed, some Bible scholars suspected that the wise men from the east who had followed the star in the sky to visit the baby Jesus had picked up their incenses and sweet-smelling gums in the Sudan.

Here and there, Bolan saw stalls along the sidewalks selling panther and other animal skins. Sudan was home to more than sixty different exotic high jungle and plains animals, as well as the exotic herbs and fragrances, and the hides of giant elands, bushbucks, yellow-backed duikers and hippopotami could be purchased on almost any block of any commercial street.

Sudan was composed of wide-ranging deserts and steppes north of Khartoum, and tropical jungle just below the twelfth parallel to the south. Its coastline ran along the Red Sea, with Saudi Arabia just across the water. Northern Sudan was rumored to be one of he hottest areas in the world during the summer, with temperatures rising to 125 degrees and higher.

At least two-thirds of Sudan’s eighteen million inhabitants were of mixed Arab and African blood, which had been superimposed over more ancient ancestors who were Hamitic. Such racial mixing was to be expected considering Sudan’s geographic location, especially from Khartoum northward. The southern three provinces of the country were inhabited by true Africans, mostly of the Dinka tribe.

Bolan opened his eyes as soon as Makkah said, “We are here.” He saw that the man was trying to turn down an alleyway behind a more modern building. Leaning on the horn, the airport police captain waved his other hand wildly through the open window to his side, trying to coax the pedestrians crossing the alley on the sidewalk to break up and let him through. When this didn’t work, Makkah let out a long string of what the Executioner had to believe were curses in some Arabic dialect he didn’t understand. When hitting the red lights and siren proved no more effective, the captain drew his .357 Magnum Taurus revolver from his shiny Sam Browne belt, transferred it to his left hand, then stuck it out the window and fired two shots into the air.

This demonstration of firepower produced the desired break in the crowd, and Makkah turned into the alley. Bolan did his best to lower himself farther in his seat and reached up, ostensibly rubbing his forehead with both hands but in reality trying to shield his face.

The Executioner had already had far more exposure to the public than he felt comfortable with. And he made a snap decision to make some major changes to his appearance as soon as he was finished inside this building.

Makkah pulled the car into a parking spot that read Police Only. “You are ready?” the captain asked as he pulled the keys from the ignition.

Bolan nodded and opened the door to his side. What he was about to do was simple. At least simple in theory.

A Washington Post journalist named Ronnie Cassetti had somehow gotten between a CIA informant and his U.S. handler. The two men who had murdered the informant in Cassetti’s presence—and tried to kill the American writer—had been taken into custody by Sudanese police. Fearful for his own life, Cassetti had turned a white envelope over to a CIA officer stationed at the American Embassy. The envelope contained some kind of mysterious limerick, which the CIA operative suspected contained important encrypted information.

Unfortunately, the snitch’s handler had been an older man, about to retire. Since his last encounter with the informant, he had suddenly keeled over with a heart attack and died.

And the limerick code was not known by anyone else in Khartoum, Washington or anywhere else in the world.

The CIA had opened a case. The President had caught wind of the details and ordered the Agency to take its cues from a man named Brandon Stone who would be taking charge of the investigation.

Bolan closed the car door and followed Makkah through a back door into the building. It seemed to him sometimes that he had more names than a heavyweight boxing champion. Mack Bolan, the Executioner, Matt Cooper and Brandon Stone were only a few of the appellations under which he sometimes went.

This time he would be Special Agent Brandon Stone.

T HE BUILDING THAT HOUSED the Khartoum office of the Sudan National Police might have been of more recent structure than many of the ancient wood-and-clay edifices the Executioner had seen on his drive with Captain Makkah. But the inside was every bit as dirty and unkempt as downtown Khartoum itself. Trash littered the hallway down which Makkah now led Bolan. And the walls were a dingy, begrimed gray from cigarette, cigar and pipe smoke. And from somewhere in the building, Bolan’s well-trained nostrils picked up the faint scent of burning marijuana.