“Running the prints now, Striker.”
Bolan had taken the woman’s fingerprints and faxed them to Kurtzman. She sat on a chair with her hands cuffed together in front of her and her ankles bound to the front chair legs with plastic zip restraints. The gun Bolan had held in his hand during the ten-minute drive to the safe house had kept the woman docile. Bolan had washed out her eyes with water. They were still red-veined from the gas and still glared bloody murder at Bolan.
Kurtzman got back to him almost instantly. “I have a hit on the Interpol database.”
The woman went rigid on the chair.
“What have you got?”
The computer whiz hit a key and a police photo of the woman popped up on the screen. “Sylvette MacJory, born in Aberdeen, Scotland. Attended Strathclyde University and received her degree in computer science. In 2005 she was accused and convicted of cybernetic crimes in the U.K., including identity theft and criminal hacking into the databases of several major U.K. financial institutions. Sentenced to five years, sentence reduced to two years probation and public service. Current residence in London. No further criminal record.”
Sylvette’s face clouded with rage.
“So who are your South African friends?” Bolan asked.
“Piss off, Yank!”
“You should try to come up with something more original than that.”
“You’re no cop, then.” The woman’s eyes narrowed. “You’re holding me illegally. I want my lawyer.”
“You’re right. I’m not a cop, and you’re not being held.” Bolan clicked open his phone and punched a button. “You’ve been abducted.”
MacJory swallowed with difficulty as her position became more clear to her.
Assistant Director Finch answered on the first ring. “Where are you?”
“Did you get the package I left you?”
“Yes,” Finch admitted.
“I have another.”
There followed an appalled silence. “Listen to me. You really must—”
“Her name is Sylvette MacJory. You’ll have her in your files. Felony computer hacker. She was attempting to get into my laptop.”
“Did you know we detected pepper spray within the room?”
“She tried to get into my laptop,” Bolan reiterated.
Finch tried a different tack. “You shot one of the suspects twenty-two times. He survived only because he was wearing body armor.”
“I shot him twenty-two times precisely because he was wearing body armor and I knew you would want him alive.”
“Mr.—”
“The large one out in the hall is South African. Did you get an ID on the other two?”
Bolan was pretty sure she would have hung up had she not been attempting to trace the call. The NSA satellite Bolan was bouncing his signal through made that a losing proposition, but it would take the MI-5 communications people a little while to figure that out. Finch let out a long, grudging breath. “You’re correct. The large one is Ruud Heitinga, South African citizen, as is the other, one Kew Timmer.”
“You get a bead on the man inside?”
“He was a bit of an anomaly. His papers say he is a French citizen named Guy Diddier. All of them have clammed up, however, call it a hunch, but I found Monsieur Diddier most un-Gallic in his behavior.”
Bolan was swiftly coming to the conclusion that Assistant Director Heloise Finch had earned her hunches the hard way. “So what did you do?”
“I called in a favor with French intelligence and ran the name. Diddier is a French citizen, but not by birth.”
Bolan’s intuition spoke to him. “He served a tour in the French Foreign Legion.”
Finch seemed pleased. “That is correct. He was originally an American citizen by the name of Gary Pope. He served four years in the California National Guard’s 223rd Infantry Regiment. Somewhere along the line, he got the romantic notion of joining the Legion. Once he’d been accepted, he took advantage of the Legion’s opportunity of identity change and after serving his tour successfully he accepted French citizenship.”
“Any line on the two South Africans?”
“Not yet, but I have every faith they are veterans of the South African Defense Force.”
Bolan agreed. “Ms. Finch, these individuals are mercenaries.”
“So it would seem, and how do you believe the girl fits in?”
Bolan glanced over at the hacker. “She may use a computer rather than a silenced submachine gun, but she’s a hired gun, nonetheless.”
“I agree.”
“Director, I find it very strange that the IRA is employing mercenaries.”
MacJory stared at Bolan strangely and then snapped her poker face back on. Bolan pretended to ignore the slip as Finch continued.
“It is indeed odd. It goes completely against their method of operation. By nature, mercenaries work for money and historically are notorious for switching sides. The terrorist wing of the IRA chooses its members for their absolute loyalty. They would never entrust any kind of sensitive operation to outsiders.”
“So someone else is in the game.”
“So it would appear.”
“Any ideas?”
“None whatsoever. The appearance of mercenaries in this situation is positively anomalous.”
“What’s their legal status, currently?”
“Well, their visas and passports are in order, and while they weren’t guests of the hotel there is currently no law in England against being beaten to a pulp in a hallway. However, we did find three automatic weapons on the premises. They are currently being held on suspicion and possible weapons charges.” Finch’s voice went slightly dry with sarcasm. “Since you took the liberty of kidnapping Miss MacJory, I suspect any evidence concerning her will be inadmissible in an English court of law.”
“Yeah, I figured.”
“So what do you intend to do with her?”
Bolan raised the BXP. “Shoot her.”