Armed Response. Don Pendleton

looking for a story. We were told that there was shooting in the desert. We followed the army out, but they turned us back at the checkpoint. They told us there was nothing to see. So now we are going to the airport to cover that story.”

      “Airport closed. Who told you about shooting?”

      “Colonel Nissal,” Thompson said. “He’s a friend.”

      The policeman was unimpressed with the reference to an army colonel. He looked at one of his approaching officers, a black eyebrow raised in question. The other man shook his head, muttered something and then stared at Bolan and Thompson, obviously hoping to intimidate them more. The official in charge turned back to the two Americans.

      “Why compartment under seat? You hide drugs?”

      “No, no,” Bolan protested. “No drugs. It is for this.” He held up the camera hanging around his neck. “We hide it in the car—we don’t want it stolen.”

      The officer seemed to find this answer acceptable. He examined the papers again, hoping to discover a discrepancy in the passport stamps, the work permits. Finding none, he reluctantly handed them back.

      “You go now. Leave.”

      Bolan and Thompson thanked him and climbed back into the car. They left the checkpoint, the police still staring after them. Thompson let out a gasp of pent-up relief.

      “That was tense. I’m sure glad I didn’t slip in the customary bribe. I don’t think that guy would have appreciated it.”

      “No, he was dedicated, I’ll give him that. Colonel Nissal?”

      “Guy in the army who I have tried to interview a few times. I think that he’s on the take. Keeps turning me down. Maybe the police will check him out. Revenge is sweet.”

      Bolan chuckled. The city became more and more modern. Low houses gave way to towering apartment buildings, extremely white, and shining in the sun. The road was black and smooth, the cars driving on it far more modern than those outside the city. More billboards lined the road and hung on the sides of buildings. It barely seemed like the Middle East. Almost ringing the city was a long, unbroken chain of stone hills. Thompson caught him taking in the sights.

      “You ever been here before?” he asked.

      “I’ve passed through once or twice.” Bolan said.

      The buildings to his right vanished, offering a fantastic view of the bay and the sea beyond. Bolan could see all manner of oil tankers and freighters docked in the harbor, entering, leaving, all floating on a perfect blue surface. The whole vista was simply stunning. Thompson broke the spell by reminding him that the USS Cole