a large, modern structure set in cultivated grounds. As McReady drew up outside the main entrance, a uniformed doorman stepped out to open the car door. Belasko carried his leather shoulder bag as McReady led the way inside and up to the reception desk.
The attractive girl behind the desk smiled at him. “Back so soon, Mr. McReady?”
“With a guest,” McReady said. “You have a room reserved for him.”
“This will be Mr. Belasko?”
Belasko nodded. He signed in and took the key card the girl handed him.
“Fourth floor, Mr. Belasko.”
“Thanks,” Belasko said as he picked up his bag.
“Meet you here in the lobby in thirty minutes?” McReady asked.
“Fine.”
MACK BOLAN TOOK the elevator up to the fourth floor, then followed the wall signs until he located his room. The key card opened the door and he went in, dropped his bag beside the bed and slipped out of his suit jacket. He tossed it on the bed before crossing to the large window. He stared out across the open view of the city. In the far distance he could make out the hazy outline of a mountain chain. He stood at the window for a while, simply enjoying the view.
When he did move he picked up the shoulder bag and placed it on the bed. Taking a small key from his pocket he unlocked the zipper restraint and opened the bag. He reached to the bottom and pulled out a packed shoulder-holster rig. When the rig was unrolled, a handgun was exposed. It was a 9 mm Beretta 93-R machine pistol. He laid the rig on the bed. He took a clean shirt from his leather bag and placed it beside the Beretta. Removing his tie he went to the bathroom, stripped off his shirt and washed up. Emerging from the bathroom, Bolan pulled on the fresh shirt and put on the tie again. Before he slipped into his jacket he put on the shoulder holster.
Checking himself in the mirror on the wall he ran his fingers through his thick black hair, nodding at his reflection. “So let’s get this mission on the rails, Mr. Belasko,” Mack Bolan said to himself.
24 hours earlier
HAL BROGNOLA SEARCHED the pockets of his jacket for a cigar, sighing audibly when he found one. The director of the Sensitive Operations Group unwrapped it and stuck it between his teeth, looking ready to chew it into oblivion. He looked as if he had resigned himself to the fact that all he could do now was wait for Mack Bolan to make his decision.
The man known as the Executioner, sitting across from the head Fed, was aware of Brognola’s agitation. Bolan had been ready to take off on a few days’ R&R when Brognola’s call had reached him at the ultracovert Stony Man Farm. Within twenty minutes Bolan was on board one of the Farm’s helicopters, being flown to Washington by Jack Grimaldi.
“What’s up, Sarge?” Grimaldi had asked.
“If I knew I’d tell you,” Bolan had answered truthfully. “Only thing I am sure of is I can kiss my vacation goodbye.”
“Situation normal then,” Grimaldi said, smiling.
“You said it, Jack.”
Brognola was waiting for Bolan when the helicopter touched down. The soldier transferred to the big Fed’s car and settled back for an explanation. Brognola didn’t say a great deal as he drove to a nearby diner. They went inside and ordered coffee.
“Hal, you’re looking smart,” Bolan observed, taking in the neat shirt and tie. Even Brognola’s suit looked as if it had just come off the hanger. “Been to see the head man?”
“As a matter of fact, that’s exactly where I’ve been,” Brognola said. “He asked to see me. Urgent meeting.”
Their coffee came and they sat drinking until the waitress had moved on.
“Urgent meeting?” Bolan reminded his friend.
“Yeah. The President wanted to ask a favor.”
“From you?”
“Christ, Striker, you don’t let even me off the hook.”
Bolan smiled, shaking his head. “Come on, Hal, we don’t need to pussyfoot. What does the man want?”
“You heard of Tempala?”
“On the west coast of Africa. Democratic independent state. The British ran the place about a hundred years ago. President is Joseph Karima. Right now he’s in some kind of talks with the U.S. Wants to offer the Navy the use of a deepwater facility. And there’s something about copper concessions as well.”
Bolan picked up his cup and drank. He waited for Brognola to speak.
“You amaze me. You’re right up to date. Karima is going through a hard time at the moment. He’s fighting a rebel faction from the Kirandi tribes who are resisting any changes that will benefit the country. These people are doing everything they can to cancel out the deep-water offer and the deal for the copper with U.S. companies. Things are starting to get serious. The rebels have started to use harassment and scare tactics against the general population. Karima has stood up to them until the latest escalation, and that’s where we come in.”
Bolan saw the look on Brognola’s face and knew for sure he wasn’t going to like what he heard.
“Just about thirty-six hours ago Joseph Karima’s children were kidnapped by the rebels. Karima has been given ten days to agree with the rebel’s demands. He must cancel all the negotiations he’s involved in and step down from office. If he refuses he doesn’t see his children ever again.”
“His country or his children,” Bolan stated. “Those rebels know how to turn the screw.”
“Which is why the President wants us to help,” Brognola said. “Striker, Karima is a friend to the U.S. From the mouth of the President, Karima is one of the good guys. He’s pulled Tempala out of the dirt and held it together through some really hard times. The future could be good for his whole country if he can complete his negotiations. The copper mining is ready to grow. The deals he has in the pipeline will bring in money and provide jobs. So would the agreement with our Navy.”
“You mentioned a favor?”
Brognola rubbed the back of his neck, chewing on his cigar.
“Okay, it’s like this. Joseph Karima and the President are good friends. They first met when Karima was in the U.S. at law school. When Karima met the girl he eventually married, the President and his wife were instrumental in helping the relationship along. They were at Karima’s wedding in New York. Karima’s wife died soon after the children were born. Boy-and-girl twins. Karima brought the kids up on his own and still found time to go into politics and become president of Tempala. It’s one of the things the people like about him. Karima is father to his children and his country. Right now the man is hurting. He needs help. Our President has asked for help, Striker. He wants you to go to Tempala, meet Karima and find his kids. All you have to say is yes. A plane is waiting to take you directly to Tempala. Cover has already been arranged. I can fill you in on the way to the airfield. I’ve got a file in the car. It will update you on everything you’ll need to know before you touch down.”
Bolan examined his cup.
“The President accepts he’ll owe us for this,” Brognola said.
“Damn right he will,” Bolan answered. “It’s going to cost you, too, Hal.”
Brognola stared at his friend.
“Big time,” Bolan said, smiling. “At least a coffee refill.” He pushed his cup across the table.
THERE WAS A CAR WAITING outside the hotel when Bolan joined McReady. They left immediately. The ride through Tempala City was interesting from Bolan’s viewpoint. He could see the good Karima had done. Clean, modern buildings stood on each side of the three-lane highway. There were some imposing structures, with a number of them showing American logos. There were a couple of buildings that showed the results