making a comeback of sorts on Indian game preserves,” Brognola told him, “but there’s still a thriving trade in pelts and organs.”
“Organs?”
“Right. Go figure. In the Eastern culture, certain organs are believed to help male potency.”
“I thought that was rhinoceros horn,” Bolan said.
“Same thing,” Brognola admitted. “Different strokes for different folks.”
“So, poachers,” Bolan said.
“Big-time. Not only tigers, but elephants, too. Apparently, it’s a major crime wave.”
“Too bad,” the Executioner replied. “But still—”
“I know, it’s not our usual.”
“Not even close.”
“Does the name Balahadra Naraka ring any bells?” Brognola asked.
“Vaguely. Can’t place it, though.”
“He’s a legend of sorts from what I gather,” the big Fed explained. “Started out as a small-time poacher, then he caught a prison sentence and escaped, killing some guards as he went. That was ten or twelve years ago, and the government’s been hunting him ever since. He’s the Indian equivalent of Jesse James or John Dillinger. Naraka has a gang, hooked up with dealers in Calcutta and buyers all over the world. Reports vary, but it seems he’s killed at least a hundred game wardens and soldiers. Some reports claim two hundred or more.”
“Bad news,” Bolan said, “but I still don’t see—”
“Our angle?” Brognola had anticipated him. “Last week a U.S. diplomat, one Phillip Langley, paid a visit to West Bengal with his wife. Langley is—or was—a member of the President’s task force on preservation of endangered species, working in conjunction with the United Nations.”
“Was a member?” Bolan asked.
“He’s dead,” Brognola replied. “The wife, too. Some of Naraka’s people jumped their convoy on a game preserve ninety miles outside Calcutta. Killed their escorts on the spot, then snatched the Langleys and demanded ransom.”
“Washington, of course, refused to pay,” Bolan said.
“Right. So, anyway, the army got a lead on where Naraka had them stashed and tried to pull a rescue. When the smoke cleared, they had two dead hostages and one small-timer from the gang, but no sign of Naraka and the rest.”
“Which leaves the White House angry and embarrassed,” Bolan guessed.
“And shit still rolls downhill,” Brognola said. “This load just landed on my doorstep yesterday.”
“You want Naraka chastised.”
“Neutralized,” Brognola said, correcting him. “Along with anybody else who had a hand in murdering the Langleys.”
“And the local government can’t handle it?”
“They’ve spent more than a decade chasing him around in circles, getting nowhere. As I mentioned, he’s already killed at least a hundred of their officers, and still they haven’t laid a glove on him. No reason to suppose they’ll score a sudden breakthrough, just because he smoked a couple of Americans.”
“A diplomatic squeeze might do the trick,” Bolan suggested.
“Some say we’re spread too thin as it is, or throwing too much weight around already. Either way, the word’s come down to handle it outside normal channels.”
“Ah. And where would I start looking if the natives don’t know where to find their man?”
“I said they haven’t found him,” Brognola replied. “That doesn’t mean they don’t know where he is.”
“Collusion?”
“Or ineptitude. It wouldn’t be the first time, right?”
“Unfortunately, no,” Bolan agreed. “My question’s still the same. Where would I start?”
“Calcutta,” Brognola suggested. “It’s the capital of West Bengal, Naraka’s happy hunting ground, and anything he moves to foreign buyers will be passing through the city. I’ve already tapped the Company for contacts, and they’ve got a man on standby to assist you if you take the job.”
“A native?”
“Born and bred,” Brognola said. “He’s on the books with a ‘reliable’ notation.”
“Name?”
“I’ve got his file here,” Brognola said, raising his left hand to stroke his overcoat, feeling the fat manila envelope that filled his inside pocket. “And I brought along Naraka’s, with some background on the area.”
“So, is the White House miffed, or is there some real likelihood this character may pose a future threat?” Bolan asked.
“To the States?” Brognola shrugged. “Who knows? It’s not his first kidnapping, just the first involving U.S. citizens. Our analysts are split fifty-fifty, as to whether the experience will scare him off or piss him off so badly that he wants another piece of Uncle Sam.”
“It’s a distraction from his trade,” Bolan remarked.
“Which means he may start taking other risks, making mistakes. I’d hate to see him fixate on the embassy, its personnel. This guy’s been living like a hermit in the jungle since his prison break. I’m not sure he was civilized before that all went down, but he’s a Grade A wild man now.”
“A wild man with a taste for ivory and tigers,” Bolan said.
“And hostages. Let’s not forget.”
“How solid is his dossier?”
“Good question. The ambassador to India says we got everything they have in New Delhi. Beyond that, who knows?”
“Naraka could have someone running interference for him in the government,” Bolan suggested.
“It’s a possibility, all right.”
“And if I find someone like that? What, then?”
“Officially, we’d want to know about it. Off the record, use your own best judgment.”
“All right,” the warrior said, at last. “Let’s see the files.”
THE FILES HAD BEEN condensed, photos and all printed on flimsy paper for convenience and easy disposal when Bolan had finished his reading. He sat on a bench in the sunshine, outside Fort McHenry, with Brognola at his side, watching any stray tourist who wandered too close. Bolan read steadily, absorbing all the salient facts and asking questions when he needed to.
His contact, Abhaya Takeri, was a twenty-six-year-old ex-soldier who had dabbled in private security before landing a dull office job in Calcutta. That had lasted for nearly a year before he got restless, picking up covert assignments from his government, and later from the CIA. It wasn’t clear in Takeri’s case if one hand knew what the other was doing, but he’d managed to avoid any conflicts so far, after three years of service, and that said something for his tradecraft at the very least.
Takeri’s photos were a study in contrast. The first, a posed shot in his army uniform, revealed a stern young man who wouldn’t smile to save his life, proud of his threads and attitude. The other was a candid shot, taken just as Takeri left a small sidewalk café, his arm around a pretty, laughing young woman. Takeri’s smile seemed genuine, good-humored, as if he enjoyed his life. The flimsy printouts meant that Bolan couldn’t check the flip side of the photographs for dates, but he assumed the army photo had been taken first. Takeri seemed a little older in the second, definitely more at ease.
Takeri’s record in the military had been unremarkable, and most of what he’d done since