War Drums

“London?” Bolan queried.

“Yes. Activity appears to be fairly strong right now, according to security readouts. London’s at the crossroads for international dealing, the jumping-off place for Europe and the Middle East. It’s a financial hub, as well. You’ve been there before. You know the situation. Wide-ranging cultural mix. Large urban sprawl. Easy place to hide. And Claude Stratton is based in London.”

“I’ll make it my starting point.”

“There’s an Air Force plane on standby,” Brognola informed him. “I’ll make the arrangements. Tell Barb what you need and it’ll make the flight with you.”

“Backup data to be forwarded?”

“As long as we can maintain contact, you’ll receive it ASAP. Aaron will check out your communication gear before you leave.”

“Fine.”

“You need any local backup?” Brognola asked.

“I’ll call if I do.”

“Any local interference, just dial the number.”

“Time to move out.”

“Striker, stay sharp. Don’t trust anyone. We don’t know how deep this CIA connection to the opposition goes.”

“Trust is for little children and old ladies,” Bolan said. “I’m not expecting to meet many of either in the field.”

“This could turn into one hell of a mess, Striker,” Brognola said. “We don’t want to be caught with our pants down if it blows up. Too much is at stake—future relations with less aggressive Middle East countries. Then there’s Afghanistan watching what’s going on. India and Pakistan edging around each other. If it comes out that U.S. technology has been assisting the Iranians, denying our complicity is going to be one hell of a job. And don’t forget the Israelis. If they suffer any damage, they’ll hit back hard and fast. Do what you have to. Find the players. Shut down the supply of U.S. data being fed to the Iranians. Take down Nevski’s organization. See who and what’s behind this Jordanian connection. You won’t have any interference from U.S. security agencies. If you do, refer them to me and I’ll field them to the Man. He’s told me you have absolute authority to get what you want.”

“Knowing that is going to make it so much easier out there,” Bolan said dryly.

“Sad to see such blatant cynicism,” Kurtzman said.

Bolan pushed to his feet. “I’ll see you in thirty, Aaron. Just make sure my cell phone is fully charged.”

“Give me your details and I’ll make sure your flight is on standby,” Price said. She knew Bolan would be moving out within a short time. Going back into the hell grounds to take on yet more faceless enemies in his continuing struggle.

As he stepped by her, the soldier briefly laid a big hand on her shoulder, then he was crossing the War Room, going out through the door and she knew the mission had started.

CHAPTER TWO

London, England

Claude Stratton lived in a mews apartment in Chelsea, a double garage taking up the lower floor, with the living quarters above. Sitting in his car across the street from the enclosed courtyard, Mack Bolan judged the place to be prohibitively expensive. For someone like Stratton it would be pocket change. Bolan read the profile Stony Man had provided during his flight to the UK. It had detailed Stratton’s business ventures, his connections with various dubious organizations. Despite that, the man had never been convicted of any crime, due to the fact Stratton was a clever man. His wealth allowed him the privilege of hiring the best lawyers available and their legal machinations kept him free and clear. Stratton was able to continue in business and stay one step ahead of prosecution.

This was Bolan’s second day tailing the man, and during that time Stratton had done little to arouse suspicion. From what he had seen, Stratton lived a solitary life in London. He made few contacts during the time Bolan had been watching him, visiting exclusive stores, dining alone. If he was involved in anything big at the present time, he appeared to be playing a waiting game.

That changed late afternoon of the second day.

Bolan could see Stratton’s silver Rolls-Royce parked outside the apartment. He was debating his strategy when a dark-colored Toyota slowed and turned into the mews, pulling up behind the Rolls. A dark-haired man climbed out and pressed the bell at Stratton’s door. When the door opened Bolan caught a glimpse of Claude Stratton as the visitor stepped inside and the door closed. Bolan memorized the license plate on the Toyota. He turned on the cell phone Kurtzman had provided. It had Tri-Band connections and a dedicated e-mail interface. He logged on and established a connection, wrote and sent an e-mail request for a check on the UK registration of the Toyota. He received his reply in less than ten minutes.

The vehicle is registered to a Jason Novak, UK citizen. A check on the man revealed his business as an import-export dealer. His main client base is in the Middle East, and British Intelligence was investigating the possibility that he could be in the arms business, using his legitimate trading as cover.

Bolan logged out and switched off, checked his 93-R and exited the rental. Crossing the street, he entered the mews and walked to the big Rolls-Royce. He leaned against the side of the car and braced his heels to the ground, using his body to rock the vehicle. Nothing happened until he repeated the move, using more pressure, and heard the alarm system kick in. The shrill beeping sounded loud within the confines of the courtyard. Bolan flattened against the wall to the left of Stratton’s front door and waited.

The door was yanked open and Stratton stood with the car’s remote in his hand. He pointed it at the Rolls and depressed the button, shutting off the alarm. As he turned to reenter the apartment Bolan stepped into view, pressing the muzzle of the Beretta against Stratton’s spine and urging him forward. As soon as they were inside, Bolan pushed the door shut behind him, locking the dead bolt.

“What the hell is this?” Stratton demanded. He had a soft face, and his loose double chin quivered with indignation. Bolan didn’t miss the cold gleam in his eyes.

“Just a home visit,” Bolan said, and pushed the 93-R hard into Stratton’s soft flesh. “Keep quiet and let’s get back upstairs.”

Stratton had the sense to do what he was told and preceded Bolan up the stairs. If he had been planning any tricks, Bolan was ahead of him. As they reached the head of the stairs, the soldier edged around him and scanned the room that spread out to his left. Well appointed, with furnishings that had to have cost a small fortune, the living room had a wide window that overlooked the courtyard. Stratton’s visitor, Jason Novak, was standing at the window. His lean features paled when he saw Bolan and the weapon he was carrying.

“Claude, what the hell is going—?”

“Novak, keep the hands where I can see them,” Bolan ordered. He was running his free hand over Stratton as he spoke, checking the man for weapons and finding he was clean. “Stratton, sit over there. Do it now.”

Bolan turned his attention back to Novak. “What’s on the table today, Novak? Autorifles? RPGs? Electronic technology? You cut your deal yet?”

Novak didn’t respond, but the expression on his face told Bolan he had touched a nerve.

“Don’t tell this bastard a thing,” Stratton said.

Bolan raised a hand in Novak’s direction. “Take the jacket off.”

“What?”

“The coat. On the floor.”

Novak shrugged out of his jacket and dropped it on the carpet. A bolstered handgun rode his left hip, butt forward.

“Two fingers. Left hand. Take it out. Place it on the coffee table and join your pal.” Bolan picked up the revolver, a 5-shot, .44-caliber Charter Arms Bulldog. He flipped out the cylinder and let the bullets drop to the carpet. “This has to be illegal, Novak. UK has a no-handgun policy for civilians.”

“So what’s that in your hand, Yank? A stick of candy?”

“I admit to bending the rules.”

Bolan had seen the sheets of paper spread over the surface of the coffee table. He scooped them up and checked them out. One was a list of ordnance, covering a wide spectrum of weapons from handguns to autorifles, machine guns and even explosives. There were details of a port of destination in Jordan. The other sheet that caught his eye was a letter of introduction, which had been signed by Stratton. The final item was an airline ticket and hotel reservation—again the destination was Jordan.

“You guys are making this too easy for me,” Bolan said.

“I don’t know who you are,” Stratton said, sounding extremely nervous. He wasn’t used to being threatened. “But you should understand this is something you don’t want to get into.”

“Uh-huh,” Bolan said, “it’s something you should have got out of. Now it’s too late.”

“Too late? What is this crap?” Stratton asked. His attempt at bluffing failed. He tried another tack. “You realize who I am?”

Bolan shook his head. “I only heard about you recently. From what I read I haven’t missed a deal. You run errands for bottom-end terrorists. We’d call you a gofer in the States. Somebody calls, you fetch. Have I got it right?”

Stratton’s plump face reddened at the insult. “You bastard. I don’t run errands for anyone. They come to me. I…” He closed his mouth before he said too much.