Assassin's Code

“Because Convertino was a scrounger.”

“I am not aware of this term.”

“He was good at getting things,” Bolan explained. “I spoke with a few of the men on his squad. If you wanted beer or liquor in Afghanistan, he’d find a way. If you couldn’t find any Marlboro, he’d get you Tajiki Kahons at half the price. U.S. and European pornography is almost impossible to sneak into Afghanistan, but if you wanted some, he could find you the Russian stuff that flows down through the northern border by the bushel basket. Every unit has a scrounger, and by all accounts Convertino was a scrounger par excellence. He was born in Puerto Rico, and they’re the last bastion of bartering culture in the United States. From what I hear he had the gift of gab, everybody liked him, and he had been to the language school and spoke some Arabic.”

“So why would the statement of charges be dropped if he was dealing in contraband?”

“Because he acquired contraband for his superiors,” Bolan said.

“Ah, yes, I see. Truly the world is the same all over. So, you believe it was in the midst of this scrounging that he was seduced?”

“I’m thinking seduced is exactly the right word. When he was in Iraq, Convertino had the reputation of being one hell of a charming horn dog. Female soldiers and Iraqi women liked him, a lot. Here in Afghanistan the female soldiers are a lot fewer, the Afghanis are far more violent about protecting their women. What little prostitution there is takes place in the big cities, and those are few and far between. A woman in Afghanistan who has been reduced to prostitution has seen a lot of hard miles, and that’s not Convertino’s type. The real brothels are run by Russians and Turks, are stocked with Eastern European and Russian women and cater to rich Afghans and foreign visitors with money. Out of Convertino’s league. After being transferred to Afghanistan I’m thinking Convertino was jonesing pretty hard.”

“Jonesing.” Ous nodded as he pondered this bit of American slang. “I believe I understand what you are saying.” His eyes suddenly went wolflike. “You are saying we must find Corporal Convertino’s sexy girlfriend.”

“Something like that.”

CHAPTER THREE

Sangin Base stockade

“Where the hell have you been?” Agent Kathryn Keller struggled to keep up with Bolan and Ous without breaking into a trot in the hallway.

“Drinking beer,” Bolan replied.

“Hey!” Keller snarled.

Bolan stopped and turned. “What?”

“Well…” Keller suddenly grinned. “How come you didn’t invite me?”

Bolan considered his answer and jerked his head at Ous. “He doesn’t drink beer with women.”

“What in God’s name leads you to conclude that I do not drink beer with women?” Ous asked.

“My mistake,” Bolan admitted. “Can you give me a sitrep, Keller?”

“Convertino talked.”

“What’d he say?”

“Just that he admits to the murder of Dr. Early, the John Doe suspect, and the attempted murder of you and Mr. Ous.”

“Anything else?”

“He’s dismissed his appointed council, says he will plead guilty to all charges and requested the death penalty.”

“He seems dedicated,” Ous said.

“Down right self-sacrificing,” Bolan agreed.

Keller looked back and forth between the two men. “What can I do to help?”

Bolan’s cobalt gaze burned into Keller’s eyes. “NCIS is still in charge of this case?”

“Not for much longer,” Keller said. The MPs outside the cell snapped to attention and saluted the woman as she and her party approached. “And then God only knows who is going to take over. When this goes public, it’s going to turn into a real dog-and-pony show.”

“Then I want you to flash that NCIS badge, say ‘agent in charge’ and give me five minutes with the suspect,” Bolan said.

Keller squeezed her eyes shut as if she had just developed a headache. She opened her eyes and grimly flashed her badge. “Keller! NCIS! Agent in charge! This man is a liaison from the Justice Department to see the prisoner!”

The ranking guard looked upon Keller with grave uncertainty. “Um…yes, ma’am?” The other unlocked the door. “Uh, sir? Just so you know, the prisoner is not currently under restraint but we are on suicide watch.”

“Thank you, Private,” Bolan said.

“And what shall I do?” Ous inquired.

“No one comes in or out, and I mean no one,” Bolan said.

The MPs looked on in alarm as Ous took one of their folding chairs beside the door, pulled a huge Khyber knife and began cleaning his fingernails. Keller just rolled her eyes. “That’s it. I’m dead.”

Bolan stalked into the holding cell and slammed the door shut behind him. There was nothing inside other than a single bunk and chair. Corporal Saulito Convertino jerked erect in his chair. His eyes widened in horror at the sight of Bolan. “Oh God! No!”

Bolan’s open hand cracked across Convertino’s face in textbook bitch-slap perfection.

“You—”

Bolan’s hand cracked across Convertino’s face once, twice, three times. The Executioner didn’t believe in pliers and blowtorch torture. He had been tortured himself, and all it had ever engendered within him was hatred. But crime and terror were slippery slopes that men could find themselves in against their will, sometimes finding themselves ensnared before they knew it, and Bolan could recognize a repentant sinner. Corporal Saulito Convertino’s salvation was between him and his Maker, but Bolan was perfectly willing to take him behind the woodshed and hear his confession. Minor pain and intimidation worked wonders.

Bolan’s blue eyes burned down on the traitor like the embodied anger of an Old Testament God of the desert with no sense of humor. Convertino was a good-looking man. His slightly hooked nose, high cheekbones, curvy lips and Kirk Douglas chin were all set in toffee-tinted skin that bespoke his Spanish, African and Taino Indian blood. His copper-colored hair was cropped into USMC regulation skull-hugging curls, and he was built like an NFL defensive end.

Tears streamed down his face as he pushed himself up to his knees.

“Where’s your girlfriend?” Bolan asked.

Convertino went slack-jawed in horror.

“Your girlfriend? You know, the one who put you up to this?”

“I can’t! They’ll kill h—”

Bolan bodily heaved Convertino to his feet and slammed him against the wall of the cell. “What’s her name?”

“Reema! Her name is Reema!”

The first admission in a situation like this usually opened the floodgates. “Tell me the whole story, Corporal.”

Convertino looked up in despair. “I love her…?.”