Whipsaw (2 page)

Walt Wilson was a big man. His two hundred and thirty pounds looked out of place in the Brooks Brothers suit. His bull neck strained against a thirty-dollar silk tie, and his shirt, white on white, rustled every time he shifted his massive torso in the chair.

Mack Bolan watched him quietly. He had met Wilson before. The nickname "Rosebud" seemed out of place on a man so huge, but Bolan had never bothered to ask Wilson where it came from. He preferred instead to let the man have one secret.

And for that matter, to Wilson he was Mike Belasko, a friend of Brognola. So he had his own secret, and a high ace it was.

Nor did he envy Wilson his job. A troubleshooter for the Intelligence division of the State Department, Wilson had no place to call home and no base to call his own. Wherever it got hot, Wilson got sent. He seemed to thrive on the challenge, but Bolan knew just how old it could get, and how quickly it could age you. Wilson was on the edge of a downhill slide. The next crisis, or the one after that, could be the one that pushed him over the edge.

The two men sat across from one another with an ocean of gleaming walnut, smelling faintly of lemon oil, between them. At one end of the briefing room, a stark white screen descended with a pneumatic hum.

It clicked home, and Wilson nodded to his assistant, who killed the lights.

"First picture," Wilson said in a voice that seemed too high in pitch for someone so large.

Bolan wondered whether Wilson's tie might be a little too tight for his own good.

The projector's magazine advance hummed, a bright square of light splashed on the screen, was swept away by a click, reappeared, vanished with another click and was replaced by a photograph of three men. Bolan knew instantly that it had been taken from a distance.

Without waiting for Wilson's question, Bolan scrutinized the three. He knew none by name, although one, the leftmost on the screen, looked vaguely familiar.

"Know any of these rascals?" Wilson asked.

Even in the near dark, Bolan knew that Wilson was watching him closely. "Nope. One guy, the one with the grey hair, looks sort of familiar, as if I should know him. But I can't connect the face with a name."

"Next shot, Donny," Wilson piped.

The projector whirred and clicked, and the photo was replaced by a blowup of one of the three men.

Again, Wilson waited. "El numero uno." Wilson chuckled. "That is Juan Rizal Cordero. Ring a bell?"

"No," Bolan said.

"Well, he's the new kid on the block. We've been watching him for more than two years. He shows up at the damnedest places. Nicaragua, two years ago, was the first time we tumbled to him. Right after the attempt on the Ortega brothers. We lost him after that for nearly six months, then he pops up, of all places, in Beirut. Mossad backfilled our file. Seems he's been training the right-wing Christian militia there, sabotage and demo work, mostly. Then he comes out of the ground again last February, a regular tucking ground hog, he is, in Angola. Palling around with a bunch of Woolworth meres, soldiers of misfortune I call 'em. That was right before Savimbi's plane lost a wing after the ANC conference in Nairobi."

"You tie him to any organisation?" Bolan leaned closer to the screen, waiting for Wilson's answer.

"Nope. The boy seems to be a free-lancer. He goes where the bucks are, I guess, but we don't know where he goes to ground. It's now you see him, now you don't. Kind of like a right-wing Carlos, I guess you'd say. Hell, for all I know, maybe he is Carlos. Change his nose, add sixty pounds, turn his politics inside out and you got a dead ringer." Wilson laughed in his high, lilting voice while Bolan chewed on his lower lip.

The machine clicked again, and another of the trio appeared center screen. The blowup fuzzed a lot of detail. The man was sitting at an angle to the camera, and his profile was as wispy as breath on a cold afternoon. One prominent, dark eye looked like a burn hole in the screen, but the rest of him was hazy and indistinct.

"Sorry about the quality," Wilson said. "Sometimes I think Fotomat does a better job than our lab."

"Got a name for this one?" Bolan asked.

"Not a syllable." Wilson sighed. "He's new in our rogues' gallery. We don't even know what nationality he is."

Next to fill the screen was the image of the distinguished gray-haired gentleman. He was the one Bolan had seen somewhere but couldn't place or come up with a name.

"If you knew anybody up there, it'd be this fella," Wilson said. "Charles James Anthony Harding."

"Harding," Bolan muttered. "Harding I know that name."

"Three Purple Hearts, a Bronze Star, a DSc. Four years in a POW camp, courtesy of Uncle Ho. Worked out of a think tank outside of L.A. for a while. Still there as a consultant, but mostly he stays in the Philipines. Did a stint on the Hill, then ran for a House seat in Mississippi, his stomping grounds, but lost by a hair's breadth, and voila, a thinker was born."

"Where were these photos taken?" Bolan asked.

"Manila. Two months ago."

"What's his connection with Cordero?"

"Search me..." Wilson stood up and walked to a sideboard to pour himself a coffee. "You want one?"

"No, thanks," Bolan said, continuing to study the screen.

Wilson scooped two spoons of sugar into the coffee, added a little cream from a silver creamer, then stirred. He set the spoon down with a clang and sipped noisily before returning to the table.

Dropping back into his chair, Wilson set the coffee on the polished tabletop, leaned back to stretch and said through gritted teeth, "Next one, Donny." Harding disappeared and was replaced by a shattered storefront. Paper-and-cardboard signs, torn to ribbons, fluttered in a breeze at the instant the photo was taken. "This," said Wilson, "used to be a government health clinic, set up by Aquino. Next..." The projector clicked. The storefront moved to a corner of the screen. "See that white circle, down there on the left? Watch this..." The projector clicked again, and the circle expanded to touch the four sides of the screen. "See that?"

Bolan leaned a little closer.

"It's fuzzier than most, because we got this from a Manila newspaper."

"Cordero," Bolan said.

"Right you are, boyo. Not a minute after the explosion. You can still see smoke in the other corner, just beside the storefront."

"You don't think it was a coincidence, I gather," Bolan said.

"Hell, Belasko, would you?"

"No, I wouldn't."

"And the interesting thing is that this picture was taken just forty-eight hours after that little confab we saw at the beginning. But that's not all... show him, Donny." Whirring and clunking, the projector advanced another notch. Another photo, this one from the opposite side of the shattered headquarters, filled the screen. "This one is about thirty seconds later. Blowup, Donny..." Wilson skipped a beat, then resumed. "And here you have another of the confabulating buddies, right in the middle of it all, just like Cordero." And sure enough, in a profile shot, there was the second man, this time just a little more clearly etched.

Bolan said nothing.

Wilson chuckled. "The odds are gettin' pretty long against coincidence, ain't they?" Wilson took another noisy sip of coffee. "But the pictures ain't the whole story, Belasko. There's a big iceberg under that little bitty ice cube you saw on the screen. It seems that Mr. Harding has been showing up in Manila regularly, twice a month for the last four months, like clockwork. The rest of the time we don't know where the hell he is. It also seems that he has been doing a lot of shipping to the Philippines. It's supposed to be electronic parts, according to the manifests, but I have my doubts about that."

"Why?"

"Well, for one thing, the C that blew that clinic all to hell has been traced to a missing batch from right here in the U.S. of A. Now, I don't know that Harding was behind the theft, but I don't know that he wasn't, either. It makes me a little nervous, though, thinking that he might be. And I am the very picture of calm alongside the Secretary of State. I mean, you can understand that, I guess. After all, how would it look if we were somehow connected to terrorist attacks? And worse yet, in the Philippines? Subic and Clark are not your run-of-the-mill bases. Mrs. Aquino might be a nice lady, but if she thought we were trying to blow her to bits, she might be a little irritated. You ever think how the Pacific would look if it was to be MiGo-27's flying into Clark, instead of F-16's? I know the President has, and what he had to say about it is not for polite company."

"So you want me to find out what Harding is up to?"

"Now, hold on, there's more."

Bolan shook his head. "I think I will have a coffee."

"Good move. It's going to be a long night."

Bolan stood and moved around the end of the huge table, fixed himself a coffee and sipped it slowly, leaning against the sideboard. "I'm still missing something here," he said. "I thought the problem in the Philippines was the NPA, the New People's Army..."

"And you were right. It is a problem. But it's been manageable so far. The trouble is, if it even looks like we've been supporting the right wing over there, shit will come flying in from every shade of red in the Pacific basin. China and Vietnam, Russia and North Korea, hell, they'll be falling all over themselves to make points with the locals and get themselves a foothold. If that happens, Aquino goes down the tubes in jig time. She's only hanging on by the skin of her teeth. If she goes, there are a dozen generals just waiting for a chance to emulate Mr. Marcos. And if that happens, all hell breaks loose. At best you can have a civil war, and at worst, a red Manila."

"And we take the rap."

Wilson slurped some more coffee down. "Yup." He set the coffee down again, the cup almost sliding off the saucer. "Lights, Donny," he said.

The lights came on, and Wilson reached for a stack of folders, each stamped LA for Limited Access and bordered in bright blue. He spread the fingers of one hand over the top folder. Bolan walked back around the table to sit down.

"This is everything we've got on Cordero. On Harding we don't have much. His life's an open book, sort of. But the pages are blank. You can always see where he's going, and his career's been well documented, but that's all icing. We got no cake underneath. If he's fronting for somebody, we don't know who. If he's got some hidden agenda, we don't have a clue what it is. In other words, if he isn't what he appears to be, what the hell is he?" Bolan looked at the folders, then at Wilson, who continued. "Time was, Belasko, when we only had to worry about one end of the political spectrum. Red was easy to spot, like a fire engine coming up the block. If it wasn't red, we didn't have to worry about it. But times have changed in a major way. We've taken a lot of hits, more than we should have if you ask me but nobody has and so I now have twice the work to do. I have to watch everything left and right." Bolan reached out for the folders, and Wilson shoved the stack across the table. "I wish to God there was more I could give you, but that's what I've got. Period."

"When do you want me to leave?" Bolan asked, not bothering to ask the earlier, more obvious question.

Wilson dug inside his jacket and pulled out a crisp white envelope. He slipped it across the table.

Bolan looked at it without making a move to retrieve it. "Pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?" Wilson watched the big guy silently for a minute before continuing, "Brognola speaks very highly of you. He and I go way back. He told me there were certain things I could take for granted. I took him at his word." Bolan smiled the faintest of smiles. "As it happens, you'll be on the same flight as one Mr. Charles Harding. This time we don't want to lose him. You'll be going under diplomatic cover. The man to see in Manila is Frank Henson. I cabled him this afternoon. He knows you're coming, and he'll take care of contact on his end."

Wilson leaned across the table, extending one hand. Bolan took it in his own.

"You be damn careful over there, Belasko. Anything happens to you, Hal will have my balls in a vise. If he doesn't cut 'em off altogether."

"Thanks. I'll be careful."

"Look, Frank Henson's a good man. He's yours for the duration. He knows it and he's as faithful as the family dog. Use him. He expects it, and he'll bust his gut for you."

When the door closed, Wilson dropped into his chair with a sigh. "Poor son of a bitch," he mumbled.

"You say something?" Donny was busy putting his equipment back in the cabinet.

"Yeah, I said what a poor son of a bitch Belasko was."

"Don't worry about it."

"Sometimes I don't like the things I have to do in this job."

"Yes, you do, Rosebud. You love it. If you didn't, you wouldn't be half as good at your job as you are."

"But we're supposed to be on the same side."

"Walt," Donny said, snapping the cabinet door closed. "If cannon fodder didn't exist, you'd have to invent it. Belasko's cannon fodder, plain and simple. He works out, fine. He doesn't, hey, next case... it's just that simple." He shrugged and closed the door softly behind him.

Wilson sat for a long time, staring at the door.

Finally he turned off the light and left the office.

All in a day's work, he told himself. And he believed it.

Bolan spotted the man immediately. He was taller than average, and his slicked hair shone dully under the overhead light. The last few passengers took their seats after fumbling with carryons and shifted in the uncomfortable closeness of the plane. A slender blonde closed the door, then stepped back to let a male night attendant seal the hatch tightly.

Bolan watched his quarry out of one eye. The one good thing to be said for a plane was that he didn't have to worry about being shaken off. The blonde went through the mandatory routine, pointing out the various doors, dangling an oxygen mask from one ruby-nailed hand and delivering her spiel with a kind of bored precision just a notch above that of a computer.

When she was finished, she disappeared almost instantly. It was like a magic show. All that was missing was the smoke. Bolan felt warm, and wished tine plane's air conditioning would kick in. He had to keep his jacket on to cover the Desert Eagle in its shoulder holster. His diplomatic credentials allowed him to bypass the X-ray rigmarole, but he was almost sorry. He felt small beads of sweat trickle down the back of his neck, then collect at his collar. The sudden surge of air from the overhead vents was even warmer, and he reached up to close his off for a few minutes to give the compressor time to cool the air down.

Bolan buckled his seatbelt as the sign came on and the warning bell chimed softly somewhere behind him.

The engines of the 747 began to whine, the low rumble turning to a snarl, the pitch rising steadily. The cabin floor began to tremble as the big jet backed away from the terminal. Bolan glanced out the window at the drooping wings. As often as he'd flown, it still amazed him that something so huge and so heavy could move at all, let alone take to the air. The plane was lumbering now, its landing gear thumping over the oozing asphalt expansion joints in the apron.

The engines strained even harder as the plane lurched into the runway approach, then began to barrel straight ahead. Bolan watched the play of the flaps, the polished steel rods gleaming against a background of grease and dull metal. Then they were up, and the ground started to shrivel away. The pilot banked sharply, and the runways shrank to a pattern of crossed concrete lines. Los Angeles itself sprawled in every direction, as if some giant press had flattened a normal city and allowed the ruins to ooze out in every direction.

The cars on the freeways seemed to dissolve in the misty smog, their exhaust systems cooperating with the climate and adding to the mysterious disappearance. With the plane over Beverly Hills and Bel Air, the odd-shaped swimming pools winked up at him, nearly the only things visible on the ground now, their pale blue faces arrayed like some turquoise cryptogram.

Bolan turned away from the view to watch the back of Charles Harding's head. The stylish razor cut looked as if it had just been finished, every strand of hair in place. Harding was almost a cypher to Bolan, but it was his job to follow Harding. For three days, ever since Wilson had put him on the spoor, Bolan had been doing just that.

Whatever it was Harding was supposed to be guilty of, he had acted like a man without a care in the world. As Bolan watched, the older man tilted back in his seat, obviously planning to spend at least part of the long flight napping. The sound system chimed again, and the seatbelt light went out. The No Smoking light followed suit, and a flurry of flint wheels and matches behind him warned Bolan the air would shortly turn blue.

What Bolan knew about Charles Harding he could stuff into a gnat's ear and have room left over.

Wilson hadn't known, or at least hadn't admitted knowing, very much more. The files were not much more informative. A retired Air Force colonel, Harding had been a staffer to one of the more hawkish members of the current Senate. That had been a short-lived relationship, and Harding had dropped out of sight for nearly two years, then popped up again as the executive vice-president of an arms brokerage house, one with a pipeline to the military and the Congress. After two years in that position, Harding had resigned to become executive director of the Federalist Institute, a right-wing think tank based in Los Angeles.

That relationship, too, went by the boards.

He was now listed as a consultant by the Institute. Other than that, there was nothing.

According to Wilson, Harding had lately been doing more than thinking, and more than a few people on Capitol Hill wanted to know what.

Bolan had resisted the assignment initially. It sounded too much like baby-sitting, and Bolan had neither the inclination nor the patience for that sort of work.

He didn't like it, wasn't particularly good at it and usually begged off. But Wilson had done everything short of kowtowing to change his mind. Since Brognola had put Wilson on to him, and since he owed Brognola one or two, he agreed.

So Bolan sat there, ten rows behind Charles Harding.

And wondered why.

They were still three hours away from Manila when Harding stirred in his seat, popped the springs and let the seat bounce upright. He got to his feet and adjusted his shirt and tie before stepping into the aisle and moving back in Bolan's direction. Everything about Harding, from the rigidity of his spine to the precision of his steps, echoed his years in the Air Force. The service had a way of shaping clay, then baking it so hard that nothing could change it. Even under extreme stress, it would shatter before it would give way.

Harding moved past him, his eyes on the rear rest room, and gave Bolan just the slightest of passing glances. If he had an inkling Bolan was on his tail, he gave no hint. Bolan fished a folded copy of the Los Angeles Times out of the seat pocket and opened it to the sports page. Without interest he scanned a story about Tommy Lasorda and the Dodgers, mired in a six-game losing streak, while keeping an ear out for the rest-room latch. When it clicked, Bolan involuntarily stiffened a little. On assignment, he never liked having someone behind him, but on a half-empty jetliner, there was very little he could do about it. Any little thing could give him away.

Harding made his way forward, stopping beside Bolan's seat for a second when the plane hit a spot of turbulence. When the Boeing settled down again, Harding knelt in the aisle to retie a shoelace. He glanced at Bolan for a moment as if trying to make eye contact or to find an opening for conversation, but the big guy kept his eyes glued to the paper.

Harding straightened, then moved on, tucking his shirttail snugly in place under a gleaming leather belt. Bolan watched him take his seat again, half expecting the man to turn and wave, but Harding simply sank into the seat and settled earphones in place to listen to the canned music piped through the plane from a multideck tape player somewhere behind the galley.

The attendants started working their way down the aisles, pushing stainless-steel carts and taking orders for drinks and cardboard food. Harding took a light meal, a Scotch on the rocks and a ginger ale. Bolan settled for some imitation pot roast and wilted vegetables with a carbonated drink.

By the time the attendants had finished cleaning up, the pilot came on the cabin PA system to announce the weather at Manila and to inform the passengers that they were about to begin their descent from thirty one thousand feet. Bolan stood with his back to Harding, took his carryon from the overhead rack and dropped it into the empty seat beside him. After moving to the rear of the cabin, Bolan took a paper cone full of water from the galley, then turned to watch the passengers as he sipped it.

The Fasten Seat Belts sign came on, and the stewardess warned Bolan to return to his seat.

Walking down the narrow aisle, he realised that Harding had changed places and was seated much nearer to the front of the plane. Bolan cursed under his breath. He didn't want to risk calling attention to himself by following suit, but Harding had ended up being so close to the front exit that he had a real jump.

Like Bolan himself, Harding had checked no luggage. If he got out of the plane and through the terminal quickly, Bolan might lose him altogether. And he didn't want to think about how difficult it would be to find a single gray-haired needle in the haystack of Manila. Bolan dropped into his seat and cradled his carryon in his lap.

The big Boeing's tires screeched as they made contact, and the plane seemed to collapse in on itself as it lurched along the runway. Bolan unbuckled his seat belt while the light was still on, but didn't stand. If one of the attendants called attention to him, Harding was almost certain to turn around.

The plane taxied toward the terminal, its engines surging as the pilot maneuvered into the accordion dock. Bolan was on his feet a split second before the warning light went out for the final time. Harding was already moving toward the door as the flight crew worked the complicated wheel-and-dog arrangement that kept it closed. Three or four people stepped into the aisle to reach up for their hand luggage, temporarily blocking Bolan's path.

He cursed inwardly as the door swung back and Harding disappeared.

Bolan wriggled through the human obstacle course as quickly as he could, provoking more than one irate shove, but he ignored the comments on his rudeness.

At the door he stepped into the collapsible rubber tube, his feet ringing hollowly on the metal floor. Harding was already out the other end. Bolan began to run. The tunnel rose and fell under his weight, and he could hear the creaking of its metal joints. It took a sharp left, and began a sharper descent. Bolan plunged into the last leg just as Harding pushed into the main terminal. For a moment he could see the tall man's grey hair bobbing above a sea of people waiting to greet the passengers.

Bolan ran still faster. One arm out like a charging fullback, he plowed through the milling crowd.

Harding had reached the outer fringe of the mob now, and his path was relatively unobstructed. Bolan juked to the left to avoid a woman pushing a stroller. For a second he lost sight of Harding again.

Suddenly the terminal exploded into chaos.

Bolan heard the chatter of automatic weapons.

The gunfire was drowned almost immediately in a sea of screams. All around him, people were falling to the floor, covering their heads with folded arms. Bolan turned to his right to see where the gunmen were. A huge plate-glass window collapsed in shards. The sharp crack of autofire somewhere behind him had blown out the window. Colored paper and a landslide of toys gushed out through the broken glass.

Bolan hit the deck, his Desert Eagle in hand. He spotted one man in combat fatigues, the mottled brown and olive so out of place in the bustling terminal. He drew a bead as the man struggled to ram a new clip into an AK.

Bolan fired once, catching him in the shoulder, and again as he pitched forward. A second Kalashnikov opened up from behind a marble pillar to the dead man's left.

The pounding of feet came from somewhere behind, and Bolan glanced back to see a handful of airport police charging toward him. The AK opened up again, and the policemen fell to the hard marble floor like bowling pins in the wake of a solid hit.

The cop to his left lay still, a trickle of blood oozing from his slack jaw. Bolan grabbed the M-16 half-hidden by the man's prostrate body and tugged it free. Scrambling to his feet, Bolan charged the pillar, daring the hidden gunman to step clear. He could see the gunman's crouching back reflected in another plate-glass pane beyond the pillar.

Angling to the left, he cut in a broad circle until enough of his target was showing. Dropping to one knee, Bolan brought the M-16 up just as the shooter spotted him. Bolan tugged the fire control onto full-auto and cut loose. Chunks of marble flew off the pillar, and the ricochets ripped out the glass behind it. The gunman pitched forward, and Bolan swung his muzzle downward, slashing at the extended form with a short burst. The body twitched for a moment, then lay still.

It was suddenly very quiet, except for a couple of shards of glass that tinkled to the floor one by one, but that was all. The screaming had stopped as if at a director's command. It seemed almost like it had been that quiet forever. Then the wounded began to moan, as if they now felt safe to do so. Panting, Bolan got to his feet, the M-16 dangling from one hand. He let it drop, and it hit the marble with a dull thud.

Several of the wounded policemen were sitting up.

Others, unharmed themselves, tended to their comrades. Sirens howled in the distance. Outside, a squeal of brakes announced the belated arrival of reinforcements. There was no chance of finding Harding now, Bolan thought. Slowly he walked back to his small suitcase, standing on end where he had dropped it. As he bent to pick it up, two policemen rushed toward him. They were shouting, but Bolan ignored them. Something else had captured his attention, something a lot more important.

Fifty feet away he saw Charles Harding, as neat as ever, vanish through a doorway. Bolan dropped his suitcase and started to run. He didn't feel the first hand to grab his arms.

Or the second.