civilian in sight, many times after ceasefires have supposedly taken place... as you yourself pointed out.'
'Squeeze every source you've got and pin down the government car that showed up at Biskinta last night,' said Bolan. 'Tap your pipelines into Syrian and KGB intel sources. Strakhov is working it right now, and it could move up standard channels before they realize how important it is.'
'And you? What of the Executioner?'
'I told you. I hit the Russians and the Syrians at Zahle. And I've got to find out what happened to Zoraya. She's done too much for me just to write her off now. Do the Russians and the Syrians have her? Or is she working for them?' Weizmann's frown deepened.
'You have reason to suspect that? It seems rather coldblooded considering what she has done.'
'Hot blood gets you killed at a time like this, Uri. You sound like you might be in love with Zoraya yourself.'
'That... that's ridiculous,' the Mossad man bristled without much conviction. 'I... I am concerned about her. Yes, of course I am... I don't know....' The indignation faltered. 'Perhaps...'
'Some other time,' growled the big guy. 'I know what you mean. Every man who's ever met that lady has probably fallen a little in love with her. Some women are like that and she's one.' He saw no reason to tell Uri of Strakhov. 'There are stakes in this that you don't know about and I don't have the time to tell you. There's only time now to do it. Will you help me take these warmongers apart or not?' Reason won the Israeli over.
'I will do what I can, certainly... Your points are well taken. I may be able to delay the air strike perhaps a short time, perhaps not, but I'm afraid that is all.'
'It will have to do,' the Executioner said. 'I need a way onto that Syrian base. The site will be vacuum tight after what happened this morning. Is there any possible way your Mossad connections could get me on base for what I have to do?' Weizmarm nodded thoughtfully.
'Yes, but it will be extremely dangerous.'
'What in Lebanon isn't?'
16
Bolan left Weizmann and returned to his Saab, which was parked nearby. He checked below the car and under the hood this time for explosives, but found nothing. Then he climbed in and gunned the Swedish relic to life.
He consulted his map for the most direct route to the Druse militia position in west Beirut.
Time had run out. The summit gathering of insurgents called by Strakhov would be getting under way at the base at Zahle within the hour.
Bolan had the in he needed, thanks to Uri Weizmann, who had broken all the rules of his organization and training to avenge a friend's death.
And maybe because he was in love with the friend's lady.
All that mattered now was that time had run out.
Bolan's knuckles shone white around the steering wheel. He bit off a curse at every delay he encountered through the bustling streets of this sector. His destination: the Druse militia position occupying what had been a small shopping mall, now concertina wired, the 'liberated' shops functioning as offices and to billet fighters between rounds in the ongoing fight for the city.
The 'Paris of the Mediterranean' throbbed and echoed under a white sun to the sounds of exploding rocket-propelled grenades. The sporadic popping of Soviet-made rifles intermittently chorused the throatier staccato of heavy machine-gun fire. Most thoroughfares were clogged with civilians being forced steadily from the densely populated neighborhoods near the front line.
At one point Bolan crossed an untraveled side street that bisected his route. He happened to glance down the alley and saw something he didn't like. He yanked the steering wheel, upshifting, and came down on the tableau of three Shiite punks towering over a woman in dark traditional Lebanese garb. Huddled next to her was a boy of about eleven and they were both cowering against a pile of rubble, each clinging to two bottles of water.
The woman was pleading for her life.
The camou-clad militiamen laughed and lifted their AK-47'S. The situation was ready to explode as sweaty nervous glances of anticipation darted from man to man before the barbarians opened fire. But when violence erupted in that street it came from the open driver's window of the passing Saab.
Bolan triggered the AK-47 he held across his chest, his right finger caressing the trigger while he drove with the left hand.
The blistering fusillade of automatic fire from the Saab pulped the three Shiite gunmen into flying shreds.
The woman and her son continued on with their precious bottled water.
Exiting from the alley, Bolan steered back onto a principal thoroughfare parallel to the first and approached the shopping center commandeered by the Druse militia.
Again, the contrast of everyday life so close to the killing touched Bolan with chilling awareness.
Almost every other Lebanese he saw along his route carried or stood near transistor radios, listening obsessively for new developments.
Beirut buzzed with desperation.
Static firing, grenade and rifle sniping continued all along the nearby Green Line that divided east and west Beirut.
According to the English-speaking announcer's voice from the Saab's dashboard radio, the conflict was escalating into severe clashes.
As Bolan listened, the broadcaster explained how Lebanese army armored vehicles were attempting to advance from the museum crossing point halfway down the Green Line but were being repelled in a fierce battle.
The prize was the crumbling gutted tower and rubble heap of destroyed St. Michael's Church, where heavy fighting had gone on since the week before for control of the church. The army said it had captured the church and lost it and now wanted to recapture it.
Big deal, Bolan thought.
It had to stop.
Piles of dirt had been placed around the entrance to the Muslim militia headquarters to prevent counterattack by the Lebanese. But the ten-foot-high pyramids of earth actually helped Bolan hide the Saab a block and a half from the base entrance. From his concealed position he could observe vehicles arriving and leaving without fear of detection from the Druse sentries inside the base. The dirt piles blocked their vision.
At one point a tank lumbered out from between the mounds of earth. The Soviet-manufactured machine rumbled past the Saab. Bolan leaned sideways below window level, hidden from the observation window of the war machine or the driver's or gunner's periscopes.
The tank clanked on past and turned a corner, then rumbled out of sight, the crawler track clattering on pavement toward the Green Line and the fighting.
Before the tank's noise had faded, another vehicle emerged from the Druse base and turned in Bolan's direction.
The Executioner got ready, finger on the trigger of the reloaded AK-47 in case this wasn't the connection Uri claimed he could use to set up Bolan's penetration of Strakhov's headquarters summit.
The meeting would be the biggest gathering of terrorist warlords that a peace-bringer named Bolan, a soldier who cared, could ever hope to target for extinction.
A jeep with Syrian markings approached Bolan's position. It was driven by a Druse militiaman accompanied by a shotgun-riding gunman, his assault rifle pointed skyward.
The vehicle, much like the one Bolan had escaped in from Zahle a few hours before, upshifted past the Saab and this time Bolan did not hunch down but sat there with his AK ready to fire. But that proved unnecessary because the vehicle chugged by with neither driver nor soldier sparing the Saab a sideways glance as they drove
