'Where are they?' he said. 'Who do we take them from?'
'Well, now,' Bolan said with a grin.
'That's the part you aren't going to like.'
No, they were not going to like it one bit.
But the Executioner was counting on their need. If he counted wrong, then there was no hope for the hostages.
'You must be insane!' Bolan smiled. 'That depends on how badly you want those weapons.'
'You're suggesting we steal them from our own people.'
'Black Sunday is not your own people. Even Arafat has disassociated himself from them. In fact, word is that the faction of Black Sunday headed by Abu Sata is out to overthrow Arafat.'
Bolan sat confidently on the edge of the wooden table, hunched slightly, taking another swig from the canteen. 'I have some poker buddies at military intelligence who told me that a whole new shipment of these weapons was delivered last month to the Black Sunday faction in Mannheim.'
'And what does your military intelligence plan to do about it?'
'What they always do,' Bolan shrugged. 'Nothing. Strictly wait-and-see. But you and your outfit here, you're different...'
'But they are our own people,' Thomas persisted.
'Politically', philosophically we are aligned, despite petty internal squabbles.' Bolan smiled. 'Like I said, it all depends on how badly you need the guns. You come crying to me for guns and I come up with a reasonable solution. Now either go for it or cut bait and kiss this big-dea-I mission of yours goodbye.'
Thomas Morganslicht paced beside his cot, nibbling on his thumbnail. When he spoke his voice was soft and distant, as if he were speaking only to himself. 'Visibility, that's the key. Achieved only through reputation and recognition. Why is that so important?' He looked up suddenly, stared at Bolan and smiled. 'Tell me, Sergeant Grendal, why is recognition so important for us? Is it to convey our ideals? Huh? Let me tell you about reputation, Sergeant, and its purposes.' Thomas started pacing again, chewing harder on his fingernails. 'Let me fill you in on the practicalities of running an underground liberation effort. We need money for food, lodging, clothing. Believe it or not, we purchase socks and underwear from time to time. Also medical services. As well as weapons.'
'Thomas,' Tanya interrupted, displeased that her brother should speak so openly with an outsider.
He waved a dismissing hand. 'How do we get that money, Sergeant? Usually we steal it, robbing banks or homes or kidnapping for ransom. Sometimes those petty crimes are even riskier than our political, uh, adventures. And yet we look around at our revolutionary brothers in the Red Brigades, Japanese Red Army, IRA, PLO'
'Black Sunday,' Bolan added.
'Yes,' he nodded, 'especially Black Sunday. We see how they get the best equipment, plenty of operating money, all supplied by our Soviet comrades and Arab brothers, funneled and laundered through various front organizations.' As his voice rose higher, the muscles in his neck began to bulge. 'And we, the Zwilling Horde, though we fight for the same end, have to continue to rob banks just to eat'
'Then I don't see where you have any choice,' insisted Mack Bolan. 'Either you raid the Black Sunday gang in Mannheim and steal their weapons, or you postpone your coming action.'
'It cannot be postponed,' spat Thomas, at the peak of his intensity. 'This is our only chance at it. After two days it will be too late. Rudi,' he said. 'Take the sergeant and throw him in with the others.'
'My proposition?' Bolan asked. 'And my percentage?'
'We will consider it,' Tanya said. 'We'll let you know.'
'...Just remember who is familiar with these weapons,' Bolan hammered on. 'Your men will need crash training before they can use any of the dandies I've been talking about,' Rudi's massive hand wrapped around Bolan's arm and jerked him toward the door. Bolan offered no resistance, allowing himself to be ushered out of the cabin while the twins of terror deliberated on his plan.
It was crazy again, sure engineering a raid by one group of terrorists against another. But right now it was the best hope he had. Were the Morganslichts ambitious enough to do it? And would they be able to rationalize it with some slick political double-talk? If the answer was yes, then they would need Bolan and he would have a chance of completing his mission.
If the answer was no, all bets were off.
12
'Did Grimaldi give any indication as to where the car's owner might be located?' asked a weary Brognola.
'None,' said April Rose. 'He and some of General Wilson's men tracked the transmitter to a blue Saab abandoned in downtown Munich. There's already a police report showing the car was stolen in Frankfurt. So that lead is dead.'
Hal moved over to the computer terminal and stared at the blank screen. 'Can't this damn thing tell us anything?'
'Not yet.' April followed him to the screen. 'Jack thinks that Mack is still near the Alps someplace, probably in the foothills. That's where Jack first encountered the jamming device. It wasn't until the car drove out of the jammer's range that he picked up its signal again.'
'So we've lost him. Completely. Striker is totally on his own.'
She gave a sharp look. 'He's been there before.'
'What about Grimaldi? Should he go back to take another look-see? Mosey around?'
'Negative, according to Jack. He doesn't want to blow Mack's cover. He is just going to sit tight in Munich and do what we're going to do. Wait. And hope.'
It was a new role for Mack, no doubt at all. A new game, a new gun or two, a new kind of death-death on foreign soil with no backup of any kind. New, every which way you looked at it. He'd been there before, but not like this.
The uncertainty actually stimulated Stony Man's head fed. Striker could cope with anything that Europe could throw at him. Hal knew that for a fact.
The German terrorist philosophy was a situational one. Tactics and targets changed according to the fall of the chips. Modern Europe went for that kind of moral relativity, had done since the sixties. And Bolan was a master of the situational response. He had damned near invented it. The new Colonel John Phoenix, disguised as a morally awash U.S. Army colonel stationed in Germany, was the ultimate quick-change artist of all time. Hal had no doubts whatsoever.
Inside it all, Bolan would always be Bolan.
13
When Rudi swung open the garage's side door, a long spear of sunlight sliced through the dark room that caused its occupants to wince from sudden brightness.
He shoved Mack Bolan through the doorway.
A naked light bulb dangled in the middle of the dark room, casting a dim shadowy light, maybe 40 watts at most. But the small group of prisoners huddled around that pale light as if it were a blazing fire.
'Be good,' Rudi said in a thick German accent, punctuating the threat by whomping his log into the wall of the garage. The room echoed with a loud thump. He laughed again and left the room. Bolan could hear the heavy iron bolt sliding into place on the other side of the door. Within a few seconds Bolan had identified all four of his fellow occupants.
'Are you all right?' asked Babette Pavlovski, the Czech gymnast. She took a few hesitant steps closer, but stopped at the edge of the bulb's curtain of light like someone at the edge of a dark and forbidden forest.
'Yeah. Thanks. How about you folks?' Bolan studied her. She was tall for a gymnast, nearly six feet, but all
