'I've assembled an electronic briefing for you. All you've got to do is hook up your terminal and I'll feed it through.' Good, as always Kurtzman was on top of the job.
Bolan reactivated his machine, tapped in the appropriate instructions and waited for the two computers to start talking to each other. It did not take long.
The Stony Man genius had drawn on a variety of data banks, videotapes and intelligence digests to compile a concise overview of the current situation.
Khurabi is one of that patchwork of sheikhdoms and emirates that dots the shores of the Persian Gulf. Centuries ago it had thrived as a port for the spice trade and the slavers; in the modern age its fortunes were due entirely to oil. Colored graphs showed Bolan how oil revenues had spiraled to astronomical figures following the OPEC price hikes. The Zayoud family had inherited power in 1946, the country now being ruled by Sheikh Harun Zayoud. There was a recent photograph of the chieftain stripping the packing from a box of the latest video movies.
'Harun talks tough at times but he looks more favorably on the West than the Soviet Union,' said Kurtzman, supplementing the visuals. He was watching the information displayed on his own terminal. 'The sheikh likes new toys — an endless supply of them, in fact. And he sure can't get them from the Russians. As you can see... cars from Germany, video equipment from Japan, games and movies from America.'
'Go on.'
'Okay, now watch the guy seated on his left,' instructed Kurtzman as the camera zoomed in on a youthful- looking Arab. 'That's Hassan, Zayoud's younger brother, and he's the real power behind the Khurabi throne. Right now he's the Minister of Foreign Affairs, but while his brother plays with all the latest novelties, Hassan is quietly consolidating his own position. He's known to be a hard-liner. He's been chummy with Khaddafi and the Ayatollah.'
Bolan watched as an abbreviated dossier rolled up across the screen. 'So they think he was the man behind the hijacking of that Kuwaiti airliner? He sounds ambitious.'
'If fissionable material was delivered to Khurabi, you can be sure that Hassan Zayoud was the customer.'
'And his friends in Iran and Libya would like to get hold of the bomb,' growled Bolan. 'Or he could sell it to the highest bidder.'
'No, he doesn't need the money. Zayoud can obviously finance a terrorist army out of his own pocket. He'll use it for ideological gain. Most likely he'll...'
'Hey, stop there, freeze the image!'
'That's the most recent picture we have of Hassan. The guy standing behind him is Craig...'
'Harrison. Yeah, I know him, or know of him rather. Had a good record in Nam, then he went bad; in fact, tie's one of the baddest mercs around. Harrison will sell his services to anyone if the price is right.'
'Word has it that Hassan Zayoud has been recruiting,' admitted Kurtzman, 'but we don't know what for.'
Bolan made another note to get in touch with Jeff Clayton in Toronto; he might have heard some scuttlebutt on mercenary recruitment.
Bolan did not like the way this was coming together. Not one bit. 'Can you find out who the best expert on Khurabi is in the States? I want to talk with them.'
'I'm working on it already. One of these machines is scanning recent publications, another is checking through university faculties. I should have a shortlist for you by tomorrow. What are you going to do?'
'Make some calls.' Bolan checked the time. 'And I can still make the evening flight to Florida.'
'The Bakers?' Kurtzman was silent for a moment, then he said, 'There's been all kinds of potential suspects mentioned — Cubans, KGB, the Mafia, maybe Muslim fanatics; everyone, that is, except the most obvious, Mr. and Mrs. Baker.'
'Hey, guy, wait a sec. You think they might have snatched their own son to save him from going to trial?'
'Isn't that what you have in mind?'
'No. I don't think the Bakers would have had the police escort shot in order to protect Kevin.'
'Of course, you're right.'
'But I've an idea that whoever did it isn't too far away from the Bakers... I have to go down there to find out.'
'Good luck, Mack. I'll track down an expert on Khurabi for you.' Bolan signed off.
He poured out a fresh cup of black coffee and set a notepad by the phone. Then he searched for the Toronto area code.
Jeff Clayton was a friend of Phoenix Force's Gary Manning. Jeff was a tough guy with a good heart and, if he had not been retired, the kind of soldier Bolan would have recruited for his Stony Man team. It was a tip-off from Clayton that had sent Bolan and Phoenix Force deep into the Congo for an appointment on Blood River.
Clayton was playing host at his adventurers' bar, The Command Post, in downtown Toronto. He picked up the phone on the third ring. The two men exchanged greetings but wasted little time on small talk. Bolan asked Clayton point-blank if he knew anything at all regarding Craig Harrison's appearance in Khurabi.
'Yeah, I did hear he was taking a break in the sun. Look, er, let me take this in the office. Hang on.'
There was a short break before Clayton picked up the other phone. His tone was now less guarded. 'Dan Ruark recruited him right here in the CP. Ruark was on his way through Toronto with a shopping list; he signed up Harrison and Bull Keegan.'
Ruark, Keegan, Harrison... Bolan knew what kind of scum they were: hardened mercs who fought strictly for profit. Even in the dubious trade of the professional warrior, these killers were considered outcasts.
'What was on Ruark's shopping list?'
'Oh, small arms mostly, ammunition, grenades... not enough to start a war.'
'Then what are they up to?'
'From what I could gather it sounded like a training program, maybe they're whipping a personal bodyguard into shape, something like that. Ruark was pretty closemouthed about it, but I overheard odd snatches of his pitch to Keegan and Harrison. He talked about pulling guard duty... sounded like they were going to be miles from anywhere. It was easy money, I remember him telling them that; oh yeah, and there would be no booze. That's all I've got for you.'
'It's enough. Thanks, Jeff. But if you do pick up on anything else, let me know.'
'Sure, will do.'
Bolan checked his watch. He still had plenty of time to catch a flight to Florida.
3
The young woman in the car-rental booth at Tampa airport watched the tall man in a dark suit and tropical-weight raincoat approach. Linda could usually place her customers right away, but she couldn't peg this guy with the blue eyes that seemed to bore right through her. She felt a pleasurable thrill at being so exposed and, liking what she saw, Linda gave him her brightest smile as she handed over the keys. He had booked a V8 with air- conditioning; it was quiet, conservative and powerful like the client himself.
It took only a few minutes before Bolan was speeding west across the causeway.
Florida seemed dusty, crowded and run-down, as if it couldn't quite keep pace with the retirement and tourist boom it had so long encouraged. It certainly was not the same place he had first rampaged through so many lifetimes ago, hot on the trail of Portocci, Lavangetta and the dreaded Talifero brothers.
But then, Bolan wasn't the same man, either.
Hell, in those days he sometimes had to hit bagmen and runners for needed funds, or steal a mobster's car to give himself wheels; and often he rearmed himself by lifting weapons from the lifeless fingers of those soldiers foolish enough to shoot it out with the Executioner. On more than a few occasions he'd skimped on supplies to make sure he had the ammo he needed to feed Big Thunder.
Not anymore. Mack Bolan did not have to worry where the next meal was coming from, nor any other
