Full Blast. Don Pendleton

his pockets for a cigar. He didn’t find one.

      “I’m bringing you back, and Able from Hong Kong. We need to get together on this, David. Airlift as soon as I can arrange it.”

      “We’ll be ready. Right now I’m off for a meal and then I’m getting my head down. Talk to you later, mate.”

      Brognola cut the connection and glanced across at Price. “Travel arrangements for both teams.”

      She nodded and reached for a phone. The big Fed turned to face the rest of the team.

      “You all heard that. Let’s see what we can pick up. Use all your contacts. Anything and everything. Let’s see if we can pinpoint that camp in Chechnya.”

      “What about Gadgets and Jack?” Price asked, punching in phone numbers.

      “Leave them. The more I think about it, the more I get a funny feeling about Gardener, Justin and this CIA guy. Let’s see what their muddying the waters brings up.”

      Washington, D.C.

      “THAT WENT WELL,” Jack Grimaldi said.

      They were in the car that was parked on the street just beyond Senator Ralph Justin’s town house. Earlier in the day they had paid an unannounced visit to the senator’s office, doing a little probing and pushing with Justin’s staff. The senator had walked in during their visit and had reacted just as they’d expected. Showing up at his house later in the day was just putting additional pressure on the man.

      Hermann “Gadgets” Schwarz loosened the tie he had been forced to wear along with his suit as part of his role as a Justice Department agent.

      “I didn’t think that manservant was going to allow us inside. That guy was so stiff he was ready to fold in the middle.”

      Grimaldi started the car and eased away from the curb. “You think Justin was fooled?”

      “Hard to say, but I think we rattled him asking questions about his relationship with General Chase Gardener.”

      “Just enough of a suggestion that concerns had been raised in certain quarters. Nothing specific. Hints and rumors, but enough to get him interested.”

      “All we were doing was following up as protocol demanded,” Schwarz confirmed.

      “He didn’t take it too kindly when you told him we couldn’t divulge any information Justice had on file.”

      Schwarz took out his cell phone and contacted the Farm.

      “Our friendly senator got a little frosty. I got the feeling he didn’t like being spoken to by a pair of lowly Justice agents,” he told Brognola. “My guess is he’ll be talking to Gardener as soon as he can get in touch. Which is just what we wanted.”

      “What next?”

      “We figure a little desert air is in order. A trip out to Arizona and Leverton.”

      “The town near Gardener’s base?” the big Fed suggested.

      “Fort Leverton, home to Gardener’s command. We’ll do a little prowling around. See if there’s anything to stir up.”

      “Stay sharp,” Brognola warned. “If there is something going on, Gardener won’t be such a soft mark if he gets wind you’re checking him out.”

      “What’s he going to do? Court-martial us?”

      “Arizona. Big, lonely place. Lots of sand and desert. Easy to get lost out there. Accident or design.”

      “Come on, Hal, stop dressing it up. Tell us what you really mean.”

      “Call in when you get there,” Brognola directed.

      “Will do.”

      Grimaldi glanced at Schwarz as he put his phone away, noticing the faint smile edging his partner’s lips.

      “Something funny?”

      “Only Hal telling us to be careful.”

      “He say that?”

      “Not in so many words. That’s the funny part.”

      Neither man spotted the plain, light-colored car that fell in line with the traffic and trailed them out of Washington. It followed them all the way to the commercial airstrip where a twin-engined Beechcraft sat waiting for them. The pilot was ready to go. He had his flight plan already filed, and the minute his passengers were settled, he spoke to the control tower and taxied out to the runway.

      Razan Khariza’s Camp, Chechnya

      RAZAN KHARIZA had completed his prayers and as he returned from the small, bare room he used for his devotions, he picked up excited sounds from outside the stone house. The door opened and Wafiq stood there.

      They have a prisoner,” Abdul said. “Dushinov has a prisoner.”

      Khariza followed Wafiq outside, pulling on his thick leather coat against the damp chill. He saw Zoltan Dushinov drag a bound figure from the rear of a battered pickup and throw it to the stony ground. When Dushinov looked up and saw Khariza, he raised a hand to beckon the Iraqi to join him, a satisfied smile on his bearded face.

      “Didn’t I tell you they were looking for you?” Dushinov said. “Now you see I was right.”

      “I believed you before, Zoltan. Why would I not?”

      Dushinov dismissed the words with a shrug.

      “This one was found trying to locate the camp. He had a guide. Some local from one of the villages. My men dealt with him. When the villagers find him and see what my men did, they will think twice before selling us out next time.”

      Khariza reached the pickup and stood over the bloody, huddled figure on the ground. His clothing was torn and filthy. His feet were bare where someone had taken his boots and socks. His arms had been pulled behind him and tied high up his back with a length of rope taken around his neck.

      “Who is he?”

      Dushinov reached down and caught hold of the man’s hair, using it to pull him to his knees. The man’s face turned up, eyes meeting Khariza’s. He had already undergone a severe beating. His skin was heavily bruised and bloody. There was a deep gash across one cheek, bone gleaming white through the blood.

      “He is an American,” Dushinov said loudly so that everyone could hear. “One of our enemies to be feared. Look at him, my brothers. Look at him and tremble. This is the great enemy who is going to conquer us all. Are you afraid?”

      There was a raised yell of defiance from the gathered men. They moved to stare at the man on the ground, gesturing with their weapons and voicing their contempt.

      “Here is your American, Razan. I give him to you as a gift. If you ask he may tell you why he is looking for you.”

      “Take him inside,” Khariza ordered.

      The American was dragged to his feet and taken to one of the buildings. Khariza followed slowly, his mind busy with questions he wanted to ask the prisoner. He wished he had Barak with him. The man had the skill to pull information from anyone. He was patient, thorough and dedicated to his work. And he was extremely loyal to Khariza. But now he was on Zehlivic’s motor vessel, Petra, somewhere off the North African coast where he was dealing with a matter allied to a Mossad agent named Sharon. The Israeli had been part of the group that had intercepted the team inserted into Israel as part of the strike against the nuclear plant at Dimona. The advance team had been killed, the plane on its way to carry out the attack intercepted and brought down.

      The mission to destroy Dimona had been important—planned to demoralize the Israelis—and its loss was a definite blow. Khariza had taken the news badly at first but had pushed aside his disappointment, especially in front of his people. He had to remain strong and to show that defeats had to be borne with strength. Later, alone, he had reviewed the way his plans were going. The strike at Bucklow had achieved its