Threat Factor. Don Pendleton

He was running with the white man.”

      “So? Who drove the car?”

      “Our witness says it was a white woman.” Guleed cursed.

      “It’s true, Musse. At least, he says it’s true. We’re trying to confirm it, but of course he didn’t see the license plate. The car was gray, he says.”

      “Oh, gray,” Guleed said with a sneer. “That solves everything.”

      “We’re looking for more witnesses.”

      “Waabberi went to meet a white man at the market, yes?”

      “So we were told, Musse.”

      “And now, we have a white woman already here in Mogadishu, waiting with a car to spirit them away, one jump ahead of Simeon?” Hassan shrugged.

      “If this is true,” Guleed pressed on, “what does it mean?”

      “Someone from the United Nations possibly.”

      “Someone from the UN who fights back and wins?” Guleed challenged.

      “Or, maybe not.”

      “Most definitely not. Waabberi’s new friend is supposed to be American?”

      “So we were told,” Hassan confirmed.

      “No mention of an agency or military branch?”

      “Nothing.”

      Their source had been a Mogadishu switchboard operator, paid to eavesdrop on specific lines and keep Hassan abreast of what selected individuals were saying, doing, thinking. She had listened to a certain businessman, believed to be a contract agent of the CIA, and heard him tell Waabberi when and where to meet a visitor from the United States. Waabberi had also been asking questions lately, about business that involved Musse Guleed. The combination was enough to make him a target, together with his unnamed Western guest.

      But both of them were still alive, while eight of Guleed’s men were not. And it seemed there was suddenly a third target whom he could not identify.

      At least, not yet.

      “I want Waabberi’s handler,” Guleed said.

      “He’s not at home,” Hassan replied. “His shop was closed all day.”

      “Find him!” Guleed bellowed, slamming the desktop with a meaty fist.

      “We’re trying, Musse. Honestly.”

      “Don’t try. Do it. And get a name for this bitch who plucked Waabberi and his friend out of the market. Do it now!”

      Hassan rushed off to do as he was told.

      If Hassan failed, Guleed would find another aide who would succeed.

      No one was irreplaceable.

      “MY PROBLEM,” MIRONOV SAID, “is finding out whether Musse Guleed or Jiddu Basra hijacked the Vasylna’s cargo. Either one is capable and has connections suitable for selling off the merchandise.”

      “You’re angling to find a hole in their security?” Bolan asked.

      “Without success, so far,” she granted.

      “In the spirit of cooperation,” he replied, “we might consider an alternative approach.”

      “And that would be…?”

      “Some razzle-dazzle,” Bolan said. “Get out and shake things up a little,” Bolan said. “Let our targets do some of the heavy lifting.”

      “Until this moment,” Mironov responded, “I believed my English to be fairly good.”

      The tall man offered her a smile of sorts. “What I’m saying is that I’ve had luck in the past, with situations similar, playing both ends against the middle. Start some brush fires here and there, encourage one side to believe the other’s doing it. Shake the tree and see what falls out. Get it?”

      “Divide and conquer, as they say?”

      “Same thing,” he told her, nodding.

      “And you think—or hope—that one group or the other may lead us to where the tanks and other items have been stashed?”