Threat Factor. Don Pendleton

profile when the Parabellum manglers hit him, tore him up beyond repair and put him down for good.

      Mironov joined the Executioner beside the corpses, ready with her pistol if one of them tried to pull a Lazarus routine. When she was satified that they were dead, she said, “You run well, for a man…and an American.”

      “I do my best,” he said, then nodded toward her car. “Will that still run?”

      She smiled again. “Let’s try it and find out.”

      4

      Natalia Mironov made a call on her cell phone as they were leaving the plaza, speaking rapidly in Russian with a sharp bite to her tone. Five minutes later, when the trio reached a side street off Corso della Repubblica, a grim-faced thirty-something man was waiting with another plain sedan. They switched cars without speaking to the man, leaving him to dump their shot-up ride.

      “The backup must be handy,” Bolan said, when they were on the move again.

      “I use him sparingly,” Mironov answered, making eye contact with Bolan in the rearview mirror. “He won’t know where we’re going now.”

      Bolan would have to take her word on that, unless he decided to bolt and drag Waabberi with him. Instead, he told her, “I have wheels back at the market.”

      “Did you leave something you can’t afford to lose?” Mironov asked.

      “Nothing.”

      “It’s best to write the car off, then, I think. Not wise to go back when the wasps are swarming and you may be stung, yes?”

      Bolan nodded. He could always get another car.

      “I take it that we have a destination, then?” he asked.

      “A safe place,” she responded. “For a talk.”

      He could have asked for her definition of safe, but Bolan let it go and watched for landmarks as she drove through winding, mostly darkened streets. Their destination was a small apartment block located two blocks west of Via Casa Popolare, in what passed for one of Mogadishu’s quasi-upscale neighborhoods. He noted the other cars parked on the street, most of them aging and in need of bodywork or fresh paint jobs, and building windows shuttered against roaming peril in the night.

      Inside Mironov’s flat, Bolan took a quick look around, opening each door and peering into darkened rooms while the Russian tracked him with eyes that mirrored vague amusement.

      “You don’t trust me yet,” she said, not making it a question.

      “It’s a little soon for me,” he said.

      “I understand, of course. Perhaps I saved your life to bring you here and kill you.”

      “Stranger things have happened,” Bolan told her.

      “Perhaps. But that is not the case here. The two of you have me outnumbered.”

      Right, he thought. Unless the two of you set all this up.

      Bolan kept that thought to himself. “Let me guess,” he said. “You’re here for the Vasylna.”

      “For her cargo,” she corrected him. “Ukrainians can take care of themselves.”

      “That sounds more like the KGB,” Bolan replied.

      “Americans are fond of clinging to the past,” she said.

      “What’s changed, except the name?” he challenged.

      Her shrug seemed unaffected, drew attention to the way she filled her clinging blouse. “For one thing, we’re not communists. Well, most of us, at least. And we do not give arms to terrorists.”

      “Are you upset because they’re headed for the wrong hands, or because you got ripped off?” he asked.

      “I think it must be a bit of both,” she said.

      “Our interests may conflict on this,” Bolan said.

      “You object to lawful sales between my country and the government of Kenya?” she inquired. “Your embassy is in Nairobi. Surely Washington does not object to reinforcing the stability of that regime…and earning money in the process? We are capitalists, after all. You win.”

      “Nobody wins, with all that hardware on the open market in Somalia,” Bolan said.

      “And once again, we’re in agreement,” Mironov said. “Let’s speak frankly. I was sent to find the missing cargo and recover it, if possible. Failing in that, my orders are to render it inoperable and deprive the thieves of any value. Are your orders similar?”

      “Minus recovering the shipment,” Bolan granted.

      “So, no major conflict, then.”

      “And do you know who has the merchandise?” he asked.

      “We have suspects. Two groups in competition, I am told. The thieves are unidentified as of yet.”

      “We’re in the same boat, then,” Bolan said.

      “Should we sail together for a time, or would you rather work alone?” Mironov asked.

      “I’m not alone,” Bolan replied, tipping a quick nod to Waabberi.

      “Nor am I,” she said, “as you have seen.”

      Bolan considered it and made his choice.

      “Cooperation works for me,” he said, “if we’re agreed to trash the cargo when we find it.”

      “If we find it,” she replied, “I may be open to persuasion.”

      “Fair enough,” Bolan said, as he took her outstretched hand.

      MUSSE GULEED WAS NOT accustomed to defeat. He’d risen from the gutter, literally, to command a private army known in Mogadishu and the surrounding Banaadir Region as a ferocious fighting unit. Foreign peacekeepers shied away from contact with his troops. Merchants and politicians paid him tribute on demand.

      It came as something of a shock, therefore, to learn that eight of his men had been killed in Hamarwein, apparently without inflicting any damage on their enemies.

      Guleed’s voice was an earthy rumble in the cluttered office as he asked, “I sent them to Bakaara Market, did I not?”

      Seated across the desktop scarred by cigarettes and water rings, Jama Hassan nodded. “You did,” he said.

      “Why are they dead in old town, then?”

      Hassan shrugged. “I suppose they followed this Waabberi and his white man.”

      “Did I tell Simeon to follow anyone?” Guleed demanded.

      “No, Musse.”

      “He was supposed to kill them in the market, was he not?”

      “Something went wrong.”

      “I know something went wrong! I’ve lost eight men for nothing! Where’s the man they were sent to liquidate?”

      “I don’t know, Musse.”

      “It’s your job to know, Jama.”

      Hassan slumped lower in his chair, adopting a contrite posture. “You know that Simeon was no good at communication from the field. We found his radio still in the car, turned off.”

      Guleed breathed deeply, focused on diminishing his rage before it sparked another blinding migraine and he had to chew more khat for pain relief. When he was calmer and the pulsing at his temples eased, he spoke again.

      “You’re right about Boorama. And the others, pig shit on my boots. They’re easily replaced. My point is that they didn’t do their job, and that is what bothers me.”

      “You’re right, Musse.”

      “And