Final Coup. Don Pendleton

distrust you if our roles were reversed. But I promise you I am an exception. So. What can I do to gain your confidence?”

      “You can start by telling us why you didn’t volunteer your help earlier at the meeting.”

      “Because there were men present who I do not trust,” Antangana said simply. “And I did not want them to know any more about your plans than necessary.”

      The man’s sickly appearance seemed to loom even larger as he tried to take a deep breath. There was something about him—something Bolan couldn’t put his finger on—that made the Executioner believe he was sincere in his desire to assist them. “Who don’t you trust?” he asked.

      “There are several I suspect of sympathizing with the KDNP. Others with the CPU. And one or two, I am relatively certain, are still loyal to President Menye.”

      Bolan thought about the man’s words for a moment. His gut still told him that this man was telling the truth. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to grow up in a country such as Cameroon without taking on prejudices of one sort or another. While the remaining leaders of the nation might not be actual members of the KDNP or CPU, they would likely lean one way or the other.

      “Assuming I believe you,” Bolan finally said. “What would make you want to help us at this time? Particularly since you were one of Menye’s top men before he vacated his little throne.” The Executioner rarely used sarcasm, but when he did, it cut all the way to the bone.

      Antangana shrugged. “The answer to your question is really not very complicated,” he said. “When he first took office, Menye was not the self-inflated potentate that he gradually became. I was proud to work for him then. But, little by little, he began to change. A small lie here. An execution carried out for personal reasons there. Before long, he had created a regime far more remorselessly cruel than Cameroon had ever known in the past.” Antangana paused and drew in another deep breath. “And so I was stuck.”

      “You tried to resign?” Bolan asked.

      “I did,” Antangana said. “I do not remember Menye’s exact words, but they included that my head might look attractive on top of a spear stuck into the ground.” He paused and traded legs beneath him. “That dampened my enthusiasm for resigning rather quickly.”

      Lareby had pulled one of the chairs away from the dining-room table, flipped it backward, then sat with his arms crossed over the back, his chin resting on them. “I can see how it might,” the CIA man said. “But why didn’t you just leave the country and seek asylum in America or somewhere else?”

      “Because by the time I realized how power-crazed he had become,” Antangana said, staring hard at the man, “too much had already occurred. I was afraid any country in which I sought refuge would consider me as guilty as Menye himself. Besides, the man had already murdered two of his staff who he only suspected of plotting against him. I had no desire to be the third.”

      Lareby and Bolan exchanged glances and nods. The story sounded believable. The soldier turned back to Antangana. “All right,” he said, standing up. “I’m going to give you a shot. And you can take that statement both literally and figuratively. If you’re on the level and really want to help us, great. But if it turns out that you have your own personal agenda that conflicts with ours, all I can promise you is a faster and more humane death than your old boss would have given you.” He reholstered the Beretta and pulled the Okapi out of his pocket, flipping it across the room to Antangana. “Try to use that piece of steel on me or anyone else, and I’ll kill you with it,” he said. “Understood?”

      “Quite well,” the prime minister said. “And please believe me when I tell you I have no hidden agenda of any sort. My only goals are to save my country and pray that my chemotherapy is successful. If I cannot be successful with the second goal, I hope to see my country become a peaceful democracy before I die. And, oh, yes…I want to see Menye caught or killed, of course.”

      Bolan and Lareby remained silent.

      “May I assume, then,” Antangana said after another breath, “that we are all in agreement?” He rocked forward and came back to his feet, pulling the leg on which he sat out from the couch and returning it to the floor.

      Bolan nodded. “We’ll try to take Menye alive so his war crimes can be exposed to the rest of the world. But I can’t promise you that’ll be possible,” he said.

      “It is possible that if he is tried in the International Criminal Court that he might go free,” Antangana said, and for the first time since he’d entered the room his smile became a frown. “One never knows what can happen during a trial. Evidence can become tainted and thrown out. The truth can be twisted.” A few beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead. “Menye is the most guilty man I have ever known,” he said as he wiped his face with the sleeve of the dashiki. “He has sacked this nation worse than Genghis Khan or Attila the Hun ever dreamed about, using embezzlement, nationalization of the oil, timber and coffee industries, and outright murder to funnel millions of dollars into his bank accounts in Switzerland and the Cayman Islands.” He fell silent for a moment and closed his eyes. “But still, it is quite possible that he could walk free.”

      “Maybe,” Bolan said. “But it didn’t work that way for Saddam Hussein.” He turned and jerked his bullet-ridden sports coat from the back of the chair. One shoulder was still ripped out but until more equipment, clothing and supplies arrived from America, it would have to do as a cover for his Beretta and Desert Eagle.

      “But if the worst should happen and he is found not guilty…” Antangana stared at the big man across the room, letting the sentence trail off unfinished. But the quiver in his voice betrayed his terror at the possibility that Menye might once again take the reins of power in Cameroon.

      “Then I’ll personally carry out the execution,” Bolan said, as he stuck his arms into his jacket.

      Since he was going by the name Matt Cooper, neither of the other two men in the room caught the double meaning in the Executioner’s last statement. “Is there anything else you’ve got to tell us?” Bolan asked.

      “I know where Menye is hiding,” he said simply.

      Bolan stopped with one arm in the jacket, the other still out. He had begun to expect some good intel from this new informant, but not a bombshell like this. The soldier had to remind himself that Antangana’s story still needed to be confirmed. If the man was playing double agent, it could all be a trap.

      Lareby was less diplomatic about his suspicions. “How do you know where he is if you’re not still in league with him?” the CIA man asked gruffly.

      “In Cameroon there are very few secrets,” Antangana said. “Although Menye’s location is one of them.”

      “Get to the point,” Bolan said as he finished shrugging into his jacket and sat back against the chair.

      “I have an informant of my own who saw suspicious men entering through the alley door of an old abandoned warehouse,” the prime minister said. “He recognized one of Menye’s personal bodyguards who had disappeared when Menye took off.” He frowned a moment. “I believe you Americans call it ‘going away with sheep?’”

      Lareby suppressed a laugh. “Close. It’s called ‘going on the lamb.’”

      Bolan looked across the room, through the window, and saw that dusk was falling over Yaounde. “Yeah,” he said. “It means he’s running.”

      “Where does it come from?” Antangana asked, frowning. “I know of no lambs that—”

      The Executioner was growing impatient with this man who was obviously easily sidetracked. “I don’t know where it comes from and it doesn’t matter. You have an address for this warehouse location?”

      “I do,” Antangana said. “But it is in the most dangerous slum in Yaounde. Murders occur every night.”

      “That doesn’t matter.” Bolan rose from his chair. He had relied