"Very well." She seemed a little annoyed to be handed off to Zakir.

  "I should be back in town by about six," said Bolan. He opened his briefcase and extracted the wrapped package of videotape.

  "If you should be granted an audience with Sheikh Zayoud, you can give him this, or perhaps Mr. Zakir will be kind enough to pass on our small gift with the appropriate greetings."

  The Khurabi minister gave a regal tip of his head. It sounded most irregular and typically casual of the Americans, but he indicated it would be his pleasure. It was also his pleasure to have Danica Jones to himself for the afternoon. This tall professor at least had the tact to know when he was not wanted.

  The chauffeur held open the door of the Lincoln for Danny. She glanced back at Bolan, but he was already behind the wheel of Chandler's special Jeep.

  A few moments later he followed Abdel's truck and the fuel tanker toward the gate.

  Zakir's limousine sped through the security gate and turned toward the glass-and-concrete towers of the capital city. Bolan watched the blue import dwindling in the rearview mirror, as he drove in the opposite direction along the airport approach road.

  The cargo carrier thundered overhead. The gutsy pilot knew he was breaking all international regulations to fly it out solo; but then Jack Grimaldi always reckoned they must have written the rule book for somebody else. And he had the proven skills to back his self-confidence.

  Bolan wasn't sure if Grimaldi was making a midclimb correction or if he actually waggled the wings of that big bird.

  The Sand Hog handled just as smoothly and powerfully as Chandler claimed it would on far rougher terrain.

  Bolan drove past a row of gaudily painted juice stands, a half-constructed desalination plant, two cement works and a sprawl of shanties built from packing crates, wrecked auto bodies and chipped cinder blocks — the discards and debris of the rapidly expanding city in the hazy distance behind him.

  The asphalt curved left, dropping down to run close along the water's edge. Weathered wooden dhows bobbed on weed-choked lines. Fishermen were handcasting their broad nets in glittering arcs of salt spray. Ahead, Abdel hooted to drive a wandering goat off the road. Bolan was keeping watch for any sign they were being followed by the man with the field glasses. Splitting up with Danny served several purposes, not least of which was that it forced the watcher's hand into deciding which one of them he would tag along after.

  If, as Bolan suspected, the guy was keeping tabs on the foreign visitors for Hassan Zayoud, it would be easy enough for him to check on Zakir's itinerary with Danica Jones later in the day. Even that smarmy chauffeur could be on Hassan's payroll.

  Bolan wasn't ruling out any possibilities.

  On the other hand they could be just as easily letting him out on a string. Bolan checked off the points he would have considered. First, he was on the only major road heading south along the coast.

  Secondly, he was traveling in convoy with a truck carrying the Allied Oil logo on its doors.

  Bolan knew he was a target that would be all too easy to find. The housing, such as it was, thinned out as they proceeded down the coastal strip. On one side the sea rocked gently with a golden greasy swell. To his right, the desert looked as if it could have been used as a test site for a moon walk. And he knew it got even tougher inland. Abdel leaned on his horn again. This time there was no one on the road. One arm windmilled out of the cab window to attract Bolan's attention as the Arab driver pointed ahead to their goal.

  The road itself mounted a graded shelf, lifting it away from the shoreline, and a steep gravel track branched up from the right leading to the overhanging bluff where the fenced-off Allied Oil depot was situated. Due to the uncertainty created by the shifting fortunes of the Iran-Iraq war, Allied had put any fresh exploration in this part of the world on hold. They were busy concentrating on new finds in the Beaufort Sea and off the Venezuela coast.

  Danny had permission right from the top of the corporate tree to use their equipment storage facility near Haufari as a secure lockup for the valuable tools of her own trade.

  As the Hog scrunched up the track, Bolan had a good view of the point of land about two miles farther on, which was the site discovered by the Westfield team. Everything fitted the mental map he had drawn from the study of aerial photos and Danny's detailed briefing.

  The Allied Oil property was fenced on three sides of its square. The front was open to a sheer drop of nearly two hundred feet to the coastal road below. It looked as if the ancient cliffs would crumble away in one's hand; climbing them would be suicide.

  On the plateau above, the company-leased land was surrounded by a high steel-mesh fence, secured to tall concrete poles that sported strands of electrified barbed wire. More heaps of coiled wire were packed along the inside edge to make a very uncomfortable landing for anyone lucky — or foolish-enough to clear the outer defenses.

  Bolan liked the setup. Again, it was exactly as he'd pictured from the reconnaissance shots and Danny's personal photos. The few prefabricated buildings were set well back up the slope from the cliff edge in the unlikely event that there should be another sudden landslip. A small baked-mud shack stood to the right of the main gate, from which a commotion erupted as Abdel clashed gears and topped the crest of the trail. Three children, a woman who was obviously their mother, a dozen scrawny chickens, a retired camel who was loosely tethered and a vicious-looking dog all rushed out into the track to greet their arrival.

  The little girl, dressed as brightly as an Amazonian parrot, called out for her father.

  Abdel jumped from the cab, picked the youngster up and swung her around in a dizzying rainbow circle. The kid squealed with delight.

  It was time — time Bolan did not have — for another round of greetings; the odd thing was, he was getting used to being called professor. Abdel introduced his brother, Hamad, who was standing watch at the compound gate. He took his sentry duty seriously — there was a Winchester cradled in his left arm. Bolan noticed the rifle was clean and polished. Hamad wore a studious expression as he examined the letter of permission typed on Allied's notepaper. Bolan doubted if he could read English, but the guardian was suitably impressed with the embossed trademark, which he evidently recognized.

  The dog, of very uncertain ancestry, seemed to have formed a respectful bond with the big newcomer. He silently padded after Bolan as his master gave the American a tour of the yard. They walked to the cliff edge. Looking down from the top, it was obvious that no one would be sneaking in this way.

  "That's the shed Professor Brunton used last time," said Abdel, pointing straight back up the shallow incline to a large empty unit.

  "Good, it's the one I had in mind." Bolan made his way back to the gate through the stacks of scaffolding, pump parts, crated drill bits, pipes and all the other paraphernalia of Allied Oil's exploration efforts. He drove the Hog and trailer into the compound. Abdel had the big double doors open wide.

  "Very hot in there."

  "Thanks for the warning. No, that's okay, I'll handle things myself. You better relieve Hamad. I'll catch you later."

  Abdel retreated with a shrug. Crazy foreigners! It was too hot to work anyway.

  Bolan was left on his own.

  He backed the trailer in as close as he could to the wall. First he made sure the Hog was loaded with everything he needed for the run to Hagadan, ticking off each carefully chosen item against a mental checklist. It was hot, heavy work even stowing the small crates and packages on the bed of the Jeep. He stripped off his bush shirt and draped it over the reinforced roll bar.

  The Uzi, perhaps the most combat-tested modern weapon in the Mideast, was checked out and stashed for now under the front seat. Then Bolan tackled the big job.

  It was stifling inside the prefab shed, but Bolan pulled the doors almost shut against any prying eyes or surprise visitors. Even with Chandler's step-by-step instructions, it still took him four hours to complete the assembly task to his professional satisfaction. He paused for a moment to survey his handiwork. He reckoned Red Chandler would have been proud.

  Everything was as ready as Bolan could make it.

  He would spend the evening in town with Danny, have one last night of comfortable rest at the International, make sure that tomorrow Danny was set up "working" at the dig to cover for him and then take off under cover of darkness.

  If any vehicle could make it across the pitiless desert it would be Chandler's ugly baby. With its roll bars, shoulder harnesses, suspension that could withstand more Gs than those riding inside and its nubby tires the Sand Hog looked as if it could take on the Baja and beat the field. Bolan secured the shed doors, climbed into the special Jeep and wheeled around to the gate.

  "Here." Bolan pulled some dinars out of his pocket and handed them to Abdel. "Split this with Hamad. I want you two to keep an especially tight watch on the compound."

  The Arab sentry gave him a British-style salute. His brother simply patted his prized rifle.

  The little girl waved as Bolan drove past their home. The dog followed after the car to the crest of the trail, then veered off to chase the camel.

  Bolan gave them all a final toot on the horn as he ran down the hill to join the main road back to Khurabi.

  8

  The sun was dipping low toward the jagged line of foothills that marked the Jebel Kharg; at least the air temperature was more comfortable now. Bolan had some time to concentrate on his plan for action and a host of contingencies.

  He was facing more than one enemy on this mission, and he doubted that Hassan Zayoud and his handpicked troopers were likely to be the worst. There was also Ruark with forty or more veteran mercs, as tough and dangerous a bunch of bastards as he would ever have to face. And then there was the desert, those mountains and the blistering sun. But, above all, there was the clock.

  Man and machine would have to race against time over some of the roughest real estate this side of hell to bring back Kevin Baker alive and so deny Hassan Zayoud the expertise he needed for the blueprints to Armageddon. If he pulled this off, there would be a lot of explaining to do — to the college at Westfield, to the oil company and, if he was not successful, to the ruler of Khurabi.

  Maybe Hal Brognola could be persuaded to pitch in with the PR work. There were bound to be a few ruffled feathers left behind on this one. On the other hand, if he failed, well, no one but Danny and his closest associates would be any the wiser until the rebel, Hassan, launched his Crescent Revolution on the world.

  But Bolan had no intention of failing.

  Too much was at stake.

  He checked his watch. It looked as if he was going to be late back to the hotel. He was thinking about Danny — about how quickly he'd gotten used to her smile, her vitality, her undeniable good looks — when he spotted the car coming up from the rear.

  The Dodge must have been lurking behind that fisherman's shack he passed a couple of miles back. It was the only cover along this stretch of highway.

  Bolan accelerated, but still not pushing the Hog to its limit. His pursuers kept coming on hard. There were two guys in the Charger, and they didn't look like rich kids out for a joyride. The Executioner snaked through a double bend, straightening out as the wheels drummed on the concrete bridge over a sluggish inlet. He figured there was about another ten miles of desert before they reached the outskirts of the town. The guys behind didn't want him to get that far.

  They were now close enough to nudge his tail — and that was the next move they made. Once, twice... they bumped hard into the rear end of the Hog. Bolan juggled the wheel, retaining control, waiting to make his play. A truck trundled past in the opposite direction. The way ahead was clear on both sides. Bolan snapped home the shoulder strap. He switched lanes fast and braked.

  They were still right behind him.

  This guy was a better wheelman than Hanzal's driver in Florida. Bolan was itching to grab the Uzi and empty a full magazine through their windshield. But that could blow the whole mission.

  Anyway, he was not sure they were trying to kill him.

  Maybe they just wanted to shake him up a little with their crazy stunts; scare him enough to catch the next plane out. Bad move. They were making Bolan angry.

  Okay, Red, time to test this Hog of yours!

  Bolan suddenly shot across the shoulder, mounted the bank and plunged into the scrubland without lifting his foot from the accelerator. And the Dodge still kept right on coming!

  Bolan shook his head. They had tried it in Florida and now they were pushing him again. But Zayoud's men didn't faze Bolan one bit.

  They were in for trouble if they tried to keep up with him.

  He threaded the needle between two barbed clumps of thorn bushes and bounded through an arid wash. The tires clawed hold of the loose shale on the far side as the Hog rocketed over the eroded wasteland. The Dodge lost a couple of hubcaps and had its panels scratched chasing after the American driver. Although by now his vision was slightly blurred from the savage ride, Bolan spotted another fissure off to the left ahead.

  He aimed at the drop.

  There was only air under his wheels as he went over the edge. He hit that ancient silt bed below with a force that would have registered twelve to fifteen on any meter. But he was off and running true. The rear suspension boogies and constant velocity joints fitted by Chandler could take this slamming in stride.

  The chase car struck the ground with a teeth-rattling jolt that threatened to disintegrate it. The last two hubcaps went clattering across the dirt.

  Bolan's vehicle was throwing out a choking cloud of grit that left the others blind. They hit a huge pothole and tore out a couple of struts.

  The Charger slewed around in a crazy circle and was swallowed in the billowing dust.

  The flog hummed across the undulating sand, then slithered down the slope and onto the road again.

  Bolan stopped the vehicle, then looked around.

  Satisfied that there was no further threat from his pursuers, he started off again. He'd have good news for Red Chandler.

  * * *

  Danica Jones paced angrily across the hotel room. Her small suite at the International, courtesy of Allied Oil, could have been a businessman's stopover anywhere in the world.

  The recorded monotone of the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer echoed over the darkening city. She checked the digital clock once more. She was mad at Mack Bolan. Not for being late Danny wasn't that petty. But for palming her off on Salim Zakir so readily. If he wanted her to act as a decoy to keep the Khurabian authorities distracted, he might at least have let her in on his plan.

  And she knew Bolan wanted to leave her behind to make a show of working on the Haufari dig for a couple of days. She had agreed to do that in advance, but now that she was out here Danny wanted to stick with him. Crazy! She knew the danger they faced if anything went wrong. But she felt this pull, this need, to confront the challenge that lay ahead.

  It was her own confused feelings that caused this sudden frustration, Danny admitted to herself. She wasn't really mad at him. If something did go wrong on this rescue mission, then she wanted to be at Bolan's side. The plain truth was that this man had kindled emotions in her she had long thought so utterly repressed that she would never feel them again.

  This was ridiculous. She was acting like a schoolgirl. But that didn't stop her from rehearsing in front of the bathroom mirror. Danny tried on her sternest frown.

  Three sharp raps on the door.

  Danny ran over, opened it and said, "Hi, I was worried about..." She did not finish.

  It wasn't Bolan.

  Two men stood in the corridor; the shorter one held a pistol. It was pointed at her stomach.

  She tried to slam the door in their faces. The bigger of these two local thugs jammed it with his foot, then reached forward and grabbed Danny's shoulder.

  She felt that big hairy paw clamp hold with a viselike grip. Danny was lifted bodily through the doorway.

  "You will come with us! Now!"

  "Okay, King Kong, but you can let go of me." She tried to shake him loose. Nothing doing. His fingers dug deeper into her flesh as he propelled her toward the service elevator.

  The other guy helped steer by jabbing her in the ribs with his gun.

  There was a sickening chill in the pit of her stomach. Yes, thought Danny, this would have been a very good moment to have Mack at her side.

  * * *

  The hog drew some curious stares from the young dudes out cruising along the waterfront; even with the unlimited funds at their disposal they hadn't seen anything quite like that on four wheels before.

  There was an insane sense of urgency about the construction of the new city. It was as if they were racing to build a modern metropolis, an unfinished version of Manhattan dotted with minarets right out of Arabian Nights, before the oil patch was bled dry; though what they would do with it after that was anyone's guess.

  The past and the future seemed to be fighting for control of Khurabi. The spiked towers of the minarets were squeezed between the dazzling new office blocks and hotels.

  Bolan slowed down as he entered the city core.

  He noted there were a lot of police patrols on the streets. Keeping a watchful eye on all the traffic signals, Bolan cruised into town, reviewing his battle plans once more. Maybe he should go tonight. The Hog was packed and ready for action.

  He'd just proved it. And those two guys in the wrecked Charger would not be stranded back there for long.

  He was confident that he could trust Danny to do her part; so far she had proved to be efficient, thorough and fast. He could not have mounted this Khurabian mission half as quickly without her invaluable aid.

  Bolan stopped for a red light. He was mentally juggling his own schedule with the carefully timed arrangements that he had already set up with Jack Grimaldi and Steve Hohenadel.

 

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