He didn’t consider himself an idealist. But he was a soldier, a defender. As such, he needed to know he was fighting for a just cause. Otherwise he became a hired gun, a violent man, running from fight to fight, without reason. He would become a murderer instead of a soldier and Bolan couldn’t stomach that.
The soldier believed in what he did. He made no apologies for his methods. In his experience, brute force needed to be met with brute force. He needed to find the arms trafficker and free Rodriguez. The numbers were falling fast; hours had slipped away.
So he’d hit Monaco with a vengeance and accomplish his mission. Or go home in a body bag. In his life, in his War Everlasting, those were the only two options for Bolan.
* * *
WHEN BOLAN ARRIVED at the safehouse, he found Agent Peter Kellogg waiting for him.
Bolan had met a lot of FBI agents and none looked like the man who answered the door. By the soldier’s reckoning, the guy stood a few inches under six feet tall and looked wiry. However, he answered the door clad in torn jeans, a black T-shirt and cowboy boots. His long silver hair was pulled back from his face in a ponytail, and his salt-and-pepper beard was long and unkempt. The handle of a Glock 19 peeked above the waistband of his jeans.
Before Bolan could ask, Kellogg showed him his FBI credentials. The soldier flipped open a leather wallet containing a forged Justice Department ID featuring his Matt Cooper alias. Grimaldi, who was traveling as Jack Williamson, also showed the guy an alias ID.
Kellogg nodded, stepped back from the door and gestured for the men to enter the house.
“Well,” Kellogg said, “now that we’re done sniffing each others’ ass, you guys want some coffee?”
Both men said they did. Kellogg gestured with his chin at a door. “There’s the living room. Your buddy is here already if you want to hang out with him. Coffee’s in there. Let me get two more cups.”
The living room was huge, with polished hardwood floors, a fireplace and luxurious furniture. They found Leo Turrin standing at a shelf full of books, apparently reading the titles. He turned to them as they entered and made a face.
“Some tightass must buy all the Bureau’s books,” he said. “There’s nothing but international law texts and some history books about France and Monaco.”
Grimaldi snorted.
“Wow, did you read the titles all by yourself?”
“Screw you, fly boy,” Leo Turrin said.
“Got a headache from all that reading? Need to lie down?”
“Be careful,” Turrin said, “I have friends in low places. One phone call and I can have you rubbed out.”
Kellogg entered the room, a coffee mug in each hand. He looked at Bolan who’d been silent. “They carry on like this all the time?”
“Yeah,” Bolan said.
“Jesus, I ask Washington for help and they send me this.”
“Look, Easy Rider,” Turrin said. “No need to be a jerk.”
Kellogg smiled coldly. “Son, when I’m being a jerk, you’ll know it. I just want to make sure I have some people who can do the job. As for the clothes, they’re part of my cover.”
“As what? A clerk in a gay porn shop?” Turrin asked.
“Son of a...”
Kellogg took a step forward.
Bolan put a hand on his shoulder and said, “At ease.” He turned to Turrin. “He’s been working deep cover in an American motorcycle gang. It’s been branching out overseas, looking to set up shop in Paris and Berlin. Agent Kellogg is here to help the gang get a foothold in Europe. He’s also been funneling the information back to the FBI. Am I right, Agent Kellogg?”
“Well, at least one of you isn’t a damn buffoon,” Kellogg replied. “Yeah, that’s the short version of my cover. The guy who should’ve been running Rodriguez’s operation retired three months ago. I was filling in for him. Needless to say, I wish they’d had someone else do it.” He slurped some coffee. “Okay, is that enough about yours truly?”
“It is,” Bolan said. “We need to focus.”
Kellogg had set the mugs on an end table next to a carafe of coffee. Bolan poured himself some coffee, put the stopper back in the carafe and sipped the brew. Kellogg backed into an armchair and looked at Bolan.
“Let me say right up front, I feel shitty how this whole thing went down,” Kellogg said. “My team and I were planning to back her up every step of the way. She was going to wear a wire. That prick Dumond has a penthouse in Monte Carlo, and the meeting was scheduled for there. We had, um, appropriated some maintenance uniforms so our agents could put themselves within striking distance just in case things went south. I ran operations like this for years before I went deep cover. My people are pros. I—we—were going to have her back every step of the way.”
The guy’s eyes were bloodshot and rimmed by dark half circles.
“No doubt,” Bolan said. “Obviously someone figured out her identity beforehand, though, and nabbed her.”
“Yeah.”
“Which raises the question—was there a leak?”
Bolan had expected the guy to get defensive. Instead he shook his head wearily.
“I’ve asked myself the same question a few dozen times. I’ve gone over everyone’s file. If there’s a leak here, I can’t spot it.”
“Maybe you’re too close,” Bolan said.
“Maybe. I’d like to think you’re wrong. But, yeah, maybe. That’s why I asked Washington to shadow me on this. Headquarters has people going through the files of every agent and tech involved in this. If they say my team’s clean, they’re clean.”
Bolan sipped more coffee and set the mug on a table. His gut was telling him Kellogg was right; there wasn’t a mole in the guy’s organization. If that was true, it only made finding Rodriguez harder.
“A former FBI agent was killed here three months ago,” Bolan said.
“Yeah, Fred Gruber. Did you know him?”
“No, but Rodriguez did.”
“So what’s your point?”
“Not sure I have a point,” the soldier replied. “But it’s something to think about.”
“He died from a random mugging,” Kellogg said. “I read the reports myself.”
Bolan responded with a noncommittal shrug. Chances were Kellogg was right and there were no links between Gruber’s death and Rodriguez’s disappearance, though it still nagged at him.
“You don’t look convinced,” Turrin said.
“I’m not.”
“Shit,” Kellogg muttered. Pulling a notebook and a pen from his jeans, he scribbled something in the notebook.
“I’ll have someone look into it.”
“Thanks,” Bolan said.
“I’m not sure what we’ll find, though,” Kellogg added. “Last I heard, he had his laptop with him when the mugging happened. The SOBs who killed him made off with his computer, his wallet and his phone.”
“You’ll probably find nothing,” Bolan conceded. “But it doesn’t hurt to check.”
“Fair enough. Without the hardware, it may take a while to find anything, unless he backed stuff up somewhere else.”
“Understood.”