AS HE WAS DRIVEN back to his own office, Stahl wondered briefly who Mike Belasko was. The name occupied him for a few minutes as he tried to make a connection. When he failed he dismissed it sat back in the comfortable leather seat, watching the Washington landscape flash by.
If things went as planned and they gained control of Zero everything he saw outside the car, as the old saying went, would be his. It was a pleasing thought.
CHAPTER THREE
Stony Man Farm, Virginia
Bolan was on his third coffee when Hal Brognola arrived. He took one look at the soldier and reached for the pot himself, pouring himself a mug before dropping into the chair behind his desk. Brognola looked like a man who hadn’t slept for a long time. He took a long swallow of coffee, leaned back in his seat and stared at his old friend while he formed the words he wanted to speak.
“What the hell is going on, Striker?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. I’d planned to spend some R&R with Jack on Nassau. I touched down and found out it had gone to hell—Jack in hospital, Jess Buchanan kidnapped. I picked up some information on the perps and headed back for the mainland only to get hijacked at the airport and ended up having to fight my way out of a bad situation. That’s it. I dropped off the security tape I located at Jess Buchanan’s airstrip. Aaron is running it through the computer now to see if we can get some names for the faces. End of story. Now it’s your turn.”
“You up for another ride?” Brognola asked.
“Sure. Why not? I’m not even going to ask where.”
“One of your admirable qualities, Striker. Flexibility.” Bolan scowled at his longtime friend and ally. “Don’t push it.”
Brognola allowed himself a brief smile. He drained his coffee mug and stood.
“We’ll check with Aaron before we head out.”
AARON KURTZMAN was alone in the Computer Room. He spun his wheelchair away from his workstation as Brognola stepped into the room, with Bolan shadowing him. One look at the Executioner’s expression and Kurtzman knew it was no time for levity. He had been updated on what had happened from the moment Bolan had arrived in Nassau.
“I ran your security tape through the military database. You and Jack were right with the military connection. I came up with two positives. Your blond guy is one Calvin Ryan. Ex-Army. Retired a couple of years back from his last unit. Worked his way up through the ranks. Quite a record. The guy is a professional, a hard hitter. Desert Storm. Grenada. Headed a team of infiltrators for his commanding officer. You’ll like this. Colonel Orin Stengard.”
“Steel and Thunder Stengard?” Brognola said.
“The one and only. Makes all the other hard-liners look like pacifists.”
“The guy is always in the news with his views on why America needs to pull up the drawbridge and turn the country into an armed camp. Given his way, he’d have kids in school being taught weapons drill and issued with M-16s.”
“Any suggestions on what Ryan has done since he left the military?” Bolan asked.
Kurtzman shook his head. “Nothing on file.”
“You said two IDs.”
“Only got a clear image on one other man. Paul Meeker.”
“One of Ryan’s former military unit?”
“How did you know that?”
Bolan shrugged. “Just a guess.”
“Every time you start guessing, I get a cold finger down my spine,” Brognola said. “You have any other insights?”
“One observation,” Bolan said. “Orin Stengard has been known to associate himself alongside Senator Eric Stahl. Another might-is-right believer, and a man who has more than a passing connection with the armaments industry.”
“Connection is a nice way of putting it,” Brognola said. “The Stahl family has been in armaments since the 1930s. It’s where he gets his money. The man is worth billions.”
“Is this the Eric Stahl who fronts the Third Party?” Kurtzman asked.
“Stahl is the Third Party. The guy wants to be President. He was elected on his manifesto in his home state because he has one hell of a following in the Fortress America camp. We might not like his views, but a lot of people do. Stahl makes no concessions to political correctness, or tiptoeing around the issues. He says it as he sees it. The country is losing face and the ability to defend itself because we fudge the issues and let our enemies tell us how we should act. According to Stahl, we should think of the U.S. first and if it upsets the rest of the world, so what?” Brognola glanced across at Bolan. “Time we left.”
“You guys on a date?” Kurtzman asked.
“Not the kind you’re thinking about,” Brognola said.
“See what you can come up with on the wallet and the car-rental details,” Bolan said as he followed Brognola out the door. “Check those Glock pistols, as well. I’ll catch you later.”
“You know where to find me,” Kurtzman said to the Executioner’s back. He swung his wheelchair back to his desk and bent over his keyboard.
He had been working on the car-rental information Bolan had brought in. The credit-card detail ran him into a firewall on his first attempt. It went so far, then threw up a block. That was its first mistake. Kurtzman didn’t like being denied access to information. So he had pulled back and brought up one of his own programs, using it to bypass the card company’s firewall. He had just requested his program to worm its way into the card company’s database when Bolan and Brognola had visited. Now they had gone, Kurtzman turned back to his computer’s search and checked on the results. A smile creased his face as he read what the search had produced. He was into the card company’s database. His program had overcome the firewall put up by the security system. All Kurtzman had to do now was trace the ownership of the card, and it would point the finger at whoever was financing the people who had attacked Jack Grimaldi and Jess Buchanan.
THE BLACKSUIT PILOT behind the controls of the helicopter nodded as Bolan and Brognola settled in their seats behind him.
“Any update on Jack, sir?” he asked.
“Nothing new. He’s going to be out of action for a few weeks, but he’ll be okay.”
“Glad to hear it. Hope everything works out okay. He was really looking forward to his break on Nassau. All he talked about the last few days before he left.”
“He’d be pleased to know people are thinking about him,” Bolan told him.
“Yeah, they sure are, sir. Hell of a guy.”
Bolan sat back as the chopper rose into the air and gained altitude.
“Hell of a guy” didn’t even scratch the surface when it came to describing Jack Grimaldi.
RAIN PELTED the helicopter as it touched down on the well-tended lawn behind the White House. The pilot shut off the power and the rotors began to slow, making a soft pulse of sound as they cut the air.
A pair of dark-suited Secret Service agents came out to meet Bolan and Brognola as they ran across the grass to the entrance that would admit them to the President’s residence.
“The President is expecting you,” one of the agents said. He was staring at the slight, telltale bulge under Bolan’s jacket.
“You need to take it?” Bolan asked, preempting the agent’s thoughts. He opened his jacket to expose the holstered Beretta 93-R.
A muscle in the agent’s jaw twitched slightly. He cleared his throat.
“The