Periodically he passed a numbered entryway through the wall. Most of the well-worn wooden doors were closed. A few stood open and through them he saw large flat areas of muddy earth. Come spring these mud patches would turn into flower gardens, sprouting a wide variety of exotic plants in a multitude of colors. But at the moment, only a few dead stalks from last summer’s crops remained, and here and there a thin tree sapling that had shed its leaves weeks earlier.
The Executioner came to the number 11637 and stopped. The door was closed, which didn’t surprise him. Set into the wall was an intercom. Keeping his right hand on the revolver in his pocket, he lifted his left and pushed the button next to the speaker.
A moment later a voice answered with words he didn’t recognize.
“Please accept my apologies,” Bolan said in Russian. “I do not speak your language.”
The man on the other end of the intercom evidently spoke no Russian, and had to guess at Bolan’s words as the Executioner had guessed at his. “Do you speak French?” he asked in French.
“Oui.” Bolan answered in that language. But he made sure to do so with a thick Russian accent.
“What do you want?” asked the voice, now that they had found a common means of communication. “Identify yourself.”
“Rotislavsky,” said the Executioner. “Leon Rotislavsky.” He paused, waiting, remembering the lightning-like events of the past few hours. Two CIA agents had finally learned the identity and last known address of Anton Sobor—a.k.a. Russell James—the former Soviet mole who had left the United States and begun selling his expertise in biochemical warfare to terrorist groups in the Mideast. Further investigation through an informant in Tehran had confirmed the address as a safehouse for the Muslim extremist group, Hezbollah. The snitch had also insinuated that Sobor would know where various weapons of mass destruction—WMDs—were hidden. These weapons were biological and chemical agents Sobor himself had developed for various countries. As far as the CIA knew, no nuclear or “dirty bombs” were involved.
But that didn’t make the situation any less urgent. Sarin, Tabun, VX, or even the older mustard gas of World War I fame could be sprayed from crop-dusting planes and kill hundreds of thousands of people. Biological cultures such as anthrax, small pox or even bubonic plague were even more deadly, and easily spread if released in large metropolitan areas. Another problem was the size of the weapons, particularly those of the biological nature. The cultures could be transported in small, airtight containers that could be hidden almost anywhere.
The CIA informant had also informed his interrogators that there was a rumor going around that many of the hidden WMDs had come from Saddam Hussein himself just before the U.S. and Great Britain took over Iraq. But now, the surrounding countries had grown fearful that they might be invaded next. And they were adding their own mass-murder mediums to the mix.
The CIA agents had reported to their superiors at Langley, who in turn had told the President, as the Man had ordered them to do. But the President had then surprised the Central Intelligence Agency by ordering them to hold off acting on the tip.
Then the Man had called on America’s top-secret counter-terrorist organization, the sensitive Operations Group, based at Stony Man Farm.
The Farm, in turn, had called in the Executioner.
After a long pause, the voice somewhere inside the wall said, “We know no Rotislavsky.”
“Perhaps you do not,” Bolan replied, again in heavily accented French. “But Anton Sobor does.” His hand tightened slightly around the grip of the .45.
“One moment,” came back over the speaker.
Again, Bolan waited. The real Leon Rotislavsky had been another Soviet mole implanted in the U.S. banking industry to assist in sabotaging the economy. He had recently come forward one step ahead of being discovered, and in return for total amnesty spilled all he knew. Rotislavsky hadn’t mentioned Sobor, but he had had little time to do so. Before the name Russell James even came up the Russian had suffered a massive coronary and died.
Until yesterday, there had been no reason to link him to James. And there was still no proof that the two men knew each other. But a hurried background investigation of the Sobor identity had suggested that Sobor and Rotislavsky had graduated together from the university in Moscow. Russian Intelligence—only slightly more cooperative than the KGB had once been—had confirmed that the two men had gone to school together. But they would admit to no more.
So, the Executioner realized as he continued to wait, maybe Anton Sobor knew Leon Rotislavsky and maybe he didn’t. For that matter, the man who had masqueraded as Russell James might not even still be in Tehran. But if he was, and if he had known Rotislavsky, maybe he would open the door to his old friend. If he didn’t, the Executioner would have to hope the name would at least arouse his curiosity enough to open the door anyway. If the latter was the case, however, the Hezbollah men he was hiding out with here in Tehran were likely to greet him with guns blazing.
Bolan took a deep breath and began unbuttoning his overcoat. No one had ever promised him this mission would be easy. In fact if it had been easy, it would have been given to somebody else.
A few minutes later the voice came back. “Tell us more about yourself,” it said. “Tell us how you know Anton.”
Keeping the Russian accent, Bolan said, “Look, it is cold out here.” Then, with an audible sigh of exasperation, he went on. “We went to school together in Moscow. I graduated in business. He studied the sciences. Then we both moved to America.” He paused again, then finally added, “Do I have to spell out the rest for you? Can you not figure it out for yourself?” He looked nervously over both shoulders in case surveillance cameras were trained on him, then finished with, “Who knows who may be listening to us at this very moment?”
After another long pause, a new voice came on. And this one spoke flawless Russian. “Leon, is that really you?” it asked.
Bolan felt the adrenaline start to build in his chest. The voice had the timbre of a native-born Russian. But was it Sobor? Maybe, maybe not. There were hundreds of former Soviets in Iran—ex-KGB officers, Spetsnaz and others. The man on the other end of the intercom could be anyone. Or it could be Sobor. And the former American mole might not know Leon Rotislavsky, and be setting a trap for him by pretending he did.
The Executioner stood where he was, still aware that a hidden surveillance camera could be aimed at him even now. He knew only one thing for sure: whoever the new voice belonged to, the man was interested, which meant Bolan already had one foot in the door.
“Yes, Anton,” Bolan said. “It is me. Now let me in, please, before I freeze my ass off out here!”
The door buzzed and the Executioner pushed it open. Stepping across the threshold, he found himself in another of the dead-winter flower gardens. A cracked concrete sidewalk led through the mud to the front door of a two-story dwelling, and as he started along it a burly man stepped out and walked toward him. A Soviet-made AK-47 hung from a sling over the man’s shoulder, the muzzle aimed at the Executioner’s midsection.
The man looked Iranian, with dark skin and curly black hair. He wore green BDU pants and black combat boots, but above the trousers legs he was all Persian. A multicolored woven caftan fell past his waistline and was cinched with a wide leather belt. Hanging from the belt was a well-worn and cracked military flap holster, the grip of what appeared to be a 9 mm Tokarev pistol clearly visible.
The Hezbollah hardman walked with a strange sort of “side step” as he approached the Executioner, his right side moving forward ahead of his left. Bolan wondered if the strange gait might not be the result of some past injury as he shifted the .45-caliber wheelgun in his pocket, aiming the stumpy barrel up at the man’s chest. The two continued to walk toward each other.
“Halt there!” the Iranian ordered.
Bolan froze in his tracks, his hands still in his pockets.
“Do you have identification