One thing Bolan had learned to count on was the unexpected, in whatever form it might assume.
The jungle climate that surrounded him decreed a range of possibilities. It wouldn’t snow, he realized, unless the planet shifted on its axis—in which case it likely wouldn’t matter what a Congo cult leader was planning, one way or another. He had no reason to suspect that a volcano would erupt and drown the cult compound in molten lava. Sandstorms were unlikely in the middle of a jungle.
He started to watch for traps and sentries when he was a mile east of Obike. Bolan wasn’t sure if Gaborone’s people foraged in the jungle, but he took no chances. If the guru truly thought the Last Days were upon him—or if that was just a scam, and he was double-dealing with some kind of slick black-market action on the side—it was a fair bet that he posted guards. More likely now, if Val and Johnny were correct in their suspicion that the cult had killed a U.S. congressman and members of his entourage.
If Rathbun and his crew weren’t dead, it posed another kind of problem for the Executioner. He’d come prepared to lift one person from the compound, not to rescue seven. Even if he managed to extract that many souls, the chopper rented by Grimaldi wouldn’t seat eight passengers. He couldn’t strap them to the landing struts, and who would Bolan ask to stay behind?
Forget it, Bolan thought. They’re dead by now.
If not…
Then he’d jump off that bridge when he got to it, hoping there was time to scan the water below for hungry crocodiles.
Meanwhile, he had a job to do and it was almost time.
The GPS system led Bolan to Obike with no problem. He could smell the compound’s cooking fires and its latrines before he saw the barracks and guard towers ranged in front of him. And there were sentries, yes indeed, well armed against potential enemies.
Bolan stood watching from the forest shadows, working out a plan to infiltrate the camp to find one man among seven hundred people known to occupy this drab, unlikely New Jerusalem.
After an hour, give or take, the Executioner knew what he had to do.
“GIVE ME THE PEOPLE’S mood, Nico. I need to know what they are thinking, what they’re feeling now.”
Mbarga had expected it. The master often hatched a plan, then put it into motion, only later thinking of the consequences to himself and those around him. That was genius, in a sense—fixation on a goal, a means of solving problems, without letting daily life intrude.
But that could also be a self-destructive kind of genius, doomed to early death.
“I move among them, Master,” he replied. “And as you know, my presence urges them to silence. They work harder and talk less when I am near. We have no listening devices in the camp, so I—”
“Give me your sense of how they’re feeling, Nico. I don’t ask you for confessions of betrayal.”
Nico swallowed hard. Telling the truth was dangerous with Gaborone, but if the master later caught him in a lie that had already blown up in their faces, it could be worse yet.
“Master,” he said at last, “some of the folk are worried. Naturally, they trust your judgment in all things, but still some fear there may be repercussions over the Americans. In these days, when the White House orders bombing raids, invades whole nations without evidence, they fear our actions may yet bring about the Final Days.”
“And they fear that?” Gaborone asked. He seemed confused.
“Some do. Yes, sir.”
“After I’ve told them time and time again they must fear nothing? That the Final Days will simply be our passport into Paradise? Why would they fear a moment’s suffering, compared to that eternal bliss?”
“They’re only human, Master,” Mbarga said. “They know pain and loss from personal experience, but none have shared your glimpse of Paradise.”
“They share through me!” Gaborone said, now seeming on the verge of anger. Mbarga knew he had to calm the guru swiftly or his own well-being might be jeopardized.
“They share in words, Master, but it is not the same. You’ve seen the wonders of the other side. Despite your eloquence, unrivaled in the world today, word pictures still fall short of all that you’ve experienced in Heaven.”
“Paradise,” Gaborone said, correcting him.
“Of course, sir. I apologize.”
“How can we calm the people, Nico?”
“They need time, Master. And I will watch them closely.”
“In the matter of our visitors,” Gaborone said, “are they content?”
The delegation had arrived that morning, ferried from the jungle landing strip by Mbarga and his men. No more Americans this time, but men with money in their pockets, anxious to impress the master and do business with him. It was Mbarga’s job to keep them happy in between negotiations, and he took the job seriously.
“Both are resting now, after their midday meal,” Mbarga said. “The South American requested a companion for his bed.”
“He is a pig,” Gaborone said, “but very wealthy.”
“I sent him one of the neophytes. The Irish girl. She’ll see you later, Master, to receive her penance.”
“Ah. A wise choice, Nico. And the other?”
“He asked nothing, Master. I believe he favors young men over girls. The way he looked at some of your parishioners…”
“Enough! There is a limit to my patience.” Gaborone frowned mightily, then added, “If he should insist, choose wisely. Use your own best judgment, Nico.”
“Always, Master.”
“When I speak to them again, tonight, we may—”
The shout came from outside, somewhere across the compound. Nico heard the single word, repeated loudly.
“Fire!”
“What’s that?” asked Gaborone, distractedly.
“A cry of ‘fire,’ Master. I’ll see what—”
“Go! Hurry!” As Nico left the master’s quarters, Gaborone called after him, “And don’t disturb our guests!”
Outside, Mbarga smelled the smoke before he saw it, dark plumes rising from one of the storage sheds. What did they keep in that one? Food. Mbarga wondered if the grain in burlap sacks had grown too hot somehow, inside the shed, or if there’d been some kind of accident to start the fire.
Jaw clenched, Mbarga planned what he would do if it turned out that someone had been smoking, in defiance of the master’s edict.
He joined the flow of people rushing toward the fire, anxious to smother it or just to be a part of the excitement. He was halfway there and shoving rudely past the others when another cry went up, this one arising from the far side of the camp.
“Fire!” someone shouted over there. “Another fire!”
IT WASN’T ANYTHING high tech, but Bolan often put his trust in fire. It ranked among humanity’s best friends and oldest enemies, holding the power to inspire or panic, after all those centuries. A warm fire on the hearth might lead to passion or a good night’s sleep. Flames racing through a household or a village uncontrolled were guaranteed to set off a stampede.
He’d taken time to choose his targets, noting structures here and there around the huddled village that would burn without immediately posing any threat to human life. Storehouses, toolsheds and the like were best. And he was lucky, in that Gaborone’s community hadn’t invested in aluminum or any kind of prefab structures that were fire resistant. They used simple wood, often unpainted, and there seemed to be no fire-retardant