“Indeed,” the voice agreed. “Tell me, how was his French?”
Ki considered that. “Not perfect, and he spoke with an American accent, but that does not prove anything. The only legionnaires who speak good French are lying Frenchmen.”
The voice on the phone snorted derisively. “That is true.” The voice lowered. “But in your opinion, is he a legionnaire?”
“He had the dog tags, but I did not get to see them up close. He had the same tattoo as Pak and others who served as security in the atolls.” Ki grunted and shook his head. “But my instincts tell me no. I do not believe he is legion.”
“That is all I need to hear you say.”
Ki rubbed his throat. “So what do we do?”
“Let us assume your instincts are correct, and he is American. To my knowledge, the United States has no military or intelligence assets in Suriname to speak of. The only real place he can take genuine sanctuary or receive any sort of aid is the American Embassy.”
Ki spoke bitterly. His hand went to his chest, to the place were a familiar weight was uncomfortably missing. “He has my dog tags.”
“Yes, and if he has reached the embassy, he will be able to contact his confederates stateside. It will only be a matter of time before they determine who you are.”
“What do you propose we do?”
“Tell the pandekar to gather men he trusts. Cover the embassy now, twenty-four hours a day. Sooner or later, he must come out. When he does, you and your men will kill him. I will send Cigarette and Babar to back you up, but you will lead, and you and the pandekar’s men must see to finishing the job. If you fail, then whatever kind of stink rises up, it must be a Javanese stink and one that ends in Suriname.”
Ki looked at the weapons mounted on the walls. They would be of little use in the coming confrontation. It was the weapons in crates beneath the cellar that would tell the tale now. “And if he somehow escapes us?”
Once more the voice on the other end of the line did not sound concerned. “If he somehow escapes and learns your identity, then he will most certainly come here.” The voice paused significantly. “And then I will most certainly kill him.”
Secure Communications Room,
U.S. Embassy, Suriname
KURTZMAN WAS CLEARLY unhappy. “Striker, we can’t keep plundering French military records.”
His brow furrowed on the videophone link. “We’re risking a lot. Busting into Suriname’s military database would be one thing, but France is a very modern country, with some of the most sophisticated technology in the world. In some areas of technology, France is even ahead of us. And right now, in all honesty, I cannot guarantee you that we’re getting in and out undetected. Much less what kind of electronic tracking and countermeasures we may be subjecting ourselves to. If French Military Intelligence catches a whiff of us and goes on a war footing, it’s not out of the realm of possibility that they could find us in spite of our fire walls and back doors.” Kurtzman shook his head. “I feel the risk may soon be too great.”
Bolan considered the problem. “Okay, but what have you got?”
“Well, there are some small hitches with the translation programs. The French foreign legion is kind of archaic in its military terminology. It’s also kind of tribal and has a lot of its own slang. Akira’s working on it, and—”
“And what have you got, Bear?”
“I’ve got French Foreign Legion Caporal Ki Gunung. Caporal in the Foreign Legion is a lot closer to sergeant in the U.S. or British military as far as authority and responsibilities than what we think of as a corporal.”
“What else have you got on him?”
“He’s active legion, and didn’t change his name when he joined up. He joined the 2nd Parachute Regiment and made it into the Deep Reconnaissance Commandos. The legion’s best of the best.”
Bolan consulted his map. “The 2nd Parachute Regiment is stationed in Corsica. What’s our boy doing in South America?”
“He’s a certified hand-to-hand combat and commando instructor.” Kurtzman scanned his notes. “It seems he was transferred as a specialist to the 3rd Infantry Regiment and the Jungle Warfare School in French Guiana.”
“Interesting,” Bolan replied. “But if he’s active with the 3rd Infantry Regiment, what is he doing here in Suriname?”
“Well, his current post is less than a hundred miles from where you are now. What he’s doing on the wrong side of the Maroni River, we don’t know. He could be AWOL, or he could be there with permission. Of course, Suriname and French Guiana do have a disputed border area. He could actually be there on some kind of mission.” Kurtzman stared at Bolan fixedly. “That would take a great deal more probing of heavily secured French military files.”
“Just do what needs to be done. Hit and git when you feel someone tracking you.”
Kurtzman sighed. “Striker, do you have anything to directly tie the French military to terrorist actions taken by al Qaeda?”
Bolan shook his head. “No. All I’ve got are my instincts, and they’re going off like fireworks on the Fourth of July on this one.”
“Well that’s good enough for me, Striker. You know that.”
“Bear, something really nasty is coming down the pipe.”
Kurtzman nodded slowly. “So what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to go to French Guiana to poke around.”
“YOU’RE NUTS.” CIA Station Chief Kira Kiraly gazed at Bolan steadily.
Bolan shrugged. “Yeah, well…”
The station chief blew a lock of hair off her brow. It was just before dawn, and the heat was already rising. “So what are you expecting, again?”
“I’m expecting to get hit, by anywhere from ten to thirty accomplished martial artists and terrorists, armed with anything from machetes and AK-47s up to and exceeding rocket-propelled grenade launchers.”
Kiraly nodded once. “Right.”
It was clear she believed that Bolan was insane. The station chief was short, blond, sarcastic and very well put together. She didn’t look at all like a senior spook.
Bolan knew those were always the best kind.
“Listen.” Kiraly shook her head. “I know I’ve been told to extend you every courtesy, but—”
“What can you do for me?” Bolan smiled winningly. “I’m sorry about it being such short notice.”
She held up some keys. “I have a Volvo station wagon.”
Bolan shrugged. “Safest car on the road.”
“I love that car,” the station chief warned. She seemed deadly serious. “The air-conditioning works. You have no idea what kind of premium that is around here.”
Kiraly led as they crept around the embassy in the predawn gloom toward the parking area. A pair of Marine embassy guard jeeps and a VW Bug were parked in a line.
Bolan suppressed a grin. Slightly off to one side, parked in the place of honor, gleamed a brown Volvo station wagon with diplomatic plates.
“It’s beautiful,” Bolan acknowledged.
“Thank you.” She searched Bolan for sarcasm. “Maybe it would be best if I drove.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“I think it would be best if someone drove and someone shot.” She looked Bolan up and down with