Sudan was composed of wide-ranging deserts and steppes north of Khartoum, and tropical jungle just below the twelfth parallel to the south. Its coastline ran along the Red Sea, with Saudi Arabia just across the water. Northern Sudan was rumored to be one of he hottest areas in the world during the summer, with temperatures rising to 125 degrees and higher.
At least two-thirds of Sudan’s eighteen million inhabitants were of mixed Arab and African blood, which had been superimposed over more ancient ancestors who were Hamitic. Such racial mixing was to be expected considering Sudan’s geographic location, especially from Khartoum northward. The southern three provinces of the country were inhabited by true Africans, mostly of the Dinka tribe.
Bolan opened his eyes as soon as Makkah said, “We are here.” He saw that the man was trying to turn down an alleyway behind a more modern building. Leaning on the horn, the airport police captain waved his other hand wildly through the open window to his side, trying to coax the pedestrians crossing the alley on the sidewalk to break up and let him through. When this didn’t work, Makkah let out a long string of what the Executioner had to believe were curses in some Arabic dialect he didn’t understand. When hitting the red lights and siren proved no more effective, the captain drew his .357 Magnum Taurus revolver from his shiny Sam Browne belt, transferred it to his left hand, then stuck it out the window and fired two shots into the air.
This demonstration of firepower produced the desired break in the crowd, and Makkah turned into the alley. Bolan did his best to lower himself farther in his seat and reached up, ostensibly rubbing his forehead with both hands but in reality trying to shield his face.
The Executioner had already had far more exposure to the public than he felt comfortable with. And he made a snap decision to make some major changes to his appearance as soon as he was finished inside this building.
Makkah pulled the car into a parking spot that read Police Only. “You are ready?” the captain asked as he pulled the keys from the ignition.
Bolan nodded and opened the door to his side. What he was about to do was simple. At least simple in theory.
A Washington Post journalist named Ronnie Cassetti had somehow gotten between a CIA informant and his U.S. handler. The two men who had murdered the informant in Cassetti’s presence—and tried to kill the American writer—had been taken into custody by Sudanese police. Fearful for his own life, Cassetti had turned a white envelope over to a CIA officer stationed at the American Embassy. The envelope contained some kind of mysterious limerick, which the CIA operative suspected contained important encrypted information.
Unfortunately, the snitch’s handler had been an older man, about to retire. Since his last encounter with the informant, he had suddenly keeled over with a heart attack and died.
And the limerick code was not known by anyone else in Khartoum, Washington or anywhere else in the world.
The CIA had opened a case. The President had caught wind of the details and ordered the Agency to take its cues from a man named Brandon Stone who would be taking charge of the investigation.
Bolan closed the car door and followed Makkah through a back door into the building. It seemed to him sometimes that he had more names than a heavyweight boxing champion. Mack Bolan, the Executioner, Matt Cooper and Brandon Stone were only a few of the appellations under which he sometimes went.
This time he would be Special Agent Brandon Stone.
T HE BUILDING THAT HOUSED the Khartoum office of the Sudan National Police might have been of more recent structure than many of the ancient wood-and-clay edifices the Executioner had seen on his drive with Captain Makkah. But the inside was every bit as dirty and unkempt as downtown Khartoum itself. Trash littered the hallway down which Makkah now led Bolan. And the walls were a dingy, begrimed gray from cigarette, cigar and pipe smoke. And from somewhere in the building, Bolan’s well-trained nostrils picked up the faint scent of burning marijuana.
Someone, somewhere behind one of the closed doors, was smoking dope, maybe on duty.
The Executioner didn’t let that bother him. He hadn’t come to Khartoum to make piddling little arrests of marijuana users, even if they were cops. He had far bigger fish to fry, and he was about to begin cooking by stepping right into the middle of the pan.
Makkah led him through several turns before stopping at a paint-chipped door at the end of a short side hall. The airport captain seemed to hesitate for a moment as he raised his fist, the collar of his uniform blouse suddenly becoming too tight. Pulling it away from his throat with his other hand, he finally rapped lightly on the wood.
Words in Arabic came from the other side of the door, and Makkah reached out and tried to twist the knob. When it wouldn’t budge, he knocked again, speaking in Arabic himself this time.
A second later a click sounded, then the door swung wildly open, and a burly man with coffee-colored skin and wearing a uniform similar to Makkah’s glared out at the captain. Though the man was bald on the top of his head, a thick matt of black hair grew over his ears and on the back of his head.
Makkah visibly shrank, and the Executioner noted that instead of captain’s bars on the collar of the burly man’s shirt, he wore the markings of a colonel.
The bald-pated colonel glowered at Makkah for another second, then turned his attention to Bolan. Immediately his composure changed. He smiled widely, his lips seeming to stretch across his entire face. “So,” he said with the formal English indicative of a British public-school education, “may I assume that you are Special Agent Stone?” He stuck out his hand.
Bolan felt the firmness in the man’s handshake and, for reasons as mysterious at this juncture as those behind his dislike of Makkah, suddenly felt as if he was finally meeting a man who could be trusted. While he couldn’t always explain his own instincts—even to himself—he had learned to trust them over the years.
The Executioner couldn’t discount one other fact that probably played a role in his instant trust. The colonel obviously shared Bolan’s contempt for Makkah.
“I’m Stone,” the Executioner said as he dropped the strong hand. “But there’s no need for formalities here. Just call me Brandon.”
This seemed to please the colonel. “Then I will be known to you as Abdul,” he said. “Although for future reference, should you need this information, my official title is Colonel Urgoma.”
Bolan nodded.
Urgoma stepped back and waved for Bolan to enter. But when Makkah tried to cross the threshold, a stocky forearm shot out and a big palm rammed against the captain’s chest. “Thank you for your assistance, Captain Makkah,” the colonel said, “but your services are no longer required. You may return to the airport.”
Makkah’s caramel-colored skin took on a slight tinge of gray. He saluted, turned on his heel and walked off without saying another word.
Urgoma closed the door and the Executioner found that they were in some kind of outer office. One desk and one desk chair was all he could see in the room. There was probably a presently absent secretary who worked there.
“Did you speak much with the captain?” Urgoma asked in a low voice.
Makkah was long gone by now, so the Executioner had to assume there were other men in adjacent offices whom Urgoma didn’t want to hear the question.
“No,” Bolan said in the same low voice. “Not a lot. We were too busy shooting men wearing unmarked green fatigues to grow real close.”
Urgoma nodded. “Ah, yes, the greenies,” he said. “So I heard. Please accept my sincere apology. Bullets are hardly the way to welcome a guest into the country. Particularly a guest who has come, at our request, to help us.”
Bolan