Colony Of Evil. Don Pendleton

fitness for the task of breeding little Aryans. A prosecutor visited the colony with two detectives, spent the night and then reported that he found no evidence of any impropriety. The fact that he immediately bought a brand-new Cadillac convertible was certainly a mere coincidence.

      The next official look-see came in 1970, when a teenager named Rolf Schumacher surfaced in Mocoa, forty miles northwest of Dietrich’s colony. He’d been delirious from fever, ultimately lost one leg to hemorrhage from a snakebite, and took weeks to tell his halting story in disjointed bits and pieces. Bottom line: Schumacher claimed that Dietrich and his SS-style Home Guard had killed Rolf’s parents and two brothers when the family opposed Dietrich’s selection of their teen daughters for his breeding program. Rolf had managed to escape, eluded trackers in the forest, but had worse luck when it came to Mother Nature.

      Once again, investigators made the trek to Dietrich’s hideaway. This time they spent three nights and came back empty-handed. Their report, which had been classified on grounds of “national security, then photocopied by a contract agent of the CIA and sent to Langley, found no evidence of any “organized eugenics program,” sexual abuse of minors or restraint of any resident against his-or-her will. In fact, the bureaucrats found nothing to suggest that any Schumachers had ever joined the colony.

      The third and last official peek inside Dietrich’s domain occurred in 1995. On that occasion, a Mossad agent informed the DAS—Colombia’s Administrative Department of Security, equivalent to the FBI—that Dietrich was allied with certain drug cartels and with a global network of Muslim ex-tremists. DAS Deputy Director Joaquin Menendez had promised a thorough investigation, but nothing seemed to happen. Except, that is, a car-bombing in Cali that killed the complaining Mossad agent seven weeks later. Israel had not protested, since the agent’s presence in Colombia was technically illegal, but a CIA informant claimed that two low-level DAS agents were subsequently executed by Mossad, for the bombing.

      Menendez, meanwhile, kept his post at DAS headquarters and compiled a record Hans Dietrich himself might have admired. In May 2000, acting on information supplied by Menendez, soldiers of the Colombian Army’s Third Brigade ambushed and killed ten members of an elite police narcotics unit trained by the DEA. In its two years of existence, the unit had captured 205 cocaine smugglers, including several who were sent to the United States for trial. The massacre—or “tragic accident,” as local newspapers described it—had occurred, Menendez said, because one of his most reliable informants had mistaken the police for leftist rebels. The list went on.

      Menendez, in the photos Brognola provided, scowled behind a set of bushy eyebrows and a thick mustache. His eyes were dark brown, nearly black, and in the shots provided seemed devoid of all humanity.

      As for the Sword of Allah, documents procured from the Mossad alleged that one of the group’s top planners, Nasser Khalil, spent an average four months per year at Colonia Victoria, flying in to Dietrich’s private airstrip without interference from the DAS or anybody else. Khalil was sought by Israel, France and Italy for acts of terrorism planned and carried out against them, while the CIA had placed a bounty on his head, on general principles. He was suspected of collaborating with al Qaeda and Hamas on various attacks over the past ten years, but he had never been arrested or detained for questioning by any of the governments pursuing him.

      If Bolan had an opportunity to meet him…

      Gentle rapping at his door distracted Bolan from the files in front of him. He rose and crossed the room, opened the door, and felt himself relax at sight of Price’s smile.

      “I wasn’t sure if you’d want company,” she said.

      “Always,” he told her, stepping back to clear the doorway.

      “You’ve got a lot to read and memorize.”

      “I’m nearly done.”

      “Any surprises?”

      “Anytime I see the old Hitlerian mystique crop up again, I guess a part of me’s surprised,” he said. “My father fought those guys, you know? It’s hard to fathom anyone believing in the Master Race and all that crap, after so many years.”

      “Some people never learn,” she said.

      “I guess they need another lesson, then.”

      “You’ll be careful, right? Colombia’s no place to let your guard down for a nanosecond.”

      “Hey,” he said, “careful’s my middle name.”

      “Your middle name is Sam, and careful is the farthest thing from what you are,” she answered.

      “Well…”

      “I mean it, Mack. Nazis, the DAS and drug cartels, the Sword of Allah. Toss them all together, and you don’t have many friends down there.”

      “There’s always Jorge Guzman,” Bolan said.

      “I say it again, be careful. Just because he draws a paycheck from the DEA and the CIA, it doesn’t mean he’s clean. You know the kinds of characters they deal with. Watch yourself, is all I’m saying.”

      Bolan said, “I always do. But at the moment…”

      “What?”

      “I’m busy watching you.”

      “Smooth talker.”

      “I’m a little out of practice,” he admitted.

      “I hope so.”

      She wore a jumpsuit with a zipper down the front, running from chest to somewhere south of modesty. As Bolan watched, she gripped the tab and lowered a fraction of an inch, teasing.

      “I was about to have a shower,” Bolan said.

      She smiled. “I thought you’d never ask.”