Desert falcons, p.7
Desert Falcons, page 7
“Looks like this dude doesn’t know the definition of traveling light,” Grimaldi said.
“Looks like,” Bolan replied. He was watching a tall man in a dark suit approaching them, talking into his left wrist as he walked.
“I love it when those guys do that,” Grimaldi said. “It’s so James Bondish.”
“The guy does have Secret Service Agent written all over him,” Bolan said.
“This is a restricted area,” the agent said. “You’ll have to leave.”
Bolan flashed his Department of Justice identification.
Grimaldi flashed his ID, as well.
The agent scrutinized both of them, then said, “I’m Special Agent Berquist, Secret Service. What’s DOJ doing here?”
The agent’s confusion was understandable, but Bolan didn’t have the time or the patience for long-winded explanations of their cover story. “Who’s the special-agent-in-charge?”
“Special Agent Draper,” Berquist stated.
“How about getting hold of him so I don’t have to explain myself twice?” Bolan said as affably as he could.
Berquist compressed his lips, obviously thinking it over, and then spoke into his wrist once more. “Looks like they’re DOJ. They want to see you.” He listened for a moment, then pointed to a room at the far end of the hangar. “Report to that room and wait.”
“Hey, buddy,” Grimaldi said, “we don’t wait for anybody.”
Bolan tapped him on the shoulder and shook his head. “Has the prince deplaned yet?”
Berquist stared at him, his eyes showing a touch of obvious surprise. He shook his head and nodded toward the plane. “No, sir. They’re in there now with customs. Apparently, they just woke him up, and he’s getting dressed.”
“Tell your boss we need to speak with him ASAP. We’ll be out of sight in the room for now, but we need to see him before you take off for the prince’s hotel.”
“It’s a matter of national security,” Grimaldi added.
The agent nodded. “Yes, sir.” He took another step back and whispered into his left cuff again.
Bolan guided his partner toward the room about forty feet away at the far end of the hangar. Perhaps it would be better if they retained a bit of anonymity for now, as far as the prince and his entourage were concerned. It could make it easier to keep tabs on him during the training course.
Bolan opened the door, and he and Grimaldi stepped inside and stood by the large glass window. They watched as more luggage was unloaded. A pair of vehicles, a van and a stretch limo, pulled up. Some airport luggage handlers and two men in traditional Arab dress stood by the van as three other men, whom Bolan assumed to be customs agents, began to inspect the luggage. A broad-shouldered fellow emerged from the door of the plane looking almost like a taller clone of the first Secret Service agent they’d seen. He turned and said something to someone still inside, trotted down the steps and walked briskly toward the room. Bolan continued to watch the entire scene. The man opened the door and stepped inside, extending his hand.
“I’m Special Agent Steven Draper.”
As they shook, Bolan sized up the man: late thirties, obviously very fit, neat haircut, sharply dressed. The guy exuded the customary professionalism of the Secret Service.
“My agent said you guys are DOJ,” Draper said. “What’s Justice doing here?”
“We’re here on a parallel investigation,” Bolan replied. “I take it you’re aware of the most recent developments concerning the elevation of the current threat level?”
Draper nodded. “If you’re talking about that flake, Autry, and his anti-Muslim comments, we are. But we’ve planned for every contingency concerning the prince’s safety.”
“I’m sure you have. We’ve been assigned more or less as an augmentation.”
“Yeah,” Grimaldi added. “We’ll be up close and personal with His Highness attending the desert warfare course.”
Draper nodded. “We’ll be on the sidelines, but it’s good to know that someone will be on the inside, as well. I’ll need to verify your credentials, of course, and like to remind you that we’re the primary agency in charge here.”
“No problem,” Bolan said. “I have a number you can call to verify our assignment.”
Bolan held up his hand to halt Draper’s response as he observed a group of men descending from the jet. Four were obviously Secret Service. The others were dressed in traditional thobes and ghutras. Bolan counted five of them. One of them was huge and looked like a walking refrigerator. A sixth Arab stopped at the top of the stairs and stood arms akimbo.
“Which one’s the prince?” he asked.
“He’s the one at the top,” Draper said. “He just about had us pulling our hair out on his last trip to Vegas.”
“We heard he was problematic,” Bolan said.
“That’s putting it mildly,” Draper stated. “They’re staying at the Algonquin. The Saudis rented an entire floor of the hotel. It makes it easier for us to restrict the access to the area, but this guy had an endless parade of women, booze and problems the entire time. He claimed he didn’t like the crowded atmosphere of the casinos, so he had them move a couple of crap tables up to his room, along with a band so he could dance the night away.”
“Sounds like a lot of royal babysitting,” Grimaldi said.
Draper flashed a lopsided smile. “You got that right.”
Bolan studied the prince, memorizing the man’s bearded face and sizing up the royal as best he could at that distance. He knew he’d have more opportunities over the course of the next few days, but his first impression was that of a young man totally used to having everything done for him. It would be interesting to see how he performed under pressure, if he actually intended to partake of any of the desert warfare training.
“Booze?” Grimaldi said. “I thought Muslims didn’t drink.”
“I guess nobody told the prince that,” Draper said. “We had to seize and delete several embarrassing photos from the cell phones of some of those in attendance.”
Bolan had been surveying the other members of the prince’s entourage. One, in particular, a medium-sized but wiry-looking guy with a bandaged right hand, had piqued the Executioner’s interest. Not only did the Arab move with a certain smooth assertiveness, but he was the only member of the entourage who seemed to be taking note of their surroundings. The Arab’s head moved around with a predator’s piercing gaze, finally stopping at the room and locking eyes with Bolan.
At least one of Humpty Dumpty’s men is alert and ready to keep him from falling, Bolan thought. That guy bears watching.
But at the same time, the soldier couldn’t help but wonder if the bodyguard was thinking the same thing.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Algonquin Hotel & Casino, Las Vegas, Nevada
As always, Mahfuj had awakened before dawn for his morning prayers. He and the others in the detail each had their own rooms. Since the prince had rented the entire floor, several of the American Secret Service agents were stationed there, as well. Two of them had been assigned to stand guard in the hallway all night. After he’d risen, Mahfuj had gone to the door of his room and opened it a crack. The two Americans were still there, looking tired but alert. Their presence could be a problem later on, when the time came to take the prince, but Mahfuj knew he could deal with them. The best way was to gain their trust, especially of their leader, Draper.
The lax sentry did not see the knife that slit his throat. Mahfuj remembered his father telling him that when he was just a boy.
I must gain the trust of the infidels, he thought.
He glanced out the large window. It was almost dawn.
After washing himself and placing his prayer rug toward the east, he’d begun his recitation of the two fardh and the two sunnah. He did not want to miss his prayers and felt a residual anger at the decadent prince, whose flagrant apostasy the evening before at the airport had forced Mahfuj to forgo maghrib. Upon completion he rose and did his customary exercises.
He performed push-ups, sit-ups, squats and a dozen of the Tae Kwon Do forms he had mastered for his black belt. His father had seen to it that Mahfuj and his brothers had the very best of the Korean instructors that had been brought in for the special training. Even though the teachers were not Muslims and were segregated in the special camps where the rest of the infidels stayed, Mahfuj had taken to the training well; more so than his two brothers, who completed the very minimum at their father’s insistence. By age twelve Mahfuj had become a black belt and could break four pine boards with but a single punch or kick. He continued to condition his hands, soaking them in brine and plunging them into pots of sand to toughen his skin. That had enabled him to seize the hot barrel of the would-be assassin’s rifle in Bahrain without recoiling. And now, even though his hand was practically healed, his “heroic act,” as the king had put it, was a good diversionary source for his current mission.
He stood in the spacious room now, covered with perspiration despite the air-conditioning that kept it as cool as a desert oasis.
His cell phone chimed with an incoming text.
It was from Masoud: Can you meet?
He replied with a text that he would be at the prescribed place in one hour and forty minutes and then went to shower.
* * *
Desert Warfare Training Academy
BOLAN AND GRIMALDI trotted through the last section of the obstacle course in the desert warfare training site. Perhaps fifty other men and a smattering of women were lumbering through various stages of the course. As obstacle courses went, this one was pretty standard, and Bolan found himself actually enjoying the physicality of the challenge, even in the dry heat. Grimaldi, however, was having a bit more difficulty. The Executioner slowed his pace a bit to allow his partner to keep up.
It’s all about staying together, Bolan thought as he watched Grimaldi vault over a horizontal log, his face and neck red with exertion.
“You good to go?” Bolan asked.
“Damn straight,” Grimaldi gasped. His head shot to his right where another team of four guys was creeping up on them.
After running through parallel rows of old car tires, scaling a hanging net looped over a thirty-foot wall and fast-roping down the other side, they came to a fifteen-foot wall with four thick ropes hanging about midway down. Bolan put an extra zing in his last two steps and jumped high, seizing the rope. Grimaldi failed to anticipate the height, and his jump fell short, his fingers brushing the end of the suspended rope.
He fell back down, swore and backed up a few feet to run at it again. This had allowed the four-man team to gain a few steps on them. They were almost even now.
Grimaldi’s head bobbled to the side as he glanced at them. “Shit.”
“Need a hand?” Bolan asked. The Executioner was already halfway up the wall.
“I got it, dammit,” Grimaldi said as he took three running steps to make the jump. This time he was successful. “Keep going. Those assholes are gaining on us.”
Bolan went up, hand over hand, until he was able to grab the top edge of the board and then slide over. Instead of dropping down the other side, he straddled the wall momentarily to make sure his partner was able to make it.
Grimaldi’s feet slipped several times before he gained enough purchase to scramble up the wall.
They dropped to the soft sand on the other side, but Grimaldi’s landing was a bit off balance, and he fell.
“You all right?” Bolan asked.
Grimaldi grunted that he was. “Now quit asking.”
To their right, the four-man team in desert camos had just finished scaling their respective barrier. One of them, a short, dark-haired guy in his early twenties, looked over and grinned. “Need some help, ladies?”
From the looks of them, Bolan figured they were ex-military. Probably getting this desert warfare certificate so they could pad their resumes a bit before applying to some private military contractor’s outfit for the big bucks.
“Come on, let’s smoke those bastards,” Grimaldi said, getting to his feet and giving the guy the finger.
Bolan and Grimaldi actually pulled ahead by several yards as they both jumped a four-foot ditch and sprinted toward the last obstacle, a telephone-pole-sized log set on three-foot-high concrete anchors. The object was to race along the log without falling into the gravel-laden pit on the ground underneath. Bolan reached the log first, with Grimaldi right behind him. The four-man team was perhaps twenty-five feet behind them now. If they could cross this last barrier without any problems, the finish line was only a short sprint away.
The log had been treated with creosote, which made it slippery. Bolan’s lightweight desert combat boots with the corrugated soles gripped the wood with efficiency. The trick, he knew, was to maintain your balance without sacrificing too much speed. Trying to go too fast increased your chances of slipping. Bolan elevated his arms to his chest, similar to a boxer’s stance, for better balance. Behind him he could hear Grimaldi’s periodic grunts.
“Looking good so far,” Grimaldi yelled.
Bolan didn’t look back but estimated his partner was about twenty feet behind him.
He was nearing the end of the log now. Fifteen feet…ten…five…
Jumping off and landing in the sandy earth, Bolan turned to assess the informal race.
Grimaldi was nearing the end of their log. About twenty-five feet to their right the four-man team was doing a credible job of traversing their obstacle. All four of them were moving with a quick, yet cautious stride. The Stony Man pilot was still ahead, though.
“You got it, Jack,” Bolan yelled, giving Grimaldi some verbal encouragement. In reality, he knew winning this informal little race meant nothing, but the competition of even an impromptu game was always a good motivator. The Executioner also knew that the place to make your mistakes was in training, rather than in the field. Still, with only about six more feet for Grimaldi to go, this one appeared to be won. The short guy who’d tried to bait them with the catcall glanced over with a worried look.
Bolan kept his face impassive.
Grimaldi had about three feet to go now. Maybe two more steps.
Suddenly, as his right foot came forward, the sole of his boot landed on the curvature of the log, and he lurched forward. He spread his arms to keep his balance and did a little stutter step with his left foot, causing it to slide around the log, as well. He went straight down, each leg looping around the log, his groin smacking down on to the hard surface.
Grimaldi’s face twisted into a cartoonish grimace, but he managed to grab the top of the log with his hands to keep from falling off.
The short guy bringing up the rear of the four-man team grinned and shouted, “Keep going. We got them.”
One-by-one the four-man team moved to the end of their log and jumped off.
Grimaldi emitted a low groan as he watched them scampering toward the finish line.
“Damn slick boots,” Grimaldi said through clenched teeth. His upper body lolled on the top of the log for a few seconds. “We had them beat, too.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Bolan said.
“Easy for you to say.” He managed to sit upright and then swing his right leg up on to the log, walked the last two steps and hopped off. “Oh, man, that hurt.”
“Well,” Bolan said, “Hal did say this course was a bit of a ball buster, didn’t he?”
Grimaldi snorted a half laugh and said, “Fifty thousand comedians out of work and you have to take their jobs?”
Bolan knew that his partner was okay now. He extended his hand outward. “Need a hand?”
Grimaldi snorted again. “Nah, just a new set of balls. Aww, hell, it’s not like this is my first time at the rodeo.” He straightened and started a slow jog toward the finish line. “Come on. Let’s complete this thing.”
As they trotted across the finish, one of the instructors clicked a stopwatch and shook his head. “Tough break. You guys had the lead, hands down, until that last little slip.”
“Tell me about it,” Grimaldi said, still gripping his crotch.
The instructor pointed toward a pair of foam coolers in the shade of a primitive-looking gazebo. “Get yourselves some water.”
The four-man team that had beaten them was standing next to the coolers. The short, dark-haired guy who’d teased them at the last barrier reached into the closest one, withdrew a bottle of water and tossed it like a football at Grimaldi.
“Here, put some ice on your family jewels,” he said.
Bolan stretched and caught the bottle. The expression on his face told the dark-haired guy to back off. The four of them gave the Executioner and Grimaldi a wide berth as they walked to the coolers. Bolan tossed the water bottle back to the short guy and said, “Thanks, but we’ll get our own.”
The short guy nodded and flashed a quick smile. “No offense meant.”
“None taken,” Bolan said. He reached in and withdrew two bottles, giving one to Grimaldi.
One of the other instructors drove up in a Hummer and pointed toward a tan Quonset hut about thirty yards away. “The class will resume over there.”
The four-man team left the shade of the gazebo and started a trek toward the building. The team leader nodded to Bolan in a sign of respect. The Executioner nodded back.
“I hope we have a chance to lock horns with those assholes again,” Grimaldi said as he twisted the cap on his water bottle. “I’d like to knock that one little bastard’s ass all the way up to his mouth.”
“We’ve got two more days, so I’m sure we will,” Bolan said, taking a drink of water. “But let’s not forget why we’re here. The mission comes first.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Grimaldi said. He drank some more water. “It’s just that I don’t like coming in second.”
“It’s a lot better to come in first when it really counts,” Bolan told. “This was just the warm-up.”
“Yeah,” Grimaldi said, bending over at the waist a few more times. “They say even the great Joe Louis used to get punched in the face during his training camps. But when he stepped into that ring, he was the king.”
