Washington, D.C.
Hal Brognola entered the conference room and sat down, placing the manila folder on the table before him. Looking uncomfortable and sipping from a glass of water, Pakistan’s recently restored prime minister, Khalil Malik, stared at it. Brognola indicated the folder with a sweep of his hand and, when Malik made no move for it, used two fingers to slide the folder across the table.
“Take a look, Prime Minister.”
Malik looked down. Reluctantly, he opened the folder. The first photograph that greeted him was that of Sajjad Rahman. The man was obviously dead.
“That’s at a morgue here in D.C.,” Brognola said, “where certain evidence is kept. Sajjad Rahman’s body will be staying on file with us, as it were. You and I need to come to an understanding.”
“I am not sure what you mean.”
The door opened. Ghulam Nat entered. Malik bristled at the Indian bureaucrat’s presence. “What is he doing here?” Malik demanded.
“I have been meeting with the Americans, of course,” Nat said, “arranging for even closer relations between India and the United States. Now, more than ever, a stable presence in our region is required. The Americans are helping India to establish this. You would be wise to pay attention.”
“Who is he to talk to me like this?” Malik demanded.
“I? Who am I?” Nat snorted. “I am one of the men who was taken hostage by Gotterdammerung. I am a man who watched friends and innocent men and women slaughtered for no reason. I am a man who had to fight for his freedom. And I am a man who knows who to thank today for his freedom. Your troops did nothing but make things worse. They blundered about trying to free you, or so they claimed, and all they managed to accomplish was murder. No, Prime Minister, you will listen. You will listen to what your hosts have to say. You will listen to what they offer you. You will consider very carefully the options set before you. The future of your regime, and of your country, depends on it.”
“I do not like these strong-arm tactics,” Malik started to bluster. He stood.
“Sit down,” Brognola barked. “Or, as God is my witness, I will zip-tie you to that chair and pistol-whip you until you stop talking.”
Malik sat down quickly.
“Now, Prime Minister,” Brognola said, “I want to talk to you about something. Specifically, about certain hostile actions taken by certain high-profile elements of the Pakistani military against a duly authorized agent of the United States government while that agent was engaged in United States business.”
“This, I know nothing about,” Malik insisted. “I was held hostage by Gotterdammerung myself! You cannot blame me.”
“We do blame you,” Brognola insisted. “We blame you for the actions of Sajjad Rahman. You remember Rahman. He’s the serial rapist who headed your personal security forces. The man whose crimes you’ve been covering up for years.”
“You have no evidence of that,” Malik said. “And it is my understanding this Rahman, this rogue agent who attacked others without my authorization, is dead now. The problem is solved.”
“The problem is not solved,” Brognola told him. “You know as well as I do that Pakistan continues to work against the interests of the United States. I don’t need to remind you that things have been strained, at best, since we located the world’s most wanted terrorist living the quiet life on Pakistani soil. Are we supposed to believe you didn’t know he was there?”
“That is old news,” Malik said. “You cannot exert pressure on me over that.”
“You would be amazed how much pressure India can bring to bear on you,” Nat stated. “I am prepared to show you.”
“You have no proof of any of these accusations!” Malik insisted.
“Ordinarily, you would be right,” Brognola said. “But if we had a prisoner, one who had worked closely with Rahman and who, in exchange for asylum in the United States, was willing to testify regarding Rahman’s behavior and motivations... Well, that kind of thing would play out fairly poorly for you in the international court of public opinion.”
Malik looked suspicious. “What do you want from me?”
“We want Pakistan to toe the line,” Brognola said. “No more hiding terrorists. No more covering up rape and oppression by your operatives. And while you’re at it, you might start figuring out how you’re going to redress Russia’s rather lengthy list of grievances. Ambassador Vostok has a lot to say about his brief stay in the hospitality of Sajjad Rahman’s forces.”
“And, of course, there are the military bases,” Nat added. “It seems so simple now. A suggestion was made to me by a certain man... Well. That is not important. But once I brought up the idea to my government, it seemed impossible we had not thought of it before.”
“Military bases?” Malik asked.
“American military bases,” Nat said, “dotting the border with Pakistan, on Indian soil. Cementing this new era of military partnership and economic brotherhood between India and the United States. You can imagine how the Americans would feel about you threatening their new best friends. How they would disapprove of your association with creatures like Sajjad Rahman. How terrible for you that we have proof.”
“You are bluffing,” Malik said. “You have no such witness to use against me.”
“Am I?” Brognola queried. “Bring him in.”
Bolan entered the room. He had with him Hanif, Rahman’s second in command. Hanif looked at the floor, sheepish. He still wore considerable bandages. Bolan and Ghulam Nat exchanged nods.
“Very well,” Malik said. “Very well. It will be done. All will be done as you say.”
“Good,” Brognola said. “Then let’s get down to some serious talks.”
Later, when Malik had been ushered out of the room, Hanif returned to a holding cell and Nat bade farewell, Bolan sat down across from Brognola.
“What’s the word from upstairs?”
“The Man,” Brognola said, “is incredibly happy with your accomplishments, Striker. But you knew he would be.”
“I figured.”
“Your modesty is what I admire about you most,” the big Fed replied. “I thought you’d like to know that you’ve been invited to a state dinner. Three of them, actually. Which, of course, you can’t attend.”
“Nat?” Bolan asked.
“Yes,” Brognola said. “Also the prime minister and the vice president.”
“I like that guy,” Bolan said. “Good sense of humor.”
“I’ll make a note. Aside from that, we’ve received repeated queries from Sasha Needham of the Mossad, wondering if it might be possible to arrange a meeting.”
“I think those would best be left unanswered,” Bolan told him. “Although I do appreciate her accuracy with a rifle.”
“At some point I’ll learn where you draw the line between attributing your breathing to skill or to luck,” Brognola said.
“When I figure it out, I’ll let you know.”
“I wish you would,” Brognola said. “I have some printed messages from Barb for you here, too.”
Bolan took them. When he opened the envelope, he grinned.
“Is that a photograph?” Brognola asked.
Bolan tucked the envelope away. “An invitation.”
“I see,” Brognola said. “Before I forget, there’s more good news. If you want to call it that. The Chinese have been strangely forthcoming over the past twenty-four hours. We scored big on this, Striker. They’ve always been reluctant to admit the full extent of the problem they have with these doomsday groups. It’s looking likely that all the tainted products will be rounded up and safely destroyed.”
“We have to consider the possibility, Hal,” Bolan said, “that there are more Iron Thunders and Gotterdammerungs out there. The world is a sick place these days. There will be men who want to capitalize on that.”
“I’ve been discussing that with Barb. We’re setting up some new global-search parameters. While the current files will close, an ongoing file will be opened up for death cults and nihilist groups in general.”
“That’s good to know. And in the meantime, maybe we’ve finally found the root of this Gotterdammerung and Iron Thunder business. For now.”
“It’s all interconnected,” Brognola admitted. “Once we knew what to look for we started finding more and more records. Video posts. Statements in forums and chatrooms. Records left behind by Dumar Eon and even Pohler, after a fashion. Pohler’s material is all encrypted, but we’ve got the flier you discovered to use as our decryption key. Gotterdammerung was Helmut Schribner’s backup plan. The tainted Chinese products were Pohler’s backup plan. Everything these men did was geared toward the eventual destruction of humankind...for no other reason than that they didn’t want to go on living. They wanted to end all of existence.”
“Yeah, well.” Bolan stood to go. “Guess that didn’t work out.”
“What’s next for you, Striker?” Brognola stood, too. He started to open the door to the meeting room.
“I thought I might spend a little time at the Farm.”
“Training?” Brognola asked.
“Resting. Rest and recreation.”
“Ah,” Brognola said. “Good. Oh, while I’m thinking of it, the autopsy report came back on Rahman. The official diagnosis is very technical, but I’m told it translates to a traumatic brain event. Like a stroke, but not a stroke. Death by misadventure, that sort of thing.”
“So he just popped a brain vessel in the middle of a knife fight?”
“The doctors did say that a great deal of stress can bring it on. Although in Rahman’s case there was evidence of previous events. His brain was like an off-road trail, apparently. Lots of disruptions. It’s probably why he was such a complete psychotic. You didn’t think the people you fight were all completely normal, did you? I just assume most of them are completely nuts.”
“It’s a first,” Bolan said. “I can’t remember the last time one of our foes just dropped dead of natural causes in the middle of a fight. Well, if I hadn’t ended his life quicker.”
“Well, far be it from me to keep you from your R & R. You’ve earned it. But I got your request for compensation for a little item on one of your stops during the mission. What’s this about ten thousand dollars for an ice-cream truck, to be wired to an address in Greece?”
It was minutes before Bolan stopped laughing. It was only then that he could explain to Hal Brognola what was so funny.
* * * * *