Insurrection. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
Bear. What have you got for me?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. I’m staying tapped into the CIA because it was their snitch who shot the clip. I noticed the bishop walking between the two machete-wielders myself.”
“Great minds working independently,” Brognola said with a trace of humor.
“Yes, whatever,” Kurtzman replied. “In any case, the same informant tried to follow Adewale. They walked away from the university chapel and into a low-rent housing area, where the snitch lost him.”
“But we know he’s alive someplace?” Bolan asked.
“Well,” Kurtzman replied. “We know he was alive. At least for a while after the bombing and machete attack. But we’ve got no idea where he might be now.”
“Thanks, Bear,” Bolan said. He turned his attention to Brognola. “Okay, Hal. My guess is you’d like me to find Adewale, as well as track down the terrorists responsible for this and eliminate them?” Before the big Fed could answer, he went on. “I’m assuming the rest of the conference has been canceled?”
“There aren’t enough bishops left to continue it,” Brognola replied. “There were two who arrived late and were still at the airport when the explosion occurred. The Vatican ordered them to get out of the country immediately. The Nigerian officials recommended they do the same. So they’re on their way to Rome. The church is going to have to reorganize its entire structure in Nigeria, and that’s going to be a monumental job.”
“Sounds like my mission’s clear,” the Executioner said. “Rescue Joshua Adewale. But with no more to go on in locating him, I’ll plan on going after Boko Haram. I’ve got a feeling the bishop will pop up somewhere along the way.”
“How you operate is your call,” Brognola agreed. “As always.”
“How do I stand on entering the country, Hal?” he asked.
Brognola knew exactly what he meant. “I pulled a few strings through a CIA friend of mine. You’ll be met by a customs agent named Sean Azizi. He’ll walk you through customs and immigration and stamp your passport himself. No search of your bags or person.”
“Sounds a little too good to be true.”
“My friend just happened to have an informant in the right place at the right time,” Brognola said. “You know how that goes. A guy who knew a guy who knew a guy, the last guy being Azizi. Anyway, unless Azizi or one of the other guys can’t keep from flapping their gums—and they’re all getting paid big bucks to keep it a secret—no one else in Nigeria should be aware that Matt Cooper is anything other than the photojournalist he says he is. And even Azizi won’t know who you really are or why you’re there.”
Bolan cleared his throat. “It won’t matter,” he said. “Everyone in Nigeria will know about the chapel bomb and the machete attack. If my cover ID gets burned, it won’t take a genius to guess why I’m there.”
“True,” Brognola said. “Their first thought’ll be that you’re CIA.”
“It always is. Okay. I’ll play it by ear, Hal. Who’s my initial contact?”
“A woman named Layla Galab,” Brognola said. “You’ll find her at the Isaac Center. Any cabdriver should be able to take you there.”
“Affirmative.”
“Good luck, big guy.”
Bolan paused before answering. He and Brognola both knew that luck rarely entered the picture. For the most part, a warrior made his own luck. So finally, he said, “Thanks,” as the Learjet’s wheels quit rolling on the tarmac of Ibadan Airport in the state of Oyo, Nigeria.
* * *
BISHOP JOSHUA ADEWALE’S unconsciousness couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds, he realized, as he opened his eyes again. He could still hear the screams and shrieks he had heard right before being knocked out by whatever had hit him in the back of the head. And as he rose to a sitting position on top of the bodies of several other bishops who had been cut down by the machetes, he saw the massacre still going on outside the chapel.
The pain in the back of his head was bad but tolerable as he stood. A strange feeling of remoteness seemed to come over him. He could see the angry, cursing men with the wicked blades, cutting and slashing and severing heads and limbs from the bodies of men who were dressed similarly to him. The sight made him sick to his stomach. But he knew, somehow, that he was invulnerable to their attack.
Adewale began to walk forward. He had no idea where he was going and only the vaguest memory of where he was and even who he was. His body ached from the top of his head to the soles of his feet, as if someone had punched him repeatedly in the face, then the sides of his head, then his chest and every other square inch of his body. Each step he took brought on new pain. It hurt to walk, but when he stopped briefly between two of the blood-crazed attackers, he realized it hurt just as much to stand still. Turning a full 360 degrees in an attempt to get his bearings and remember where and who he was, he saw the remnants of what looked to have once been a chapel.
Only one wall still stood, and the bishop did his best to focus his fuzzy eyes on a stained-glass window that had miraculously been spared. Spared from what? he wondered for a moment. Then he recalled a loud noise. As his vision began to clear, he continued to look at the stained glass. It featured Jesus Christ on the cross, his forehead bleeding from the crown of thorns that had been placed on his brow. The sight brought back another piece of Adewale’s past, and he remembered that he was a priest—no, a bishop.
He turned away from the ruins and saw the men on both sides of him. One swung his machete at Adewale’s neck. Miraculously, the assault fell short, but the ugly black steel came close enough that he felt the air move against his throat.
The compulsion to walk came over him again, and he moved on, passing between the two attackers and wondering why he had no desire to run. But the same remoteness, a feeling that even though he was in the presence of evil, he was invulnerable to the blades, continued to coax him on.
Still wondering why he felt no fear, the bishop left the screams and cries behind him and walked on. He did his best to take stock of the situation, focusing his brain on what he could remember as he continued to walk down an asphalt street.
He was a bishop; he remembered that now. A bishop in New York City. But he was not in New York at the moment. Was he back in his home country of Nigeria? He thought so.
Adewale pushed himself on, one wobbling step after another. Something had happened in the chapel, where he’d been speaking to a group of fellow bishops. A bomb? Yes. A bomb set by terrorists. Thugs who were now chopping the survivors to pieces with their machetes. He had been spared. Why, he didn’t know, but he knew that they might still find him and kill him.
The bishop realized he had entered a low-income housing area. Every block he passed exhibited a little more poverty than the last. Soon the rough asphalt ran out and was replaced with dirt streets.
Finally, the bishop came to a corner and halted abruptly. Why he’d stopped was as big a mystery as why he’d felt compelled to walk. He found himself next to a wood-frame house, and his eyes were drawn to the backyard, where a clothesline had been stretched from the building to a rough wooden pole in the ground. Most of the clothes hanging on the line looked like women’s, but right in the center, waving gently in the breeze, were a pair of khaki pants and a matching work shirt.
The bishop glanced down at his cassock. It had been black, but was now covered in so much dust it was gray. It would still identify him as a Christian bishop if the terrorists who had bombed the chapel came looking for him.
Adewale knew he needed to change clothes. He would take the pants and a shirt from the line. He started that way, then halted again.
Thou shalt not steal ran through the bishop’s mind. Taking these pants and the shirt would be wrong. He didn’t want to steal. He particularly