State Of Evil. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
them at a loss to understand how they’d begun. There was no correlation of the buildings that had burned—food storage, garden tools, clothing—nor any clear-cut reason why one of them, much less three, had suddenly burst into flame.
“Arson?”
Ahmadou Gaborone wasn’t precisely sure why it surprised him. He’d been warning of attacks against Obike since construction started on the village, but his sermons were theatrics for the most part, smoke and mirrors meant to keep the sheep in line.
Now he had smoke, all right, but there wasn’t a mirror to be seen.
“Yes, Master.” Nico Mbarga’s attitude was solemn as he answered. “Someone set the fires. Timed them to be discovered all at once, I think.”
“But why?”
Mbarga shrugged. “I don’t know, Master. When we find the one responsible, he’ll tell us.”
“Only one? There were three fires, Nico.”
“Master, it isn’t difficult. A bit of fuse, even a candle or a cigarette can make a simple timer. Certain chemicals, as well.”
“Who has such knowledge in Obike?”
Mbarga had to have felt Gaborone peering into his soul. He stiffened to a semblance of attention and replied, “As for the chemicals, Master, perhaps no one. But anyone who’s ever smoked or used a candle might be wise enough to place it in a twist of cloth or paper, even some dry grass. When it burns down…” Another shrug.
“A simple matter, then. But why would any member of our fold do such a thing?”
“Master, we’ve spoken of morale in camp since the Americans were here. It’s possible that someone wishes to depart but fears to tell you openly. In that case, a diversion might allow them to slip out while we were busy with the fires.”
“A traitor, then.” The word tasted bitter on Gaborone’s tongue.
“Perhaps only a coward, Master.”
“It’s the same thing, Nico. Those among my people who lack faith in me are traitors to the Process. They betray me and themselves.”
“Of course, sir.”
Another moment made it clear to Gaborone what had to be done. “We need a head count, Nico. Have your men assemble everyone, immediately. No excuses. None. If someone is too sick or lame to walk, have your men carry him outside. I want to see my people. If there is a traitor in the village, I must know his name and look into his eyes.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Go, then! Do it now!”
Mbarga ran to do as he was ordered, calling to his men along the way. Within five minutes, he’d retrieved the megaphone that Gaborone sometimes employed for sermons, braying orders now for every person in the village to assemble near the mess hall, falling into ranks by dormitories to be counted.
Mbarga did it well. He didn’t mention traitors or betrayal, rather claiming that the master wished to reassure himself that no one had been injured by the fires. It was a good excuse and went unquestioned, since Obike’s residents were long accustomed to surprise assemblies, lectures and the like.
Gaborone stood apart and watched as his people assembled, lining up in groups of ten or twelve, depending on the barracks they inhabited. He searched their faces, tried to scan their souls, seeking the foul rot of betrayal that he felt should stand out like a lesion on the flesh. It pained him that he couldn’t spot a traitor in the ranks. That failure made him wonder if his gifts were fading, if the secret voices had deserted him.
Impossible!
The gift of prophecy wasn’t a transient thing. When someone was selected as a messenger of God, that designation was a lifelong calling. Still, prophets were only human. They could make mistakes. And sometimes they could be deceived.
The head count took another thirty minutes. Some of Mbarga’s men were bad with numbers, lost their place and had to start again, forcing Mbarga to be harsh with them. When they were done, there should be 732 assembled congregants, including guards.
And if no one was missing, what came next?
Mbarga jogged back to offer his report. Anxious, the master asked, “How many?”
“Seven hundred,” Nico said, “and thirty-one.”
“One missing, then. Who is it?”
“An American from dormitory number 7. Patrick Quinn.”
The name inspired vague memories. Resentful parents and a battle over money. It was nothing Gaborone hadn’t experienced before, mere trivia, considering his greater plans.
“Find him!” the master ordered. “Bring him here to me!”
CHAPTER FOUR
Patrick Quinn might’ve lost some weight since moving from Wyoming to the Congo, but a quarter mile into the Executioner’s forced march, the body slumped across his shoulder seemed to be gaining more poundage with every step.
Bolan knew that the feeling was a combination of fatigue, deadweight and the oppressive jungle atmosphere, but understanding didn’t make his burden any lighter. He experimented with his speed, plodding, jogging, looking for a happy medium between the two, but nothing eased the chafing or the dull ache that had started in the left side of his body.
No hunters were pursuing him, so far. Bolan was confident he would’ve heard them coming through the forest, but he couldn’t say when the pursuit would start. His rest stop had to be a brief one, and perhaps he’d shift Quinn to his other shoulder for the next half mile or so.
When he was two miles from the village, he could use the satellite phone to contact Grimaldi, and his ride home would be airborne within minutes. There was still a long, hard march in front of him, but if he reached their rendezvous without a swarm of trackers on his tail, there would be time to rest while he waited for the chopper.
And by then, Bolan knew he would need it.
He was forced to lower Quinn by stages, to avoid a sudden drop that might inflict concussion or a list of other injuries. First Bolan crouched in front of a looming tree, then braced one knee against the spongy soil. He set down his rifle and gripped Quinn’s torso with both hands, leaning forward an inch at a time until his passenger was seated on the ground, reclining with his back against the tree trunk.
Perfect.
Only when he saw Quinn’s face did Bolan realize that something had gone wrong.
The young man’s skin was clammy, deathly pale. His breathing was a shallow whisper, barely there. When Bolan checked his pulse, two fingers probing for an artery below the bristly jawline, he discovered an erratic, feeble beat.
Bolan had never gone to med school, but he’d passed the basic first-aid course required of every Special Forces soldier, and he recognized a classic case of shock. Quinn’s vital signs were fading fast, and if the trend wasn’t reversed, Bolan’s inert companion would become a true deadweight.
Some people panicked in a crisis; others did what had to be done. Bolan has lost his panic gene in mortal combat, long ago and far away. Younger than Quinn, he’d learned that those who lost their head in crisis situations often lost their lives, as well. All things being equal, cooler heads and steady hands had better chances of survival.
Bolan’s life wasn’t at risk this time, not yet, but it was still a case of do-or-die. He guessed that Quinn’s condition represented a reaction to the sedative—either some kind of unexpected allergy or possibly an overdose occasioned by his recent weight loss.
In either case, if Bolan’s supposition was correct, he had the answer in his pocket.
Stony Man had planned ahead, as always. While the sedative injection had been judged appropriate and safe for adult