Lethal Payload. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.

      3

      Paramaribo, Suriname

      Bolan removed the bandage and surveyed the handiwork on his arm. It would have to do.

      Sweat stung his arm as he stepped out from the air-conditioned hotel, and his shirt soaked through from the ninety-degree heat and the matching humidity. Suriname sat at the top of South America less than two hundred kilometers from the equator. As a nation, Suriname consisted almost totally of its coastal strip; and once one strolled half a kilometer from the surf and sand, the sea breeze ended and the cloistered heat of the tropical rainforest began. The capital city followed the geography. The Europeans clung to the coast. Modern European Dutch-style businesses and homes clustered along the beaches and the waterfronts of the capital. Once one went inland, the tin shacks of the ever-growing ghettos clawed space out of the jungle.

      Bolan put the blissful breeze of the sea to his back and walked into the blast furnace.

      He was walking into a part of the capital that most people avoided after dark, and where police went only when heavily armed and in number.

      Bolan got the directions from the U.S. Embassy, but he could have followed his nose. It was evening, and with the setting of the sun the act of cooking had become tolerable. Bolan walked the invisible borders of the shantytowns by scent and turned to follow the aroma of jasmine rice, curry and simmering coconut milk to the Javanese quarter.

      Bolan had few illusions. He was barely armed, and his ruse was as thin as hell. He would not be able to withstand more than a few moments of scrutiny, and if it came to a fight he would never live to reload the little .22 Walther PPK/S tucked in the small of his back. The knife tucked in his boot would be of even less use against men who had spent their entire lives practicing the dances of death with foot-long kris knives and parangs.

      People sat outside on the stoops and rattan chairs, taking their ease, or leaned out the windows to try to catch some hint of the evening breeze. They smoked cigarettes and looked sidelong at Bolan with undisguised suspicion as he passed.

      Bolan consulted his mental map and approached the practice hall of Pandekar Ali Soerho.

      Soerho was a pandekar of high repute, of the Jokuk style, from the same lineage as Regog. In this confrontation, Bolan would not have tactical surprise or Adamsite gas to back him up against this mystic warrior and his circle.

      The hall was a WWII-vintage Quonset hut that had been repaired many times. Tin siding had been used to patch the walls and the roof. Woven rattan screens covered the windows. The scent of sandalwood incense drifted from an open door that was obscured by hanging strings of cola nut beads. Two men sat on the stoop smoking pipes with incredibly long stems. They wore T-shirts, shorts and sandals and looked like everyone else in the quarter seeking relief from the evening heat. The veins crawling across their corded, rock-hewn forearms, and callused hands bespoke of long weapons training with blades and staves.

      The two men watched Bolan approach with supreme disinterest.

      When Bolan neared to a few feet, the two men suddenly rose with fluid grace. They flared out heavily developed shoulders and stood in his way like temple guardians carved of stone. Bolan smiled, but the smile he gave them was very sad, as if he were in mourning. He bowed his head toward both men respectfully. “Asalaam aleikum.”

      The two sentries blinked in surprise as Bolan greeted them in Arabic. They bowed back, but their wary eyes were still hooded like hawks considering prey.

      “What do you want?” the taller of the two men asked in French.

      “I need to speak with Pandekar Soerho.” Bolan bowed slightly again. “One of us is fallen.”

      Bolan took out the knife he had liberated from Pak Widjihartani’s corpse in Indonesia. Widjihartani’s legion dog tags were wrapped around the hilt. The two men sucked in their breath in dismay. The taller one surveyed Bolan intensely. “And you?”

      Bolan pulled up his sleeve. His arm still burned where the tattoo had been scrawled into his skin. The tattoo was not deep, but direct injections of cortisone had been required to get rid of the swelling. The CIA developed inks would dissolve within days. The job had been done by a former Navy SEAL who owned his own tattoo parlor and contracted out tattoos needed by agents going undercover. The man was a pro, and even though the tattoo was less than forty-eight hours old, it looked like Bolan had borne it for years.

      The tattoo was of a shield. A dragon was scrawled across its background, and a stylized owl parachuted across the front of it.

      The sentries stared at the tattoo and nodded slowly. The taller one took the knife from Bolan and motioned for him to follow them inside.

      The scent of sandalwood was very strong. The walls were covered with crossed spears and staves. Short swords and knives with blades that curved in every possible direction were everywhere. Batik prints of gods, heroes and demons covered the patched, steel walls. The incense sticks near the altar had burned low. The evening’s instruction was over. Two men swept the floor, and another dusted the altar.

      Ali Soerho sat cross-legged on a mat. Bolan scrutinized the pandekar carefully as he unfolded his legs and seemed to grow out the mat like a tree. He was a slightly built man who looked to be around fifty. Bolan knew that looks could be quite deceiving in martial-arts masters. Soerho could be anywhere from fifty to seventy, and to have reached the rank of pandekar his slight build and gentle features hid his power like silken cloth wrapped around an iron dagger.

      The taller of the men escorting Bolan approached the pandekar and bowed deeply. He leaned in close to his master and whispered to him for long moments before presenting him with the knife Bolan had brought. Soerho accepted the weapon reverently and went to lay it upon the altar. His man and the two men sweeping fell into rank behind the pandekar as he approached Bolan.

      The man dusting the altar ceased his cleaning and pulled out a cell phone.

      Bolan bowed low to the pandekar. The master bowed back and spoke in very rough, halting French. “You speak Arabic?”

      Bolan bowed again and replied, “I am only just learning, to further my studies of the Holy Koran.”

      One of Soerho’s men quickly translated. The pandekar nodded at Bolan’s wisdom. The tall disciple took over as interpreter. “You knew Pak?”

      Bolan pulled false foreign legion dog tags up from around his neck. “We served together in the legion. It was there that I converted to Islam.”

      The man with the phone clicked it shut and went back to his dusting. Bolan noted he was working his way back the way he had just come and was putting himself between Bolan and the door. The pandekar spoke through his translator as he gestured at the knife and the dog tags on the altar. “How did you come by these things?”

      “How much have you been told?” Bolan countered.

      The Javanese had a very rapid discussion in their own language. Bolan decided to interrupt