Read Online Beirut Payback: MacK Bolan by Don Pendleton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Don Pendleton
Tags: Fiction, General, Action & Adventure, Men's Adventure, Non-Classifiable, det_action, Bolan; Mack (Fictitious character), Beirut (Lebanon)
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no one would find this corpse until after it was too late.
Bolan moved to the window.
This side of the HQ building faced away from the barracks.
The first gray smudge of false dawn etched the mountains in the east in stark silhouette.
Bolan moved fast. He unlatched the office window and opened it. A narrow ledge ran beneath the window, around the building. He climbed out onto the lip.
A bloodcurdling scream emanated from behind a lighted window a few feet from Bolan.
He inched forward, pressing himself against the building, never relaxing his sense-probing of the night. He almost reached the window when two sentries strolled shoulder to shoulder around the far corner of the building and approached on a course directly below him.
Standing motionless on the ledge, Bolan did not even breathe, his heart thumping against his rib cage.
One of the sentries glanced up almost casually at the lighted square, the only illumination along the second level of the building. He saw nothing but shadows around the window. He and his companion continued on their rounds.
Bolan heard harsh voices coming from behind the glass. He inched the final distance along the parapet for a glimpse inside the room.
It made sense for Strakhov to bring Masudi here, Bolan mused. The Soviet embassy in Beirut would be buzzing, and for the most part the Soviet terror machine kept a low profile in the Middle East, according to Bolan's considerable intel gained from documents captured during The Executioner's hit in Russia.
The situation in Lebanon was far too fluid, changing minute by minute, for anyone's intel to be very accurate, but the KGB habitually avoided direct active presence here, letting their Syrian clients front for them.
Bolan had a suspicion that even the KGB'S Beirut control knew nothing of the events at Biskinta tonight, or even of Strakhov's mission to Lebanon.
Strakhov's activities since arriving had clandestine written all over them.
Bolan eyeballed the scene through the window.
They had Masudi in the office, sure enough.
Bolan pegged it as the Syrian CO'S office.
Masudi sat in a wooden chair, nursing his right hand, rocking back and forth. His handcuffs had been removed.
The Syrian general towered over Masudi, scornfully glaring at the Iranian prisoner.
The bulky, horse-faced guy in cheap East European threads — who Bolan had guessed to be the Syrians' GRU control — stood with his back to the door, observing what the Syrian had done to make Masudi scream. The GRU man idly worked crud from under his fingernails with a penknife and flipped the dirt onto the Syrian general's carpet.
The words they spoke sounded a bit clearer to Bolan this close to the window. They spoke English. Not unusual with so many nationalities warring throughout the region. Most of the participants in Lebanon's war spoke French or English, common languages often used for communication.
No sign of Strakhov.
"You have nine more fingers, General Masudi," the GRU man at the door growled without looking up from his nails. "Then I will have General Abdel begin on... more sensitive areas." Abdel did not budge from crowding Masudi.
"It would be my pleasure, Major Kleb. It has always been my opinion that Iranians are the issue of diseased camels mating with lepers." Abdel appraised Masudi like a butcher sizing up a slab of meat. "I would take my time with this one. He would scream so much..." The Iranian gulped and Bolan could see the terrified man's Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.
"But, Major," Masudi pleaded to the Russian around Abdel's bulk, "are we not allies? I beg of you."
"Beg all you want," snarled the Syrian. "The Iranian Revolutionary Guards fight beside the Druse, yes, but you have never been asked into this by either our government or..." and Abdel shot a quick glance to the GRU advisor "com'th of our friends. And so you will die. You will pay for your unwarranted intervention."
"We fight for the glory of Islam!" protested Masudi. "And
Bolan moved to the window.
This side of the HQ building faced away from the barracks.
The first gray smudge of false dawn etched the mountains in the east in stark silhouette.
Bolan moved fast. He unlatched the office window and opened it. A narrow ledge ran beneath the window, around the building. He climbed out onto the lip.
A bloodcurdling scream emanated from behind a lighted window a few feet from Bolan.
He inched forward, pressing himself against the building, never relaxing his sense-probing of the night. He almost reached the window when two sentries strolled shoulder to shoulder around the far corner of the building and approached on a course directly below him.
Standing motionless on the ledge, Bolan did not even breathe, his heart thumping against his rib cage.
One of the sentries glanced up almost casually at the lighted square, the only illumination along the second level of the building. He saw nothing but shadows around the window. He and his companion continued on their rounds.
Bolan heard harsh voices coming from behind the glass. He inched the final distance along the parapet for a glimpse inside the room.
It made sense for Strakhov to bring Masudi here, Bolan mused. The Soviet embassy in Beirut would be buzzing, and for the most part the Soviet terror machine kept a low profile in the Middle East, according to Bolan's considerable intel gained from documents captured during The Executioner's hit in Russia.
The situation in Lebanon was far too fluid, changing minute by minute, for anyone's intel to be very accurate, but the KGB habitually avoided direct active presence here, letting their Syrian clients front for them.
Bolan had a suspicion that even the KGB'S Beirut control knew nothing of the events at Biskinta tonight, or even of Strakhov's mission to Lebanon.
Strakhov's activities since arriving had clandestine written all over them.
Bolan eyeballed the scene through the window.
They had Masudi in the office, sure enough.
Bolan pegged it as the Syrian CO'S office.
Masudi sat in a wooden chair, nursing his right hand, rocking back and forth. His handcuffs had been removed.
The Syrian general towered over Masudi, scornfully glaring at the Iranian prisoner.
The bulky, horse-faced guy in cheap East European threads — who Bolan had guessed to be the Syrians' GRU control — stood with his back to the door, observing what the Syrian had done to make Masudi scream. The GRU man idly worked crud from under his fingernails with a penknife and flipped the dirt onto the Syrian general's carpet.
The words they spoke sounded a bit clearer to Bolan this close to the window. They spoke English. Not unusual with so many nationalities warring throughout the region. Most of the participants in Lebanon's war spoke French or English, common languages often used for communication.
No sign of Strakhov.
"You have nine more fingers, General Masudi," the GRU man at the door growled without looking up from his nails. "Then I will have General Abdel begin on... more sensitive areas." Abdel did not budge from crowding Masudi.
"It would be my pleasure, Major Kleb. It has always been my opinion that Iranians are the issue of diseased camels mating with lepers." Abdel appraised Masudi like a butcher sizing up a slab of meat. "I would take my time with this one. He would scream so much..." The Iranian gulped and Bolan could see the terrified man's Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.
"But, Major," Masudi pleaded to the Russian around Abdel's bulk, "are we not allies? I beg of you."
"Beg all you want," snarled the Syrian. "The Iranian Revolutionary Guards fight beside the Druse, yes, but you have never been asked into this by either our government or..." and Abdel shot a quick glance to the GRU advisor "com'th of our friends. And so you will die. You will pay for your unwarranted intervention."
"We fight for the glory of Islam!" protested Masudi. "And
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