He climbed in and started on his way.
Beirut presented a strange paradox. Although a civil war raged in its midst for control of the city itself, and the streets hosted an ever increasing number of refugees, you could turn a corner and find yourself stalled by rubble, bombed-out buildings and sniper fire. But you could also reverse your route and travel for blocks along peaceful thoroughfares just like those in any city anywhere.
Strange, yeah.
And very deadly.
From everything Bolan could see, today's action in the city equaled last night's fighting in intensity. Mortar and artillery shells fell with unsettling regularity. Dark smoke clouds blotted out the sun, intensifying the brassy heat.
There were no clearly demarcated battle lines between the fighting factions. Gunmen of both sides were everywhere.
At one point Bolan saw a group of about fifteen Lebanese soldiers walking along a road, an air of resignation about them.
They were turning their backs on the war and simply going home.
15
Bolan left the rattletrap Saab and rounded a corner on foot in his search for the designated pub.
The time was 10:28.
The bar was located midblock on one of the streets that appeared relatively normal and untouched by the fighting.
But even along there no one gave a second glance to the heavily armed soldier in blacksuit.
The businesses were mostly closed along the street, except for the taverns, which, as Zoraya had said, did a business almost as booming as the heavy artillery up in the hills.
Dozens of people in various stages of intoxication moved in and out of the pub in the ten minutes Bolan crouched around the corner of a building at the end of the block.
He recognized the Mossad agent and another man because of their sober intensity; this told him he had Uri Weizmann as surely as the guy's jacket matched the description Zoraya had given.
Bolan crossed the street and moved up the sidewalk, closing in on the Mossad undercover operative and his companion without letting them know it.
When they slipped into a Renault, Weizmann in the passenger seat, his associate behind the wheel, Bolan slipped into the back seat behind them, the Beretta in his left hand pressed against the base of the driver's neck, Big Thunder ready to shred the man from Mossad.
"Let's talk." Bolan nudged Weizmann with the barrel of the AutoMag. "You start."
"May I reach for identification?"
"Slowly. Very slowly." The man obeyed and held a thin leather packet open over his shoulder for Bolan to read.
The ID indicated he was Uri Weizmann, Israeli Embassy Staff personnel.
The silence grew louder inside the hot car.
Bolan read these men as unafraid, seasoned hellgrounders like himself.
Their grim expressions were blank masks.
"You realize anyone seeing me flash my ID in this neighborhood would make sure the mob in this street tore me apart," Weizmann snapped.
The driver grunted assent.
"The three of us would be dead."
"So put it away." Bolan pulled his guns back from the neck of each man, lowering the pistols but keeping them aimed below window level. "You're still covered." Bolan nodded to the driver. "Who's your friend?" he asked Weizmann.
"I am General Chehab," the Arab at the wheel said.
"Of the Lebanese army," Weizmann added.
"The general is in charge of presidential security. Naturally, when Zoraya told me you had information on a plot to assassinate the president..."
"I insisted on coming along," Chehab rasped.
"There have been two attempts on the president's life in the past month. Syrian agents, trained by the Bulgarians."
"So this time they got someone else to do their dirty work," Bolan said. "Last night at an Iranian base in Biskinta I found blueprints of the presidential palace at Baabda."
Chehab lost his cool. The Lebanese officer spun around and eyed the big guy in the back seat.
"My Phalangist units monitored the fighting. You?"
"With a little help from the Syrians. They don't want your president assassinated any more than you do. Not right at the moment, anyway. That's why Strakhov is in Beirut." Bolan concisely related the developments regarding General Masudi and the Disciples of Allah and what had transpired during the battle for the Iranian Revolutionary Guards' base at Biskinta.
"We know of the Disciples, of course," the Israeli said when Bolan had finished. "Masudi most likely told the truth before this Major Kleb killed him. That was only one cell of the Disciples you eliminated at Biskinta."
"American, I thought you had something new to tell us," Chehab snarled at Bolan.
"Slow down, General, we're not that friendly yet," Bolan snapped. "Are you a general in the army or the Phalangists?"
"At such a time as this, American, the two forces are much as one."
"I learned something else at Biskinta," Bolan told them. "An unmarked government car was seen leaving the Iranian base before the Syrians attacked. A car... like this one." The general's poker face remained inscrutable.
"Are you suggesting anything in particular?"
"I'm suggesting you get on it, General. Trace and verify the whereabouts of all unmarked government cars last night. You have the clout to do that?"
"But of course."
"Then that's all I've got for you, so you can leave us and begin now while I have a few words with Uri in private."
Chehab got a tightness to his eyes, but he held himself in check and glanced at Weizmann.
"Do you wish to be left alone with this, uh, gentleman?" Weizmann glanced at Bolan's pistols.
"I don't seem to have much of a choice, General. But yes, do as Mr. Bolan suggests. And of course keep this extremely confidential. A government car... that means we're dealing with someone on the inside. But I think I shall be safe here. We're on the same side, Bolan and I, after all."
"As you wish," the general grumbled.
Chehab left them.
Bolan watched the Arab get out of the Renault and amble down the crowded street.
"Don't be too sure about the same side. The Phalangists have committed as many or more atrocities against civilians as the Muslims in this war."
"It is difficult to take either side," Weizmann conceded. "There are no good guys."
"Except maybe the guys who are trying to put a stop to it."
"Like us, eh? And is that what you wish to discuss?"
"Let's settle something first, then maybe I can dispense with this." Bolan motioned with the AutoMag stiff aimed at the man who called himself Uri Weizmann. "Your orders from Tel Aviv are that I'm top-priority TOS. Terminate on Sight. Your showing up to sit over in that pub and wait for me for half an hour, just the two of you, no backup, calls for an explanation and a good one."
"If what I have heard about you is true, Mr. Bolan, you will understand when I tell you that Chaim Herzi and I had been friends since childhood. Chaim saved my life twice. I never had the chance to repay him and now he is dead. Zoraya told me all about it when she called. And so I must repay Chaim some other way.
"It is ironic, is it not, that we do not know which side actually killed Chaim in the cross fire between Phalangists and Muslims. Does it matter, really? I don't know if Chaim knew the truth about you, or if he but followed his Uncle Yakov's instructions without question. I know he respected his uncle greatly.
"But Chaim did understand that only swift, decisive measures can achieve lasting peace in Lebanon and prevent more slaughter at this late date. I have been stationed in Beirut with Mossad for three long years and have seen the situation here only deteriorate. Perhaps it is time the Executioner got here. You may already be too late." Bolan holstered his weapons.
"It's never too late." He reached for a pack of cigarettes, offered Uri one and lit them both. "Do you know where Zoraya is now?"
"I thought with you. She said she was returning to be with you when she telephoned me to arrange our meeting."