"Good thing birds can't talk," said Bolan.
Kevin applauded the return of the successful hunter. And Zayoud was pleased with his prized bird's performance. He had spent many hours training it to attack men as well as smaller, more natural prey. But something else had attracted the sheikh's attention... Danny nudged Bolan's arm: a squad of Zayoud's handpicked guards was being marched up the approach road. Craig Harrison was in command of the detail. They looked hot and dusty. He must have been putting them through some grueling paces.
"Keep your eyes open for anyone else." Bolan raised the glasses and began a detailed examination of every inch along the cliffs below the wall, assessing each fissure, each spur, each overhang as if his life depended on it... because, before this night was over, he knew it would.
11
Somewhere, far out in the silvery phantom shadows of the desert night, a jackal cried for its mate. The mournful sound echoed on the midnight air.
Bolan padded forward another hunter on the prowl slipping from the cover of a boulder, then seeking the shelter of the scrub that lined the shallow ditch surrounding the rock of Hagadan. The ancient fortress now loomed above him, the walls glowing ghostly pale and blotting out the heavens.
His pack was heavy with specially prepared explosives, and spare mags for the Uzi were carried in long pockets at the sides of his trousers. A rope was coiled around his shoulder, and he carried a padded grapnel in his left hand.
The hook came in handy to steady himself as he mounted the steep slope at the bottom of the cliff. There were small fans of loose scree in places. Every handhold had to be tested; every footstep carefully planted.
Bolan followed the rough outline of the ascent route he had picked out earlier that afternoon. He came to the first overhang. It was tougher than it had looked through the glasses; perhaps he could squeeze past this obstacle at the far end.
He continued to traverse, reaching out to grab hold of the wizened shrub growing in a crack beyond the ledge he was balanced on. His fingers circled the tough stem and Bolan pulled himself along. There was a fissure in the rock face that he climbed for thirty feet. He had almost cleared the top of this natural chimney when his hand dislodged a loose pebble. It dropped away into the darkness. Bolan remained frozen where he was.
The small stone landed in the sand below with a dull thunk. He waited for a sentry to stick his head over the battlements. Nothing.
No one had been alarmed.
Nearing the top of the cliff he saw the faint trace of a match end being flicked carelessly from the wall. Again he waited, hands straining to hold himself tight against the cliff, wondering if the smoker would casually lean over the edge and glance down. He stayed in position longer this time. Every second was increasing the strain. Bolan reached the final bulging lip of granite below the huge foundation stones. This, too, had been deceptive. He weighed his chances of making it with the hefty pack in place. They didn't look good. If he failed to pull himself up and over on the first attempt, the pack would sure as hell drag him down. And it was a long drop to the bottom. This called for some delicate maneuvering.
First, he shrugged the coil from his shoulder. Then, bracing his feet, he freed his hand long enough to secure the end of the rope to the rucksack shoulder strap. The pack had a special quick release that freed it from his back. There was a spot over to his right, a small shelf wide enough to balance the load.
Bolan set it down.
With one palm pressing firmly on the ceiling of stone above his head, Bolan stretched back with the other arm and felt for a hold with the grapnel. It took three tries to find a narrow chink in which to jam one point of the triple hook.
Bolan pulled hard on the shank. It seemed secure, but there was only one way to really test it and he could not put it off. He transferred his weight, jumping out from the ledge. His other hand smacked against the rock, fingers scrabbling to find that second hold.
His bleeding fingertips closed round a granite knob and he levered himself bodily around the overhang.
There was an uneven ledge, about a foot wide, at the very bottom of the wall. Bolan lay there resting sideways for a moment, then he pulled the bag up after him. As he straightened up, a screeching, flapping ball of feathers and claws struck him on the forehead. He was slapped across the nose as the startled bird beat its wings in a frantic attempt to scare off the intruder.
Bolan brushed it aside; and with a final indignant squawk, the bird flew off to find another perch. He wasn't sure who had been more surprised him or the sleeping bird.
Leaving the pack secured to the end of the rope, Bolan relooped the line, leaving a long leader free for the swing it was going to take. The pendulum made a faint whoosh with every pass. Bolan twirled it completely and let go.
This was the worst moment; the biggest risk of all.
And he had no choice but to take it.
The hooks and shank were sheathed with highdensity foam sleeves. The grapnel made little sound as it lodged in a gun port high above Bolan's head.
He tugged on the rope. The tips were trapped on the sill up there. Bolan gradually increased the pressure of his test pull... still it held. He glanced back once at the desert out to where Danny was hiding with the Hog then up he went, hand over hand, rubber-soled boots walking up the weathered facing.
His muscles ached from the effort required to pull himself and the added weight of the equipment he carried up the wall. Bolan was almost two-thirds the way to his goal, perhaps at the forty-foot mark, when he heard someone chuckle behind the window slit slightly to his left. The murmur of small talk drifted indistinctly by him. It was riskier to hang there dangling by a thread than to proceed. Bolan hauled himself up the rest of the way.
He wriggled through the defenders' firing slot and huddled close to the wall, catching his breath and his bearings at the same time. The nightstalker was on a flagstone walkway, repaired in places with wooden planking, about twenty feet from the nearest corner tower. A lookout up there was stamping his feet to stay awake and ward off the chilly night breeze.
Bolan wiped the sweat from his forehead, crawled back into the man-size slit and dragged up the rucksack.
He lugged the loaded pack across the stonework. A few small chips, broken off by the point of the grapnel hook, were swept back off the ledge.
They hit the walkway with a rattle.
Bolan heard the sound of boots on the worn stone steps within the tower. He pushed the pack against the wall and bundled the rope behind it. The door at the end opened with a creak. Dim lighting from inside briefly streaked the flagstones as the Arab guard stepped out into the cool air. He took a deep breath, then stepped forward, puzzled to find one of the foreign soldiers up here on duty.
Bolan waited, outwardly casual but internally poised to spring, until he noticed the trooper stare curiously past his legs. He'd seen the pack... The man twisted to unsling his rifle.
Before he could shout a warning, Bolan was upon him with the silent ferocity of a nocturnal predator.
He clamped a hand tight across the Arab's mouth, swung him around and smashed the sentry into the low wall. Apart from the grunt of suddenly expelled air, the man was too winded to call out for his comrades.
The Executioner cracked the guy's skull hard against the inside edge of the battlements. The senseless guard released his grip on the rifle. Bolan set down the weapon quietly, lifted the body to the slit and shoved it into space.
There was no scream before the man's broken body struck a soft patch of sand a hundred fifty feet below.