Triangle Of Terror. Don Pendleton
often from out of tragedy the ultimate warrior-king, he thought, was born.
He sat at the table, staring at the pretty smiling brunette with her arm around the gangly teenaged boy, wondering if the Eiffel Tower in the background was the last sight they took in together before it happened. Sipping from the glass of Dewar’s, he found it strange how the bitter pain he had once felt over the untimely deaths of his wife and son from so many yesteryears had morphed him from a mere NSA operative working at the American Embassy in Paris that day to a warrior-king of the twenty-first century who was now on the verge of leading an entire nation into a new age.
With a little luck and a lot of daring, perhaps the world would be his.
As it usually happened, alone in his room, dead of night at the Embassy Suites, his private sanctuary away from the grind of White House duty, a part of him began longing for the simpler times of youth. Working for the NSA, he reflected, left virtually no room for a stable family life, especially since he’d been in charge of some of the most classified intelligence-gathering operations. They often pitted his wits and guile, not to mention his life, against everything from Colombian drug cartels to Arab terrorists to the Russian Mafia. Always on the move, watched by both the good and bad guys, sometimes it was impossible to distinguish the two sides. He was always looking over his shoulder for the silent lurking killer. Always afraid for the welfare of his family. Still, there had been many close moments shared with his wife—a loyal and devoted companion who had never complained—over the secret years. Regular vacations to some of the most beautiful beaches in the world with Tina and Rob had been stolen treasures he would never again know. Oh, the plans he had for his son’s future, an academic genius, bound for the best college, the children—grandchildren—he was robbed of…
He killed the drink, topped out another from his rapidly depleting bottle. They said anger came from three sources—not getting what one wanted or thought was deserved; disappointment in or over love; and a raw burning over clear and present wrongs in the world.
Figure he was good for two out of three.
The red light on his sat link, he saw, was blinking, but he was expecting news, on several fronts. Putting the picture away in his briefcase slot, he silently cursed the traitorous snake who had leaked the agenda of his family that day. As it turned out, the Russian Mafia had put out the contract on his family, and his own head. The snake in question, he remembered, had been a colleague who had fallen prey to greed, ambition and chasing his own prurient interests, giving the Russian gangsters they had been monitoring as they made in-roads into Western Europe to expand their empire, all the blackmail leverage they needed.
One bullet to the backs of each of their heads. To this day he still hoped it was quick and painless, certain it was, but it was small damn comfort. Taking care of the snake personally had not only kept the NSA leak from the public eye, but it had put him on a new course, a changed man with nothing to lose, but who instantly came to believe in one immutable fact of life.
Human nature, at its core, was dark and selfish.
Over the years since the murders, learning what he had about the critical mass building across the planet, he believed humankind was doomed to self-destruct. Truth be told, he knew Armageddon was already in progress. The dark light of personal tragedy, he concluded, was that it had blessed him with new vision for the future of the human race—or what was left to obey and serve.
Anger, he decided, wasn’t such a bad emotion, after all.
Suddenly, he felt very much alone, couldn’t help but wonder if his chosen profession had, in short, caused the murders of his wife and son. Or was he destined for something greater than any human being could fathom? Was tragedy merely a small price to pay for the crown of conquest? Was he even being guided along by divine intervention? He pictured himself, standing alone in a raging sea, going down—the flaming sword of righteous anger and revenge extinguished as the churning waves enveloped him.
It was the booze, he told himself, talking back to him, depressing his warrior spirit with guilt and regret over that about which he could do nothing. Deep breath, then. Summon back the courage and resolve. It was time to move forward. His thoughts cleared.
He scrolled through the digital readout on one of four minimonitors on the sat link, waiting until all the back-channel numbers ran through before they were automatically erased from the microchip’s memory, then he punched on the scrambler, settled the link around his ears, adjusted the throat mike.
“We may have problems,” the voice said.
Lee Durham grunted, recognizing the voice on the other end even though it was electronically altered. He was not in the mood to hear about problems, since each member of the operation was expected to carry his own weight, and then some. In their world there could only be solutions.
“I heard,” he replied.
“What’s the story on your end?”
“No story, but I’m picking up certain bad vibes from the Man. He’s gone out of the loop where your situation is concerned, but that much is obvious. Whoever is on the way down there I have no positive confirmation as to identity. Assume black ops. There have been rumors for years now that each administration accesses such individuals to do the kind of jobs best left out of the public eye and the Capitol Building. Deniable expendables.”
“I know the breed. Are we compromised?”
Durham took his time answering, working on his drink. Firing up a smoke, inhaling deeply, he said, “If we were, we wouldn’t be talking.”
“Unless we’re being used as the chum.”
“That’s crossed my mind. You are to proceed as planned, but I would suggest you learn whatever you can from the contaminants, however you can, in the next hour or so. Do whatever it takes. Are you sanitized for your visitor?”
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