Free Beirut Payback: MacK Bolan by Don Pendleton

who has asked Syria or the Soviet Union into this?"
    "Impudent swine," Abdel snarled, backhanding Masudi hard enough to send the smaller man and the chair sprawling to the floor.
    Abdel pulled a booted foot back for a kick at Masudi.
    The Russian officer continued to work on his nails, but spoke.
    "General Abdel, one moment, please." Kleb folded and pocketed the penknife and gazed coolly at Masudi. The Iranian wiped blood from his face. "The Disciples of Allah," Kleb said in a monotone. "Tell me what you know of them, General, and perhaps we will let you live."
    "The Disciples? This... there is no such group," Masudi gasped, working to get his breath back. "It is a temporary name. Nothing more than a loose band. Shiites and Druse. I have only heard of them. They carry out raids, yes, suicide fighters... but the Disciples of Allah is but a name to give the impression of greater numbers, you understand?" Abdel eyed the Russian.
    Kleb nodded.
    The Syrian knelt across Masudi's chest and grabbed the Iranian's right hand.
    Bolan, from his perch outside the window on the ledge, clearly heard something snap above Masudi's bleat as the Syrian broke another finger.
    "He screams like a woman, this one," Abdel snickered, standing again.
    "He will scream the truth."
    "We know when you lie, you see, General Masudi," Kleb said, chuckling. "We know of the plot to assassinate the Lebanese president. We know of the Disciples part in this. We know of your role — that of sponsor and protector to these madmen. Now I want you to tell me the rest of it. All of it." Masudi forced himself to his knees. He looked utterly defeated, but Bolan discerned a fierce determination on the man's features.
    "But I... I do not understand. The government befriends Israel and the devil nation, America... surely we fight on the same side, Muslim brothers... the Disciples strike for us!"
    "You will be tortured until you tell us what we wish to know," Kleb continued in his monotone. "General Abdel, commence, and do not stop until he talks."
    "With pleasure, Major." The Syrian bent to his task.
    The bloodied Masudi got a new glint in his painclouded eyes and somehow, despite the oddly protruding broken digits of his right hand, he no longer looked defeated at all.
    "You shall never stop us!" he screamed and rocketed to his feet before Abdel could reach him. "There are others. We are Shiites! We die for Islam! Allah be praised!" Abdel rushed forward, grabbing for Masudi.
    The Iranian twisted away from the outstretched hands while his uninjured hand darted down inside his left boot.
    The GRU man at the door lost all his cool then and dived for concealed hardware. But it all happened too fast.
    The Syrian generai twisted around almost as fast as Masudi and clamped both hamlike hands around the Iranian's neck.
    Abdel grunted a curse in Arabic and yanked the smaller man around.
    The Iranian allowed himself to be swung. He used the momentum to plunge a stiletto to the hilt under Abdel's breastbone, into the heart.
    Abdel froze, a surprised look on his face. Then his hands dropped and a fountain of blood burbled from his mouth. The Syrian commander fell, dead.
    The Iranian whirled again and with a shriek charged the Russian major, who had his pistol only half way out of its shoulder holster.
    Kleb's eyes widened with panic.
    The Shiite attacked him with the flashing blade.
    From his perch position on the ledge outside the window Bolan witnessed and reacted instantly to the eruption of violence.
    But the most vital question remained unanswered.
    Where the hell was Strakhov?

9
    Greb Strakhov grasped the door handle, about to step into General Abdel's office, when shouts and scuffling noises from within made him halt. He had been to the communications room downstairs, coding his report to the Soviet Embassy in Beirut for immediate transmission to Moscow.
    His recent tenure behind a desk had not dulled reflexes earned during twenty years of KGB fieldwork.
    The spy master tugged