Dual Action by Don Pendleton

Author:Don Pendleton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Worldwide Library
Published: 2013-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

13

“Okay,” Coyle said. “This guy I know—well, I don’t really know him, but I know where you can find him—is a huge supporter of the ARM. We’re talking bucks enough to keep the whole damned thing afloat when times are lean. You follow me?”

“I’m listening,” Bolan said, as he stripped his combat gear and stowed it in the rental’s trunk.

“His name is Arvid Castleton. Don’t ask me why his parents called him that. Maybe it’s pissed him off since kindergarten and he wants to take it out on everybody else.”

“Is there a bottom line?” Bolan asked.

“Coming up,” Coyle promised him. “This guy has money from tobacco, oil, a bit of everything. If it pollutes or poisons people, Arvid’s got a piece of it and banks the proceeds. If he’s not Fortune 500, it’s because he’s such a recluse that nobody’s noticed him.”

“And he bankrolls the ARM?”

“Big-time. I plan a whole installment on him for the series.”

“It’s a series now?”

Coyle winked. “At least. This guy’s a closet Nazi, dig it? I can’t tell you when he lost his mind, exactly, but he’s been supporting fringe groups on the sly ever since he came into his trust fund inheritance, twenty-odd years ago. He uses bagmen, sets up paper companies, whatever. Back around the time of Oklahoma City, CNN broke a story that he’d given six figures to the Midwestern Militia, but someone at headquarters spiked it without follow-ups. I’ve documented contributions to a half-dozen Klan and neo-Nazi factions in the past ten years, but lately he’s been concentrating on the ARM.”

“So, Walgren’s got a sugar daddy,” Bolan said. “Explain how that helps me.”

“Helps us,” Coyle said, correcting him. “Because old Arvid won’t just sign a check. He wants to be hands-on—or make-believe, at least. He stays in touch for briefings. Doesn’t tell them what to do, but likes to know what’s happening.”

“And you believe they’d talk to him about the Thunderbolt?” The notion seemed ridiculous to Bolan, as he slid into the driver’s seat.

“Now that we know it’s real,” Coyle said, “I think he may have helped them get it.”

Bolan turned to face the journalist, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“You remember that Mexican trip we talked about, where Walgren did his split-personality number?”

“I do.”

“Well, rumor has it that he crossed the border for a meeting with some gentlemen of Arab persuasion. The kind who share an affinity for Jew-bashing.”

“So?”

“So, Arvid Castleton’s ass-deep in Arabs from the petro biz. He used to have Iraqi friends. Now it’s mostly Saudis. Anyway, I’m thinking maybe he provided introductions all around.”

Bolan turned the ignition key. “Let’s say you’re right. What’s the connection to the Thunderbolt?”

“Come on! I surf the Web, man, just like everybody else. You think I never heard about the Baghdad incident?”

Watching the rearview mirror as he backed out of the barn, Bolan asked Coyle, “Which incident is that?”

“You’re playing dumb now? How about a U.S. tank drilled through-and-through by who-knows-what? That ring a bell? I filed it and forgot it at the time,

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