Terrible Tuesday

by Don Pendleton

  Something very big was developing, for sure.

  Muted rumblings of that something had been emanating from the area for some time. In fact, Bolan had followed the tremors from his recent blast into Arizona and had been tentatively scouting the New Mexico question when the urgent summons from the East sent him airlifting into Tennessee. All he’d found during that brief probe had been whispers and echoes of some quiet underworld activity in the wastelands. Now here he was again, same scene, probably the same situation, except that now the whispers had become shrieks of agony.

  But a pattern was developing, for sure.

  The flash from Leo Turrin had warned of a “large event” going down in New Mexico—related somehow to the California disaster—with various “important men” hastily dispatched to that area.

  As another item in the weave, Charlie Rickert and Lamamafria were the only ranking local members of the California conspiracy to survive Bolan’s rampage in Los Angeles. Bolan had last seen Lamamafria, a.k.a. Jack Lambert, lying unconscious on the floor of his Sunset District office. Rickert, the renegade cop, had been turned over to local authorities after assuring Bolan that he would cooperate.

  According to Leo Turrin, who had not been in a position to get it all, Someone had “moved heaven and earth to spring a certain VIP prisoner from the L.A. county jail”—and this was somehow related to the thing in New Mexico.

  Big Tim Braddock, a recent convert to the Bolan cause and now deputy chief of the L.A. cops, was all but frothing at the mouth as he confirmed Bolan’s suspicion that Charlie Rickert’s release had, indeed, been quietly engineered, mere hours following his arrest.

  Then Jack Grimaldi had provided the cinching element with his report of “ferrying a burial party” from Santa Monica to a lonely spot in the New Mexico wastelands.

  “Two pigeons,” Grimaldi reported to his old friend, “with two keepers. They had ’em doped and hooded all the way so I don’t know who the poor bastards are. There was a car waiting for them, in the middle of nowhere. I had to land on a dirt road in the dark, without lights if you can imagine that.”

  Bolan had imagined that, yeah. And he’d asked his friend, the Mafia pilot, to repeat the performance. Now it seemed that Leo’s fears had been right on target. Something big was going down, for sure. It was directly related to the California thing. Maybe it was an action-reaction sequence. That would explain all the urgent parleys in New York while the Los Angeles thing was falling apart.

  Yeah, maybe so.

  It was now very obvious that the council of bosses—weak though their coalition might be at the moment—had not been all that concerned about outsider Bill McCullough and his ambitious stretch toward a West Coast takeover. The vaunted “California Concept” had probably been at their fingertips the whole while, awaiting nothing more than the proper moment for the cannibals to step in and make it their own. Until Bolan happened onto it. But they’d not been concerned about McCullough. They’d had Rickert and Lamamafria inside that operation right at the top.

  And it was guys like McCullough who kept the mob fat, happy, and immortal—even at a moment when you’d think they were going down for the final count.

  Mack Bolan should have remembered that.

  And he should have remembered the litany of the Mafia:

  If you can’t steal it, extort it;

  If you can’t extort it, join it;

  If you can’t join it, corrupt it;

  If you can’t corrupt it, hit it;

  If you can’t hit it, buy it;

  After you’ve got it, eat it.

  And if you can’t get it, eat it on the run.

  Yeah. You could say what you like about the Italian brotherhood—whatever else, they were the most persistent and successful cannibals of them all—and people in Bill McCullough’s league should have learned that long ago.

  People like Hal Brognola and Mack Bolan should not have forgotten it. The American mob was not down for the count. They’d bounced back with amazing resiliency. If Bolan could not stop them here, quickly and resoundingly, then he might as well forget the briefly ignited hopes for an end to this damnable war. It would go on for as long as Mack Bolan lived. Which, of course, could mean for only another hour or two … all things considered.

  CHAPTER THREE

  IMAGES

  The turkeyman was using the name Philip Jordan and his spanking new driver’s license gave the address of a modern apartment complex in Alamogordo. Bolan drove past the place in a slow pass to a small shopping center a few blocks beyond. The day was still quite young, though, and none of the stores were open, but he found a public telephone at the edge of the parking lot and made three quick long distance calls. He spoke briefly to contacts in Los Angeles, Dallas, and New York, then went on to a small, all-night grocery and made a few purchases.

  It was nearing eight o’clock when he returned to the apartment building. The place was now stirring with life—since it was the time of day when most people were beginning their daily work routine. Bolan remained in the car for several minutes, getting the feel of the place. Two men and three women, all young, entered the parking area during that period, got into cars, and went their separate ways. That and other quiet clues combined to present the picture of an abode for singles. The general layout was of three moderatesized buildings, grouped around a small swimming pool and patio, with tennis courts at the rear and parking for about fifty cars. That parking lot now held no more than a dozen vehicles; apparently most of the tenants were off about their daily business.

  Bolan lit a cigarette and studied the layout until he was pretty well oriented, then he gathered his stuff and went directly to Jordan’s apartment. It was at patio level, opposite the pool. A quick glance at the lock provided the clue to the proper key from Jordan’s own key ring. He unlocked the door and stepped inside, with the air of a man who owned the joint.

  Small, studio style. One room encompassed living, dining, and kitchen areas—a single small bedroom and bath. But nice enough. Neat and clean. The refrigerator contained milk, eggs, some vegetables and nothing else. Canned soups and vegetables in the cupboard. Brown bread, packaged rice. No cigarettes, no booze, no meats. The guy was an ascetic.

  A small table by the couch held a neat stack of magazines. No Playboys or Hustlers, though. Scientific American, Psychology Today, Commentary and several others of that caliber, all current. And all had been forwarded via the mails to Dr. Philip Jordan from a Maryland address. Uh huh.

  Wastebaskets were empty and clean—even in the bathroom. The trash compactor in the kitchen area held a fresh bag with nothing in it.

  Bolan was beginning to wonder if anyone actually lived there.

  But there was a neat array of toilet articles, partially used tubes and bottles, occupying the bathroom chest. A laundry hamper in the bedroom closet contained two barely soiled towels, two pairs of socks, two sets of underwear, two white shirts. Clean suits, shirts, and an assortment of subdued ties hung neatly in the closet.

  Neat and clean, yeah. Bolan was remembering that calm look, the cultured voice, the careful attire. And he was projecting that image into this apartment, developing an insight into the man who had called this place home—a well-educated, handsome man in his forties or early fifties, unmarried or at least living alone at the moment, fussily tidy, practically ascetic and almost antiseptic in lifestyle, perhaps a vegetarian and almost certainly an intellectual. Doctor Philip Jordan. Doctor of what? Besides turkeys.

  Bolan returned to the stack of magazines and went through them carefully. He scored four hits in the area of human psychology. Okay. Maybe it fit.

  Bolan carried his stuff into the bathroom, started a fresh tape in the recorder, and began transforming himself into a reasonable facsimile of Dr. Philip Jordan. He listened intently to the tonal inflections of the only calm voice on that tape while he shaved and prepared the physical image. There was no thought toward a precise duplication—nor would that have been possible. Bolan was going for
the role image—which, he hoped, should be enough. Jordan did not appear to be the sort of man with close personal ties. He obviously had not been living in the area for very long. And he was certainly not the type of guy you’d find cozying up to the earthy Mafia people. Aloof to the point of haughtiness, stiff, formal—or that was the way Bolan was reading the guy.

  And, yes, if it were a true reading then perhaps the role image would be enough to turn the trick.

  If not … well, everybody dies somewhere.

  He rubbed in a bit of cosmetic shadow to emphasize the cheekbones and darken the eyes a bit, formed a collodion wrinkle between the brows, restyled the hair and combed in some white at the temples. Then he watched the image in the mirror and found the facial feel of a haughty intellectual, who felt just a bit above everyone around him.

  He turned off the tape recorder, having heard too damned much already. But he had the voice. It would be a cinch.

  He was getting into a suit of the guy’s clothes and finding the fit when the first telephone call came. It was the Dallas connection.

  “Okay, I’ve got your man,” the worried tones of Hal Brognola told him. “I’ve checked out your line there. It’s clean. But I’m not so sure I want to give you this stuff. We’d all a lot rather you just leave New Mexico to us. I can get you a jet airlift out of there within thirty minutes. That would put you in Dallas in plenty of time to—”

  “Save it, Hal,” Bolan tiredly broke in. “Dallas will keep. This will not. What do you have?”

  He could hear the guy breathing unhappy fumes for a moment before that agitated voice sighed in capitulation. “The name’s for real. He’s been living in a suburb of Washington until recently.”

  Bolan lit a cigarette and asked his friend, the fed, “What’s he a doctor of?”

  “Foul play.”

  “What?”

  “He’s got a Ph.D. from Georgetown but he’s no philosopher, friend. The defense department canned him two years ago. He was a psych war specialist.”

  It fit, yeah. “Why’d they fire him?” Bolan wondered aloud.

  “Rank insubordination, says here. Which probably means he was out of control. Sensitive employee status … think tanks.”

  Bolan said, “Uh huh. Okay. What aren’t you telling me?”

  Brognola sighed heavily into the connection. Presently he replied, “For some reason the CIA picked right up on the guy. He was on their payroll until a few weeks ago.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I’m still awaiting that answer,” Brognola replied.

  “Why’d they let him go?”

  “I’m awaiting that, too.”

  “That tight, eh?”

  “Yeah.”

  Bolan said, “The guy’s a turkey doctor, Hal.”

  A long silence occupied the line, then: “You’re sure of that?”

  “Caught ’im with red hands,” Bolan replied drily. “I suppose you can guess who the prime turkey was.”

  Brognola growled, “Rickert, huh?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “I don’t get that. Why?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out, Hal.”

  “Dammit.” Another silent pause, then: “Well there goes our Los Angeles key.”

  “Maybe not,” Bolan said. “I’m, uh, working the problem, Hal. I’ll want some distant support.”

  “Name it.”

  “A computer search, I guess. Anything anomalous in the southwestern region. Installations, personnel, all of it.”

  “What, uh, the hell are you …? Even computers have—”

  “Sorry,” Bolan said quickly. “My mind is working faster than my mouth. I think of New Mexico and I wonder where the hell is the picnic—and all I get back is top secret stamps. White Sands. Los Alamos. Could it relate to our Los Angeles problem. You know the routine?”

  Brognola growled, “I guess I do, yeah. We’ll give the computers a shake and see what falls out.”

  “Okay. I’ll try to get back to you in a couple of hours. Would that give you time enough?”

  “I guess it all depends,” Brognola replied. “We’ll give it a fit, though. And you watch your ass, buddy. Keep it forever in sight. I don’t want to lose you this close to the gate.”

  Bolan chuckled solemnly as he told his old friend, “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

  “You want me to dispatch your battleship? The lady is pacing holes in the floor. I don’t know if I can …”

  “I don’t want her here just yet,” Bolan replied quietly. The lady referred to was, of course, the one and only April Rose. She had the warwagon in custody … along with Mack Bolan’s heart. And he could understand her anxiety. But, no, he certainly did not wish to have her mixing into this thing—not at this stage, especially. “Send the cruiser to El Paso for now. That puts it within quick call.”

  “Okay. I’ll have it at Fort Bliss before noon. Hit her floater as soon as you can, though. You know what I mean.”

  Bolan knew what Brognola meant, yeah. April was not exactly predisposed to sitting and waiting for things to happen. Especially if she was worried about her man. Bolan sighed and told the fed, “Keep her busy, Hal. Let her understand the importance of this computer run. And turn her loose on it. She’s damn good at that.”

  “Among other things,” Brognola added drily. “Okay. Are we clear for now?”

  “Almost. What about this turkey doctor? Does he have any medical background?”

  Brognola said no, then changed his mind. “Wait—yeah, a little. Nearly two years of medical school before he switched to psychology. I guess you could call that a background.”

  Yes, Bolan guessed that you could. He said, “Later,” and hung up.

  And just in time.

  The phone rang again almost immediately and a harsh voice at the other side growled, “We been waitin’ for you to call.”

  Bolan pitched his response cool and aloof. “Your wait would have been rewarded had you awaited another minute.”

  “We been waitin’ all night, Doc. Did you get it or didn’t you?”

  “I have it,” replied Bolan, the turkey doctor.

  “So what’re you waiting for? Bring it over. We’ll expect you in ten minutes.”

  “Absolutely not,” Bolan said coolly. “I’ll meet you halfway. Name the place.”

  The man at the other end chuckled as he replied, “You CIA guys kill me. Okay. Would Stan’s Drive-In suit you? Say five minutes?”

  “Say fifteen,” Bolan replied coldly and hung up. But he was feeling a bit troubled as he strapped on the Beretta shoulder rig, and finished dressing. Had he blundered into a CIA covert operation? Surely not. But he remembered a couple of CIA types he’d known at Saigon, and …

  But … a turkey doctor?

  Brognola did not yet have a complete file on the guy. Which meant he’d have to penetrate a few security interlocks to complete the file, no simple task for even an official in Brognola’s position.

  Leo Turrin had never heard of the guy, either. Which meant not a hell of a lot in a positive sense, but at least was negatively encouraging.

  It was going to be a crap shoot, for sure.

  Bolan was betting everything he had on nothing more than a gut feeling that Philip Jordan was not well-known by his Mafia playmates. A guy with Jordan’s background would be cagey and careful. Personal meetings with known criminals would therefore be conducted furtively, quickly—in places like dark bars or parked cars, where lighting was bad and vision minimal.

  Yeah, he was betting his life on that. And on the naturally poor perceptual capabilities of most people.

  The dead man’s clothing was not a perfect fit, either, but it would have to be close enough. Bolan gave both the image and the voice a final checkout, then picked up the tapes and went out of there.

  Hell, it was the only move he had.

  Buy Wednesday’s Wrath Now!

  About the Author

  Don Pendleton (1927–1995) was born in Li
ttle Rock, Arkansas. He served in the US Navy during World War II and the Korean War. His first short story was published in 1957, but it was not until 1967, at the age of forty, that he left his career as an aerospace engineer and turned to writing full time. After producing a number of science fiction and mystery novels, in 1969 Pendleton launched his first book in the Executioner saga: War Against the Mafia. The series, starring Vietnam veteran Mack Bolan, was so successful that it inspired a new American literary genre, and Pendleton became known as the father of action-adventure.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1979 by Don Pendleton

  Cover design by Mauricio Diaz

  ISBN: 978-1-4976-8586-4

  This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

  345 Hudson Street

  New York, NY 10014

  www.openroadmedia.com

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