She worried about the soldier, sure. They had been through too damn much together for her to write him off. Whatever the official line from Washington, she knew that he was not a renegade in the accepted sense. The Executioner was still selecting targets with a surgeon's skill, and he had yet to overstep the line by tagging any innocents. His lonely, private war was from the heart, and Toby recognized that fact, but there was more to waging war than simply running like a maverick.
The man displayed a perfect genius for intruding on established operations, blowing them sky-high and walking off with all the marbles in his pocket.
His very presence in the vicinity would be enough to generate the kind of shock waves that could blow her mission, and yet she found herself concerned about his survival in the hellgrounds.
It was a long time since Vegas, but she could still remember her initial meeting with the Executioner, the rare smile he flashed when the spirit moved. More rarely now, she could imagine, since the debacle at Stony Man Farm, the death of April Rose...
Toby experienced a sudden stab of jealousy, and turned to face the shower head again in shame. Perhaps the stinging spray would dissipate the tears that sprang unbidden to her eyes.
They were irrational, these feelings toward a woman who was dead and gone. And yet she felt a measure of the soldier's grief, the pain sparking recognition of the emotions they would never fully share.
It had been close before, but time and circumstance had constantly prevented her from cleaving to the soldier, fighting at his side on any more than an occasional excursion. They had shared the intimacy of a clench or two on distant killing grounds, but in her heart she knew that the encounters meant a great deal more to her than to the man whose very life was balanced on the razor's edge of death.
The guy was married to his war before they ever met, and in the last analysis, she wondered just how much there had been left to share with April Rose... with anyone.
She wondered and she wept, the tears infuriating Toby when she could not turn them off. He had no right to make her feel this way.
Goddamn it!
If he jeopardized her in with Axelrod...
It had been easy making the acquaintance of the top survivalist-cum-neo-Nazi in America. Brognola had arranged the introduction through a minor plant in one of Axelrod's splinter groups, a back-door introduction to a barbecue at his estate outside Stone Mountain, Georgia.
It was Klan country, but the bigots didn't run toward sheets so much these days. They had acquired a taste for business suits and camouflage fatigues, a thin patina of respectability to mask the madness in their eyes. They didn't drool so much in public anymore — and most had given up on burning crosses as a waste of precious gasoline — but underneath the practiced smiles their message was the same.
Pure hatred.
And they did not confine their vitriol to blacks or Jews or other ethnic groups. The United States government was now the enemy to bands of superpatriots across the country, scheming in their desert bunkers or their mountain hideaways, their madness loosely but inevitably linked by the manipulative genius of a single man.
Gerold Axelrod.
She knew the rags-to-riches story of the Georgia farm boy who had risen to become the symbol of American survivalists, and likewise knew what lay beneath the surface. The man was like a Chinese puzzle box, with racial hatred tucked away beneath the polished outer surface, brooding revolutionary fervor hidden under that, and at the core, a deep, abiding greed.
Survivalism, bigotry and all the rest of it were paying propositions to the likes of Axelrod. He had found a sellable commodity in paranoia, and he was milking it for every dime available. From powdered eggs and sleeping bags to anti-Jewish pamphlets, he had rapidly become the redneck's Sears, Roebuck, filling every bigot's secret needs, provided that the bigot had some ready cash. Along the way he had become a millionaire, and powdered eggs accounted for a fraction of his recent income.
It had been the automatic weapons and explosives that aroused concern in Washington. The Ingrams that were used to strafe a television station in Seattle, the plastique that wrecked a synagogue in Newport News, the arsenal recovered from the rubble of a suicidal racist's hideout in Wyoming — all and more had been connected to the right-wing underground that Axelrod had organized and on which he served as chairman of the board. There had been nothing to link him personally with the violent incidents, which recently included robberies, assassinations, firefights with police and FBI, but that was where Brognola's SOG came in.
And Toby Ranger.
Her mission was to get the goods on Axelrod. Her method: live-in secretary, with an eye and ear for everything that happened underneath his roof.
The job seemed distasteful, but once she made herself available to Axelrod and recognized that he would want her more for window dressing than for any other kind of satisfaction, Toby knew that she could pull it off. There had been worse assignments, and she had sacrificed a great deal more on other missions ordered out of Washington.
But Gerry Axelrod was gay.
It was the deepest, darkest secret of his life, known only to a handful of his close associates — and now, to Toby Ranger. He laid it on the line when he suggested that she come to live with him, assuring Toby that her "honor" would remain intact. He was desperately in need of a woman to preserve the image of his rugged manhood for the faithful in the rank and file.
If he had been dispensing heroin or running whores, his sexual proclivities would scarcely matter, but a man who made his living selling God and apple pie was something else again. The taint of homosexuality could ruin him, perhaps endanger his existence once the crazies had some time to think about it, but with a flashy woman on his arm...
In Georgia, there were separate beds in separate bedrooms, and when circumstance forced them into closer quarters, he veered away from any private contact once the bedroom door was closed. At home, she had pretended not to notice the arrival and departure of his pretty boys, recruited from Atlanta's cornucopia of flesh, and in their travels he had been a model of attentiveness. For Toby's part, she was preoccupied with noting the details of business deals, his contacts in the neofascist underground. His private passions might become a lever, but for the moment they were insignificant.
Of course, Mack Bolan wouldn't know that Axelrod was gay. He would have seen them, shadowed them, and he would think the worst.
And did it matter what the soldier thought? Of course.
That was the problem.
Toby cared what Bolan thought. And while she knew that he would not condemn her — that his soul was burdened with enough guilt and pain for half a dozen men — still, she wished that she could set him straight.
Because she loved him.
She stood beneath the stinging spray and thought of Sally Palmer, Smiley Dublin. They had kept in touch since Vegas, since the firestorm in New York, on through the birth pangs and upheavals of the Phoenix project. Both had worked with Bolan on their own, and they had shared the censored details in sporadic conversations, keeping her apprised of Bolan's progress, his survival in the shooting gallery. But they had not shared everything, and Toby felt the pang of jealousy again, pursued at once by self-disgust.
There was no place for petty rivalry when lives were riding on the line, and Toby had concealed her personal emotions from the others who depended on her. She regarded Bolan as a friend, a professional competitor of sorts, but the truth — which sometimes surfaced in the middle of her lonely nights — was something else again. And seeing him outside tonight had brought those hidden feelings flooding back, the onslaught threatening to wash her common sense away.
She hoped that he would back off, permit her to complete her work in peace — and knew that she was bucking heavy odds. The soldier would not have surfaced at Vachon's unless he was in hot pursuit, preparing for a strike. And if it was Axelrod, why here?
Since Bolan's separation from the Phoenix project, there had been no solid way of ke
eping tabs on his activity except through chance encounters on the firing line. She knew about his brush with "justice" down in Texas, had devoured daily headlines and considered flying south to stand beside him, but Hal Brognola had been adamant in opposition.
The thought of calling Hal Brognola now had already crossed her mind, and Toby had rejected it. There would be time if Bolan showed himself again, and she was still uncertain of precisely how Brognola would react.
It would be a relatively simple matter to report the soldier's presence in Toronto. Not tonight, from Paul Vachon's, where anybody might be listening on the extension — but tomorrow, the next day...
No.
Tomorrow they were finalizing business with the Frenchman, and the next day they would be in Georgia, safe at Axelrod's retreat.
Toby turned off the shower and pulled a towel off the rack. Instead of helping clear her thoughts, the heat had only fogged her mind. Fatigue weighed heavy on her now, and Axelrod would be up late, discussing terms with Paul Vachon. She would be sleeping soundly when he came to bed, if she turned in right now.
If her private thoughts would let her sleep.
If Bolan did not visit her in dark and bloody dreams.
She dreaded seeing him again — yet longed for it, the longing sharp and painful, like a bitter wound.
And Toby knew she owed him everything.
She always had.
She always would.
Chapter Nineteen
Gerold Axelrod felt vulnerable without his guns. He had become accustomed to the weight beneath his arm, the counterweight wrapped snug against his ankle. Not that there was any danger here, of course. But facing Paul Vachon across a low-slung coffee table, feeling naked, he was sorry he had left the pistols in his room.
The guns were twin Detonics .45s with squat, abbreviated grips, the only kind of side arm Axelrod could handle comfortably with his tiny hands. From his childhood he had been humiliated by the miniature appendages connected to his muscular and absolutely normal arms, the chubby fingers like Vienna sausages, which made him look deformed. On second glance, the fingers were in proportion to tiny thumbs and pink, unblemished palms; they were an infant's hands, untouched by puberty or manhood, simultaneously linked and separated from the rest of Axelrod by slender, girlish wrists.
His vanity would not permit him to conceal the tiny hands in gloves, but Axelrod confined them to his pockets when he walked and kept them tucked beneath the tabletop at conferences or during meals. The smiling photographs adorning pamphlets, posters, paperbacks, invariably captured head and shoulders only. Only at the semiannual conventions of the Brotherhood was he compelled to show his hand — both literally and figuratively — on the firing line. So far, the squat Detonics .45s had seen him through in style.
And they had seen him through some private scrapes, as well, although the media had never been apprised of his successful midnight marksmanship on those occasions. Dead-and-buried secrets could be lethal to his image — to his very freedom — if they should be revealed. The feds and local law-enforcement agencies were hungry for a chance to lock his ass away, to poke around inside his books and slip his growing empire underneath the microscope for closer scrutiny.
His empire.
He liked the sound of that, the concept of a vast domain that stretched from... well... from sea to shining sea. The Brotherhood and its affiliates were everywhere these days — among the farmers and the auto workers, taking membership away from the established Klans and Nazi parties, even in the prisons. It was inspirational, the way a simple message could take root and grow.
Transactions with Vachon and others like him didn't bother Axelrod. The underworld was all a state of mind, in any case. As he was wont to tell the faithful at their convocations, Christ's disciples were the original underground, driven into catacombs and sewers by the Roman legions and damned as outlaws. A patriotic Christian today could look for persecution if he lived the Word explicitly, and if survival should force him into contact with the modern Philistines... well, now, the Lord was understanding, don't you know?
They ate up that bullshit in Birmingham and Macon, in Topeka, Kansas City, even way the hell out west in Bakersfield. It was a word whose time had come, and Axelrod was pleased to be the messenger — especially since it paid so very well.
But words alone would never pay the rent. It was the word made flesh— or molded into tempered steel — that paid his overhead. The members of his Brotherhood and its affiliated outfits needed guns the way a diabetic needs his insulin. They lived on firearms and explosives, drawing strength from mere possession of the paramilitary toys. And they were using them for more than parlor decorations lately. That talk-show host in Colorado Springs, for instance. Freaking bastard never knew what hit him when he reached for the ignition key of his Caddy, but Axelrod knew well enough.
The list was long and repetitious. Automatic rifles for a tri-K faction down in Jacksonville; too bad about the traffic cop who tried to stop them with the weapons in their car. Grenades to Omaha, and who could guess that those abortion clinics would be hit so hard? LAW rockets in New Jersey, perfect lock-picks for an armored payroll truck. Plain, old-fashioned TNT for San Francisco, where the gay-rights boys were getting last rites now.
The brief, unconscious grimace never made it through his practiced smile. If anybody in the rank and file suspected... well... there would be hell to pay. He would be forced to cut and run before they found him, change his name perhaps. These frigging zealots didn't lose the scent the way a mercenary might; they would pursue him to the corners of the earth and waste his ass if they suspected for a moment they had been betrayed.
But they would never know, of course. It was the beauty of his scheme. It was one reason for keeping everybody satisfied with new and better arms.
If only he could find some new and better hands...
"I beg your pardon?"
He had not been listening, and now Vachon was looking at him with a puzzled little frown.
"I said you will be pleased with the supplies."
"I hope so," Axelrod replied. "I've heard good things about the product out of Steyr."
"Simplicity and craftsmanship. You'll get your money's worth, and more."
"You really have a contact in the factory?"
The French Canadian's smile was enigmatic. "I have tried... to get rid of the middleman."
"No leaks?"
"My sources are secure. And if they should be burned, there will be other sources, other manufacturers."
"I like a man who plans ahead," Axelrod said.
In fact, he liked Vachon. His dark complexion was almost flawless save for one small scar above an eye. It made him look piratical, and certainly exciting. Axelrod began to mentally undress the dealer, careful to preserve the bland expression on his face. He wondered if Vachon might swing both ways, decided not to risk the deal — or future deals — by pushing it too far.
Toronto was a business trip. There would be time enough for pleasure when he was safely home again.
Vachon was smiling broadly now, but not at Axelrod. Instead, he looked beyond the Georgian, toward the parlor's open entry way. Startled, Axelrod was swiveling to face the doorway when a slender, dark-skinned man materialized beside him, moving silently across the deep shag carpeting.
Vachon was on his feet, a hand outstretched. "How good of you to join us."
"Not at all."
The new arrival's voice was soft and liquid, vaguely Hispanic. His smile was cruel, and there was glacial ice behind his eyes.
The Georgian didn't rise, did not extend his hand until the new arrival thrust his out, that steely grip enveloping and crushing Axelrod's diminutive fist. A grimace was the best that he could do by way of pleasantries.
"Allow me," Paul Vachon was saying, every bit the gracious host. "Monsieur Gerold Axelrod, from the United States. Senor Ramirez, from... ah..."
"Caracas."
"Yes, of course."
Ramirez.<
br />
So, the face was familiar, after all.
The Georgian nodded. "I'm familiar with your work."
"And I with yours."
So much for editorials that speculated on the bastard's death. He was in perfect health, as far as Axelrod could see. If anything, he looked a few years younger than the fuzzy pictures carried periodically by Time and Newsweek with their articles on terrorism.
He turned to face Vachon. "I didn't realize that we were having company."
The Canadian spread his hands. "Señor Ramirez is an old and valued friend. He has an interest in our business here."
"What interest?" Axelrod inquired.
"An involvement in procuring the merchandise."
"I see."
Ramirez settled on the sofa near Vachon, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. "The man at Steyr works for me."
"So much for phasing out the middleman."
Vachon looked hurt. "We have a partnership of sorts."
"I wasn't told." Axelrod's face was serious.
"We tell you now."
"And if I take my business elsewhere?"
"There is nowhere else to go," Ramirez told him, speaking softly, settling back into the couch. "Not for the quantity and quality we offer you."
"The price has been agreed to."
"Certainly. I have no wish to alter your arrangement with Vachon."
The bastard's smile was crafty, self-assured, and Gerry wondered if there might be a hint of madness lurking there. He wondered if he ought to make some patriotic noises, jerk the asshole's chain about the flight from Munich, but he let it go.
Instead, he said, "You're very hot right now."
The Raven's smile remained in place. "It's hot in Europe. No one knows me here."
The Georgian glanced at Paul Vachon. "No one?"
Ramirez shrugged. "No one whom I cannot trust implicity."
"All right."
He should have walked, or had his head examined if he made the choice to hang around, but Axelrod was in too deep to let it go. A half a million dollars riding on the line, and he would triple that on retail when he moved the weapons stateside. Still, he didn't like surprises, and he wondered how secure Toronto was for someone like the Raven.
Flight 741 Page 15
