Flight 741

by Don Pendleton

  It took a moment for the lady fed to answer him. Her eyes were on the mountains, seeking something that was still invisible from where she sat. When she turned back to face the Executioner, her eyes were misty, faraway.

  "I might," she told him earnestly, and then she cracked a winning smile. "But who the hell would have me?"

  Bolan read the hurt behind the smile and spoke to Toby's eyes. "That wouldn't be a problem."

  "No?"

  "I'd bet my life."

  "You do that every day."

  "It's all I have."

  The smile had vanished, and she half turned toward the window, showing off the classic profile. "That's the problem."

  "Oh?"

  "That's all you have," she echoed him. "That's all I have. And that's a shame."

  "Not necessarily."

  "You bet it is."

  He read the bitterness in Toby's voice, knew better than to try and smother her in platitudes.

  "We all make choices, Toby. This was mine, and once I made it, it was understood that there could be no turning back. There's no retirement plan, no pension, no retreat. But that's my choice," he told her earnestly, "not yours. You have an out."

  "It doesn't feel that way."

  "Might be because you don't want out," he said.

  "What makes you so damned smart?"

  He grinned. "I eat right, get a lot of rest..."

  "Enough, already. How much longer?"

  Bolan checked his digital. "Another twenty minutes, give or take."

  "Let's give. I wouldn't mind a few more minutes of this scenery."

  And she was back. The soldier read it in her tone, her eyes. She was adept at dealing with her doubts as they arose, dismissing them before they could subvert her personal commitment to the struggle. And the lady's personal commitment was as deep as Bolan's own, he knew that much.

  The twenty minutes stretched to thirty-five, and it was almost noon before they finished the ascent to Tasch along a narrow, two-lane ribbon climbing to the clouds. Their destination was a parking lot outside the station of a narrow-gauge electric railway, which would carry them the final three miles. While Toby bought the round-trip tickets, Bolan piled their luggage on a rolling cart and stowed it in the separate baggage car. The parking lot and station platform were alive with tourists, but they found a window seat up front and settled in for the ascent.

  The Phoenix warriors would be following them on a different train. Trains ran back and forth every twenty minutes, transporting tourists by the thousands in a single afternoon. Most came back down again by dark, but hundreds lingered on in the hotels, to taste the nightlife, sample the cuisine of gourmet restaurants and laze along the narrow streets of ancient homes. The mountain village was a paradise for tourists and, perhaps, a sanctuary for the fugitive elite. Tonight it would become a hunting ground for Executioner Mack Bolan.

  Just beyond the station, they were cast in darkness as the train slid through a tunnel, rattling and swaying slightly on its tracks. Once through, the town below them was invisible, the forest close at hand on either side, a primal vista that surprised them both and spoke to Toby in particular.

  "It's like another world," she said.

  The soldier at her side said nothing, smiling at her almost sadly. He reflected that there was no other world; the one at hand was all they had, and when the final showdown came — tonight, tomorrow — he could only hope that Toby would be thinking of the job Nostalgia, wistful longing for a simpler time and place were fine, in moderation, but a working warrior could not well afford an overdose of sentiment. Distractions got you killed in combat, and they were here to stalk a predator with countless kills behind him. He was slick, professional... and he was not alone.

  If Toby's mind was in the clouds, she would be little use to Bolan in a crisis situation, but he let her dream for now, content to see her happy for a change.

  The train was climbing steeply, the pull of gravity forcing Bolan back into the cushions of his seat. When they were topside, they would be on foot, but they would compensate by spending extra energy in the pursuit of Julio Ramirez and his clones. If there were any Ravens to be found within the shadow of the Matterhorn, he meant to root them out and see them dead before he caught the next train back to Tasch.

  It had occurred to Bolan that the "Raven" tagged in Steyr might have been anticipating a vacation, traveling to Switzerland for pleasure or on private business of his own... but it had been the only lead, and he fell compelled to play it out.

  It had occurred to Bolan, also, that he might not leave Zermatt alive. If he was right in his suspicion that the Ravens might be gathering, there was a chance that he would find himself outnumbered by the enemy. The odds did not intimidate him — he had dealt with them before, and he was still around — but any time he faced the savages there was a chance that he would not be walking out the other side.

  He had been cognizant of all the risks from the beginning, and his only worry now was that his friends — the lady, Katz, McCarter — might go down in flames beside him if his plans went sour.

  The train was at the station, groaning to a halt, the doors unfolding to release a stream of tourists on the platform. Bolan waited to retrieve their baggage, flagged the driver of an electric minibus and pointed him in the direction of the Grand Hotel Zermatterhof. Five minutes later, after weaving in and out through eddies of pedestrians, he dropped them at the entrance to a lavish hostelry. Beside the sloping drive, a giant sculpted frog presided over gushing fountains, and the liveried captain hurried down to help them with their bags. The concierge was waiting to receive them, anxious to confirm the reservation of a dead man, now in Bolan's name.

  Beyond the lobby, two flights up, they found the suite already open, bellman standing at attention by their luggage. Bolan tipped him, saw him out and locked the door behind him. Toby had already found the French doors, and she was through them now, exploring what appeared to be a giant patio beyond. In fact, their room, and all the other suites adjoining, faced upon the roof of the restaurant and lobby just below, providing guests with space to ramble and a striking profile of the Matterhorn. They stood together, side by side, and overlooked the teeming street below, the tourists small and bustling in their haste. Another moment, and the lady slipped her arm through his, surprising Bolan with the sudden sadness in her voice.

  "It's beautiful," she said. "So beautiful."

  A stab of sharp regret pierced Bolan's chest — regret that he had let her come along, regret that he had ever heard the Raven's name or seen him face-to-latex-face aboard Flight 741. In other circumstances Toby might have joined him here in the pursuit of love and life, instead of fire and death.

  Bolan stopped himself abruptly, shaking off the mood. There were no other circumstances. If not for Bolan's private war, he never would have known the lady fed at all. They never would have met, would not have loved, could not have hoped to share the Alpine vista arm-in-arm. A cruel twist of fate, perhaps... but it was all they had, and it would have to do.

  She sensed his mood and disengaged herself, stepped back a pace to give him room.

  "What now?" she asked.

  "We wait."

  Until the Phoenix warriors were in place. Until they found a way to trace the Raven through the crush of tourists on the street below. There was a possibility, he realized, that someone would attempt to reach him in his room. It had been on his mind when he decided to maintain the Raven's reservations. If there was no contact, he would have to find another way, another means of reaching out to find his quarry and bring him down.

  "It won't be easy," Toby told him.

  "No."

  "The others might not even be here."

  Bolan shrugged. "It's all I've got."

  "I know, but what next?"

  He hadn't needed her to voice the question. What next? What if it all fell through and left him empty-handed, looking like a fool? What then?

  "I try again."

  She faced hi
m, turning from the mountains, looking him directly in the eye. "How much of this is personal?"

  He wasn't sure, and told her so.

  "I was afraid of that," she said. "The Ahab syndrome."

  "What?"

  "The Ahab syndrome," she repeated. "Moby Dick, you know?"

  "You've lost me, Toby."

  "Captain Ahab spent his life pursuing Moby Dick because the whale had publicly embarrassed him by chewing off his leg."

  "That's some embarrassment."

  "I'm serious. It killed him in the end. It dragged him down."

  "We're miles from water, Toby."

  "I'm serious."

  "I know you are."

  "Goddammit." Toby stared in the direction of the mountains for a moment, sudden moisture gleaming in her eyes. "How long?"

  "What's that?"

  "How long?" she asked again, exasperation in her voice. "Until the others make it in?"

  "An hour, maybe two."

  "All right."

  She turned away, already moving toward their suite. The soldier trailed her with his eyes until she reached the open door, but made no move to follow. Standing in the doorway, Toby glanced across her shoulder at him, frowning. Nervous fingers were already working on the buttons of her blouse.

  "Get in here, soldier," she demanded. "Time's a'wasting."

  And Bolan realized that he might have so very little time to spare.

  Somewhere below in the streets, or in the hotel suites and plush chalets clinging to the mountainsides, his quarry was already waiting for him. He could feel it in his vitals. Their time was coming, and there was no way on earth to tell which one of them — if either — would survive the confrontation when it came.

  Their time was coming, but it was not yet.

  Tonight, right now, was Toby's time, and Bolan owed it to her. He owed it to himself, as well. In unity of the body, they could reaffirm a unity of the soul, their momentary passion an expression of some deeper understanding, deeper love, which circumstance and fleeting time would not permit to blossom in their present world.

  It was the only world they had, the only world that they were ever likely to possess, and Bolan had no real regrets about the course his life had taken. He would leave the bitch-and-moan department to professionals, the whiners who bemoaned their lot in life no matter what that lot might be. As for the Executioner, he had gone into war with both eyes open, and had known precisely what the hellgrounds held in store.

  But there were still some sweet surprises on the way.

  Like Toby Ranger.

  Like stolen hours, waiting for the reinforcements to arrive.

  He ambled back in the direction of the suite, already shrugging off a measure of the apprehension that had dogged him since they landed in Geneva.

  And for once, he hoped the cavalry would take its own sweet time.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The Russian was a gray man, craggy features chiseled out of living stone. Gray hair was swept back from his forehead, lacquered down against his skull. Gray eyes stared out, unblinking, from beneath gray brows. His heavy topcoat, like the suit and tie beneath, was gray. An ancient scar descended from the corner of his left eye to the angle of his jaw, fish-belly white against the parchment coloration of his skin. He bore the mark of Moscow's winters on his face, the brand of Moscow machinations on his soul.

  Ramirez had been waiting for the Russian, hoping that he might not come and knowing that his hopes were all in vain. The Russian traveled seldom, clinging whenever possible to his sanctuary in Dzerzhinsky Square, but circumstances had compelled him to consult the Raven personally.

  Throughout the years of their acquaintance, Julio Ramirez had mistrusted Viktor Rylov, working with him through necessity and covering himself against the possibility of double-cross. The Russian would not hesitate to sell him out, he knew, if something better came along. If Project Raven ceased to yield results, then Rylov and his KGB friends would find a way to terminate the exercise, along with everyone involved. Ramirez and his doubles were expendable. Extermination by his allies was a concept that Ramirez had examined with a fair degree of objectivity on more than one occasion. Until recently, however, he had not been forced to take the idea seriously.

  That had changed, of course, when Escobar was ambushed in Durango. Up till then, they had escaped without a major casualty — aside from Julio himself — and sudden death in Mexico reminded KGB that even Ravens had a finite life span. Other near-miss incidents in Canada and Germany had brought things to a head, and so he was expecting Rylov when the Russian turned up uninvited at his door.

  An invitation would have been superfluous, of course, since Moscow paid his rent and various expenses. There had been no funds from Libya for two years now; Khaddafi had apparently found other proteges, leaving Julio Ramirez to depend upon the KGB's largesse.

  Their money was the least of it, however. In his gut, Ramirez knew the Soviets would never be content to simply cut him off without a ruble to his name. Alive, embittered by the turnaround, he might be dangerous to Moscow's public image. Worse, he might be dangerous to Rylov and the others physically, a seasoned terrorist with men at his disposal, time to kill and nothing left to lose.

  If they intended to discard him now, to scuttle Project Raven, they could not afford to let him live. Ramirez knew that much... and knew that Viktor Rylov would not try to do the job himself. A proven killer in his younger days, the man from KGB had learned to insulate himself from violence, carefully avoiding contact with the wet work that he ordered from his office in Dzerzhinsky Square. He might be guilty of a hundred or a thousand murders in a given year, but Rylov's manicured hands had not been bloodied in a decade.

  He would try to gain the Raven's confidence. He would speak of friendship, unity of purpose and the sanctity of revolution. Careful to avoid explicit criticism, he would note that problems had arisen with the project. Moscow was concerned, of course. Perhaps the Raven might consider premature retirement? At full pension, of course, with all the benefits to which a hero of the people is entitled.

  Except that Julio knew better. He could see beyond the lies. The KGB had no retirement plan for terrorists, and least of all for those whose mere existence might prove critically embarrassing to Moscow. There would always be a place for Julio Ramirez, certainly: a shallow, unmarked grave.

  Settling into his easy chair, the Matterhorn invisible behind drawn curtains now, Ramirez pushed the morbid thoughts away. He had to hear the Russian out before he jumped to any rash conclusions. It would be disastrous to mistake his motives, act in haste and bring the wrath of KGB upon himself unnecessarily. There was a chance that Moscow might desire to save the Project from extinction. Anything was possible, and he could ill afford to close out his options before they were revealed.

  "I trust your journey was a pleasant one?"

  He spoke in Russian out of courtesy to Rylov and to indicate that they were equals here. In fact, although the Russian had a global army at his beck and call, he was extremely vulnerable at the moment, and he knew it.

  "Satisfactory."

  "What brings you to Zermatt?" Ramirez inquired.

  "I think you know."

  They faced each other silently across the room, the Russian seated with his back against the wall, away from door and windows, fearful of assassins even with the curtains closed against the dusk. The years in Moscow had conditioned him to living in a bunker, constantly surrounded by security devices, bodyguards, the apparatus of the state. He might be wise, Ramirez thought, to fear for his survival here. A human life was fragile, almost brittle to the touch, and easily snuffed out.

  When Julio did not respond at once, the Russian cleared his throat.

  "There have been incidents," he said at last.

  "Ah, yes."

  "Your sponsors are concerned."

  "Unnecessarily. The risks were calculated in advance."

  The Russian's scowl was carved in stone. "You chalk the recent contacts
off to mere coincidence?"

  "Of course," Ramirez lied. "The drug trade is notoriously violent. I have been opposed to Escobar's involvement from the start. In Germany, the Baader-Meinhof factions have been turning on each other, wasting time and energy on power politics within the ranks. There have been other shooting incidents. As for Vachon... who knows? Competitors, perhaps — or one of his subordinates, intent on going into business for himself. Such altercations take place every day."

  "But four within a week..."

  "I beg your pardon, comrade? Four?"

  The Russian feigned surprise, and something in his face informed Ramirez that he had been waiting for this opportunity to drop his bomb.

  "Forgive me," Rylov said with mock sincerity, "but I assumed you knew."

  "Knew what?"

  Ramirez heard the sudden anger in his voice and cursed himself for letting Rylov peek beyond the cool exterior. And he was doubly wounded now, his ignorance and violent temper simultaneously revealed before his enemy.

  The Russian hesitated, savoring the moment and his triumph, gloating silently behind his mask of stone. When next he spoke, his tone was low-key, overfilled with false concern.

  "It grieves me to surprise you with such tidings..."

  Julio Ramirez fought a sudden urge to spring across the room and throttle Rylov, squeeze the sluggish message from his throat. He waited, cold eyes boring into Rylov's own like needles probing for the brain.

  "Last night, there was an incident in Steyr. You know the city?"

  "Yes."

  "I have it on authority that one of those eliminated was your Mr. Castresana."

  "Ah."

  The sound was noncommittal, neutral, or at least he hoped that it would sound that way to Rylov. Something cold and terrible clutched at his gut.

  "Forgive me. I assumed you would have been informed."

  But there was no contrition in the Russian's voice. If anything, there was a note of exultation. It was seldom that he had a chance to take Ramirez by surprise, and Rylov clearly meant to make the most of his advantage.