Flight 741

by Don Pendleton

  "We were briefly out of touch," Ramirez said, embarrassed by the sudden impulse to explain himself. "I knew of his transaction with the Austrians, of course... but there has been no word of any incident."

  "The local gendarmes are investigating," Rylov told him. "They have not released the names or any details to the media."

  "I see."

  "There was, I understand, some link between the Steyr operation and your problem in Toronto."

  So. Your problem. Rylov had already washed his hands of the predicament. Ramirez would be called upon to stand or fall alone, without assistance from the KGB. Ironically, the casual dismissal failed to shake him. If the Russians cut him loose, if they permitted him to solve the problem on his own, he still might have a chance. For now, his task would be to pacify the gray man from Dzerzhinsky Square.

  "Link?" Julio's thoughts were not with Rylov, but he knew the Russian had a point to make.

  "Precisely."

  Julio Ramirez shrugged. "My late connection in Toronto handled some material from Steyr. He handled many things. I see no evidence of any link between the incidents."

  "Your sponsors disagree."

  Ramirez frowned. "If they have any information that I may have overlooked..."

  "They are concerned about security."

  "As I am."

  "Certainly." The Russian risked a tight-lipped smile. "Preventive measures must be taken."

  "Measures have been taken, comrade."

  It was true... to an extent. His agents — the three survivors — would be gathering within a half day's time to sort out the problem. Motivated by survival instincts, each of them was anxious to eliminate the enemy who had appeared from nowhere, targeting their operations on three continents.

  "Comrade?"

  Rylov had been speaking, and the Raven was embarrassed once again, compelled to ask the Russian to repeat himself.

  "Your contacts," Rylov said again. "Are they secure?"

  "They are."

  But were they? Clearly, there were breaches in security on every side. Vachon had been exposed, the Steyr operation, the connection in Durango. Somewhere there had been a leak. It might have been Vachon himself, or one of the assorted other casualties. Ramirez refused to entertain the thought that one of his selected doubles had turned traitor.

  He thought of the American, this Axelrod, and the coincidental way in which his various transactions coincided with the Raven's own disasters. The Durango shipment had been slated for delivery to Axelrod, as had the weapons in Toronto. The Canadian consignment had its origins at Steyr. Mittenwald aside, the several incidents might well be linked, and they revolved around Gerry Axelrod.

  Ramirez spent a moment pondering the possibilities, ignoring Rylov, perfectly content to let the Russian fidget in his chair. It seemed preposterous that Axelrod himself might be the leak. He had already squandered something like a million dollars, drugs and weapons thrown together, and his various investors would be clamoring for refunds or his head if merchandise was not forthcoming. Still, Ramirez was familiar with the devious techniques of law-enforcement agencies, their profligate expenditure of time and cash in the pursuit of an arrest. It was remotely possibly that Axelrod might be some sort of undercover operative, spending federal dollars to entrap the Raven.

  As soon as he conceived the notion, Julio Ramirez dismissed it. He had investigated Axelrod, his bigot Brotherhood, his tenuous connection with the underworld. There had been nothing to suggest the Georgian was a mole, but strict security had been maintained, in any case. The drug deal in Durango had remained entirely separate from Axelrod's transaction with Vachon in Canada. At no time prior to the disastrous encounter in Toronto had the Georgian been aware of dealing, even indirectly, with the Raven. Ramirez would have bet his life that Axelrod was in the dark concerning the identity of his connection with the factory at Steyr.

  Toronto, though, had altered everything. Not only had Khaldi revealed himself, but there had been an ambush, forcing Ramirez to flee the scene with Axelrod in tow.

  Ramirez had decided to continue dealing with the brash American. The choice had not been easy, but Ramirez finally gambled on his own ability to judge a man on sight, to gauge the darkness of his soul. They would continue doing business, and if the Georgian proved to be a hindrance, he would be instantly eliminated.

  In retrospect, Ramirez wondered if his choice had been a wise one. Might it not have been more prudent to eliminate the risk, however slight, and then establish links with Axelrod's subordinates? The Georgian was now privy to a portion of the Raven's own involvement in the Steyr transaction, but he would remain expendable.

  It was possible, Ramirez knew, that Axelrod himself had been the target in Toronto, even in Durango. Any one of several syndicates or agencies might have him in their sights, prepared to muscle in on profits or to lock him up and throw away the key. It mattered little to Ramirez whether Axelrod should live or die, but now his curse had been transmitted like a lethal plague bacillus to the Raven's own preserve. If criminals or law-enforcement officers were stalking Axelrod, they had already crossed the Raven's path three times — at least — and they had cost him two of his most valued operatives. Mahmoud himself had narrowly escaped the ambush in Toronto, and Ramirez wondered if it might not prove unfortunate that he had rescued Axelrod.

  The Raven knew that they would have to wait and see.

  "There are precautions to be taken."

  Rylov's voice surprised Ramirez. He had almost managed to forget the presence of his uninvited visitor.

  "Of course."

  "If you require assistance..."

  "Thank you, comrade, no. I have my own resources."

  Rylov frowned and shifted in his chair. "I am instructed to assist you in your preparations."

  Now Ramirez knew that the Russian was under orders. It made him smaller, somehow — and at once more dangerous. He would perform upon command, and if the orders from Dzerzhinsky Square included the elimination of one Julio Ramirez, he would carry out those orders with the grim precision of a murderous machine.

  Unless the Raven took preventive measures to neutralize the Russian, make him disappear without a trace.

  It would not do to strike out prematurely, Ramirez realized. The Soviets were still his sponsors; he could hope for no one else at this point in his life. Alone, without their backing, Project Raven would be doomed to wither on the vine. If they should move against him... well... the veteran terrorist did not delude himself that he could stand alone against the bear.

  He must preserve the link with Moscow, but Ramirez wondered if it would be necessary to preserve the link with Rylov simultaneously. By his very presence, Rylov was exposed to danger, charged with overseeing the security arrangements for an operation under siege. So many things could happen to advisors on the field of battle.

  Ramirez smiled, a death's-head grimace that communicated nothing to his guest. The Russian watched him stoically, but now Ramirez thought he could read a trace of fear behind the washed-out eyes. It satisfied him for the moment, simply knowing that the man from the KGB was not invulnerable, after all. Like Axelrod, the Russian clearly was expendable. The only question left was how and when to spend his life most wisely in pursuit of ultimate success. A wasted pawn could never be regained, and Julio Ramirez had already lost too many pieces in a game that he was just beginning to understand.

  The game was called survival of the fittest, and he knew the rules by heart. Whoever stood between the Raven and success — between the Raven and survival — would instantly be sacrificed.

  Chapter Thirty

  Toby Ranger came awake slowly, uncertain what had roused her from a dream of Bolan. In the dream she saw him tall and naked in the drifting smoke of some nameless battlefield. Around him, piled in drifts that reached his knees, the skulls and bones of vanquished enemies stretched out for miles in all directions. As she watched, he started slogging forward through the acres of remains, high-stepping through the dune
s and gullies of corruption. She looked away in search of some horizon, and glancing back, discovered he had disappeared.

  She reached for Bolan now, beneath the sheets... and found him gone. Alarm bells started clamoring inside her head, and Toby sat bolt upright in the bed, sheets pooling at her waist. No sound from the direction of the bathroom, and the tall French doors were closed, their drapery tightly drawn. She fumbled for the bedside lamp, and discovered Bolan's note on the nightstand. Blinking in the sudden light, she slid across to read the message.

  Gone to meet with K. and M. Back soon.

  He had not signed the note, of course; there was no need. She recognized his slanting script, and knew that he had taken pains to let her sleep, dressing in the bath- room. There was a key beneath the note, one of the two they had received on checking in.

  She knew that Katzenelenbogen and McCarter had secured reservations at the Schweizerhof, within an easy walk, but she decided not to follow Bolan there. Her case had vanished in Toronto, after Axelrod had disappeared. She had no business here, should certainly have caught the next flight back to Washington instead of trailing Bolan on a transatlantic jaunt to nowhere. Stretched across the king-size bed, she wondered what Brognola would have waiting for her when she landed stateside. With any luck at all, she thought, he might be mad enough to fire her from the program, free her to find a normal life.

  Normality had countless definitions, sure, and hers did not include the picket-fence approach to life suburban style. From adolescence, she had looked for something more: adventure and accomplishment, a sense of doing something, which had finally arrived with her enlistment in the federal service. No, Brognola would not dump her, Toby knew; the big, gruff fed was like a second father to her, and his little brood of operatives had been whittled down enough already.

  Her mind flashed back to Bolan. She had no active part in his Swiss campaign, no solid contribution to the cause. Her handle had been Axelrod, and he was gone, without a trace. His trail had disappeared at Steyr, and with it Toby's reason for remaining on the case. Zermatt had been a luxury, and Bolan didn't need her now. She might as well go out and see the town while light remained.

  She dressed in skirt and sweater, slipping on a jacket as an afterthought, aware that nights were cold above five thousand feet no matter what the season. There were year-round glaciers within a thirty-minute train ride, and the wind descending from surrounding alps could slice through normal clothing like a knife through butter.

  She picked up her room key from the nightstand, locked the door and was off. The concierge glanced up and flashed a brilliant smile before the giant doors swung shut behind her. Breathing deeply, instantly invigorated by the mountain air, she moved along the sloping driveway toward the street.

  Zermatt's main artery of commerce is a single narrow street that runs between the railway station and the market square. Along its length, the visitor is treated to a startling and charming contrast of stately hotels, elegant shops and traditional Swiss alpine homes. Despite the time — close to eight — it was scarcely dusk. Full dark would not arrive for some two hours yet, and tourists jammed the sidewalks, anxious for another look around the quaint resort before they settled into hotel suites or caught the last train down the mountainside to Tasch.

  Toby crossed the street not far from her hotel and bought herself some pastry at a small cafe. Around her, tourists from a score of countries jostled one another, veering back and forth across the narrow street. Toby moved among them, feeling every inch the tourist as she nibbled on her pastry, window-shopping like a schoolgirl. Fleetingly, she wished that Bolan could have joined her, but his visit to Zermatt was strictly business, and she put the notion out of mind before it had a chance to spoil her mood.

  Midway between the railway station and the Grand Hotel Zermatterhof, she found a jewelry shop that offered pendants of the Matterhorn for sale, in gold or silver. Toby did a quick conversion, francs to dollars, and was startled to discover that she could afford one. Rummaging inside her bag to double-check the cash on hand, she glanced up at the jeweler's window once again — and froze.

  A figure, tall and lean, reflected in the glass. She felt the breath catch in her throat, continued breathing only with an effort. It was almost certainly a trick of lighting, a distortion of the glass. She half turned, risked a glance across her shoulder and confirmed the worst.

  It was Gerry Axelrod.

  She spun away from him to face the jeweler's window once again. Inside the shop, a handsome young clerk was smiling at her. He moved closer to the window, smelling an impending sale. Behind the glass, he waited for her eyes to rise, bowed stiffly from the waist in continental fashion once their glances met and swept a silent hand across the glittering display of pendants. Toby kept her eye on the reflection in the window, realizing that the clerk must think her fascinated with his smile, his charm. A touch of intimacy crept into his manner, and he winked at Toby. He was turning from the window now, proceeding toward the door.

  Behind her, Axelrod was moving out in the direction of the market square. She turned to follow, narrowly averting a collision with the smiling clerk as he emerged to speak with her. Toby stepped around him, leaving him to ponder on the fickleness of females at his leisure. Axelrod was more than a block ahead of her, still visible because he stood a head above the crush of tourists, but it would be possible to lose him, Toby knew, and she could not afford to fail a second time.

  There was no need to wonder what he might be doing in Zermatt. He had escaped from the Toronto ambush with the Raven, and he had not collected on his shipment out of Steyr. Toby had no way of ascertaining whether he had gone direct to Austria, or whether he pad been in Steyr when Bolan and the men of Phoenix staged their little fireworks exhibition in the Schloss-park. If the bastard had been able to secure his weapons, he would not be in Zermatt right now, and Toby thanked her lucky stars that he had crossed her path again. Brognola would not have to worry now. The mission was on track.

  She took the opposite sidewalk, pacing Axelrod, determining that he appeared to be alone, unhurried. Toby watched him stop for coffee and an English newspaper, dawdling along with his attention split between the headlines and the scenery. Toby thought of stopping briefly to acquire some shades, perhaps a hat to alter her appearance, and as quickly put the notion out of mind. The average disguise did more to call attention than diffuse it, and the lady fed was well aware that she possessed the best disguise of all: a milling crowd.

  Around the market square, she trailed her quarry past the old communal council house, the Marmot fountain and the handsome church of St. Maurice. They crossed the burbling Visp on a narrow footbridge with a cemetery close at hand, presenting monuments to climbers who had failed and fallen on the Matterhorn.

  And Toby realized, too late, that they were climbing now, the crowds of tourists thinning out around them. Axelrod had lured her away from cover, up a narrow side street lined with tall and narrow homes. In every window planters were alive with flowers, brilliant colors dazzling the eye. But here, among the houses that reminded her of something from a fairy tale, the dusk was deepening, its shadows driving earnest shoppers back downslope. It would be dark here, she realized, before dusk reached the terrace of the Grand Hotel Zermatterhoff.

  She would be alone with Gerry Axelrod before much longer, stripped of her disguise, exposed before him if he chose to turn and glance in her direction. Toby wondered if her footsteps might alert him to the fact that he was being followed, causing him to bolt or turn upon her in a homicidal rage. He would be armed, she knew that much from personal experience. The man could not exist without the twin Detonics .45s, which fit his tiny hands the way no other firearm ever could. At first, his quirk had brought a smile to Toby's face. It amused her, until she joined him on the firing range one day and watched him as he made the autoloading pistols do their work. The guns were an extension of himself, and Toby knew that if he saw her, Axelrod could drop her anywhere within the weapon's effect
ive range.

  Impulsively, she almost turned back then and there. It was enough to know the bastard was in town. She could report to Bolan, warn him in advance and let him deal with Axelrod. It made no sense to trail him up and down the narrow, winding streets, unarmed, devoid of backup. She thought about it seriously for a second and a half before she pushed the thought away and concentrated on her quarry. Axelrod was her assignment, and it was all that mattered.

  There were no tourists now, besides herself and Axelrod. She did a rapid head count, coming up with half a dozen locals homeward bound. Ahead of her, the Georgian never broke his stride or glanced across his shoulder. He was totally at ease, secure... and Toby had him where she wanted him.

  Within the next two blocks, they lost five locals, men and women peeling off toward homes that lined the street or had been tucked away in alleys opening on either side. The sixth, a teenage girl dressed up to look like Heidi, suddenly turned to retrace her steps downslope. She flashed a shy, embarrassed smile at Toby as she passed, and Toby felt her own smile like a grimace, etched into her face.

  She was alone with Axelrod.

  Except that he was gone.

  It must have happened in the twinkling of an eye. Within the time that it had taken to return a young girl's fleeting smile, her quarry had evaporated. Axelrod had simply disappeared.

  She hesitated, tasting fear. If he had seen her, she was finished. He could lie in wait for her in any one of several dozen shadowed doorways. If he had not observed her tailing him, the disappearance was coincidence.

  Whichever, Toby knew that she would not turn back. There would be ample time for warning Bolan and the others after she had run her prey to ground. From that point on, she would be perfectly content to let the Executioner take over... but she had to do the groundwork first.

  With labored strides, the lady fed resumed her climb. The altitude was yet another strike against her, robbing lungs of vital oxygen and making Toby almost giddy as she climbed. Another block or two, and she would pack it in. The general area might be enough for Bolan — certainly enough, at any rate, for him to send the men of Phoenix Force against their hidden enemy.