Flight 741

by Don Pendleton

  The Raven was prepared for war. In fact, he was anticipating it with an excitement that he had not felt in years.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Night finally fell on Zermatt. As Bolan made his way back from the Schweizerhof to the Grand Hotel Zermatterhof, the streets were still alive with tourists, bound for supper or for one more stroll around the town before returning to their rooms. The air was brisk, but Bolan did not feel the chill. His eyes were on the faces jostling past him or turned toward lighted windows of the shops that were now closed. The Executioner was hoping for one glimpse of the Raven.

  Although he was scrutinizing features that surrounded him, Bolan's thoughts were back in the Zermatterhof, on Toby. He had tried to call her from the Schweizerhof before the conference with Katz and McCarter broke, but she hadn't answered in the room or restaurant. He wasn't worried yet — there were a thousand things for her to do around Zermatt — but something dark and dangerous was stirring at the back of Bolan's mind.

  A thousand things to do, he told himself again. And just as many things to see. The town was famous for its shops, its scenery, its ambience. Why should he have expected her to wait around the suite when she could take the opportunity to sample Switzerland firsthand?

  Their afternoon together had been a slice of heaven, extracted from the living hell of warfare everlasting. He had recognized a softness in the lady that belied herj strength, and Bolan wondered — as he had on other evenings after other close encounters — whether Toby had the inner steel required to see her through the killing fields. She had been down this road before, and often, but no two campaigns were ever quite the same. Each sortie came complete with perils of its own, and they could catch a warrior unawares if he or she was not prepared.

  He reached the driveway of the Grand Hotel Zermatterhof, already moving faster as he left the flow of pedestrians behind. The restaurant was crowded, warm lights glowing through the picture windows, casting deeper shadows on the night outside. He would returrt if necessary, to interrogate the maitre d', but for the moment Bolan's mind was focused on the suite he shared with Toby, and the hope that he would find her there.

  Bolan checked his watch before he hit the stairs, confirming that a minimum of twenty minutes had elapsed since he tried to call her. She might have easily returned, completely unaware that he tried to reach her. Everything could be explained... and still, the nagging apprehension dogged him.

  He took the staircase three steps at a time, already opening the buttons of his jacket for easy access to the VP-70 that rode his hip. in clip-on leather. It would be unlike the Raven to prepare a welcoming committee — he would prefer a hit-and-run attack to any stationary ambush — but the Executioner could not afford to gamble on the odds. He was on unfamiliar soil, with unknown numbers of the enemy arrayed against him, and the first misstep could be his last.

  The corridor outside his suite was empty. Bolan reached the door, one hand inside his jacket now, his fingers wrapped around the autoloader's grip, his free hand reaching out to test the knob. Still locked, but that meant nothing. Any prowler worth his salt would lock the door when he was finished; any hit team dry behind the ears would do the same, to keep from spooking their intended target. Standing off to one side of the door, he found his key and turned the lock, already braced to dodge and run if hostile weapons opened up inside. He wondered if the walls were thick enough to stop the first barrage, decided that it didn't matter in the long run. Counting down the doomsday numbers in his mind, he gave the door a shove and followed through to hit a combat crouch, the VP-70 extended, searching for a target.

  The suite was empty, mocking him with stony silence.

  Bolan rose and closed the door behind him, moving swiftly toward the darkened bathroom. Once again he braced himself, prepared for anything as his fingers found the light switch, flicked it on — and once again, the emptiness made mockery of his precautions.

  Holstering his pistol, Bolan checked the tall French doors and found them locked. A quick scan of the shadowed terrace revealed nothing to arouse suspicion. He was moving toward the telephone to call the Schweizerhof when he discovered Toby's message on the vanity. It had apparently been tucked into a corner of the standing mirror, but had fallen from its place and thus been overlooked. Bolan tore into the envelope, withdrew a piece of hotel stationery, recognizing Toby's script at once.

  Gone shopping. Back by seven. T.

  Bolan checked his watch again, confirmed that it was after nine. The lady should have been there waiting for him, and her absence set alarm bells jangling in Bolan's mind. Retreating to the bed, he sat down heavily, attempting to examine every explanation for her delay.

  There was a possibility that she had been compelled to write the note, surprised by someone in the room or on the terrace. It seemed unlikely. No sign of struggle in the suite, but maids had plainly come and gone. The bed was made, fresh towels in place, and any minor evidence of conflict might have been eradicated. Bolan made a mental note to check the desk before he left and see if the concierge remembered Toby leaving, whether she had been alone or in the company of strangers.

  It would be more logical, he reasoned, to accept her note for what it was. She had gone shopping, plain and simple... but had not returned. Whatever interrupted her had happened after she was on the street. Again he racked his brain in search of answers. She might have met someone and lost track of time. Before he could dismiss the notion as preposterous, another was already jostling for position in his mind.

  Toby might have seen someone she knew — or someone whom she recognized, at any rate. If not a friend, perhaps an enemy. Perhaps the Raven.

  A sudden chill was worming up the soldier's spine. If Toby had spotted their quarry, he was certain that she would be forced to choose between a phone call to the Schweizerhof and keeping him in sight. No choice at all, to Bolan's mind. She would have followed him, made certain that she tracked him to his lair, and in the process she would risk discovery and capture.

  The chill was wrapped around the base of Bolan's skull. He had to check the restaurant, and after that, a quick call to the Schweizerhof. But he was wasting time, and the soldier knew that Toby wasn't downstairs having dinner. She had not touched base with Katzenelenbogen or McCarter. She was simply gone.

  A surge of grisly memories left Bolan feeling ill, his stomach rolling as unbidden images of others who had fallen in his cause paraded for review. So many wasted lives on Bolan's tab, so much beloved blood upon his hands. He wondered if another mutilated soul, the sacrifice of one more friend might push his mind beyond its limit.

  He hesitated in the doorway, made the empty suite a promise from the heart. If Toby had been taken he would spend his life to retrieve her from the enemy. And failing that, he would devote his life — whatever might rmain of it — to wreaking savage vengeance on the animals responsible for her demise. No matter how experienced or how professional, the terrorist could always learn a thing or two about the boundless depths of terror. Long accustomed to dispensing pain, he could experience the agonies of hell on earth before the Executioner permitted him to die.

  Bolan left the lights on, just in case, and closed the door behind him, moving swifty toward a rendezvous with retribution in Zermatt.

  * * *

  "What's the time?"

  "Two minutes later than the last time you asked."

  "Goddamn it!"

  Gerry Axelrod was pacing back and forth across the narrow room, his small hands clasped behind him, features etched into an angry scowl. He had been waiting for an hour and a half, and there was still no indication when their host might condescend to speak with Axelrod in person. His associates had spirited the woman off, presumably to some interrogation chamber in another part of the chalet, and left the Georgian with an order to remain available.

  "Relax."

  His blond companion, seated on the couch, was watching Axelrod with pale-blue eyes that harbored just a hint of dark amusement. His apparent nonchalan
ce did nothing to restore the usual confidence that had been slipping steadily away from Axelrod. The frigging Raven had them both on hold, and Billy seemed to think that it was all some kind of joke.

  "What's funny?" Axelrod demanded.

  "Nothing."

  But the smirk was back on Billy's face, and for an instant Axelrod was sorry he had brought the bodyguard along.

  "You think it's funny?"

  "No."

  "You're goddamn right, it's not. It's fucking rude, that's what it is!"

  "You're dealing with a terrorist, for God's sake, not Ann Landers," Billy gibed. "You can't expect the man to stand on ceremony."

  "Listen, Billy..."

  "Yes?"

  He hesitated, still unable to resist those eyes.

  "Goddamn it!"

  Axelrod resumed his pacing, cursing softly beneath his breath. He cursed the Raven, and the woman who had plainly meant to do him harm. He cursed the blond Adonis who was mocking him with the expression on his face, a look that told him Billy had been disappointed by his master's irritation, by his failure to adjust. Above all else, he cursed himself, for trusting Toby in the first place and for attempting to do business with a terrorist whose face was plastered over Wanted posters all around the world.

  He hadn't known, of course; not at the start. Vachon had been a regular supplier for the Brotherhood. They had done business two dozen times before the roof fell in. But it had been a shock to meet the Raven at Vachon's, a greater shock to see him at the cemetery drop. The greatest shock of all had come when unknown enemies had opened fire and ruined everything that he had worked for over two long months. It was too bad about Vachon, but he had recognized the risks from the beginning. Axelrod would miss him, miss his prices most of all, but there were other sources.

  Provided he was still in business.

  The news from home was grim, and Axelrod was thinking seriously of abandoning his operations stateside. Billy had arrived with word of the attack upon their compound at Stone Mountain, the investigations underway by state and federal authorities. Indictments were distinctly possible; a prison term was not beyond the realm of possibility, by any means.

  His anger at the bodyguard was a reaction to the bearer of bad news. The Georgian recognized that much, but he could not control the hot resentment that erupted every time he glanced at Billy. Subconsciously, Axelrod wondered if the blonde was cutting loose, if he had found somebody else already. One more slick betrayal, in the wake of Toby's treason. Axelrod was Sickened by the subterfuge of those around him.

  He was sounding paranoid and knew it, but his fantasies were based on solid fact. The woman had betrayed him. Why else would she have surfaced in Zermatt when he had left her scrambling for cover in Toronto's oldest boneyard? Logic would have placed her in the States, if not awaiting word from Axelrod, then searching out another sugar daddy. Axelrod was certain she could not afford a trip to Switzerland... unless, perhaps, a wealthy uncle had been picking up the tab. A wealthy uncle by the name of Sam.

  He would have questioned her himself, extracting answers to the questions that were haunting him, but Julio Ramirez had insisted that they wait. The Raven felt no sense of urgency, no pressing need to punish Toby for her duplicity. If anything, the terrorist had seemed annoyed with Axelrod for acting on his own initiative and taking Toby hostage. He would oversee the questioning when time allowed, and not before.

  At present, though, the Raven was beyond his reach and likely to remain so. Gradually, his anger coalesced around the bodyguard and sometime lover, who was leafing through a magazine and actively ignoring him.

  The younger man had been in his employ for eighteen months, since Axelrod noticed him among the Klan's security detachment at a rally in the Carolinas. He made an offer Billy French could not refuse: a wage precisely triple his anemic earnings from the Klan, the perks that came along with graduation to the big time and the warmth of Axelrod's reflected glory as they toured the redneck circuit. Within a month they were lovers, and the blonde from Carolina revealed some hidden skills that made him worth his weight in gold to Gerry Axelrod. Till now.

  His attitude had shifted since Toronto, growing cocky, almost insubordinate at times. Axelrod felt a certain chill from Billy French, and he was counting down the hours now, until his bodyguard cum paramour decided it was safer elsewhere — anywhere away from Gerry Axelrod.

  The bastard wasn't getting off that easy, though. Not after all the gifts and advances on his salary, the risks that Axelrod had run by courting him so openly. It had been Axelrod's relationship with Billy French that forced him to employ a female shadow, and to that extent, the blonde was every bit as guilty of betraying Axelrod as Toby was herself.

  "Goddammit, what's the time?"

  The blue eyes pinned him where he stood. "You've got a watch."

  The child-size hands were trembling, and he jammed them in his pockets, taking two long strides toward Billy French.

  "I'm asking you a simple question."

  Billy dropped the magazine, stood up. He was as tall las Axelrod, some five years younger, and could easily have decked him. The Georgian braced himself, but there was worse in store than any right cross to the jaw.

  "I don't have time for this."

  He read the meaning, understood exactly what the 'blonde was telling him and felt compelled to push it anyway. "You've frigging well got time for anything I ask you, dammit!"

  "No."

  Just that, and Billy left it hanging.

  "What?" Axelrod was incredulous.

  "I'm going out."

  "The hell you are!"

  "Good night."

  Axelrod turned his back, unable to accept the curt dismissal by a paid subordinate. He felt the angry color rushing to his cheeks, and longed to strike at someone, anyone, before the shrieking in his skull drowned out the voice of sanity.

  It was the woman's fault, and she would pay. As soon as Julio Ramirez realized the implications of her presence in Zermatt. When the interrogation started, Gerry Axelrod was shooting for a ringside seat, and he would prime the Raven with some questions of his own. And if the bitch was hesitant to answer, well, he knew some tricks that even high-priced terrorists might be surprised to learn.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  David McCarter stood with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, scanning the sidewalks that were slowly clearing of pedestrians. The night life of Zermatt was gradually retreating, going undercover in the pubs and restaurants, in hotel suites and private homes.

  The Phoenix warrior's breath was visible in front of him, a frosty plume illuminated by the nearest streetlight. It was getting colder by the hour, and the few determined sightseers who remained abroad were bundled up against the alpine chill. McCarter, for his part, was looking for another pub or restaurant to scrutinize for suspects, anything to get him off the street and safe indoors.

  They had been galvanized by Bolan's call, alerted to the fact of Toby's disappearance and the likelihood that she had stumbled into danger. Bolan had his money riding on the Raven, but there were other possibilities as well. McCarter ran a mental checklist, ticking off the hostiles who had been connected with the Raven's web of terror in the past few days. There were assorted factions of the Baader-Meinhof gang, for starters, always spoiling for a firefight on the slightest provocation... or with none at all. From stateside, there was Gerry Axelrod and his fascist Brotherhood, already linked to Julio Ramirez through the dual connections of narcotics and illicit arms. Most recently, the Raven had revealed connections with the "pacifist" Earth Party, and who knew what machinations would be finally revealed from that relationship?

  A world of possibles, and McCarter wasn't taking any chances as he homed in on another pub. He would be looking for the Raven, or his likeness, but he would be watching other faces, too. A score of mug shots and assorted candid photographs had been received from Interpol, and from Brognola's team in Wonderland. The faces were tucked away inside the Phoenix warrior's mind a
nd ready for a swift recall at need. So far, there had been no need. Three pubs, four restaurants, and he was empty-handed, running out of targets on the darkened street.

  One last tavern, and he would have to rendezvous with Katz and grudgingly admit defeat. The former SAS commando hated the idea of facing Bolan and confessing failure, but he had no alternative. It didn't mean their quarry had escaped, but merely that the bastard had already gone to ground. If Toby had been taken prisoner, it stood to reason that the Raven would be busy, picking through her brain in search of answers.

  It made McCarter slightly ill to think of Toby in the Raven's clutches. Even though he didn't know the lady well, had never worked with her before, he dreaded picking up the pieces when the Raven finished with her. He had recognized the look on Bolan's face, could sympathize with what the Executioner was going through. How many would it be? How many friends and allies martyred in a hopeless cause?

  Too many.

  He should be used to it by now, but a warrior never grew accustomed to the emptiness that came with sudden death in battle. If they couldn't reach her, he could only hope that Toby's death would be precisely that: a sudden one. And even as he formed the thought, McCarter knew it was a hollow hope. The Raven — if he had her — would be after information, and the lady would be pro enough to fight him all the way. A professional could make the questioning go on for days, if necessary, wringing answers and confessions from a tortured soul when every other vestige of humanity had passed away.

  McCarter hoped that they could spare her that. If not, there would be no restraining Bolan in his rage, no sanctuary for the Raven or his minions in Zermatt.

  No sanctuary in the world.

  The last saloon was packed with tourists dressed in stylish sweaters and expensive ski clothes. Smoke and strident music greeted him as padded doors swung shut behind him. It took a moment for McCarter's eyes to finally accommodate the atmosphere, and in the meantime he imagined Bolan, Yakov, making independent rounds and finding nothing. Four hours wasted, and another yet to go before they met outside the Grand Hotel Zermatterhof to pool their information. If there was still no sign of Toby, of the Raven, they would have to try another means of jarring loose the quarry from his lair.