Combat Machines

by Don Pendleton

  Flicking away the butt of his cigarette, Panshin walked down the Avenue de Marigny and around to the side, where the staff entrance was located. He submitted to the identification check and the metal detector scan before his ID was returned to him and he was allowed to head down to the basement, where the kitchen, food prep and laundry were located.

  As he ambled toward the staff elevator, Panshin took a few moments to get the lay of the land, ensuring that the plans he’d memorized matched what he was seeing on the inside. So far, everything looked exactly as it should.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Yves?” a jocular voice said loudly from behind him, making him freeze for the barest moment before turning to the speaker with a wide smile.

  “What are you talking about? I am here to work, of course.” Panshin was careful to add the northern Bretagne accent to his French, speaking just like Yves would have.

  The other man, a headwaiter Panshin’s files identified as Henri Latrec, chuckled. “I know, but you are early. The Yves I know always arrives a minute before the serving is to begin, if I am lucky. Could it be that you are finally turning over a new leaf?”

  Panshin kept his smile in place, although inwardly he was cursing the other man’s chronic near-lateness—again, anything out of the ordinary might be seen as a red flag by an alert guard or staff person. Having trained since birth to flawlessly insinuate himself into any scenario, the slightest slipup could result in blowing the entire mission.

  But even as Panshin considered whether he would have to kill the man, his smile didn’t slip a bit as he nodded. “Perhaps I am, Henri, perhaps I am.”

  “Good Lord! I think the world may be ending!” Throwing a meaty arm around Panshin’s shoulders, the headwaiter steered him toward the elevator. “Despite your constant appearing here in the nick of time, you are still one of my best servers, which is good, because I would hate to have to let you go!” He clapped him on the shoulder as the elevator dinged. “Go wash up. We are about to begin the reception, and canapés will be served in ten minutes. I will see you in the reception room.”

  “Thank you, Henri,” Panshin replied as he stepped into the small box. “I’ll be there immediately.”

  Once alone, he did not betray a bit of elation at pulling off the impersonation with someone who obviously knew his dead counterpart very well. They already looked fairly similar, and judicious disguise work and makeup had turned him into an almost exact duplicate of the other man. Perhaps this would be easier than he thought.

  He stepped into the washroom, removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves to scrub his hands and forearms. When done, he redressed, checking the bottom seam of the tuxedo jacket to ensure that the poison he intended to use on the Austrian president was still secure, yet easily reachable.

  Taking a last look at himself in the mirror, Panshin smoothed back his black hair, straightened his bow tie, shot his cuffs and walked out to join the rest of the black-suited throng assembling to serve the various heads of the French government and their guests.

  Before this night is over, he thought as he insinuated himself among them, we will have struck another blow for the motherland, and these soft, babbling fools will have learned another lesson in respect.

  Chapter Six

  “If you keep pulling at that collar, you’re going to dislodge the tie, which won’t look very good at all.”

  Bolan dropped his finger from the constricting clothing and glanced ruefully at Palomer, who was sitting comfortably in the driver’s seat. “Is it that obvious?”

  “That you do not enjoy formal evening wear? Quite.” She glanced at him with a smile. “If you don’t mind my saying so, however, you look remarkable.”

  “Thank you.” Bolan had been able to visit a tailor who was an American asset. He had obtained a tuxedo that was well fitted, yet cut loose enough to conceal his pistol in a pancake holster that rode at the small of his back.

  “Well, it’s supposed to make me blend in with the crowd, so hopefully it will do the job. But you’re right. I’m more a sport coat and slacks kind of guy.” Bolan eyed her again. “If you don’t mind my saying so, that is quite the evening wear on a sergeant’s salary.”

  After he had gotten dressed, they’d swung by her apartment, where the sergeant had run inside and come back out in ten minutes dressed in an emerald green, floor-length, elegantly shimmering gown. With time running out, she had offered to drive, and he’d taken her up on it, figuring she’d be better able to smooth over any traffic issues if they were stopped along the way.

  “Glad you like it.” She smiled. “I made it myself.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “A woman of many talents. How long have you been with the DGSI?”

  “Four years, but I just made sergeant last year, so I’ve been in this position for almost eleven months.”

  Bolan had no idea what the qualifications were for sergeants in the DGSI. Palomer looked and sounded competent, but appearance was one thing, performance in the field was quite another. “What do you think of your current assignment?”

  She stared straight ahead at the traffic. “As per my superior’s orders, I am to give any and all assistance to you—as long as you are not about to break any of our laws, of course.”

  “Of course. Is Lambert your supervisor?”

  She nodded. “I report directly to him.”

  Bolan nodded. “He struck me as fairly bureaucratic.”

  He was gratified to see a faint smile curve her lips up, accompanied by a classic Gallic shrug. “He is a good administrator. That is where he excels. But changes in his routine—especially unexpected ones, like you—those he doesn’t handle as well.”

  “So, what is your opinion of this assignment?”

  She glanced sidelong at him. “I believe that you already asked that.”

  “Not exactly. Before, I asked what you thought of this assignment. Now I’m asking your opinion of it.”

  “My opinion, Agent Cooper, is that I have been assigned to watch you to insure that you do not interfere with tonight’s event. Technically, one could call this busywork, as the people overseeing security at the Hôtel de Marigny are among the very best in the world, and I have every confidence that if there is to be an assassin there, the person will be caught before he or she can do anything. However, I have my orders, and I will follow them to the best of my ability.”

  Bolan nodded again. “Excellent. That’s all I could have asked of anyone assigned to me. It’s my sincerest hope that the event goes off without a hitch, and you and I just get to stand around all night watching diplomats and other important people exchange small talk and drink expensive wine.”

  Making a final turn, Palomer nodded at the imposing stone edifice on their right, its stone driveway buried under limousines. “We’re here.”

  They drove past the large main building with a two-story wing at a right angle to the rest of the structure. A steady stream of well-dressed men and women were entering the main lobby. Bolan glimpsed several people who looked like law enforcement handling crowd control.

  “Which reception area is the event being held in?” Bolan asked, although he already knew.

  “Salon A, the smaller of the two, below the raised ground floor,” Palomer replied as she turned into a side parking lot that held several black Range Rovers and Mercedes-Benz SUVs. “Attendance should be about seventy-five to ninety people total, with an equal number of waitstaff.”

  “All of whom have been thoroughly vetted before tonight’s event?”

  She nodded. “As both Captain Lambert and I have already said, security has been heightened since the assault on Senator DiStephano. I have no doubt they’ve missed nothing.”

  “I certainly hope so,” Bolan said.

  Palomer parked their charcoal-gray Range Rover, and they both got out and walked around t
he corner to the rear of the structure, where an imposing steel door blocked their way. The sergeant knocked on it, and a few moments later it opened, and a bleary-looking man with a scattering of salt-and-pepper stubble on his cheeks peered at them. Despite his haggard facial appearance, his white dress shirt looked freshly pressed, and his tailored suit jacket was unwrinkled. “Oui?”

  She showed her badge and introduced herself and Bolan, who had gotten out his Department of Justice identification and held it up for the man to see. He stared at it with a puzzled frown.

  “What is the American DOJ doing here?” he asked in accented English.

  “Investigation of an assault on a United States senator,” Bolan said. “We have reason to believe that the perpetrators will strike here as well.”

  “Of course. I was sorry to hear of Senator DiStephano’s injury, and hope he enjoys a speedy recovery.”

  “If you check your guest list, you’ll see that Agent Matthew Cooper is on it, cleared by the minister himself,” Palomer said. “We are to extend every courtesy.”

  “I’m primarily here in an observational capacity,” Bolan added. He left out that the switch from observation to action could come at a moment’s notice.

  The man had already pulled out a smartphone and speed-dialed a number. Rapid French followed, with the man nodding as he spoke.

  The man put his phone away and stuck out his hand. “I’m Alain Deschaines, head of security at the hotel. Come on in. It never hurts to have two more sets of eyes on the premises.”

  He waved them inside and closed the heavy steel door behind them, making sure the electronic lock had engaged. “The reception is just starting, and a half dozen of my men and woman are mingling with the arriving guests right now. Do you suspect something will be attempted during that portion of the evening, or later?”

  “It’s hard to say,” Bolan answered. “Political assassins typically want to draw as much attention to the kill as possible, so striking during the reception isn’t likely, as the incident could be minimized and concealed without too much difficulty. I expect they’ll try something during dinner, or perhaps during remarks afterward. In any event, I’d like to get a quick tour and take a look at your security facilities, and then I think the best place to be for the rest of the evening would be on the floor itself—with your permission.”

  Deschaines nodded as Bolan spoke. “While I do not have any general issue with that plan, my only concern would be if you inadvertently get in the way of one of my own people—no offense intended.”

  “No, I understand completely, and plan to be on-scene in an eyes-only capacity,” Bolan replied. “Since time is of the essence, why don’t we continue our conversation on the way to your security room?”

  “Of course, right this way. Let me take you through the kitchen, in case there is anything you wish to see there.”

  Bolan and Palomer followed Deschaines down a plain gray stairwell and into a narrow corridor filled with wheeled serving racks and other kitchen appliances. It was hotter and more humid down there, and as they walked down the short passageway, they could hear the conversations and shouts of men and women working among the clatter and roar and chop of metal and wood and fire. A delicious mélange of smells, from roasting meat to a creamy sauce to some short of sharp yet fragrant spice, all combined to somehow create a delicious harmony for the nose.

  “Our kitchen houses forty people, from line chefs to pastry chefs and everything in between,” the head of security said as they entered the huge room filled with stainless-steel ovens, large gas-burning stoves and long steel countertops where a veritable white-clad army was busy preparing the evening’s repast.

  Deschaines pointed to the figure of a man wreathed in steam and smoke doing at least three things at once while instructing two other people. “I’d introduce you to the head chef, but he’d likely bite my head off at the moment. Regardless, everyone here has been working for the hotel for at least five years, and their credentials are impeccable.”

  His attention was drawn to one of the servers, a tall, black-haired man walking by pushing one of the loaded serving racks. “Yves, a moment?”

  The man stopped and eyed the three people curiously. “Yes, sir?”

  Deschaines patted his pocket. “I heard a beeping on you somewhere.” He pulled out a smartphone. “You know the rules. All phones are to be off during serving hours.”

  The man ducked his head in an abashed nod. “Yes, sir, sorry.” He touched a switch on the side of the device. “It won’t happen again, sir.”

  “See that it does not. Carry on.” Dismissing the server with a wave, Deschaines gestured for Bolan and Palomer to follow him.

  “Anything out of the ordinary tonight in the run-up to the event?” Bolan asked as they stopped for and dodged sweating, harried cooks and waitstaff while negotiating their way across the bustling room. Along the way, he kept a sharp eye out for anyone that looked out of the ordinary—someone watching their surroundings more than what they were supposed to be doing, or someone who didn’t seem to know what they were doing in the first place. But it looked like everyone was where they were supposed to be, doing what they were supposed to be doing, so no luck spotting the assassin—or assassins, he reminded himself—here.

  “Nothing more than usual,” Deschaines replied. “Two of our people called in sick, so we activated a couple of reserve personnel, both of whom have many years of experience. With a staff this large, it’s quite rare that the lineup stays the same each night, but no, nothing out of the ordinary.”

  The man’s answer didn’t reassure Bolan—it made him more alert. Any skilled assassin would be a master at blending into his or her environment, remaining unobtrusive until it was time to make a move. And with more than two hundred people to try to keep an eye on, the chance was very minuscule that they would be able to stop the assassin before he or she struck. At best, it would have to be an intercept of the attempt—to the point of taking a bullet for the Austrian president if necessary.

  “Here we are.” Deschaines ran a card through a reader, pressed his thumb on a scanning pad and punched in a series of numbers to the steel-framed security entrance. The door was bank-vault thick as well, and slid into the wall to allow entry. Inside, three men and a woman sat before a bank of monitors, taking check-in calls while observing the ground floor, kitchen, and the ongoing event through three dozen monitors.

  “Each individual member has his or her own code to access portions of the building as needed, and you saw the three steps I had to take to access the main room, so it would be very difficult for someone to pose as one of my personnel and gain access. Our protocols are reviewed and updated as needed every six months,” Deschaines said while glancing over the monitors covering the reception for the president. Both he and the French president were in a receiving line, shaking hands with diplomats—including the current one from Russia to France, Bolan noted—ministers of the president’s council, as well as underlings of theirs, influential businessmen, and others who ranked highly enough to receive a coveted invitation. Everyone was dressed to the nines, in formal wear and evening gowns, while black-jacketed men and women walked among them, offering trays of hors d’oeuvres and flutes of champagne.

  “So many people,” Palomer said as she took in the large scene of talking, laughing, drinking, eating attendees. “Where are we going to begin?”

  “As close to ground zero as possible,” Bolan replied before raising his voice slightly. “Alain, your people have this well in hand. Let’s head down to the floor and get a closer look at what’s going on there.”

  As Deschaines led them to the elevator, Bolan made sure his jacket was loose enough to allow easy access to his pistol, while hoping he wouldn’t have to use it.

  Chapter Seven

  Charles de Gaulle Airport

  Outside Paris, France

 
Mikhail Sevaron stepped off the Aeroflot jet into the airport with his small carry-on slung over his shoulder.

  In his button-down white shirt and slacks, he might have been just another European business traveler. But his eyes—flat, cold, slate gray and missing nothing—told a different story to anyone who might care to give him a more than casual glance. They were the eyes of a killer.

  In the terminal, he met with the three other members of his team, who had all arrived on different flights that day, and they exited the airport, heading to a sleek Mercedes-Benz limousine.

  A balding, portly man in a rumpled suit, his forehead sweating slightly, sat inside, nodding to them as they entered and sat. Once the three men and one woman were all inside, the suited man waved the driver to go as soon as the door closed.

  “The equipment you requested.” He nodded at the four bulky diplomatic pouches on the seats.

  Sevaron opened his pouch to find a .40-caliber HK P30 pistol, three magazines, a sound suppressor, a holster, a new passport, a driver’s license, credit cards and money. He placed his own identification in the pouch, resealed it and handed it over to the portly man, as did his three companions. Barely glancing at the documentation, he worked the pistol’s action, checking the barrel and muzzle, then tested its weight in his hand. With a shrug, he set the weapon in his lap and raised his gaze to the suited man across from him.

  “What is our status?”

  The man mopped his forehead with a linen handkerchief, even though the air-conditioning was on. “There have been no new incidents since the one with the US senator yesterday. Our people have been watching the airport, and train and bus stations since we received word of the assassination in Brussels. There has been no sighting of any of them.”