Sam Franks waited with Mikhail Oleg until the doctor was gone. Steve told them what had happened in complete detail.
“First,” Sam said, “no one set up any female visitor for you tonight. But whoever sent her in here knew it was the only way someone you didn’t know could get inside your door.” He shook his head in mild disgust. “You damned heroes . . . why the hell didn’t you at least shoot her in the leg? We at least would have had a hand on them that way.”
Steve didn’t answer. Oleg asked him, “Did you recognize her, Austin?”
“No. I told you what I saw was in pretty dim light. She was tall. Sort of thick in the waist, long blond hair, like I said. Now that I think back on it, one thing surprises me. I’ve seen enough of your women, Sam, to expect a certain type. This one was about as flat-chested as they come.”
“I agree,” Franks said. “She’s not from our group. Anything else?”
“I know I got a good whack at her. Don’t know where I hit her, but wherever it was she’ll carry a considerable bruise in a day or two.”
Franks nodded. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
But it wasn’t, though Steve didn’t realize it until early the next morning.
There was something about Oleg . . . he tried for hours to put his finger on it but kept missing it. Then it came back. The woman’s perfume. Unmistakable.
The scent had gotten stronger for a while. During the time when Franks and Oleg were in the room.
Oleg. The damned perfume was on him too.
Which meant he had to know who the woman was.
CHAPTER 17
Several weeks before the first attempt on his life, Steve Austin was the principal topic for discussion at an estate outside of Bordeaux. None of the tightly knit group headed by Sam Franks was aware of this discussion and the conclusion reached except for Mikhail Oleg.
He had flown to the French city of Bordeaux with Jonathan Sperry and four of their best security men. Oleg went along as pilot of the Sabreliner and had no part in a conference for which Sperry was having to work out financial details with a member of the French government regarding a Pentronics supply operation that would also take them to the United States.
A woman, well known to the Pentronics group, having worked with them in the past, was admitted to the hotel room where the guards were told Oleg waited for her. She was met by two security guards, her papers examined. Oleg vouched for her in advance.
Yvette Rochelle remained in the room for approximately thirty-five minutes. When she left, she carried a note from Oleg which she showed to the guards. “I will return in two hours, perhaps a little more,” she told them. “If you wish you may confirm this with Monsieur Oleg.”
The guards smiled, asked no further questions of Oleg. To do so they would have risked their necks.
The woman left the hotel and went directly to the parking lot, driving off to the east. Eighteen miles from the hotel she turned from the main road and traveled another mile along a narrow country road to an isolated estate. Here she was stopped at a heavy iron gate. She was questioned by guards, who directed a television transmitter at the vehicle. The guards were told to let her through at once.
Inside the estate, Yvette Rochelle removed her coat and conversed intensely with three men for an hour. The men were all high members of the Soviet secret police.
“Time is short,” she told them. “I am more than ever convinced that Austin is working actively for his government, and that his escape from the United States was a well-planned charade. We were fortunate through our British contacts to find evidence of Schiller’s agent status with the CIA for some years. Our Washington people could find nothing on him in CIA files there, but apparently the British are either sloppier about destroying incriminating records, or perhaps they—especially the late Mr. Schiller—are victims of the archivist’s mania for keeping records, no matter what. Austin had been very effective, playing the role of Schiller’s dupe, which Franks wants to accept because he needs Austin. I suspect he even likes him. I also suspect he works for OSO, although they have managed to obliterate all evidence of his association with them.”
The leader of the Russian group played a mild devil’s advocate. “You say that he has been involved in operations. That means he has been responsible for the deaths of many people. A cold-blooded effort. He does not seem to have the background for this. It is out of character with the man.”
“You do not understand,” Yvette Rochelle said angrily. “It was a situation where he did not play a direct part in causing the death of anyone else. Besides, you are rationalizing about the mind of another man. It is easy to do that, but not reliable. If he did not push a button or pull a trigger, he could do his own rationalizing. And what do we know about him? He is a combat veteran; do not forget that. He has been an astronaut. More than this, he is the wreck of a man. No legs, one arm, one eye. I will tell you he shows only token reluctance about killing when it has proved necessary. And the more I watch him, the more I see his carefully developed friendship with Franks, the more convinced I become that he is an agent for the Americans.”
“But if we are wrong—”
“If! Time is running out. You three are aware of the reports from Moscow. The Americans, like ourselves, are being embarrassed by this Pentronics group. The United States is actively trying to find out all they can about Pentronics. They need details, evidence, and Austin is in the perfect position to supply this information. We know what we have managed. Why not the Americans as well? It makes sense for both of us. Sam Franks is a former pilot for their strategic air force. Do they know Franks directs their military operations? If Austin has reported on Franks, then they know. If he has not yet done so, he will very soon.
“Once the Americans suspect Franks they can easily kill him. But is that their wisest course? If they kill Franks, another man steps in to take his place. Pentronics is an octopus. It reaches everywhere. Who knows where they have placed their bombs?”
The leader of the Russian group became impatient. “Get to the point,” he told her.
“Pentronics is ideal for paramilitary operations controlled by the Americans,” she said. “Steve Austin, I am convinced, is their hope for bringing Franks and the entire organization under their control.”
Somewhat to her surprise, in view of the previous show of skepticism, she found agreement.
“We have been moving toward this same conclusion,” she was told. “This concept is in favor in Moscow. We believe there is growing evidence the Americans are trying to make a deal with Pentronics. To buy them off—not with money, of course, but with protection for Franks and his criminals to do the dirty work of the Americans. They would function as a disassociated apparatus of the CIA and other groups. It’s typical of the Americans, they stop at nothing and—”
“And neither will you,” the woman broke in. “I am running short of time and you would please me to save your speech for another occasion. We are attempting to do the very same thing that Austin is here to do.” She smiled. “We are not that much different.”
The man looked at her. “We seem not to share Austin’s success.”
“That would be different if I had more support! And if Moscow would do what I have—”
“Enough. Time, as you say, is short. The question is what do we do about Austin?”
“He must be killed,” the woman said immediately. “If we, if I, have been wrong . . . a dead American is of no concern to us, especially a man who, so far as the world knows, ran out on his country. Now, time is shorter than any of you know. They are planning something very big. It involves their going to the United States. If I am right, that will be the time and place for Austin to do everything possible to recruit Franks.”
She studied the men with her. “Who knows what second thoughts Franks has had about what he is doing? Austin may persuade him he can regain favor with his government. And never forget that Franks has a genuine admiration for this man.”
The le
ader of the three men said, “Can Austin buy him off?”
“No, no,” the woman said impatiently. “What good is money to a man who already has millions? Austin can only offer what appeals to Franks. And that includes, I am convinced, full amnesty from his government and the freedom to continue doing just what he does now—except that instead of being an international criminal he will be a restored patriot in the secret employ of his government. Once again, I remind you they will be in the United States soon. That is when Austin must make his move, and it is why we must stop him before that time arrives.”
The answer came at once. “All right, then. But make it seem the Americans are responsible. We will make this plausible by convincing Franks that Austin was an American plant, that they were worried that Austin was betraying or soon would betray his cover by becoming overly friendly with Franks. Rather than risk this possibility, they murdered him. If, as you say, Franks might be receptive to a proposal, Austin’s death by American hands will alienate him all the more from the U.S., and most importantly, direct his interest toward working for us.”
The woman left immediately for her car. She returned to the hotel and was cleared by security to go up to Oleg’s room. Again she remained for about an hour. The telephone rang in the guards’ room.
“Oleg here. The woman Rochelle will be leaving now. She will not return. Pass her through.”
“Yes, sir. Good night.”
Yvette Rochelle disappeared.
The first attempt to kill Austin came on Capri.
The second was made in Sevilla.
All Steve Austin knew was that whoever wanted him dead was almost certain to try again.
CHAPTER 18
Grand Slam was the code name Sam Franks assigned to his final operation. With round-the-clock protection assured him, Franks turned to the immediate needs of the Grand Slam operation. He brought a Douglas DC-6B four-engine transport to Oristano and had the old combination airliner-and-cargo ship tuned to perfection. Sperry arranged for cargo flights from Europe to Africa, on to Brazil and then northward into the United States. Within three weeks of starting the camouflage for Grand Slam, Pentronics was running ten transports of different types on the Europe-Africa-Brazil-United States route. On paper the operation was ordinary and beyond suspicion. The airplanes were searched regularly by Customs in the States, and regularly they were passed through, soon becoming familiar sights to government and airport officials.
Everything was going as planned. Steve Austin and Sam Franks virtually lived in their DC-6B. They flew almost constantly, returning to Europe from the States by the North Atlantic. When they were too tired to fly, a relief crew took over. Franks made certain that whenever the airplane was entering or leaving the United States, it was himself, and Austin, whose names were on the crew lists, manifests, customs and other forms. Not the name “Steve Austin,” of course. On all paperwork he was listed as “Mike Arnold.”
At first Steve wondered about flying into the States. After all, his face was hardly unknown. The last man on the moon, the desert crash, and above all that free-for-all in the television studio. He needn’t have worried.
Sam Franks had arranged so that anyone who saw Steve Austin saw someone else. A makeup expert had done a job on him. A dark wig. A home-grown moustache. His normal light color gone under heavy dye to form a thick, black bush. Pilot’s sunglasses. He always wore a heavy, bulky jacket that seemed to add thirty pounds to his body. Result—exit Steve Austin, enter “Mike Arnold.”
Their cargo loads were authentic. The manifests listed special printing presses and associated equipment. When Customs decided to get into the guts of the presses on one flight, Franks protested. Steve knew a charade when he saw it. Sam never wasted his breath on petty grievances or complaints. He watched with Sam as the crates were opened and gleaming new presses showed beneath. All but one crate.
The Customs chief tapped the wood. “What’s in this one, Captain?” he asked Franks.
Franks sighed. “Ain’t you seen enough, for God’s sake?” He chewed the stub of a cigar and looked exactly as he wanted—a man who’d just flown a long and wearisome trip who wanted to get the hell to a bed.
“The case,” insisted Customs. “What’s in it?”
“Special ink, man. Just ink.”
Pinchbars and screwdrivers opened the case to reveal a suspicious drum within. Customs didn’t accept the continued explanations of special ink. They tapped a collapsible metal plug. Fifty-five gallons of ink that stained everything it touched gushed along the floor of the airplane.
The howls from Sam Franks could be heard for a mile.
Sam also made sure not to clean the airplane. The ink had run out the cargo door and left a huge ugly streak along the side and belly of the DC-6B. Sam left it there.
You could spot that particular DC-6B a mile off, which seemed exactly what Sam had in mind. Four times they flew into the States and four times they went through Customs and continued on to Atlanta. They stayed with the airplane as the cargo was off-loaded. Then, in a group that included four tough, no-nonsense security people, they took rooms at an airport motel. Early the next morning they were gone. It was a spartan existence that sharply contrasted with the luxury they’d known in the past.
On each of these flights Steve felt he had opportunities to break free. He could have made a good try at killing Sam to prevent what he intended to do—whatever that was. He could have crash-landed the airplane in such a way as to get the attention of the authorities. But what would he have told them? If Sam Franks died, Grand Slam would hardly suddenly be revealed or necessarily die with him. Sperry, Kuto, Oleg and the others would be likely to modify the plan and press to its conclusion. And there was always the possibility that Sam was running him, Steve, through some final diversionary test of his loyalty.
Reluctantly, Steve accepted the need to continue playing his role. He needed to wait until the moment he had the information that could not only stop Grand Slam but also assure the end of Pentronics and its secret alliances.
They were on their fifth flight to Atlanta when Sam said to him, “The key to this operation, at least where this old clunker is concerned, is for people to accept the sight of the bird. Not just seeing it, Austin, but accepting it as a part of the background and sliding into a slot in their thinking. We’re going to be so common to these people that our not showing up when expected would bring out the hounds.”
They had Atlanta in sight. Steve was flying this trip, rolling in steadily toward the airport under radar vectors.
“We’re going to offer Uncle Sam a deal, and we’re going to keep our end of the bargain,” Sam went on.
Steve rolled out onto a long final approach to the runway, dropping gear and flaps and setting up the transport for its final descent. When Steve had her in the slot, Franks said:
“So the kicker in this whole thing is to put on the squeeze, put it on so hard that the other guys eyeballs start to bulge. You can take off the pressure by bargaining so long as you leave no doubt you’ll keep your side of the bargain. Then you can deal.”
Steve glanced from airspeed and altitude to the expanding runway. He watched the numbers slip beneath the nose of the DC-6B as he added a touch of trim to start the flare. “What happens, Sam, if the other side decides not to play by your rules? Like they say, it only takes one guy out of two to start a hassle.”
Rubber squealed on macadam and the nose gear sighed gently to the runway. Steve let her roll without reversing the props; they wanted the far end of the runway for their turnoff.
“Yeah, but bargains work two ways. They don’t keep their side, why, that’s when it pays off to have had a very big stick in your hands all the time. That’s when we go for broke and to hell with the consequences. You got to live by the threat you make.
“So if they sit down to deal with us,” Sam said with a barely perceptible change of tone in his voice, “and decide to stick it to us, why, they are merely going to lose a city and an awful
lot of its citizens.”
So it was coming out finally. It had to be Atlanta or somewhere near. Steve kept a straight face, concentrating on taxiing the big airplane, trying not to reveal the shock effect of Sam Franks’ words, realizing that the man had lived with this thing for so long it had become almost commonplace to him. He had no sense of its horrifying effect on Steve. Okay, Steve thought, at least keep talking, Sam . . .
“Of course,” Sam said, “numbers don’t really mean a damn anymore. It’s not the numbers. It’s how you lose the crowd. I mean, if you get a bad press out of it, something like that. A million Asians get knocked off by a storm or a famine and it rates a couple inches on page forty. A hundred people die in an airplane crash in the middle of a city and everybody gets gas pains over it. At least we pick time and place, dealer’s choice, and we’re stacking the deck.”
He turned to look at Steve. “You know how much we’re going for, Austin? A billion dollars. A million clams a thousand times over. Sounds like a lot, doesn’t it? It’s really cheap. You figure the physical damage we can do, the panic we can let loose in every city in the country, and getting off the hook for a billion is bargain day. But we’ve got to make this deal stick, and that’s where you and I come in. Sperry and Kuto will take care of the financial end. They’ll move the money into shipping and industry and land. They know how to make it disappear so that it never surfaces.”
Steve maneuvered the airplane into its assigned position on the cargo ramp. He went through the shutdown check list and they both watched the big props grind to a halt. Steve leaned back in his seat and released his straps. “Sam, we going to make a lifetime habit of this?” He gestured to the instrument panel and the cargo loaders rolling to the transport. “Whatever you’ve got in mind there’s got to be a more interesting way to get there.”
Franks laughed and slapped him on the shoulder.
“Soon, moon man. Very soon.”
It was their next flight in the DC-6B. Coming out of Brazil Sam filed his flight plan to clear Customs in West Palm Beach rather than in Atlanta. Steve fidgeted at the unexpected change but gave it no more than that. It just didn’t have that much significance.
Cyborg 02 - Operation Nuke Page 14
