Dead Man's Tale

by Don Pendleton

  He turned and went down.

  A small foyer was at the foot of the stairs and presented four doors to the warrior, three of them ajar. Peering into each in turn, he saw a kitchen, bright with copper and stainless steel; a long narrow library furnished with leather armchairs, a pool table and books on glass-fronted shelves; and a small den full of electronic equipment.

  Latta sat in the den, his back to the door, facing dials, switches and winking lights. A headset spanned his skull, and he was speaking into a microphone. As the Executioner glided past, he heard "Okay, Giordano, but you sweep the three floors in different directions. You don't want him to switch levels behind you, once you pass the halfway mark."

  Bolan turned the handle and eased open the fourth door onto a flight of stone steps curving downward into darkness. A moist, slightly musty current of air blew through the gap.

  Footsteps thumping on the stairway behind him prompted the warrior to cross the threshold and pull the door shut behind him.

  His penlight revealed, at the foot of the stairway, a cellar with a vaulted ceiling supported on ancient stone pillars. His sweeping beam played upon broken chairs, tables, a tall piece of furniture shrouded in sheets. The cellar had no windows, but he discerned an arched opening that led to another flight of steps.

  On his way from the elevator shaft to the gallery, he'd worked out the general layout of guest rooms, living quarters, the bathrooms. But he had no idea of the geography in the farther reaches of the castle. He guessed he must now be in the section built into the roof cleft. He went on down.

  A second cellar was smaller and empty, festooned with spiderwebs and dust. An arrow window pierced the two-feet-thick outer wall. Bolan, squinting through the dirty pane, could see treetops far below, a pale ribbon of highway, the starlight gleam on water. The slit in the wall was too thin to take a man's head and shoulders.

  A heavy oak door, spliced with rusted hinges, closed off an arch in back of the cellar. Warily he twisted the iron ring by the lock and tugged. The door opened about eighteen inches, first with a protesting squeak from the unoiled hinges, then with a screech that echoed loudly across the flagstoned floor. The warrior froze, the Desert Eagle filling his right hand.

  Silence. He couldn't even hear footsteps or voices from the great sprawling mass of the castle above him.

  Gingerly he eased his tall frame through the eighteen-inch gap, and encountered yet another flight of stone steps leading, in spirals this time, down into the darkness.

  Was it possible that there could be an exit, somewhere down at the bottom of the rock cleft?

  Bolan trod silently down fifty-two steps, circling within age-old stonework beaded now with moisture and hung with green slime. He could hear dripping water a long way below.

  The stairway ended beneath another arch. Beyond this was a platform that projected from the wall of some kind of cavern, and whereas the cellar floors above had been flagged, this was carved from solid rock.

  Bolan moved to the edge, the penlight illuminating slate walls that glistened with damp. Below the platform, the thin beam was lost in darkness, with the gurgle of running water now quite distinct.

  He swung the light right and left, steadying it suddenly on another ledge, perhaps twenty feet below. Skeleton teeth grinned up at him, and beyond the polished curve of skull, he could make out a white cage of ribs.

  Yeah, a way out all right — for those who had offended the ancient lords of the schloss. A permanent way.

  The warrior turned and hurried back up the spiral staircase. He crossed the smaller cellar, passed the arrow window, and began climbing again. Half a dozen steps below the arch he paused, shrinking back against the wall.

  The musty air blowing down from the upper cellar was overlaid by a heavier, pungent, more familiar odor.

  Cigar smoke.

  Someone was in that cellar, waiting for him to return.

  He killed the light, lowering himself silently until he was facedown on the steps, then inched upward until his eyes were level with the flagstoned floor.

  In the blackness ahead, he heard the tiniest creak of leather shoe, above it a whisper of indrawn breath. Twelve feet, maybe fifteen, to the right of the arch.

  Bolan rested the elbow of his gun arm on one of the steps, his wrist supported on the ledge above. He stretched his left arm out sideways until his hand touched the far side of the arch, then he thumbed on the penlight and snatched his hand away.

  The roar of the gunner's automatic was instinctive, almost involuntary. Stone chips and fragments of plastic erupted into the air as the penlight disappeared. Three shots followed one another so closely that the muzzle-flashes printed the gunman's outline against the wall in a continuous livid flicker.

  Bolan wasn't aiming at the shadow; there was substance behind the flashes. He fired just above the flames, the Desert Eagle's gas operation and rotating bolt minimizing the climb and recoil after the first awesome blast. Two of the .44 Magnum rounds were enough. He heard the stumbling clatter as the hardguy was blown away before the echoes of that thunderclap double explosion died. The warrior was on his feet, racing for the next flight of stairs when the guy hit the flagstones.

  He realized then that the footsteps behind him as he came down must have been those of the gunman, on his way to check out the cellar. He heard more, several more, as he burst into the small foyer. Latta was on his feet shouting, and appeared to be unarmed.

  Bolan dodged into the kitchen. At the far end of the room there was a passage leading to a doorway. Through the glass panes he could see an iron ladder leading up to the graveled driveway in front of the portico. He ran for it.

  Three men opened fire. Bolan somersaulted over a heavy wooden table as slugs shattered glass and clanged off copper pans hanging above a sophisticated electronic stove. He overturned the table, whipped out the Beretta and triggered a 3-round burst at the attackers.

  One of the mobsters spun around, clutching at his right shoulder. He sat down hard on the floor, with blood spurting between his fingers. The other two drew back, and Bolan used the respite to leap to his feet and race for the door.

  One of the outside guards, alerted by the shooting, jumped down from the ladder, a heavy-caliber revolver clutched in his hand. Bolan and the hood triggered rounds simultaneously. The glass pane between them shivered into a thousand pieces. A .45 boattail hummed between the Executioner's right arm and the black material covering his ribs. His own 9 mm fleshshredder cored the hardman's chest above the sternum. He was flung back against the wall, his white shirtfront crimsoned with froth bubbling from his slack gaping mouth.

  Bolan reached for doorhandle, but a second killer waited at the top of the ladder, ready to leap to the ground. Bolan turned and ran the other way, racing up another staircase.

  Shouted commands, overlaying the distorted tones of Latta's voice crackling through the transceivers, echoed from every floor. The target had been sighted; the hunters were closing in.

  Bolan was still climbing when he heard Maccione's bellow from immediately above. He whirled around and quit the stairway at the floor below, racing toward the center of the castle.

  The corridor was thickly carpeted. Fifteen feet ahead of him, a door opened and a man stepped silently out of a room with a long-barreled pistol in his hand — a beefy guy with a prizefighter's face: Schleyer, mastermind of the Mob's intelligence unit.

  Right then, killing him was less important to Bolan than keeping his own exact position secret. He acted fast. Before Schleyer recovered from his surprise, the warrior launched himself through the air in a flying tackle, his head butting the German violently in the guts.

  The breath exploded from the capo's lungs, and he staggered against the wall, trying to bring his gun up. But Bolan was already back on his feet and he hurled himself forward again, unleashing a karate kick at Schleyer's jaw, striking him viciously with the Desert Eagle barrel as he landed.

  The underside of the barrel cracked against bone, paralyzing t
he Mafia man's forearm. His mouth opened, but he had no breath left to yell. The pistol dropped from his nerveless fingers to the carpet.

  Bolan kicked it out of the way, holstered the .44 and launched himself at the capo like a tornado, his right slamming with piston force once, twice into the guy's solar plexus while the left, held flat and rigid as a plank, slammed against his windpipe. Schleyer subsided to the floor, gagging for air. Bolan left him there and ran.

  He turned a comer, forked left, found another stairway and discovered that he was in the gallery surrounding the entrance hall. He wasn't alone.

  Below him, six or seven gunners stood on the marble floor underneath a huge chandelier that hung level with the gallery railing. He recognized Giordano, Campos and the fat capo from Cologne among them. Two more killers — Foxy-face and one of the heavies who had been guarding the Great Hall — were climbing the curving staircases that rose from the foyer to the gallery.

  It was time for a split-second decision. The Executioner reacted milliseconds before a deafening cannonade from half a dozen guns gouged plaster from the ceiling over his head.

  He threw himself backward, opened a door, fell inside the small writing room beyond. Unclipping one of the stun grenades from his belt, he primed it then lobbed the plastic egg down into the hallway, slamming the door to the room shut.

  Even behind the heavy door, the flat, ringing concussion hurt his ears.

  Shaking his head, he jerked open the door and ran to the railing. Foxy-face and his companion were sprawled on the stairs; the other men were strewed across the marble floor.

  But the gunplay followed by the explosion had alerted the rest of the mafiosi. Bolan heard Maccione's voice shouting commands, saw at the far end of a long corridor the blank-eyed killer with the lock of hair. The guy fired twice, aiming low. The warrior whipped out the Magnum, blasted off a single shot before he leaped up onto the railing.

  There was no point going down the stairs. Foxy-face — shielded from the blast by the curve of the stairway — was already stirring and groaning. Bruno, the killer with the blank stare, was pounding down the hallway.

  Bolan dived for the chandelier. It was star-shaped, hanging on a chain that dropped from the center of the dome, with curved iron brackets radiating out to support the lighted globes. His steely fingers wrapped around two of the brackets, the momentum of his leap carrying him in a Tarzan swing across the foyer toward the entrance doors.

  Above the doors there was a pointed arch filled by a stained-glass window depicting some German hunting scene, with a ledge about twelve inches wide.

  Bolan swung the chandelier in the direction of the ledge, reached it and shoved off the stonework with his feet, arced back toward the gallery and then forward again with increased impetus. This time as the chandelier stalled at the limit of its travel, he let go of the brackets to shoot up and onto the ledge.

  The chandelier dropped back, and the unexpected, unaccustomed movement took its toll. At the top of the dome, weakened by the pendulum swing, age-old plaster cracked and fissured. Huge chunks broke away and plummeted to the floor. The boss from which the long chain was hung pulled free, and the entire wrought-iron fixture, weighing a quarter of a ton, crashed to the marble floor in a thunderous shower of brick dust and broken glass.

  Bolan covered his face with his arms and burst through the stained-glass window onto the flat roof of the portico.

  With the whole entrance facade of the castle plunged into darkness because of the ruptured chandelier cable, it took the warrior a moment to accustom his eyes to the night. Then gradually the sensitivity of his ears — conscious of shouts, cries, the patter of rubble inside, feet on gravel outside — was joined by that of the eyes. Outlines and then details assembled themselves: a mass of trees dark against the sky, a curving driveway, the glimmer of an ornamental pond, a stable block.

  Hardguys poured into the castle beneath the portico, flooding into the ravaged foyer beyond, shooting questions. Somewhere inside, Maccione was screaming abuse at everyone in general.

  Several luxury sedans were parked in the courtyard. Clearly not all the mafiosi had arrived by helicopter.

  Immediately below the portico roof was a Mercedes 600 stretch limo, a uniformed chauffeur lounged indolently against a fender, unperturbed by the goings-on.

  Bolan glanced behind him at the wall of the building and the helipad parapet above, cloaked in darkness.

  Unsheathing the Beretta, his muscles tensed for the impact, the warrior stepped off the portico roof with its litter of colored glass. The drop was more than twenty feet, and although it jarred him from neck to heels, he was ready for it. The chauffeur and two gunners in the courtyard were not. Bolan dropped the man in uniform with a single shot as he came up in a combat crouch, firing two-handed. The guy choked and folded, hands clawing at his savaged chest. The mafiosi dived for cover and opened fire from behind the flimsy security of two large urns. But by then Bolan had jerked open the door of the limo and was behind the wheel. And the Mob preoccupation with security worked against them, for the Mercedes was equipped with bulletproof glass and steel body panels.

  Slugs flattened against the bodywork or caromed off into the night as he turned the key to fire up the engine. He wrenched the big car around and sped down the driveway between the trees.

  It was nearly a mile to the gates. The wires must have been humming with orders, because the estate's dog handlers opened fire on the car with shotguns at several different points on the way. Bolan let them shoot: buckshot wasn't going to penetrate where .45-caliber slugs had been repulsed.

  He arrived at the end of the drive unexpectedly. The graveled road turned sharply around a stand of birch trees and there, on the far side of an open area planted with vines and tomatoes, was a small, turreted gate house with latticed windows and ornamental iron gates between massive stone pillars.

  Two men stood in front of the gates with submachine guns.

  When Bolan drove straight at them they opened fire, muzzles flaming. Fragments of glass flew from the windshield and the hood quivered, but the limo didn't slacken speed. At the last moment one gunner dived away. The right fender caught the other man and tossed him aside as though he were a rag doll.

  Bolan braked and nosed the bumper against the junction of the two gates. He downshifted into first and gunned the engine. The Mercedes pushed against the ironwork with all the power of its 300-horsepower six-liter engine. Tires spurted gravel; wheels spun; the engine screamed.

  When he heard something metallic eventually give, the Executioner backed up fifty yards, then charged the gates with his foot holding the gas pedal flat against the floor.

  The stretch limo hit the gates at around 40 mph with a rending crash. The bumper was rammed backward to crumple the fenders. The hood flew off and the radiator burst open in a fountain of broken headlight glass. But the two iron gates jumped apart and toppled sideways. And miraculously neither of the front wheels suffered a flat.

  Bolan, who had ducked his head, sat upright and steered the damaged Mercedes out onto the highway. He didn't plan to keep the car long. The pursuit vehicles would be after him at any moment. And something under the limo's hood was screaming a shrill protest at the treatment it had received.

  On the far side of the river he could see the lights of the trailer camp from which he'd stolen the hang glider. He knew there was a jetty and a boat yard on his side of the water.

  The jetty was one of the many landing stages where tourists could board one of the glassed-in Rhine cruiser boats for river trips.

  Bolan stopped the Mercedes two hundred yards short of the dock and killed the engine. There was a lightweight mohair sweater on one of the limo's rear seats, and he shrugged into it, covering the combat harness that contained his private armory, before he set off for the landing stage.

  Arc lights bathed brilliant radiance onto the banners, the ticket booth and the wide, flat cruiser tied up at the dock.

  Bolan bought a ticket, and by th
e time the three crew wagons pulled up behind the abandoned Mercedes, the warrior was pushing his way through the turnstile, on his way to a midnight wine-tasting trip downriver to Koblenz.

  16

  Only three of the car rental agencies in Brussels offered the convertible version of the Peugeot 205 GTi. Bolan hit pay dirt at the second. Zulowski had used his own name when he filled in the forms.

  "It doesn't surprise me, Mr. Belasko, your checking out that one," the desk clerk said. Bolan was posing as an insurance investigator. "That vehicle has caused a lot of fuss."

  "Fuss?"

  "Why sure. The car was found abandoned at Betzdange, a small village in Luxembourg, with the windshield smashed and the gas tank full of bullet holes! You should of seen the director's face!"

  "This Zulowski. Do you recall anything special about him?"

  The clerk shrugged. "We get so many... he seemed kind of pressed, I remember that. In one hell of a hurry. And he paid cash." He shook his head. "The guy never even returned to reclaim his deposit, how do you like that! The damage would have been covered by insurance too. I thought that's what you'd be here about." Suddenly the man looked suspicious.

  "Just assessing claims in general for an American affiliate," Bolan said. "Now this village — Betzdange — where is it exactly?"

  "Between Ettelbruck and Mersch, on the main highway that leads to the city. But you won't come up with anything there. The driver who went to collect the wreck says nobody even saw the guy."

  The clerk was right. Nothing of interest surfaced in Betzdange. The village's one policeman couldn't offer any help. No stranger had mailed a package from the local post office. Nobody had hired a taxi that afternoon to go to Luxembourg. Someone thought, just possibly, that they might have seen a man get out of the Peugeot and board a bus. But they couldn't be sure, and they couldn't remember what he looked like.