Terminal Velocity

by Don Pendleton

  The frustrated cop aimed a second futile shot into the dark space of the window frame.

  Bolan shook off the sacking and padded across the wooden floorboards to a narrow, open staircase. His eyes had already adjusted to the gloom.

  No one was working on the third floor. Bolan quickly descended. He could hear movement on the next level down. He looked over the railing at the top of the steps and saw some men moving about.

  Half of the workers had abandoned all pretence of appearing to work. They were huddled in small whispering groups.

  Attention was suddenly focused on a panting newcomer who had arrived with the latest rumor.

  But a dozen of the older men were still carrying cartons over to a loading chute, down which the packages were slid to a waiting truck. They were not going to let the foreman catch them slackening off, no matter what the commotion outside was all about.

  Bolan picked up the smallest wooden crate he could find, hoisted it on his shoulder and marched over to the elevator cage. He pushed the red button and the cables shuddered into life. No one turned to see who was standing in the shadows at the back of the cage as it descended past the second floor.

  Reaching ground level, Bolan shifted the box to his other shoulder to hide his face from a group of workers engaged in a heated argument over the events in the square. Bolan strode down the short ramp in front of him and vanished around the back of the half-laden truck.

  He simply dumped the small crate next to a rear wheel and ducked into a tiny pedestrian passageway that threaded past the backyards of some deserted tenements.

  "Police!" One of the workers shouted a warning to his mates. They all scrambled to appear busy. Bolan could hear the clatter of running feet and then a car screeching to a halt outside the warehouse.

  He vaulted a fence, hurried through a damp smelly hallway and emerged into the street. It was swarming with people still escaping from the square.

  He walked swiftly along in the swirling flow of humanity. Right now Bolan didn't care where he was headed as long as he put some distance between himself and the building-by-building search of the Revolution Square district.

  He could only hope that Radic had managed to find Kelly.

  Bolan had more pressing matters to attend to: he knew he'd just been framed for the coldblooded assassination of the charismatic leader of Unity.

  The whole world had been watching Damien Macek.

  Now they were going to want his killer.

  20

  Bolan had no choice but to go to ground. Fast. The state-security forces had thrown their dragnet over the city. Now they pulled it tight.

  The soldiers were working in conjunction with the regular police. People were being asked to produce their papers, say where they were from and why they were not at work. A truck cruised past with a loudspeaker system barking orders. Several of the pedestrians scurried faster to get out of the area.

  Bolan turned in to a narrow side street that ran parallel to the boulevard he and Radic had used when they approached the rally. The crowd was thinning out; there seemed to be more cops on the streets than civilians. The tall American hunched over a little more, trying to cover his face with a handkerchief as he passed an army patrol. He fell in step with a worried-looking couple as they crossed at the intersection.

  He cursed under his breath. Of course! The real killers hadn't gone anywhere. They didn't have to. All they had to do was conceal themselves long enough to mix in with the milling throng.

  A job this big could not have been a local operation. It had to have been initiated, perhaps even supervised, by the KGB. The hit team could pull the right strings all the way to the Kremlin. And no one would dare challenge them.

  Bolan took his bearings. He was sure he was heading in the right direction. He didn't want to involve civilians, but Georgi Radic was the only person who could help him. The young photographer had been reluctant to get mixed up in this from the start. He hadn't even wanted to go to the rally, but now he was in it up to his neck.

  The KGB left no room for innocent bystanders.

  The butcher was pulling down the shutters in front of his shop windows as Bolan approached; like other storekeepers he was closing up in anticipation of the military crackdown that was certain to be announced at any moment.

  But the shop was the landmark Bolan was looking for. He resisted the temptation to glance up at the fourth-floor windows. He did not know who else might have their eyes on him.

  Bolan turned the corner and slipped through the back entrance. A door on the first landing clicked shut as he came up the stairs.

  The light bulb over the last steep flight had burned out. Bolan waited in the darkness outside the apartment at the top. A floorboard squeakily protested as someone inside crossed the room.

  Bolan loosened the Beretta in its holster, then he tapped once. "George!"

  The door opened instantly.

  "Phew! I guessed it was you," Radic said with a nervous grin. He quickly corrected himself. "I hoped it was you!"

  He tugged Bolan into the room and locked the door behind them.

  "Did you find Kelly?" She was Bolan's first concern.

  "I saw Miss Crawford as I was leaving your hotel. She was in a car. Monsieur Danjou was driving. And there was another man with them: about forty-five, graying hair, thin on top. He had a military air..."

  Bolan nodded. He sounded like a fair description of her coach, Lee Brebner. So Kelly was in safe hands. He did not blame her for leading him into this mess. In fact, he was beginning to doubt if she had even written the note that sent him to Revolution Square in the first place.

  There were no loose ends. Nothing this morning had happened by chance. The KGB and their local minions would not have left anything to chance.

  The men from Moscow had pulled the perfect suck play. But Bolan wasn't going to be suckered into fighting for his life on their turf. That was their game plan, not his.

  Bolan was going to fight them, yeah. He would settle his score with that blood-red murder machine. But it would be on his own terms only.

  There were two things he must try to do now — escape from Zubrovna and clear his name.

  His suitcase was standing beside a worn leather armchair. "You said you were at the hotel again?"

  "The crowd panicked. The police started clearing the square. I still had not caught sight of Miss Crawford so I ran back here, got the car and drove to the hotel."

  "Using the back entrance again?"

  "Naturally. I bribed a maid to let me into your room. I threw your things into the case and then drove on down past the American consulate thinking you might make your way there."

  "Was it surrounded by guards?"

  Radic nodded. "I showed my press card to the officer in charge. He told me that the state-security troopers were guarding the foreign embassies in case there might be demonstrations."

  "Well, I wasn't going to run that gauntlet. That's why I made my way here."

  Radic, hesitant to speak what was on his mind, looked at his guest. Finally he got it out. "Mr. Bailey, are you a spy? Are you with the CIA?"

  "No," replied Bolan truthfully, "but something like that." He bent over the nylon flight case and began to remove the handle. "Tell me how you saw Kelly."

  "I saw a truckload of state troopers drawing up at the front of the hotel. Then I saw the car with Kelly and the others going into the parking lot. She seemed to be in no danger."

  Radic watched Bolan as the American stripped off the webbing that formed the carrying straps.

  Bolan removed his jacket, turning it inside out to reverse it to black. He draped it over the back of the armchair, then pulled on a dark polo-neck sweater. He rearranged the webbing straps and clipped them around his chest as a combat harness.

  Picking up an oblong pack of ballistic nylon, he tore open the Velcro fastener and tipped out the hairbrush-and-comb set. He refilled the pack with loaded magazines for the Beretta, then snapped the ammo pouch into pla
ce on his new belt.

  Bolan selected another small pack that looked like an ordinary traveler's first-aid kit and hooked it onto his shoulder strap. Next, he pulled an extra large tube of toothpaste from the toiletries bag, opened the end and shook out a compact silencer. He secured it by adjustable loops to his other shoulder. Quickly, he added the sheathed combat knife and the Beretta holster. Finally he pulled on his jacket.

  Radic felt a cold prickling at the base of his spine as he followed the big man's economy of movement.

  He knew he was watching Death get dressed.

  When Bolan looked across at him, Radic lightly slapped his own forehead. "I forgot to tell you... When I parked the car around the corner, I saw a policeman stop a couple of passersby. He showed them a picture. What do you call it? The kind a police artist draws of a suspect..."

  "An identikit picture."

  "Yes. I couldn't look too closely as I went by, but I'm sure it was a very reasonable likeness of you."

  "But that couldn't have been more than, what, fifteen minutes after the shooting." Bolan shook his head at the efficiency of the secret police. Absolutely nothing had been left to chance.

  "But I may have some interesting pictures of my own," Radic said, holding up a small canister of 35mm film. "I took a last shot of you just as you went through the door of that ministry building; then, a moment later, the gunshots were fired from the upper window."

  "Did you have time to wind it on?"

  Radic smiled and reached across to pat his camera. "A sports photographer's best friend — motor drive! It fires off six frames in three seconds. It all happened so fast. O panned up to the window on reflex."

  "So you have the whole sequence on film?"

  "We won't know until it's processed," Radic warned. "Let's develop it and find out. Through there — I use the bathroom as my darkroom."

  In the tiny washroom Radic had everything neatly organized. Three chemical trays lay on the bottom of the bath; the enlarger stood on a plywood sheet fitted over the basin. The air was permeated with the smell of the developing mixtures. It was a tight squeeze with both of them in there.

  "Hand me that." Radic indicated a dark rectangle leaning against the wall. He had simply tacked a piece of thick black cloth over a wooden frame to form a light-tight cover for the small window.

  Radic stood on the toilet lid to reach the window. Bolan handed him the blackout screen. He was leaning forward to put it in place when he stiffened.

  "We've left it too late. There's a police car coming up the street." He stretched to press his face closer to the glass as he checked the opposite direction. "A black van. Probably with a squad in the back."

  He jumped down to the floor.

  "I'm sorry I got you into this," said Bolan, pocketing the roll of film.

  "I was in it long before you came to Zubrovna. We've no time to waste. Follow me!"

  A narrow door at the back of the kitchen alcove led out onto a small balcony cluttered with flowerpots. A wooden partition divided it from the adjoining balcony.

  "Come on." Radic moved some geraniums out of the way and clambered around onto his neighbor's balcony. "There's nobody home at this time of day. We can get up to the roof from the other end there."

  Bolan hoisted himself up the outside of a building for the second time that morning.

  The roof was not too steep, and the rough surface of the tiles provided a secure grip. Hunched low, the two men moved swiftly along the rooftop. Radic led the way as they hurried to cover the second side of the square that surrounded the open courtyard.

  "Take cover!" rasped Bolan. They squeezed behind a brick chimney stack as a state-security patrol rushed through the cobbled yard below. Five men in dark blue uniforms, two with their guns already drawn, charged into the back of Radices place.

  "Now, over the top!"

  This part of the town was not as ancient as the warren of the Old Citadel, but the shops and apartments ran close together in a packed jumble of architectural styles.

  Bolan followed hard on the heels of the photographer as they clambered over red tiles and chipped gray slates. They jumped from roof to roof, climbing up ladders, skirting water tanks and running along wooden walkways. They were one long block away from Radic's tiny apartment, and both panting for breath, when they reached a gap too wide to negotiate.

  "We have to go down to the street here," Radic said, pointing to a rusted drainpipe. It looked as if the slightest weight would tear it away from the wall. "It's meant to look unsafe! It was installed by Unity workers last year. Don't worry, I use it all the time."

  To prove his point he double-checked the back alley below them and swung himself out over the gutter. Bolan shinned down the pipe after him.

  The daytime curfew was already in effect. The streets were eerily deserted. Once, they were forced to duck inside a shop doorway, and twice they had to hide behind garbage cans to avoid being seen by the police who were patrolling the area in pairs.

  "Where are we going?" Bolan asked.

  "Saraci Street. It's the nearest..."

  The nearest what, he didn't say — they were off and running again.

  Bolan thought he caught a glimpse of a net curtain falling back into place as they loped past; he was certain that hidden eyes were watching their progress.

  Radic had reached the next corner. He waved Bolan back. "Patrol coming!"

  They turned on their heels and fled back the way they had come. It was a long street of terraced cottages. The nearest intersection was two hundred yards away.

  As they were running down the sidewalk a car raced across the junction. They heard the brakes squeal as the vehicle skidded to a halt.

  "We've been spotted!"

  Now the cops were both behind and in front of them.

  There was nowhere left to run.

  21

  They both knew that within seconds armed policemen would appear at both ends of the street. Bolan began to unzip his windbreaker.

  Suddenly the front door of a house on the other side of the road flew open. A white-haired lady, wearing a crocheted shawl, beckoned them briskly with a sticklike arm.

  The two fugitives raced across the pavement toward her. There was no time to ponder her offer of refuge, no time to consider what further risks they might be taking. It was a decision that had to be acted upon instantly; the kind Bolan was used to making. They ran straight past her into the narrow hallway.

  She shut the door the moment they were safely inside. When the two patrols turned into the street, ii would be empty.

  "Bless you, little mother!" Radic gasped.

  The old woman looked at their faces. In that very instant, time had raced backward for her — to another war, another enemy. She had sheltered the Resistance fighters through the long dread night of the Nazi occupation. Now it was the state police and the Moscow-trained security agents who hunted down patriots. Only the uniforms had changed.

  She said something to Radic. He translated for Bolan. "She thought we looked like honest men who badly needed help."

  Bolan smiled and nodded to the woman.

  "But we've got to keep moving," he whispered to Radic, "before they start a house-to-house search."

  "This way." She led them down the passage, where the stale smell of cooked cabbage and potatoes seemed to cling to the faded wallpaper.

  He was thankful he hadn't opened his jacket all the way. The hardware he was carrying might have surprised their benefactress. But then again it might not have shocked the old lady at all.

  Without another word she steered them through her kitchen and opened the back door. The tiny yard was immaculately maintained, complete with a postage-stamp-sized vegetable

  She pointed to the wooden gate at the end of the short brick path and again said something to her compatriot. Picking up a battered but still serviceable flashlight, she gave it to Radic.

  He nodded in gratitude. "She knows exactly what we're looking for."

  "I think s
he's done this before..."

  "Yes. I sensed it."

  They ran to the gate and crouched behind it. The old woman took one last look at them, her frail fingers tracing the sign of the cross as if to give them a blessing, then she closed the door.

  Radic reached up and unclasped the latch. He eased the gate ajar, peered through the gap, then opened it a little wider.

  "There!" He pointed with the flashlight.

  Bolan looked over his shoulder. The stretch of the alley they could see from the gateway was clear. Radic was pointing to a sloping metal cover set in an old concrete dome. It was four backyards away. It looked as if it might have been the doorway to an air-raid shelter left over from the dark days of the German invasion.

  "Saves us going to Saraci Street," Radic said. "It's an entrance to the storm sewers. Once we're down there, they'll never find us. I promise you that."

  Bolan's grimace revealed his distaste.

  "Don't worry! It's not the city sewage system," Radic explained. "We get storms off the Mediterranean here. The sewers handle the flood of rainwater. Right now, I doubt if they're half full. The walkways will all be clear."

  "Are you ready?"

  "Yes. I'll go first," Radic said, tensing to race toward the metal door. "You cover me."

  "Okay, let's do it!"

  Radic prodded the gate right back, and they sprinted down the lane one after the other.

  The photographer tugged at the handle of the door leading to the sewer system. The hinges were very stiff. Radic pulled on the handle again. This time the door shuddered open with a nerve-jangling scrape. Radic switched on the flashlight and ducked into the shadowy chamber beyond. Bolan was right behind him.

  "Quick, George, the cops are coming!"

  Bolan grasped the edge of the door and heaved it shut behind him. The slam of the entrance plate echoed down the steep chamber stairway. It was immediately followed by a second metallic clang as a bullet flattened itself on the heavy-gauge steel where a moment before Bolan had been crouching. Now the big blitzer stumbled down the dank steps, chasing the glow given off by Radic's flashlight.