Point Position

by Don Pendleton

  “Relax, Sarge,” Grimaldi said as he touched down and killed the engine, the rotor of the chopper descending in tone from a whine to a deep and rhythmic whump as it slowed. “Another half hour or hour isn’t going to make any difference.”

  “It may, Jack. Those weapons may already be on their way out of France.”

  “Easy, Sarge. Intel have said that Hector Chavez-Smith was having a little party tonight. That doesn’t sound like the actions of a man who’s about to run, does it?”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Bolan agreed. “But it may not be Chavez-Smith who’s taking the weapons out.”

  “Come on, you didn’t even convince yourself with that,” Grimaldi said, laughing. “What we know of that scumbag, he’s going to want to see the color of the money in his own sweaty little hands before he hands them over to anyone. Which is why you want to crash his party, right?”

  “You know me too well, Jack.” Bolan smiled. “I figure that he’s going to keep them on hand if he can. So if I can get on that boat, then maybe I can get them back and neutralize him at the same time. Then we can clean up his private army.”

  “Glad you said ‘we’there, Sarge. How do I figure in this?”

  “Right now, I want you to rest up and wait here. I’ll keep a wire open at all times, and I want you to be ready to come in for a pickup when the action starts.”

  “Okay,” Grimaldi agreed. “Before that, we need to get the local boys on side,” he said, indicating an Air Force officer who was making his way from the small control tower building of the airfield to where the chopper was parked.

  Bolan was out of the cockpit and halfway toward the young man before Grimaldi had dismounted.

  “Sir, Lieutenant Frank Walters. I’m your liaison, Colonel,” he snapped, coming to attention and saluting.

  Bolan returned the salute and held out his hand.

  The officer took the proffered hand and felt Bolan’s iron-hard grip.

  “Okay, Walters. Now, I take it you know we’ve flown down here on a covert operation and that you are to assist me and my partner in any way possible. Do you know what that mission is?”

  “No, sir. All I know is what you’ve just reiterated,” Walters said.

  Bolan nodded. “That’s good. This is strictly need-to-know. My compatriot and I plan to go in, hit hard and get the hell out. There should be no fallout in the direction of the American forces if we do our job. And if we don’t, there will be no acceptance of responsibility. What you need to do is make sure that whatever I or Sergeant Galloway ask for,” he added, using Grimaldi’s cover for the mission, “is in place immediately. Right now, that means the chopper is refueled and maintained, and that the sergeant has a place to wait and monitor me in peace and comfort.”

  “That’s no problem, sir,” Walters replied.

  “Good. I will need a car to use, preferably something inconspicuous for these regions. And I need briefing on the layout of the harbor area.”

  “I figured you might, Colonel Stone. I have a Citroën ready with a full tank of gas, and there are maps of the harbor area and coffee waiting. I’ve spent some time in the area on vacation, which is why my commanding officer made me your liaison. And—” he hesitated “—chew me out if I’ve overstepped, sir, but as we have been given no information about your evac plans at the end of mission, I’ve taken the liberty of getting clearance for an open-ended takeoff, and also making sure there will be a team on standby back at the base for as long as they are needed.”

  “That’s good work.”

  WITHIN A HALF HOUR, Bolan was headed into the heart of Marseilles in the Citroën supplied by his liaison. The combat bag was stowed in the trunk of the car, and he was wearing a loose shirt and khaki pants over his blacksuit. He was unwilling to discard the blacksuit and harness, as he planned for this to be a quick operation, and he wanted the armament fixed to the combat harness to be ready to hand.

  He navigated the vehicle through the dense early evening traffic, where the French sense of driving meant that cars cut in front of one another with little regard for lanes or even direction of flow, slowed only by near collision, or the ranks of cyclists and motorcyclists who treated the cars as a moving slalom course. Added to this was the chaos of groups of pedestrians who seemed not even to notice the cars, but walked in front of the traffic as though their mass made them invincible.

  And the heat was oppressive. As he sat in the car, Bolan felt prickles of perspiration gather under the blacksuit, despite the fact that it was made to insulate against heat as well as cold.

  Taking the opportunity when it arose, he swung the car off the main road and down a narrow, cobbled side street where the pavement teemed with people lining up to gain admittance to a club he remembered from a previous visit. It was known in the area for being on the site of an old sewing machine factory, and the club owners commemorated this by having heavy old sewing machines attached to the tables. Attached by heavy bolts, they would have made formidable weapons in a bar brawl unless otherwise secured. Like most of the clubs in this quarter, the inside was dingy and oppressive, heavy with the scent of human sweat and alcohol. These places had never heard of air conditioning, and the lighting was minimal. As for fire regulations and restrictions on capacity, the owners would profess no knowledge of those things simply with a shrug.

  Leaning heavily on the vehicle’s horn, Bolan nosed slowly through the bottleneck of humanity around the club. He was glad when he was able to step on the gas, having parted the throng and emerged into the small square at the bottom of the road. He cut across and continued downhill on the road that brought him to the harbor, and the main drag parallel to the sea that serviced the millionaires’ paradise.

  The delineation between the two halves of Marseilles was sharp. One moment he was in a quarter where any kind of crime or vice was possible in the blink of an eye, where he could buy guns, drugs and women at cut prices. But by turning another corner he was in an area where there were women no money could buy. Despite the nominal presence of the gendarmerie, the thing that caught the soldier’s eye was the large number of private security on display. Not that they were ostentatious. These were highly trained—and highly paid—professionals who were discreet, wearing clothes that were as beautifully cut as their employers’, and that were able to disguise the bulges of concealed weapons necessary for the rich to feel safe. It was only Bolan’s highly trained eye that singled them out.

  A Porsche pulled out of a parking space along the side of the harbor road, and Bolan slid into the vacant slot quickly. The Citroën seemed too downmarket, too noticeable among the Mercedes, Ferraris and Porsches in the area, but it was too late to worry about that now. He had to move quickly.

  And he knew exactly where he had to go. A stream of people moved toward a yacht that blared seventies funk music and was illuminated by searchlights bright enough to keep most of the poorer quarters lit for a week.

  The heavy volume of guests making their way to the party would be both a hindrance and a help. It would make it easier for the soldier to hide among them, yet at the same time it would make combat difficult when the time came for action. The vast majority of these people were rich through legitimate means, and they were the very people he had sworn to protect in his War Everlasting. Somehow, he would have to find a way to wage war with the minimum of danger to these innocents.

  But right now, that was unimportant. The immediate objective was to get on the yacht and confront Chavez-Smith.

  As he moved onto the sidewalk and began to thread his way through the crowds, moving at a faster pace, he kept his attention focused on the security. Those nearest the parked Citroën had taken notice of him, the car being so out of place in this environment. They wore earpieces and had throat mikes, and Bolan could see them communicate with one another. That would mean he was expected. There was nothing to mark him out as dangerous, but he was seen as suspicious.

  Drawing near the yacht, he could see that his description had been passed a
long the ranks as he noted several heavies trying to locate him. He was in luck that baggy pants and loose shirts seemed to be almost de rigueur with the jet set this season, and in this weather, as there were several men in the crowd dressed similarly enough to enable him to blend in a little more. The scanning heads of the security teams were confused by the numbers, and unable to single him out.

  So far, so good. He joined the stream of partygoers that was headed down the boardwalk toward the yacht that was the center of the action. More security was in evidence, and it was getting harder to stay anonymous. Up ahead, he could see the ramp leading onto the yacht, with the stream of partygoers on and off held up by security checks. Chavez-Smith had issued invitations, and crashers were being turned away.

  As Bolan watched, one young couple began to argue with the security at the head of the entrance. They were in their early twenties, and looked rich but were dressed down. The young man had a mass of red curls that flopped angrily in the night breeze as he raised his voice and gesticulated at the security. Bolan could almost hear him saying “Don’t you know who I am?” as he prodded the security man in the chest, while his companion encouraged him. She had blond hair and a dress that clung, but an unpleasant haughtiness that was obvious even at Bolan’s distance.

  Finally, the repeated refusals and the scorn of his companion forced the young man to action. He drew back his fist and aimed a punch at the security guard. It was stupid. The guard was twice his size and trained for such things. He caught the young man’s fist in one large hand and squeezed. Bolan saw the young man fall to his knees, his scream of agony cutting through the night air. The guard then released his grip and lifted the young man up by his hair. When his face was level with the guard’s shoulder, a short jab from his huge fist sent the young man flying backward down the ramp, onto the boardwalk, where excited partygoers had moved back to avoid being soiled by such action.

  The haughtiness dropped from the young woman as she screeched and flew at the guard who had just laid out her man. She didn’t get anywhere. She found herself lifted off her feet by the other guard at the entrance to the party. Having stood back while his partner dealt with the problem, he had been forgotten. Now he took her slim waist in his hands, almost encircling her with his grip, and lifted her off her feet. Her legs wheeled in the air with less grace than she would have wished before he put her over the side of the ramp and let her drop into the harbor.

  “That should cool the bitch off a little,” said a cool and cynical voice beside Bolan.

  The soldier turned his head to take in a vision of beauty that was marred only by the signs that it was assisted a little by surgery. The woman standing beside him, watching the action, was Ethiopian. She had that swallowlike grace that only comes from that part of Africa. The surgery showed only in the contour beneath one eye, which was slightly too perfect. Not cosmetic. Bolan guessed it was reconstructive after an accident of some sort.

  She smiled, but not with her eyes. “I know, my sweet. They can never get it as right as nature. But if one will drive a Ferrari a tad too fast, then one cannot complain. At least I am still alive and able to enjoy my life. My poor late husband was not so lucky.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare,” Bolan said graciously.

  “That’s all right, my dear. You’re up too close not to. Perhaps closer still if I’m lucky later?”

  Bolan shrugged. “I doubt it. I wanted to get into the party—everyone in Marseilles does by the look of it—but I don’t have an invite.”

  “Well, my little sweet, it just may be your lucky night. Perhaps mine as well. For you shall go to the ball, Cinderella. I have an invitation. For myself and an escort.”

  “And a beautiful woman like you doesn’t have an escort?”

  “Oh, yes, but he’s still fussing over his Rolls-Royce, and he’s such a bore. Fuck him, darling, I’ve found someone much more interesting.” She extended an elegant hand, which Bolan took and kissed. “I’m Countess Marie D’Orsini. Who are you?”

  “Matt Cooper,” Bolan replied, using a cover name. “At your service.”

  “Then I command we go and party hearty,” she said with a smile.

  Bolan was relieved. He wanted to do a recon without having to be on the offensive. And it was, it had to be admitted, a pleasure to cut through the crowd with such a beautiful woman on his arm. The people in front of them parted as they approached, and the countess was greeted and admired from all sides. Obviously, the woman was something of a local celebrity, and looking at her it wasn’t hard for Bolan to see why. She was almost as tall as the soldier, and that was without heels, for her elegant golden thonged sandals were flat. She was wearing a simple sheath dress that clung to her contours, showing her to be finely muscled and well toned. Her hair was styled elegantly, and her jewelery was expensive without being ostentatious. A few simple gold rings, set with small diamonds, and a necklace in tribal design but made from platinum.

  She took the lead as they approached the ramp onto the yacht, striding a pace ahead of Bolan. He let her take that lead. She was the one with the invitation. And if the attention was focused on her, the security may not notice that he was the man whose description had been circulated. They expected him to be alone.

  “Countess,” the security guard said respectfully, with an inclination of his head, as he took the invitation and stepped back to allow her on board. Bolan noted that the other guard was giving the soldier a quizzical look, but when his partner gave him a nod of acknowledgment, the man cast his eyes toward the countess, then smiled in a knowing manner.

  Bolan returned the smile, thankful that this obstacle had been passed by a lucky chance, and followed D’Orsini onto the yacht.

  On board, the deck space of the spacious vessel was packed with people in various states of intoxication, and Bolan and the countess had to push their way through the throng.

  “I must find Hector and thank him for the invitation before we do anything else, darling,” she said to Bolan. “A good guest is always polite to the host, and don’t you think that he’s such a darling host?” she asked, flinging out her arm to indicate the revels around them.

  Bolan knew how the host financed his parties, and all he could see were the high-class whores that moved among the guests, the armed security, and the waiters and waitresses who were being importuned, sexually assaulted and insulted by the guests, and all for less than minimum wage, he was sure.

  “Yeah, I guess he sure knows how to throw a party,” Bolan replied, keeping his voice neutral. At least she was taking him straight to his target. It occurred to him as they made their way toward the prow that the com link between himself and Grimaldi was still open, and the pilot was probably kicking back and thoroughly enjoying what was happening.

  The deck area in front of the cabin section had been cleared as a dance floor, and there were catering tables by the cabin walls that were being regularly replenished with alcohol, food and cocaine. There was something for everyone, and a DJ in an old-fashioned booth was spinning the earsplitting disco that was filling the night air of the harbor. As the crowds became more of a crush around the bar, food and drugs, the countess reached back and took Bolan’s hand. Her grip was firm, warm and dry. There was something about it that made Bolan wonder if she was all that she seemed.

  The crowds thinned as they crossed the dance-floor area, the revelers partying there making their own space with their gyrations. D’Orsini and Bolan threaded their way through, her hand still grasping his.

  It was as they passed the booth that Bolan caught sight of Hector Chavez-Smith. He was in conversation with another man the soldier recognized: Mehmet Attaturk, the security adviser to the principality of Saudi Wabu, a small, oil-rich territory that was feeling the squeeze of being between the warring Iran and Iraq, and the richer territories of the OPEC nations, with whom its hard-line Muslim leader had an uneasy alliance. Attaturk was a cold man responsible for many war crimes in Serbia, and the sheikh of Saudi Wabu’s
insistence on employing him as adviser hadn’t exactly helped his relations with the other OPEC nations, who sought to at least maintain an illusion of decency.

  More importantly, if Attaturk was there, then it could only mean one thing—negotiations were taking place for the stolen weapons.

  The countess walked up to the men, ignoring the cluster of four bodyguards that surrounded them. Chavez-Smith’s guards were recognizable as comrades of the others on the boat, but Attaturk had a couple of Slavic guards with eyes as cold as his, and facial scars that spoke of hard combat action. They were leaner, less muscle-bound, but seemed much more likely to retaliate at the first sign of trouble. Even as D’Orsini and Bolan approached, both men stiffened, ready to attack.

  “Down, boys,” she murmured in a voice that Bolan could just about hear above the noise. Then, as they neared the arms dealer, she said in louder tones, “Hector, my sweet, so nice of you to invite me to your exclusive little soiree. And my, what interesting company you keep. Who is this divine little man?”

  Bolan was perplexed by her behaviour. There was an undertone to her words, a subtext that suggested she had a hidden agenda. But what could it be? He was sure from the way she’d asked that she already knew Attaturk’s identity. So was the manner in which she had picked him up anything other than accidental? Bolan smiled and shook hands as he was introduced by the countess to both men. He could feel the disinterest of the bodyguards as they marked her down as a social butterfly, and himself as a gigolo, which would suit him fine. Some small talk was exchanged, but it was obvious that the arms dealer and the military adviser had matters they were impatient to discuss, and D’Orsini soon led Bolan away.

  The soldier kept one eye on the small group as he was led to the drinks table. A flute of champagne was thrust into his hand, and he heard the countess whisper, “Lighten up, and don’t be so obvious.”