Continental Contract

by Don Pendleton

  The woman called Celeste was staring unbelievingly into the scene, mouth open and moving but no sounds issuing. Bolan clamped a hand onto her shoulder and shook her. “Speak English,” he commanded. “Who were they expecting?”

  Sound came on her second try, rasping through a parched throat and a paralyzed tongue. “Non, non,” she choked.

  Bolan let her go and she crumpled to her knees. A sound on the stairway whirled him about as a blonde girl of about twenty descended quickly into view, then halted halfway down in sudden confusion as the scene presented itself to her. She wore absolutely nothing but a narrow garter belt and thigh-length hose of black mesh. She cried, “My God! I thought I heard …”

  Bolan growled, “Get on down here!”

  She came down hesitantly, a voluptuous vision of pink skin and well-piled flesh, eyeing Bolan as though he were a cobra about to strike, then she scuttled quickly across to be near Celeste. She asked Bolan, “Wh-what is this? What are you doing?”

  Her speech was that of a refined Englishwoman. Bolan wondered what the hell she was doing in this lousy drop. He told her, “I’m not up on the language. Tell Celeste she has one chance to live. I want information and damn quick. Are they bringing the American here? How many of them are involved. When are they expected?”

  A rapid exchange in French between the two women ensued. Then the blonde girl told Bolan, “Yes, an American criminal was to be brought here. He was to be kept here until further instructions were received. She does not know how many, she understood it was to be but one. Do you mean—oh yes, I see what you mean.” She turned to the older woman and another discussion, then back to Bolan. “Seven men went to the airport, in two machines. She feels that they have been delayed by the fog. They should have arrived before now.”

  Bolan said, “Okay, that’s what I wanted.” Under other circumstances he would have wanted something quite different from the English beauty, but this was just another of the sacrifices to the lousy war. He told her, “Get the woman upstairs. Stay there. Don’t let anyone else down.”

  The girl nodded her head in vigorous assent and pulled Celeste toward the stairs. The French woman was beginning to tremble and weep. Bolan watched them up the stairway, hoping that Celeste had not become overly attached to her dead pimp, and working hard to keep his eyes away from the invigorating display of blonde rump, then he quietly put out the lights, opened the door, and went outside.

  The situation out there had not changed. The street was quiet and the fog was showing no signs of dissipating. Bolan took a position several steps uprange from the doorway, secure in the enveloping mists. He noted lights going on upstairs and supposed that the house of joie was coming alive in a premature awakening. He replaced the two expended cartridges in the .32 and settled into the wait, trying to not think of the English girl. Half a cigarette later, the sound of an automobile engine entered his consciousness, followed quickly thereafter by the slow advance of headlamps along the curbing—then another sound and another pair of lights.

  The vehicles came to a halt just below Bolan’s position. A car door opened, feet moved on the sidewalk, then both pairs of lights winked out. A nasal voice called, “Depechez-vous!”

  Yeah, Bolan thought, hurry up and die.

  Distorted shapes wavering in the gloom, car-doors in motion, a quiet murmur of voices—this was the area of perception. Bolan moved softly toward the entrance to the house. A lone figure approached, nothing more than a shapeless suggestion of mass. Bolan stepped beside him and caught him behind the ear with the butt of the gun, then grabbed the falling body and assured it a soft and soundless descent to the ground.

  Three more blobs moving toward him … yeah, here was paydirt—the middle blob sort of bent and sagging and being dragged along by the other two. The .32 whispered two coughing little words, the two outside blobs fell away and the inside one tumbled toward Bolan. He caught it, hissing, “Quiet, quiet,” and got an arm around it and guided it up the sidewalk toward Rue St. Jacques.

  Behind them a troubled voice called out, “Armand? Henri?”

  Bolan kept moving, trying to get as much distance as possible before the light dawned back there. He saw the headlamps of the lead car flash back on and heard the sounds of aroused voices. The man beside him was breathing raggedly and trying to tell him something in a pained monotone. But there was no time for sidewalk conferences. Running feet were pursuing them up the sidewalk and the vehicle was moving forward again.

  Bolan pushed his burden against the wall of a building and shoved him down into a seated position, then dropped to one knee and swivelled to the attack. Immediately the running feet became an identifiable figure bearing down on him. He squeezed off another quiet phut and the running figure pitched forward and became a sliding mass.

  The .32 angled up and over, Bolan sighting in an imaginary target just above the dull glow of an automobile headlamp, and he sent three quick rounds into there in a right-to-left scan. The crashing of window glass and a sudden veering of the headlamps announced his success; the vehicle headed off on an erratic course, crossing the street to the other side and moments later smashing into an immovable object.

  A man’s voice was yelling something in a mixture of French and Italian, then the same voice rose in hysteria and was screaming for help. A sudden flash of light hinted at the fire over there, and then an explosion settled all doubts. Confusion and running about and excited voices down near the maison de joie; screams and hot flames piercing the fog at the far side of the street; female voices pitched high in excitement and floating down from Madame Celeste’s balconies—to this backdrop, Bolan took time to thumb in two fresh rounds of ammo, then he reclaimed his charge and hustled him along the street as fast as he could move him.

  They reached Rue St. Jacques as Rue Galande began bursting with curious life and all traffic seemed to be heading counter to Bolan’s progress. He paused at the corner and allowed Martin to get his breath. Back there were leaping flames and excited people crowding about like wraiths in the weird glow. If there was a pursuit, Bolan could not see it—but then, he could not see much of anything. He asked Gil Martin, “Are you okay?”

  “No,” Martin groaned. “They … fiends. Fingers broken … and kicked, kicked, ribs burn.”

  “We have to keep going,” Bolan told him. “Can you make it?”

  “Yes. Anything. Th-thank God. Yes, go.”

  They went, moving quietly and surely along Rue st. Jacques and onto Boulevard St. Michel, Bolan beginning to develop an entirely new feeling about the quality of one Gil Martin. They paused again there, at the Boulevard, Bolan trying to orient himself as to present location and desired goals. A name that sounded like an American whiskey flashed into his mind and the inviting declaration re-whispered, “I usually stay at the Pension de St. Germain.”

  Bolan did not know the place but he knew the street and vaguely recalled the area of Boulevard St. Germain where budget hotels were prominent. For a guy in good shape it was within walking distance, but for his hurting companion … He guided Martin toward the metro station. If he remembered correctly, Metro Odeon would put him somewhere in the ballpark and he could find it from there.

  As they approached the station, Martin gasped, “Why are we … running? Let’s … find a cop.”

  Bolan replied, “We can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “All right, change that to read I can’t do that. Do you want me to leave you here, or do you want to go on my way?”

  They had reached the entrance to the metro station, and in that light Bolan got his first good look at the kidnap victim. Martin’s arms were folded across his stomach, crossed at the wrists so that the fingers could find support upon the forearms. His face was welted and lumped, one eye closed completely, the upper lip puffed and bloodcaked. Beneath the coat and inside the shirt, Bolan knew, would be found more horrors. The mob did not take kindly to the adventures of Mack Bolan. His voice was softly sympathetic as he asked Martin, �
��Well? Are you with me?”

  The actor was staring at his benefactor with quiet gratitude. In his one good eye was a light of revelation as recognition flared there. He nodded and said, “I’m with you, Bolan.”

  Bolan smiled and helped him down the steps. If things should work out, the actor would be with someone else very shortly and a brassy-talking airline stewardess would have her chance to put up or shut up. And maybe she’d get herself a bonus layover, after all. But not Bolan. The Executioner was even then mentally committing himself to a hellish layover. He felt an attack of Mafia Fever coming on, an infection to which the sharpshooting sniper from Vietnam was most susceptible.

  There were but two cures for it.

  Death, or Mafia blood.

  Bolan was ready for either.

  6: Dimensions of Death

  Bolan pushed the door full open and planted his burden in the doorway. “We need a bed, and quick,” he told the startled girl.

  She fell back into the room with a stifled yelp and allowed Bolan to maneuver the injured man to the bed.

  The girl wore a terry cloth mini-sarong which didn’t quite make it over jutting breasts and bottomed-out just below the hips. A small bath towel was wrapped about her head in a neat turban. She looked pink and shiny-scrubbed and a hell of a lot prettier than the airline uniform had made her. She fussed about with the pillow and guided Martin’s head to it, then she turned to Bolan with a sick look and said, “Don’t tell me he got that way hurrying here to keep a date you neglected to confirm.”

  Bolan muttered, “You still have it all wrong.”

  Her mood was visibly shifting from startled concern to one of marked hostility. “Oh no,” she told him, “I have it all right. You’re Johnny Charming sans face wig, and this poor slob has taken one too many dives for you. How does it work, Mr. Martin? You take the women and he takes on the infuriated boyfriends?”

  Bolan read it that she had been smarting under her own overplay on the plane, and was now letting him know that the game had changed. He pressed Martin’s passport into her hand and said, “I tried to tell you that you had it wrong.” He turned back to the bed and left her staring at the passport photo. He asked Martin, “How is it?”

  “I’ll live.”

  Bolan wished to make sure. He carefully opened the shirt and peeled up the undershirt with gentle hands. The guy’s chest was one big blue-blotchy mess, with angry red bloodblisters spaced about. “They did this with their feet?” Bolan inquired. He was tenderly probing the ribs with sensitive fingers.

  Martin grimaced and replied, “Yeah. The belly, too.”

  “Must’ve had steel caps on the shoes.” Bolan opened the waist of the trousers and bared the lower torso, took one quick look, then shook his head and stood up. “You’ll have to have a doctor,” he told the actor.

  “I’m for that. My hands … God, my hands.”

  Nancy Walker bustled in with a wet towel and began carefully dabbing at his face. She told Bolan, “Don’t worry about him. I’ll get the doctor.”

  He replied, “Okay,” and paced nervously about the room for a moment, then he went back to the bed and told Martin, “I’ll be leaving you now. Uh … guess I don’t have to say it … but … well, I’m sorry for those lumps.”

  The actor winked his one good eye. “Lumps I can take. You just watch it, eh?”

  Bolan said, “Yeah,” and chewed his lip for a moment. He hated to leave the guy this way. Mafiosi could be persistent hunters. Sanity dictated, however, that he get out and let the guy have some medical attention. He dropped Martin’s wallet on the bed and told him, “You’ll be needing this. The girl has your passport.” He spun about, stepped past Nancy Walker, and went toward the door.

  “Bolan!”

  He halted and turned back. “Yeah?”

  “Maybe you better take that passport. You know?”

  “No, I …”

  “You could fake it out, you know that by now. And the French cops already have egg on their face over me. You be Gil Martin for a while and I’ll take a rest. I needed it even before this.”

  Bolan hesitated, thinking about it. Martin was thinking in terms of cops. Bolan’s mind was occupied with Mafia.

  The girl was staring from one to the other of them, a quizzical half-smile prettying her face. She told Bolan, “I heard what he called you, and the message now is loud and clear. His offer makes sense.” She tossed him the passport folder. “Trade. Give me yours.”

  “Take all the identification,” Martin urged. “Money too, if you need it. Or use the credit cards. Just don’t go wild, I’m not that wealthy.”

  A warmness was spreading through Bolan’s gut. He had almost forgotten the feeling. It was damn nice, if for only a fleeting moment, to feel the touch of genuine friendship. On that note of warmth he traded wallets and passports with the actor, thanked the girl with his eyes, and got out of there. He figured the trade at about fifty-fifty, in terms of personal danger. Some of the mob had egg on their face over the Gil Martin mix-up also; others of them might still be sniffing along that false trail, and it was this consideration that tipped the decision for Bolan. If the mob came looking for anyone, he wanted them to find him, not some poor defenseless Hollywood type who couldn’t even spell kill.

  The more he thought of the set-up the better he liked it. Let Martin stay down and out of the line of fire, at least until the action had swirled away into another part of the world. When the time was right Martin could present himself to the police, explain what had happened, reclaim his place in the world, and relate a true-life adventure which would fill columns of free publicity for a long time to come.

  As for the girl, she had a battered but very much alive movie star in her keep for a few days … and who could say how that relationship would ultimately work itself out?

  Bolan returned to the metro and found his way to the glitter-side of Paris. As Gil Martin he checked into a large hotel on the Champs-Elysees, left stern orders as to his right to privacy, and turned over the key to the airport locker so that his bags could be picked up. Then he ordered a rental car, to be kept at his disposal in the hotel garage, and went up to his suite for breakfast, a lingering shower, and a tired tumble between the sheets.

  As his eyes closed on Chapter One in Paris, the time was barely nine o’clock on the autumn morning of Bolan’s first day in France. Already it had seemed a lifetime. The days ahead were to seem as epochs in that strange life-as-death eternity which had come to characterize the bloody pathways of Mack Bolan, the peoples’ gladiator and high executioner—and now, in certain Parisian neighborhoods, L’Americaine Formidable.

  Silent rage vibrated across the telephone connection as Quick Tony Lavagni awaited the verbal reaction from the man at Castle Farms. His fingers were going numb on the instrument and he had moved the other hand up to help support the growing weight of it when the cutting voice finally found words of expression.

  “I thought I told you,” came the hot-ice response, “that I just wanted him spotted and tailed. When did I tell you, Tony, that I wanted Bolan snatched and hustled off somewheres?”

  “That was their idea, Mr. Castiglione,” Lavagni explained in humble misery. “I told those jerks how to handle it, but they had to get ambitious. I tried to tell ’em this Bolan wasn’t no ordinary number, but they just had to find it out for theirselves. I told ’em—”

  “Fuck what you told ’em!” Arnie Farmer yelled. “Now you listen to me, Tony, and you make sure you get it right this time. You take that black judas of yours, and you take a crew—a full crew, you hear?—and you get your ass over there. You shake that goddam place apart and you shake that bastard loose, you hear me? And you bring ’im back here in one piece. Now is there anything hard to understand about that, Tony?”

  “No, Mr. Castiglione. I got it.”

  “Great. I hope so for your sake, Tony. How many frogs you say bit the dust over there?”

  “I get it about six or seven, plus one of Monzoor’s pers
onal crew—a boy name of Shippy Catano.”

  “Uh huh. And so how many are you taking with you, Tony?”

  “I guess I better take at least a dozen.”

  “You shithead! Whattaya mean, a dozen! Now, Tony, listen to me! You ain’t thinking! Don’t talk to me any dozen! Listen, you get out here, you hear me? Bring Fat Angelo and Sammy Shiv, and I guess you better bring that nigger. A dozen! Listen, brains, I want that boy! You hear?”

  “I hear, Mr. Castiglione.”

  “So get it out here, and I mean right now. We’re going to plan this thing to the last step, and we’re gonna do it all ourselves. No more Frenchmen, you hear? Those guys fight with their feet and fuck with their face, and I guess they must think with their balls. I don’t want nothing more to do with ’em. You hear?”

  “Yessir, Mr. Castiglione, I hear.”

  “You better be here in one hour.”

  Lavagni assured his Capo that he would, and grimly rung off. He turned to Wilson Brown with an angry scowl and told him, “Arnie Farmer thinks he wants Bolan. Listen, Wils, I’m up to here with that guy. It’s come down to this, Wils—it’s him or me. You hear me? It’s him or me.”

  “I hear you, man,” the big Negro replied, grinning. “But I guess you better tell it to Bolan.”

  “I’ll tell ’im, Wils. You think I can’t tell him? You think I been that long off the street?”

  The grin left the black man’s face as he followed Quick Tony out of the room. He was feeling a bit sorry for his boss. Lavagni would tell it to the devil himself rather than face Castiglione with another failure. Yeah. That Bolan cat sure better look out. Desperation could make a mean enemy. Wils Brown knew it. Wils Brown was an expert on desperation, man.

  In Paris, a dream was in the process of crumbling, an empire which never had been was now in danger of never being, and Thomas “Monzoor” Rudolfi was an unhappy and shaken man. America’s silent ambassador to France, serving the subsurface society, Rudolfi was a forty-five-year-old lawyer and American citizen. He had lived in Paris since the early sixties and was officially regarded by the French government as a broker and advisor to American business interests in France.