Terror Ballot

by Don Pendleton

  “His name is Guilo,” Levesque said, following Gaston’s gaze. “He reports to a new coalition within Paris’s underworld calling itself the Red Spiders. They are a response to the power vacuum created by the violent incursions of the American CIA man.”

  “It would seem the Red Spiders need a lesson in manners,” Gaston said. “I do not know what started the dispute, but we cannot tolerate any challenge to our authority, even at an event such as this one.”

  “No,” Levesque agreed. He stood and took off the T-shirt he wore. His upper body, while pale, was surprisingly well developed. Levesque also bore several prominent scars, possibly the result of his previous work as mercenary and terrorist.

  “And what will you do with the American exactly?” Gaston asked, as Levesque began stretching his arms and legs, shaking his hands as if to improve his circulation.

  “At this point,” Levesque replied, carefully placing his cigar on the edge of the table by his chair, “I would say it is a question of what to do with his body. We will of course place it wherever it is most embarrassing for the Americans. You will need to decide precisely what story you wish to tell them.”

  “That should not be difficult. We will have time. And there is much work to be done. There will be some delays while our government determines precisely how best to give me my victory without making it seem they are trampling on Deparmond’s corpse.”

  “Poor Deparmond.” Levesque arched his back, stretching it. On the other side of the pool, Guilo was now engaged in a shouting match with the uniformed ES man.

  “There will be hearings, of course,” Gaston said. “Tessier’s digital evidence will be required to establish beyond doubt that Deparmond was guilty of conspiring with the ES. We will have to begin purging the backgrounds of your top men. And finding and applying a new identity for you, my friend, if you and your upper tier of ES leadership are to join me in the halls of legitimate power.”

  “Of course. My men have secured the hard drive. There will be nothing to refute the official records already sent to the authorities. Tessier will be written off as a victim of Deparmond’s thuggery. Or perhaps they will become especially unimaginative and simply declare him a suicide.”

  Both men laughed. Gaston looked to Guilo and then to Levesque. “What is it you intend to do?”

  “One moment, please.” Levesque sauntered to Guilo, tapped the gang member on the shoulder and waited for the man to turn. When Guilo instead swiveled with force and tried to throw a wide hook punch, Levesque avoided the blow, backed off a pace and threw a high kick that snapped Guilo’s head back and dropped him to the deck.

  Then Levesque shoved the man into the pool, where he sputtered and splashed weakly. The poolside drama was greeted with applause by the other partygoers and more than a few admiring looks from the working girls.

  “What on earth was that all about?” Gaston asked as Levesque returned to his chair. The terror leader retrieved his cigar and puffed deeply on it, blowing smoke rings.

  “I like to keep my hand in.”

  “You mean your feet,” Gaston said.

  “Those, too.” Levesque looked down at his cigar, then stared at the behind of a passing woman. “Lemaire was good at savate when he met me. But I taught him much more.”

  “But not everything you know?”

  “No,” Levesque said. “Not everything.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Paris, France

  So far Bolan’s only weapon—the switchblade taken from the ES operative in the field—had broken when Bolan had tried to use it pry open the collar of the steering column on his stolen car. While enough of the blade had remained to allow him to strip the wires, the knife was useless for anything else. He had discarded it when he got the car running and ditched the car several blocks from his destination.

  The soldier at least had some money. Among the account numbers he had memorized was a wire-transfer number that he could use to have funds sent. He had availed himself of that and was now in possession of a wad of euros. He had also purchased a change of clothes and a canvas messenger bag from a shop down the block. The jacket he had gotten from Bayard was still serviceable, so he had hung on to it.

  The hotel he had checked in to was an emergency safehouse, where rooms were kept on hand for CIA or other U.S. operatives who needed unexpected accommodations. Bolan had used another memorized account number for just such an occasion. The account was nominally traceable to a global internet marketing firm that specialized in providing motivational speakers for different business gatherings.

  It had been necessary to explain to the hotel desk that his passport and other documents had been lost with his luggage en route to Paris. No doubt he had looked like the sort of harried traveler who had been forced to sleep in the same set of clothes on a plane or in an airport.

  Bolan was an expert in role camouflage, in pretending to belong where he was and in making those around him believe it. The harried traveler was not a theme that was unfamiliar to him. He did not even really have to work at it. As the hotel was somewhat seedy, the desk clerk did not bat an eye. He’d probably heard the story many times.

  The hotel had an internet kiosk. Bolan had gone online right after checking in, to search for bazaars and markets in the city, looking for references in the popular press and “alternative” newspapers to the sorts of markets that might have illicit weapons for sale. There was a feel for that sort of thing, a flavor that the black markets of all cultures seemed to share to varying degrees.

  The only exceptions were, for example, the truly lawless areas. There were parts of Pakistan, for example, where any firearm could be had by anyone for a price, including handmade counterfeits of famous designs. Such places in the world were rare but were as close to anarchy as any human being would truly experience.

  Unsurprisingly anarchy was always ruled by the willingness and the power to do violence.

  Bolan was now armed with a mental list of the sites he would visit. He would have to use caution and discretion.

  Mack Bolan stood under the shower, which was turned nearly to full-blast hot, and let the water sluice over his body, washing away the grime of the field in which he’d dragged himself, the engine grease from the car he had hot-wired and stolen, and the aches and pains of what had already been a demanding and less-than-ideal mission.

  The precarious nature of his position in France, however, was brought home to him when he picked up the hotel room’s phone and dialed a series of numbers. That numerical sequence eventually got him a scrambled line to the Farm, although there was the possibility that someone, even just staff on the hotel switchboard, could be listening on Bolan’s end.

  “Party line,” Bolan said, when Barbara Price answered him. This would warn her that he was calling from an insecure location and not from his secure satellite phone, although this last information would be evident on the display boards at Stony Man Farm.

  “Cooper,” Price replied, using his code name. “I take it you’ve had some setbacks.”

  What Price was really saying to Bolan was Striker, we’re aware that you’ve lost ground and are operating without a full complement of equipment.

  “You could say that. Thanks for wiring me the cash I needed. The airlines lost my luggage. I have a change of clothes now, but otherwise I’m pretty much empty-handed.”

  Bolan’s message was thus interpretable as I’ve got money, but I’m unarmed.

  “I can see how that would be inconvenient,” Price said. “I take it you’ve lost your company phone?”

  How badly are you compromised? was the question Price was really asking. Why aren’t you using your secure smartphone?

  “Unfortunately,” Bolan said. “Also my passport and my driver’s license.”

  “I’m sure we can make arrangements to get you replacements,” Pri
ce told him. “But it might take a little while.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It looks like import restrictions have been tightened,” Price said. “Something about the threat of terrorism. The authorities in France have proved very difficult. They’re looking for the people responsible and they seem very angry to have been taken advantage of.”

  The meaning of that was very clear. The French authorities were irate about the behavior of Agent Cooper and could be presumed to be hunting Bolan. That he had already known, but Price’s confirmation meant that no amount of diplomatic hand-holding from Brognola himself had managed to improve the mood among the Powers that Were in Paris.

  “I’m aware,” Bolan said. “As you know, I’m on an aggressive schedule. I’m going to have to move forward before my new stuff arrives.”

  Despite whatever complications you’re dealing with, Bolan was telling her, I’m going to pursue my mission my way, on my timetable.

  “Understood, Cooper. Just be advised that our travel agent is getting a lot of resistance to that idea.”

  Bolan could just imagine. She was most likely referring to Brognola, but Bolan already knew that his actions would have consequences across the ocean. It could not be helped.

  Gaston had duped the people of France and rigged the elections. He had secured his ill-gotten gains not just by manipulating the people, but by murdering Deparmond and making sure of his victory.

  Deparmond might have been a xenophobe, and his election was not desired by the Man back home, but a free and fair election by the French people was far preferable to some rigged game perpetrated by a power-broker pushing an agenda.

  “Cooper?” Barbara spoke after his long silence.

  Bolan had wasted very little time wondering why Gaston had perpetrated such a widespread, complicated fraud. The plan was an ambitious one, even by international political standards, after all. The extensive, even exhausting effort to portray himself as a moderate had to be convincing to any and all who examined Henri Gaston and the man’s political aspirations.

  No doubt he had been vetted by intelligence agencies around the world, at least on a cursory basis. No world leader, or prospective world leader, took the global stage without inspiring at least a perfunctory interest among the other industrialized nations and their intelligence mechanisms.

  The implication—given Levesque’s admission of cooperation with Gaston—was that Gaston was capable of playing a complex and long game, manipulating both the public and the political machine in France, building multiple allegiances and sculpting a public image and message...all while cultivating his “relationships” with criminals and terrorists, using that underworld muscle to build power behind the scenes and then murdering and framing his political rival.

  Gaston was a powerful man indeed.

  “Cooper, are you there?”

  Brognola’s original briefing on Gaston and Deparmond had contained nothing to indicate that Gaston was capable of any of this. Bolan summoned to mind what he recalled of the file. Gaston was the child of wealthy parents and heir to a chemical-company fortune. That explained how he had financed his ambitions. Rich men were as common in politics as celebrities were common on the French Riviera.

  “I’ll get in touch with you again as soon as I’m able to,” Bolan told Price. “Maybe then we can make arrangements for getting my identification and a new company phone.”

  “All right, Cooper. If you check your corporate email on the web, we may have some suggestions for you, some tourist areas to check out. Be careful. You’re one man in a foreign city. It could be dangerous.”

  “I will,” he said. “I’ll talk to you soon.” He replaced the hotel phone in its cradle.

  If anyone had been listening to or recording his end of the call, they would have heard nothing that could compromise the Farm. Bolan looked at the neatly made hotel bed and realized he could not remember when he had last slept. Freshly showered, he climbed between the sheets and put his head on the pillow.

  Darkness took him quickly.

  * * *

  WHEN HIS EYES snapped open again, his internal clock told him that it was early morning, perhaps three or four. Someone was tampering with the door to his hotel room.

  He rolled out of bed and padded to the wall beside the door, but not before ripping the digital alarm clock out of the wall. The clock trailed its electrical cord as he held it in his right hand. The door opened. From what Bolan could hear, there were two of them.

  They stood in the doorway for a long moment, trying to determine if Bolan was in there and asleep, but the room was dark and the light from the door only illuminated the area at the base of the bed. The first of the two intruders took a step inside.

  Bolan smashed him in the back of the head with the alarm clock.

  The intruder grunted and went down. Bolan flew into action, driving his knee into the gut of the second man, knocking him to the floor. He went after the second man, straddling him and punching him repeatedly, fully aware that there was still a semiconscious hostile in the room who might choose to reenter the fray.

  When the second man was groaning and moving slowly, Bolan rose, swiveled and teed off on the first man, kicking him in the jaw. He felt the man’s head snap back, scraping the intruder’s beard stubble along the top of Bolan’s bare foot.

  One of the men on the floor groaned, then said in English, “One day I’m going to get the best of you, Cooper.” Bolan recognized that voice. He went to wall switch and hit the light.

  The two men on the floor were Musson and Flagel of the DCRI.

  Bolan grimaced.

  Musson was already going for his gun. Bolan dived for him, collided with him, and the slim Walther PPK went flying from the inspector’s hand. Bolan kicked it farther and Musson growled. The soldier smashed one fist into Musson’s face, rocking him back, but not scoring a knockout blow. Musson crashed into the wall of the hotel room and did not try to rise again. His chest rose and fell heavily.

  “I really do not like you, Cooper,” Musson stated.

  Bolan turned, remembering Flagel. The other DCRI inspector was on his hands and knees, trying to push himself to his feet. He wore a bandage over the bridge of his nose, evidence of Bolan’s previous handiwork. The soldier pushed him over, causing him to grunt again, and then patted down the battered inspector. He took the Browning Hi Power and the backup revolver Flagel carried.

  “Stop,” Musson ordered.

  Bolan looked back at Musson over his shoulder. The inspector was holding an NAA mini-revolver in his fist. The weapon was tiny, almost like a toy, but the business end was no joke. Bolan had once known a man who carried a miniature revolver in his prosthetic limb. It was a deadly weapon.

  “That’s right,” Musson said. “I have five rounds of .22 Magnum here. I will put a round in you if you do not stop. Or five rounds. Give Flagel his guns back.”

  Bolan very nearly sighed. He put the guns on the carpet and pushed them back toward Flagel.

  “Sit on the bed. Hands behind your head.”

  Bolan did as he had been ordered. “How did you find me?” he asked. “Did you distribute my description to all the area hotels?”

  Flagel and Musson exchanged glances. Now in the light and with the time to look at him more closely, Bolan could see that Flagel really did look worse for wear. He had deep, dark circles under both eyes, the result of the blow to his nose. Clearly they were not eager to give up any of their secrets.

  “We should bring him in like this,” Flagel said. “Let us cuff him and be on our way.”

  “You are under arrest,” Musson stated. “As you were informed before, your behavior here in France is subject to strict oversight. You have stepped outside your authority, Cooper, and frankly it would give me pleasure to gun you down for the killer you are. But I won’t do that.
That is not how the DCRI operates.”

  “It’s not how I operate, either,” Bolan said. “Or you two would be dead by now. A few times over.”

  Flagel and Musson once more looked at each other. Flagel spit on the carpet. “I have had enough of you,” he said angrily. Then he punched Bolan in the gut. The blow was not an especially bad one, but Bolan gave the Frenchman what he wanted. The soldier bent at the waist and made a show of catching his breath. If he brazened it out, pretended like it hadn’t happened, Flagel would only become more agitated. There was no point in getting killed over a point of pride.

  “Stop it!” Musson ordered Flagel. “What is wrong with you? Shall we beat him to death before we get him back to headquarters?”

  “It is the type of thing he would do to a suspect,” Flagel growled.

  “Not really,” Bolan said.

  Flagel stepped in to take another shot. Musson got in between them. “I said stop it!” Then Musson realized he was in striking range and whirled, his gun at the ready. “Don’t move, Cooper! Do not make me kill you!”

  Bolan had expected that reaction, which was why he hadn’t bothered to try. Musson was convinced he was dealing with a rattlesnake, at this point, and he was not incorrect. But Bolan had not lived as long as he had, fought in as many battles as he had waged, by underestimating the reflexes that fear gave a man.

  Musson was jumpy, worried he would end up embarrassed and humiliated again. He was also determined to bring in the dangerous mad dog that was Matthew Cooper. Bolan could see it in his eyes and hear it in his voice.

  “We will have him dress,” Musson said. “We will then cuff him and bring him in. We are not animals. We are agents of the DCRI. We will conduct ourselves accordingly.”

  “He will try something!” Flagel insisted. He put his guns back in their holsters. His movements were reluctant, grudging, as if he wanted to pistol-whip Bolan for good measure...or simply put a bullet into the big American who had caused so much trouble.