Terror Ballot

by Don Pendleton

“It is not what you think,” Flagel said, negotiating traffic. “Musson is at his flat, but he says to telephone if we require him. I agreed to head the mission because I thought I could then control it, see to it that Cooper was not injured too badly.”

  Bayard eyed Flagel’s bruised face and the bandage on his nose. “Why would you, of all people, care about that?”

  “Because what you said was true,” Flagel told him. “I don’t like Cooper. I think he is dangerous. But he is not the enemy. And if we treat him, and the Americans, like the enemy, what do we gain? Nothing but more destruction in Paris.”

  “Cooper is arguably the greater destructive force,” Bayard said.

  “Not destruction like that. You know what I mean. The destruction of our culture. The destruction of our people. The creep of criminal gangs and the establishment of more enclaves where the police cannot go. Do we need another month of riots, of burning cars, of protests, before we see that?”

  “So you will lead the investigation? The hunt for Cooper?”

  “No,” Flagel said. “I stole the backup tracking device from the evidence locker. Vigneau has hatched a scheme that I cannot pretend to be part of. He saw it in my face and ordered me from his office after he told me. He also instructed me to share it with no one at the DCRI.”

  “Then you are breaking your word.”

  “Am I?” Flagel asked. “I thought you resigned.”

  Bayard’s mouth widened in a tight smile. “So I have,” he said. “So I have indeed. What is this plan you could not be part of?”

  “I think it must be what he wished all along,” Flagel stated. “I think he was counting on our objections to justify it. Why bother asking us, otherwise? Vigneau has given the tracking device and the bug frequency to the Red Spiders. Using his contacts in Paris’s underworld, Vigneau has made it known that Cooper is a wanted man. The price on his head is a small fortune. The exact number varies with each telling.”

  “We hardly have the budget for that,” Bayard scoffed.

  “You resigned,” Flagel reminded him.

  Bayard made a rude noise. “You know what I mean.”

  “It doesn’t matter because no bounty will be paid. Anyone attempting to claim it will be used as a scapegoat. That scapegoat will be presented to the Americans as the reason for the loss of their agent.”

  “Are you telling me—”

  “It is as bad as you think, Alfred,” Flagel said. “Vigneau has given the criminal element the means to track the American agent. Vigneau has told them they will be rewarded handsomely for killing that American operative. And Vigneau intends to use this to mask what is essentially the assassination of Agent Cooper on French soil.”

  “My God,” Bayard said. “We must stop this. How much time do we have?”

  “Very little. With any luck, nobody saw me leave with the tracking device, and thus our interference will not be anticipated. But already the Red Spiders will be closing in on Cooper.”

  “Where is he?” Bayard asked. He picked up the tracking device and examined its illuminated face. “Hmm. It looks like he is approaching the street bazaar nearby,” he said, pointing. “That is several blocks away through heavy traffic. Hurry. But we must detour here.”

  “Musson’s flat?”

  “Yes,” Bayard said, nodding. He took out his wireless phone and placed a call to Musson. When his fellow inspector answered, Bayard explained to him what they were after.

  “Of course,” Musson agreed. “I will meet you on the street.”

  Musson was as good as his word. The three inspectors rode in silence as Musson checked his Walther PPK and Flagel reached into his jacket. When Flagel’s hand reappeared, it held not one of his own pistols, but Bayard’s .38.

  “I thought you’d need this, so I brought it along.”

  “You do realize what this means,” Musson said.

  “What is that?” Bayard asked.

  “We are all much closer to Cooper’s way of thinking than we would like to believe.”

  “Good,” Flagel replied. “Perhaps he will stop hitting me.”

  “I do not know what you are complaining about,” Musson said. “My neck still hurts.”

  “And yet but for some bruises you look fine,” Flagel stated. “I look like I lost a fight to an entire tavern’s worth of miscreants.”

  “You never looked that good to begin with,” Musson said.

  “I still do not like him.”

  Bayard looked in the rearview mirror. “Flagel, how much longer to the bazaar?”

  “A few minutes. Why?”

  “We do not have a few minutes,” Bayard said. “Faster. Faster now.”

  But the sirens started behind them. The unmarked vehicles bore magnetic lights on their roofs. These were DCRI cars, not regular French police.

  “Vigneau, or someone working for him,” Flagel said. “He must have realized what we are trying to do. Probably sent someone to follow me.”

  “Or the tracking device is itself bugged for counterespionage purposes,” Musson stated.

  “Get your weapons ready,” Bayard told them. “They are closing. I see weapons out.”

  “But we are men of the DCRI.” Musson turned to look out the rear windshield. “Surely they wouldn’t—”

  Whatever Musson thought they surely wouldn’t, it appeared their pursuers surely would, for the bullet that punched through the rear windshield continued on to bore a tunnel through Musson’s head. The exit wound sprayed the interior of the Mercedes with blood, splashing Bayard and Flagel, causing Flagel to lose control and overcompensate. The Mercedes crashed into a parked car, left a broad swath of paint alongside it and rammed a concrete post used for handbills. There were people on the street who screamed and scattered as the Mercedes crashed to a halt.

  Two of the cars continued past the accident site, but the third and last one stopped just short of the crash scene. Three men, whom Bayard recognized as DCRI operatives with whom Vigneau was close, climbed out of the car. They aimed their weapons at the Mercedes.

  “Go, Alfred!” Flagel shouted. “Get to the bazaar! Warn Cooper!”

  “I will not leave you here,” Bayard said.

  “I am not offering you that option.” His forehead was bloody from the crash. “You must find Cooper and see to it Vigneau is brought to justice.” He looked back at his former partner. “Musson’s murderers must not go free.”

  Bayard nodded. “I will do it. But—”

  “Go!” Flagel yelled. With his Browning Hi Power in one hand and his revolver in the other, he ran from the car, firing both weapons into the DCRI men who had killed Musson. The bullets from Flagel’s guns shattered the windshield of the pursuers’ vehicle and dropped at least one of the enemy gunmen.

  Bayard fled.

  He knew which direction he needed to go. The bazaar was directly ahead. Behind him, as he ducked and dodged through alleys and in between parked cars, past frightened shoppers and curious street people, away from pedestrians and commuters, he heard the sounds of a furious gun battle.

  Flagel, whom he had always dismissed as perhaps the lesser of the men with whom he had worked, had proven at the end to be an honorable man, a man who believed in justice. A man who was now selling his life dearly in order to preserve both Bayard’s life and Cooper’s chances.

  Vigneau’s corruption could not be allowed to stand. This was surely granting sanction to evil. The murder of Musson could not go unpunished. Vigneau would be made to face what he had done. Prison or death. Those were the only options fitting for such a man, a person who would sacrifice both the ideals of the rule of law and the lives of good men.

  He reached the outskirts of the bazaar. Cooper was here somewhere. The inspector prayed that the American had not already moved on, had not already left the area. Bayard h
ad to find Cooper and undo the damage already done.

  If anyone could help Bayard bring Vigneau to justice, it would be the American.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Mack Bolan made his way through the busy street bazaar. He was at the edge of one of the ethnic enclaves, which was why he had chosen this particular site. It would see traffic from both sides of the street, as the saying went. Customers from within the enclave and from outside of it would come here to meet certain specific consumer needs. It was in the sometimes-awkward mesh of legitimate and otherwise that the most opportunities for illicit goods were created.

  During their phone call Price had hinted that information would be forthcoming to his “corporate email.” What she was in fact referring to was a secure webmail site, the login credentials he knew by memory, that allowed the Farm to pass coded data. Early that morning when Paris’s shops and cafés had begun to open again, he had stopped at an internet café. He had checked the account and found a series of numbers. Each was a pairing of a two-digit letter-number combination, such as E3, J6.

  Knowing Stony Man’s protocols, Bolan had memorized the combinations and then found a shop that sold maps. He selected the most popular of the Paris street maps and discovered, to his lack of surprise, that it was divided into letter-number grid squares. Then he simply correlated the grid squares with the addresses he had learned the previous day, all of which were markets where, he hoped, he might find illegal goods for sale.

  The fact that the system worked at all was a little amazing, given how many different ways there were for something to go wrong, but the Farm and its personnel were firm believers in maintaining contingency plans. Bolan was, as well. He could not complain.

  Ultimately he had chosen this bazaar as much for its relative location as for its size. It was the largest of the possibilities and thus had the most potential. Now he made his way through tables that were set up on top of each other and in close proximity to one another. They were sheltered by tarps and tents and other awnings, to provide shade and as a hedge against rain. The result was a spotty maze full of shafts of sunlight and caverns of shadow, where space to walk was sometimes at a premium amid the crowd of fellow customers.

  A complete cross section of Paris’s citizens seemed to be represented by the shoppers here. He saw street people, dressed in worn clothing; he saw merchants at every point on the spectrum of affluence; he saw tourists and Paris locals alike, notable mostly because the tourists were obvious in the same way the locals were not. There were wealthy business people, too, dressed in designer suits and, in some cases, accompanied by burly giants who could only be private security.

  Strangely absent were any uniformed police officers.

  Some of the tents were so dark, so cut off from the sunlight without, that there were lanterns hanging inside. In one of them, connected to a row of smaller awnings with tables stacked end to end, Bolan found himself looking at an array of duffel bags and purpose-built packs.

  The old man behind the table was a Sikh— recognizable by his turban and wide bracelet. Bolan knew that it represented Sikh warrior culture. A chain around the man’s neck disappeared under his tunic, but very likely bore a ceremonial knife or knifelike pendant.

  The old man looked up at Bolan from where he sat at the table. He looked across his array of bags and shook his head sourly.

  “I’m sorry?” Bolan asked.

  “Not these,” the old man said. “These are for the tourists. You are not a tourist.”

  Bolan stared hard at him. “You know me?”

  “I do not know you, but I know what you are. I see it. I see it in the way you move. I see it in the way you watch these others.” He spread his hands to indicate the throngs at the market. “A wolf among sheep. Mine is a warrior people, American.”

  “How did—”

  “Your accent,” the Sikh replied. “A moment.” He bent and rummaged around under the table. When he came up again he had produced a heavy brown canvas musette bag. It had a long, wide shoulder strap.

  “I could use that,” Bolan said.

  “I know.” The old man pushed it across the table. Bolan peeled off some bills from his wad of cash and handed it to the man.

  “You are very generous. You wish to bargain? I could accept less.”

  “No,” Bolan said. “I’m satisfied.”

  “My people are a warrior people,” the old man told him. “We recognize our brothers. And we see a battle for what it is. Behind you and to your left, American. Fight well.”

  Bolan turned. He saw the group of hard cases moving through the stalls and pushing aside awning stakes as they walked. While they wore a variety of punk and civilian clothing, they all had a red bandanna tied around their biceps, their necks or on their heads. Gang colors, unmistakably.

  “They are called the Red Spiders,” the old man said. “A new gang, born of the remnants of the Suffering and the Red Death gangs, so I hear. I can see recognition in your eyes. These men are known to you.”

  “Suffering and the Red Death, yes,” Bolan said.

  The old man looked at him with what might have been renewed respect. Bolan wondered if the merchant suspected something. How connected was he with what went on in the enclaves...or the battles that Bolan had already fought there?

  “The Red Death became the Red Spiders,” the old man told him. “The new gang has subsumed the old, merged with Suffering, become once again a dominant force, if perhaps not as fearsome as either gang was before their recent difficulties.”

  “Difficulties,” Bolan repeated.

  “You look like a difficult man.” The old man smiled through crooked teeth. “And here, in this place, you have one advantage.”

  “What advantage is that?”

  “They will be reluctant to use guns. Many things are ignored in this place, to the benefit of all. Gunfire is one thing that cannot be ignored. Gunfire is bad for everyone. Gunfire brings the police, who begin looking where many would prefer they not.” He paused, still watching the activity beyond Bolan. His smile turned into a frown. “They are coming, American.”

  “I thank you,” Bolan said, pulling the empty musette bag over his shoulder and across his body and hurried away.

  He was reaping what he had sown on French soil, that much was true. It didn’t explain why the Red Spiders were here now, though, nor how they had known to target Bolan specifically. Had he walked past an unseen spotter, someone who had notified the gang to come looking? He was a big man and, despite his skills in blending in, identifiable enough if one knew what to search for. Something about this just didn’t feel right, though. He felt like he had crosshairs painted on his back, and he wanted to know why.

  He wondered briefly if some kind of satellite tracking, or a technology he was yet unfamiliar with, might be at play. That seemed unlikely. There had been no indication of that kind of hardware in use in the region. Could the DCRI be using a tracking web of some sort? That had greater promise. The simplest solution, however, was that he was carrying some kind of tracking device—

  His musings were cut short by the gang member who plunged from between two tables that were laden with rusty animal traps. Bolan managed to sidestep danger just as the gang member, who wore a red bandanna over long black dreadlocks, shoved a giant recurve-bladed folding knife through the air. The tip of the knife narrowly missed Bolan’s arm, cutting away a piece of his jacket.

  Bolan snatched a heavy animal trap from the table. The spring-loaded mechanism was as long as his forearm, designed to catch a fox or a wolf in its iron jaws. He smashed the trap across the gang member’s face. The crunch as the man’s cheekbone gave way was a sound Bolan had heard before.

  He smashed the man one more time before dropping the bloody trap and continuing on. The knife had fallen somewhere among the tables, and he could not see it. He passed a
table bearing a radial-arm saw and several blades. As the vendor shouted something at him, he tossed a wad of euros on the tabletop, snatched up the blades and then broke left, running between awnings.

  “There!” someone shouted in French. Bolan looked back to see more gang members, dressed in leathers and military castoffs. They could only be more Red Spiders; they wore red bandannas on their arms. One of the pair started to reach inside the load-bearing vest that he wore. His partner, who wore mismatched BDUs and a backward-facing baseball cap, stopped him. The man in the cap pulled a switchblade from his pocket and snapped it open.

  He took a step toward Bolan.

  The Executioner hurled a circular saw blade at him.

  It was a good throw—a powerful, vertical throw that allowed Bolan to use gravity and the fall of his arm to impart spin to the blade. The whirling disk’s teeth bit deep in the gang member’s face. He screamed and dropped his knife, clutching at his cheek and eye, as blood gushed from both. The saw blade had not stuck in him. It had instead rolled and fallen, leaving a flap of his scalp hanging, as it clattered on the ground beyond him.

  The man in the vest yanked a sturdy Glock combat field knife from his belt. Bolan didn’t give him time to close the distance. He hurled the remaining saw blades he held. None scored as decisive a blow as the strike he had managed against the other gang member, but Bolan’s enemy was forced to protect his face and took a pair of blades across the arm. Blood sprayed everywhere.

  Bolan continued ducking and dodging through the tables. He upended one accidentally, smashing several glass bottles. There was no one tending that stand. He crawled on hands and knees beneath another, sidestepped between two of the darker tents and found himself in a larger vendor tent that boasted a number of sporting goods. There was a collapsible minibilliards table, a pair of lacrosse sticks, a catcher’s mitt and soccer balls of every conceivable color and pattern.

  Two more Red Spiders hard cases were closing from the opposite end of the tent.

  Bolan reached into a bin full of billiard balls and began hurling the heavy spheres. He smacked the lead man in the face, causing him to hit the deck on his knees and grab at his bloody nose. The second man dodged a second ball, then a third, and Bolan switched to lacrosse. He grabbed the larger of the two sticks and, wielding it like a sword, leaped through the air and slashed at the second man’s head.