Vendetta in Venice

by Don Pendleton

  Annotation

  Mack Bolan's probe into a secret European escape network uncovers a much more sinister scheme: the Mafia plans to take over the operation and extend its pipeline of corruption across the globe.

  Posing as an escaped convict anxious to bury his freedom, Bolan infiltrates the network and embarks on a bloody chase across Europe.

  But in order to blow the international conspiracy wide open, the Executioner first has to neutralize the man at the top — with nothing but a stainless steel avenger between himself and oblivion.

  * * *

  Don Pendleton's Executioner

  The Mack Bolan Legend

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  Don Pendleton's Executioner

  Mack Bolan

  Vendetta in Venice

  In Venice... their best conscience

  Is not to leave 't undone, but keep 't unknown.

  William Shakespeare

  Ruffians, pitiless as proud,

  Heaven awards the vengeance due;

  Empire is on us bestowed,

  Shame and ruin wait for you.

  William Cowper

  Sometimes the awards and the repayment are a little slow in coming. I'm always ready to help accelerate the payoff.

  Mack Bolan

  Special thanks and acknowledgment to Peter Leslie for his contribution to this work.

  The Mack Bolan Legend

  Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

  But this soldier also wore another name — Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

  Mack Bolan's second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family; victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

  He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society's every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior — to no avail.

  So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies — Able Team and Phoenix Force — waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

  But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

  Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an "arm's-length" alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.

  1

  An early fall afternoon with the lowering sky east of Amsterdam full of rain — maybe it was a crazy time to take a long walk. But the American with the bulky body and the tired face wanted to get away from the other members of the conference.

  Why did he want to walk? Because he had a problem.

  He had to make an official speech the next day. Because Uncle Sam's voice was the strongest it was also expected to be the wisest, the most positive. The speech had to be damn good, plus it had to be as convincing as hell. He would be speaking to fifty law-enforcement chiefs from all over the world. The question before them: the spread of terrorism and how best to combat it.

  The speechmaker's name was Hal Brognola, and his problem was that he had no answer to the question. It was tough, finding a tactic that would discourage religious fanatics brainwashed to believe it was an honor to die for some madman's cause; useless to threaten punishment when the assassins were happy to transform themselves into human bombs; pointless appealing to the finer feelings of the scum prepared to gun down innocent women and children in the hope of media coverage quoting the name of a manic revolutionary cell.

  The terrorists, whatever their political or religious color, didn't play by society's rules; for them there were no innocents; for them the whole world was guilty. Faced with a dangerous increase in terrorist activity, Brognola's briefing, effectively, was to stall.

  "We got think tanks working on this in every state in the Union," the man in the Oval office had told him. "Military men, shrinks, infiltration experts, guerrillas, you name it. Every day I hope someone will come up with a foolproof system to smash these bastards, to outsmart them. Until then you've got to play it close to the vest. So you cozy these guys along, Hal. But make it sound like we're close to a solution."

  Oh, sure, Brognola had thought. Keep everyone happy. Hell, that kind of talk was for diplomats. So what the hell was he supposed to do?

  Whatever it was, it cried out for thought — and space to think, away from the hearty backslaps of the other lawmen. Brognola had already made the tour of the Amsterdam canals. He had been to Delft, to Leiden, to Arnhem. He had visited the radio station at Hilversum and the Philips electronic empire in Nijmegen. Today, he figured, it was time to give the countryside a whirl.

  The huge area of reclaimed land filling in the lower half of what had once been the Zuider Zee seemed made to order for a man who wanted to let his thoughts wander. Between the fiat earth and the sullen sky there wasn't a damned thing to distract a man's attention.

  Brognola took a bus to Harderwijk, then crossed the Nuldernauw to the island of East Flevoland. Won back from the sea just before World War II, the place lay featureless beneath the hurrying clouds. He walked along a road perched on top of a dike. On one side there were inundated fields; on the other, the cold gray waters of the Ijsseimeer stretched away to the cranes, smokestacks and mellowed brick facades of the Amsterdam waterfront.

  The Fed walked for five or six miles, turning over in his mind the different options open to a man who had to make a speech full of evasions that nevertheless appeared to say something. The sun broke through the cloud cover, momentarily silvering the waters of the inland sea. Minutes later it withdrew behind a darker, more menacing cloud bank blowing up from the west.

  Brognola hesitated. He scanned the sky, and his bloodhound face creased into an expression of irritation. He had intended to continue another seven or eight miles to the new village of Lelystad, hoping to find a cab there that would take him to Kampen, back on the mainland, and then Zwolle — from where he could take a bus back to the city. But it was getting more and more overcast, and it was cold. He hadn't brought a raincoat, and it sure as hell looked as if it were going to rain. Also, a sudden ache in his belly told him he needed food.

  Abruptly he turned around and retraced his steps. Hell, he would go back the way he had come; it would be quicker in the long run, he would eat sooner and, if he was lucky, maybe he would find a shortcut and avoid following the curve of the coast the way he had come.

  The island was crisscrossed by dikes. Soon he found one leading inland in the direction he wanted and left the road.

  He had been striding along the waterlogged pathway surmounting the dike for less than fifteen minutes when there was a low murmur of wind, stirring the grasses at his feet. A squall of fine rain blew past him like a cloud of smoke. Soon a persistent drizzle was falling from the leaden sky. It rolled up behind him from th
e west, dewing the shoulders of his jacket, soaking his pants behind the knees and trickling down his neck. Amsterdam had vanished in the mist, and the ripples flowing across the Ijsseimeer were breaking into tumbles of gray foam.

  Below the dike, the green of the drenched polder was almost indecently bright beneath the dull sky. Farther away, plowed fields were awash, the ridges only just surfacing above the water in the furrows. A long way to the south the domed tower of a church rose above the flatlands, but otherwise there was no sign of life. Not even a windmill, Brognola reflected bitterly, forgetting it was the emptiness of the island that had attracted him in the first place.

  When he came at last to the strip of water that separated East Flevoland from the mainland, he found to his disgust that he had screwed up: he was nowhere near the bridge, and there wasn't a causeway or a ferry slip to be seen. Fuming, Brognola hunched deeper down inside the wet collar of his jacket and squelched along the waterlogged grass at the canal edge.

  Before long he rounded a stand of willow and found himself a few yards away from a boatman sitting inside a crude wooden shelter. At his feet, a flat-bottomed dory rode the rain-pitted swell lapping at the sandy bank. The Fed looked over the channel. It was maybe three hundred yards across. Beyond a belt of trees on the far side he could see the roofs of a village and the wet gleam of passing traffic on a road. From over there, surely, he could get a cab to take him back to Amsterdam.

  Brognola knew no Dutch. "Hello, there," he called in German as he approached the boatman. "I'm afraid I've lost my way. Could you take me across?"

  "Took your time, didn't you," the boatman grunted, rising to his feet. He was a tall man, rawboned and craggy.

  Brognola was distracted; he was thinking of food. There's not a single sign pointing the way to the bridge," he said absently. "What?.. What's that?"

  "Right, then," the man cut in, ignoring the question. "In you get, and we'll be on our way. I been sitting around long enough in this damned rain." He stretched out one foot and drew the dory to the bank. Brognola stepped in and sat down on a sodden thwart as the man poled them out into midstream with long, powerful strokes. For a while he watched the two identical lines of low-lying land, one receding, the other approaching. Then, feeling a little guilty, because after all the boatman didn't have to help him out, he tried to make conversation.

  "It's very kind of you," he began. "But I guess you don't get too many people asking for a ride at this time of year."

  The boatman grunted again.

  "Lucky for me you happened to be there," Brognola pursued. "You're a fisherman by trade, I guess?" He looked expectantly at his pilot.

  "Best not to talk," the boatman replied. "The less anyone knows about anyone else the better, eh?"

  Brognola shrugged. He stared for a while at the gray water sliding past the stern. Judging from the wet mark on the pole, it couldn't be more than four or five feet deep.

  When they were three-quarters of the way across, the boatman stopped poling and let the craft drift to a standstill. "Maybe we better settle up now," he suggested dourly. "No point hanging in there by the bank, is there? That's all very well for Jaap, on the other side of the island, where there's nobody to see, but we have to be more careful. Anyway, I guess you'll want to be off quick as you can. Your kind always does."

  "Why... why sure," Brognola said, reaching for his wallet. "How much do I owe you?"

  He wasn't really paying attention. He was cold, he was wet and he was miserable. The ache in his belly clamored for attention. All he could think of was making it back to his hotel — and a large, hot meal.

  The boatman had moved forward, rocking the dory. "One hundred fifty guilders," he said curtly, balancing the pole across the width of the boat and holding out one hand.

  Maybe, the Fed thought, as he counted out bills into the callused palm, he would be able to locate one of the city's Indonesian restaurants that opened early for dinner. A selection from the famous rijstafel would just about score ten out of ten. Twenty and twenty made forty, and five was forty-five, and another ten made fifty-five — "One hundred fifty guilders!" he shouted suddenly, his hand in midair. "But that's almost fifty dollars!"

  The boatman stared at him impassively. He said nothing.

  "Fifty dollars? For crossing less than a quarter mile of calm water? You must be out of your mind!"

  "One hundred fifty guilders. That's the price."

  "But that's outrageous! I absolutely refuse. I..."

  "Look, the fare is paid," the man said strangely. "This is extra for me. For waiting. For the weather. For whatever you like. But you either hand me the money or I tip you into the water." He rocked the frail craft from side to side threateningly. "You pay your money or I make the choice," he added with a crooked grin.

  Brognola was speechless with rage. "Blackmail!" he managed to choke out at last. "An outrage! I never..."

  "Keep quiet. If the cash is so important to you, you should have made sure Jaap got you here earlier. You had the whole day, for God's sake. You think I enjoyed sitting around here for eight hours? Come on now — decide."

  The Fed was so angry he could hardly think straight. God knew what all this meant. What the hell had this extortion to do with Jaap, whoever he was? Just the same, the boatman was a very big guy, and he had already parted with one-third of the money. Also, even if he demanded to be taken back to the island, he would literally be back where he started... and fifty-five florins poorer. And with no means of crossing the water.

  He glanced at the oily surface — the water looked extremely cold — and shuddered. Scowling, he counted out the rest of the money.

  "There! That's better!" The boatman was suddenly almost affable. He stuffed the notes into his hip pocket, took up the pole and began punting the craft rapidly toward the bank.

  "Will I be able to get a car?" Brognola growled a few minutes later. "I'm in a hurry, otherwise I wouldn't have paid your goddamn price. And I want to go back..."

  "Relax," the big man interrupted. "Of course you'll get a car. It's all taken care of. Just stop beefing, okay?"

  The Fed shrugged and fell silent. A final thrust of the pole sent them gliding toward a narrow creek that penetrated a clump of alders at the water's edge. Soundlessly they slid in beneath the branches.

  "You'll have to lend a hand," Brognola snapped. "There's a bank here, and it's too steep and too wet and slippery to climb unaided."

  "I told you not to worry," the boatman said. As he spoke, arms reached down through the screen of leaves and hauled Brognola up and out of the dory. A few scrambling steps later, he was panting on top of the bank, staring at two men in soft hats and heavy, belted overcoats.

  "Come on if you want the car," the taller man murmured. "It has already attracted enough attention as it is." He took the Fed's arm and drew him through the bushes toward a footpath that skirted a field.

  "Yeah, but I didn't..." Brognola looked over his shoulder. The dory was already back in the open water, the figure of the boatman blurred by the clouds of drizzle gusting in from the island.

  "Best not to talk," the shorter man said.

  Ten minutes later they emerged from a stand of trees to find themselves at the edge of a country road. At the far side, a huge Minerva taxi stood in a parking bay half hidden by a pile of stones. Brognola's eyebrows rose. Minerva's Brussels factory had ceased production before World War II.

  The short man looked each way and then beckoned them across the blacktop. He leaned in the driver's window and spoke to a chauffeur in a peaked cap while his companion jerked open a rear door and ushered the Fed inside. He sank onto the stained Bedford cord upholstery with a sigh of relief.

  Before he could say anything, the door was slammed, the engine grumbled to life and the car surged forward onto the road.

  Brognola twisted around to look out the small oval rear window. The two men, dwindling now in the approaching dusk, were standing by the roadside, each with a hand raised to the brim of his hat. He sh
rugged his shoulders again and settled himself well back on the seat. Perhaps the exorbitant ferry fee included conducting him to a cab. Yet nobody could have known he was coming; it was clearly no regular ferry. In which case — why way there a cab and guides to take him to it?

  Brognola was toying with the obvious explanation — mistaken identity — when he realized he had given the driver no instructions. Would the guy go automatically to Amsterdam, because there was no civilized place in the other direction? Or had he himself told the ferryman where he wanted to go? He couldn't remember.

  Unable to picture the map details mentally, he stared through the raindrops pockmarking the windows. They were rattling along a narrow cobbled road that ran beside a canal. On either side yellowing leaves drooped from the branches of dripping trees. Soon they passed a wooden bridge spanning the canal. There was a signpost on one side of the timber superstructure: Harderwijk, Amsterdam, Ermelo, Elburg, Oldebroek... and, on the post pointing across the canal, Nunspeet.

  He exclaimed in annoyance. The Amsterdam indicator was pointing back the way they had come. What the hell was going on? He leaned forward to slide aside the glass partition separating him from the driver. It refused to move. Cursing, he tried again, harder. Zero. He rapped on the glass, but the solid set of the chauffeur's head remained unchanged: the peaked cap didn't turn by as much as a hairbreadth.

  Brognola began to feel alarmed. Maybe the setup was for him. Could it be some kind of trap? A terrorist kidnap plot to prevent him from making his speech tomorrow? No way: he hadn't decided yet just what he was going to say.

  A ransom demand, then? He recalled stories of doors that wouldn't open from the inside, of toxic gas pumped into the back seat through a speaking tube. He stared around the huge, shabby limo. There was a speaking tube, hooked to the armrest on the left-hand side...

  Panicking, he grabbed the tarnished door handle and jerked. There was an icy blast of wind as the heavy door flew open, letting in the rumble of the Minerva's suspension, the oily hiss of tires on the wet road. Feeling rather foolish, Brognola leaned out into the spray thrown up by the wheels and dragged the door shut.