Firebase Seattle te-21

by Don Pendleton

  She noted the glint of despair in Bolan's eyes and cut herself off with a grimace.

  "Hey, I'm sorry. Really. I was just clowning. I'm really sorry. I didn't mean that. It really is a pretty tough deal, isn't it? I mean, your deal. You're a prisoner, too, aren't you? Of your own war."

  "It's pretty tough," Bolan admitted. "But I dealt the hand, Dianna. It's my game. Make no mistake about that. Don't start building romantic fantasies about what a poor, misunderstood soul I am. It's my game. And I play for keeps, too. It's my game."

  She shivered and reached for him.

  "It's mine, too — now," she whispered.

  8

  Domino

  It was raining as it can only in Seattle. A brooding nimbostratus lay over the entire coastal region, sending down a steady torrent which had not let up for two drenching hours. Bolan could have closed his eyes and imagined that he was back in 'Nam during monsoon — except for that clammy chill settling into his bones.

  A cape-style raincoat had kept him relatively dry from the shoulders down to just above the ankles — and the rain itself, heavy enough to substantially restrict visibility, provided pretty good cover for a surveillance mission. But that was about all the good that could be said of the situation. His feet were awash and the persistent moisture of nature's universal solvent had discovered pathways into the cape and down his neck.

  The time was two o'clock in the afternoon; the place, just outside the small suburban office building that housed the headquarters of Pacific Northwest Associates — Nyeburg's outfit.

  Bolan had been on station since noon, positioned for surveillance of both entrances to the building. PNA was the only occupant. Dianna Webb had sketched the interior layout for him; he knew the building as well, probably, as anyone who'd ever been in there. It was a small, squarish structure — single story. Built originally to serve as a branch bank, it sat off to the side of the parking lot for a large shopping center. A drive-up window remained in service — Dianna explaining that Nyeburg conducted "quite a bit" of business via that handy device.

  No "business" had been conducted there during the past two hours. Bolan had abandoned his vehicle — a rented Fairlane — ten minutes into the stakeout, electing to take the weather in exchange for a reliable surveillance.

  But nothing had moved in or out of that building for two hours, and Bolan was beginning to wonder. He stepped into a phone booth, fed in a dime, and called the cops.

  He got a switchboard operator. He asked her, "Do you have a public information officer on duty?"

  She asked him, "Who's calling, please?" "Peterson, United News." "One minute, sir."

  Bolan lit a soggy cigarette and marked twenty seconds by his watch before the operator returned. "Thank you for waiting, sir. The press liaison Captain Parris, will take the call. One moment, please." Two clicks later, Bolan was talking to his man. He said, "Afternoon, Captain. Just got off the plane from L.A. What's your principal resource up here? Water?"

  The guy chuckled. "You came in with the rains, Mr. Peterson. Sure you didn't bring it up with you?" "No way," Bolan replied cordially. "We need it all down there, to strain the smog. I brought a lot of excitement, though. We heard about your Executioner war. I drew the stick for combat correspondent."

  "You should have called ahead," the Captain said, still amiable. "Maybe I could have saved you a trip. Uh, uh, dammit — I realize I should know your whole name, but I talk to a lot of — "

  "Harry — Harry Peterson, United News Service."

  "Oh sure, sure — heard that name a lot, of course. All to your credit."

  That was nice. Bolan hadn't. He told the PLO, "I'll be coming right into town but thought I'd check into a hotel first if nothing really electrifying is happening at the moment."

  "Electrifying, no. Like I said, I could probably have saved you the trip. You and about a hundred more of your fellows who are presently pacing the corridors outside here right now."

  "You're saying there's no war?"

  "Well... it's not definite either way. That's what we're saying for quotes."

  "Why are you saying that? Word came out of here this morning early that — "

  "First and foremost, uh Harry, there has been but a single strike. That isn't like Bolan. I mean, it's been — what? Almost twelve hours? Usually by this time the guy would have the whole town reeling. Right? Well, nothing's reeling, Harry. Then, too — Seattle's a pretty clean town."

  Bolan laughed into the transmitter.

  "No, really. We've cleaned up the little embarrassments we had in the past. It was all penny-ante stuff, anyway. There's no substantial organized crime activity in the area. Not the sort of stuff to bring Bolan onto the scene."

  Bolan/Peterson chuckled and said, "You're sure of that, eh?"

  "As sure as anyone can ever be."

  "Well I'm interested in the Expo 74 angle."

  The guy sighed. "So's everybody else. Look, Harry, we'd appreciate it if you boys would play down that angle. They're having enough trouble getting this thing launched without having to combat an avalanche of rumors that — "

  "Sure, I understand. But there does seem to be a connection. If the mob isn't into it, who is? Who's smuggling the guns?"

  "We're investigating, uh — the federal boys, of course, that's their prime jurisdiction. We're more interested in — "

  "What about Nyeburg?"

  "Unfortunate, very unfortunate."

  "What is?" Bolan really wanted to know.

  "Nyeburg is a respected businessman in this state. We got our tit in a ringer over that damn press release this morning. Nyeburg is not involved in any way. Evidently someone knew that he was an Expo official, authorized to receive foreign exhibits. It made a good cover — but very unfortunate for Nyeburg. We're issuing a statement clearing him of any suspicion in the matter."

  "Sure you're not being premature again?"

  "Sure we're sure."

  "I'd wait if I were you."

  "Uh, look, Harry — I'm going overboard with all you people in the interests of, uh, factual reporting. My office is prepared to cooperate with the media in every way possible. But you can't do our work for us, you know."

  "I can try," Bolan replied. "I do think — "

  "Come on in, we'll split a gallon of coffee. You'll have plenty of company. I've got media people out the ass around here. Come on in."

  The voice went icy as Bolan told the genial captain, "Can't. I've got to go hit Nyeburg."

  "What?"

  "Well if you guys aren't, that leaves only me."

  "What? What are you — say! What the hell is this!"

  "This is Bolan. Sorry for the little masquerade, but I needed the poop. Don't release that statement on Nyeburg, it will bounce. The guy's guilty as sin. I'm going to take him. Stay loose, Captain."

  Bolan hung up to a dead silence, studied his fingertips thoughtfully for a brief moment, then stepped outside to rejoin the downpour.

  Even if the PLO should take it serious and alert the hard cops, he figured it would take a while to get a response going.

  He moved directly across the rainwashed parking lot, pausing halfway across to take note of the fact that it was largely deserted — due, perhaps, to the bad weather — formulating a quick plan to be played by ear with both fingers crossed all the way. He went on to the PNA office and stepped inside. It no longer looked like a banking substation in there. Interior modifications had resulted in a small reception room separated from an outer office by a low, wrought-iron railing. A leather couch and a couple of chairs were the chief decor; beyond the railing, two desks and a couple of file cabinets; beyond there, closed doors to a pair of inner offices; at the far end of the reception area, a rear exit.

  Two attractive young women, a blonde and a brunette — punching bags, probably, for a lecherous boss — were in a coffee klatch at the desks, snickering over something and obviously having a good time. Both looked up at Bolan's entrance but neither made a move toward greeting hi
m. The blonde glared distastefully at the moisture dripping from his cape, then turned away.

  He locked the door and turned the "closed" sign into position, then sloshed on to the railing and told the girls, "Okay, you're closed. Hurry!"

  Both women merely stared at him, faces blank.

  He opened the gate and held it for them. "Go on. Hurry. Didn't you get the flash? You got about thirty seconds to evacuate this joint."

  The blonde leapt to her feet and gasped, 'What?"

  "Methane gas escaping," Bolan explained. "Come on, we're clearing the whole area. Anybody else in here?"

  The blonde staggered bug-eyed toward her purse, stuttering and pointing toward the closed door behind her. The other girl was already moving toward that door. Bolan intercepted her and pulled her back. "Go on," he commanded. "I'll get them. Go out the back. Get in your cars and get moving. Head south."

  The women made a dash for the rear door.

  Bolan tried the door to the inner office and found it locked. He kicked it open and moved in quickly, the silent Beretta in hand and ready beneath the cape.

  Tommy Rotten sat at a small desk with a Penthouse magazine spread before him on the desk. Surprised eyes lifted to the imposing figure in the glistening cape. He yelped, "What is — ?" and cut it off there, his own gaze arrested by the death stare in those other, icy eyes. Recognition flared, then, and he groaned, "Oh Jesus!"

  "Where's Nyeburg?"

  "Jesus I don't know!"

  Bolan squeezed off a whispering round from beneath the cape. It plowed through the magazine at dead center between the youth's outspread hands and thwacked on into the wood beneath.

  The kid jumped a foot off the chair and the hands leapt skyward.

  "Honest I don't know!" he yelled. "Hey, I ain't armed!"

  "Nyeburg!" Bolan insisted.

  "He didn't come in! Didn't even call! I don't know nothing!"

  All the yelling brought someone who might know, though. She was a lady all the way, still quite lovely in a mature fashion, a senior edition of Dianna Webb as she stepped quietly in from the adjoining office. Cool eyes swept from the quaking youth to the tall man in the other doorway. The voice even sounded like Dianna's as she inquired, "What is going on here?"

  "I'm looking for your husband," Bolan replied, just as coolly.

  "He's out of town. Tommy, sit down."

  Bolan said, "He stands! Open that door all the way, Mrs. Nyeburg, and come on in here."

  Those cool eyes faltered a bit. She said, "I see," and did as she was told.

  Bolan stepped past her and took a quick look into the other office. A heavy vault occupied one entire wall — a holdover, perhaps, from branch banking.

  Bolan told the lady, "You'll have to open the vault."

  She replied, "What if I refuse? Will you shoot me?"

  He said, "No. But I might take another shot at the kid."

  "I'll open it. But you won't find Mr. Nyeburg in there."

  "Maybe I'll find his tracks, though," Bolan said, smiling despite himself. She was a cool lady. "Do it," he said, still smiling faintly.

  Tommy Rotten gasped, "Do it, please, Mrs. Nyeburg. This guy is Mack Bolan. The Executioner. You know. Do it, please!"

  Yes, she knew. She had already known. As she returned to the other office, she told Bolan, "The police sketches on television don't do you justice, Mr. Bolan. You look twice as mean, in person."

  He said, "Win some, lose some."

  Tommy Rotten was accorded a wag of the head. The boy moved quickly to follow the woman. Bolan stepped in behind them and closed the door.

  As Mrs. Nyeburg worked on the vault, Bolan worked on the boy.

  "Are you a made man, Tommy?"

  "No sir, not yet."

  "Who's your sponsor?"

  "Sir?"

  "Your connection — who's sponsoring you?"

  "Danny Trinity."

  "Too bad. You've lost a sponsor."

  "Yessir, I been wondering. I mean, I lost everybody."

  "Related?"

  "Sir?"

  "Were you related to Danny Trinity?"

  "Yessir, we're cousins."

  "Were."

  "Yessir. We were."

  "How old are you?"

  "Eighteen."

  "How long you been connected?"

  "Just, uh, since we come out here."

  "From the Bronx."

  "Yessir, from the Bronx and Staten Island. Hey, I never done nothing like this before."

  "What have you done?"

  "Sir? Nothing! I ain't done nothing! I just got outta school."

  "You should have stayed, Tommy."

  "Yessir."

  "You know Tony Vale?"

  "A little. He's Danny's boss."

  "Was. Danny's dead. Remember?"

  "Yessir."

  "You like the guy?"

  "Tony? No sir."

  "Feel like working for him some day?"

  "No sir."

  "You have a car here?"

  "Yessir. The Vega parked just outside."

  "Okay. Get in that Vega. Take off. Don't look back and don't come back. Next time I see you, Tommy, I'll take you. Don't let me see you again."

  "Yessir. I appreciate — I promise — you won't never see me again."

  "Before you go, tell the lady here all about it."

  "Sir?"

  "Tell the lady why you're here."

  The vault stood open. Mrs. Nyeburg had been staring at the youth with a perplexed frown. He looked toward her and his eyes fell. He stared at the floor and told her, "Mrs. Nyeburg, I been working for the organization — the mob, you know, the Mafia. We come out here on a special detail to back up your husband. He's mob, too."

  She said, coolly, "I see."

  Bolan said, "Okay, Tommy, take off. Use the back door."

  The boy left, eyes downcast.

  Bolan waited until he heard the click of the rear door, then he told the lady, "You married a rat, Mrs. Nyeburg."

  She merely sighed.

  "That boy who just walked out of here was holding a gun at your daughter's head a few hours ago. He was ready to shoot her. I believe he was authorized to do so. By your husband."

  That jarred the lady. The eyes flared then settled down again as she asked, "Do you know where she is now? I've been worried sick."

  Bolan told her, "I could trade with you — your daughter for your husband — but that would be dishonest. She's safe and well where she is. No thanks to good old Allan, though. I have good reason to believe that he has ordered her death."

  She really reacted to that one. Her legs must have suddenly gone weak. She sagged onto a desk and passed a hand across her brow. "I have been stupid," she whispered. "Stupid!"

  "You've suspected, haven't you?"

  "I've been wondering."

  "Time to stop wondering, Mrs. Nyeburg." Bolan moved to the vault and took a look inside. There wasn't much. A few stacks of official-looking papers, a couple of ledgers, a locked metal box. He scooped the whole works into a stack and asked the lady, "You want to come with me?"

  "Where?"

  "I'll take you to Dianna."

  She stood up, working at her emotions, cinching them in.

  Bolan put an arm about her shoulders and led her out.

  As he was draping a raincoat over her, she swiped away a tear and said, "Did I say 'mean,' Mr. Bolan? You don't look mean. You look beautiful."

  Sure. He was a beautiful bastard. Knocking over dominoes, and she simply happened to be at the head of the line. But there was, he reminded himself, no morality in a holy war. "Stay hard, Mrs. Nyeburg," he muttered.

  9

  Drums

  Bolan had to believe that the lady was leveling with him. She had neither seen nor heard from Allan Nyeburg since he "ran out of the house" at about six o'clock that morning. He had not told her where he was going or when she could expect him back.

  He'd made several phone calls earlier, from their bedroom, after being awakened by
a call which "did not last thirty seconds."

  Her husband had been very nervous and excited. One of his calls was long distance, direct-dialed; she could tell this by the long combination of digits. His voice during that conversation had been low, guarded, urgent. She understood none of it. That conversation lasted about five minutes. Then he made several local calls, all short, all very urgent in tone. Then he got out of bed, dressed hurriedly, and left without breakfast or even coffee.

  And, yes, she'd been worried.

  Dianna had been involved in some sort of intrigue with Allan's business for several weeks — all of which was very mysterious and quietly alarming for the mother. She had called Dianna's apartment at six thirty and every fifteen minutes thereafter until past eight o'clock. Then she'd gone to the office and awaited word. Tommy Rentino came in at ten o'clock, sheepish and taciturn — insisting that he'd seen neither Dianna nor Nyeburg since early the preceding evening. Tommy had been, she'd thought, a sort of messenger boy and special courier for her husband. Under close questioning by Mrs. Nyeburg, the boy had admitted that "something had gone sour" — but he could not or would not explain further.

  At eleven thirty, she turned on a small portable television in her office to catch the midday news — fearful and halfway expecting to hear something "grisly" concerning her husband's crisis. What she caught was a special program aired by the local affiliate, a repeat of a network news special of a few weeks earlier, chronicling the life and wars of one Mack Bolan — with local reportage of the events of the early morning hours in Seattle.

  Then she'd really become worried.

  She'd tried reaching both Nyeburg and her daughter by telephone at every conceivable location — drawing a blank, of course, each time.

  By the time Mack Bolan strode into her offices, she was seriously contemplating calling the police with a missing persons report.

  Bolan stopped off at a small variety store on the way to Richmond Beach and picked up a few items. A mile from the warwagon, he gave Margaret Nyeburg a pair of dark eyeshades and asked her to put them on, explaining simply that he did not wish her burdened with information she'd be better off without. She complied without complaint.