Executioner 057 - Flesh Wounds

by Don Pendleton

  "We talk now, senor," Newton said, and walked away.

  Bolan and April followed him. April snatched Bolan's shirt from the chair and tossed it to him as they walked.

  They marched briskly behind Newton. He strode to the far corner of the gym. Some old pieces of carpeting and torn punching bags were heaped in a pile. No one else was within listening range there.

  A row of grimy windows lined the back wall, each so dirty that the sunlight was just a white blur, like a snowy TV screen. Wedged into one of the windows was a battered portable Zenith air conditioner, too small to do any good in a room that size. Newton flicked on the switch and the machine rattled to life, vibrating so much the glass in the window threatened to break.

  "Goodey rents out the room in the back to the Church of Universal Being," Newton explained. "They missed a month's rent and he took their air conditioner from them. It's of no use to him, of course, but one appreciates the principle of the thing."

  "And it will make it harder for anyone to overhear our conversation," Bolan said.

  Newton shrugged. "Silver linings, my friend."

  "Byron York sent us," April said. "We know him from—"

  Newton held up his hands. "I do not want to know."

  "But will you help us?"

  "Yes."

  "Just like that?" Bolan asked.

  "Yes, just like that. You look unsure."

  "Let's just say wary."

  "I understand. So much in this world is not what it seems. People are not who they pretend to be. You might not believe that I was once a priest."

  April looked shocked, despite her reserve and her silence.

  "Yes. In my country, El Salvador. For years the clergy have been persecuted, bullied, threatened for talking out against the injustices of the Duarte government, and later Borjo. In 1981, thirteen thousand civilians were killed. The horrible became the unspeakable. An American priest managed to smuggle me out into your country. But when he went back to help others, they killed him, too." He paused, looked at the dirty windows. "His name was Father Frank Newton. I adopted his last name out of respect."

  "You're an excellent boxer," April said.

  "I am a fighter. I was always a fighter. I fought both the unholy government and the Communist invaders. El Salvador is for its people, not for bankers or Communists."

  "Between a rock and a hard place," Bolan nodded. "I guess you weren't very popular down there, guy."

  "Only with the people." Newton shrugged off the memory and smiled in resignation. "Here I fight in the ring and train young ones, keeping them away from the temptations of the street as best I can."

  Bolan looked him in the eyes. "And your work as a stationmaster?"

  "That, too, is my duty. My duty to those who wish to speak against their government freely, no matter what they have to say. That is why I do not want to know about your past, present, or future.

  I do not care what you believe, only that you have the freedom to say it. I have nothing against this government. The United States has been good to me. I know that even a country like this can decay into one like mine unless the freedom to disagree is sacred. I do here what Father Newton tried to do in my country. And I must take the same risks he did."

  "You are a strong man," April said.

  Newton smiled. "So is your friend here. He's brave for getting in the ring. Most men refuse. They I do not help, for they lack the courage of their beliefs. Your need must be great."

  "It is," Bolan said.

  They began walking toward the exit.

  "Where'd you get the name 'Gravity'?" April asked.

  "Something for the media to remember me by. Goodey's idea. He tells them, 'Newton helps his opponents discover gravity.' "

  Bolan rubbed his jaw. "I know what he means."

  Newton reached into the pocket of his sweat pants and handed Bolan a folded sheet of paper. "This is the information you seek."

  Bolan slipped it into his pocket without opening it. "Thanks."

  "Have a safe trip."

  "We hope so. We're trying to meet up with our friend, J.D. Dante."

  Newton spun and stared at Bolan with barely concealed horror. "He is your friend?"

  "Yeah. Can you tell us where we can catch up with him?"

  "I do not want to doubt your words, but it is difficult for me to believe you are friends with this man Dante."

  "Politics makes strange bedfellows," April explained.

  "Apparently. For you do not seem to be washed in the same blood as he. I cannot tell you anything he may have told me. I never reveal another's words. They are like confession to me. But I will leave you with this warning. Be careful of your friend. He has the fever. He burns to kill."

  "We'll remember," Bolan promised.

  7

  "You here for the series?" she asked.

  Bolan turned around, still holding the blue Voit swim fins. "Excuse me?"

  "The World Series. Most of my customers are regulars, but since I haven't seen the two of you before, I thought you might be here for the series. The town's always flooded with fans this time of year."

  "Yeah, but the World Series. . . ?"

  "Oh, no, no. Not the World Series," the young redhead laughed. "The Little League World Series. Williamsport, Pennsylvania. Home of the Little League World Series. It's our only claim to fame."

  "Right," Bolan nodded. "I remember now."

  She brushed a bright strand of hair from her face and smiled. A galaxy of freckles splashed across her nose and cheeks, enhancing her already lovely face. She stood in tight khaki shorts and a blue T-shirt that advertised the shop they were standing in: Davey Jones's Diving Locker. The shirt was two sizes too small for her.

  Bolan and April browsed through the diving shop, checking out the Conshelf 20 regulars and Osprey masks. April moved to the other side of the store. She read the label on a Seafarer wet suit. A young man with a wispy blond beard was ringing up a sale behind the other counter, bagging a pair of Speedo swimming goggles for a teenaged girl. There were no other customers in the store, nor any other salespeople.

  "You've got a lot of nice diving equipment," Bolan said to the girl in the T-shirt. "I wouldn't think there'd be many places to dive around here."

  "There's the Susquehanna River and a bunch of lakes scattered around. But most local divers belong to the Nautilus Club."

  "Nautilus?"

  "Yeah, like those exercise machines, only we've been around much longer than them. Everybody thinks we're a weight-lifting group."

  "Does the club take diving trips around the country, like to California?"

  "Sometimes. To the Bahamas, too."

  "Have any trips to California coming up soon?"

  "Maybe. Why do you ask?"

  "I may want to join your club. Me and my friend." He nodded toward April.

  The redhead looked confused. "I don't understand. You don't live around here, do you?" "Nope."

  "But you want to join our diving club?" "Temporary membership. Good for one trip. To California."

  "Why not just fly out alone?"

  "We like crowds."

  She shrugged. "Well, if you're serious, I can ask the boss. But it'll probably cost you more with the club, considering dues and stuff."

  "We're serious," Bolan said, staring into her eyes. "And we'll pay."

  She seemed to flush slightly under his gaze, then turned away. "I'll ask." She brushed aside a decorative fishing net that draped a doorway behind her, and she disappeared.

  April came to Bolan's side. "What's up?"

  "I made contact, I think."

  "This is the station?"

  "Could be. It's a good front, a diving club. People tend to notice the equipment, not the faces."

  The phone by the cash register buzzed. The skinny boy with the wispy beard stopped arranging the Sea Hawk diving knives long enough to answer it. "Hello? . . . Okay." He hung up and looked at Bolan and April with a bored expression. "You the couple interested in the Nau
tilus Club?"

  "Yeah."

  "You got a credit card?"

  "Cash," Bolan answered.

  "Let's go." The kid slipped around the fishing net and was gone.

  Bolan and April followed the blond boy through the doorway. On the other side were rows of industrial shelves stacked with diving supplies.

  The youth made a quick right turn around a shelf lined with black Aqua Lung air tanks. Bolan and April took the same turn seconds later.

  April gasped out loud as she and Bolan made a sudden stop.

  Standing in front of them was the redheaded salesgirl, the blond kid and a tall black man. They were all pointing spear guns.

  At April and Bolan.

  "One twitch," the redhead said, "and you're dead."

  8

  Larry "The Bleeder" Strohman carried the telephone through the kitchen and across the concrete patio to the edge of the pool. "Here's the phone you wanted, J.D."

  In the middle of the swimming pool, cradled in a floating deck chair, lounged J.D. Dante. A white sun visor was pulled low over his forehead and a too-sweet banana daiquiri was clutched in his right hand. In his left hand he pinched a half-smoked joint. He sucked a deep drag on the joint, held it for a few seconds, them grimaced as he let the smoke out of his mouth. "Where'd you get this shit, Bleeder?" he asked, flipping the joint into the pool. "Your dog get diarrhoea and you decided to dry it out and smoke it?"

  Bleeder shook his head vigorously. "N-no, J.D. It's local stuff. Guy I know rents a couple acres in the middle of some farmer's corn field."

  "Corn field?" Dante laughed cruelly. "I'm smoking a corn field? You're pathetic, Bleeder." Dante drained the rest of his banana daiquiri, then tossed the glass over his shoulder. It splashed into the water and sank. He shifted the Colt .45 M-1911 that rested on his chest, scratched his pale skin, idly shifted the gun back again. J.D. Dante was never without a weapon, usually three or four. He never ate, slept, went to the toilet, or made love without a weapon touching his body. Most who knew him suspected it was as much a personal preference as a necessity.

  "Well, don't just stand there, Bleeder. Bring the phone to me."

  Bleeder tugged the extra-long phone cord so it snaked across the patio. He walked around to the other side of the pool and reached the phone over the edge to Dante. Dante lifted up a lazy hand, but the phone was still several feet away. He snapped his fingers with annoyance. "C'mon, c'mon, fool, give it to me."

  "I can't reach you, J.D.," Bleeder said. "You'll have to paddle over here."

  Dante lifted his head. His eyes were blazing with anger. "I don't have to do anything, pig. I told you what I want, now do it!" Dante snatched up his .45 and pointed it at Bleeder's crotch. "Do it, worm."

  Bleeder walked around to the shallow end of the pool to the steps. He kicked off his imported Bally shoes and started walking into the pool, ignoring his expensive slacks and tailored shirt. He was used to this treatment. As a student at Columbia fifteen years earlier, he'd gotten his nickname because he came away bleeding from every student protest. Not because he had been clubbed by the cops like the others, but because his nose always started bleeding when he got excited. He became a joke among the radicals he hung out with, something of a mascot. But at least they let him hang around. They manipulated him, used his considerable inheritance to pay for signs, T-shirts, leaflets. But he knew it and it didn't bother him. He felt he belonged.

  As Bleeder sloshed through the waist-deep water, he held the telephone over his head, keeping the phone cord taut, afraid that if it touched the water he might be electrocuted.

  "Don't look so scared, Bleeder," Dante laughed. "There's not enough electricity in there to hurt you."

  "Sure; J.D.," Bleeder said nervously, "I know that."

  "Give it here." Dante yanked the phone from him and began punching in a secret number that only he and one other person knew. It rang twice before being answered.

  "Yes?" a foreign accented voice said.

  "It's me," Dante announced. "The line clear?" "Yes. But we would be wise to maintain some elementary precautions."

  "Your fancy lingo doesn't impress me, Zossimov. I know what I'm doing."

  "Of course you do," Zossimov replied, his voice conciliatory. "If I did not believe that, we would not be working together."

  "Don't jive me, pal. We're working together because we each get something from this horror show. You get some nifty publicity about the decadent West and social unrest that you'll milk in Pravda. And the Weather Underground comes into its own as a political power again. Only this time greater than ever."

  "I admire your confidence, my friend."

  "Confidence, shit! I just know what I'm doing. Everything in this business is timing. The economy's in the toilet, unemployment is terrible and getting worse, we're playing games with South America like we did in Vietnam, and our relations with your country make it seem like we'll be nuked any day now. This is the time for my group to rise again. What goes around, comes around, Zossimov."

  "Perhaps. In any event, I have procured the necessary supplies as per our previous discussion. Everything will be installed before your arrival in California. Do you have your itinerary set?"

  "So far. I'm hitting some of the major stations, whipping up some enthusiasm along the way. I want my people frothing by the time this thing goes down. Because what happens Sunday is only the beginning. After that day, the Weather Underground will pull a major revolutionary attack once a week. The bombs have already been built, the targets chosen. Public buildings mostly. Courthouses, police stations, schools—"

  "Schools?" Zossimov interrupted.

  "Yeah, schools. It's time the smug Ozzies and Harriets of this country had the revolution brought into their homes. Time they saw some blood while it's still fresh."

  "Efficient philosophy, indeed."

  "Yeah, you people should know." Dante felt his own pulse pounding, his voice rising in excitement. He made an effort to calm himself. It would not do for Zossimov to think him out of control. "So what kind of figures did you people come up with?"

  "Calculating the expected number of people gathered to be about four hundred thousand, combined with the strategic locations of the explosives and other items you mentioned—at least ten thousand injuries."

  "Good. Maimed and crippled people are constant reminders. I want injuries, not casualties."

  "My compliments to your planning. Very impressive."

  "You bet your ass, man. I've been planning it for years. And two days from now it begins. If you think those Iranians had this country by the balls, wait until you see some of the things I've got planned."

  "First things first, my friend," Zossimov reminded him. "And first we start with Sunday."

  "Right. See you in two days." Dante hung up the phone and handed it back to Bleeder, who waited in the pool in drenched clothes. "That Ruskie's a bigger asshole than you are, Bleeder."

  "I don't understand," Bleeder said. "I thought we were working with him.''

  "We're working for ourselves, guy. Remember that."

  Bleeder turned and waded out of the pool. He could feel the blood starting to trickle down the inside of his nose. A bad sign.

  FYODOR ZOSSIMOV HELD DOWN THE PLUNGER on the phone for a few seconds, listened for the dial tone, then punched in a number.

  He could hear the electronic chorus as elaborate coding systems kicked in, scrambling transmissions and receptions. He adjusted the portable digital scrambling device attached to his phone.

  Finally the connection was completed and a surly voice said only one word. "Speak."

  "Zossimov here. I have made contact."

  "And?"

  "He suspects nothing. Dante is a clever and dangerous man, but he's a predictable child. A fool. Everything will proceed according to plan. In two days the American people will witness the largest massacre ever to occur in their country. At least ten thousand dead. Another thirty thousand injured. The injuries will be particularly severe. The i
njured will be permanently disfigured."

  "Excellent, Zossimov. This will be your most glorious success yet."

  "Thank you, sir," Zossimov said with humility in his voice, relieved that his superior could not see the grin on his face. Zossimov had already entered into secret negotiations with his superior's boss. When this project was completed, Zossimov would be promoted into the position of the man he was now talking to. His superior would then be transferred to an unpleasant post somewhere out of sight. Zossimov didn't care where. "Your opinion means so much to me, sir," he said.

  "Thank you, Zossimov. You have always been my most successful agent. My favorite. But this time you have achieved a true place for yourself."

  Yes, Zossimov thought. Your place.

  "Good hunting, Zossimov," his superior said. "Do svidania."

  "Do svidania," Zossimov replied and hung up. He pushed the phone away and rocked back in his TraveLodge motel chair. In two days it would start. And enough blood would flow to wash him into his own office at 2 Dzerzhinsky Square, KGB headquarters. No longer would he just be one of its 700,000 faceless agents. He would be special.

  In two days.

  When the dead and disfigured would start to be counted.

  9

  "Can you think of one reason," the redhead frowned, her Mares Sharpshooter spear gun gripped tightly in both hands, "why we shouldn't shish kebab you right now?"

  Bolan edged slightly in front of April, protecting her body with his own while making it look as if he was just shifting nervously. He eyeballed each of them, measuring and sizing them the way an undertaker can glance at a corpse and guess its height and weight.

  The skinny blond boy held his spear gun too tightly; his fingers were sweating unnaturally.

  The redhead was doing the talking, calmly poised between the two men, her shapely freckled legs apart for balance, her hands steady on the spear gun, her eyes nailed to Bolan's. She looked like she knew how to handle herself. She looked like she had pulled triggers before.