Sold for Slaughter

by Don Pendleton

  One more rung on the ladder.

  And phase one of Bolan's strategy, infiltration, had already been accomplished. Bolan had a foothold in Algiers.

  The second phase, identification of the enemy, was in the works. Rani was his key to picking out the players, lining up his targets for the strike.

  Finally, when that had been achieved, he would be ready for the third and final phase.

  Execution.

  It was the reason for his presence in Algiers, the bottom line in Bolan's fight against terrorism.

  There was no compromise with evil, with the cannibals. A savvy warrior answered terrorism in the universal language. Fire against fire. Gun against gun.

  And the Executioner was fluent in that language. No interpreters were needed, no translation necessary. It was all a matter of determining who got the final word.

  He was ready, waiting, when the Citroën sedan emerged from the alley next to Rani's Club Grandee. He glimpsed the Arab's profile in the back seat, caught the look of consternation on his face before the chauffeur turned the car away from him and merged with other traffic.

  Bolan gave his prey the lead, counting to ten before he put the Audi into motion. Cars were not uncommon in the Casbah, but even so, discretion was the better part of valor. He could ill afford to spook the Arab, lose him in the twisting maze of streets and watch his only lead evaporate. His hopes were riding in the Citroën, and if he lost it now —

  Bolan put the germ of doubt and grim defeatism out of his mind. He would stick with Rani, keep the Citroën in sight because he had to. For the mission, for Smiley and for himself.

  Smiley Dublin was sequestered in a local safehouse, procured by Stony Man Farm. She was protected, but chafing at the bit and aching for an active role. Bolan knew the feeling and understood her restlessness, but there were still foundations to be laid. He was not committing Smiley — or himself — to anything before a working strategy was formulated.

  It was time for groundwork now. Smiley would have to live with her impatience for a while.

  Bolan was on the hunt.

  8

  Algiers is a city with many faces: seat of government and teeming slum; commercial center and focus of a nation's intellectual life. Here the rich and powerful exist in close proximity to hopeless thousands; they occupy the city's space together, but they do not touch.

  The heart of old Algiers is in the Casbah, an ancient labyrinth of narrow, twisting streets. It is a shopper's paradise... and haven for the city's underworld, a haven for scum. From the old fortress, drivers and pedestrians may zigzag downward past the old patriarchal houses, homing on the Cemetery of the Princesses, the Mosque of Sidi-Abderahmane and the Grand Mosque. Detached from the maze are the more serene and up-to-date surroundings of the Admiralty. From here, the Barbary pirates launched their raids in bygone days, a distant memory now. To eastward lies a fishing port, the markets at the Pecherie and, higher up, commanding all the city from its regal overlook is the Mustafa Superieur, complete, with former summer palace of the governor and two museums. Beyond the city proper, the Bay of Algiers is lined with scenic beaches, fishing villages and stylish resorts that feature fine hotels and water sports, luxury cafes and grand casinos. At the far end of the bay is Sidi Fredj, a spacious holiday resort.

  Rani al-Haj had spent a lifetime in Algiers without attaining any power or respect. The stocky Arab meant to change all that, and soon. He had an angle now, a new approach and new associates who offered something better. He had learned from them, was learning still, devouring the lessons they discarded casually, unthinkingly. He would dominate them all, in time. Provided he could anticipate the dangers, deal with unexpected problems swiftly and decisively. Provided he did not fumble now, with every eye upon him.

  If he lost it now, the dream would turn to ashes. If LaMancha spoke the truth about a looming war, it would require tenacity, intelligence and courage to survive.

  Rani hoped that he was equal to the challenge.

  The Citroën bore him up and into el-Biar, a fashionable suburb west of old Algiers, halfway up the sloping Sahel hills. Below, if he had cared to look, the high-rise buildings of the capital were plainly visible, but Rani's eyes were blind to his immediate surroundings. He would have to have some answers ready for Armand, but at the moment Rani was not even certain of the questions.

  Slowing, the driver brought him to the gateway of an elegant estate. Inside the fence, a uniformed attendant with a pistol on his hip was with them instantly, checking the car and occupants before keying the gate's locking mechanism. The Citroën passed through, proceeding along the curving drive.

  The house was huge, palatial. Once a private hideaway for foreign diplomats before the revolution, it had passed to other hands of late, but it was still a seat of power — hidden now, covert.

  Rani saw the others had arrived ahead of him. He recognized the countess's sleek Mercedes parked behind Mustaffa's cream-colored Rolls. He experienced a sinking feeling in his stomach as his driver found a spot beside the Mercedes and killed the engine.

  They would all be waiting for him, hungry eyes and stabbing questions, all demanding information, reassurance that the status quo could be preserved. Another moment and he would be in the dock, a witness at the inquisition.

  He left the Citroën, walked up the marble steps, and by the time he reached the double oak doors, a butler was holding them open for him. He was ushered through an entryway connected to a casual dining room the size of a tennis court. The northern wall was made of glass, with sliding doors that opened on a broad veranda.

  The vultures were arranged around an oblong table, waiting for him as he joined them on the patio. Silk-suited flankers, obviously armed, were stationed all around the terrace, scanning the terrain below the house. Rani wondered whether they were there to keep him in or to keep intruders out. No one brought a chair for the Arab, and he stood before the table examining the trio who controlled his fate.

  On his left, the countess, Ilse Brunow, watched him with a trace of dark amusement in her eyes. She was enjoying his predicament, and Rani knew that she would be no help to him, whatever happened. They had been associates for longer than he cared to remember, and Rani owed much of his present status to her backing. But she would sacrifice him willingly with pleasure if it came to that.

  To his right, the Saudi, Mustaffa Assad, was watching Rani through the mirrored lenses of his aviator's glasses. If Assad was feeling anything at all, he hid it well, his face as impassive as a slab of beef.

  In front of Rani, like a buffer placed between Mustaffa and the countess, sat Armand Dusault. Urbane, sophisticated, he would be the one to watch. The bare suggestion of a scowl that played across his face was frightening, indicative of anger that could reach a lethal flash point without warning. This man was Death, and when he spoke, his voice was like the rustle of a midnight breeze across an unkempt grave.

  "So, Rani."

  And he waited, letting Rani stand in front of him, perspiring in the sun. In another moment, when the Arab lingered on in awkward silence, he continued.

  "I have confirmation from our colleagues in America. Both DeLuccia and Battaglia are out of business. Permanently."

  Rani swallowed hard. "I understand."

  "You do? Perhaps you could explain it to the rest of us."

  The Arab stiffened, recognizing the trap too late. "As I told you, this LaMancha spoke of trouble in America. A war?"

  "Of course," Armand replied. "And who are the combatants, Rani? The Mafia, perhaps? DeLuccia and Battaglia were the Mafia."

  "The families fight among themselves, Armand."

  "Naturally," Armand said with a mocking smile. "But I have spoken with a member of the ruling council, La Commissióne, and he assures me that our late associates were well-respected men of honor. Non, Rani, this is not a war of brothers."

  Rani could think of no reply, but the countess spared him momentarily. "Perhaps the competition," she suggested.

 
; Armand raised an eyebrow, half turned to face her. "Please elaborate."

  Her shrug was graceful, almost sensual.

  "The United States is an ethnic mosaic, darling. Blacks and Latins, Haitians and Orientals — all hungry for the good life they see on television. They have infiltrated every walk of life, Armand. Your mafiosi can't control them anymore."

  Dusault was nodding thoughtfully. "There is truth in what you say, but my contacts in America would surely be aware of any such assault by outside forces. They have no motive for deceiving us."

  "The motive may not be apparent," she replied.

  Mustaffa cleared his throat, a rumbling interjection that demanded their attention. "There is another possibility," he said. "We must not overlook political considerations."

  Both the countess and Armand appeared confused. The sheikh explained himself. "There are radicals — guerrillas — in America and elsewhere, who crave attention, notoriety. Some of them would gladly risk their lives for — what do you say — a piece of the action.''

  "Possibly," Armand said. But he was not convinced.

  Mustaffa frowned and folded hands across his ample stomach. "Then again, there is the government itself," he added.

  Armand's frown was carving furrows in his face. "Explain."

  The Saudi sipped his ice water, taking his time. "Every government has agencies designed to handle special situations. Propaganda and intelligence, assassination..."

  Armand released a weary sigh and shook his head. "Improbable," he answered. "Americans assassinate reformers and their favorite presidents. The criminal enjoys a high degree of constitutional protection; he is pampered, often elevated to the status of a folk hero."

  "Who, then?" Mustaffa asked.

  "Who, indeed." The Corsican was facing Rani, full attention again focused on the little Arab. "This LaMancha may be able to enlighten us. You will arrange the meeting he desires-tonight, at Club Grandee. If he cannot explain himself..."

  Armand did not complete the sentence, but he left no doubt about his meaning or intentions. Frank LaMancha would explain himself, or he would never leave Algiers alive.

  Dusault was watching Ram, gray eyes boring into him, laying bare his soul. Rani felt as if he was an item on the luncheon menu. Cannibals were gathering for the feast, and suddenly he needed to be out of there, to put some ground between himself and his superiors.

  "A drink before you go?" The tone and Armanďs expression told Rani not to accept the offer.

  "No," he answered. "Thank you, but I have to make some calls."

  "Of course. Phillipe will see you out."

  At a gesture from Dusault, the nearest guard started toward them, lumbering across the patio. Rani was observing him peripherally, alert but unprepared for what happened.

  Phillipe was ten feet away when he appeared to stumble, losing his balance. Simultaneously, the gunner's skull exploded like a melon with a firecracker inside, flesh and bone and brains erupting in a liquid halo. The headless body seem to float with arms outstretched, a ghastly human butterfly, impacting in the center of Armand's veranda table.

  Glasses toppled, smashing on the flagstones, liquor mingling with the oily slick of blood. A spray of blood caught the countess, dark droplets soaking through her silken caftan. Mustaffa and Armand were scrambling from their seats.

  Rani was still gaping at the body when a second gunner on his right was shot down. The soldier tried to shout, but the only sound that issued from his throat was that of wind and liquid rushing through a ragged hole the size of Rani's fist. The light of life had flickered out behind the hardman's eyes before his legs began to buckle. He flopped backward like a leaking bag of grain.

  And Rani heard the gunfire. The first reports were rolling in on top of one another like a distant thunder. Survivors of the palace guard were pulling back to cover their employer and his guests, remove them from the line of fire. Rani broke his momentary trance; he was racing for the house and sanctuary when the next rounds started sizzling in.

  A pair of soldiers had Armand between them, hustling him across the patio when death overtook them. On the left, a flanker lost his stride and half his face, a frothy geyser splattering Dusault. The Corsican was still recoiling when he lost the other escort to a second thundering round. The dying trooper lurched across his path and Armand stumbled over him, collapsing on his hands and knees amid the human rubble.

  Rani reached the sliding doors and threw himself headlong into the dining room. Scrambling along the floor in search of cover, he could not escape the grim kaleidoscope of violence just beyond the threshold. Armand was struggling to his feet, Mustaffa and the countess were clutching each other helplessly behind the meager shield provided by the upturned table. All around them, soldiers scrambled, dodged and died.

  The Arab pressed his face against the floor, locking arms above his head to block the tolling thunder. Rani aged a dozen years in as many seconds, offering a string of desperate prayers. When the firing finally ended, it took another moment for his mind to register the silence.

  Rough hands seized him by the collar, jerked him to his knees. A twisted, bloody face was glaring at him, inches from his own, and Rani scarcely recognized the dapper Corsican beneath his dripping war paint.

  Dusault was shouting at him, shaking him. Rani had to concentrate on his words in order to make sense of them.

  "This is your doing. You have brought this curse upon my house." Armand was trembling. "I want this LaMancha, do you hear me? Do you understand?"

  The violent trembling became a part of Rani. He tried to answer, but his tongue refused to function. He nodded frantically, a spastic signal of assent.

  He understood the Corsican, of course, and recognized the blood lust in his eyes. Armand had been insulted, challenged, and he would exact a chilling retribution. Rani could produce LaMancha... or he would die.

  A natural survivor, Rani saw his options and made the only logical decision.

  He would sacrifice the tall American.

  He would survive.

  9

  Early in his military tour, Mack Bolan learned the benefits and nuances of mental warfare. He had trained himself to penetrate the hostile mind as well as enemy defenses, turning the mind against its owner as a lethal weapon. Frightened enemies were careless, sloppy; they made mistakes, and those mistakes were often fatal.

  A soldier who could start out rattling his adversaries entered battle with a firm advantage, and the Phoenix warrior was an expert rattler.

  He had done some rattling that very afternoon in el-Biar. A probing strike, designed to get the enemy's attention, let him have a taste of hell. It was an appetizer before the bloody entrée.

  Rani was his stalking horse, a human key to open the slavers' circle. He had taken Bolan one step farther up the ladder, brought him into striking range. Bolan could have taken out his contacts, picked them off of the veranda with his Weatherby .460, but caution stayed his hand.

  The Executioner was shooting for annihilation in Algiers, with all the players present and accounted for. He had to know no one had been overlooked.

  And so he had studied Rani's contacts, scrutinizing them through the rifle's twenty-power scope. From half a mile away he watched them sipping drinks. He could have hit them then, but he opted for a calculated miss.

  The soldiers were expendable, but in dying they would get his point across. Ranking slavers would react out of necessity, and thus expose themselves. The second phase of Bolan's strategy — identification — would be accomplished.

  When the enemy responded to his probe, the Executioner intended to be ready, waiting. He was on the move before the echoes of his gunfire died away in el-Biar, preparing to absorb the counterthrust and turn it back on his adversaries.

  They would be expecting Frank LaMancha, mafioso. What they would find would be a slice of hell.

  Bolan knew time was of the essence as he entered his hotel on rue de la Révolution. The Orient had been a looker once, but tim
es and fashions changed. Tired facilities and sluggish service sent the tourists off in search of other lodgings, and the hostelry was fading fast.

  It was ideal for Bolan's purposes.

  His "suite" — a single room with a dingy bath adjacent — was located on the second floor front. He had procured the room as a convenience, and he was prepared to depart. But first, some preparations had to be made.

  The enemy would look for him here. Bolan prepared a special greeting for his opposition, dropping a lethal welcome mat at the threshold.

  He removed every vestige of himself from the room. When the troops arrived to take him, they would find exactly what he wanted them to find, nothing more. A plastic charge was mounted on the door, and Bolan deftly set the radio-remote explosive cap in place. The charge was small, designed for flash and fury on a relatively minor scale — he had no intention of demolishing the place. It was an antipersonnel device, and it would serve his needs.

  Directly opposite the door, he left a miniature transceiver standing on the coffee table, sensitive receptors angled toward the entrance of the room. Bolan was abandoning the place, but he would be informed and ready to react if anyone should force the door. In fact, he was counting on it.

  Satisfied, the warrior took his leave. He locked the door behind him, left a Do Not Disturb sign posted to discourage the hotel's arthritic maid. Anyone who tried the door in Bolan's absence would be hostile, and he was declaring open season on the savages.

  He took the back way out of the hotel, content to walk around the block, evading the danger of surveillance on the street. It was unlikely that the slavers had a shadow on him yet, but Bolan never took unnecessary chances. Vigilance and caution were the keys to his survival in the killing grounds.

  Night was falling over old Algiers, the creeping darkness huddling into alleyways and corners. Dusk would bring the predators to life, transform the inner city from a picturesque attraction to a jungle, where survival of the fittest was the rule. A predator himself, and long accustomed to the jungle darkness, Bolan felt at home there.