"When and where?"
The skipper missed the question. He was on a roll, desperate to persuade the soldier of his innocence. "Armand has cancelled everything," he blurted out. "No more business now."
"Why not?"
"There is a spy... a woman. Armand tells me there may be others. No more business now until he can find out."
Faint alarm bells were sounding in the back of Bolan's mind; a heavy lump was forming in his stomach. "This spy, where was she captured? Where have they taken her?"
The skipper tried to shake his head, but Bolan's weapon prevented him. Beads of sweat were glistening on his forehead. "Please," he whispered. "I have told you everything. Armand does not explain."
Bolan tried another line. "I need to find the other women. Where are they kept?"
A strangled squeal escaped from the captain's throat before he found his voice again. "I do not know. The Corsican, his friends, they do not confide in anyone."
His words had the ring of truth, and Bolan eased his pressure on the slim Beretta's trigger. Stepping back a pace, he gave the captain room to breathe. "Better hit the panic button, give your crew a running start," he said. "You're sinking."
Confusion mingled with panic on the skipper's face as he attempted to decipher Bolan's words. He glanced around him, spotted nothing out of place, and finally found the nerve to address the nightfighter. "I do not understand."
In lieu of answer, Bolan dropped his free hand to waist level and found the miniature transceiver by touch. He tripped a preselected switch, dispatching an urgent message to the stern, away from their position.
The captain understood Bolan when the hollow thunder of a blast below decks shook the Liberté. The ancient tramp was listing, already sinking by the stern before Mack Bolan reached the entrance to the bridge.
Behind him, the captain was scrambling for the intercom, setting off alarms and shouting orders over the PA system, his static-laden voice competing with the shouting from below. There was something in his voice that made Bolan turn around and glance at him in parting.
The captain's nerve had finally broken. He was weeping now, openly and unashamedly. The guy could feel his life collapsing, sinking under him, and at the moment there was nothing he could do but watch it happen.
The Executioner could feel no pity for the skipper of the Liberté.
Almost.
But he remembered that the sailor was a cannibal at heart, and undeserving of his pity. The man had climbed in bed with savages and let them use him for a price. He had carried helpless women into bondage, ferried arms and cruel narcotics that annihilated thousands.
He had sold his soul, and in its place there was a dark malignancy, potentially contagious. Only righteous fire could wipe the stain away, prevent a foul proliferation.
Bolan reached the stairs and started down. Below, a pair of hostile guns came into view. They were coming up on the run, apparently unaware of his presence, preoccupied with other problems and intent on speaking to the captain. By the time they recognized their danger, it was too late to take effective action.
Bolan stitched them with the 93-R, left to right and back again, then vaulted over crumpled bodies, grasping at his detonator as he reached the deck.
The freighter trembled, rocked beneath a second blast, and a tongue of flame sprang upward from the forward cargo hold. Smoke and steam were rising from below deck, curling up through open ports and hatches, creating a hellish fog.
Bolan used the smoke screen to his advantage, brushing past the frightened guards and seamen, undetected in the general confusion. Homing on the gangplank, he made it through and found the way predictably unguarded. Anyone on duty when the charges detonated would be busy hauling ass to save himself.
A dozen loping strides and he was on the pier, retreating into darkness while the freighter burned behind him. Angry shouting gave way to screams, and now the flames were running free, out of control.
He keyed the final switch and was waiting when another explosion hit the Liberté amidships. Before his eyes the freighter seemed to roll, the decks canting drastically, disgorging men and loose equipment into rolling water. Sliding lower, the ship was grinding against the pier. Sailors were trapped against the dock, screaming helplessly beneath the juggernaut.
Bolan closed his mind to all of it and turned away. He had a more immediate concern, compelling him to action, demanding an immediate solution.
He had missed his target on the waterfront. The human cargo had been whisked away. He could never rest until they were recovered safely or avenged.
Also, the slavers had unearthed a spy whose disclosure made them seek the shadows, go to ground. Already, Bolan might have missed his shot at a conclusive sweep of the Algerian operation.
But it was the latest captive who disturbed him most of all. His gut told him it must be Smiley Dublin. He would have to check it out before proceeding any further.
He was returning to the safehouse, racing against the clock. Bolan prayed that Smiley would be there to greet him — but he knew with chilling certainty that she would not be.
13
When he reached the safehouse, Bolan made a cautious drive-by, circling the block, taking time to scrutinize pedestrians and vehicles parked against the curb. His combat sensors probed the night, searching for any sign of danger, any thing or person that might betray an ambush. If Smiley had been taken, security was breached, and he was on his own. The enemy could surface anywhere, at any time.
He was back in the jungle, with all the laws of brute survival in effect. It was kill or be killed.
He made the circuit, parked his Audi in the narrow alleyway adjacent and prepared to take the back entrance.
The Executioner moved up a single flight of stairs and then along a dimly lighted corridor, reaching the small apartment without incident. Mindful of the sabotage potential, he spent a moment at the door, listening for any sound inside, examining the knob and frame for signs of tampering. When he was satisfied it had not been wired, he used his extra key and slipped inside, the black Beretta ready in his fist.
It took only a second to see the place was empty. Smiley had been there, but she was gone.
He returned the pistol to its armpit sheath and set about examining the drop, attempting to discover something... anything at all that could put him on her trail.
There was no sign of struggle, nothing that would indicate hostile penetration. Based on the evidence, Smiley had departed willingly, for reasons of her own.
Momentary anger and exasperation flared inside Bolan, and he cursed the Fed for her stubbornness.
Smiley could be anywhere — she could be dead. Bolan put the thought away from him at once; the skipper of the Liberté had been persuasive in his story that "the spy" was still alive.
"There is a spy... a woman."
That implied a living captive, and the mastermind of slavery in Algiers would be unlikely to dispose of her without exhausting his interrogation methods.
Bolan felt his stomach turning over, rolling, as unbidden memories came flooding backmemories of butchered humans, tortured by the Mafia's professional inquisitors, clinging pointlessly to life after sanity had fled.
The vermin in North Africa would have refinements of their own for jarring stubborn memories and loosening tongues. If Smiley was in hostile hands...
The warrior cursed again, and now, in place of nausea, a white-hot rage was building inside him. He would have to act swiftly if there was any hope of saving Smiley. He had a list of targets that might hold the key to her whereabouts. With such a slate to choose from, the Executioner in fact had very little choice.
He would attack them all.
A blitz in old Algiers, and somewhere along the way he would jar loose the crucial information that he needed — or he would die in the attempt.
The tactic had worked for him in other wars.
Swiftly, unemotionally, he started making preparations for the new offensive, choosing weapons
and munitions with the care a surgeon shows in selecting instruments. Darkness covered Bolan on his two trips to the car, descending narrow stairs with heavy O.D. duffel bags on either shoulder. He would not leave anything behind that could later identify him.
The Audi would be serving as his mobile operations base until he found Smiley or until the enemy shot it out from under him — whichever came first. It was time to move.
The doomsday fuse was lighted and burning fiercely in Algiers. In the wake of that apocalyptic blast, there would be nothing left unchanged.
The Executioner was blitzing on.
* * *
Smiley Dublin struggled in the darkness, battling against a running tide. Her arms were weighted, legs numb, paralytic. The current sucked her back into the black void. She felt as if she were drowning.
Consciousness had returned to Smiley by degrees. She became aware at first of small sounds competing with the rhythm of her pulse, then the darkness was retreating, giving way to painful light. When she opened her eyes, the pain was dazzling, but brief. Her mouth was dry, as if she had been chewing cotton in her sleep. Smiley recognized the sour aftertaste of medication.
She had been sedated.
With consciousness, her memory returned, the circuits clicking into place, imagination filling in the gaps. The scar-faced bartender had spiked her drink, and Smiley knew he could have made the dose a lethal one. She was alive, and that meant someone wanted her that way.
The thought was something less than comforting.
Smiley was seated on a wooden chair, wrists and ankles tightly bound with leather straps. She tried to rock the chair from side to side, but its legs were set too far apart, and she eventually gave up. Since she clearly was immobilized, Smiley set about establishing where she was.
Around her, walls of native stone ascended from the concrete floor to plaster ceiling without sign of doors or windows. Any entrance to the room had to be behind her. She had no clear impression of the size of the room. The temperature and dampness told her the chamber was a basement of some sort. A dungeon, from all appearances.
In front of her, the wall was fitted with manacles, and there were other grim accoutrements, both antique and modern. Some of the torture implements reminded Smiley of mementos from the Spanish Inquisition.
Her captors had an eye for lethal hardware. Smiley wondered how they were at putting it to use, and she was sickened by the images that came to mind. She found herself remembering Georgette Chableu with fear instead of customary sadness.
Danger was a fact of life for every agent in the field, but there were degrees of savagery at which the mind rebelled. Smiley had prepared herself for violent death, but she hoped it would be quick and clean — a righteous soldier going down with all guns blazing.
Her helplessness was stifling, and Smiley felt on the verge of tears. Silently, she cursed herself for weakness in the face of peril, for allowing this to happen in the first place. Twice she had been captured while working on the same case. She was angered by her own overanxiousness, overaggressiveness.
Now, she had a single grim priority: survival.
If escape was possible, she had to find the way. If not, she would keep the Bolan secret and wait for him to find her, take her out of there.
And he would come for her in time. He had to.
A heavy door opened and closed again behind her. Someone was approaching on her blind side, circling to the left. She registered a single set of footsteps on concrete, but three figures suddenly appeared.
At a glance, they were a clownish trio. The central figure, obviously in control, was a slender woman decked out in black leather vest and shorts, with fishnet hose to match. Her reddish hair was cut short, a mannish style that made her face look angular and hard. Smiley placed her in her mid-forties.
The flankers were a matching pair of giants chiseled out of ebony. They were dressed as harem guards, complete with baggy trousers and turbans wrapped around their heads. Each of them was nearly seven feet in height, and they were built like Olympic weight lifters. Broad, flat faces were devoid of any emotion.
Under other circumstances, Smiley might have burst out laughing at the image they presented, but here and now, the overall effect was frightening.
She did her best to keep from staring, but the woman in leather seemed to read her mind. When she spoke, Smiley marked the German accent, scarcely softened by a life abroad.
"Genuine eunuchs," the woman offered conversationally. "They are expensive, but amusing."
Smiley read a chilling sadism in the voice, but she kept cool and countered with a question of her own. "What am I doing here?"
Her captor smiled. Her face held no feeling. "Ah," she purred. "The crucial question. You anticipate me."
Smiley did not have to feign the rising anger that she felt. "I was drugged and carried here against my will," she snapped. "Now I demand to know exactly where I am and what the hell is going on."
Her jailer faked a curtsy, clapped her hands together in appreciation. "Excellent. An admirable performance, liebchen. Worthy of an award." The face and voice reverted to stone. "Now, bitch, I ask the questions and you give the answers. Understood?"
Smiley matched the Arctic tone. "Go to hell."
The woman stiffened, clenching her fists in white-knuckled fury. It required another moment for her voice to surface. "You are trying my patience. There is a limit. You will tell me, now, your business at Club Grandee. Why do you seek the owner? Spy duty?"
Thinking fast, Smiley tried to bluff it out.
"Rani? I heard on the street that he was the man to see about connections here in town."
"Connections?"
"Right. You know — a little hash, a little blow, nothing heavy. Look, if you guys are drug enforcement..."
The laugh was harsh, explosive. "How delightful. I admire your talent for improvisation. Now, I ask you once again: what is your business in Algiers?"
"I already told you, dammit."
The open-handed blow was stunning. Smiley's ears were ringing. She felt a rivulet of blood escape her nostril and dribble down across her lips and chin. She kept her voice rigid, swallowing her rage. "I want to see the American consul."
This time she saw it coming, bracing herself before the blow impacted on her cheek. The German wore a heavy ring, and it opened up a ragged gash beneath her eye, releasing a stream of blood.
"You are becoming tedious," her captor sneered. "I have the means to make you speak. Before I finish, you will manufacture information, anything at all to stop the pain."
A sudden chill invaded Smiley's bones, raising gooseflesh along her arms and lifting hair on the back of her neck. She shrugged it off and tried to match the firmness of the German's tone.
"Go to hell," she said again.
The smile was mocking now. "I thought you understood, my dear. Weare already there."
Smiley Dublin closed her eyes and swallowed down her rising bile. In her mind, she saw Georgette again, the precious, tortured face transforming, twisting into yet another countenance. .. until it became her own.
14
Ali ibn-Hassan stood in darkness, listening to the muted whirring of the camera. Beyond a pane of mirrored one-way glass, naked bodies tangled on a giant oval bed. The Arab watched them closely, missing nothing, as the camera captured every movement, preserving it all on tape.
Two of the performers were professionals, the third a zealous amateur, completely unaware that he was being captured for posterity. Hassan admired his stamina, but there was still a certain clumsiness about his methods — a deliberate awkwardness that verged on the brutal.
Ali smiled, reflecting that he could expect no better from a police captain. The man was more familiar with inflicting pain than pleasure, more at home with violence than passion.
Technique was unimportant to the overall effect. He had the captain's face on tape, and that " was all that mattered.
Ali's secret window was one of several, all stra
tegically positioned in a suite designed for sexual games. He kept the room for special customers, those who could afford his prices — now and later. Patrons who could help him with his business, keep it running smoothly, turning in a handsome profit, were often blackmailed with the tapes, a most effective bargaining device.
The Arab's mind was drifting, and he found it difficult to concentrate on the captain and his energetic playmates. Other matters were commanding his attention. He had heard street rumors and had received the urgent message from Armand demanding that he shut down operations. Armand had offered nothing in the way of explanations, but Hassan had heard enough from his own sources to put some pieces of the puzzle in place.
He knew, for example, that a battle had erupted at the Orient hotel that very evening. A dozen independent guns were dead and authorities still picking through the wreckage for a clue to what had started it. And there were other unconfirmed stories of a shooting at Armand's château in el-Biar.
Something was happening, but what?
Ali refused to worry at the moment. His relations with Armand were common knowledge on the street — the Corsican was supplying him with women and drugs — but he retained a fair degree of personal autonomy. He had stayed away from the other side of Armand's operation — the sale of arms and women out of the country, trafficking with certain terrorists. The company Dusault was keeping lately made him feel uneasy, vaguely threatened, and the recent violence came to him as no surprise.
Hassan preferred to bide his time, building a stable base of power and quietly recruiting troops. Someday, perhaps a good deal sooner than expected, Armand's leadership position would be vacant.
And Ali had himself in mind as the Corsican's replacement. He thought he was ready for the upward move.
Above all else, he was not closing down his lavish pleasure palace just because Armand had ordered it. Hassan could not afford to turn away wealthy tourists or his local regulars.
Beyond the glass, the captain spent himself at last, displaying a final grimace for the hidden camera before collapsing into satin sheets.
Sold for Slaughter Page 8
