Executioner 024 - Canadian Crisis

by Pendleton, Don

  Something moved in there.

  Turrin swiveled his head with a sizing look for those behind him, then rapped again.

  The door cracked open, on its chain, and Leo Turrin's heart began beating again.

  "What d'you want, Leo ?" asked that damned beautiful voice.

  "Is everything okay in there, Frank?"

  "In here? Sure. Why not?"

  "We just had a thing up on the roof. Joe Staccio is dead. Some other boys, too. Just checking you."

  Turrin turned away, his gaze harsh on Larry Attica. "I could understand Al going crazy," he snarled. "But you I don't figure, guy."

  The Attica smile was pure sick. Little Al just looked perplexed. Turrin was turning them around and moving them away when the door opened fully and "Frank Ruggi" stepped out—fully dressed, even to coat and tie.

  "Where the hell you think you're going?" he said. "You waltz up here and drop news like that then just turn and waltz away?"

  "We, uh, we're trying to pass the word around, Frank," Turrin lamely explained.

  "Get in here ! All of you! Get inside !"

  The three exchanged glances, then trooped inside. Ruggi followed, pulled the door shut and leaned against it, then said, "Now what is this about Staccio?"

  Turrin found himself wondering who the guy really was—and he had known Mack Bolan in many roles. He went through the necessary "explanation" of the events topside while Little Al strolled the room in a seemingly aimless pattern and Attica just stood there looking sick.

  "Tell it like it is," the man from Syracuse said, when Turrin reached the end of the tale. He handed over Leo's pistol, along with a contrite apology, then said to the Black Ace : "Al had a wild hair that maybe you and this Bolan boy is one and the same. He made the charge, Frank—and you know as well as I do, a charge is a charge. I had to check it out."

  "Ruggi" appeared to be genuinely baffled. "Okay, swell, you did right to check it—but what's this thing with Leo's blaster ?"

  "Well, after all . . ." The third-ranker from Syracuse was clearly embarrassed. "He vouched for you, Frank."

  "So did you," Ruggi snorted. "So what's that make you? Why didn't he take your gun?"

  "Naw, you don't have it yet, sir. See—Leo knows this Bolan boy from way back. If you're really Bolan and he embraces you as someone else—why, then. . ."

  "Ruggi" chuckled over that. Leo began chuckling, then Attica. Only DeCristi seemed unmoved by the humour in the thing.

  "Joe ain't even cold yet," the little guy groused. "Al is right, this is wrong," Ruggi said, abruptly returning to an appropriately sober mood.

  "I see the hole in your window," Little Al said. "You didn't believe it, eh."

  "No, sir—frankly, sir—I got to wondering about that. I guess I get too jumpy when things are tight."

  "You just stay jumpy, Al," Ruggi said solemnly. "It's your job to be jumpy."

  "Thanks, Mr. Ruggi. I'm sorry about the mistake. I need to go back upstairs, now. The boss needs me."

  "Just another minute, Al," the Black Ace said. His gaze travelled between Turrin and Attica. "We got a bag of snakes here, gentlemen. This could blow this whole parley all the way back across the Atlantic."

  "I'll call Augie," Turrin said.

  "Maybe you shouldn't. Not yet." That cold gaze swept to the little bodyguard. "Al ?"

  "Yessir."

  "You put Joe on ice. You know what I mean. Larry, you call your man down at the gendarmerie. Tell 'im some of the boys got a little high, had some target practice on the roof. You know, in case someone's calling in a gunfire report."

  "Sure, Frank."

  "Leo—you get us a copy of the VIP register. I'll want double guards at all the important doors. But we tell nobody why. Get me?"

  "Right," Turrin said, smiling sourly.

  "Al—you're in charge upstairs. Tell all those ,boys to keep this quiet. No broadcasting at all. Got it?"

  "Sure. Thanks, Mr. Ruggi. There'll be no broadcasts, count on it. But—well, sir—we got a bunch of dead boys up there."

  "Ice 'em. We'll see they get proper attention when this thing blows over. You got any wounded?"

  "Maybe a few with nicks."

  "What's that you got there?"

  "A nick, sir. Mr. Turrin says it was a quick kiss. I'd rather pass."

  Ruggi smiled soberly and told the little guy, "A nick is sometimes the hand of grace, Al. Remember that. Get some medics up there to take care of the wounds. Just make sure they're quiet medics."

  Attica said, "We brought our own, Frank. Right here in the hotel. Don't worry, they're quiet."

  "Okay. You boys go get it together. Leo, stay. We got some hard skulling ahead."

  Attica and DeCristi strolled to the door. "Watch your swingers," Ruggi told them, in parting.

  Attica went out laughing quietly.

  DeCristi paused in the open doorway to inquire, "You want some boys left outside here, Mr. Ruggi ?"

  "No, we'll take care of that ourselves," the Black Ace assured him.

  "Be careful."

  DeCristi pulled the door closed behind him. Bolan secured the chain lock and turned a wearied countenance to his friend from Pittsfield.

  Turrin dropped into a chair and passed a hand slowly across his face.

  Bolan lit cigarettes and passed one over. "Bingo," he said softly.

  "In spades," Turrin sighed. "How the hell did you do it ?"

  Bolan went to the wall separating the drawing room from the bedroom and lightly tapped it. "It's got secrets, Leo. I found them. Old air shaft,runs from roof to basement. Must have been here before they put in air conditioning. Sealed off now, not used. Almost."

  "Almost what ?"

  "Almost not used. Someone has been using it." "What d'you mean ?"

  "I mean a steel ladder running the entire length of the shaft—new steel. I mean a trick panel in this room—and God only knows how many more. I mean horizontal crawl spaces branching off from the main shaft at each floor level. Access ports at top and bottom—all new stuff—only the shaft itself is original equipment and it's been sealed off for a hell of a long time. How old is this building?"

  Turrin shrugged. "Montreal's an old town."

  "Well it's got some young ideas," Bolan assured him. "Listen, Leo, I think we can pull it. If we can keep the lid on just through the night—well, maybe there'll be nobody left to parley by sunrise."

  "Hell, Sarge, there's several hundred guns in this building. Every damn delegation brought its own firepower. I don't see how you can expect to handle it on a piecework basis."

  "I just want the bosses, Leo."

  "Well, sure, but even then . . ."

  "And I'm leaving no more death medals. That little thing at the penthouse awhile ago was strictly for stage effect."

  "Yeah, I figured that. You were working my backtrack."

  Bolan shrugged. "Had to."

  "Just the same, it was too close. A dozen pieces were unloading on you there for a moment. You've got a charmed life, friend."

  "I'm a charming guy," Bolan said, smiling sourly.

  "Hey. I know what it took. Thanks."

  "It took about three minutes."

  "You could've done it in one—if you hadn't felt the need to show yourself, out there on the roof. That was pretty stagey, Sarge."

  "It worked."

  "Yeah. Oh yeah." Turrin held up his hand to show the shakes to his pal. "Damn near worked me into a premature grave."

  Bolan chuckled, but it was not a pleasant sound. "Get it calm, friend. We have a hell of a night ahead. I want that VIP berthing list. I want the building plans for this hotel, all you can get and as far back as you can get without tipping our hand. I want a complete rundown on the QF, with a profile on every known or suspected member, present whereabouts, the whole gig. I want a standby hotline to Ottawa and one to Washington. I want a helicopter at my instant disposal—something on the order of a Huey. I want my cruiser brought over here from Bois des Fllion. I want a police cordon at th
e airports, bus and rail terminals—nobody comes or leaves until morning. I want the telephone service to this building disconnected—with a proper cover story to go with it. I may want, later, a police line right out here on the street—with this whole building and everything in it sealed off from the outside world."

  "Is that all you want?" Turrin asked, sighing resignedly.

  "No. I want a sixteen-ounce steak and a pound of potatoes, tossed green salad with French, and a gallon of coffee."

  "I don't know about the chow," Turrin said with a dour smile. "They're disallowing entertainment expenses now."

  "And a company car, something really hot. A change of clothes, some shaving gear, and a toothbrush. Recent map of the city."

  "Should I start writing it down?"

  "That's all I want, Leo."

  The little giant from Pittsfield tiredly got to his feet and headed for the door. He paused mid way to look back upon the damnedest man he'd ever known.

  "I know what you really want, guy," he declared quietly.

  "It's what we both want, isn't it?"

  "Sure, sure. And we'll find it. Someday. I thought I'd got there a little while ago. You took it back, Sarge. And look at what you give me in return. A list of wants."

  "I want their blood, Leo," the big guy said coldly.

  Turrin stepped outside and pulled the door shut. Sure. Leo the Pussy 'knew what. Bolan the Bold really wanted. He wanted peace.

  Peace.

  What a hell of a word.

  All it really meant, in the final analysis, was death.

  And, sure, they'd both find that . . . sooner or later. They'd find it, probably, before sunrise.

  13: UNVEILED

  The old section of the city known as Vieux-Montreal, with her ancient buildings and narrow, shop-lined streets, recalled Bolan's mind to New Orleans. Different situation, of course—different people--different time. He sensed a hostility here, an almost desperate atmosphere of human irritation.

  The spirit, perhaps, of revolution.

  Andre Chebleu lived in the neighbourhood. He was as French as anyone here—and probably just as irritated with the way things were. But Chebleu was a Canadian fed. He was working the problems from the other approach—or so he would have Bolan believe. Nothing was ever that certain, of course. The odds were just as good for the other way. The guy could be a double agent—with the heavy flow of sympathy tipped toward the separatists.

  Bolan had no interest in the politics of the thing. He had no feel for the situation and therefore no sympathies either way. It was a question for the Canadians to settle between themselves, this was his feeling. However . . . If the Quebecois were in some sort of conscious alliance with the Mafia plans for Quebec . . . Then, yes, Bolan had an interest—and, of course, it mattered quite a bit if Chebleu was likely to blow in two directions at once.

  Whatever the situation, it was time for the rendezvous and Bolan was cautiously feeling his way toward it. He made a slow pass of the neighbourhood, then left the "company" car two streets over and returned on foot, strolling casually, sampling the vibes and scouting the physics of the place.

  Street-corner conversations and radio-TV overflows from open windows were all in the French language, as were advertising signs and posters. People strolled about aimlessly—kids played in the streets—here and there a uniformed gendarme with a blank face and see-nothing eyes.

  New Orleans, no.

  Left Bank, Paris, was much closer.

  The house he sought was set behind a wooden wall and a small courtyard. The gate was locked. Bolan pulled the cord of a small overhead bell and a young man appeared almost immediately from the shadows inside the wall.

  "Qui est-ce?

  "Je m'appelle Striker," Bolan replied, deciding, to go with his rusty French. "Je cherche Mop sieur Chebleu."

  "Oui. Entrez."

  The gate opened and Bolan went in. The kid looked about eighteen. He carefully secured the gate then inclined his head toward the house and led the way.

  It was an old house, two-storied, very dimly lit. Odours from many generations of living cloaked its halls.

  Bolan was shown to an austere, panelled room near the rear. A long table would seat perhaps twelve. Cheese, bread, and wine were set on a sideboard along the wall. The kid pulled out a chair and directed Bolan to the table. Not a word had been spoken since his entry, at the gate. Bolan accepted the chair, easing stiffly onto it. The kid went to the sideboard, sliced bread and cheese and poured a single water glass of wine, then placed the hospitality offering on the table.

  "Moment," he murmured, and went out.

  Bolan delicately tasted the cheese and tried the wine. Harsh stuff. He decided on a cigarette, and had barely got one going when Chebleu came in.

  "Ah, wonderful," he said in quiet greeting.

  They shook hands. Bolan asked him, point blank, "What is this place?"

  Chebleu smiled and took a chair across from Bolan. The lighting was bad. Only about half of the guy's face was visible. "What does it seem?"

  "It seems a monastery," Bolan said lightly. He grinned. "Or maybe you just don't believe in animal comforts."

  "The purpose here is not comfort, you are correct," Chebleu replied. "It is a sort of headquarters."

  "For what?"

  "Freedom. Justice. Equality. Stale concepts, you may say. But very fresh ones here, ami. Very fresh ones."

  Bolan said, "Yeah. How come they're precious only to those who don't have them, Andy?"

  Something gleamed in those eyes. "Is food precious to the full belly?"

  "What were you doing in Buffalo?"

  "I told you."

  "How about telling me again. From this empty belly, here, Andre. Tell me again."

  The guy shrugged and turned his face into the shadow. "You know who I am and what I am. It was important that we know—" He slapped his chest for emphasis "—we, we, that we know the full price for all this cooperation from below the border."

  "Which we, Andre?"

  The guy lifted a hand and swept it at the empty room.

  "I see," Bolan murmured.

  "But, of course, there are two parents to every family."

  "What kind of family are we talking about?"

  "Call it the human family. First, both Adam and Eve. Mother and father. Quebec, also, is a child. A bastard child, perhaps—but even the bastard has both mother and father. France is but the father—an errant father, at that, a runaway parent. Mother Canada has certain rights, wouldn't you say?"

  Bolan put out his cigarette.

  Time creaked.

  Presently, Bolan broke the silence. "Broken homes, they say, are very hard on children."

  "I think so, yes," the Frenchman agreed.

  "Must be damn tough trying to sort out the loyalties."

  "I would say that, yes. But, then, there is always the middle ground."

  "The toughest place," Bolan said.

  "Thank you, yes. I believe it is."

  "What are the feds going to do about this meet ?"

  "They are going to do nothing. Hands off. They watch. That is all."

  "You've been in touch?"

  "Of course."

  "How about the Quebec police ?"

  "Also hands off."

  "Why?"

  The guy raised his hands and let them fall. "Indecision, mainly. There is the question of law. No great crimes have been committed, not obvious ones. There is also the question of polities. It is, as you say below, a hot potato."

  Bolan grunted, "It is, as we say below, clout. Who's wielding it?"

  "Guess," Chebleu replied softly.

  "How deep does it go, Andre?"

  "Deep enough to make cynics of an entire generation of Quebecois."

  "You mean . . . revolutionaries."

  "Perhaps."

  Bolan sighed. "Well, it's a young idea." He sighed again. "Also a very ancient one."

  "In the cycle of power," Chebleu said, "some times a necessary one." />
  Bolan said, "Well, maybe this generation will find that middle ground." He rose to leave. "I kept the date simply because we had one. Also, to tell you that I will not be blitzing Montreal."

  "No?"

  "No."

  "What, then ?"

  "A quiet night at the Mafia Arms. Then off to the next horizon."

  "So."

  "Yeah. By the way. I met a kid today. Saved my life. I'd like to thank her. Maybe you can help.

  She said her name is Betsy Gordon—but the name doesn't fit the frame. Definitely French, eighteen maybe twenty, innocent eyes, the guts of Jeanne d'Arc."

  Chebleu stared hard at the man from blood, for a long moment, then replied, "Yes, I know her. I will give her your compliments."

  "I need to talk to her, Andre."

  The guy gave him another of those long stares, then he slowly got to his feet and stuck out his hand. "God favour you, Mack Bolan," he said quietly. "Thank you for friendship. Remain here a moment. I will send the girl."

  There was no mistaking the sincerity in those eyes, but a conditioned wariness prompted Bolan to move into the shadows as Chebleu departed the room.

  He checked his weapon and left it on the ready as he returned it to the side leather.

  It was a short wait. She must have already been in the house. A headquarters, yeah. She wore the same silk chemise, and she entered the room with that same quick grace he'd noted at the hotel.

  The girl did not immediately see him. She looked around in some confusion, then started as he moved partially from the shadows.

  "Hi," he said softly.

  Still she could not get a good look at him. "You wished to see me, M'sieur ?"

  He moved fully into the light. "Don't vaporize on me, now."

  She gave him the shocked reaction, staring dumbly for a timeless moment—and, when she spoke, it was an incredulous whisper. "You? Mack Bolan?"

  "Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to play games with you."

  A thousand thoughts were obviously chugging through that pretty head, questions answered, new ones forming—and, finally, horrified embarrassment.

  He held a chair for her and suggested, "Sit down."

  She did so, placing a tiny elbow on the table and lowering her head, face down, into the upturned palm. "I thought you were someone else," she mumbled into the hands. "At the hotel, I mean. Ohhh, I feel like a fool."