Skysweeper

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan peeled off a fifty-dollar bill from the roll in his pocket and handed it to Louis. "For the pool game I interrupted. Forget I was here, I must have the wrong man. Who was the dude in here when I came?"

  "One of the local pushers, coke mostly, now. Nobody to worry about."

  Bolan nodded and went out the front door to his car and drove away. He noticed Louis watching him from the window. A normal enough reaction.

  The Executioner stopped two blocks down and sat there for a moment, reflecting on the operation. He pulled out the list of telephone numbers he had taken from the safe. He found a phone booth and dialed. Still no answer on the sixth number. He headed for the bookstore.

  It was small, sandwiched between a beauty parlor and a supermarket. The place was jammed with books, all used. There was no air-conditioning, just one three-foot fan blowing on the manager, who sat behind a small counter watching a portable tv set. He was short, balding with a few strands of blond hair swept over his bare pate, and had a round face and rosy pink cheeks. He heard Bolan enter and now he looked up and grinned.

  "Good morning. Can I help you?"

  "I called a while back about a book." Again Bolan gave him the name of the novel.

  "Yep, got her right here. Guy tells a pretty good story, but I don't think them Ruskies got anything nearly that advanced in the field of fighters."

  "I hear that plane will fly five thousand miles an hour."

  "No way the metals we have today can take it."

  "Guy I know said it would do more. Mach 5 is three thousand, three hundred and fifty at one hundred thousand altitude. Bet it will do Mach 7. Now that is burning! Oh, this expert says he knows you. Name's Sammy Smith." Bolan watched the bookseller closely. Not a blink or twitch, just a casual look upward.

  "Smiths I know, but none of them are named Sammy."

  Bolan paid for the book, thanked the man and walked out. The Executioner wasn't sure if he had struck a nerve or not. Perhaps the balding little man had been too controlled. Outside, Bolan pretended to study a store window for a moment, checking the bookstore door out of the corner of his eye.

  A man wearing a blue tank-top shirt came out fast, saw Bolan and hesitated, then walked the other way.

  The Executioner nodded. So he had touched a nerve, and they were going to play tag. Good. It was always fine to know the other players in the game. Bolan strode after the man, who had glanced twice over his shoulder. He stopped and looked in the supermarket, evidently hoping that Bolan would go on by. He did not. Instead Bolan tapped him on the shoulder.

  "Pardon me, old boy, would you happen to have a light?" Bolan asked, using a ridiculous English accent.

  The man turned, his eyes widened, then he shook his head. Bolan had seen what he wanted to. The man was pure muscle, probably not KGB brand but close enough. When the goon indicated he did not have the light, Bolan shrugged and walked to the corner without looking back. He was sure the thug was behind him. He stopped just around the corner and waited.

  Half a minute later, Blue Shirt ran around the building, hit Bolan's outstretched foot and fell to the sidewalk. He did a neat forward roll and came up heading back for Bolan with a six-inch blade in his hand. The Executioner only had time to dodge one way and then pivot. He launched a roundhouse kick with his right foot and felt it thud solidly into the enforcer's stomach muscles.

  Then Bolan spun around again, waiting for the man to come at him. Bolan sized up his opponent. He was about six feet tall and Bolan's weight. It could be an interesting contest.

  Bolan watched as the knife flicked from one hand to the other.

  The man lunged, feinted, twisted and came in again, but Bolan was no longer there.

  The man charged again. The Executioner sidestepped neatly, clipping the knifeman behind the ear. He went down in a heap.

  Twenty minutes later Bolan pulled his rented Ford to the side of a desert trail and killed the engine. The tank-top goon in the front seat was conscious.

  Bolan opened the passenger door and rolled him into the desert sand. They were twenty miles from town, in the middle of some rocky terrain, cacti the only vegetation. The temperature was more than 110 in the shade. The Executioner wiped sweat off his forehead.

  "Ready to talk?" Bolan asked the man.

  "Yes."

  "Who's the guy runs the bookstore?"

  "Joe Vishnevetsky."

  "Why did he set you onto me?"

  "He wanted me to break a few bones, put you in the hospital."

  "Why?"

  "Don't know why. I just do what he tells me."

  "That's what I was afraid of. Did you know he is a Russian spy?"

  "Him? He's no damn spy. Runs a bookstore;"

  "You're dumber than I figured." Bolan cut the cord from the man's feet, then his hands. The Beretta came up, aiming between his eyes. "You like living, hot shot?"

  "Sure."

  Bolan triggered the 93-R. The slug kicked up sand an inch away from the man's foot.

  "You want to do much more of it, you walk out to the road and hitchhike north, away from Ridgecrest. I see you in town again I won't miss. Understand?"

  The man frowned, but kept looking at the gun as he nodded.

  Bolan slid behind the wheel of the Ford. He wanted to talk to Ludlow's secretary. If he pushed it he could catch her before lunch.

  He looked at the muscle standing in the trail behind him. He should be able to find his way out before dark. It would give Vishnevetsky something to think about. Why would a bookstore owner try to have him beaten up? Because he asked a question about Sammy Smith.

  Bolan gunned the Ford along the rough road toward the highway. He had a lot of ground to cover before dark.

  9

  When Bolan called the number at the Naval Weapons Center just after twelve, he was told that Kara Ralston was already at lunch. Bolan decided to grab a bite and kill an hour in a small air-conditioned restaurant. He had a small steak and used the public phone in the lobby to call back at one-thirty.

  "Kara Ralston?"

  "Speaking."

  "Name's Mack Scott. Sammy Smith suggested I give you a call. I'm in town for a few days on business."

  He heard a quick intake of breath. But when her voice came on again it was casual, controlled.

  "Oh, well, any friend of Sammy's. By the way, have you talked to him today? He was supposed to call me but I haven't heard from him."

  "No. Last time we talked was about a week ago. He asked me to meet him but I couldn't get him on the phone today either."

  "Could we get together for a drink? I'm off work at four." She asked it casually but there was an undertone of concern. "There's a place called The Hideaway on China Lake Boulevard in Ridgecrest. Could we meet there about four-fifteen?"

  "Okay. I'm six-three with black hair and a light tan sport shirt. Sammy said I'd like you."

  "Fine, Ill find you. Oh, I'm five-five with short blond hair. Look forward to meeting you. I've got to go now. Bye."

  Bolan hung up and looked at his phone list. He still had not had a response from one number. He tried it again and still got no reply. He hung up and called the operator. When Bolan began talking it was fast and with a deadly urgency.

  "Operator."

  "Operator, this is Sergeant Streib, Ridgecrest police. My partner is in trouble and all I have is a phone number. Get me the address damn quick and no questions! Two men with guns are holding him hostage. I hope I'm not too late." Bolan recited the number to the operator.

  "I'm sorry, but it is..."

  "Operator! My partner may be dying! I don't want any of your crap about rules and procedures! Just look up the damn address before I come down there and take that office apart!" A drop of sweat dripped off Bolan's nose.

  "Yes, all right, officer, I'm checking in our street guide. Here it is. 1444 Windward. That's out on the far edge of town to the west."

  Bolan hung up and nodded. The smaller the town, usually the harder it was to get an address that way. He
had until four o'clock. He piled into his Ford and drove around the west side of Ridgecrest until he found Windward Street.

  He found the house and drove past it slowly. It was a solid-looking, two-story bungalow with a chain link fence all the way around, topped with what looked like insulators on the posts. Electrified? He parked, knocked on the door two houses down and told the woman who answered that he could paint her house for three hundred dollars. She slammed the door in his face. No one was home at the house right beside 1444.

  When he knocked on the 1444 door he figured there would be no one there either, but after three knocks a small Mexican woman wearing an apron answered. She looked up at him and smiled, then nodded. She mumbled something, then shook her head.

  "No hablo inglés."

  "Gracias," Bolan said. He quickly realized he'd be wasting his time trying to get anything from the Hispanic maid. He waved and left. As he walked back to his car he heard two snarling black Dobermans. They were jumping at the chain link fence. The fierce-looking animals were quivering with anger and frustration as they charged the fence. Bolan decided to give this place a wide berth.

  The Executioner drove back downtown and parked half a block from the Book Rack, where he had met the man named Vishnevetsky. Bolan mentally reviewed the events so far. Why would the man set his muscle on Bolan unless he had something to hide? He had to be tied in with Smith somehow. What good could a used-book store proprietor do for a known traitor and at least part-time Russian spy? Bolan came up empty. He watched for an hour and nothing happened except for three old ladies who carried in sacks of books.

  He drove on and found The Hideaway, which looked like a good steak and seafood eatery. Bolan parked in the lot behind the building and again tried to answer the questions that kept gnawing at him. Smith was some kind of glorified midlevel mule, taking messages and documents back and forth. He was not the ranking KGB man on the site. So who was? None of the people he contacted through those phone numbers seemed to be strong enough to handle the task.

  Kara? Not likely. She would need top-secret clearance working for Dr. Ludlow. No way could she have been recruited and trained by the KGB without the security clearance boys getting wind of it. Malia, the Hawaiian woman he was going to have dinner with tonight? Too scared, not the type. She was probably just what she looked like: a working girl taking a free ride and getting room and board for a few romps in the bedroom.

  Dr. Peterson? He would not be blowing the whistle on Smith if he was the real Russian agent. That would make no sense.

  Bolan got out of the car and walked a mile through the town, came back and entered the restaurant. It was 4:10. Kara should be there soon. She was waiting for him in the bar, first booth on the left. He looked at her and walked over.

  "Miss Ralston?"

  "Yes. Mr. Scott?"

  He nodded and sat down. She was daintily licking the salt around the top of a wide margarita glass.

  She smiled. It was a good smile on a thin face, with narrow arched brows, high cheekbones and wide-set green eyes. Bolan figured she was about thirty.

  Bolan ordered a beer and she nodded.

  "Still working and not drinking. Does that make you a cop?"

  "No. Beer cools me down in this heat. Heard from Smith?"

  She looked away, not trying to hide her discomfort. Then her green eyes stared into his. "Not directly. How well did you know him, Mr. Scott?"

  "Business, we bumped into each other now and then."

  "But you weren't like close friends?"

  "No. Met him twice," Bolan admitted.

  "Look, I don't want to shock you, but I don't think Mr. Smith is with us anymore. Someone called me and said Sammy had an accident, and it has been taken care of quietly. From all appearances it looks as if he has just vanished."

  "Sounds suspicious." His beer came and he took a sip.

  Bolan was trying to read the woman and he sensed a nervousness.

  "You said you were doing a job for Sammy."

  "Right."

  "I imagine you knew the details."

  "No. We were on a public phone and he said he would fill me in today."

  "That is a problem. The person I talked with, one of Sammy's, ah, associates, said he had no idea what kind of a job Sammy might have set up for you."

  "The kind of job is easy. I'm a specialist. I brought my equipment. Long range, short range."

  She slid closer to him in the booth. Bolan discerned a new kind of awareness in her eyes as she stared at him.

  "That's the kind of person who really appeals to me, Mr. Scott." She caught his left hand, moved it under the tabletop and laid it on her thigh. "I hope you understand what I'm talking about, Mr. Scott."

  Bolan nodded and grinned. "I do understand. But I always say business first. What the hell happens to my job out here? Am I out of work? Who is taking over for Smith? Damn, I got more questions than I got answers."

  Bolan reached over and kissed her lips softly, then sat back.

  Her eyes came open slowly. "Hey, I like that. Tell you what I can do. I can find out about this tonight. Did you get any kind of an advance?"

  Bolan shook his head. "We trusted each other. Which really leaves me out on a limb."

  "I'll find out if there is any work for you. This person will know. If there is, it will be the usual arrangements. If it was something private Smith had going, we can't help you out much. In that case, I'll try to get half your fee as a guarantee."

  "Sounds fair."

  This time the woman leaned toward Bolan and the kiss was harder, hotter. When she pulled back she sighed and watched him. "I just wish like hell I didn't have this date tonight."

  "Tomorrow night? You say where."

  "Right here, at four-thirty. We can go for a ride in the desert." She looked at her watch. "Oh, time for me to move." She drained the last of the margarita and pushed out of the booth. She held his chin for a moment, bent over and pecked his lips. "Same place, same time." Then she was gone.

  Bolan waited until she was out of the parking lot. He did not want her to think he was trying to follow her — which he damn well wished he could. She had to be seeing Smith's shadow agent tonight. Somewhere in this area, but who and where?

  Then he thought of a new problem. He had made himself known to Kara, she would not forget him. If the person she reported to had also met Bolan as Mack Scott in some of his visits today, it could prove more dangerous than ever for him if the two compared notes about him. On that one he would have to wait and see what developed.

  He paid for the drinks and left the lounge. Then he got into his Ford and headed for Clancy's Claim Company. The sign said the restaurant featured steak, lobster and spirits as well as entertainment. The talent would not be there yet. Maybe he and Malia could have a quiet little talk.

  Malia greeted him as soon as he entered. She was the hostess, as she had said.

  "Good evening, sir, the bar or the restaurant?"

  "Wherever we can talk the easiest."

  She led him to the bar, to a table at the side but not far from her post as hostess. She talked a moment to one of the waitresses and gave her a stack of menus. When she came back Malia was visibly relaxed.

  "Someone has been calling me here. Three times now. It's a man and he says Sammy wants to see me. I really don't know what's going on."

  Her eyes were somber, not afraid now but not confident either. He decided she was prettier than he had thought this morning. And either scared or giving a good imitation.

  "You don't have to worry about Sammy Smith, he's dead. I heard it this afternoon from one of the people in his little spy group." She looked up, surprised. It was enough to tell him a lot.

  "So now you can drop the act. We're on the same side. You're undercover, but for whom I don't know yet. Smith was working for some shadow Soviet agent. Smith wasn't smart enough to be a KGB operative, so he had a backup. Our problem is to find out who that backup agent is. Maybe he's the one phoning you. He isn't sure abou
t you, about how much you know. So it might be better if you quit your job, take a week off and go to Los Angeles."

  "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm a hostess here and just happen to have been living with Sammy Smith. You come in here with some wild spy story..."

  "Give it up, Malia. I read people well. It's time we got out of here."

  "Like hell! I don't run when the shooting starts. I've been on this assignment for six months. We knew Smith was the key, but we wanted the man behind him too. I've got ten names and descriptions, but nobody who could be the shadow."

  "Lots of time the real agent is the one you would least suspect. Like me."

  She looked up quickly and he grinned.

  "You're not DIA or I would have pegged you long ago. And you can't be CIA because they don't work domestically."

  "How did you tumble to me?"

  "Not going all tearful when I told you Smith was dead. You'd been living with him, you should have misted up a little."

  "So what good am I around here? Bait?"

  "No!" He said it sharply and she glanced up. "I've seen too many pretty girls wind up as turkey meat. No chance you are going to be bait. We'll smoke the shadow out another way."

  "Name one."

  "When we need one, I'll have one."

  "Until then?"

  "Smith and his people know you work here, correct?" She nodded. "Well, you just quit. Out the back door, I'll have the car around in a few seconds."

  "The kitchen, by the big cooler stacks," she said, moving quickly now, realizing she was in danger, not fully understanding why she was going with this stranger. He made sense, he knew some of the right answers, and he obviously was not one of Smith's men. She told the manager she had to leave and she wasn't sure if she would be back. Then she grabbed her purse and hurried for the kitchen.

  As she stepped outside a car roared toward her. She jerked back just in time. It was a blue Chevy and Scott was not driving.

  The Ford came around the corner slowly. She heard some small coughs she knew were silenced shots. They came from the Ford, and the man in the blue car folded over the wheel. The car slowed and rolled to a stop near the fence.