Sudden Death

by Don Pendleton

  Baraka's reaction was immediate, instinctive — and impressive.

  He threw off the big bald man with a double heel-of-the-hand attack that thudded against his temples, extricating himself and springing upright while Mazarin still lay on the floor.

  As Mazarin in turn surged to his feet, surprisingly lightly for a man of his bulk, Baraka squared off into a karate stance, one arm close in to his side, the other held out.

  Mazarin grinned wolfishly. He liked it when they fancied themselves experts at the so-called martial arts! Rising onto his toes, he ran in and blasted off a flying jump kick at Baraka's jaw. Swaying unexpectedly back, Baraka rode it, shook his head and swiveled, scything in a cross-body shuto stroke as the big man coasted back onto the mat.

  Then, as the target shuddered away, he dropped a high side kick to the sphenoid and feinted another shuto aimed at the throat. Mazarin ducked beneath that and unleashed a punishing seiken blow, a ram's head punch carrying all his weight that slammed against Baraka's diaphragm and sent him down.

  He rolled away from a heel that thumped his ribs, shoving himself upright as his opponent dashed in with a tae kwon do head kick. Baraka dropped back onto the mat and seized the outthrust foot as it rocketed toward him, twisting with all his strength to speed Mazarin on, fueled by his own impetus, until he crashed against the wall bars and slid to the floor.

  "Amazing!" Paul murmured. "The ego suppressed, but the id — the original reflexes and the thinking behind them — functioning normally!"

  "Not thinking," the doctor corrected. "The reflexes are subconscious. The id, as you say, taking charge. As we hoped."

  The combatants were locked in close body conflict now. Although the ex-pug was at least thirty pounds heavier, Baraka's sinewy form seemed his equal in force and resilience. There was a brief period of wrestling throws, holds and locks, then Mazarin broke from a conventional scissors grip and dexterously immobilized Baraka in the deadly position known as the Boston Crab — an excruciating arch-back hold in which too much struggling on the part of the victim, or too much force exerted by the victor, could result in a snapped spine.

  In professional bouts, the Boston Crab inevitably elicits a submission. Baraka wasn't a professional… but he wasn't beaten either. Grunting with effort, he freed an arm and slashed a devastating shuto with the plank-hard edge of his hand at Mazarin's crotch. The blow landed with a hollow thwack, hard enough to echo around the gymnasium after it hit the genital protector that the ex-pug wore beneath his pants.

  Mazarin laughed. He relaxed his hold, and the two men stood up.

  The doctor noticed that Baraka wasn't even out of breath. "Excellent," he said approvingly. "For a while there Mazarin was your enemy. You did the right thing. You attacked to protect yourself. Now we shall see about another kind of attack."

  Beyond the gymnasium, an escalator brought them down to the low-level shooting gallery. Klaus, Willi and Mazarin stayed behind, but there was already someone on the range. Standing by the racks of rifles and handguns was a thin character with a hollow-cheeked, cadaverous face deeply etched with lines. He was cradling a twin-barreled sporting rifle.

  "Marksman," the doctor exclaimed, "I didn't know you were back!"

  "I don't like nobody to know where I'm at," the man replied. "As it happens, it's sooner than I thought. There was a job I had to organize in Algiers…"

  "Algiers!"

  "Yeah. It seems someone was getting too close. Knew more than was good for him, know what I mean?"

  "But why Algiers?"

  The Marksman shrugged. "It was convenient. Guy was passing through. Then I heard he got himself blocked and holed up there. It's not a bad place — they don't ask too many questions."

  "And so you came by here…?"

  "I figured I'd put in a little practice while I was waiting out the deadline to collect from the boss."

  "Swell. Maybe you'd care to set an example for our friend here." Paul nodded at Baraka.

  The Marksman shrugged again. "Whatever you say."

  There were paper targets painted with concentric circles thumbtacked to the soundproofing material covering the wall at the far end of the gallery. He fired twice in quick succession then broke the gun, inserted two more rounds and fired again.

  The four bullets had made a single clover-shaped hole in the center of the bull's-eye. A three-quarter-inch group.

  The doctor smiled. "Remarkable. You can fire a gun, can't you?" he said to Baraka. "Why not have a go yourself?"

  Baraka nodded. His face expressionless, he walked to the racks, picked five cartridges from an ammunition box and selected a Springfield M-1903 sniper's rifle.

  Paul nudged the older man. "You see? Automatic reflex," he whispered. "That's the one he picked before!"

  Baraka loaded his shells into the five-round magazine. Standing in a casual attitude, he raised the rifle to his shoulder and fired five times, manipulating the strong bolt firmly and confidently each time.

  The first shot pierced the bull's-eye dead center. The four others blasted, one after the other, the heads from the thumbtacks pinning the target in place. The paper detached itself from the wall and drifted to the floor.

  The doctor repressed a smile. "Satisfied about those retained skills?" he asked Paul.

  The Marksman's eyebrows were raised, although whether this was due to surprise, admiration or jealousy wasn't clear.

  Ten minutes later, Paul and the doctor took Baraka to the highest point of the old bunker, up beneath the concrete dome.

  The doctor unlocked a heavy door, climbed a short flight of steps to the turret and walked across to a steel shutter blanking off the casemate. On the outside, the shutter was stained with more than forty years of rust and weather. Inside it was oiled and shining, moving soundlessly in metal grooves let into the concrete, once he had withdrawn bolts, dialed a combination on the locking mechanism and twirled the handle that raised it.

  Across the broad sill of the old firing slit, they looked out over the weed-grown dike, across a slope of meadow, and then down a steep-sided wooded valley with a stream coursing beneath the trees.

  At the bottom of the valley, framed by the cleft in the foliage, a short stretch of highway traversing a bridge that spanned the stream was visible.

  Two automobiles crossed the bridge, and then a bus and a truck loaded with farm produce going in the opposite direction.

  The doctor gestured at the distant strip of road and the toy-sized vehicles crawling along it. "The range is two thousand yards," he told Baraka. "Suppose an open car was stopped on that sector of road you can see — stalled there for a couple of minutes, say. If you had the right kind of rifle with the right kind of telescopic sight, do you think you could pick off an enemy if he was a passenger in the rear seat?"

  For the first time, Baraka's smile was spontaneous and warm. "No problem," he said.

  7

  Mack Bolan awoke and stared at a ceiling ten feet above his head. The ceiling was white, yellowing slightly at the corners as if it hadn't been repainted for some time. From the center of the ceiling a worn electric lead supported a fluted 1920s-style lampshade in pink frosted glass.

  The lamp wasn't illuminated; light filtered into the room through net curtains drawn across a double-casement window.

  Bolan turned his head. He was naked, lying on his back in a bed, the covers drawn up to his chin. Instantly he was wide awake, his fighter's instincts honed by years of continuous danger. He remembered every detail of the massacre in Wally Boardman's room. Everything up to the sting of the needle.

  So they hadn't killed him. Where were they keeping him prisoner? And why?

  He flexed his limbs experimentally, testing out the restraints they would have put on him.

  There were none. His arms and legs moved freely.

  Puzzled, he sat up and threw aside the crisp sheets. He glanced around his prison. About fifteen feet square, it looked like a cheap hotel room. A table, a single chair, an old-fashioned pearwo
od closet, a wall light above the bed. There were two doors. One, half open, showed the tiled interior of a bathroom.

  Bolan swung his feet to the floor and stood up. He felt fine. No post-Mickey Finn hangover. No headache.

  He went to the window. It looked out onto a white-tiled airshaft, stained with years of city grime. A fire escape passed the window, zigzagging six or seven floors down to a small square yard lined with trash cans. Bolan tried the catch. It opened easily. He leaned out and breathed in warm air. Above the shaft white clouds moved across a blue sky.

  A row of windows like his own, one above the other, studded the far wall of the shaft. On a lower story he could see a young woman with dark hair fastening the clasp of a brassiere behind her back. He withdrew into the room, his brows knitted into a frown.

  He went to the closed door and tried the handle. The door wasn't locked. He opened it a crack.

  A carpeted corridor with more doors, all of them numbered, stretched before him. His own was room 72. Outside one of the others, a tray laden with used dishes, a coffeepot and part of a bread roll rested on the floor. In the distance he could hear the humming whine of a vacuum cleaner.

  Thoroughly bewildered, the Executioner closed the door and sat down on the bed. If this was some kind of elaborate setup to fool him, similar to the one in the movie where the spy believed he was in a Nazi prison camp but was actually in a faked-up suburban garden in London, then they were sure spending a lot of dough to make it convincing.

  He padded into the shower room. A stranger looked back at him out of the glass. He still had the stained skin and the mustache.

  He felt his jaw. No more than the usual one-day stubble. There was an electric razor, toothbrush and soap on the shelf above the hand basin. He had never seen any of them before.

  Before he shaved he went back into the bedroom and opened the closet. Underclothes — his own — were on a shelf, as were a black turtleneck sweater, jeans, sneakers and a lightweight raincoat. On the floor of the closet was a zippered canvas holdall that was unfamiliar. He opened it.

  Inside he found a neatly rolled combat blacksuit; two holsters with straps; one Beretta 93-R, one .44 AutoMag and ammunition clips packed into a waterproof neoprene pouch; a waistbelt with holster clips; and a billfold.

  He opened that. There was money inside, including the torn ten-spot.

  By this time, Bolan was genuinely perplexed.

  If this was really a hotel, why was he here? Why had they left him his weapons? If they were going to do that, why take him in the first place?

  The only thing missing from his gear was the lightweight Berber outfit he had assumed as a disguise when he had gone to the market to make contact with Boardman. For most of the rest they must have turned over his hotel room in Algiers.

  Algiers? But where was he now? The atmosphere, the sounds of life around him, the very odor of the air he breathed was wrong for North Africa.

  Where then? He went to the window and listened. He heard the distant sounds of traffic, a horn blaring, the seesaw bray of an ambulance or a police car. A jetliner droned somewhere in the sky. At the foot of the shaft there was a clatter of plates and a dispute in a language he couldn't recognize.

  Bolan dressed. If it was a setup, he'd play along. If it wasn't, if the hotel was genuine… well, he'd learn nothing staying here. There was a key on the outside of the door. He locked the door and walked down the passageway.

  Around a corner at the far end there was a hallway with stairs and an elevator shaft. A girl who looked Vietnamese was vacuuming the floor. "Good morning," Bolan said experimentally. The girl looked up, smiled and said nothing.

  The buttons on the elevator control board inside the car ran from eight through one to RC. He hit the lowest one.

  The car sank. RC? Rez-de-chaussee? Street level? Well, Algeria had been a French colony until the early sixties.

  The elevator deposited him in a small lobby, which contained a desk, a phone switchboard and a register. A girl with spectacles and very short hair was behind the desk.

  "Bonjour, Monsieur Bolan," she said, smiling.

  The Executioner repressed a start. His name was known.

  Behind the girl he saw posters advertising budget vacations in Tunisia, Morocco, the island of Reunion. "Do you feel better today?" she asked.

  "I feel fine," Bolan said. "Er…what time did I check in yesterday? I, uh, might not have been… myself."

  The receptionist spun the register around to face her and opened it. "Ten-thirty in the evening," she said. Not looking up at him, she continued, "Your friends made the reservation by phone. A celebration, they said. You were deceived by the strength of our local pastis."

  He stared at her. Maybe it was a real hotel. "But you were no trouble," she reassured him hastily. "They helped you upstairs and then left at once. Absolutely no problem."

  "Yeah," Bolan said. "My friends."

  He walked out through revolving glass doors into sunshine.

  His eyes took in a wide flagged square with a statue on a plinth in the center. Cars were parked on the roadway surrounding the paved area. There were old houses with mansard roofs and, towering skyward, an enormous baroque church that took up one whole side of the square.

  Bolan stared up at the vast neoclassical facade. He knew the church. St. Sulpice, in the Latin Quarter of Paris.

  Paris!

  Frowning, the Executioner swore under his breath.

  He walked half a block to a cafe in the rue de Rennes and ordered a strong black coffee. For minutes he sat gazing at nothing, trying to make some sense out of that day and the day before, trying to find the connection between them.

  There was no connection. Nothing made sense.

  Following Brognola's briefing, he had hoped to regain contact with the underworld know-all, Wally Boardman. He had believed Boardman could put him back on the trail of the killer, Graziano. And Graziano, he thought, would lead him to the world terrorist organization Brognola wished him to unmask.

  Well, he had found Boardman. And the Australian had been murdered to stop him from talking.

  The killing — and that of the boy, Hassan — had nothing to do with the Algerian police or the fact that they were onto the Australian's gold smuggling racket.

  So why had Bolan been spared?

  If the aim of the operation was to abort any investigation into the terrorist organization, why hadn't the goons mowed down the Executioner when he was a sitting duck?

  Why had he simply been knocked out with an injection and taken away?

  Normally that would have been because they wanted to find out how much he knew. But if he'd known anything at all, he wouldn't have been there asking favors of the Australian!

  In any case, he had no evidence of interrogation, torture or the use of truth drugs. He'd examined his body carefully for hypo marks, and there was only the one in his thigh that he'd gotten in Boardman's place. He'd no recollection whatever of any kind of… well, any kind of anything. He'd woken up after a good night's sleep. Between the attack in Algiers and his return to consciousness in the hotel room his mind was a complete — and peaceful — blank.

  Plus he felt fine.

  Which left the second burning question: why Paris?

  What conceivable reason could there be for wasting his informant, drugging the Executioner himself in North Africa and then dumping him here… complete with his weapons, his ammunition and his money?

  Bolan couldn't find a thread of logic to connect all that. He ordered another coffee.

  Just what had he learned from Wally Boardman before they had gunned him down?

  Not much. The Australian had advised Bolan to let the investigation drop because it was too damn dangerous to ask questions, and he'd proved the truth of that with his own life.

  He'd said, to use his own words, that it was very big-time stuff, and that apart from Graziano, he knew of at least two other pro hit-men on the organization payroll — one called the Marksman, the other, Bar
aka. This Baraka, Boardman had told him, was being… groomed for some ultimate horror hit, and Bolan's best bet would be someone with the name of Friedekinde, but it would need very careful handling. There was also the obscure reference to "the old triple-F."

  The only other thing Bolan had learned was that Graziano was a small-timer… and that customarily he holed up between hits in the Belleville or La Villette districts of Paris.

  Well, Bolan himself was in Paris, wasn't he? He shook his head. That last thought suggested a link that was so crazy it wasn't worth thinking about. Except that he had to think about it, because he had no other point of departure.

  It depended on whether the killers had overheard his conversation with Boardman before they'd opened fire. And how much of it.

  If they had… no, it was insane, but if they'd patched in to the whole scenario, one reason he had been brought back to Paris with his weapons could be that they wanted him to get on Graziano's tail.

  Because Graziano himself knew too much and it was a convenient way of eliminating him? Or because the man was no more than a coincidence and there were two separate groups working against each other? In which case, following Graziano would be a false trail as far as Brognola was concerned.

  Bolan gave up. None of it made sense.

  But what the hell. He was here anyway. Forget the lunacy, he told himself. He might as well follow up the little he had and see what came out of it.

  Baraka and the Marksman could wait. He'd never heard of either of them, and he had no in. He'd prospect Belleville and La Villette later. Right now he'd run a soft probe on Friedekinde, whoever or whatever it was.

  That was, of course, if the guy had anything to do with Paris. He could just as easily be in Damascus, Amsterdam or Vienna.

  Boardman's words came back to Bolan: You know — the old triple-F. After all, it was their work, their labo…

  What did they mean? What work? What labor? How had it helped the organization? Was the triple-F an acronym… and if so what did it stand for? A society, a guerrilla group, a company? Or were there simply three names beginning with that letter? If so, it was a fair guess that Friedekinde was one of them.