Flight 741

by Don Pendleton

  The lady had been missing now for almost six hours. It could be a lifetime in the hands of a professional interrogator. Logically, McCarter knew they should abandon hope, content themselves with tracking down her murderers and wreaking vengeance on the bastards, but experience had taught the Englishman that a cautious warrior never celebrated victory or mourned defeat before the final shot was fired. And so, despite the evidence, the nagging premonition that was nibbling around his gut, the Phoenix warrior determined to continue with his search.

  He had completed a circuitous examination of the crowded dance floor, was about to pack it in, when suddenly he found their handle sitting at the bar. The profile was inconclusive, but a closer look cinched it for him, calling up the mental mug shot for review. Final recognition hit him like a gust of alpine air inside the overheated pub, as he produced a name and put it with the face.

  The blond Adonis seated at the bar and working on a stein of beer was Billy French.

  According to the cables out of Wonderland, he was a bodyguard and "confidant" of Gerry Axelrod. McCarter knew from Billy's file that he had been involved around the fringe of racial terrorism long before he caught the fancy of America's premier survivalist. A onetime member of the Klan and hanger-on of half a dozen neo-Nazi splinter groups before he joined the Brotherhood, the guy had been a college sophomore when the master race philosophy provided him with focus and a means of dealing with his sexual proclivities. He had been servicing the would-be fiihrer now for better than a year — as had a dozen other handsome soldiers of the cause — while Toby Ranger had permitted Axelrod to keep his macho image more or less intact.

  The Englishman knew that Billy's presence in the bar meant Axelrod was somewhere close at hand. Another scan confirmed that French's paramour was not in the pub. But it was unthinkable that Billy French would visit Switzerland without his master somewhere in the shadows. And if Axelrod was in Zermatt...

  The pieces fell in place so easily that he was startled by the puzzle's sheer simplicity. If Toby had encountered Axelrod, her instinct would have been to follow him back to a hotel or to a meeting with the Raven. Her acquaintance with the head survivalist and members of his entourage would make it doubly risky. And if she had been snared by Axelrod, he would regard her as a traitor.

  McCarter hung back from the bar, attempting to suppress the sense of urgency that had been building up inside him since he spotted Billy French. The blonde was flanked by women who were giving him the eye, but he ignored them, concentrating on his drink and on his own reflection in a mirror behind the bar. They got the message, and the sleek brunette on Billy's left departed first. McCarter spied another solitary drinker homing on the stool, but the Phoenix warrior edged him out by seconds, settling beside his quarry with an exaggerated sigh.

  "You mind?"

  French scarcely glanced in his direction. "Suit yourself."

  "Thanks awfully."

  The barkeep took his order, hesitated as McCarter raised a cautionary finger, nodding toward the young man seated on his right.

  "You want another?"

  Billy took a longer look this time, and nodded, knocking back the dregs before the barkeep claimed his empty glass.

  "You're English."

  "Very good. American?"

  French nodded silently.

  "On holiday?" McCarter pressed on.

  "A business trip."

  "Well, you know what they say. All work..."

  "It's not all work."

  "That so?"

  "Tonight, for instance. Strictly relaxation. Yourself?"

  McCarter shrugged. "You might say I'm recuperating."

  "Illness?"

  "No, dear, I'm healthy as a horse." He hesitated, trying for a wounded tone and coming close enough to pass. "It's just the wretched loneliness, you follow?"

  Billy nodded, urging on McCarter with his silence.

  "Well, this friend and I... some weeks ago, we reached a parting of the ways."

  "The two of you were close."

  It came out sounding like a statement rather than a question, and McCarter didn't bother with an answer. "By the sound of it, you've been there."

  Billy grunted noncommittally and drained his beer. McCarter took a gamble, laid his hand on French's thigh. If Billy warned him off, he would be forced to find another angle of attack. It might be possible to take him when he finally left the pub, but there would be the risk of a disturbance in the street, police, potential loss of any chance to get at Axelrod.

  McCarter would have had a better chance with reinforcements on his side, but Katz and Bolan would be prowling on their own till two o'clock, and after that they would be waiting for him at the fountain out in front of the Zermatterhof. He had no means of making contact with them now, and later would most certainly be too damn late to do him any good.

  But French's hand had come to rest atop McCarter's, fingers intertwining with his own. It made the Phoenix warrior's skin crawl, and still he forced himself to smile, a Cheshire grin of pure contentment.

  "Someplace we can go?"

  "I'm at the Nicoletta," Billy told him. "Nothing ancy, but we shouldn't be disturbed."

  McCarter arched an eyebrow, frowning. "Oh? Do I detect a certain lack of confidence?"

  "I've got a roomie," French responded, studying his face for a reaction, hastening to add, "but he'll be tied up tonight with business."

  "Well, if you're certain, then."

  "No sweat."

  McCarter forced a grin, and hoped that it would pass for lechery with some assistance from the subdued fighting in the pub.

  "Don't be so sure, my boy."

  "All right."

  He paid the tab and followed Billy across the dance floor, up a narrow flight of steps and out into the night, The alpine chill assaulted him immediately, worming in around his collar, up his sleeves. Beside him, dressed to kill in silk and leather, Billy French appeared impervous to cold. His rolling strut was reminiscent of a Jorm Travolta film, and McCarter wondered what had happened to the goose step he had spent so many hours practicing. The brown shirts wouldn't recognize their brother now... or would they?

  Billy led him back along the main street, past the silent shops and up a sloping alley to the Nicoletta. The concierge on duty paid them only passing notice, marking Billy French as one of those in residence, dismissing his companion as a visitor.

  His quarry's room was on the second floor, by European reckoning — which placed it three flights up, above the lobby. No one moved about the halls, and he was thankful for the lack of witnesses as Billy found his key, unlocked the door and led the way inside. It was a smallish bedroom, with a private bath that opened off the narrow entryway. McCarter strained his ears for any trace of sound from rooms on either side, heard nothing from the other guests.

  Slipping off his leather jacket, Billy French watched him, anticipation clearly written on his face. His eyes skipped past McCarter, briefly settled on the dead bolt just behind him.

  "Be a love and lock us in, eh?"

  "My pleasure."

  As he shot the bolt, McCarter's hand was already snaking inside his jacket, making contact with the Browning automatic slung beneath his arm. His fist was wrapped around it when he turned to face the blonde — and found his mark with slacks already pooled around his ankles, thumbs hooked in the waistband of his shorts.

  "That's far enough."

  "Hey, what the hell..."

  "I've got some questions for you, Billy. Play it straight — no pun intended — and you walk away with everything intact."

  The blonde was glaring at him. "How'd you know my name?"

  "I know a lot of things about you, Billy. I know all about your thing with Gerry Axelrod."

  "That right?"

  "Indeed. It isn't you I'm interested in, you know. I'm looking for your boyfriend."

  "Why?" And there was sudden cunning, fleeting hope behind the pale-blue eyes.

  "My business. If you've got an address for me
, we can cut this short."

  "What are you, man? Some kinda cop?"

  "You're getting warm. Now how about that address, eh?"

  "Go fuck yourself."

  McCarter decided to cut it short, anyway. He closed the gap between them swiftly, counting on the other's state of deshabille to hamper any sudden movements. Billy tried to duck him as he swung the Browning sharply, but the guy was hobbled by his trousers. The weapon's muzzle clipped his jaw, the impact dumping him full-length across the bed.

  "Let's try that one more time."

  The Phoenix warrior caught a flash of warning in his quarry's eyes, and he was ready — almost ready — when the captive made his move. He was agile, McCarter had to give him that. In one swift motion, he kicked free of the tangled slacks and vaulted backward, rolling off the bed before McCarter could restrain him. It would be an easy kill, but any warning shot would rouse the house against him in an instant. Stripped of any plausible alternative, he sprang across the bed, its mattress serving as a kind of trampoline, and tackled Billy French, the impact dropping both men on the carpet.

  Billy tried to wriggle out from under him, all fists and knees and elbows now, forgetting any trace of systematic self-defense. He didn't scream or speak as McCarter grappled with him, clubbing with the automatic, opening his scalp in several places. Dazed, the blond American gave one last heave that almost shook his captor, slashing with an elbow at McCarter's ribs. The bodyguard struggled to his knees, lost balance, pivoted to face McCarter as the Browning's muzzle caught his nose and flattened it against one cheek.

  The impact banged his head against the dresser, and the fight went out of Billy French at once. McCarter crouched in front of him and wedged the Browning automatic underneath his chin.

  "I'm running out of patience, lad," he snarled. "Once more...or you can kiss it all goodbye."

  "All right, f'Chrissakes!"

  Billy's voice was pained, a nasal whine, but every word was clearly audible.

  He told McCarter everything before he died.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Toby Ranger kept her eyes closed, praying that the nausea, the pain, would fade away. She wished the throbbing in her skull would ease before she had to face the glaring lights. Before she made a move, the lady started taking inventory, tensing arms and legs that were immobilized by bonds but still intact. The smell of canvas and the rasp of fabric on her cheek informed her she was lying on a cot. Her wrists were bound behind her — nylon climbing rope, if she was not mistaken — and her ankles had been likewise hobbled to prevent her standing up.

  Her memory was coming back in bits and pieces, giving her another look at Gerry Axelrod, the looming shape behind her, the sap slicing into impact with her skull. Angry with herself at being caught so easily, she wondered how the bastard had detected her. Had she become that clumsy on a tail, that he could pick her out amid a crowd?

  She strained against her bonds experimentally, and found them secure. Worse, the rope around her ankles was secured to the cot as well, preventing her from sitting upright or from rising off the narrow bed.

  Reluctantly, she opened first one eye and then the other, wincing at the pain that artificial light ignited in her brain. When Toby tried to turn her head, she felt the crusty tug of drying blood against her hair, and knew the sap had split her scalp. Somehow, knowing that the bastards had drawn blood increased her anger and determination to escape.

  The room was small, no more than eight by ten. A cell, devoid of windows, with a single door directly opposite the cot. The single light bulb set into the ceiling overhead would still be beyond her reach if she was allowed to stand.

  She started taking stock of her surroundings. It was not a hotel room, she knew that much... which meant that Gerry Axelrod had access to a private home. His own? She had no memory of any property in Switzerland, had even heard him speak disparagingly of the foreign bank accounts that other businessmen employed to keep their liquid assets from the prying eyes of federal tax accountants. Someone else's then. But whose?

  It hit her with a certainty that took her breath away and very nearly banished hope. The Raven — the impostor — killed at Steyr had been coming to Zermatt. With sudden clarity, she knew he had been coming to consult his mentor, his control. He had been scheduled for a sit-down with his master, and that told Toby everything she had to know.

  She was a captive in the Raven's house, and not the home of an impersonator this time, but the one and only unimproved original. He was alive, despite the countless rumors and reports. She knew it as surely as she knew she was living on borrowed time.

  The Raven would have questions for her, but in the long run it would matter little whether Toby answered them or not. The man could not afford to let her live, reveal his secret to the world.

  But would he be any more secure once she had been eliminated? Bolan would have found her note by now, would realize that she was overdue. He might be scouring the streets already, but to what result? How could he hope to find her here, when Toby didn't know herself where she was? There might be records, deeds to real estate, but offices would still be closed, civilian access limited by the infernal Swiss desire for confidentiality. Assuming that the deed existed, that it could be found, why should the Raven use his name or any alias of record?

  It was hopeless, dammit.

  How many hours had elapsed since she was captured in the alley? Toby felt her watch in place, but with her hands secured behind her, there was no way she could check the time. An hour, certainly; most likely more. It could, she realized, as easily have been a day, a week. But no, the Raven would be anxious to interrogate her, while it all was fresh. Logic told her that it wasn't morning yet. The bastard would not let another day begin without some answers to the puzzle Axelrod had carried home.

  She wondered how much information they might have already. There were no credentials in her bag, no straight id. They might have taken fingerprints, but Toby realized that she was stretching it. The Raven would not have facilities for complicated screening. He would have to feed his curiosity by playing twenty questions, and she knew instinctively that she would not have long to wait before the game began.

  Unbidden, images of martyred friends came fresh to Toby's mind. She saw Georgette Chebleu — or what the turkey-makers had preserved for their amusement-lying on a Mafia "operating table" in Detroit. There had been others, but there had been none worse, and Toby wondered how long she could hold before she cracked.

  You couldn't beat professional interrogators, Toby knew that much. She would break, and her knowledge of the Executioner, of SOG and other agents in the field, would all be compromised. How much of it would help the Raven, and how much would find its way to his control at KGB? No matter. Any breach, however slight, was unforgivable. And Toby was aware of only one reliable technique for cutting off the flow of information, right.

  She had to find a way to kill herself before the Raven made her talk.

  That much decided, she pondered possible techniques. She had no hollow teeth, no cyanide compressed as buttons or disguised as costume jewelry. There was — had been — a pistol in her purse, but it had disappeared, and Toby knew that she would not be seeing it again. It was impossible to hold your breath until you died; survival reflex made you breathe again as soon as you lost consciousness. If they had not secured her ankles, Toby might have leaped to reach the small electric socket in the ceiling, might have dashed her head against the walls or heavy wooden door... but she was fantasizing now. What she needed was reality, a workable solution to her plight.

  She might provoke the Raven into killing her, provided that he did not send a surrogate to do his dirty work. A trained, dispassionate interrogator would not let himself be goaded into lethal violence prematurely, but a terrorist might lose control just long enough to see her through. She would attack his ego, ridicule his manhood and the Hispanic's inbred concept of machismo — anything to spark a homicidal rage. With determination and a total disregar
d for life it could be done.

  Toby cursed herself for these defeatist thoughts. She had no disregard for life. Besides, there was Bolan, Katzenelenbogen and McCarter to be thought of, together with all the others whose survival would be jeopardized if she was broken here and now.

  She heard footsteps outside the room. The door swung inward silently, revealing a solitary figure of a man. She recognized the face at once despite the fuzzy photographs on file, despite advancing age, and Toby felt a cautious surge of hope.

  "Ramirez."

  "Ah, you have me at a disadvantage."

  "Don't I wish."

  He closed the door behind himself and moved to stand beside the cot. No more than average height, he seemed to loom above her as she lay secured to the cot.

  "We should begin with introductions, eh? Perhaps your name?"

  Her silence was the only answer, and it hung between them like a veil of gossamer.

  "I see." The Raven's smile was weary, almost sad. "I had hoped that we might speak as civilized adults, without resort to the unpleasantness of violence. Apparently, I was mistaken."

  Toby mustered all her courage into something like a sneer. "I wouldn't want to cheat you out of any kicks."

  The terrorist was momentarily confused. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Well, I mean, it's got to be a treat. You must not have a chance to torture women every day."

  He stiffened and took a backward step, away from her. She noticed for the first time that he limped.

  "You have misjudged me. I derive no pleasure from inflicting pain."

  "Oh, really? My mistake. I guess you just must do it for the money, then."

  His eyes were boring into her, and Toby felt her grim resolve begin to slip away. At once she wondered if she had the strength to see it through.