“Come on, Johnny,” she said. “I’ll bet you’re handsome.” Bolan could tell she had begun to like the DEA agent after all they’d been through together. But she would get her revenge for the way he had treated her initially one way or another, and teasing him now was as good a way as any.
Seven reached self-consciously into one of the sacks and pulled out a folded Harris tweed sport coat. “It was on sale,” he said, as if he’d done something wrong.
“Put it on,” Polyakova encouraged him. “I want to see.”
The DEA man’s face was redder than ever as he took off his jacket.
The beautiful Russian woman took the threadbare sport coat and giggled. “I will throw this one away for you, Johnny,” she said. “You should have done that yourself a long time ago.”
Bolan wouldn’t have guessed it was possible, but the DEA man turned yet a deeper shade of crimson as he stuck his arms into the new coat. “Hey, give me a break,” he said. He pulled several new shirts, a pair of jeans and a pair of corduroy slacks from the other bag and set them on the bed. Then he rolled up the plastic sacks and started to stick them in his suitcase.
“Wait,” the woman said, frowning down at the crumpled plastic in the DEA man’s hands. “There’s something else in there.”
Seven looked hesitantly at the beautiful Russian woman, then said, “Oh, what the hell.” He unrolled the sacks, shook them over the bed, and a Harris tweed driving cap fell out. He laughed apprehensively again. “I always kind of liked these things,” he said, then quickly added, “And it was on sale, too.”
The Russian lifted the cap off the bed and placed it on his head. Her eyebrows lowered as she studied it for a moment, then adjusted it to a slight angle. “You will look dashing, Johnny,” she said, then looked down from the cap to the jacket. “What is remarkable, is that they even go well together.”
“What is that supposed to—?” the DEA man started to say.
She interrupted him. “Here,” she said, reaching down to the bed and lifting a cream-colored turtleneck. “Change your shirt.”
Johnny Seven shrugged.
Bolan cleared his throat. “If the fashion show is over now,” he said, “we all need to sit down and work out our battle plan.” He walked to the table by the window and took a seat. Polyakova joined him in the same chair she had occupied earlier.
Seven took off his new jacket, then looked at Polyakova self-consciously before turning his back to her. Bolan saw him suck in his stomach as he stripped off Ontomanov’s tight stripes and pulled the turtleneck over his head before slipping back into his new Harris tweed. Bolan tried not to smile when the DEA man wore the cap to the table.
But, after all, she had told him he looked dashing. And such words from a woman like Luiza Polyakova held their own kind of power.
THE SMITH-WILLIAMS Art Gallery was several times larger than Polyakova’s Greenwich Village establishment. In addition to contemporary oil paintings, the building housed rooms devoted to watercolors, sculpture, chalk and charcoal drawings and the work of several well-known photographers. It was located six blocks down George Street on the same side of the street as the Durrants Hotel. Well within walking distance.
Bolan hailed a cab just the same, directing the driver to take them several miles away—almost to Regent’s Park—before doubling back and arriving at the site from the other direction. The soldier, seated in the back of the taxi with Polyakova, kept an eye on the side-view mirror during the trip, watching for a tail. He saw none.
Seven stayed in the front seat of the cab as Bolan and Polyakova got out. He would return to the Durrants, then walk back to the art gallery, arriving five to ten minutes after them in order to appear to be alone. Bolan didn’t expect anything to go down on this recon mission, but the DEA agent would serve as backup just in case it did.
Bolan took the woman’s arm, waiting for one of London’s double-decker buses to pass before escorting her across the street. “You know your lines?” he asked quietly as they approached the glass door leading inside.
“I think so,” the Russian woman said. She looked up at him and smiled, her green eyes dancing. She had shown more good humor in the past hour than she had the entire time the soldier had known her. Her mood change had begun as soon as he returned the impromptu kiss that had happened shortly after Johnny Seven left on his clothes shopping spree.
The door was pushed outward by a man wearing a bright red doorman’s uniform, complete with cap and gold braid running down the shoulders. Bolan followed Polyakova into a foyer where they saw a guest book. Going immediately into the roles they had rehearsed only moments earlier, Polyakova said, “I’ll sign us in, sweetheart,” and stepped up to the podium where the book lay open. As instructed, the Russian woman wrote, “Mr. and Mrs. Matt Cooper, San Francisco, California, U.S.A.,” with the gold pen attached with a chain to the stand. She took Bolan’s arm and they stepped into the first room of the gallery.
The room reminded Bolan of Polyakova’s own business back in New York. Paintings covered the walls, and more stood on easels in staggered rows throughout the area. The Russian took Bolan’s hand and pointed toward a painting to their right. “Look, darling,” she said excitedly. “I think that’s a Fielding. You know how you love his work. Let’s go see.” She led him down the row of pictures.
They stopped in front of the painting to which she had pointed. The soldier pretended to study it as he scanned the room with his peripheral vision. A few minutes later he saw Seven, complete in new sport coat and cap, enter the gallery and begin browsing through the easels. There were perhaps two dozen other men and at least that many women viewing the oil works. But none of them matched the description of the man Gregor had sent them to kill.
It was an interesting story Gregor had told Bolan, and in doing so he had probably revealed more about the Russians’ overall drug-smuggling operation than he’d realized. The setup in London was similar to the one in New York. A Rabashka-type character—Gregor had revealed no names, of course—accompanied the shipments from Moscow, where they were received at this gallery by the owner, Raymond Smith-Williams. Smith-Williams took possession, and then the “Ontomanov” of England—whoever he might be—arrived to cull out the stolen paintings and heroin. There was a major difference here, however. Unlike Polyakova, Smith-Williams was a willing participant in the smuggling operation. In fact, he had been skimming dope off the shipments for some time now. According to Gregor, the last load of heroin secreted in the picture frames had tested ninety-eight percent pure before leaving Moscow. But after it had passed through Smith-Williams’s hands that percentage had dropped to seventy-five.
Which was why Gregor and the man in Moscow had decided it was time for Raymond Smith-Williams to die.
“Do you like it?” Polyakova asked, still looking at the painting. He had told her to say those words.
Now the Executioner answered with the words the art expert had told him to say. “It’s not his best,” Bolan said. “He seems to have diverted from his usual use of color.”
Polyakova squeezed his hand. When he glanced down at the woman, her emerald eyes were dancing once more, and it looked as if she was trying not to laugh. Reaching up, she cupped a soft hand around the back of his neck and stood on her tiptoes as if to kiss him on the cheek. She did kiss him on the cheek, but while she was there she also whispered, “That sounded good. But this role doesn’t really fit you.” She was grinning impishly again when she lowered herself back down.
The woman led him on through the gallery, making a comment here, a statement there, and Bolan recited a few things she had taught him to say. But overall, he had to agree with her. The role of art critic didn’t seem to fit at all. He knew it wouldn’t last for long, however, and he continued to look interested as they made their way through the sculpture room across the hall and then to the photography exhibit at the rear of the building. Occasionally he would catch a glimpse of a Harris tweed sport coat and driving cap, and know Seven was
pretending to study the paintings just as he was.
The Executioner hadn’t yet decided whether this short undercover shift was leading toward an enemy capture or was simply an intelligence-gathering mission. It would depend on several things, not the least of which was how many people were around when they finally found Smith-Williams. In any eventuality, Bolan intended to follow through with Gregor’s wish that he terminate the drug-dealing gallery owner. As a knowing participant, the man was just as responsible for the death and horror the white powder brought on as Gregor and the man behind him in Moscow. So he would kill the art dealer as he’d been instructed to do. But not until he had pumped the man for information that would lead him both to Gregor and the big man in Moscow.
They left the photography room and entered an area filled with watercolors. Bolan stared at a still life of a floral arrangement. Polyakova had held his hand the entire time they’d been in the gallery, tugging him gently when she felt it was time that a knowledgeable art expert grew bored and moved on. Now he felt her pull again, and they walked around a corner to another row. Bolan stopped in his tracks as a slender man with his eyes down on a bundle of papers hurried down the aisle, not looking up until he’d already run straight into the Executioner.
“Oh, my!” the man said as he finally looked up. Bolan saw that he wore an ascot and a thin David Niven mustache. “Dear me, my apologies,” Raymond Smith-Williams said, brushing some imaginary dust off the yacht club insignia on his navy blue blazer. “Clumsy of me.”
Bolan smiled and shook his head. “My fault,” he replied.
“No, no,” Smith-Williams said. “My mistake. Had my mind on other things, I suppose. Business, you know.”
“Ah,” Bolan said. “You must be Mr. Smith-Williams.”
The Briton beamed. “Yes indeed,” he said. “At your service. Yank…pardon me, no offense meant. American, are you?”
Bolan laughed. “‘Yank’ doesn’t offend me,” he said. “And yes, I’m afraid I’m about as ‘red white and blue baseball and apple pie’ as they come.” He extended his hand and said, “Matt Cooper.”
Smith-Williams shook his hand limply, then dropped it, reaching up to smooth his mustache. “No wonder ‘Yank’ doesn’t offend you, then,” he said dryly.
Bolan looked at him curiously.
“Baseball, old man!” Smith-Williams said. “Yanks! Babe Ruth. Perhaps my connection was too vague.”
“No,” Bolan answered. “I’m just a little slow sometimes.” He let go of Polyakova’s hand and slipped his arm around her shoulders. “I can be a little rude, too, I guess. Mr. Smith-Williams, meet my wife, Ivanna.”
Raymond Smith-Williams looked at Polyakova, and she looked at him. The man was hers for the asking.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Smith-Williams,” she said, holding out her hand.
The art dealer cleared his throat and took her hand. “Charmed, my dear.” He leaned forward to kiss her hand, doing his best to camouflage his gaze at her breasts as a mere hitch in the normal path a pair of eyes would take between the face and hand. It was a gallant, and refined attempt, but it failed miserably. Looking back up, Smith-Williams said, “I do not detect even a hint of Yank in your voice, Mrs. Cooper. Russian?”
“Yes.”
“Ah.” Smith-Williams smiled. “I have many Russian friends myself, men I have met through business since the borders opened up.”
Bolan smiled at him pleasantly.
Smith-Williams stopped, closed his eyes dramatically and held up a hand. “But enough of my foolishness. Are you enjoying your visit to my humble collection?”
“Very much,” Bolan said.
“And what, in particular, has caught your interest?” Smith-Williams asked. “Perhaps I could—”
Polyakova stepped in to save him. “We both simply love Fielding,” she said. “You have a rather unusual piece of his. My husband was particularly impressed with the two Perez-Riverte oils near the front. Matt says he studied under Dali. I don’t believe him.”
“No,” said Smith-Williams sadly. “I’m afraid your husband is correct. If you look closely, you can see the influence.” He turned back to Bolan with a new respect in his eyes.
The soldier shrugged modestly.
“Is there anything in particular I could help you with?” Smith-Williams asked them both. Then, before either could answer, his arm shot up to his face and he said, “Oh, dear. Silly of me. I was enjoying this conversation so much I’ve forgotten I have a customer waiting on me.”
“That’s quite all right,” Bolan said. “We have other business we have to attend to, as well. But we are interested in both the Fielding and the Perez-Rivertes. Tell me, do you ever make appointments after regular hours?”
“Rarely,” the Briton replied. Then he smiled and looked at Polyakova. “But for the two of you, I must make an exception.” He glanced at his wrist again, then added, “Would nine tonight suit you?”
“Fine,” Bolan answered.
“Marvelous,” Polyakova said, smiling.
“Then we’ll see you here, then.” With a final smile, Raymond Smith-Williams spun on his heels and disappeared through the forest of easels.
Polyakova looked up at Bolan. “Ready, darling? We wouldn’t want to be late for the ballet.”
THEY HAD BEEN BACK at the Durrants less than ten minutes when the window exploded.
Polyakova, sitting in the chair she had laid claim to earlier, screamed at the top of her lungs and dived for the floor. Bolan had been sitting on the bed, studying a London city map. He fell over the beautiful Russian woman, shielding her body with his as he jerked the Desert Eagle from his hip. Seven came sprinting out of the bathroom wearing half a face of shaving cream, a disposable razor in one hand and his SIG-Sauer in the other.
“Down!” the Executioner commanded, and the DEA agent fell forward onto the carpet.
The second shot sailed through the window over their heads, drilling into the mattress and scorching the bedspread and sheets. By the time the third shot sounded, Bolan had identified the weapon as a .308. The rounds sounded more like they had come from an assault rifle than a tightly locked bolt action.
Bolan raised his head right after the fourth shot, pinpointing the source as the roof of one of the buildings on the other side of the alley. Night had fallen over the city hours earlier, but in the lights atop the tall structure behind them he could make out the silhouette of a man. He was standing at the lip of the roof, his weapon resting on the short safety wall running along the side. But now that all three of them were below the windowsill and out of sight, he had stopped firing.
The Executioner looked past the man and saw a huge water tank directly behind him on the roof. At the top of the tank, on the far side, he could just see the top of a steel handrail. It glowed in the lights a good twenty feet higher than the roof itself, and meant a ladder led up the tank on the other side.
Suddenly the sniper rose and sprinted away, serpentining toward the tank. Bolan rose and fired two quick .44 Magnum rounds, but the man zigzagged just as Bolan pulled the trigger both times. Before he could fire again, the sniper had ducked behind the water tank.
The Executioner knew why. Twenty feet higher in the air, the man would have a better angle to shoot down through their window. He grabbed Polyakova and jerked her to her feet. Without a word she followed. “Come on, Johnny!” the Executioner said as he raced by where the DEA man lay on the floor. “He’s moving higher!”
Seven leaped to his feet with a speed and grace that contradicted his size and age.
Bolan couldn’t be sure exactly how wide the sniper’s field of fire would be when he reached the top of the water tank, but the safe thing to do was get Polyakova out of the room altogether. Once in the hall, they would be out of sight completely and have at least two walls between them and the powerful .308 rounds.
The Executioner had already opened the door to the hall when the warning bell went off in his head. But by then it was too late.
Suddenly he was staring down the barrel of a Degtyarev PPD-40. The man he had seen earlier enter the room across the hall—the man who had carried the large suitcases—stood just outside his room down the hall. The stock of the submachine gun was pressed into his shoulder.
A half-dozen 7.62 mm rounds erupted from the 71-round drum of the Soviet weapon. The wooden frame around the door splintered, sending sharp scraps of wood through the air as Bolan slammed Polyakova back into the hotel room. She fell back against Seven, who had been sprinting along behind them, and the two came to a standstill just inside the doorway. Bolan heard another explosion from the rear of the room, and another .308 slug zipped through the window to drill through the closet next to where he stood. Wrapping his arms around both Polyakova and Seven, he shoved them both into the bathroom and drew the Desert Eagle.
The 7.62 rounds from the hallway had stopped momentarily, and the Executioner dropped to one knee. Slowly he peered around the corner of the room. He had barely gotten his eye around the corner when another burst of fire drove him back again. He fell to a sitting position against the wall as the rounds cut through the open door, slicing off the top hinge. The door fell forward at an angle, jamming against what was left of the frame.
To his side, the Executioner saw Seven crawl out of the bathroom back toward the middle of the room. Two rounds sailed over his head before he could hide behind the bed. He reached up, grabbing the viola case and pulling it down on top of him, then instinctively rolled into a fetal position against the wall at the head of the bed. He was just in time, as several .308 rounds ripped through the mattress, box springs and pillows at the exact spot where he’d ducked. Feathers filled the air as if a tornado had gone through a chicken farm.
Bolan knew what the DEA man was doing and let him do it. He took a deep breath. He was about to lean back into the hall and fire when another stream of Soviet rounds sent the bottom hinge spinning off into the hallway. The bullet-ridden door fell to the ground, wobbling back and forth from one edge to the other until it finally settled into the carpet.
Soviet Specter Page 16