The phone rang.
"David, shall I..."
McCarter signaled Lynn away from the phone. He crossed the room and picked up the receiver.
"Hello."
"David, it's Yakov." McCarter recognized Katzenelenbogen's accent immediately. The Phoenix Force commander sounded tense and irritable. "Are you alone?"
"No, I've got company — even on the street outside."
"Someone else knows about the number?"
"We must assume so." McCarter had heard no telltale clicks or buzzes, but it seemed probable the line was being tapped by now.
"Brognola has called a special meeting of all Stony Man associates. New York. Tomorrow night. Same place where we discussed the Grenadian affair."
"Got it. I'll be there." They hung up without any farewells. McCarter paced over to the window again.
He saw a red post-office van stop in front of the entrance. He watched as the driver jumped out, heading toward the building's main doors. Seconds later, McCarter heard the buzzing of Lynn's intercom.
"Telegram for Mr. McCarter!" came the tinny announcement through the speaker. Lynn pressed the button and let him in. When the man's knock came, she opened the door.
"Sign here, please."
"Thanks."
McCarter ripped open the cheap brown envelope as soon as the man disappeared. It was from Paris. Although it was addressed to David McCarter at Lynn's fall-back address, it read: Dear Hilary, Waiting off Juno. H plus 12 for 3. Love, Mike.
The ex-SAS commando read it through twice, the tumblers turning in his mind as his memory unlocked the secret of the message.
No doubt the telegram had been screened by other eyes before it was delivered. Had they managed to read between the lines, too? Juno... love... Mike: that particular combination of words meant only one thing. McCarter thought it unlikely that anyone who might have seen the cable would share both his own passion for military matters and his retention of small details. But he was certain someone would make the right connections.
He grabbed his coat from the hallway rack.
"I have to go out for a while, darling. Look, as soon as I leave here those blokes in the Rover are going to follow me. When they do, drive my car to the back of the public library, okay? Stay on the side streets and leave it there for me."
"Take care," she said
His lips brushed Lynn's forehead as he handed over the keys. "I'm not sure when I'll be back..."
* * *
David was right. Lynn watched as the Rover waited for a double-decker bus to go by, then the beige car slipped into the lunchtime traffic before the tall raincoated figure could gain too much of a head start on them.
Six blocks later, McCarter heard a car door slam as he went up the broad stone steps of the library. He glimpsed the Rover in his peripheral vision as he entered the building.
The librarian gave him a hearty smile. "You'll find our military history collection over in that far corner, sir."
It took him only a few moments to locate the volume he was looking for: The Greatest Invasion, 6 June 1944. His friend Stuart Farson, the controversial historian, had scoffed at the book in his review, dismissing it as a shoddy rehash but conceding that the illustrations and diagrams were first-rate. McCarter stood by the window and riffled through the pages to locate the double-spread map of the D-day landings.
His fingertip traced along the Normandy coast, past Omaha and Gold, to the beaches around Courseulles code-named Juno. The western flank, stretching toward La Riviere, was divided into two sectors — Mike and Love. A small black circle on the chart marked the offshore position of the headquarters ship for the Juno assault; it was the Hilary.
McCarter scanned the text to check on the timing of the landings. Because of the heavy German obstacles, H-hour on Juno had been delayed to 0745. Add 12, as the telegram had instructed, and that made the rendezvous time 1945 hours. So Mack would be waiting for him off the French coastline between Courseulles and La Riviere until a quarter to eight for the next three evenings.
He glanced through the shelves at the man apparently poring over a newspaper spread out on the library table. It was time to leave these watchdogs behind. He sauntered to the washroom, made a rapid exit through the frosted-glass window at the rear and was long gone before the other man realized McCarter wasn't coming out again.
As McCarter drove, he thought of Peter Stevens, an ex-SAS comrade. He had restored a fast patrol boat for the questionable adventures he now pursued on both sides of the Channel. No man knew the treacherous shoals of the French shoreline better than Stevens. It would take about two hours to reach his place on the south coast.
McCarter eased onto the motorway and accelerated. New York would have to wait.
* * *
The other larger fishing vessels had already returned, threading their way back to port through the rocky shallows. Bolan waved as one of the commercial fishermen passed him by. He started the motor and cruised in a circle as if he intended to give it one more try before heading back to shore as well. Actually, he was holding his position as best he could with an approximate triangulation off two church spires that poked up above the low dunes.
The old fishing skiff had cost him the last of the funds hidden in his belt. The light was fading fast as Bolan picked up the tin can he was using as a bailer. The wind was freshening.
Bolan's upper lip felt raw and naked since he had scraped off the mustache. He had neither the contacts in France nor any money left to create a new identity from one of the blank passports he carried with him. Anyway, in this fix, who else could he count on besides David McCarter?
The last glimmering rays of sunset shot through the clouds with a lurid glow of reds and purples. The dark shadow of the patrol boat, riding on a curling bow wave, came arrowing in toward Bolan's craft. He signaled with his flashlight.
With its powerful engines throbbing, Stevens's sleek vessel slowed long enough for Bolan to reach up McCarter's extended hand and get a tug aboard. Then, with the helm hard over, the boat turned back for the refuge of the Channel night, leaving only a phosphorescent wake streaking the sea behind it.
Bolan wrapped his fingers tightly around a steaming mug of coffee served him as soon as the brief introduction to Peter Stevens was completed. It had been a long, cold wait.
"They've declared open season on you, Colonel," said McCarter, lacing their mugs with a shot of rum. The Briton was careful not to use Bolan's name.
"So I heard. A guy named Wetherby told me all about it."
"Well, whoever he is, what he probably didn't tell you is that you've still got friends."
Bolan lifted up the fingers of both hands. "Yeah, I counted already."
"You may find there are more people than that who are willing to help you."
The American conceded as much with a nod. He took a final drag on the cigarette then flicked the butt over the side. "I was sitting in that damned boat waiting for you to pick me up... thinking things over." He faced McCarter squarely. "I've been framed, David, and the evidence against me is too damning. I have to clear my name. If I don't, the Phoenix program will cease to exist and everything that we, Yakov, Hal and the others have ever fought for will have been in vain. Besides, the group lobbying against me in the States won't be satisfied with just closing down Stony Man Farm. They want my head."
He chose not to tell McCarter of his suspicions about a highly placed mole in Washington. Bolan put his hand on McCarter's shoulder. "I have a lot to ask of you, my friend."
"I'm ready, Colonel. Just say the word."
Bolan shook his head. "This is one battle I have to fight alone. But you can help. I need funds, supplies, a new passport, intelligence on the inner workings of the KGB..."
"That's a relief," said McCarter, grinning. "For a minute there I thought you were going to ask for the impossible!"
30
McCarter's destination was about an hour's drive from Peter Stevens's private mooring.
Pr
ofessor Stuart Farson had turned a lifetime's study of espionage and subversive warfare into a series of often shocking bestsellers. His popularization of this shadow world, especially with his embarrassing revelations, had not won him many friends among his peers, but the royalties had financed his freedom from any further academic backbiting. He now lived in a small manor house tucked into a fold of the southern downs.
"I put in a call to the States yesterday," said McCarter, slowing down for a roundabout in the road. "To the Easthill Burn Treatment Center. Kasim is making good progress. Oh, yes, and there's news of another friend of yours, too. Check that paper on the back seat. Look at the sports section."
Bolan flipped to the back of the newspaper. "She did it! Kelly won first place."
"Yes, she beat the Kat. By a whisker..."
"That's all you ever have to win by." There was a photograph of a radiantly smiling Kelly Crawford on the arm of Pierre Danjou, himself a champion in the fencing competition.
"How much does this friend we're going to see know about Stony Man?"
"I'm not sure, but whatever information he's put together didn't come from me," replied McCarter. "Stuart has built up an amazing network of contacts. He might surprise you..."
The light over the front porch went on as their tires crunched up the gravel drive of the old house. It was sheltered behind tall hedges and a row of elm trees. Farson came out to greet them; he glanced up at the stars and sniffed the breeze. "More rain's on the way. Do come in, both of you."
He wore a light cardigan and tweed trousers, which did nothing to disguise the comfortable bulge of his paunch. However, a mischievously cherubic smile made him seem much younger than his years. They were ushered into a parlor where the dying embers of a log fire still glowed hot in the grate.
"I could easily get used to living in America," Farson told his late-night visitors, as he poured out three stiff tots of brandy. "Unlike my fellow countrymen, I see no particular virtue in being constantly damp and chilled to the marrow." They raised their glasses in a silent toast of acknowledgment. "This is an unexpected pleasure. I'm glad to have the chance to meet you at last, Colonel Phoenix."
"Bolan. My name is Mack Bolan."
"Very well, Mr. Bolan, how can I help you?"
McCarter listened to Bolan's story as he recounted the events for the attentive writer.
"Here's the shell I found on the window ledge." Bolan handed it to his British colleague. "What do you make of it, David?"
"It's Russian all right. Seven point sixty-two millimeter. One of their old-style rimmed cartridges." McCarter examined the rosette crimping, which had burst open into tiny jagged flanges. "But it didn't kill anyone. It was definitely a blank."
"Probably used in a Dragunov SVD," Farson offered. "Most of their other weapons fire the shorter M-43."
Bolan looked at McCarter. "I want you to take that shell case with you to New York. Take it to the meeting."
McCarter checked his watch. "I can make it if there's a seat on the Concorde."
"And I want you to take this as well." Bolan handed over the canister of Georgi Radic's 35mm film. "Deliver it to Hal Brognola personally. Those pictures will substantiate my claim that the Russians have a double working for them."
"The use of doubles has a long history," Farson offered, lighting his pipe. "And, ironically, it has become increasingly common in our own media-dominated age. Roosevelt, Churchill, Montgomery — they all used impersonators at one time or another. In peacetime, doubles have been used to fill in when a leader has been too ill to appear, or to mislead his rivals, and no doubt sometimes out of sheer cowardice."
"What about the Russians?"
"Ah, they're masters of the art. They lead the field when it comes to such deception. They even found two look-alikes to impersonate a couple of cosmonauts who were killed on reentry — a fact that the Politburo did not want to come to light. And so it never has." Farson tamped down the top of his tobacco, struck another match and relit the pipe. "A few years ago I learned that a certain casting director at Mosfilm had located an excellent likeness of Brezhnev. The old man even attended a couple of state functions when the real Brezhnev was too sick to go himself.
"This brought my attention to a small enclave within the KGB. I do not know its name or its exact function, but since the Department for Executive Action mishandled the attack on the Pope, then botched the Grenadian coup, they have been accumulating great power. This small but lethal unit is under the command of Major General Greb Strakhov and his..."
"Strakhov!" exclaimed McCarter. "But wasn't he the man who.?.."
"I recently crossed paths with another man named Strakhov," Bolan said.
"Kyril Strakhov? Afghanistan? So you were behind the hijacking of the M-36..." The network the British professor plugged into was fast and accurate.
Bolan gestured toward his commando comrade. "Actually, it took both of us to steal that chopper."
The historian smiled with renewed respect for the ex-SAS officer who was his friend.
Then his expression became serious. "The late Captain Strakhov was one of the most decorated test pilots in the Soviet Union. He was Greb's only son. If the major general did not know of you before, Mr. Bolan, you have now made a formidable enemy."
Bolan could feel the pieces falling into place. "Tell me what you know about him."
"As a very young officer Greb Strakhov distinguished himself in the Finnish campaign in the winter of 1940. He transferred to security, then attracted the attention of Khrushchev during the battle for Stalingrad. No doubt he used his political connections to further his postwar career, but always kept a sufficient distance so as not to be dragged down when his partners fell from grace... a not inconsiderable feat."
"What about the private man? Any known weaknesses?"
"It would seem he has an obsessive interest in the fate of the Romanovs, especially young Anastasia." Farson held up a hand to caution Bolan. "But he can hardly be accused of harboring reactionary sympathies — although I suspect that might be the case — since he is now in charge of the long-standing KGB dossier on the last czar and his family."
"If this Greb Strakhov did not mastermind the Macek plot himself then, from what you've said, he probably knows who did,'' mused McCarter.
"There must be a way of reaching him," Bolan said darkly.
Farson stared into the ashes piled up in the fireplace. "Strakhov has managed to keep an extremely low profile over the years. I doubt if any of the agencies have much of a file on him. But there is one other person who might be able to help. In Paris. I'll put a call through. It's awfully late, but she has a younger companion and he very rarely sleeps..."
"She?"
"Yes. Marijana is an elderly lady now. Never leaves her Paris apartment. She's one of the very last surviving members of the czar's inner circle." Farson rose. "Excuse me. Do help yourselves to some more brandy."
They heard the study door click shut as Farson withdrew to place the call to Paris.
"Can you get me back to France?"
"Peter can," McCarter assured him. "He's standing by until he hears from me again. I wasn't sure where you'd be heading for."
"All the way this time — to Moscow."
McCarter gave a low whistle. "What other help do you need?"
"A new identity."
"Right. I know a chap in Portsmouth who can fix that. It's about forty minutes from here. What else?"
Bolan lifted the Beretta from its holster. "I hoped there would be time for a thorough overhaul of all my weapons. This has been dragged through sewers and mud, avalanches and seawater..."
But there was no more Konzaki; his master armorer and friend had fallen, victim to the everlasting war.
The Briton opened up his jacket to reveal a Beretta 92-S. "Here, let's trade."
"Thanks, David."
"There's ammunition in my car."
Farson came back into the room. He carried a piece of paper with a series of numbered instru
ctions. "This is all rather complicated. I hope you can read my handwriting. Once you've met them, you'll know why you've got to go for a runaround of Paris first... a sensible precaution, I can assure you."
Bolan accepted the directions. He would memorize them and then destroy the paper before landing in France.
Professor Farson had something else for his American visitor. He reached into his pocket and produced a miniature camera.
"Let's call it a parting gift. Handmade in Switzerland. As you can see it's even smaller than a Minox," Farson said, then added dryly, "You might take some snapshots of your trip for me."
31
With a purposeful stride Bolan made his way through the crowds at Gare St-Lazare. He spotted the familiar caps of two gendarmes and veered to the right. The first leg of his Paris journey was to ride the Metro to Concorde.
It felt good to be taking the offensive. Bolan wore an olive trench coat to cover his combat suit. In a small Cordura duffel bag he carried his personal gear, some spare clothes and additional ammo. The Beretta was fitted snugly into its custom-made holster.
He hurried down the subway tunnel and slipped through the platform door at the last possible moment. He played the same trick when changing to the westbound train to Etoile. He was walking down the Champs-Elysees when he first spotted the man in the dark blue raincoat. He was pretending to study a film poster plastered on a billboard.
Halfway down the broad avenue Bolan skipped into the traffic and weaved his way across to the other side. One more train ride and he was walking over the bridge to the Ile de la Cite. He had memorized Farson's instructions. Now he turned left, walking past Notre Dame cathedral, then doubling back over the Seine to Ile St-Louis. Each time he changed direction, Bolan quickly checked to make sure he was not being followed. All the time he kept his head low, as much as possible buried in his collar, so as not to be recognized.
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