"I want his job," said Remo, nodding at the guard whose neck was still encased in the lead pipe.
"You do that?" asked the man. Remo nodded.
"He do that?" asked the man. The guard nodded.
"You're hired. You're in my regime. My name's Johnny Bangossa. My brother Carli runs this family. There's no one more important after Carli than me."
"And what about Rabinowitz?"
"Who is that Jew?" asked Johnny. "I keep hearing about him everywhere."
"I heard he owned this place," said Remo.
"Maybe he was the one what sold it to us," said Johnny Bangossa.
"But his name's on the furniture and address here."
"That guy gets around," said Johnny. "But my brother Carli says he's all right. He says nobody should hurt him for nothing."
"I see," said Remo. But he didn't.
The entire first unit had failed. The second unit was useless, and the third did not know where to go.
General Matesev smiled slightly and took a sip of coffee. The men had to see he was not panicked. The worst thing a commander could do to men behind enemy lines was to let them succumb to fear. They had enough tension already. Many of them had been living with it for years. Perhaps much of it had dissipated after awhile, but now they all knew they were going to have to fight their way home and something had gone wrong.
What Matesev would do now would earn him the awe of his men. Ordinarily when something went wrong a Russian commander would punish someone. Nothing bad could happen without someone being at fault.
Matesev merely looked at his coffee intently and asked what kind it was. He was in the back of what looked like a large refrigerator truck that was really his headquarters. It could easily hold thirty men and all the equipment they would need. It had been waiting for him with one of his units.
"I don't know, sir," said one of the men hastily.
"Very good. Very good. But we now have a very serious problem. Very serious."
The men nodded gravely.
"How do we get enough of this wonderful coffee back to Russia to last us a lifetime?"
Everyone in the back of the sealed truck suddenly burst into laughter.
"All right," he said. "Back to our problem. Unit One didn't fail. Neither did Unit Two. Our friend Vassity Rabinowiiz failed. He failed to be there. Now, we have a day and a half to find out where he is. That should be no problem. But what I want you good fellows to think of is how we can get this coffee back with us."
Matesev knew Moscow would not accept such levity, but Moscow was helpless. They wouldn't have wasted this last group on this mission if they could have done it with anyone else. The problem with secreting entire units within America was that once the unit was used, it could never be used again.
But Matesev did not tell his men how alarmingly bad the news got. His reports came in that Rabinowitz had somehow gotten himself involved with local criminals and now was beginning some sort of an empire. This was the Kremlin's worst fear. No one cared whether Rabinowitz controlled all the narcotics in America, or the world for that matter. That was not what frightened those at the parapsychology village who knew his power.
Their worry was where he would stop, because once he had a taste of criminal power, he most certainly would want more and more and no one would be capable even of delaying him. The time to get him was when he was alone, before he used his powers to create followers.
But that point had already passed.
Matesev decided to ignore it. Instead, he made a calculated gamble. He was sure no criminals in the world could match 150 of the best Russian commandos. Criminals were never that good in a group. The attack this time would not be by small units but one massive assault with everyone thrown into it. There might be one or two or at most three effective men with weapons among that group Rabinowitz had surrounded himself with, but no more than that. Let them taste a full-scale assault.
And of course this time he was going to make sure Vassily was home.
When it was determined that he was secluded in an estate in Great Neck, Long Island, Matesev drew a large loose ring around the estate, leaving his men in little groups at every road, far enough away so that the gangsters would not think Rabinowitz' estate was being surrounded. Sure now that Rabinowitz could not escape by road, Matesev waited until the first night, and then sent in two of his most agile men, not to kill, and most assuredly not to look into Rabinowitz' eyes, but to place extremely accurate sensors in the building itself.
This time, Matesev would only attack when he was sure Rabinowitz was there. And this time it would work. He himself insisted on constant access to the eavesdropping devices. They provided him with many strange bits of information and an insight into American life he never had before.
Rabinowitz, as could be expected, had all his top lieutenants believing he was someone else, so that if Matesev wanted to be sure where Rabinowitz was he had to understand that a man named Johnny Bangossa thought Rabinowitz was Carli and a man called Carlo referred to Rabinowitz as "Papa."
Even more interesting was how well this organization seemed to work because everyone thought he was related to the boss.
Matesev began to appreciate how truly dangerous Rabinowitz could become if he were going to survive another day. The Kremlin, as was their occasional wont, was most right in this matter. The fact that Rabinowitz' voice print could be picked up and verified from the equipment on the truck was reassuring.
In the morning, Matesev's men spotted the police chief's car headed into the Rabinowitz estate. Was Rabinowitz getting police protection? Was he getting arrested?
The sensors verified neither. There was no arrest and no talk of protection. In fact, the lieutenants of the mob greeted the policemen most cordially.
And then the police officers, Monahan, Minehan, and Moran, were heard talking to Rabinowitz. And since none of them started talking to relatives, Matesev had to assume Rabinowitz had not hypnotized them yet.
"Look here. You move into town with all this criminal element, Mr. Rabinowitz, and you could give this pretty little village a bad name. There could be shootings. There could be gangsterism. And we're worried about that," said Captain Monahan's voice.
"We got to look out for this community," said Lieutenant Minehan's voice.
"There's decency and a clean spirit here," said Lieutenant Moran's voice.
"I have three very fat white envelopes for you boychicks," said Rabinowitz' voice. "Johnny Bangossa, Rocco, Vito, and Guido said that's what you wanted. That's how business is done here in America."
"Always glad to receive an upstanding new member of the community," said the voices of Monahan, Minehan, and Moran in unison.
When the police car was outside the gate, new words came from Monahan, Minehan, and Moran. The words were "kike" and "wop." They were having difficulty distinguishing which one Rabinowitz was. The only thing Minehan, Monahan, and Moran could agree on was that "they" were all alike. Unfortunately, with Vassily Rabinowitz and his brother Johnny "The Bang" Bangossa, Minehan, Monahan, and Moran couldn't exactly decide which "they" they were talking about.
It was 9:35 A.M. Rabinowitz had been in the main drawing room. He was probably still there. The key fact of this meeting was that when it came to police, Rabinowitz was not using his special powers.
Matesev saw now not only exactly how he could kill Rabinowitz with certainty, but also how he might even attain the harder goal, capturing Rabinowitz alive.
Not until this very moment had he dared even to consider this harder plan. But there was just a chance. The question was how to make the most of that chance and still make sure that, at worst, Rabinowitz would be dead.
It was ten A.M. when three of his strongest men, each dressed as a policeman, entered the gates of the Rabinowitz estate asking to speak to Mr. Rabinowitz. They said they were bringing information from their commanding officers, Monahan, Minehan, and Moran.
They were allowed into the house. So far so good. Matesev h
eard the voice of Rabinowitz. Better yet. There was a scuffle, and then silence. No voices, just some scraping. Then a loud thud.
Now all Matesev's other units had left their road posts and were ready to converge on the estate. It was a full-scale assault one way or another. Dead or alive, win or lose, there was no better time than now.
"He's taped on the mouth and eyes. We got him," came the voice.
"All right," said Matesev. "Hold there as long as you can. If you're about to lose him, kill him. Good work."
And then the order went out: "Attack now, full speed. Everyone hits. We've got him."
The assault forces poured out of their cars and over the wall. One unit broke through the main gate and headed straight up the driveway. It was a charge to shame the greatest Cossack legions.
Inside the Rabinowitz house, the forces of the great new don ducked under chairs and tables and looked for ways out. They knew instantly those animals on the lawn meant business and were no friends of theirs. Treachery and sellouts would do no good. When a few shots hit some of the advancing men, and the rest kept coming anyway, all resistance ceased. For a while.
In the confusion no one saw a thick-wristed man grab one soldier by the neck, speak to him briefly, and then head the other way. After all, why notice one more gangster trying to save his life? Except this "gangster" had just found out where General Matesev was.
Matesev listened to the reports as his precise plan worked to the letter. The group that had seized Rabinowitz had linked with the main assault force, with a loss of fewer than three men, and were now headed back toward the escape points for their flight out of America. Only when they were out of the country would America know they had been there. But by then General Matesev's special force would have performed its third successful mission.
Now Matesev contacted the Kremlin for the first time. Now he would let them say whatever they wanted.
It was all over but the shouting. The message he wired home was that they had gotten what they came for and were bringing it home alive.
He had a big grin on his face when he heard someone knocking on the steel doors of the back of the refrigerator truck.
"Hey, c'mon, sweetheart. I don't have all day here."
Chapter 7
Remo saw into the darkest corners of the refrigerator truck. The equipment was set into the wails so it could travel and still work. It was a command post and the blond man with the shocked face seemed to fit the description of Matesev. Considering this was where his man said he would be, it was almost a positive identification.
"General Matesev, welcome to America," said Remo. The man still did not move. Sometimes things like that happened when the rear doors of trucks were taken off and a person was counting on it for protection. Perhaps it was the fact that the steel door was still in Remo's hand, held off to the side, catching the wind like a heavy wing on an aircraft, and that Remo just peered in like a child who had ripped the top off a box of ants.
"No. No Matesev here," said the man. "We are an electronics firm. Would you be so kind as to put down the door?"
"C'mon, buddy. I got work and I'm tired. You're Matesev. "
"I've never heard of a Matesev," said Matesev with perfect control. His first instinct was to ease a pistol into firing position and let off a clip. But that was a steel door he saw held out behind the man. He was sure this thing that looked like a man had done the ripping. If he could do that, what else could he do? A bullet at this distance might not work.
Besides, the units with Rabinowitz would be converging on the truck any moment now. Better more than 140 men than one man.
This one certainly was different. He didn't climb into the truck, he moved into it with what would have been a jump, except there was no effort. No more effort than a cat sitting down and he was in the truck and at Matesev's back where suddenly the man was pouring molten metal down Matesev's shirt.
Matesev screamed as the metal tore through his rib cage, obliterating his intestines and reproductive organs on its way through his chair.
And then it was gone. No smoke. No burning flesh. No burns. Not even pain as the man removed his fingers from Matesev's chest. Matesev was still quivering as he examined himself and was surprised nothing stuck to his hand. Not even his shirt was damaged.
"I can do it again," said Remo. "It's a trick, you know. Do you know when I stop doing it?"
Matesev shook his head. He was afraid if he spoke his tongue would fall out. Even if his body had recovered instantaneously, his mind had not. He was being held in a vat of molten metal even though the metal did not exist anymore. And never had. It was all in the manipulation of this strange man's hands.
"I stop doing it when you tell me who you are. Now I think you're Matesev, General Matesev, and I've got to talk to you."
"Yes. I am. I am he." Matesev glanced out of the rear of the truck. The men would be there any moment. The trick was to let the men know this man had to be killed without letting the man know he was doing it.
"Good. Now who or what is Vassily Rabinowitz?"
"A Soviet citizen."
"There are a few hundred million of them. Why are you people so excited about that one?"
"I am just an ordinary soldier. I was assigned to capture him."
The molten metal was burning Matesev's chest, and this time he was sure he could smell the burning, that it was not a manipulation, that somehow this man of great powers had actually melted the metal to wound Matesev. Only when it stopped did the general realize that if it really were molten metal it would have burned right through and it would have killed him. The pain was so intense his mind had snapped into thinking the flesh was actually burning.
"I am Matesev. I am in charge of the special force. Rabinowitz is the greatest hypnotist in the world."
"So?" said Remo.
"Don't you understand what that means? He can hypnotize anyone instantly. Instantly. Anyone."
"Yeah?" said Remo.
"Well, if he can hypnotize anyone instantly, what happens when he tells one general to do this and another to do that?"
"He joins the Defense Department. I don't know," said Remo. "Lots of people tell generals to do this and that. That's what you have generals for."
"You don't understand," said Matesev. "How could a man with such powers be so dense?"
"Right," said Remo.
"He could take over any government in the world."
"So?" said Remo.
"We couldn't allow that to happen."
"Why?"
"Don't you understand the international implications?"
"Better than you, Russky. There's always going to be another country every few hundred years. Five hundred years from now you'll probably have the czar again. I don't know what we'll be. Whole thing doesn't matter, jerk," said Remo.
Matesev had always been taught that Americans never really planned ahead. That if you were to ask them where they would be in fifty years they would say that was the business of some astrologer instead of a government planner. American foreign policy ran from one four-year election to another. That was its trouble.
But here was a man, obviously American, obviously thinking in terms not of fifty years or even a century, but in millennia.
And it all didn't matter. Matesev saw the units come down the street, almost like a mob, not marching of course, but walking in a pack.
They had a trussed bundle with them, its eyes and mouth taped. Rabinowitz.
"We've got company," said Matesev, nodding to his own men. The man turned.
"What's in the bundle?" he asked.
He kept looking at the unit advancing on the truck. The back of his head was within reach. It was too good a target for General Matesev to pass up. The small handgun was within an instant's grasp.
Matesev took it smoothly, put it to the dark hairs in the back of the man's head, and fired.
The bullet hit the roof of the truck. And the head was still there. He fired again, this time aiming at a specif
ic hair. The bullet hit the roof again.
"Don't do that," said the man softly.
Matesev emptied the chamber, and missed with all the rest of the slugs, but in so doing, in firing rapidly, he was able to get a glimpse of the head moving back and forth as it dodged the shells.
"All right. You happy? You had your thrill?" asked Remo.
"I'll call my men off," gasped the stunned Matesev.
"Who cares?" said Remo. "You are General Matesev, though. I mean, is that determined? There is no question about that?"
"Yes."
"Thanks," said Remo, who rattled the man's brains into jelly by shaking the skull like a soda jerk mixing a milk shake.
Then he was out of the truck and amidst the startled Russians, bouncing many, killing some, and getting the trussed bundle out of their hands. He took it behind a house, over a fence, and to a road about a mile away, where he untaped the eyes and mouth and hands of Vassily Rabinowitz.
"You okay?" asked Remo.
Rabinowitz blinked in the harsh sunlight. He was still trembling. He didn't know where he was. He had released his bladder in panic. The man could barely stand. Remo got to the spinal column, and with the pads of his fingers set the rhythms of peace into Rabinowitz's body structure. With a little cry, Rabinowitz recovered, brushed himself off, and noticed the wetness in his pants.
"The bastards," he said.
"Is there anything I can do for you?" asked Remo. Rabinowitz looked shaky.
"No. I'll be all right."
"Your countrymen say you're the world's greatest hypnotist. Is that true?"
"To them anything is true. I can do things," said Rabinowitz. "How did Russian soldiers get into the country?"
"I don't know. Maybe they posed as Mexicans," said Remo. "You sure you're going to be all right?"
"Yes. I think so. Do you know what happened to Johnny Bangossa, Guido, Rocco, Vito, and Carlo?"
"I think they ran."
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