Bolan paused in front of a statuesque blonde mannequin to light a cigarette, wondering why the two cops had not moved on him out there in the lobby. Perhaps, Bolan surmised, they were under orders to attempt no immediate apprehension—perhaps Bolan had popped up before they'd had time to get set the way they wanted to be. So now they would be getting set, and with jaws of steel.
He lingered at the girl's tube, wating to see if the two would come in from the lobby. As a matter of idle curiosity he tried to catch the mannequin's eye but she seemed totally oblivious of his near presence. Then her light changed from red to a deep purple and she shifted from a demure wood-nymph pose to one of ecstatic abandon—head thrown back, one knee raised and angled across the other leg, hips thrust forward. Bolan grinned and went on. London could be an interesting town, he was thinking, to a guy who had plenty of time for playing. Not so for Bolan; Scotland Yard had just invaded the bar.
Bolan found the stairway and descended to the major arena. It was a large room with a seemingly endless sea of close-packed humanity, deafening amplifications of wild music, and a bewildering display of psychedelic lights. On a center bandstand a large rock combo seemed to be in a noise competition with a singing group who were screaming into separate mikes at the limit of their physical systems.
He pushed through the riotous confusion and reached a stairway at the opposite side, then paused to gaze back along his route of travel. The two "chaps" were on the other stairway, anxiously perusing the crowd below them. Bolan went on up to the luxuriously carpeted mezzanine and along a narrow hallway to a private dining room with the numeral three on the door.
It was hardly more than a cubicle, darkly intimate in candlelight, with a small round table for two positioned at a draped window overlooking the clubroom. A low couch occupied one wall; a couple of small harem pillows completed the picture. The room was also partially soundproofed, the noise from below only faintly audible.
Ann Franklin sat at the table, a glass of water clenched tightly in both hands. She had been peering through a crack in the draperies, watching the scene downstairs. Her head snapped toward the door as Bolan entered. Something on his face froze her smile as it was forming. It wavered and collapsed and her gaze went quickly back to the window.
The man called Harry Parks pushed himself up from the couch and exclaimed, "You're late! We was beginning to wonder if—"
Bolan snapped, "Cops followed you here. At least four of them are in the club right now."
Parks gave his head a concerned shake and replied, "Yes, I was just telling Annie I thought someone was on our tail. We was 'oping you wouldn't be coming in. Thank the lord they didn't spot you."
"They spotted me, all right," Bolan corrected him. "And they could have easily moved on me, but they didn't. The question is… why not? They're setting something up. I guess I'd like to know what and why."
The big man took a step toward the door. "I just guess HI be finding that out," he declared.
"Quietly," Bolan commanded.
"I know me business," Parks muttered, and went but.
Bolan dropped into the chair across the table from Ann Franklin. Their legs collided. The girl hastily withdrew hers, threw Bolan an embarrassed glance, and hastily lowered her eyes.
He told her, "Thanks for warming my bed."
Softly she replied, "You're quite welcome."
"Thanks for a lot of things," he added solemnly.
The gravity of the situation overcame the girl's embarrassment. Her hand shot out to rest on his and she hissed, "You must get away from here. You are in very great peril."
Bolan said, "Hell, I know it. But you set this up. Now what's it all about?"
"Major Stone requested the meeting. He should have been along before now, and" I'm quite worried that he isn't."
Bolan, also, was "quite worried." He asked her, "Why meet here? Why not at the museum?"
"For many reasons," she replied. "None of which are worth discussing now. Just please go."
"Uh-uh. Not until I get the story."
"What story?"
"I find myself in the middle of some very messy intrigue. I don't like it, Ann. So you tell me now, quick and straight, what's it all about?"
"I'm sorry," she said quietly. Obviously it was all she intended to say.
"Okay and bye bye," he said, just as quietly.
He was up and moving when the girl cried, "Wait!" and ran after him, catching him at the door.
Bolan took her in his arms and folded her into a bruising kiss. The movement took her by surprise and for an instant she resisted, then she melted into the embrace and gave herself entirely to the moment of passionate delirium. When he released her, she moaned and held onto him, pressing in for more.
Gruffly he demanded, "Tell me about the Sades. Why all the interest in Mack Bolan?"
She was breathing raggedly, still in the grip of the tensions engendered in that tight clutch. "I don't know it all," she gasped.
"Then give me what you do know."
She disentangled herself and leaned against the door, struggling to regain her composure. "Mack, I-I'm sorry for acting like a… a…"
"Forget that," he growled. "Come on, you owe me some answers, and my time is running out."
The girl took a deep breath and said, "The American Mafia has moved into London. I suppose you're aware of that. They are trying to take over everything here, as I hear it. It's a big power play, involving politics and industry and just very nearly everything. And they were not being too successful."
"Until what?"
Her eyes skittered away. "Until somehow they got onto Major Stone's club. Somehow they came into possession of… of some highly damaging and politically explosive, uh, items of evidence."
Bolan sighed. "Okay, I could have guessed," he commented quietly. "I take it that some of the members of your club are Very Important People."
She nodded. "And they are now in a terrible squeeze."
"That bad, eh?"
"Yes. You've heard of the Profumo scandals, back in the sixties?"
Bolan said, "Who hasn't?"
"Yes, well—this could be ten times worse. These gangsters have information that could rock the government—perhaps topple it."
"Is the Major directly involved in this?" Bolan inquired.
"Not directly, no. But he feels responsible. It was hissecurity that was breeched."
Bolan said, "Tell him I'll be thinking about it."
She murmured, "It's like a terrible nightmare, all of it."
He glared at her for a brief moment, then smiled suddenly and said, "Don't take it so hard, well figure something out." His hand found the doorknob. "Where will I find the Major?"
She shook her head. "I can't imagine, nor can I imagine what has delayed him. If you can get out of here, return straightaway to Queen's House. We'll try to contact you there."
Bolan's smile broadened. "Come to think of it, we do have some unfinished business there, you and I."
She managed to keep her gaze steady, and whispered, "Yes, so we have."
He patted her arm, cracked the door for a quick look, then slipped outside and pulled the door shut behind him.
Harry Parks moved up quickly from the stairway and hissed, "You were right, mate. It's getting to be a beehive down there."
Bolan pointed to another stairwell at the far end of the mezzanine. "Where does that go?" he inquired.
"Rooms, next floor up," Parks replied, then added, "Bedrooms, for them that can't wait."
"And above that?"
The man shrugged. "I never felt a need to know. Do you mean to go out that way?"
Bolan said, "I mean to try."
"Then I guess I'd best be going the other way, and raisin' a fuss."
"I'd appreciate that," Bolan told him.
The big man grinned and said, "It's me specialty," and went quickly back along the passageway toward the main clubroom.
Bolan hastened to the other end of the mezzanine and found t
hat the stairway he'd spotted also went down to a lower level. As he paused to ponder this revelation, Major Stone appeared below him, hurrying up to the mezzanine.
Each became aware of the other at the same instant. Bolan's Beretta leapt into his hand; the Major halted abruptly and glared at him and his face took on a vexed expression. "Out through the front, Bolan," he commanded. "You've not a moment to lose."
Bolan replied, "Can't. The joint's alive with cops."
Stone moved on cautiously to the head of the stairs, his brows knit with thought. "Then I've gotten you into a pretty pickle," he announced. "I have been darting about for 20 minutes in an attempt to shake Nicholas Woods off my tail. I finally ditched my car several streets over and made it in through the back way. But I've no assurance that I lost them, not entirely."
Bolan asked him, "And who is Nicholas Woods?"
"A local mobster, and I'm surprised that you don't know. I believe he is also referred to as Nick Trigger."
Bolan said, "Okay, I make. Now tell me, how many of them?"
The Major shrugged. "At least five, perhaps more. I suspect they're prowling the alleyway at this very instant."
Bolan sighed, his mind racing ahead to his options. He could try bluffing his way out past the cops, and if they closed on him he would have no recourse. Bolan did not shoot cops. To reverse the Major's trail would undoubtedly run him into a direct confrontation with a superior force of gunners.
He told Stone, "Okay, I'm going over the top. Ann's waiting for you in room three." Then he charged on up the steps to the floor above.
A hardfaced little man occupied a wicker chair at the top of the stairway. His eyes quickly discovered the gun in Bolan's hand and he cried, " 'ere now, what's this?"
In a rough imitation of Harry Parks' speech, Bolan told him, "It's a pinch down below, mate. Get 'em all out, quickly now!"
The man's hand jerked to a button on the wall behind him, and Bolan could hear alarm bells sounding immediately in the rooms along the hallway. The little man was on his feet and intent on scurrying down the stairs, but Bolan restrained him. "Not that way," he growled, hoping for a different exit.
"There ain't no other way," the man screeched. He tore loose from Bolan's grasp and bounded down the stairs.
Already pandemonium was erupting into the hallway as men and women in varying stages of nudity spilled out of the rooms. An angry youth hobbled past Bolan, trying to get into his trousers on the run, a shirt clenched between his teeth, shoes beneath his arms. A pretty girl hurried along in the youth's wake, fumbling with the buttons of her dress and trying to cover nakedly heaving breasts while she hurled taunting insults ahead at the boy.
Bolan felt like hell about it all, but he knew the interrupted lovers would live this problem down; perhaps Bolan would not. He watched the unhappy group stream by, then he began a quick inspection of that upper area of Soho Psych. It consisted of six rooms, three to each side, and apparently covered only the rear section of the building. The rooms to the front had windowless, blank walls—it appeared that the upper story of the building was subdivided, with a separate mode of access to that part which faced on the street. The other three rooms each featured a small window over the alleyway. Bolan's recon consumed less than a minute and revealed that he was in a seemingly hopeless situation. There was no sign of a fire escape, no way to the roof, and nothing but a sheer drop to the alley some thirty feet below.
He was about to give it up as a bad stand when he found the way out. In the ceiling above a closet in the end bedroom was a trapdoor access to the attic. He hoisted himself up and through and carefully replaced the covering, then used his cigarette lighter to orient himself in the darkness. As he had hoped, the attic was common to the entire building and yawned out in front of him with no apparent obstacles. It was rough and without flooring above the ceiling beams, and with a low overhead—very low in spots, giving evidence of a gabled roof layout. This suited Bolan fine; gables meant an uneven roof surface, sometimes attic windows, and very possibly a way out.
He extinguished the lighter and began a careful exploration, crawling across the ceiling beams and seeking a light source. Here and there a rat scrambled across his path, setting Bolan's teeth on edge. Sounds of a wild commotion on the floor below were drifting up to him when he spotted his light source—a faint rectangle of dim light far ahead. He pushed on with greater haste, knowing that every second counted now.
The light was coming through a latticed ventilation window, set into a vertical section of roof just a few feet above the ceiling beams. The lattice was composed of wood strips which were brittle with age, and the opening was just wide enough to pass Bolan's shoulders.
The strips gave easily to his gentle pressure, breaking with a dull snap as one by one he quickly cleared the opening. A brief head-through recon showed a short drop to a flat section of roof just below but very narrow—and Frith Street angling off way below.
Bolan reversed his position and went out feet first, clinging to the rotted wood of the window frame for support. Something was going on down in the street in front of the club, but Bolan's line of vision did not afford him a view of that particular area. His interest was not especially strong in that direction anyway, and he was carefully working his way around the gable and toward the rear.
He then discovered that the roof was common to the entire row of buildings. It was an uneven and jumbled surface, however, and steeply sloping in spots, but some moments later he had made his way along to the far end and found a place to go over the side—an iron ladder set into the ancient bricks at the rear—and he descended quickly to the alleyway, alighting just a few yards from the junction of alley with street.
No sooner had he dropped to the ground then a rough voice exclaimed, "Hey what the hell!" and a large figure leapt out of the shadows of the building a few feet downrange. The voice was American and the revolver that swept into view was definitely antagonistic.
Bolan's sideways dive was an uninterrupted extension of his drop from the ladder, and he was slapping leather in the same movement. He hit the ground and the trigger of the Beretta at the same instant, the powerful little weapon phutted softly through the silencer, and the shadowy figure jerked about and crumpled against the building with a quiet gurgling sound.
A man in a long overcoat appeared immediately at the mouth of the alley and called out, "Johnny? What's going on down there?"
The Beretta whispered again, and the man in the overcoat probably never knew what was going on down there. He fell forward into the alley, a pistol clattering along in advance of the sprawl, and Bolan passed the remains at full gallop, erupting into the side street with Beretta swinging and ready.
At that same moment car lights flashed into brilliance, from the curb just downrange. Bolan saw the spurts of muzzle fire streaking out from behind the lights even before the thundering reports reached his ears, but he was already across the blinding glare and arching down toward the vehicle, his own quiet replies sizzling into the argument and dead on target.
A cacaphony of police whistles were sounding up on Frith Street and the sounds of excited activity were swirling around the corner and along the side street. A loud British voice of authority bawled, "This is the police! Cease your fire immediately!"
Bolan's fire had already ceased, as he was beyond the seal car and disappearing into the darkness, but someone in the vehicle was turning his fire toward the police. A volley of answering fire swept down the street and sieved the heavy car, and quiet abruptly descended as Bolan faded around the far corner.
He was clear, for the moment, and he had thrown death back into their teeth once again. But how much longer could it go on? How many more trap plays could he blitz his way out of, and how much longer could he remain clear of these wily men from Scotland Yard?
The London War was taking on a decidedly personal hue, and The Executioner was getting angry. He could not continue on in this purely defensive mode of combat. If he was to survive, he k
new, he was going to have to take the offensive. His soul protested, but the battle-hardened flesh knew the truth. Full scale warfare, his kindof warfare, was the only route to survival in England.
And he knew where he had to start. He reached the Lincoln, transferred the Uzifrom the floorboards to the seat, and set off for the Museum de Sade.
The Battle for Britain was on.
Chapter Ten
The cell
Bolan was in combat uniform: midnight skinsuit, black sneakers, the little Uzidangling from a neck strap, Beretta harnessed to his side. He was making his final approach on foot. The night was quiet, cold, and smotheringly black; Bolan was hardly more than a moving extension of the darkness, a silent shadow gliding across the London nightscape. He had stripped off his outer clothing and left the car inconspicuously parked, several streets back.
He entered the square from the side opposite the museum and paused there. It was dark, all dark. He waited, taking a patient audio recon. Several minutes later his patience paid off. He heard sounds of human presence: a shoe scraping cement somewhere in the blackness ahead, a brief and muffled sound of voices, a subdued cough.
The enemy was here. This time they were showing real respect for the man they hoped would show up. They had done something to the street lamps; all were extinguished, as though the London blackouts had returned. Only the most diligent listening could disclose any sounds. At the museum, across the way, a faint suggestion of light showed on the ground floor. Bolan remembered the heavy draperies at all the windows, and guessed that the museum might not be as deserted as it seemed.
He went on, more slowly now, stepping with extreme care and staying close to the line of buildings. Someone sniffled, just ahead. Bolan halted. A foot scraped, and Bolan saw a barely discernible movement in the blackness, hardly more than a hint of bulk outlined in the Stygian background. When, he wondered, would they ever learn to use dark clothing on a nighttime stakeout? He moved forward again, barely breathing, until he was close enough to reach out and touch the man, who was leaning against the building, his hands in the pockets of his overcoat, his snapbrim hat pulled low over his forehead.
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