“And so, as a licensed private investigator in the state of New York, you were employed by the congressman’s wife in such a capacity?”
“Yes sir. She was thinking of instituting a divorce action, you see, and she wanted to have the ammunition before she showed her hand.”
“But a divorce action was never filed against the congressman. How do—?”
“The reason for that will become obvious, sir. My investigations of Congressman Fuller turned up some very shocking—”
“Please confine your responses to direct replies, Mr. Turner. Acting as an agent for Mrs. Paul Fuller, you did proceed into an investigation of her husband?”
“Yes sir, I did.”
“Was there some particular direction to this investigation?”
“Yes sir. Mrs. Fuller suspected her husband of having a clandestine affair with another woman. She asked me to ascertain the facts in the case.”
“She suspected her husband of marital infidelity?”
“Yes sir. She was hoping to find evidence of adultery.”
“I see. And did you in fact uncover such evidence?”
The witness smiled grotesquely. “In a manner of speaking, yes sir.”
“Please explain.”
“On the evening of January 14th, this year, I tailed Congressman Paul Fuller to a motel on the outskirts of Lakeside, New York. The Starlight Inn.”
“The congressman registered there? Under his own name?”
“No sir, he did not register at all. He proceeded directly to cottage number four, knocked and was admitted.”
“Then you have no documented proof of this visit by Congressman Fuller to the Starlight Inn near Lakeside on the night of January 14th?”
“Yes sir, I do have. In cases like this we always give careful attention to such details. I have the documentation.”
“And what is the nature of that documentation?”
The “detective” held up an enlarged snapshot which he identified as having been taken by himself, using an infra-red camera. It showed a cottage of the motel variety, with the numeral four easily distinguishable on the door, and the sharp profile of a man entering the cottage. “I took the picture and I have an affidavit from an employee of the Starlight Inn attesting to the validity of time, date and subject.”
“And you have found in your experience that this manner of documentation will hold up in a court of law?”
“In a divorce court, yes sir. This method of documentation is standard procedure in my business. We have a method of marking the film for identification purposes without removing it from the camera, these very special cameras, sir.”
“I see. Please continue.”
“Well I gave him about ten minutes to get settled.” The witness leered into the video camera. “Then I busted in, using a front window for entry. That’s when I took this picture.”
Another enlarged snapshot appeared on the studio monitor, in close-up. The detail was exquisite. Two nude persons were depicted, in a bedroom setting, standing in a passionate embrace.
“You’ll have no problem identifying Congressman Fuller,” the “detective” declared, smirking. “The other man is a well known fairy queen from Lakeside, a gay prostitute. You can understand why Mrs. Fuller decided to drop that hot potato. They have two kids.”
The balance of the “interview” had to do with “irrefutable” documentation and matters of identification. When the taping was completed, Lupo went into the lab to inspect the quality of the video pickup of the enlarged “snapshots.”
“Pretty good,” he told the technician, after studying the results.
“As good as you’ll ever get,” the video man assured him. “I airbrushed the original overlays through three reproductions of the negatives. I’d challenge anyone to prove it a phony.”
“No need for that,” Lupo said. “If this doesn’t keep the smart-ass in line then we’ll just take him out of line entirely.”
“Okay. Standard two prints?”
Lupo growled, “Yeah,” and returned to the production area. He was awaited there by Raymond LaCurza, his good right arm.
LaCurza’s usually expressionless face was twisted into an unhappy scowl as he hurried over to intercept the boss.
“What kind of bitter pill are you sucking on?” Lupo asked his lieutenant.
LaCurza growled back, “It’s stamped with a big B and it’s not Bayer, but that’s pretty close. It’s this goddam Bolan, Jack.”
“What’s the wise-ass into this time?” Lupo asked disgustedly.
“He’s into Washington, that’s what.”
Lupo’s scowl faded. He took the other man by an elbow and steered him into a sweat room, carefully closed the door, and calmly demanded, “Okay, let’s have it.”
“I told you about the Vitale hit last night. I sent the crew around to cancel it. I told you—”
“Sure, sure, you told me. So what about Bolan?”
“That’s what I was getting to. It wasn’t Matti’s crew that hit Carlo’s boys, after all. It was Bolan.”
“Who told you that?” Lupo asked quickly.
“Hell it’s all over the news. He left his calling card. He got to Matti, too.”
“How much damage?” Lupo snapped.
“All but the wheeler, Vasquez—this Bandalero Vasquez, the Puerto Rican kid. And he’s been—”
“Screw him!” Lupo snarled. “What about the woman?”
“The Vitale babe?” LaCurza shook his head. “Hell, I don’t know, I didn’t even think. Far as I know.…”
“Find out! Let me know right away. I want that woman and I want her all in one piece!”
“Sure, boss, we’ll run it down. About Vasquez. He’s been flooding the contact setup with urgent calls. He—”
“Then contact him,” Lupo commanded. “With a crew.”
“You mean …?”
“Of course I mean! You don’t want that guy running around loose, not with Bolan on the prowl. Take care of that first—right away. Then get me a scrambler hookup to New York, you know where. I’ll tie Bolan’s ass to a pole but good!”
LaCurza wheeled about and headed for the door.
Lupo called after him the instructions, “And don’t forget the woman! Don’t you mess that up again!”
The lieutenant threw a reassuring nod to his boss as he passed through the doorway.
Lupo followed him out and went directly to the “studio.” He beckoned his production chief to his side and told him, “I want that Harmon Keel package before noon today. Don’t screw me around with alibi’s and reasons why you can’t. I want it today!”
The producer sputtered, “Without the broad, Mr. Carrico, I don’t see how we can wrap it.”
“You wrap it, that’s all. Dummy it, fake it any way you have to. You just deliver today.”
The man went away shaking his head and Lupo headed up the stairs to his office.
He was met there by Andy Lucchia, his personal secretary. Lucchia was twenty-eight, a graduate of Columbia law school and more recently a CIA operative in Cambodia. His present duties included doubling as a bodyguard for his boss.
“Heard the news about Mack Bolan?” Lucchia inquired sourly.
“I heard,” Lupo replied. “Raymond is setting up acontact with New York. Put it through to me immediately.”
The secretary acknowledged the command with a curt nod. “This could be very serious,” he said, his mind still obviously on Mack Bolan. “Do we still go with all engines full ahead?”
“We go,” Lupo replied heavily. “And we snatch off Mr. Bolan’s head on the way. Soon as I get through with New York, get Milton Campbell on the horn. We’re going for the grand slam this evening.”
“This evening?”
“You heard what I said, Andy.” Lupo continued on into his private sanctum and locked the door behind him.
Damn right, he was thinking. A whole army of Mack Bolans couldn’t stop the master timetable now. Not even the U.S. Army could a
lter the course of history which was shaping up in this town on this day of days.
Bolan could be an irritant, sure, a troubling thorn in the side. But the guy would go the way all the others had gone … down for the count and groveling in the dust at the conqueror’s feet.
This was the Day of Days … for the Thing of all the Things.
It had been carefully prepared and long awaited.
And now it was here.
This was to be the day when the American government went underground. And the day when the so-called invisible second government of the nation would be the only real government.
10: COUNTEROFFENSIVE
Bolan had changed into a pale blue spring-weight suit in anticipation of quitting, for the last time, the tiny efficiency apartment which he had engaged in Washington’s northwest section.
Claudia Vitale, devastating in hot pants and a hip-length cape, stood rigidly at the window and watched the tree-lined street below.
Ripper Dan Aliotto was squeezed behind a small dining table, appreciatively eyeing the girl at the window.
Bolan made a final adjustment to his gunleather and closed the coat over it. “Time to move out,” he announced. “Any second thoughts, Ripper?”
The Mafia soldier reluctantly shifted his gaze from the girl to the tall man with the piercing eyes. He coughed nervously and replied, “I’ve come this far. I might as well go all the way.”
“You’d better understand this, soldier,” Bolan told him. “I’ll let you walk out of here right now, free and clean. You get in your wheels and take off, no strings, and that’s that. If you stay, though, and I get the feeling later that you’re doubling on me—well then you’re in trouble.”
“Sure, I know,” Aliotto muttered. “I said I’ll go all the way.”
Bolan’s eyes flashed in what could have been taken as a smile. He said, “Okay.” The gaze traveled to the girl. “Claudia?”
“I’m in,” she replied in a muffled voice.
“Same conditions,” he told her.
She had not budged from her position at the window. “I know. I’m in.”
“Okay.” Bolan moved toward the door. “Let’s go, Ripper.”
Addressing Claudia again as Aliotto scraped to his feet, Bolan told her, “Start your backtrack as soon as we’re out. Limit your telephone time to ten minutes at any given location, then move on to another. Keep your spiel to the point and don’t give any one contact more than a minute or two of your time. Tell them just enough to assure a continued interest.”
She murmured, “I know what to do.”
He said, gruffly, “Sure you do.”
“I won’t let you down,” she said, turning to him with a sober little smile.
Aliotto moved between them on the way to the door, and Bolan was glad for the intervention. He turned away without meeting her gaze and busied himself with the implantation of a false mustache, then he added sunglasses and followed Ripper Dan into the hallway.
“Damn it, be careful,” the girl called after him.
He replied, “That goes double for you,” and pulled the door shut.
Aliotto grinned and told him, “I think you got yourself a gal.”
Bolan said, “Not by a damn sight. But I’ll settle for a reliable ally.”
“Oh hell, you got that, too,” the Ripper assured him.
“Just play it straight, soldier. I’m getting to like you.”
The dark Italian face broke into a huge grin. “Me too,” he said. “But I gotta say, I never expected to be gunning with Mack Bolan.”
“Start calling me Frankie. Start getting used to it right now.”
“Sure, Frankie.”
“And you’re not gunning. You’re just driving and spotting.”
“Oh hell, I couldn’t do it any other way. I never hit anybody in my life and I’m getting too old to start now.”
Bolan let that pass, though he guessed that the truth was being stretched a bit. They went past the elevator and headed for the stairway.
Aliotto said, “Uh, that babe back there.…”
“Yeah?”
“She, uh, she belonged to Smilin’ Jack Vitale.”
“I know that,” Bolan said tightly.
“Did you notice the freeze she had on for me? They’d been married only about a year when he got gunned. You know, the trouble up in Boston. So she’s got no love for the organization. I thought you might like to know that. She thinks we’re all cutthroats.” The Mafia wheelman shrugged and went down the stairs ahead of Bolan. “Maybe we are,” he added, peering over his shoulder to catch Bolan’s eye. “I can see why she’d feel that way. She didn’t even have the consolation of crying over her husband’s grave. He got buried, I hear, in a cement coffin about a mile at sea.”
The guy was trying very hard to establish a personal relationship. Bolan gave a little and asked him, “What was Vitale’s thing?”
“I dunno, he was just made, fresh out of college. One of those new-wave types, you know, like Lupo. None of the old bunch liked those types, I guess. I mean, it’s our money that puts these fresh new-wavers through their fancy colleges. You know, the money from the streets. Then they turn around and bad-mouth us. Say we’re out of date, stuff like that. I guess that’s why Vitale got it. Too damn fresh. Nobody liked him much, I hear.”
“You didn’t know him personally?”
“Oh naw, they were with the Boston family.”
“So was Lupo,” Bolan commented.
“Was he? I didn’t know.”
The two men reached the ground level and headed for the rear exit to the parking area. Ripper Dan fell in beside Bolan, all smiles as he struggled to match the long strides of his companion.
“How the hell tall are you, anyway,” he huffed.
Bolan ignored the query. “Something is off center,” he said, the voice barely audible.
“Off center where?”
Bolan pushed the door open and nudged Aliotto outside. “Not here,” he replied. “Somewhere else, never mind. Go get the car. Circle the block twice. Pick me up in front, second go-around.”
The wheelman nodded his head in understanding and went on alone.
Bolan remained inside and watched through the partially open doorway as Aliotto entered the car and drove away. He held the surveillance for thirty seconds then went back through the building and out the front exit.
It was a routine precaution, a rear-guard defensive procedure which he had learned in another kind of combat zone and one which had served him well in this new brand of warfare.
The VC’s had been a wily and dangerous enemy.
But no more so than this new enemy. America still produced some of the toughest fighting men in the world, regardless of which side of the law they happened to land on.
Bolan had a huge respect for the combat instincts of this American underworld enemy. Carelessness had no part in his combat operations—and perhaps this accounted for his successes so far.
It was a hell of a grinding way of life, though. There was no let-up, not ever, no relief from the minute-by-minute necessity for remaining alert and combat-ready—and there were no sanctuaries, no place or time—not even a frame of mind in which he could let down completely and simply relax and let the world turn unnoticed.
But … it was still his bag. He’d picked it out and then shouldered it, knowing that he would be stuck with it for as long as he remained living—and that he would remain living only so long as he continued carrying the load.
Relaxation meant sudden death.
There were times, now and then, when that sole sanctuary—death—took on an appealing appearance. Even at those times, though, that stubborn ferocity of spirit which had so characterized the man would not allow him the simple luxury of dying.
There was a hell of an important job to be done.
Death would be a cop-out. It would mean not only the end of Mack Bolan but, in some permanent and perhaps irreversible way, it would mean the loss of som
ething very important to the human situation—something very important to an evolving universe.
Bolan did not overemphasize or glamorize his own role as a sentient fragment of that universe.
He simply knew that, somehow, what he was doing was of tremendous importance … and he quite simply accepted the responsibilities of the role he had undertaken.
Now he was in Washington, involved in some sort of climactic moment of this do-or-die responsibility.
Yes, he could feel the battle-lines drawing in upon him, tightening around him—and yes, very definitely something was off center and clamoring for his attention, something which now was hovering at the edge of his consciousness and demanding to be noticed.
But there were many very tangible dangers, also, demanding his full attention. He could not withdraw to the battlefront of pure mind to examine the subliminal warning cries. In this sort of existence, a practical warrior faced the exigencies of each present moment and he rode each heartbeat as though it could be his last.
This Mack Bolan was doing. He watched Ripper Dan cruise by in the first pass of the pickup point and satisfied himself that there were no tail-cars in the following traffic.
A couple of minutes later he was sliding in beside the newest recruit in his “War Against Syndicated Cancer” and they were moving swiftly toward a new battlefront.
In the apartment which they had just departed, another recruit was beginning a painful backtrack along a trail of fraud, blackmail and vicious intimidation. Claudia Vitale was “doing her wash”—contacting her list of “victims,” explaining all and soliciting support for Bolan’s war.
Phase Two of the counteroffensive was off and running.
11: SEARCH MISSION
The search for an illusive shadow had to begin somewhere, and it began for Bolan at an address in a townhouse apartment complex, site of one of the recent renovations underway in the inner city.
The wheelman parked at the curb in front of a duplex unit. “This is it, Seventeen-B,” he muttered. “It’s the downstairs part. Has a living room, two bedrooms, kitchen, dinette. That’s all.”
“How many ways in?” Bolan wanted to know.
“Just two. Door in back opens on a small yard, fenced.”
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