Rudolfi moved in the best circles of Parisian society, maintained a chateau near the city which was frequently the scene of lavish weekend parties, and he kept a townhouse within sight of the Arc de Triomphe. He was close to many highly-placed government officials and politicians, was on a first-name basis with various French industrialists and financiers, and was frequently seen at social functions involving the higher echelons of France’s cultural mediums. A bachelor, his name at various times had been linked with certain female notables of the theatre, films, and the fashion world. Thomas Rudolfi, a blood nephew of one of the founding fathers of La Cosa Nostra in America, had found the good life in France.
His had been a career of frustration, however, all the foregoing notwithstanding. Monzoor was a man of little personal wealth or power in the family hierarchy, though he in fact orchestrated a wide variety of the syndicate’s interests in this area of the world. The Mafia, in its worldwide operations, resembled a feudalistic monarchy with strong imperialistic leanings, with each feudal chief, or Capo, an autonomous imperialist in his own right. Foreign “territories” had been staked out, cultivated, and jealously guarded by individual American families—then welded together for mutual strength under La Commissione, or the Council of Capos. This council, naturally, was U.S. based—and this brand of imperialism was even more invisible than the behind-scenes maneuverings on home soil.
Thus there was no such thing, per se, as a French Mafia. There were local mobs, home-owned and operated, but finding cohesion only in the franchise-like manipulations of the American families of La Cosa Nostra. Some American families maintained direct representation to their French interests, but on the broader scale of international syndication, Thomas Rudolfi was the indisputable authority.
Thus, Monzoor Rudolfi’s dream of empire. He was, literally, in the Commissione’s diplomatic service, directly serving the foreign interests of the American Mafia in their internationally syndicated strata of “business.” He was also lobbyist and payoff man, arbiter and counselor, a central point of contact for the various American families who were doing business in France, and a liaison between the syndicate and non-syndicated crime elements who plied the French trade routes. After nearly a decade of such service, Monzoor had established links and broad avenues of influence which, in everything but fact, had enthroned him as Monsieur Mafia of France.
His income was derived from a fixed percentage of business grosses, as determined by the Commissione. He was sternly forbade any “independent action” on his own behalf, it being generally felt by the Council of Capos that a conflict of interest could thereby arise. As fair exchange for this latter restriction, however, the Commissione provided their ambassador of crime with a substantial living allowance and expense account, enabling him to move about freely and effectively in the higher strata of French society and thus better serve the masters at home.
Somehow, though, for Monzoor Rudolfi, this was not enough. There was nothing in this arrangement for the soul of a man, nothing to placate that insistent little voice from the inner man that cried for self-realization and fulfillment. If justice were to be done, Thomas Rudolfi would be officially declared Capo of France. It was his due. Instead of all the wealth moving toward America, with only a dribbling percentage left behind for the man who had made it all possible, the profits should remain in France and let the driblets cross the Atlantic. For some years now the conviction had been growing in the Rudolfi breast that this justice would inevitably one day find its level in the natural birth of the Rudolfi Family of France.
But now, on this particularly gloomy Paris day, Monzoor Rudolfi was a particularly troubled man. From the window of his townhouse study the massive architecture of the Arc de Triomphe was just becoming visible in a dissipating fog. He had moments earlier completed his third trans-Atlantic telephone conversation of the day—one of those guarded, heavily coded, and utterly depressing dialogues which usually left him with a mild case of the inner shakes. This one had left him with the outer shakes. Not only his dream but his lifestyle, his image—indeed, perhaps his very life—seemed to be in some precarious balance which was entirely beyond his direct control.
So Mack Bolan was in Paris—so what? Bolan was an American problem. Rudolfi should have no interest—certainly no percentage interest—in this mad chase across the oceans and the continents, this vendetta on the blood of a cheap rodman, a lone madman who should have been squashed months ago but for the gross mismanagement in the American branches. If Bolan meant anything to France, that meaning could only be stated in dollars or francs.
Rudolfi had long ago come to think of himself as a Frenchman. He spoke the language like a native, had begun to think in French and to speak English and Italian with an accent. Under his dedicated auspices, the French territories had established a power that would survive the rise and fall of a dozen republics—and, oui, of a dozen Commissiones. So who was this Arnesto Castiglione to suggest that it was time for a change in Paris? Eh? Perhaps it would be closer to the truth to suggest that it was time for a change on La Commissione. Eh? Oui.
What could this farmer, with an army behind him, know of the problems of Paris? What could anyone expect of a Capo who was not truly a Capo, or of a family which was not truly a family? The Paris headquarters consisted of five brothers-in-the-silence—non, but four now, the fifth lay in the morgue, poor Shippy, a toasted marshmallow of blackened remains. Rudolfi’s crew! Ha! Was this not laughable? And yet this Arnesto had vilified and ridiculed this tiny family of France for failing to accomplish what all the collective armies of America had failed to accomplish, the squashing of the cockroach Bolan.
True, the cockroach behaved as a lion. But France had heard less than one day of his roar. How could the farmer of Virginia be so critical of France’s restricted efforts?
Rudolfi thought that he knew the answer to that. Oui, he knew. He knew the workings of logic of these Capos who had once been common soldiers of the streets. Keep France poor, this was the plan. Keep France wholly dependent upon the small commissions from gigantic business deals, make her account franc by franc for each business expense and the most microscopic item of the operating budget. Keep Rudolfi’s crew busy with decimal points and give them no time to dream of genuine empire. Let France continue to be poor and dependent upon the pleasures of the bloodsuckers of America. But ask her to risk all to capture Bolan, the Lion of America, the lion which all America could not ensnare, but let not France expect the reward which all America sought. Fail, then, and suffer ridicule and personal vilification.
The underground ambassador to France sighed and stepped away from the window—but not, he resolved, away from the dream—the image of the Arc de Triomphe lingering in the optic nerves. Oui, let that be the symbol of the lion hunt of Paris. France would triumph. If necessary, the budding Capo would descend to the streets and bear arms. But France would triumph. Let the foreign armies come, let the great white hunters descend en masse from the streetcorners of New York and Chicago and Philadelphia—and, yes, from the fields of Virginia—and let them prowl the boulevards de Paris; they would all go away empty handed and foolish-faced. France herself would bag the lion, and France herself would demand the reward. Let them try denying it.
Rudolfi was not without local power. He could command one thousand guns upon an hour’s notice. He could command government officials, courts, and entire police corps. But this was not merely a contest of power. Non. This was a challenge to the soul of a man.
So, Thomas Rudolfi thinks with his balls, eh? He went to his desk, unlocked it, withdrew the prized luger with swastika inlays in the handle, tested the action, then picked up the telephone and buzzed the garage for his car. The dream, he had decided, was not going to crumble. It was going to grow. It would grow in the fertile soil of Bolan’s carcass.
7: The Hard Set
Bolan awakened at shortly past three o’clock, showered again, shaved, and had lunch with a towel draped about his middle. The valet shop had fr
eshened his suit; new shirts from the tailor shop hung beside it. He deliberated a course of action over coffee, then came to a decision and first donned the black skinsuit which had become an Executioner trademark. Another brief silent debate followed, regarding the .45 automatic and its sideleather. He had heard of a place where one might obtain more exotic weapons … He resolved the debate by checking the clip in the .45 and the spares in the belt, then carefully stowing the set in his briefcase. Then he put on shirt and pants, strapped on the .32, tested the breakaway, finished dressing, grabbed his briefcase, and went to the lobby.
The desk clerk sent for his rental car and gave him a note which had been left in his box. It read: “Welcome to Paris, darling. But why have you not called?” It was signed “Cici.”
The smiling clerk was anxious to be helpful. “Mademoiselle Carceaux is staying at this very hotel, M’sieur.” His hand was on the telephone. “If you wish now, I will ring her—”
Bolan grunted a blunt, “No thanks,” and went outside to await the car, his mind freezing around the implications of that little note. Sure, Gil Martin was undoubtedly known throughout Europe—why shouldn’t he have personal connections right here in Paris?
Bolan knew enough about human perceptions that he had had no great qualms about masquerading as an American celebrity in front of those who knew him only from his films … but anyone who knew Martin in the flesh would not be deceived by Bolan’s likeness.
So okay, he would have to get out of the Gil Martin cover with all possible haste. One day … he would try it on for one day … and even that might be pushing things beyond the limit.
The car was a small sedan of French make, ideally inconspicuous for Bolan’s purposes. He drove directly to the Opera, encountering no difficulty in finding that Paris landmark, then onto Grands Boulevards—that great succession of avenues which begins as Boulevard des Italiens and progresses through several other names and successively poorer neighborhoods, yet flowing on as a single bustling avenue of movie houses, music halls, shops, and a thousand interesting flavors of France.
He passed the red-flagged Communist Party Headquarters and continued on through several intersections before coming upon the one he sought, then he pulled off the avenue and found a place to park the car. There he slipped on the large sunglasses and left the vehicle. A five minute walk and several requests for directions took him to a narrow and dismal street which had once served as a focal point for the Algerian rebels in Paris, one of few such areas on the Seine’s right bank; most Algerians lived in the Latin Quarter.
He found the little “couscous” cafe, in which nothing was served but the native Algerian dish with meat and rich sauces, and a strong Algerian wine. He also found the right words, and was led into a basement beneath the cafe and an audience with a fat and fierce Frenchman who, for five hundred American dollars, provided him with a modern, light, and extremely efficient little pistolet d’machine—an automatic weapon capable of delivering 450 rounds of .25 calibre ammo per minute—complete with ammo, clips, and compact carrying case.
Bolan was aware that he could have acquired the weapon for less than half that price, but he was in no mood for dickering. He politely declined a bonus of couscous and wine, tucked the gun case beneath his arm, and returned to his vehicle.
Thirty minutes later he was cruising the area surrounding Rue Galande, site of the earlier battle at the maison de joie. The neighborhood looked much better in the soft sunlight of late afternoon but Bolan was not interested in aesthetic values. His mind was working in terms of cartography, street layout, building plan, and various battlefield considerations.
He acknowledged the strong possibility that Rue Galande held nothing of further interest for the Executioner, but it was also his only starting point. It would be here or nowhere, and he had decided upon here.
He made several passes of Madame Celeste’s, then left the car on Rue St. Jacques and returned on foot to a small sidewalk cafe which afforded him an unobstructed view of Celeste’s front door. He dawdled there over coffee for some twenty minutes, during which time there was no traffic in or out of the Madame’s—a normal condition for this time of day. Then he walked down to a modest hotel directly opposite the house of joy and rented a room on the third floor, front. As a soft drop it was perfect—and he had an interesting view from there of most of the neighborhood.
The manager of the hotel, a nervous man of about fifty, explained to Bolan that he was extremely fortunate to have found such a vacancy—actually the house had been filled with a Swedish touring party until that very morning. A gunfight in the street just outside had unnerved his guests and they had checked out shortly thereafter. Actually, though, this was a very quiet neighborhood where such a disturbance was extremely rare, and M’sieur must have no worries concerning a repetition of the morning’s disturbance.
Bolan thanked the man and assured him that he was not worried. He also asked a few offhand questions and learned that none of the establishments of the neighborhood had been involved in the disturbance, non, it had been merely a passing disturbance of the street. This suggested to Bolan a thing or two concerning the official protection being enjoyed by Madame Celeste; her house had not become involved in the police investigation. Bolan idly wondered just how high that protection extended. A veil of official disinterest would work as well to Bolan’s favor as to the enemy’s.
As soon as the manager left him alone, Bolan opened the gun case and assembled the machine pistol, attached and adjusted the neck strap, loaded the weapon, and placed it on the bed. Then he undressed, down to the black nightsuit, took the .45 rig from the briefcase, double-checked it, and buckled it to his waist. Extra clips for the machine pistol went into the belt pouches. He tried on the new weapon again, letting it dangle from the neckstrap in front of him, found this awkward, and readjusted the strap for an under-arm hang. This felt better. He removed both rigs then and placed them on the bed, removed his crepe-soled sneakers from the briefcase and put them with the weapons, then went to the window to begin a patient surveillance.
It soon became evident that someone other than Bolan was interested in the neighborhood. An odd-shaped automobile, perhaps a Citroen, had taken up a peculiar patrol of the street below. Bolan clocked the interval between passes at an average of five minutes. The reversing directions of travel suggested a figure-8 circling of the neighborhood. He could not read police into that maneuvering.
At five o’clock other things began to happen. First a lone man of rather nondescript appearance approached the house of Celeste, went past for about ten steps, then crossed to Bolan’s side of the street and out of sight. A light in the lobby across the way flashed on, off, then back on. Immediately the man reappeared below Bolan’s window, crossed the street, and went into the maison de joie. Others had obviously been watching his performance; they began drifting in from both ends of the street, in ones and twos. Bolan counted eleven entrants, each of them fairly young and casually dressed.
The Citroen continued the patrol. Nightfall was approaching, lights springing on here and there along the street. The cafe trade was moving inside; bistro time was looming. Across the way, however, all was dark except for the dim lights of the lobby.
At a few minutes before six o’clock a light went on upstairs. The blinds were open; Bolan was looking into the upstairs chambre de soirée. A man appeared briefly at the window and then the blinds were drawn. Moments later a door at the third floor balcony opened and a woman stepped outside. Bolan could not see her too well in the failing light but he could see that her hair was touseled and she seemed to be doing a great deal of yawning and stretching. The woman then went back inside and a light came on, muffled behind heavy draperies. Bolan grinned. The mademoiselles were coming out of the sack; another working day was beginning.
Something was wrong, though. Some minutes later a young man approached the house, went hesitantly to the door, and rang. Madame Celeste appeared briefly in the open doorway, some sort of discu
ssion took place, the door closed. Too early? The man stood there for a moment, then turned to stare across the street. Even in the dim light Bolan could read the disappointment there. The youth swung angrily away and went back the way he had come. During the next hour this same act was repeated twice, but with different callers. Meanwhile the Citroen continued the merry-go-round.
Bolan watched, pondered, and waited. Obviously Celeste was not open for business. But at least eleven men were inside that house. A private party? Hell no. The entire thing had an ominous smell—precisely what Bolan was hoping for.
One lingering far-out possibility cautioned Bolan and kept him waiting. Those eleven men inside could be French cops, planted early into a hard drop. The Citroen could be an outside patrol, and in radio contact with those inside. Somehow, though, the scene did not ring with cops. The thing reeked of a Mafia hardset, but Bolan was not yet ready to bet any cop’s life on the accuracy of his intuitions.
The Executioner could wait. Patience was a tool of his trade. Often he had lain unmoving in a clump of high grass for hours with Viet Cong moving all about him. Once he had sat submerged to the chin in a rice paddy for ten hours awaiting an opportunity to fulfill his mission. The hotel room on Rue Galande was much more comfortable than a rice paddy.
As the night moved in, so did the Latin Quarter atmosphere. Small groups of students of both sexes paraded about the street, moving from joint to joint. Snatches of conversations, uttered in a dozen languages, drifted up to Bolan’s drop, mixing with the distantly muffled rhythms of jazz and rock music—here and there a congregation in the middle of the street as groups of youngsters stopped to talk or exchange information—and the ever-present Citroen threading its way through it all.
Continental Contract Page 6