Just below was Pierre, the dog handler. Pierre, too, would love to see his pets exercised. De Champs called down to him, “The beasts look magnificent.” He laughed and added, “They have the hungry look.”
The handler was wearing a pistol in a holster at his waist. He touched the butt of the pistol with the back of his hand and called back, “I am not too sure of them myself, M’sieur. They strain for the hunt.”
De Champs laughed again and raised his eyes to the south boundary of the Iron Mask Estate. A public road to the beach traversed that side of the property, fully five hundred meters from the house. A bright red automobile was stopped on the road and a barely visible human figure stood behind it. De Champs stepped into the trophy room for a pair of binoculars and promptly returned to the balcony and focussed the glasses on the vehicle. He called down, “Pierre, open the gate to the south field,” and leaned forward over the railing for a tense binocular inspection.
The car was an American sports model … a tall man leaning across the roof with some object … de Champs sharpened the focus, caught his breath in a sharp gasp, and the signal to flee clanged into his brain one heart-stopping moment too late. The last image registered on the retinae of Claude de Champs’ eyes was a fierce face leaning into the eyepiece of a big gunscope and a tiny puff of smoke erupting from the muzzle of a long firearm.
The hot chunk of steel-jacketed .444 closed the distance in something under three seconds, zipping in just beneath the binoculars and ripping through the soft flesh of de Champs’ throat in a geysering explosion of blood and mutilated tissue.
The binoculars fell into the Courtyard of the Iron Mask and the man himself was flung backwards and through the French doors and onto the exquisite cherry-wood of the Louis XIV era trophy room.
And so died another pretender to the underground throne of France.
Not even an iron mask could have saved him.
The Sting Ray was in traction and powering along the road even as the report from the big Safari model was still rolling across the fields. Bolan turned onto Moyenne Corniche, the fabulously beautiful coastal drive, and ran south to the nearest exit, then swung inland and began the encirclement of Nice, a small section of map lying across the steering wheel and guiding him. Twice he overshot dimly-marked back-roads junctions and once had to ease his way through a small flock of sheep blocking the roadway, but he came out on the southwest edge of the city with five minutes to spare on his schedule, then headed directly for the chateau of Alex Korvini.
The photo on the dashboard showed a scowling man with hard eyes and heavy brows, a long corrugated forehead, square-jawed, grim-lipped. According to the Wilson data, Korvini had made it big from the misery of his countrymen in Italy in the grim days following World War II, hi-jacking American free aid materials and selling them at inflated black market prices to those who should have been receiving the life-giving goods without charge. Since then he had been involved in veritably every underground avenue of international thievery and trade, including drugs and the wholesale disposal of stolen goods, but his steadiest and most lucrative form of income had come from petty frauds and illicit business deals involving U.S. servicemen stationed in Europe and those of the U.S. Sixth Fleet in the Mediterranean. Korvini had been a French citizen since 1961, had never been arrested anywhere, and was regarded by his jet set friends as an astute international financier. Which, in fact, he was—with an almost unlimited backing of ill-gotten money.
Bolan scouted the country estate with quick passes on two sides, then found the piece of high ground best suited for his hard drop. It was about a quarter-mile distance and allowed excellent coverage of front and rear entrances, both to the property and to the house itself.
The chateau occupied a small knoll. Slightly behind, below, and toward Bolan stood a moderate-size barn. Through his glasses Bolan could see horse stalls, a small corral, an expensive American automobile parked in back, another in front of the chateau. A man in white dungarees and a blue denim packet stood at the front gate with a shotgun under his arm; another, similarly clad, guarded a small entrance at the rear of the property. Another pair of armed guards strolled about on the knoll on which sat the house.
Bolan continued the distant inspection, raising the binoculars to sweep the surrounding countryside. As he watched, two vehicles entered an intersection about a mile beyond the estate and proceeded up the lane toward the front gate. Cops!
He returned immediately to the scrutiny of the chateau. It must be soon or never. Windows heavily draped, upper levels shuttered. Some were learning. Suddenly the back door of the house opened and a stocky man ejected himself partially, said something to a nearby guard, and quickly went back inside. Bolan grinned, having caught a quick glimpse of shaggy brows and bumpy forehead as the man disappeared from view. Okay, he’d spotted the target—now to get him back into the open.
Bolan went to the Sting Ray, checked his weapon, and returned to the hard drop. The vision field of the scope was highly intense, reducing to about a five-inch real-diameter focus. He targeted-in first on the back door to the chateau, then tracked slowly across to the nearest guard on the knoll, read his range, corrected to six-inches above target, tracked back to the door, again ranged and corrected, selecting a door-hinge as the spot in his crosshairs.
He swung the track several times, practicing the route and getting the feel of the swing, then he settled into the piece, laying-in prone, and found his mark on the knoll.
The guard was lighting a cigarette, turned to directly face Bolan, legs spread wide, the butt of his rifle on the ground, muzzle-end leaning against his chest. Bolan was sighting on the stock of the grounded rifle. He gently squeezed off, hanging into the recoil to maintain visual reference with the target, held there to confirm the hit as the guard’s rifle took the impact and transferred it to the man, and both fell over—then Bolan calmly tracked over to the mark on the door and was on the second target by the time the sound of the firing reached the chateau.
Korvini’s contorted face suddenly loomed into the vision-field, mouth open, obviously yelling something. The crosshairs smoothly tracked upward to the six-inch fix above target—a mixture of conditioned instinct and finely-tuned reflexes sighed into the squeeze-off, and another item of hard persuasion was roaring along the two-second course.
Korvini’s heavy brows fell into the eyesockets, the face collapsing in a grotesque reception of sizzling steel, exploding inwardly and spattering the backdropping doorjamb with skull fragments and jellied frothings of brain cells.
Bolan immediately raised off the scope and into the binoculars, sweeping the grounds for reaction to the hit. The object of his first round was kneeling on the ground and staring stupidly at his shattered gun. The other guard on Bolan’s side of the knoll was moving jerkily between the first target and the second, obviously confused and shaken by the one-two punch from nowhere. Another man, racing around from the far side of the house, abruptly recoiled from the grisly sight at the doorstep and jerked about to yell something to someone not in view.
The man at the front fence was trying to conceal himself behind the gate post while pointing toward Bolan’s hill. The police cars had arrived at that point and uniformed men were erupting from the vehicles and going to ground.
Bolan returned to his scope and calmly sent a round into the left-front tire of each vehicle, then repeated on the two cars at the chateau.
Another binocular scan revealed not a soul moving down there. Bolan went back to the Sting Ray, stowed the Safari, inscribed a small X on his map, and went from the chateau that misery had built.
The Executioner was on target. Monte Carlo was next.
15: The Judas Touch
Paul Vicareau’s cultured voice crowded the long-distance connection, often swelling into a suggestion of mild hysteria as he told Roxanne Loureau, “Do not tell me that you cannot find him, Roxanne. You must find him and you must tell him to placate the maniac. This man is keeping his word! Do you understand?
He is fulfilling this threat!”
Roxanne’s voice was troubled and sympathetic as she murmured, “The police, Paul, surely they will stop him soon. Meanwhile I will certainly—”
“The police! They sit at maps and contemplate the strategy while the madman moves about at will. I do not believe the police wish to apprehend him! I believe they sit back and rub their hands and place the bets on who is next to die! What has happened to our organization? Where is the influence, the protection, which you and Rudolfi so glibly promise the organization?”
“Please, Paul … I am doing everything in my power. Do not believe that you are the only one who is upset. We are doing everything … believe me, everything. And please do not speak so plainly, the telephone is not invulnerable to—”
“Oh, oh, Roxanne—you do not understand the gravity of our situation! Listen to me! It has been very shortly more than three hours since this man makes his announcement. Already gone are de Champs, Korvini, and moments ago, Hebert. No one is safe, no where is safety, he moves about at will—have you heard yet about the attack on Hebert?”
Roxanne sighed. “No, Paul, I have not—”
“Then let this illustrate the gravity of our situation. Nowhere is safety. How does this man know where to go? What could be more secure than the casino at Monte Carlo? Hebert is there with a large party. Hundreds of tourists all about. Hebert has declared that he will remain in the casino until the madman is captured. He is called to the telephone. Four bodyguards accompany him. As he is standing at the table in the midst of friends a single shot rings out, a window above crashes, and Hebert is lying dead in the midst of friends. Now do you understand?”
Roxanne’s voice was not overly steady as she told the troubled man, “I have understood from the beginning, Paul. Please believe that I am doing everything possible, but you too must understand—this is most difficult. I have issued the instructions—Rudolfi is not needed for this. Be assured, everything is being done to intercept the, uh, shipment in question—and the full power of the organization is moving to release you from this terrible pressure. In the meantime, you must exert every possible caution for your own safety.”
“I am going to demand arrest!” Vicareau informed her. “I will ask the police to place me in protective custody!”
“They will demand from you an incriminating statement, Paul!”
“Better that, Roxanne, than to join de Champs, Korvini, and Hebert!”
“But wait! Wait another hour, Paul!”
“The next hour, Roxanne, could be Paul Vicareau’s. No—I will wait thirty minutes. But I will never forget that in my hour of greatest need, Thomas Rudolfi is nowhere to be found. I will never forget or forgive this, Roxanne. Nor will any others.”
“Strength, Paul,” she murmured, “have strength,” and broke the connection.
Things were falling apart, and she could feel the weight of the entire structure bearing upon her. Yes, Rudolfi, in this hour of greatest need, where are you? What wild plot of personal revenge has sent you scurrying to the south of France while your friends die about you? You and your aces!
“I will call Cici,” she told herself aloud. “Yes, yes—I must call Cici at once.”
The Executioner was sealed in. And all the time he’d thought he was doing it so cute! The tiny principality of Monaco had become a jug into which Bolan was tightly corked, the cork being represented by swarms of French cops at every road and trail leading out of the jug. Inside, in the bottle, things were not much better. The tourists, he thought, must be getting quite a treat. It would appear that the Prince was changing the guard at every street corner. Uniformed men were everywhere, stopping every one and demanding passports—and the entire area was buzzing with a carnival excitement.
For thirty minutes the Sting Ray cruised about seeking an exit, sniffing out roadblocks and turning back, and now Bolan had to admit that he had goofed. He pulled around in an inspection of the fabulous yacht basin, port o’ call for certain Greek millionaires and international luminaries of every ilk, and found the same situation there; retreat by the sea was also cut off. He stopped at a public telephone and, after some delay, succeeded in getting a call through to Cannes.
The vivacious voice came on the line at the second ring, and Bolan told it, “This is the stand-in. Comment ça va?”
She replied in a rush of French.
He said, “You know I don’t dig that. What’s the action? Someone else there?”
She again replied in French.
“Okay, I get it,” he told her. “You still watching television?”
She said, “Oh, oui.”
“Nothing of interest there for me yet?”
“Non.”
His sigh carried audibly across the connection. “I had a hell of a time getting to Hebert. Now it looks like I walked right into it.”
She asked a question, the only part of which he understood was, “… Monte Carlo?”
Bolan replied, “Yeah. And I’m sealed in. Guess I got too cute.”
In a guarded and almost whispering voice, she told him, “Do not come ’ere, Cheri.”
He said, “The lamp is lit, eh?”
“No, I could not do even that. Listen, they are everywhere … on the ’ighway, inside the grounds … the eenspectaire jus’ walk to the patio for confer … ohhh I have but a meenute and I would say so much. Stay where you are. Can you get to the yacht basin?”
“Are you under arrest, Cici?”
“No no, I tell them and I think they begin to believe, I bring you to Nice, not knowing ’oo you sire, and then you ’ave split from Cici, see. They are much eempress, I think, because the Rolls is ’ere and you are not. I ask you, can you reach the yacht basin?”
“I’m looking at it right now. Why?”
“When they leave, I will try to peeck you up in the cruisaire.”
“Nothing doing. You stay put.”
“But what will you do?”
“I guess I’ll go to the most unlikely spot and sit my fanny down.”
“What means this?”
“Never mind. Bye, Cici. It’s been great.” He hung up, stared at the telephone thoughtfully, then picked it up and placed a call to Nice.
A girl answered, the barest trace of a French accent in her English. “Let me speak to Dave Sharpe,” he told her.
“May I tell him who is calling?” she requested.
“Tell him it’s the man from La Mancha.”
“Pardon me, sir, did you say La Mancha?”
“Yeah. Tell him I’m the used windmill salesman.”
The girl giggled and said, “One minute please, sir.”
The newsman’s exasperated tones clicked on almost immediately. “This could only be one guy,” he said heavily.
Bolan replied, “Right, the world’s last living fool, but maybe not for long. I’m pinned down and digging a foxhole, maybe for the night. What’s the feel from the other side?”
“Panic, sheer panic. You’re a tough puncher, friend.”
Bolan said, “Not tough enough, I guess. Listen, I have to make a tactical withdrawal. Care to handle another story?”
“It’s how I earn my living,” Sharpe said, sighing.
“Call it a cease fire, temporary type. It’s a little past five o’clock right now. I’ll give them until … say eight o’clock to produce the missing items. If nothing has developed by that time, I’m going into a full-scale blitz.”
“That’s interesting as hell, in view of the fact that you’ve already got the whole continent in uproar. Uh, haven’t you been watching the telly?”
Bolan said, “Not constantly. I just spoke to my telly-watching service, though. I got no message.”
“Well … maybe it hasn’t gone out yet. But I was just talking to the station manager. They’ve had two calls from Paris and one from Marseilles, asking you to lay off until they have a chance to spring the merchandise. You didn’t get that?”
Woodenly, Bolan replied, “No, I didn’t g
et that. But change that story I just released. Instead, I’m accepting their assurances that the merchandise will be sprung … but only until eight o’clock … then, same story.”
Sharp said, “For what it’s worth, slugger, I admire your footwork. Just don’t quote me on that.”
Bolan chuckled. “Thanks for the immoral support. Maybe I’ll see you around some day.”
“I’ll cover your trial maybe.”
Bolan laughed and replied, “It will never come to that.”
“Can I quote you?”
“Sure. I wouldn’t live ten minutes after an arrest. You know that and every Mafioso in the world knows it. Penning me up would be an automatic death sentence. So I’ll take it standing up, thanks, and in a place of my choosing.”
“You talk as though you’re expecting to get it.”
“Well, sure. I may be a windmill-fighting fool, but I’m no idiot. It has to come sooner or later. I’m just-banking on later, that’s all.”
The newsman sighed. “This had developed into quite an interview. Thanks, I appreciate it. But tell me this—do you expect to get out of Monaco?”
“I didn’t tell you that I’m in Monaco.”
“Didn’t have to. The whole world knows it. At least, the French police are assuring one and all that you are, and that you’ll never get out. They’ve got a little maginot line around the entire principality. How do you rate your chances?”
Bolan’s mind was working furiously. “Didn’t I tell you that I was blitzing at eight o’clock? Does that sound like I’m hopelessly contained?”
“Well, you did say …”
“I said a tactical withdrawal. You make out of that what you can. But don’t give any aid and false comfort to the enemy. I’m blitzing at eight if they haven’t produced, and they’d better understand that.”
“Then you are not in Monaco.”
“Hell I’m not saying where I’m not. Let the cops figure it out.”
Bolan hung up, cutting off another question from the newsman. Then he returned to the car and got away from that immediate area. Several new items of thought were now bothering him. Uppermost, why the hell didn’t Cici deliver that message? What kind of a damn two-headed game was she playing, anyway?
Continental Contract Page 13