Thermal Thursday

by Don Pendleton

  The distance was less than five hundred yards through the canefields but still he was a little late in getting there. The pilot was already out of the plane—a vaguely familiar guy—and was helping a leggy knockout of a blonde to the ground.

  The babe was wearing abbreviated shorts and not nearly enough halter—and she looked a bit familiar, too.

  The Pip was breathing easier, already. This visitation did not bear the marks of a …

  But then the big guy appeared in the doorway and stepped casually to the ground. A nerve pulsed in Papriello’s cheek as he looked at that guy. Tall, cool, very macho in trim slacks and Palm Beach blazer, tight shirt open halfway to the waist and a thin silk kerchief knotted against the bare throat. Cold eyes measured everything in sight before finally coming to rest on the Pip—and suddenly all bets were off.

  Papriello had never seen this guy before, probably, but he’d seen enough just like him to know where the guy was coming from … and what he was coming with … and, probably, what he was coming for. The question for the coming was who .. who, not what.

  The boss of the ’glades hard force got out of the limo and moved quickly forward with hand outstretched.

  The pilot took that hand in a warm clasp and casual greeting. “Hi, Pip. How’s the swamp fever?”

  The son of a bitch knew him.

  Pip thought he knew the guy, too. But, shit, you saw so many.… “About the same, I guess,” the Pip replied, wondering who the hell he was talking to.

  The tall guy was pulling baggage off the plane. The blonde was buzzing around making sure he got it all.

  Papriello lowered his voice to casually ask the pilot, “Who’d you bring us, this time?”

  The guy rolled his eyes as he quietly replied to that indiscreet inquiry. “With those boys, I never ask. The blonde I’ve seen around Lauderdale. I think she used to be in Miami Vino’s stable. You know?”

  Sure, the Pip knew all about the late Miami Vino and his fabulous party whores. “Why all the damn baggage?” he asked nervously. “It looks like they’ve come to stay. Where’d you say you picked them up?”

  “Hey, don’t put me on the spot, eh?” the pilot muttered. He produced a handkerchief from his hip pocket and mopped his brow with it. “It’s an X-rated flight. You know what that means.”

  Yes, Papriello knew what that meant. It was a flight that never happened. So how could the guy know where he picked somebody up—or where he let them off?

  Then the tall guy came over and put the seal on the whole thing.

  Without a handshake, without so much as a smile, the guy sealed it all.

  “Relax, Pip,” that cold voice advised him. “You know why I’m here. Right?”

  “Yessir, I guess I do,” Papriello solemnly replied.

  “You’re the head cock around here?”

  “Yessir, I am. I report directly to Guido. We’ve been expecting you. A couple of tender-feet got lucky, that’s all. We can handle smartasses like them. We got a damned hard force here, sir.”

  “I know you have, Pip.” Cold … cold as ice. But … at the same time, almost friendly. Almost.

  “The trouble, sir—”

  “It isn’t you, Pip. That’s all you need to know, for now.”

  “Yessir. I ’preciate that. I—”

  The guy was freezing him with those eyes. “It’s a lockup. See to it. Nobody comes, nobody goes.” He turned those icy eyes to the pilot. “That means you, too, Grimaldi. Get comfortable.”

  Grimaldi, sure … Pip remembered the guy, now. He flew nobody but top brass. So okay. It wasn’t Pip at the end of the screw. And that was entirely right, Mr. Hard Ass, that was all the Pip needed to know, for now.

  But the chest was nevertheless a bit constricted as he responded to that self-evident authority. “Right, Mr. uh—right, sir, it’s locked up until you say different.”

  “You call me Frankie,” said ice-eyes.

  “Right, Frankie,” said Papriello, feeling much better now—much better, indeed. “And you call me, sir, any damned time you need me.”

  “You know I will,” said the one-man screw crew.

  The Pip knew that, sure.

  It was simply the way things were. Nothing, Pip also knew, ever really changed.

  6

  COUP

  Bolan was strictly playing the ear. He had not known what sort of reception he would receive in the bold invasion of Santelli’s island fortress, nor could he even guess with any certainty as to the mental atmospheres pervading that place in this time and circumstance. Indeed, he could but guess at the circumstances. He did know and understand his enemy, however, and he’d felt that the possibilities for positive results would warrant the risks and uncertainties accompanying the probe.

  For probe it was—during those tense early moments. The thing could have gone in any direction. Much depended upon very subtle nuances of the mental climate attending the reception at the airstrip. The whole thing could have been aborted right there—and the timing for such a contingency had been worked down to hairline precision.

  But when Grimaldi showed the white handkerchief, Bolan knew that the probe was yielding positive results and that the mission was in “full go” status. The natives were restless, tense, uneasy about the visitation—that was the white handkerchief reading—and that was all the mental atmosphere required by his expert in enemy penetration.

  It was not all brass and balls, though, that brought it off. The secret of Mack Bolan’s penetration expertise was equally dependent on careful preparation, exhaustive intelligence gathering, and a studied understanding of the enemy. His masquerades, which had already become legendary even in the enemy camps, were no mere matter of costuming and role-playing. They were successful primarily because Bolan knew the enemy better than they knew themselves—and because he knew that their greatest strengths were also their deadliest weaknesses. He operated on those strengths, converted them to his own designs, and strangled the foe with them.

  Carlo Papriello was a case in point. The guy had even woven his own noose, placed it over his head, and invited Bolan to pull the lever.

  But Carlo the Pip was small game. He would keep—and he would also become a most willing assistant to the hangman. Twenty years in the outfit but forever a hired gun, the Pip had reached that plateau which awaits every aging gunner, the plateau of diminishing expectations. Gunning was a living, that was all. Fortunes were not made behind the gun. Fortunes were made behind the desk—and Papriello was one of those realists who grudgingly understood his own fate; there was no “desk” in Carlo the Pip’s future. He was a realist, yes. And a survivor. And a guy like that was red meat for Mack Bolan’s game.

  But guys like Papriello were not necessarily stupid, either. Most of them possessed a savage cunning coupled to a hairtrigger mind—and you had to play these guys very carefully.

  During the brief drive to the hacienda, the Pip chattily told his important guests, “You came at a good time. Right after the harvest and ahead of the monsoons. Listen, when it rains here … well, you have to see it to believe it. They say about fifty inches during the season. That’s from … oh, about June to maybe October. That plays hell with the Lucifer Ladder, of course. So we have to plan the operations accordingly.”

  Not so damned “chatty,” at that.

  The guy was testing the visitor, probing his depth of familiarity with the local game. He had not mentioned the Lucifer Ladder all that casually. Bolan had heard whispered echoes of that strange expression. Indeed, they had brought him here. But he could only faintly guess at the meaning.

  And this was no time for faint guesses.

  Bolan let it pass without a bite, coldly replying, “Exactly why I’m here, Pip.”

  “Sure, I understand,” was the quiet response. And there was no further conversation until they reached the house.

  It was a large island, connected to another land mass a quarter mile to the east by a narrow land bridge, almost entirely under agriculture exce
pt for a small airstrip and the residence compound clustered at the south shore. The latter consisted of a two-story Spanish-style stucco with a red-tile roof, several small bungalows, some outbuildings, and a four-stall garage with overhead living quarters—all enclosed within wire fencing except at the waterfront.

  Papriello explained, “The farm settlement is on the north side. Only two permanent families, the Eddingtons and the Winklers. Eddington is the manager but we got nothing to do with him. He takes his orders straight from Mr. Santelli’s front office. And, of course, they’re not wise.”

  “Lot of cane, here,” Bolan quietly commented.

  “Yessir, I guess they use itinerant labor to work the fields. Come and go, you know. Blacks, mostly, I guess. Got a bunch of shacks on the north side, they use while they’re here. Anyway, we never see any of that unless we need to.” He raised his eyebrows as he added, “You know what I mean.”

  Bolan did not know, no, but interesting possibilities were being presented. He said, “It’s a good cover, yeah.”

  “Profitable, too,” the Pip informed him. “I mean, legit profit. Sugar prices have gone out of sight on the commodity markets.”

  Bolan smiled faintly as he commented, “You watch things like that, eh?”

  The guy colored slightly and growled, “Not really, no. We got enough to worry about, as it is. But it’s not all joy, you know. A guy sometimes thinks of the future. To tell the truth, I been thinking about buying up a piece of that market.”

  “You could lose your ass playing another man’s game,” Bolan said quietly.

  “It beats going stir crazy,” Pip insisted. “To tell the truth, sir, I’m not really happy here.”

  Bolan had already deduced that much. He told the guy, “Cheer up, Pip. Things are changing.”

  He knew that he had struck a nerve somewhere with that comment. Papriello did not respond vocally but the eyes told it all. The guy was a realist, yeah … and a survivor.

  So was Bolan.

  And the reality of the moment was that he had entered an armed camp which was fairly bristling with enemy guns. The bungalows and the garage apartment were serving as barracks and obviously they could house a formidable force. Bolan counted a dozen armed men in the first casual sweep of the eyes, scattered between the hacienda and the shoreline. Perhaps another dozen would be found to the rear. God only knew how many more were lurking about under cover within the many buildings.

  It was not a situation to encourage reckless tactics. One false step, a single improper nuance, could bring immediate disaster.

  How these guys would love a whack at Mack Bolan’s head. Presumably all the bounties were still intact, despite the fact that most of those who’d posted the bounties were no longer among the living. More than the money, though, much more to guys like these, would be the fame and prestige to descend upon those responsible for placing Bolan’s head in a paper sack.

  This particular bunch looked bored as hell, at the moment—and this circumstance would be Bolan’s best key. Obviously the entire force was being kept under close wraps within the island hard site. Evidence of faint-hearted attempts to provide recreational facilities could be seen here and there: a rough lawn-bowling course, couple of sagging and bedraggled badminton nets, an abandoned volley ball, lawn darts, a brace of canoes at the shoreline—any or all of which would prove faint recreation, indeed, for the likes of these street soldiers.

  The way those guys were checking out Jean Kirkpatrick told another obvious story: they were not accustomed to seeing females around here.

  Bolan growled to his guide, “How long, Pip?”

  “How long what, sir?”

  “No women.”

  “Oh hell. What’s a woman, sir?”

  “That’s going to change, too,” the VIP visitor promised the head cock.

  That struck another nerve, as Bolan knew it would. The word would be all over that hard site before Bolan could get inside the house.

  The new boss of Santelli Island was going to be a very popular leader … even before his installation.

  Guido Riappi came to the front porch to greet the arrivals. Bolan’s mental file had the guy made instantly. Riappi’s cousin Gus had once been heir to the criminal empire of Maryland boss Arnie (the Farmer) Castiglione but Gus died in disgrace, instead, after allowing Bolan to reach right under his nose to execute Sir Edward Stuart, chairman of the mob’s Caribbean Carousel.

  Things had not gone too well for Guido after that, either. It seems that he complained too bitterly and to the wrong people about his cousin’s treatment at the hands of the mob’s ruling council in New York. To Bolan’s knowledge, the present assignment was Guido’s first “important” berth since the fall of cousin Gus. One thing certainly had emerged from that experience: Guido Riappi had learned the meaning of uncertainty and insecurity in a cannibal society.

  The guy looked none the worse for any of it. Fat, pink, almost a jolly figure in white duck trousers and flowered sportshirt. Not so jolly, though, beneath that flabby exterior. Guido Riappi had made his reputation at the expense of certain longshoremen groups along the eastern seaboard, first as a union organizer and leg-breaker, later as a feared enforcer of mob authority under Castiglione in the Baltimore area. Federal authorities were certain, but could not prove, that the savage Wolf of Baltimore was directly responsible for some fifty murders and scores of lesser brutalities during a single period of unrest in the late sixties.

  You’d never think it, to look at the guy.

  He came at Bolan all smiles and good will, obviously getting the size of his visitor in a single glance and moving quickly to establish hospitable relations.

  Bolan introduced the lady but not himself, saving that formality for a more intimate moment. He turned the lady over to a grateful Pip for a guided tour then wrapped an arm about Riappi and gently but firmly led him inside while busying that worried mind with quiet pleasantries and persuasive reassurances.

  “Relax, Guido, relax. I know how it must look. But things are never as bad as they seem. Right? You’ve got your boys too tight, though. They’re going to shatter. First thing I want you to do is loosen up a bit around here.”

  “I been thinking about that, yeah. Trouble is, how to do it? I can’t be bringing busloads of broads out here on one-night stands. You know how they talk. Sure as hell I can’t turn the joint into a live-in whorehouse. Same time, I can’t take a chance on letting these boys run around town and all the damn trouble they can get theirselves into. First you know, I got a fed behind every bush and movie cameras and the whole bit. Course, I know, I can’t keep these boys penned up forever, neither. They lose their edge, don’t they. I guess that’s why the fuckup this morning. I hope you got some ideas about that.”

  The guy, yeah, had learned his lessons in uncertainty and insecurity. He was taking first crack, inviting the hotshot from the headshed to flex some muscle in a hospitable atmosphere.

  Guido was giving room.

  Mack Bolan was willing to take it.

  The conversation had taken them through a heavily draped and gloomy lounge area and into Guido’s office, equally depressing. The whole place smelled mustily of mildew and tropical rot.

  Bolan twitched his nose and asked, “How do you stand this?”

  “This what?” the guy replied, genuinely baffled.

  “This joint is like a pharaoh’s tomb. Can’t you get some fresh air and sunlight in here?”

  “Oh, say, it’s six of one and half a dozen of another. We got no air conditioning here. Open the joint up and you got bugs and sweltering heat. Couple of days on this rock, believe me, and this house will start feeling real comfortable to you. I hardly ever go outside anymore.”

  “Maybe that’s the trouble,” Bolan replied coldly, giving the guy a flat, hard eye for the first time.

  The hit scored. Riappi dropped his gaze and turned his back to the visitor, sinking quietly into a chair at the desk. Bolan had taken more room than the guy had offered. But
the attitude told plainly that he was prepared to give that, also.

  “Maybe you’re right,” Riappi muttered. “So what do you want me to do?”

  The Executioner had landed.

  And the situation—for the moment, at least—was well in hand. Santelli Island had itself a new boss.

  7

  THE TURF

  “I have the information on that real estate,” April Rose reported to Brognola. “The purchaser was Atlantica Holding Company. Santelli’s name does not appear on the deed but he is an officer in every company under the Atlantica umbrella. And this one, particularly, Resorts Atlantica, is a subsidiary of Atlantica Holding and Santelli is chairman of the board. Resorts Atlantica picked up the smaller piece called Satan’s Hammock at the same time and at a fantastic price. Actually, price seems to have been no object for either sale. They paid more than double the market value for both pieces.”

  “I wonder why,” Brognola mused.

  “Has my nose out of joint, too,” April said. “It took a bit of political footwork, I suspect, to engineer the Satan’s Hammock buy. The site had been under the protection of a state commission for the past twenty years. The preserve status was canceled just a few weeks before the deal was closed.”

  “What were they preserving?”

  “It had been the site of an archeological dig. But apparently everything of value had been removed years ago. According to the petition for abandonment, the site had not been worked during the past seven years.”

  Brognola sniffed and murmured, “Indian mounds?”

  April shook her head, explaining, “Paleolithic studies. That’s Stone Age stuff. They’d been investigating something called a cenote. What’s a cenote?”

  “Beat’s me,” the chief growled. “Why don’t you look it up?”

  “I tried. My dictionary doesn’t know a thing about it.”

  “Then I suggest you consult an archeologist.”

  “The call is already in,” she replied, smiling.

  “My, you’re feeling peachy,” the chief fed observed wryly. “What became of that Pitiful Pearl I had around here all morning?”