He passed a lounge, a television room and two more closed doors and then found himself in an entrance lobby from which a wide, shallow stairway with carved posts curved to the upper floors. Behind it he could see a gun room with windows that looked out on the trees behind the house.
Bolan moved stealthily up the stairs. The gun room odors of wet raincoat, and rubber boots were overpowered by more cloying scents as he passed a huge urn of tropical flowers in the upper hallway.
Bedrooms, bathrooms, a housekeeper's cubbyhole stacked with linen. Finally the open door of what was clearly the owner's study or den. The vacuum cleaner drone was much nearer now, just around a corner in the corridor.
Bolan entered the study.
Brass-studded leather armchairs, legal reference books on glass-fronted shelves, college crests, crossed oars and golfing photos on the walls. Beyond the heavy oak desk, a window looked over the courtyard at the entrance arch.
On the far side of the yard, Bolan could see a man in a yellow slicker leading two German shepherds on a leash. It was still raining.
The hum of the vacuum cleaner was approaching the door. Bolan pushed it almost closed and looked hastily around him. Heavy velvet draperies framed a window recessed to hold a window seat. He slipped behind one, checked that his toes were not exposed and held his breath.
Looking down on either side of his feet, he saw that the waxed floorboards showed no sign of dust. Perhaps the servant had already cleaned the study.
The phone on the desk rang.
Bolan tensed. The shrill bell pealed once, twice… and then was stilled in the middle of the third ring.
Outside, the vacuuming continued, passed the half-open door, receded down the corridor. Evidently the upstairs maid had orders not to answer; the call had been taken on an extension somewhere below.
Cautiously Bolan padded out and picked up the receiver.
He assumed one of the voices was that of the starchy housekeeper; the clipped delivery of the other made it unmistakable as Colonel Julius Vanderlee's.
"As soon as he comes back, sir," the woman was saying.
"Very well," the policeman's voice barked. "His name is Hanson. Have you got that? He will arrive at seven with four other men. Be sure to tell Reinbecker that: four men."
"Yes, sir."
"He can supplement or take over completely the guarding of the house while this criminal is still at large," Vanderlee said. "That is for your employer to decide. Tell him, anyway, that this gentleman has my complete confidence."
"I won't forget, Colonel," the woman said.
When the subdued click indicated that the phone below had been hung up, Bolan gently replaced the receiver. There was a slight but satisfied smile on his face.
That did it.
No need to worry whether Reinbecker was in on the opium deal or just one of Vanderlee's golfing buddies.
If Eddie Hanson was being sent to watch over the guy — and, by inference, to guard him against Bolan — he was in it, all right.
Up to the neck.
That solved one of the Executioner's problems… but it posed another.
Hanson and his team of mercenaries were due to arrive at seven o'clock. According to the driver of the panel truck, Reinbecker should check in from the prison between six and six-thirty.
Bolan reasoned then, that Hanson at least, if not the four others, would come into the house to talk over and check out guard routines once the owner was back.
Bolan would therefore have to act fast; he would have maybe as little as thirty minutes to locate Reinbecker while he was still alone, make him talk… and get the hell out.
The Executioner looked around the room. There was an in-tray beneath a standard lamp on the desk, with three folders stacked in it. Beside the phone was a copy of that day's Rand Daily Mail, a scratch pad whose top page was covered with jotted notes in a spidery hand and a leather-bound diary in front of an onyx pen set.
Yeah, the study had a used air about it — as if business went on there every day. Bolan opened the diary; entries had been made up to ten days ahead. The folders contained daily reports on prison routine, copies of correspondence, circulars and telex messages from the Ministry of the Interior in Pretoria.
In each case the latest material in the file was dated the previous day.
Bolan reckoned that Reinbecker checked in to the study to tidy up his paperwork when he returned to the house each evening. Bolan decided to play that hunch and wait there for the guy.
If he was lucky, the prison governor would come to the study as soon as he arrived home, or at any rate before dinner.
If he was luckier, nobody else would come into the room before.
He went back behind the curtain. It was five-fifteen. There was a dull ache in his side.
Bolan was armed only with the silenced Beretta 93-R in its shoulder rig. He unleathered the gun, checked it over, unloaded and reloaded the magazine clip.
He put the weapon back in its holster.
Five thirty-three.
He couldn't hear the vacuum cleaner anymore. But there were other sounds of life: women's voices from the wing of the house he had not yet penetrated, distant music from a radio or television, an occasional muffled roar from some kind of heating or air conditioning plant. And of course the drumming of rain on the roof and against the window.
At five forty-five a young woman in a black raincoat with a scarf tied over her head ran down the steps of the main entrance, got into the Alfa-Romeo and drove away. Twelve minutes later a youth in an oilskin jacket rode a motorbike into the courtyard and delivered a package to the housekeeper at the service door. Bolan rechecked the Beretta.
Piet van der Hoek Reinbecker arrived home punctually at six. A black Citroen CX swished into the courtyard, braked by the entrance and disgorged a chauffeur in the uniform of a prison warden. The man ran around to open the rear door, helped out the governor, saluted and drove away as Reinbecker ran up the steps. The geranium blooms in the stone troughs were drooping under the pelting rain.
There were muffled voices below, one subservient, the other bullying. Reinbecker handing his wet garments to a manservant?
Soon afterward Bolan heard footsteps in the corridor outside. A door opened and closed. It was followed by the sound of water running, toilet flushing.
Reinbecker pushed open the study door and walked into the room.
Through a crack between two lengths of curtain Bolan saw a burly man with wide shoulders and a thick neck. His pale, flat eyes, set in a brick-red face, stared angrily at the newspaper as he opened it and scanned the headlines.
He peered shortsightedly at the newsprint and then, with a muttered exclamation, switched on the desk lamp. Beneath the low dark rain clouds it was almost dusk outside. Reinbecker turned to the window and tugged one of the cords that opened and closed the drapes.
He pulled the wrong one.
The draperies slid farther back. Reinbecker's jaw dropped as he stared incredulously at the tall, menacing figure of the Executioner. There was a cold glint in Bolan's blue eyes. The muzzle of the silenced autoloader was pointed straight at the South African's heart.
"Okay," Bolan said quietly, "tell me what Florida has to do with the Ogodishu opium — and why it's so important to them to know that everything's taken care of here."
Chapter Twenty
Reinbecker's face flushed an even deeper red. "What the hell are you doing here? Who are you? What the devil are you talking about?" he stormed.
"I need answers, fast," Bolan said softly.
"We'll soon see about that." The South African moved toward a white button recessed into the desktop. "No goddamn burglar's going to break into…"
"Don't!" Bolan's voice was suddenly a whiplash as Reinbecker's hand reached for the bell.
The pale eyes widened… took in the steely blue ones, the hawklike features, the determined chin of the tall, dark stranger standing so menacingly by the window. "Bolan!" he breathed. "You're the son of
a bitch who murdered one of Vanderlee's men and ransacked the security police office. Well, don't kid yourself you can get away with that kind of thing here."
"Try me," Bolan said. He gestured with the gun. "Your last chance, I want an answer."
"Well, you won't bloody get one." Reinbecker swung around the swivel chair by the desk and dropped into it. "You won't use that thing. There's half a dozen state police in the grounds. One shot and…"
He froze. The brick-red features paled. Bolan had squeezed the trigger of the 93-R. The suppressed report made no more noise than a discreet chug. The slug smashed a hook on the wall. A golfing photo hanging from it dropped into one of the leather armchairs.
Reinbecker managed to regain his composure. "So kill me," he said. "What will it get you? A dead governor and another murder charge. You can't get away from here. You're going to hang, anyway."
"I'll get away all right," Bolan said. "Hanson's not due here with his four hired killers for another twenty-five minutes. I can deal with half a dozen cops."
For a moment Reinbecker was silent. "You're well informed," he said. His glance rested on the phone. "Of course. Eavesdropping once more. You listened in on Vanderlee."
Bolan ignored the accusation. "Vanderlee is the link between Ononu, the opium farm… and you," he said. "Whether or not there is a permanent connection between your team and the Rinaldi gang, I'm not sure. But it seems in any case that the whole deal's part of something much bigger. Something or someone you have to answer to. In Florida. I want the details. And I want to know who and where in Florida."
"Get lost," Reinbecker said.
Bolan sighed. "This is becoming boring," he said. "I never met so many guys who hate to talk. But the others all talked, finally. I think you will, too."
"Think again."
With lightning speed the Beretta came up. Bolan steadied his wrist with his left hand, and fired another single shot. The slug cored the palm of Reinbecker's left hand before it was lost in the padded leather of his chair.
Blood spurted over the files on the desk, onto the knee of his pants, across the floor.
The South African stared in disbelief at the ruined palm. He had gone very pale. "You dirty swine!" he muttered between his teeth.
"Now the other hand," Bolan snapped.
Involuntarily, Reinbecker snatched his right away from the desk and hid it behind his back.
"That won't save it," Bolan warned. "If I have to, I'll drill through your slimy body to get at the hand."
"All right, goddamn you; all right!" Reinbecker choked, losing some of his confidence now.
"I'm listening," Bolan said.
"It… it has to do with something bigger." The South African was trembling now. "It's all designed to… to rake in money."
"Money! So what else is new? You're stalling," Bolan snarled.
"I'm not stalling, I swear it. What I mean, the money from the drug end, the snatches, it's not profit for its own sake. It's for investing in… well, like you say, in something bigger."
"I'm waiting."
"I don't know. I'm told it's to be used to finance a big-time operation — but that's all I've been told. I don't know what operation."
Bolan grabbed a fistful of Reinbecker's hair and jerked the head back hard. The Executioner jammed the snout of the 93-R under the man's chin. The effort of the sudden move caused Bolan some discomfort.
"It's the truth." The voice was a strangled croak. "Ononu takes… took… a cut. Vanderlee takes a cut. I take a bigger cut. But the bulk of the money goes to Florida. I don't know how they use it."
"Guess. And guess right."
"Something to do with… with the terrorist circuit." Reinbecker was perspiring freely now, afraid to meet the diamond-hard gaze of the Executioner. "But I don't know who or where. All I have to do is keep the operation at this end trouble-free and moving."
"You said terrorists. Rinaldi?"
Reinbecker was about to shake his head, stopped just in time, quaking with horror at the thought. "Rinaldi was small time stuff," he groaned. "The hired help for that one series of snatches. Period."
"Okay. So who's the Florida contact?"
"They'll kill me if I tell you."
"At least that gives you another lease on life. Because I'll kill you now, if you don't tell me."
Reinbecker gasped out a name and address. Bolan withdrew the autoloader and scribbled the information on the top sheet of the notepad lying beside the phone. "You better get that hand looked at," he said. "It's bleeding." Reinbecker was crying. He held the shattered hand at his crotch, trying to stifle the pain as the scarlet flood flowed over his lap and down one leg of his pants.
Light from the courtyard splashed over the drawn draperies. An engine suddenly gunned, was cut.
Footsteps. Voices.
Bolan parted the draperies a crack and peered out.
A Range Rover beside the Cadillac. The driver and four other men piled out. Three carried SMGs, the other handguns. One of the state troopers ran through the arch and exchanged greetings with the driver.
Eddie Hanson and his mercs were ahead of time.
There was a sly grin forming on Reinbecker's agonized face. It didn't last.
Bolan moved fast. "Too bad about the hand. It'll have to wait now," he said. He snatched the South African by the lapels and pulled him half out of the chair. His right fist, traveling a short distance, carried all his weight. It crashed to the side of Reinbecker's jaw and knocked him cold.
Bolan lowered him back into the chair. Blood still pumped from the hole in his hand. Bolan ripped the paper from the notepad, stuffed it into his pocket, switched off the light and got out of there.
Holding his side, he raced along the upper hallway, took the stairs three at a time and sprinted for the gun room in back of the lobby.
As he pushed open the door and ran past the governor's gun room, the front door of the house opened and men crowded into the lobby.
A voice shouted, "Hey! That's Bolan! What the hell's he doin' here? After him, quick!"
The Beretta was in Bolan's hand. Jerking open the door that led to the backyard, he swung around and choked out a 3-round burst. One of the men silhouetted against the light from the lobby cursed and clutched his arm. The others scattered on either side of the open doorway.
Bolan ran into the night and the rain.
A gravel path led toward the woods sixty or seventy yards away. Weaving from side to side, he saw the dark punctuated by vivid flashes as revolver shots cracked out behind him. Slugs kicked up gravel by his feet. Hanson shouted orders. Bolan heard the engine of the Range Rover start on the far side of the house.
If only he could make the trees before the guys with the SMGs were near enough to score. His ribs were starting to throb again.
He couldn't. Two chatterguns roared when he was only halfway there. A stream of lead fanned the air on both sides of him. Before the gunners could correct their aim he turned right, pelted through a shrubbery, passed a summerhouse.
More shots — a whole fusillade this time. Bullets splatted through the leaves, chipping the woodwork of the little pavilion. A ricochet screamed off into the night. Then Bolan saw a wall surrounding a vegetable garden. He jumped for the coping, hauled himself up and dropped on the far side.
Grimacing and panting among dimly seen ranks of bean poles and raspberry canes, he staggered through rows of wet leaves, his feet clinging to the soggy earth. Before he reached the far side of the garden, Hanson's mercs were swarming over the wall, firing as they came.
Bolan found a door in the wall. He pulled it open and ran through. In front of him was a narrow belt of trees. He was at the outer fringe of the woods — and beyond it there was a stretch of rough ground and then the wall fencing off the property from the farm lane.
On the far side of the trees he reached a log pile before the SMGs were near enough to be dangerous. But the log pile was still ten or twelve yards from the boundary wall. He flung himself down behind it
and looked desperately around.
He was cornered there. If he ran for it again and tried to climb the wall, he would be a sitting duck for Hanson's gunners when he pulled himself over the top. If he stayed where he was, he might be able to hold them off for a while, but his ammunition was limited and ultimately they would creep near enough to get him. It was only a question of time.
He peered over the top of the logs, straining his eyes through the blackness. There must be police allied with the mercs now; he made out seven or eight denser blurs in the dark, fanned out through the trees, moving inexorably closer. He fired two more rounds.
Hanson's voice again, something about grenades. Rays of light splashed between the tree trunks on his right. The Range Rover had been driven past the coach house, was taking the track that led to the rear entrance, was about to enfilade him.
Bolan emptied the Beretta's magazine and reloaded. His last clip. He fired again… Somewhere out in the dark a man screamed.
The routine continued, mercs and police advancing, shooting as they came. Bolan showed himself above the log pile long enough to fire; the gunmen dropped and then blasted off again to make him duck while they approached still closer.
All the while the glare of the Range Rover's headlight through the trees grew nearer.
Then suddenly, astonishingly, gunfire blazed out in two places from the top of the wall behind the Executioner.
Gunfire that was aimed at the advancing enemy.
The clamor of the autofire was deafening. The lights of the approaching Range Rover died. Glass tinkled to the ground. In front of Bolan the darkness moved as men dived for cover. A grenade was thrown but fell short, momentarily etching the trees against the night sky with its livid exploding flash.
"This way, quick!" a voice called. "Run!"
Bolan sprinted for the wall, leaped, and pulled himself up and over, biting his lower lip to mask the agony in his side.
His Volvo had been driven across the grass and parked immediately below the wall. She was standing on the roof, a smoking mini-Uzi in each hand.
"Now get behind that wheel and drive like hell!" Ruth Elias said.
Dead Easy Page 18