Blowout

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan rode three stations to the Wandsbeker Chaussee interchange, dived underground to the U-Bahn subway, changed trains again at Lübecker Strasse and took the U-2 line back north to Barmbek, only half a dozen blocks from the hotel he had escaped from less than a half hour earlier.

  There were no barriers, no controllers, conductors or ticket men operating in the Hamburg subway network. Strictly an honor system. Computerized automatic dispensers informed travelers of the route they should take and how much their ticket cost. Bolan saw no railroad police. He walked out the station and headed east, away from the wet sidewalks crowded with late shoppers.

  He had no clear idea how he was gong to locate Lattuada with both the police and the underworld after him; he wasn't exactly certain what he would do once he did contact him. But find him he must, or face the thought of remaining a hunted man with a trumped-up murder charge hanging over his head. But first he would have to find a safe base from which he could mount his clandestine operation. The least dangerous place to look for this, he reckoned, and the one least likely to be patrolled by the men who wanted to kidnap him, was the very neighborhood he had just fled. He knew there were numerous rooming houses and cheap hotels even more anonymous than the Shangri-la in the suburban wasteland between Barmbek and Rahlstedt.

  Veils of mist swathed the streetlights as he crossed the Adolph-Schonfelder Strasse for the second time that evening. But this time the roadway was deserted, the sidewalks gleaming emptily where lighted storefronts were reflected in the moisture varnishing the swept pavement. He walked toward a roofed recreation center and then turned in under an arch framing the entrance to a lane leading farther east.

  The arch pierced a big nineteenth-century office block. Halfway through it was the side entrance to a tavern. Bolan looked at the pink light behind the mullioned windows, listened to the chatter and laughing inside and wished he could take time off to go in there, too. As he passed, the door opened and a man came cut, buttoning the collar of his raincoat. Bolan saw him clearly in the illumination flooding the arch from the bar behind him. It was Wertheim, the homicide sergeant working with Fischer.

  The recognition was mutual. For an instant the two men froze, and then, as the policeman yelled, "Stop! Just a minute, you," Bolan pushed past him and broke into a run.

  Wertheim shouted something and dashed after him. A police whistle shrilled. Bolan sprinted for a turn in the lane. The Beretta was in its quickdraw rig, but he wasn't going to exchange shots with a cop and have that chalked up against him, as well. The sergeant, on the other hand, didn't have to worry about scruples. He shouted another warning, and immediately afterward two shots rang out.

  Bolan was unscathed. Luckily the element of surprise had probably blunted the German's professionalism. He had fired on the run, and missed. If Wertheim had stopped, dropped into a combat crouch and steadied his gun arm with his left hand, the warrior would have been lying on the wet cobblestones with a couple of slugs from a Police Special letting air into his back.

  He pelted down the lane and turned into a narrow street. The sergeant's footsteps pounded behind. The whistle blew again. Bolan lengthened his stride to increase his lead. He reached an intersection, ran across a wide roadway shining with the remains of old streetcar tracks and continued along the narrow street. For the third time the whistle shrilled. Wertheim was falling behind. But this time there were answering blasts off to one side and dead ahead.

  Bolan's breath rasped in his lungs as he turned left into a paved walkway, and stopped in his tracks. The walk was only about fifty yards in length, and it ended in a blank brick wall.

  Small modern houses lined the cul-de-sac. By the area railings outside one of the nearest, a tall, dark young woman loitered beneath a streetlight. She was wearing a shiny black raincoat, tightly belted, and a set of keys dangled from the ring she held in her hand.

  "All right," Bolan panted in German, "any price you say. But let's make it fast, huh?"

  For a moment she stared at him, registering the approaching footsteps and the chorus of whistles. "Name your price," he urged again.

  This time she smiled. "Come on then!" she said.

  She ran up the steps, unlocked the front door and pushed it open. Bolan slid inside as Wertheim reached the end of the walkway and stopped, peering right and left. The young woman eased the door shut, took Bolan's hand and led him to a room at the far end of a dark hallway. She switched on a light.

  It was a pleasantly furnished room, with corn-colored easy chairs afloat on a sea of sage-green carpet. She was beautiful, Bolan saw. Not as young as he had thought — she must be well over thirty — but with good bones beneath the makeup and finely modeled features. She unfastened the belt of her raincoat and smiled again.

  "Hate to disappoint you, really I do," she said in excellent English, "but I'm afraid I'm no hooker. Since you're here, though, the least I can do is offer you a drink." She walked across to an oak cabinet standing against the wall. "Do you prefer Scotch or schnapps, Mr. Belasko?"

  Chapter Seventeen

  Bolan stared at the young woman. He didn't get it. "How the hell…?" he began.

  She smiled for the third time. Good teeth, wide brown eyes crinkling at the corners, a lot of lipstick, shining in the light. "Wouldn't you like something to drink?" she repeated.

  "Sure," he said, collapsing into a chair. "Make mine Scotch." He got up again and stripped off the wet trench coat. "Look," he said, "pardon me for asking, but how in hell did you know who I was?"

  She was busy with bottles and glasses at the oak cabinet. "I read your description in the paper."

  "Ah, c'mon," Bolan protested. He began to pace up and down. "That description could have fitted thousands of guys."

  "Very well. I read the stories. I get around. I didn't figure you for a killer. And when I see a man who answers to that description running from the police, a man speaking with an American accent, well, I just knew. You have to in my business."

  "All right," Bolan said, "I'll buy it. For the moment. Just what is your business?"

  "I run a nightclub."

  "A nightclub? Isn't that a tough business for a woman? I mean, well, in this town, especially right now, with the shakedowns and all."

  "Shakedowns?"

  "The protection racket. They tell me it's all the rage this side of the Atlantic. Pretty hard for a woman to duck that kind of routine, I'd say."

  She shook her head. Her dark hair was short, with a natural wave to it. "Not if you know what you're doing."

  Bolan took the glass that was handed him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "A woman can please several kinds of customers at once, ugly customers included," she said. "A man could never get away with that. I can and 1 do. I play my cards right, and I hold them close to my chest."

  He dropped back into the chair. "Lucky cards," he said.

  She ignored the intended compliment. "I did draw lucky ones to begin with," she said seriously. "But you still have to play them right. The Coliseum…"

  "The Coliseum?" Bolan was very interested now.

  "That's the name of my club."

  "What kind of a club? A clip joint? A strip palace? Something ritzy with a floor show?"

  "If you'll stop throwing questions at me for five seconds, I'll tell you," she said sharply.

  Bolan noted the touch of color in her cheeks, her flashing eyes. "Sorry," he said.

  She sat down opposite him and knocked back a sizable jolt of what looked like half a tumbler of straight Scotch. "The Coliseum's kind of special," she told him. "I aimed for a particular mixture of people and I got it. We serve excellent food. There's a good five-piece onstage. The floor show's just one act, but it's always a headliner. And, of course, it costs."

  Bolan said nothing. She was going to tell him, anyway, because obviously she was proud of the place. The whisky went down well after the run through the cold rain.

  "But it's the clientele itself that's the real attraction," she went on. "I
get the top people from lots of different walks of life, and most of them find it kind of intriguing to be among the others. Three out of the five NATO top brass are regulars, for instance. But so are the brains behind the off-track betting syndicates and gang leaders from several cities. I get sportsmen from the Atlantic Grill and most of the big noises in football and boxing, along with a sprinkling of columnists and the spenders in show business, and, of course, the socialites who get a kick out of rubbing shoulders with the underworld. That's a very chic thing to do right now!"

  "No scientists, politicians or literary geniuses?" Bolan quipped.

  "No," she said, "I don't have any of those. But I do get movie directors and some big-time lawyers. That's what I mean when I say I get around. No cop's going to trip me up on the licensing laws when his boss may be at the next table, and some villain at the bar could tip him off to a bank raid planned by a rival. No mobster's going to put the bite on me when I run a place that's going to varnish him with a coat of respectability. Up and down, whichever way you look at it, people are snobs."

  "You're just a simple altruist, wanting to do the best for everyone."

  She shrugged, drained her glass and got to her feet. "I make it my business to cash in on that snobbery, that's all."

  Bolan grinned. "Playing all the angles. Pretty sharp."

  She laughed, a deep sound, slightly husky, more of a chuckle actually. "A girl has to make a living," she said, unbuttoning the raincoat and throwing it over the back of a chair. "Let me get you a refill."

  For a moment Bolan didn't reply. He'd realized there was no circus freak under the raincoat, but the stiff rubberized material had concealed the clues. The girl was magnificent, big-hipped, full-breasted, radiating animal vitality. She was wearing a cream silk shirt and a tweed skirt with tan boots that went halfway up her calves. The short hair, which looked as if it had just been ruffled, had been cut by an expert, expensive hand.

  He cleared his throat. "No thanks. The last one took the chill off nicely. I guess I don't have to introduce myself. But I didn't catch…?"

  "Zuta Krohn," she said. Bolan learned later that her parents had come from East Prussia, but they had fled to Berlin just ahead of the Russian invasion at the end of World War II. She had been born and brought up there, but the family had moved again, to Hamburg, when the Berlin Wall was constructed in 1961. The father, a big-time restaurateur, had been killed in an air crash in the late seventies. Everything she'd learned from him, and everything she'd inherited from him, had gone into the Coliseum when she'd started it four years ago. Now it was one of the most successful night spots in town.

  If you really want to see him, you could try the Coliseum, of course. One of the gay chorus boys had told him that in a bar near the Opera aeons ago. Hansie!

  "Look, Zuta," he said. "I'm going to be inquisitive again. But first I have to apologize for thinking you were…"

  "Taking me for a hooker?" She laughed. "Forget it. With this black coat, hanging around there outside a door with a house key in my hand, I could hardly blame you!"

  "That's what I was going to ask. Why were you, I mean, how did you happen to be hanging around like that, just at that time?"

  "Oh, that's no secret," Zuta said. "I heard police whistles blowing and the sounds of a chase… someone running in my direction. Naturally I waited to see what was going on. Wouldn't you?"

  "Why didn't you turn me in when you realized…"

  "When I realized who you were? Why do you think?"

  Bolan shook his head. He had his suspicions, though.

  "Three reasons," she said. "One, I was on my way home from a hoteliers' association meeting. Two, after reading the newspaper stories about you, I wanted to hear the full story firsthand."

  "And the third reason?"

  They were standing by the liquor cabinet. She moved closer to him, looked him straight in the eye and picked a thread from the sleeve of his jacket. "I like tall men," she said.

  Maybe the liquor helped. Maybe, Bolan thought later, it was just his day. He never knew. He did know that the whole of that evening was kind of hazy, but that at some point he and Zuta found themselves in a pretty hot embrace. And if ever he'd thought Dagmar Schroeder's mouth was promising, he had to admit now that it was strictly minor-league material.

  After a time, though, even with a body as pliant as Zuta's draped against a guy, the mind goes on working, the thoughts spiral up through the quickened breathing and whisky fumes. She'd started a bell ringing a while back there. Hansie Schiller. The iron fairy in the velvet glove, as someone had quipped.

  Sometime later, Bolan asked casually, "You said some of the mobsters use your club. Ever see a character there by the name of Hansie Schiller?"

  She raised her eyebrows. "Another queen, though you wouldn't think it, looking at that face. Yes, he comes in from time to time. Why do you ask?

  "He's been written into my script," Bolan said. "I figure him for the bad guy in the Dagmar Schroeder case. Did you know her, too?"

  "The blond pusher? The one you were supposed to have killed?" The deep voice was suddenly dismissive. "I knew her by sight. I had to have her thrown out of the club a couple of times. Even with my clientele, I have to be discreet. I mean, you know…" Zuta shook her head. "I'm afraid she was a little tramp," she said.

  "And Ferucco Lattuada?"

  "The Yank, as they all him?" She shook her dark head again. "I've heard about him, of course, but I never laid eyes on him. I don't think he's ever been to the Coliseum. Why, is he part of your story, too?"

  "You could say that," Bolan said grimly.

  "Have you eaten dinner this evening?" she asked, changing the subject abruptly.

  "I can't remember the last time I ate something," he told her, getting up from the sofa.

  "I'll call a cab and we'll go eat at my place, all right?"

  "I thought I was in your place," Bolan said.

  "This house belongs to me, but I don't live here," she said. "I have an apartment over the club. That's where I feel really at home. And I can get them to send up something nice from the kitchen. How does that grab you?"

  Bolan nodded. Since he'd come to Hamburg, he'd been betrayed and lied to by a lot of people — Dagmar, Sally Ann, Hugo. But now he fervently hoped Zuta wouldn't join the list. She was his ticket to the Coliseum, though, and he'd trust her for the moment.

  They grabbed a taxi and in no time were seated at a table with a white cloth, silverware, tall Czech crystal glasses and a wine bottle in a cradle.

  Bolan ate heartily — T-bone steak, french fries, soup, salad. Zuta sat across from him, holding a glass of red wine. She had changed into a gold housecoat. Soft music played in the background — Duke Ellington's "Sophisticated Lady." The lights were low, and the mood romantic. He hadn't felt this relaxed in ages.

  It must be a dream, Bolan thought. But suddenly everything sharpened into focus and all the edges became crystal clear. Her teeth were a dazzling white. Her smiling lips were the reddest he had ever seen. Her eyes were the darkest in the world. The glass he raised reflected all the colors of the spectrum from its elegant base. He squinted at her across the pool of light isolating the table, and the shapes of furniture humped in the shadows around him vanished into the unknown reaches of the strange room.

  "Finish your steak," Zuta said. "If what you've been saying is more than a boast, you're going to need your strength later."

  Chapter Eighteen

  A soft, warm body rolled on top of Mack Bolan, wedging a thigh between his legs. He felt the gentle weight of breasts against his chest. He opened his eyes, wincing at the bright light cast by a lamp. Zuta was supporting herself on her elbows, chin resting on cupped hands, staring at him with an amused smile on her face.

  "Something funny?" he asked groggily.

  She laughed. It was a lovely sound first thing in the morning. "Poor baby," she said. "I'll go fix you some strong black coffee and orange juice. You stay put."

  "A tank couldn't budg
e me," he croaked.

  A few minutes later Zuta brought in breakfast. She sat on the edge of the bed and dunked a bread roll into a large cup of café au lait. Bolan sipped his own coffee, his eyes feasting on the striking woman. She was wearing a crimson silk kimono with a black dragon embroidered across the back. He looked at the parts of her it wasn't covering. It was a pleasure.

  In daylight, with no makeup, her face was handsome rather than beautiful: the skin was maybe a little coarse and the jaw was determined. He guessed it had to be, given the business she was in. Anyway, with a mouth and body like hers, who cared?

  "Look, Zuta, I have to make plans," Bolan said, draining the coffee cup. "There are things I have to do."

  "Later," Zuta said. "I'll do anything I can to help. But first you need more sleep. You're bushed, Mike."

  "Can you tell me one good way I could get back to sleep?" he asked.

  She lifted the covers and slid in beside him. "Yes," she said, "lean."

  She was right, too. It wasn't until one in the afternoon that he finally surfaced again. The curtains were open, and he lay looking up at small patches of blue among the clouds. He swung his feet to the floor, stood and walked to the window.

  The apartment appeared to be on the third floor. He stared down at a gray street lined with young, bare chestnuts. There was still snow on the sidewalks and frozen gray slush banked at the side of the roadway. Drifts of fallen leaves, yellow, orange and brown, showed where the areas of redbrick row houses across the street had been swept clear of snow. Below the window and to one side, a red-striped canopy projected over the sidewalk. It seemed an odd place for a nightclub. There was no traffic in the street. He could see no stores, just a big building that looked like a hospital, and there were very few cars parked between the canopy and a T-junction with traffic lights beyond which he could see more trees.

  He saw no Golf, no Renault sedan and no baby Fiat among the cars.