The man in the driver’s seat of the VW chuckled and moved the vehicle into the wake of the police car. The girl sat in a rear seat with Bolan. She breathed in quivering little gasps. She cuddled against him and, burying her face in his throat, she trembled with a hard case of the shakes.
Well, Bolan silently told himself, here we go again.
His chief interest in England had been as a link in his route back to the U.S., with possibly a quick hit on a couple of names in his notebook. But he had been required to fight his way into the country. Now, it appeared, he would have to fight his way out. No quick hits tonight. The jungle had closed in on him again, and he would have to hack his way through it.
His life had long ago become fixed in an unalterable groove, and Bolan had learned to accept the grim fact that everywhere he went became a battlefield. He had never, however, thought too highly of a purely defensive mode of warfare. Particularly not against a massively superior enemy.
The girl was beginning to cry. He sighed and pulled her closer in a comforting embrace. He owed her a lot, whatever her motives. She’d pulled him out of a tough defensive position and now perhaps she was providing him with a temporary platform from which to launch a counter-offensive to carry him on through and out of England.
And not a bad platform, at that, he was thinking as the supple body molded against his. Down through history, he knew, lesser bodies had launched entire armadas and armies. What he did not know was that this one was fated to launch the Executioner’s shattering assault upon Britain.
Chapter Two
MUSEUM DE SADE
The girl’s nerves were in good shape. After a brief letdown, she dried her tears and regained her composure and was staring solemnly at Bolan’s hands when the VW pulled into the lineup at the police blockade, just west of Dover. She pulled his arms around her, lay her head on his shoulder, and said “Calmly, now. Just let us do the talking. Don’t give away your American accent.”
A uniformed officer stepped up to the driver’s window and said something in a pleasant tone. The thick man at the wheel passed a paper through. The officer inspected it and handed it back, then held up something for the driver to look at. They conversed in low tones for a brief moment, then the policeman stepped down to the girl’s window and lightly rapped his knuckles against it. She came out of the embrace slowly, reluctantly, her eyes going to the officer in a convincing display of confusion, as though she had just that moment become aware of the world outside.
The policeman touched his hat and passed in a large glossy photo of Bolan. “Have you seen this chap?” he asked her.
She nodded her head immediately and replied, “Many times, on the telly. It’s that American adventurer.”
“Have you seen him tonight?”
She shook her head, confusion still very evident. Bolan shook his red-maned head also, growling something unintelligible in a gutteral negative.
“Did you see a Jaguar sports roadster?”
The driver called back, “You’re wastin’ yer time, Bob. Them two ain’t seen nothin’ this night but their-selves, I’ll wager that.”
The young officer touched his hat, smiled faintly, and waved them through.
As they cleared the roadblock, the driver swiveled about to flash a grin at Bolan. “And ’ow was that for ’andling the bloody situation, eh? We’ll ’ave you in Londontown in no time now, mate. Just keep your pecker up.”
Slightly embarrassed by that last bit of advice, Bolan glanced at the girl.
She smiled and explained, “He means that you should keep up your courage.”
Bolan grunted, let the girl go, and relaxed into the seat. He was going to have a language problem in England, perhaps more so than in France, this much was certain. But not immediately.
The balance of the trip was conducted in virtual silence, the girl withdrawing to her corner to gaze broodingly out the window, Bolan silently scanning the road ahead and behind, and watching the movements of the driver. Explanations, he figured, would come in due course; he would play it step by step.
It was just past midnight when they entered London. They crossed the Thames at Westminster Bridge and swung up past Pall Mall to edge into the Soho district. Here the town was still very much awake, bustling with the after-theatre crowd and the people who swarmed the thousand and one restaurants, niteries, and discotheques which had established Soho as one of the mod capitals of the world.
Bolan was driven to a nineteenth century townhouse at the western edge of Soho, a handsome building with cut glass windows and a red carpeted entranceway. There was a simple metal plaque on the massive door:
Museum de Sade
Members Only
The VW dropped its passengers and drove away. Bolan followed the woman inside the building, seeing crystal chandeliers and dark wood. They went into a mahogany-paneled clubroom. The place was deserted, musty, oppressive. Boland had a feeling of entombment.
He asked the girl, “What kind of museum is this?”
She flicked him a sidewise glance and murmured, “It’s private. No worry, I’m the curator. My name is Ann Franklin.”
“Why did you bring me here?”
She replied, “It isn’t my place to tell you that. Please be comfortable while I ring up the directors.”
“What directors?” he asked.
“The directors of the museum. It is they who arranged all this, though I must say we didn’t expect the fireworks at Dover.” The girl was moving away from him, toward a door at the far side of the room. “The bar is over there,” she called back, pointing it out with a flourish. “Please be comfortable.”
Bolan felt not at all comfortable. He removed the false hair and beard and changed back into his own jacket. Then he went to the bar, poured some tonic into a glass, and tasted it before he went to try the door through which the girl had gone but his suspicions were confirmed, it was locked. He retraced his steps across the room and tried the other door. It, too, was locked.
Uneasily and with a growing sense of alarm, Bolan returned to the bar. He lit a cigarette and caught a flash of something reflecting off the opposite wall as he extinguished the flame of his lighter. Closer investigation revealed a wide-angle camera lens set flush into the paneling. He glared at it for a moment, then placed a hand over the lens and called out, “Okay, end of game. What’s going on here?”
A cultured and crisply British voice responded immediately through a speaker concealed somewhere overhead. “You are quite perceptive, Mr. Bolan. Welcome to England. We hope you’ll like us here. Dreadfully sorry for all that bother at Dover, you know. Please understand that we had nothing at all to do with that.”
Bolan let his hand fall away from the wall and he stepped back to gaze coldly into the lens. “Shades of James Bond,” he said drily. “Locked room, closed circuit television, the whole bit. What’s it all about?”
A short, barking laugh preceded, “Surely you will understand our caution, Mr. Bolan. Your reputation is ah, legendary to say the least. We think it best that—”
Bolan angrily interrupted with, “No way, friend. Either those doors come open in twenty seconds or I’m blasting out.”
A brief pause, then: “Please don’t be boorish, Mr. Bolan. Nor imprudent. As soon as Miss Franklin completes her report then we’ll see what can be done.”
“Boorish, hell,” Bolan said. He sprung the Beretta and put a bullet through the camera lens. The report of the gun, magnified, reverberated in the tightly closed room.
“Really, Mr. Bolan …” the voice spluttered.
Calmly Bolan asked, “Can you still see me?”
“Of course not, sir. You have just sent a shot directly into the camera.”
“So now we’re even,” Bolan replied. “You have about ten more seconds to get those doors open.”
“That’s impossible,” was the angry retort. “Be reasonable, man. We can’t just—”
Bolan snapped, “Time’s up.” He went to the door through which th
e girl had disappeared and shot the lock off, then pushed into a small cell-like room and on through into a larger area with oriental rugs and tapestries. There were no windows. Low couches and harem pillows were scattered about. The aromatic sweetness of some exotic incense hung lightly in the atmosphere. A large arched doorway at the far side of the room drew Bolan’s attention. It was framed by a huge woodcarving of shapely buttocks, through which could be viewed unmistakable cherrywood labia standing taller than Bolan and serving as the actual doorway.
“Some museum,” Bolan muttered, and stepped cautiously through the parted labia. He found himself on a narrow, darkened stairway which led steeply to an upper floor. Slowly he ascended, the Beretta ready, and exited into another cell-like room. It had an unvarnished wooden floor and was bare except for a small desk and several folding chairs. Suspended from a peg on the wall was an ancient iron chastity belt, of the type used by knights of the crusades to keep their ladies securely chaste during their extended absences during the holy wars.
Bolan sniffed and went on through to another cubicle, this one dimly lighted by a bare bulb in the ceiling. It contained nothing but a narrow wooden cot, obviously very old. The head and foot boards were actually stocks for imprisoning the hands and feet in a widespread position.
A trickling chill of revulsion traversed Bolan’s spine. He was beginning to understand just what sort of museum this was. The next cubicle confirmed his suspicions. It was totally bare except for a pair of wrist-irons set high into the wall. On the floor beneath the irons was a small barrel with a narrow board placed across it. The use was obvious. The “victim” would be forced to balance on the unstable platform or else suffer his entire weight dangling from the harsh irons at his wrists.
A large black whip was coiled about a peg on the opposite wall. Bolan found himself visualizing some miserable wretch trying to maintain a foothold on the barrel with that cat o’ nine flaying into his naked flesh. The museum’s name tied in neatly then. Bolan was not overly sophisticated in matters of kinky sex but he knew of the Marquis de Sade, one of the most famous writers of forbidden literature and the man from whose name the term sadism was coined.
Bolan shivered and moved on out of there and through a succession of similar cubicles containing various of the diabolical torture devices. He was beginning to feel as though he were trapped in a maze when he finally got to another stairway and ascended to still another floor and found a neat duplicate of the club-room below. Ann Franklin was standing near a small desk. She stared at him over the mouthpiece of a telephone. He told her, “Hang up.”
She did so without argument, looking at the pistol in his hand. “You’re behaving badly,” she said, calmly. “We. are only trying to help.”
“Maybe you’re trying too hard,” he told her, moving around the room to study it. “I’m not here to play games. Where’s the guy?”
“Which guy?” she asked quietly.
“The guy with the brigadier’s voice and a peeping Tom’s manners. Where was he talking from?”
“Oh … so you discovered that.”
“Sure I discovered it.” Bolan had completed his reconnaisance of the room and ended his search at the girl’s side. The Beretta went back into the sideleather and he told her, “Well, I appreciate the ride into town. Is there a quicker way out of here other than through the chamber of horrors?”
“But you can’t leave now,” she protested weakly.
“The hell I can’t.” His voice softened as he added, “Look, you did a gutsy thing down there at Dover, and I’m indebted to you. But I didn’t invite you in, you know, and gratitude can stretch just so far. For openers, it won’t cover being locked up in a house of sick sex and watched with a hidden camera.”
The girl’s eyes fell. She said, “Sorry about the security. It is necessary, you know. I mean, don’t imagine that we installed all that expressly for your benefit. If you’re wondering about Charles, he’s in the cellar, the security station. But don’t please go down there bothering him. He’s a nice old love who wouldn’t harm a flea.”
Bolan said, “This is more than just a museum, isn’t it?”
“Of course.” Her eyes met his, almost defiantly he thought. “Every one has a right to sex, even if their outlets are … limited. We provide that outlet here, at de Sade.”
“With whips and racks,” he observed drily.
“Oh, those are just props. Psychological, you know. Our members are not psychotics. Their need is for … stimulative fantasy. It’s rather like pornography.”
“I see,” Bolan said. “A trip through the maze of horrors and they’re ready to swing, eh? Come on now, that doesn’t even make sense.”
“We have … a paid staff,” she explained in a small voice. “Certain … stimulating services … may be purchased.”
Bolan decided the girl was trying to delay him, to keep him there. Until what? He told her, “Well, that’s none of my business. Who are we expecting?”
“What?”
“You’re trying to keep me here until someone else arrives. Who?”
She said, “I told you earlier that I had to ring up the directors.”
“What’s their interest- in me?”
“Permit them to tell you that.”
“No. You tell me. Right now, or I’m walking.”
“They want to help you.”
“Why?”
She moved her shoulders delicately and replied, “They want you to help them, also. But I shouldn’t be discussing this, really. You must wait and let them tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
Her hip swung into contact with his thigh. She quickly jerked it back and laughed nervously, resting a hand on his shoulder. “You Americans can look so fierce and frightening,” she said.
“Do I frighten you?”
“Of course.” Her other arm went up and she pressed full against him with a soft little sigh, then pushed herself regretfully away and turned her back to him. “All right,” she said. “Go on. Start walking. I couldn’t blame you for that.”
Bolan watched her for a moment, trying to read her. Such a lovely thing … what part did she play in the nutty goings-on at this house of kinks? He sighed, deciding there would be too much involvement there for a guy bent on blitzing through.
“Thanks for Dover,” he muttered, and moved quickly toward the door.
A man stood there, blocking the way out, a Hollywood casting director’s idea of a retired British military officer, complete to tidy little moustache and stiff tweed suit. The hair was combed straight back, thin and streaked with gray, and the stiffly erect posture made him appear much taller than his five seven or eight.
Bolan’s hand moved inside his jacket and he said, “Well, here’s Charlie.”
“Wrong,” the man snapped. “Charles is busy replacing a very expensive camera which you destroyed for no reason. Really, Bolan, that was a beastly reaction to an offer of friendship.”
Bolan replied, “Friends don’t lock me up.” The Beretta was in his hand and he was moving toward the doorway again.
The little man stood his ground, blocking the exit.
“There’s no time to explain all that now. The point is, Bolan, that you cannot possibly leave here now. You’ll walk onto that street to certain death. Our mutual enemy is out there in force, waiting for you to show.”
“How do you know that?”
“I saw them as I was coming here. The entire square is sealed off.”
Uneasily, Bolan asked, “Just who are you talking about? The police?”
“Of course not, though I imagine they’re not too far off either.”
Bolan sighed. “You said ‘mutual enemy.’ Explain.”
“The same people who want you are trying to destroy us in quite a different fashion. We helped you get into England, you know. We thought—”
“Okay, that explains one small mystery,” Bolan interrupted. “But Dover was also swarming with Mafiosi. How did they know?”
“I’ll buy that for now,” Bolan told him. “So what does my presence here mean to you? An executioner for your side?”
The man shrugged his shoulders. “That’s putting it rather bluntly but … yes, I suppose that’s it. You’re dedicated to the extinction of certain elements. We have them here, you know, right here in London. We decided … well, we took the vote, Bolan.”
“What vote?”
“We decided to sponsor you for a stay in London.”
“I’m not for hire,” Bolan quietly replied.
“Of course not,” the man said quickly. “I did not mean to suggest … we offer you only cooperation.”
“What sort of cooperation?”
“We’ll provide you with intelligence, and protect you in every possible way.”
Bolan was thinking it over.
“And,” the man continued, “when you’ve finished here, we will help you safely out of the country.”
Bolan had reached his decision.
“No deal,” he reported, in a tone which left no hope for negotiation. “Now stand aside. I’m leaving.”
A strained smiled pulled at the man’s lips. “Kipling’s cat,” he said musingly.
“What?”
“I was thinking of one of Rudyard Kipling’s stories, about a jungle cat. ‘He went back through the wet wild woods, waving his wild tail, and walking by his wild lone.’ That’s you, Bolan, a wild jungle beast that walks by himself. Quite admirable, really. I’ll see that it’s carved onto your burial stone.”
Assault on Soho Page 2