Assault on Soho

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan’s eyes sparkled and he said, “Bingo.”

  “Well, maybe it means something to you. Not to me. Here’s the interesting part. Charles went back on the active list briefly in 1960, at the age of sixty-three. How about that? He served for eight months, then retired again. Our intelligence on him ends as of four months ago when this same old man was re-activated again, assignment undisclosed—buried somewhere beneath that security seal.”

  Bolan whistled softly under his breath. “What was he doing during that eight months of 1960?”

  “Brognola doesn’t know, but it may not be any coincidence that the British cracked an espionage ring at about that time.”

  “That’s getting a bit far out,” Bolan commented. “I mean, espionage …”

  “No connection necessary,” Turrin assured him. “But you tell me something. What was this Edwin Charles doing just before he died?”

  “Doing? He was supposedly working as an electronics mechanic and security watchman in a house of kinks.”

  “Well, there’s your tie. Electronics. It’s Charles’ specialty. He was in on the ground floor in the art of electronic spying for the British.”

  “Okay, I have to think about that. What else did you get?”

  “This Major Stone. No secrets there. Cashiered out of the British regulars in 1956 for cruelty to his troops, repeated incidents. Also some grisly charges from various civilians in the Mideast He’s not retired, just fired, so he’s carrying that title around in his hip pocket. Brognola has a thick file on him, gathered from here and there. The guy has gone from an obscure army major, noted only for his discharge in disgrace, to a very wealthy man with little visible means of support.”

  Bolan’s face was screwed into a thoughtful grimace. “Okay, anything else?”

  “That’s all of any value on Charles and Stone. But here comes the bonus, if you can figure a way to use it … I can’t. This intel came in at the last minute and I haven’t even had time to think about it myself. Nick Trigger came to England under the alias of Nicholas Woods. He’s always been a rodman, never a speculator. Consequently, he never accumulated much money—spent it as fast as he got it. Now keep that picture. Okay, now enter Nicholas Woods upon the British scene. All of a sudden the guy has two secret bank accounts in Geneva and there’s enough between those accounts to keep him like a sultan for the rest of a long lifetime.”

  Bolan asked, “What does ‘all of a sudden’ mean?”

  “It means within the past few months.”

  “Okay, I agree it’s interesting. But not exactly earth-shattering.”

  Turrin shrugged. “Except that jolly old Nick is knocking down on the family. He’s obviously got some hot action of his own going over here, and that’s a very definite no-no. And there’s more to it than that. He’s also got money going openly back and forth in a partnership with a legitimate business enterprise here in London, and there’s some sort of a connection between this and the Swiss bank accounts.”

  “What’s this legit thing he has?”

  “A night club called Soho Psyche.”

  Bolan’s feet hit the floor and stayed there. Turrin halted and turned back to give him a puzzled stare. “What’s wrong?”

  Bolan muttered, “You just popped me square in the guts.”

  “This night club means something to you? I haven’t been in town long enough to—”

  “I’m afraid it means a hell of a lot, Leo. Did Brognola tell you who Nick’s partner is?”

  Turrin shook his head. “I don’t believe he’d had time to dig that far. Anyway, what I wanted to tell you … Hal is thrilled to death over this peace offering. He says quote tell him for God’s sake to take it unquote. He thinks it’s the greatest thing since Joe Valacchi’s Atlanta concert.”

  All the fire seemed to have drained out of Bolan. He muttered, “You know I can’t, Leo. I can’t even let those people think they’ve won. I’ve got to keep them falling over each other’s asses for just as long as I can keep it all together.”

  “You haven’t heard what Staccio is empowered to offer you, Sarge. They want you to take over as lord high enforcer, or something along that line.”

  Bolan smiled thinly. “If you can’t beat ’em, buy ’em or join ’em. That’s their philosophy, Leo, and it always worked for them in the past. I won’t let it work this time.” He was thinking of a twenty-six year old virgin beauty who must have wanted to beat the whole world, then simply decided to join it. “No, I can’t do it. I’ll stay in my own jungle, thanks.”

  “At least think it over,” Turrin urged. “Brognola says he can damn sure work up an amnesty case for you once you get inside that Commissione.”

  Bolan shook his head doggedly. “No. Leave me alone, Leo. I have to do it my way.”

  The Italian scowled unhappily, but replied, “Okay, I respect your decision, even if I don’t like it. So maybe you can use this dirt on Nick Trigger. Maybe you can drive a wedge in somewhere, turn things over good. I can’t use it. It would be too far out of the character I’ve been building up these past five years.” He sighed. “Anyway, that’s all I’ve got. Now I suggest we split, and quick, before Arnie decides to come in looking.”

  “Let’s not leave you out in the cold,” Bolan said quietly. “Tell your Ambassador of Peace that I refuse to consider the idea until I get back home. Tell him we’ll get together over there and talk about this thing.”

  Turrin smiled sourly and said, “Yeah, that’ll save me some face.”

  “You go on out,” Bolan suggested. “I’ll leave my own way.”

  They shook hands and Turrin said, “I saw a good place to go over the fence.”

  Bolan grinned, showing an echo of his earlier fire. “I saw it too. Thanks, Leo. Take care.”

  Turrin said, “You too,” and spun off in a rapid departure. He looked back and waved from the corner, then disappeared.

  Bolan took his own prearranged way out, back past the Beefeaters and the clipped-wing ravens and to the soft spot in the wall he’d staked out during his recon.

  From down in front somewhere came the sudden crackling of weapons, just as Bolan found his toehold and boosted himself toward the top.

  Then hell was swirling out there, with the booming chops of heavy Thompsons mingling with the lighter rattling of small automatics, and Bolan knew that the enemy had engaged itself.

  Leo was right; it was almost funny.

  Bolan swung his leg over to sprawl across the top of the wall, and found another almost-funny event awaiting him. Immediately below him a semi-circle of armed gunners were standing around the open door of a shiny limousine and a fat man with curly white hair was stepping into their midst.

  Bolan had no trouble whatever recognizing Arnie Farmer Catiglione; he was lying almost on top of him. The Beretta sprung into Bolan’s fist and he called down, “Arnie!”

  The white head snapped around and Arnie Farmer saw death contemplating him. He froze there in slack-jawed dismay as his human shield dissolved about him to the Parabellum rhythyms of a softly coughing Beretta, and then it was just he and Bolan.

  Arnie was grunting, “Kill ’im, kill ’im!” and reaching for a revolver that had dropped from a dead man’s hand when he heard Bolan’s cold tones clearly enunciating, “I pronounce you dead, Arnie,” and the miserable bastard was sitting there on the roof of Arnie’s own car and a small flame was whistling out of the muzzle of the Beretta and something fearsome was plunging in between Arnie’s eyes and doing horrible things to his head, and that was the final thing that Arnie Farmer knew.

  It had been but a brief and relatively quiet delay for Bolan. He ran down the street, away from the sounds of warfare, and as he approached the first intersection he spotted the little rental sedan that meant Ann Franklin was still on station.

  Bolan debated with his emotions momentarily, then he set his jaw and ran on to meet her. She had the door open for him and he slid in with the car still moving. He snapped her a quick look and saw that sam
e scared look she’d worn that first time he’d jumped into a moving vehicle with her at the wheel.

  She said not a word, nor did he, and he was fighting the high-G takeoff and trying to feed a fresh clip into the Beretta when he became aware of the unmistakable presence of a gun at his neck.

  Bolan swore and damned and raged at himself for losing that emotional debate, but his voice was calm as he said, “Well, Major, I guess we finally get that talk.”

  A dry chuckle sounded behind him and the voice of Major Stone confirmed his guess and posed the question at the same time. “How were you so sure it was me behind you, Mr. Bolan?”

  “It just began to fall into place a short while ago,” Bolan told him. His eyes flicked to the girl and he added, “It all fell in.”

  She cried, “Mack …” in a smothery little voice, and Major Stone commanded, “Remain quiet please, Ann!”

  Bolan quietly said, “All the crying concern for the security of your members. You’ve been gouging them all along, for one hell of a long time before Nick Trigger came on the scene. So why did you import me, Major? Was Nick muscling in on your gravy train?”

  “Shut up, Bolan,” the Major said. “Pass your pistol back here, carefully now.”

  Bolan did both, and sat in silent contemplation of his errors as Ann expertly wheeled through the streets of midday London. Twice they were delayed at intersections, once by a screaming procession of police vehicles descending on Tower Hill, and both times Bolan briefly considered making a break but capitulated to logic and to the ancient hope that has forever dwelt in the breasts of nearly-dead men—he would not rush death, he would wait it out and see what developed.

  Nothing whatever developed throughout that silent ride, and when Ann parked the car at the curb outside Museum de Sade Bolan began to get the idea that the most likely thing to develop for him now was mortal agony. His skin was crawling with the memory of those torture cells as he quit the car and went up the steps ahead of Major Stone. He paused at the door and stared back down at the car; Ann was remaining there, obviously.

  He called back, “Okay, the pact is dissolved. You may as well come in and watch the grand finale.”

  There was no movement from the vehicle. The stiff little man jabbed Bolan’s ribs with hard steel and pushed him on inside. Nick Trigger was at the bar in the clubroom, drinking gin straight out of a bottle. He came slightly unglued at the sight of Bolan, and then crowed with delight upon noticing the pistol in the Major’s hand. He ran over and slugged Bolan with the back of his hand and yelled, “You rotten shit!”

  Bolan shook off the blow and muttered, “It takes one to know one.”

  The Major shoved Nick away. “None of that just now!” he snapped. “Keep your distance! You’re aware of the danger of this man!”

  “Sure, just be patient, Nick,” Bolan said. “You’ll get your chance to watch me squirm.”

  “Scream is the word, Bolan,” the Major corrected him. He shoved Bolan on across the clubroom and marched him through the travesty of erotic delights and up to the maze. Bolan had not until that moment caught the significance of the labial doorway. Back into the womb, it meant. Not merely death, but an unborning.

  Bolan halted in the gray light of the little ante-room and snarled, “You’re not going to lock me into one of those things while I’m living, Major.”

  Stone replied, “You are quite wrong about that, Bolan.”

  Bolan saw the barrel of the pistol chopping toward him. He managed to get inside and take it on the shoulder and he abruptly lost all strength in that arm, but he was plowing forward in a body-block that would have made his old football coach proud, and the three men hit the floor in a sprawling tangle.

  Nick Trigger was trying to smother him with his big belly and Bolan was fighting to get clear and become the first man up. He threw Nick away from him and went into a roll, then the barrel of the Major’s revolver again loomed into view and smashed into his skull with a jarring crunch.

  Bolan grunted and pitched onto his back, not all the way out but sick and groggy and utterly without strength. He was aware of being pushed and dragged in a background of foul mouthings by Nick Trigger and the hoarse panting of Major Stone. Then his clothes were being dragged away from him and the disembodied voice of Nick Trigger was saying, “Aw shit, why go through all this?”

  But apparently the Major felt some compulsion to mix pleasure with business, and even in his giddy state Bolan recognized and was appalled by the depths of the man’s sickness.

  Stone was telling Nick, “Do not presume to deny me my simple pleasures, my friend. After all, it is you who demanded immediate action. I would have given the poor fellow another day or two, if only for Ann’s sake.”

  Through Bolan’s swirling nausea, Nick was arguing, “Christ, this is no time for pleasures, yours or hers or anybody else’s. I mean, we got the two finks outta the picture and I’m in a hell of a bind over on my side now. I gotta have this guy’s head; to hell with your kicks.”

  The Major was breathing heavily and clamping something cold and hard about Bolan’s forehead. He tried to struggle away, but a knee in his throat held him pinned and he was simply too weak to do anything about it. Stone’s stiffly precise voice was saying, “There wouldn’t have been the problem of the two finks, as you put it, but for your monumental greed, Nick. In all the years I’ve been at this, I’ve incurred not one serious threat, not one. And now six months after your intrusion into my little world, I find myself the object of scrutiny from every direction. No. No, Nick. Don’t attempt to hurry me along now.”

  Clamps were going about Bolan’s ankles. The hands down there were fumbling about, as though trembling almost out of control. Bolan fought the nausea and willed his strength to return. It would not.

  “Shit, you’re just plain crazy!” Nick yelled.

  “Get out of here!” Stone cried. “Will you get out of here?”

  “You kiss my ass!” Nick retorted. “You fuckin’ queer, you’re gonna fuck up everything.”

  “Look who is speaking!” The Major’s voice came with cutting sarcasm. “You are the one who said bring Bolan over! You are the one who said let Bolan take the blame! You are the one who said—”

  “Awright, now I’m saying let’s kill ’im and get it over with. This kind of shit gives me the creeps and you know it. Anyway, I’m the one under the pressure, not you. I’m the one crossed up the family, not you. If you’d just listened when I wanted to drop those finks in the river with cement suits on, there wouldn’t be—”

  “Oh to be sure, that would have been jolly. Brigadier Edwin Charles turns up in the Thames from his latest assignment and where does that leave the ambitious Mr. Nicholas Woods? Not, of course, to mention the Sade Society and our beautiful little goldmine. Honestly, Nick, sometimes you behave as a very dull fellow. Now here, give me a hand with this beauty, will you?”

  Bolan was being hauled and lifted, the clamps at head and ankles beginning to take the weight and compress the flesh over protesting bones. Then he was up and momentarily floating free only to be abruptly jerked to a spine-crunching arrest. Full consciousness returned on floodwaves of shriekingly alarmed nerve-centers, and Bolan knew with a tortured clarity where he was and what sort of a pickle he was in.

  His hands were manacled behind his back and he was suspended from the ceiling by three chains. One of these was attached to a steel band that was fitted about his forehead, the other two held his ankles, and he was dangling in a belly-down suspension several feet above the floor.

  Nick stook in a corner, glowering at the Major. Stone was shoving a boxlike affair across the cell, obviously intent on positioning it beneath Bolan’s belly. It slid under easily, clearing by several inches, then the Major appeared at Bolan’s head. He looked into his eyes and said, “Ah good, our astronaut is conscious. Listen and let me explain our little game. I’ve put a clever machine beneath you, Bolan. It’s a simple little box with a spring-loaded mechanism inside and a rather wicked s
teel blade mounted on the outside, across the top. When I release the brake, the blade will move quickly back and forth across the top of the box, you see. Now it might scrape you a bit here and there if you get too relaxed. Keep your spine nice and straight, though, and you’ll have nothing to fear. And be on the lookout for, uh, dangling objects. You might lose something you prize highly. Be ready, now, keep a stiff back there, that’s a good fellow.”

  Something went spronnng beneath him, and he felt the air of the whisking blade as it moved back and forth just below.

  Bolan had known for quite some time that he was not going to live forever. He had known that intimate association with death on many occasions, and he had long been prepared to die. But not like this. Not a slow and gradual scraping away. First it would be genitals, probably in one or two whacks, as soon as the muscles around the spine atrophied and collapsed and sent him plunging into range of that shuttling blade. Then the weakness and further collapse would sag the abdomen down there, and layer by layer of him would be laid open until he was totally disembowelled and hacked in two.

  Well, he would not take it that way. He himself had always tried to kill quick and painlessly, and he was going to go out the same way. He steeled himself and began preparing the command to his muscular structure that would send him all the way down in one disemboweling plunge.

  And then he became aware of a movement at the doorway dead ahead of him. Ann Franklin stepped in, and she had the big Weatherby cradled tightly to her body, and he thought thank God she’s going to give it to me right.

  The big piece roared and Bolan saw Major Stone flopping along the desk with his pants down about his ankles; another thunderous report and Nick Trigger was lending parts of himself to the walls of the corner.

  Then the Weatherby was clattering to the floor and Ann was beneath him, supporting his weight with her own back and kicking frantically at the box.

  Yeah, so it had happened, and he was entirely in her hands after all.

  He mumbled, “Thanks, Ann, and all that,” and then he passed out.