Continental Contract te-5

by Don Pendleton

  "I am Cici Carceaux, for very real," she solemnly informed him. Her eyes moved in a somewhat muted echo of the coquette she had shown him back at the hotel. "Not many men in France would decline an invitation to Cici's villa."

  An idea was beginning to form in Bolan's mind. Perhaps, he was thinking, the potential danger posed by this female enigma seated so demurely beside him would be a calculated risk worthy of challenging. Suddenly he said, "Okay. So long as you know the name of the game. You know who I am and what I have to do. If you'll risk me, then I'll risk you."

  "On to Cannes, stand-in," she replied, smiling.

  "Understand this," he added solemnly. "At this moment, we're even. We can say goodbye and, as far as I'm concerned, part as friends. But if we go on... and I discover that you are my enemy... well, you will be in very great danger, Cici."

  "On to Cannes," she repeated, the smile remaining.

  Bolan sighed inwardly and his foot grew heavy on the accelerator. Something, he knew, was screwy as hell about Cici Carceaux. At the moment she was playing the role of friend. He would accept that... for the moment. But he would watch her... and with his mind, not his heart. With ten female lives consigned to a living hell on his account, The Executioner could not afford a heart.

  As for those moments in Eden... they seemed now lost forever.

  12

  The Riviera Plan

  Most of the trip from Lyon to the coast was conducted in virtual silence and it was nearing noon when the Rolls entered Nice and eased along the main boulevard, Avenue Jean-Medecin. Bolan's thoughts had brought him here; now Cici's directions guided him to the specific objective he sought, the Mediterranean headquarters of an American press service.

  He parked just off the Promenade des Anglais, the beach-front drive, and he and Cici went separate ways from there — she insisting upon performing a particularly important service for him.

  Bolan first stopped at the telephone exchange and placed a call to the Pension de St. Germain in Paris. After some small delay, the breathless voice of Nancy Walker came pleasantly across the wire.

  Bolan told her, "This is the alter-ego. Just checking. Are things all right there?"

  She said, "Oh my gosh, they're turning this town upside down for you! Where are you calling from?"

  "A safe place," he assured her.

  "Well, burrow deep! Even Interpol is nosing around. They were here early this morning."

  "There? At your hotel?"

  "Yes. Real tough guys. Gill thinks they were phonies, but I don't know what..."

  "Where is that telephone, Nancy?"

  "This one? In the hall just outside my room."

  "Could I possibly speak to Gil?"

  "Well... I don't know... his poor hands. I'd have to hold the phone for him."

  Bolan said, "I need to talk to him, Nancy."

  "Just a sec."

  After a short wait, Martin's voice announced, "You've blown the cover, boy. They're tearing Paris apart for old Gil Martin. What's more, your other buddies are hot on the scent. They were here this morning, posing as Interpol agents of all things."

  Bolan asked, "Did they challenge you?"

  "Hell no, I was under the bed. They were calling on Nancy."

  "You didn't get a look at them, then."

  "Only through the window, as they were leaving. But I'd bet my residuals they were Mafia. Where are you?"

  Bolan told him, "I'm with Cici."

  "Cici who?"

  Bolan recalled uttering those precise same words a few hours earlier, and in just about the same tone of voice. He replied, "You're old loving buddy, Cici Carceaux. I picked her up in your hotel room."

  "Good work, but I've never met the lady. We almost worked together once but the deal fell through at the last minute. Where'd you get the idea that?.."

  Bolan said, "This is important as hell, Gil. No cute stuff... do you or do you not know Cici Carceaux?"

  "Professionally, by reputation, that's all. She's currently the hottest thing on film, the sex darling of Europe — but no, sorry to say, I do not know her personally."

  "Okay." Bolan's voice was tinged with an I-knew-it sadness. "I guess that's all I wanted, Gil. Uh... you're right about that cover, it's blown all the way off. You may as well come out now if you'd like. But very carefully. Call the cops to you, don't go out on the street looking for them. They might shoot first and check identities later."

  "Hell no, I'm staying put for awhile. Never had it so good."

  Bolan could hear Nancy Walker's soft laughter in the background. He grinned into the mouthpiece and said, "Okay, see you in the movies," and hung up.

  Yeah, Eden was a total flare-out.

  He went back to the street and quickly to the press service headquarters. He stepped in off the street just as a guy was coming through the doorway from an inner office into a smallish room of quiet activity. A girl was bent over a teletype machine in the corner, another was busy at a typewriter at the far side of the room.

  Bolan and the man stared at each other for a frozen moment, the guy doing a double-take on Bolan, then he stepped quickly back into the office and snapped, "Jesus Christ, get in here!"

  Bolan followed the man into the private office and accepted a chair. The guy shut the door and went immediately to a filing cabinet, took out a bottle and two glasses, and told his guest, "I don't have any ice or mix, sorry."

  Bolan said, "Thanks, I'd better have nothing at all."

  The man promptly returned the bottle and closed the drawer, then paced nervously across the floor to his desk. Bolan told him, "Guess there's no need to introduce myself."

  "Please don't," was the quick reply. "Just tell me why you're here."

  "Are you Lon Wilson?"

  The man shook his head. "I'm Dave Sharpe, bureau chief,"

  Bolan nodded. "I remember some feature stories from this part of the world. Two, maybe three months ago. An expose of Mafia connections, something about the drug traffic. I figure you know more than you reported."

  "Lon did those. He's in Turkey now."

  "You must have records, files, something. All I want is a list of names and addresses — people known to have Mafia connections in this area."

  Sharpe smiled grimly. "Oh, is that all you want? Why do you think I had to send my man to Turkey?"

  Bolan said, "I'm thinking of an exchange of information.''

  "What did you think you'd exchange?"

  "My reasons for wanting the list."

  "Huh?"

  "I'll tell you why I want the names and what I intend to do with them... if you'll just give them to me."

  Sharpe offered Bolan a cigarette, took one for himself, nervously exhaled a cloud of smoke, then said, "Any idiot knows why you want the names, friend. Also, any idiot who gave them to you would become an accessory to murder. Isn't that right?"

  Bolan shrugged. "It isn't privileged information. Those names are a matter of public record, and you know it. If I could move about freely I could get them from various sources. But I can't move freely and I'm racing the clock. I need them right now."

  "Why?"

  "That's part of the deal. I can tell you this... the story will shake France."

  "Yeah?"

  Bolan grinned. "Yeah."

  The guy was thinking about it. He said, "Convince me."

  "It has to do with the ten girls snatched from a house of joy in Paris early this morning."

  The newsman's hand trembled as he removed the cigarette from his lips. He said, "Then they really were snatched? For Africa?"

  Bolan nodded. "I've confirmed it. And I intend to get them back."

  "How?"

  "That depends on you."

  Sharpe seemed impaled on the horns of a moral dilemma. He stood in a silent cloud of smoke for a moment, then: "Over in that cabinet, third drawer, there's a file marked LW. I'm going to the john. Be back in about a minute. What you do while I'm gone is a matter of your own conscience, not mine."

  Bolan sm
iled. "There isn't a police hotline from that john, is there?"

  The bureau chief faintly returned the smile. "I'm not that big an idiot, friend."

  He went out and Bolan went to the file cabinet. He found a small spiral notebook which seemed to fill his requirements and dropped it into a pocket. An oblong manila envelope contained small mug-shot photos with names pencilled on the back. This also went into Bolan's pocket.

  When Sharpe returned, Bolan was standing at the window. He turned to show the man a tight smile and told him, "Well, I won't take any more of your time. On second thought I have everything I need. I'd appreciate it, though, if you'd put out a news story for me."

  Sharpe gave him a wry grin. "An obituary preview?"

  "You could call it that. The story, though, concerns the why much more than the who. Beginning very soon now, for every hour that those ten girls remain missing, a top Mafia connection is going to die."

  A momentary silence, then: "Jesus Christ! So that's how..."

  Bolan soberly nodded his head. "That's how. And I'd like to see the story go out. It's important that these guys know why they're dying."

  "One every hour?"

  "More or less. Until the girls are turned loose. And I suggest that somebody work out a method for verifying it when the girls are freed." Bolan stepped toward the door.

  "Wait, dammit. How soon can I release this story?"

  "Give me about two hours. After that, the sooner the better... and the louder the better. Uh, how about verification that the girls are free?"

  "Can you keep check on the Nice TV station?"

  Bolan said, "I'll make a point to." He smiled and departed.

  There was nothing secret, of course, about the information in his pocket. The police knew those names, various agencies of the UN knew them, and they had appeared in syndicated news stories throughout the world at one time or another. Knowing was one thing; establishing legal proof was quite another; even in the face of legal proof, obtaining prosecution and convictions was often quite another thing also. Bolan did not need to establish legal proof, nor was he interested in political influence. Bolan merely needed to know. And now he did.

  The rabbits would run for their holes, of course — if not right away, then as soon as the first one fell over dead. It would require all the skill of his trade to carry out the promise. Somehow, he would have to do so — and he would be required to run risks which he would prefer to avoid. But a lot was at stake. So, once again, he was finding himself faced with a do-or-die situation.

  He was wondering at which side of the question he would finally find Cici Carceaux. Regardless of where she was placing herself, Bolan was resolved to use her as much as possible on the do side. She knew the country, she knew the people, and she seemed eager to help. Bolan was in no position to refuse any offer of help, no matter how suspect the source.

  Cici was waiting for him in the car. In the back seat reposed a lengthy object in heavy brown wrapping paper. "Oh-kay, I found what you wanted," she reported. "In the Safari Shop. It is a formidable weapon. I could 'ardly carry it."

  "Any problems?" he asked.

  "For me, a citizen of France, no. Why do you need such a formidable weapon?"

  "I'm going to be doing some big-game hunting," he replied quietly.

  "The salesman assures me that this will drop the charging rhino," she said. "But there are no rhinos on the Riviera, stand-in."

  Bolan said, "That reminds me. I was just talking to Gilbear. He doesn't remember you, Cici."

  Very softly, she said, "Oh, my."

  "You're not going to explain?"

  "No."

  "Okay. Point me to your 'ouse."

  "Take the 'ighway to Cannes," she directed. "The villa is about 'alfway."

  "I hope, for everybody's sake, it's not 'alfway to 'ell, Cici."

  "Between 'eaven and 'ell exist many levels," she said in a small voice. "I 'ave not betrayed you, Mack Bolan, whatevair you may be thinking."

  "Just don't betray yourself," he muttered. They were leaving the beautiful seaside city behind them and cruising along a beach drive lined with palm trees. He thought briefly of Miami and Palm Springs and many battlegrounds beyond and, for one flashing moment, knew an almost overpowering sorrow for himself.

  The French Riviera would have made a nice setting for Eden.

  He quickly flung Eden away once and for all and savagely discharged the destructive little flicker of self-pity. He opened his jacket and checked the side-leather with his fingertips. Cici was on her knees again, quietly watching him from the far corner of the seat. He stated straight ahead and solemnly told her, "I believe I was falling in love with you."

  "And I with you," she replied, almost whispering.

  "We make a nice pair of frauds."

  "Yes, but I 'ave not betrayed you, Mack Bolan."

  "Why did you bring me down here?"

  "To save you."

  "Oh, come on now. All this risk to save a total stranger?"

  "I 'ave my reasons," she insisted. "And now, after these hours at your side, the reasons 'ave grown."

  He sighed. "Cici, if there's a set waiting for me at that villa we're both going to die. I hope you realize that."

  "What is this set?"

  "Ambush, trap."

  "There is no ambush at Cici's villa."

  Bolan hoped not. He wanted to believe her, and not just for reasons of the heart. He needed a headquarters which would offer him easy access to the resort towns along the Riviera, a strike center which would put him within range of places like Monaco, Nice, Cannes, St. Tropez, Monte Carlo, Juan-les-Pins, St. Jean-Cap-Ferrat — the campgrounds of international high society and fellow-travelers. The villa, as described by Cici, seemed perfect for Bolan's plans, and worth the calculated risk involved.

  "You are looking very angry," Cici whispered.

  "I'm not angry, Cici."

  But he was. He was thinking of another fraud, a refined Englishwoman masquerading as a whore — one who had sought the taste of life in purgatory and who was at this very moment probably descending into the hell of all hells. He was thinking also of a redheaded kid with plump breasts and painted nipples and of an entire line-up of faceless ones who had brushed past him with whispers of "merci." And an older one with bitterness in her face and spit at her lips for the pains of life. Yes, Bolan was angry. Very shortly now, that anger would be spilling out in the most coldly violent expression of his violent life and the most fearsome experience since the days of the Third Reich would descend upon this international playground — The Executioner in rampage.

  13

  Battle Order

  The villa checked out clean and was in every respect ideal for Bolan's plans. The two-story archetype of Mediterranean architecture stood atop a low bluff overlooking a small private cove and beach. A lock-gate and extensive grounds to either side assured privacy. At the rear, winding stone steps descended from a marble patio to the beach and boat dock, where a sleek cruiser glistened in the Mediterranean sun.

  At Bolan's suggestion, Cici sent away an old man and his daughter, caretaker and maid — and Bolan immediately went to work. He carried the package from the Safari Shop into the house and broke the big rifle down piece by piece, closely inspecting all critical components — then he oiled and reassembled it. It was a clip-fed Belgian model, accepting .444 high-velocity and sharp-impact steel-jacketed ammo, with a 20-power intense-field scope and range finder.

  Bolan then took the rifle and a belt of ammo to the cove and sighted it in. Cici sat crosslegged just behind the firing line and watched with fingers in ears as he methodically test-fired the big piece at varying ranges, notating the required adjustments as he went.

  This task required about twenty minutes. When it was done she asked him; "Is it a good gon?"

  He smiled and replied, "Yes, Cici, it's a damn good gon." He showed her how to sight through the scope and explained the compensations required for drift and drop. She wanted to try a shot herself.
He sternly lectured her regarding recoil-absorption, padded her shoulder with his jacket, strapped her into the rig, and allowed her to have at it from a stated position, per her own demand.

  She squeezed off a single shot, missed target and bluff and everything else in view, and toppled onto her back from the recoil. Bolan chuckled and helped her to her feet. She was rubbing her shoulder and giving the rifle a dirty look. "I do not see why anywan would call thees damn theeng a good gon," she grumbled.

  Bolan helped her out of the strap and bent to playfully kiss her offended shoulder. She caught his face with both hands and steered him to a nicer target and their mouths merged for the first time in a sweet-warm mingling of purest passions. She stepped quickly back, said, "There," and ran up the steps ahead of him.

  Bolan muttered "Damn!" and followed her to the house. He disassembled the rifle and cleaned and oiled it while Cici made coffee and sandwiches. Her task was concluded ahead of his, and she sat in an almost embarassed silence and watched him put the pieces together again.

  As they lunched, she told him, "Oh-kay, what is the plot? You 'ave murdair on the mind — 'oo will be murdaired?"

  "I'm going to get those girls back, Cici."

  "But 'ow? With that formidable gon?"

  He said, "Yes, that's how." He took the spiral notebook from his pocket and placed it on the table. "I have the structure here of the crime combine of Southern France. I've put out the word that one of these wheels is going to die every hour until those girls are returned."

  She showed him a shocked look. "But this is the bluff, no?"

  "Not hardly." He consulted the notebook, then dug in the envelope for a mug shot. He found the one he sought and threw it onto the table. "There's my first draft choice, Claude de Champs. Know him?"

  She slowly nodded her bead. "Vaguely. He is in the casino crowd. Yachting and that."

  "That's just at the surface. He also handles about twenty million francs worth of illegal drugs every year, deals in contraband munitions, and is thought to rake about ten thousand francs a week off the top of various vice operations in Marseilles. What's the life of a society hood like this worth, Cici? Would you say it's worth one of those missing girls?"