Continental Contract te-5

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan went to the Sting Ray, checked his weapon, and returned to the hard drop. The vision field of the scope was highly intense, reducing to about a five-inch real-diameter focus. He targeted-in first on the back door to the chateau, then tracked slowly across to the nearest guard on the knoll, read his range, corrected to six-inches above target, tracked back to the door, again ranged and corrected, selecting a door-hinge as the spot in his crosshairs.

  He swung the track several times, practicing the route and getting the feel of the swing, then he settled into the piece, laying-in prone, and found his mark on the knoll.

  The guard was lighting a cigarette, turned to directly face Bolan, legs spread wide, the butt of his rifle on the ground, muzzle-end leaning against his chest. Bolan was sighting on the stock of the grounded rifle. He gently squeezed off, hanging into the recoil to maintain visual reference with the target, held there to confirm the hit as the guard's rifle took the impact and transferred it to the man, and both fell over — then Bolan calmly tracked over to the mark on the door and was on the second target by the time the sound of the firing reached the chateau.

  Korvini's contorted face suddenly loomed into the vision-field, mouth open, obviously yelling something. The crosshairs smoothly tracked upward to the six-inch fix above target — a mixture of conditioned instinct and finely-tuned reflexes sighed into the squeeze-off, and another item of hard persuasion was roaring along the two-second course.

  Korvini's heavy brows fell into the eyesockets, the face collapsing in a grotesque reception of sizzling steel, exploding inwardly and spattering the backdropping doorjamb with skull fragments and jellied frothings of brain cells.

  Bolan immediately raised off the scope and into the binoculars, sweeping the grounds for reaction to the hit. The object of his first round was kneeling on the ground and staring stupidly at his shattered gun. The other guard on Bolan's side of the knoll was moving jerkily between the first target and the second, obviously confused and shaken by the one-two punch from nowhere. Another man, racing around from the far side of the house, abruptly recoiled from the grisly sight at the doorstep and jerked about to yell something to someone not in view.

  The man at the front fence was trying to conceal himself behind the gate post while pointing toward Bolan's hill. The police cars had arrived at that point and uniformed men were erupting from the vehicles and going to ground.

  Bolan returned to his scope and calmly sent a round into the left-front tire of each vehicle, then repeated on the two cars at the chateau.

  Another binocular scan revealed not a soul moving down there. Bolan went back to the Sting Ray, stowed the Safari, inscribed a small X on his map, and went from the chateau that misery had built.

  The Executioner was on target. Monte Carlo was next.

  15

  The Judas Touch

  Paul Vicareau's cultured voice crowded the long-distance connection, often swelling into a suggestion of mild hysteria as he told Roxanne Loureau, "Do not tell me that you cannot find him, Roxanne. You must find him and you must tell him to placate the maniac. This man is keeping his word! Do you understand? He is fulfilling this threat!"

  Roxanne's voice was troubled and sympathetic as she murmured, "The police, Paul, surely they will stop him soon. Meanwhile I will certainly..."

  "The police! They sit at maps and contemplate the strategy while the madman moves about at will. I do not believe the police wish to apprehend him! I believe they sit back and rub their hands and place the bets on who is next to die! What has happened to our organization? Where is the influence, the protection, which you and Rudolfi so glibly promise the organization?"

  "Please, Paul... I am doing everything in my power. Do not believe that you are the only one who is upset. We are doing everything... believe me everything. And please do not speak so plainly, the telephone is not invulnerable to..."

  "Oh, oh, Roxanne — you do not understand the gravity of our situation! Listen to me! It has been very shortly more than three hours since this man makes his announcement. Already gone are de Champs, Korvini, and moments ago, Hebert. No one is safe, no where is safety, he moves about at will — have you heard yet about the attack on Hebert?"

  Roxanne sighed. "No, Paul, I have not..."

  "Then let this illustrate the gravity of our situation. Nowhere is safety. How does this man know whereto go? What could be more secure than the casino at Monte Carlo? Hebert is there with a large party. Hundreds of tourists all about. Hebert has declared that he will remain in the casino until the madman is captured. He is called to the telephone. Four bodyguards accompany him. As he is standing at the table in the midst of friends a single shot rings out, a window, above crashes, and Hebert is lying dead in the midst of friends. Now do you understand?"

  Roxanne's voice was not overly steady as she told the troubled man, "I have understood from the beginning, Paul. Please believe that I am doing everything possible, but you too must understand — this is most difficult. I have issued the instructions — Rudolfi is not needed for this. Be assured, everything is being done to intercept the, uh, shipment in question — and the full power of the organization is moving to release you from this terrible pressure. In the meantime, you must exert every possible caution for your own safety."

  "I am going to demand arrest!" Vicareau informed her. "I will ask the police to place me in protective custody?"

  "They will demand from you an incriminating statement, Paul!"

  "Better that, Roxanne, than to join de Champs, Korvini, and Hebert!"

  "But wait! Wait another hour, Paul!"

  "The next hour, Roxanne, could be Paul Vicareau's. No — I will wait thirty minutes. But I will never forget that in my hour of greatest need, Thomas Rudolfi is nowhere to be found. I will never forget or forgive this, Roxanne. Nor will any others."

  "Strength, Paul," she murmured, "have strength," and broke the connection.

  Things were falling apart, and she could feel the weight of the entire structure bearing upon her. Yes, Rudolfi, in this hour of greatest need, where are you? What wild plot of personal revenge has sent you scurrying to the south of France while your friends die about you? You and your aces!

  "I will call Cici," she told herself aloud. "Yes, yes — I must call Cici at once."

  * * *

  The Executioner was sealed in. And all the time he'd thought he was doing it so cute! The tiny principality of Monaco had become a jug into which Bolan was tightly corked, the cork being represented by swarms of French cops at every road and trail leading out of the jug. Inside, in the bottle, things were not much better. The tourists, he thought, must be getting quite a treat. It would appear that the Prince was changing the guard at every street corner. Uniformed men were everywhere, stopping every one and demanding passports — and the entire area was buzzing with a carnival excitement.

  For thirty minutes the Sting Ray cruised about seeking an exit, sniffing out roadblocks and turning back, and now Bolan had to admit that he had goofed. He pulled around in an inspection of the fabulous yacht basin, port o' call for certain Greek millionaires and international luminaries of every ilk, and found the same situation there; retreat by the sea was also cut off. He stopped at a public telephone and, after some delay, succeeded in getting a call through to Cannes.

  The vivacious voice came on the line at the second ring, and Bolan told it, "This is the stand-in. Comment ca va?"

  She replied in a rush of French.

  He said, "You know I don't dig that. What's the action? Someone else there?"

  She again replied in French.

  "Okay, I get it," he told her. "You still watching television?"

  She said, "Oh, oui."

  "Nothing of interest there for me yet?"

  "Non."

  His sigh carried audibly across the connection. "I had a hell of a time getting to Hebert. Now it looks like I walked right into it."

  She asked a question, the only part of which he understood was, "...Monte Carlo?"


  Bolan replied, "Yeah. And I'm sealed in. Guess I got too cute."

  In a guarded and almost whispering voice, she told him "Do not come 'ere, Cheri."

  He said, "The lamp is lit, eh?"

  "No, I could not do even that. Listen, they are everywhere... on the 'ighway, inside the grounds... the eenspectaire jus' walk to the patio for confer... ohhh I have but a meenute and I would say so much. Stay where you are. Can you get to the yacht basin?"

  "Are you under arrest, Cici?"

  "No no, I tell them and I think they begin to believe, I bring you to Nice, not knowing 'oo you are, and then you 'ave split from Cici, see. They are much eempress, I think, because the Rolls is 'ere and you are not. I ask you, can you reach the yacht basin?"

  "I'm looking at it right now. Why?"

  "When they leave, I will try to peeck you up in the cruisaire."

  "Nothing doing. You stay put."

  "But what will you do?"

  "I guess I'll go to the most unlikely spot and sit my fanny down."

  "What means this?"

  "Never mind. Bye, Cici. It's been great." He hung up, stared at the telephone thoughtfully, then picked it up and placed a call to Nice.

  A girl answered, the barest trace of a French accent in her English. "Let me speak to Dave Sharpe," he told her.

  "May I tell him who is calling?" she requested.

  "Tell him it's the man from La Mancha."

  "Pardon me, sir, did you say La Mancha?"

  "Yeah. Tell him I'm the used windmill salesman."

  The girl giggled and said, "One minute please, sir."

  The newsman's exasperated tones clicked on almost immediately. "This could only be one guy," he said heavily.

  Bolan replied, "Right, the world's last living fool, but maybe not for long. I'm pinned down and digging a foxhole, maybe for the night. What's the feel from the other side?"

  "Panic, sheer panic. You're a tough puncher, friend."

  Bolan said, "Not tough enough, I guess. Listen, I have to make a tactical withdrawal. Care to handle another story?"

  "It's how I earn my living," Sharpe said, sighing.

  "Call it a cease fire, temporary type. It's a little past five o'clock right now. I'll give them until... say eight o'clock to produce the missing items. If nothing has developed by that time, I'm going into a full-scale blitz."

  "That's interesting as hell, in view of the fact that you've already got the whole continent in uproar. Uh, haven't you been watching the telly?"

  Bolan said, "Not constantly. I just spoke to my telly-watching service, though. I got no message."

  "Well... maybe it hasn't gone out yet. But I was just talking to the station manager. They've had two calls from Paris and one from Marseilles, asking you to lay off until they have a chance to spring the merchandise. You didn't get that?"

  Woodenly, Bolan replied, "No, I didn't get that. But change that story I just released. Instead, I'm accepting their assurances that the merchandise will be sprung... but only until eight o'clock... then, same story."

  Sharp said, "For what it's worth, slugger, I admire your footwork. Just don't quote me on that."

  Bolan chuckled. "Thanks for the immoral support. Maybe I'll see you around some day."

  "I"ll cover your trial maybe."

  Bolan laughed and replied, "It will never come to that."

  "Can I quote you?"

  "Sure. I wouldn't live ten minutes after an arrest. You know that and every Mafioso in the world knows it. Penning me up would be an automatic death sentence. So I'll take it standing up, thanks, and in a place of my choosing."

  "You talk as though you're expecting to get it."

  "Well, sure. I may be a windmill-fighting fool, but I'm no idiot. It has to come sooner or later. I'm just banking on later, that's all."

  The newsman sighed. "This had developed into quite an interview. Thanks, I appreciate it. But tell me this — do you expect to get out of Monaco?"

  "I didn't tell you that I'm in Monaco."

  "Didn't have to. The whole world knows it. At least, the French police are assuring one and all that you are, and that you'll never get out. They've got a little maginot line around the entire principality. How do you rate your chances?"

  Bolan's mind was working furiously. "Didn't I tell you that I was blitzing at eight o'clock? Does that sound like I'm hopelessly contained?"

  "Well, you did say..."

  "I said a tactical withdrawal. You make out of that what you can. But don't give any aid and false comfort to the enemy. I'm blitzing at eight if they haven't produced, and they'd better understand that."

  "Then you are not in Monaco."

  "Hell I'm not saying where I'm not. Let the cops figure it out."

  Bolan hung up, cutting off another question from the newsman. Then he returned to the car and got away from that immediate area. Several new items of thought were now bothering him. Uppermost, why the hell didn't Cici deliver that message? What kind of a damn two-headed game was she playing, anyway?

  Secondly, why were cops so damn talkative? Didn't they realize that every hired gun the mob could command would be pouring into the tiny principality, an eight square mile area already jammed with tourist and fun-seekers?

  Lastly, and perhaps most troubling, how could he deliver on his rash promise for the eight o'clock blitz? He was hoping that he would not have to deliver, that the wide publicity being given his grandstand play would filter into the underground trail, wherever and whatever it was, and that the girls would be turned over. But what if they were not? Could Bolan even survive until eight o'clock?

  Well... he would give it one hell of a whirl. Where would be the most unlikely place in all of Monaco for Mack Bolan to turn up? Aside, of course, from the royal palace. Where else, but the fabled casino at Monte Carlo, where an execution had taken place less than an hour earlier?

  Bolan checked his tie in the mirror, smoothed his hair, and made ready for the most scalp-tingling gamble of his career. He would lay it all on the line at Monte Carlo.

  * * *

  Six o'clock at Monte Carlo was like midnight at Vegas. The evening crowds were in the streets — ladies who could have come directly from Cardin or Dior, and men in formal wear, plus hordes of tourists in casual dress who seemed to be there mainly to gawk and exclaim — sidewalk cafes without standing room available — here and there a yachting hat and a dude in denim and deckshoes — and everywhere, on this particular evening, sharp-eyed detectives and uniformed policemen suspecting every male in sight of being Mack Bolan in disguise, until irrefutable identification proved otherwise.

  Thanks to tightrope timing, Bolan himself was not challenged once during the hundred yards or so of his walk from the parked car to the casino entrance. Just outside the door stood a congregation of uniformed cops. Bolan passed right through them and received his first challenge inside, by two gracious men in formal wear. It was a routine thing, the showing of passports to gain admittance.

  Bolan was prepared for this, also. He opened his coat wide to get to the wallet, allowing his sideleather and hardware to come into plain view, then flashed the folder rapidly past their eyes, which were already distracted by the sidearm display, and said, "Police."

  He was passed right through and not even required to pay the five franc entrance fee.

  Inside the big gaming room was business as usual. Bolan found the spot where his latest target had gone down. The window across the way had already been replaced and the mess at the telephone desk cleaned up. A small throw-rug now covered the carpeting on the spot where Hebert had stood — to conceal the bloodstains, Bolan surmised. He casually made an inside inspection of the angle for that hit and realized that it had been a mighty tight one. Six inches one way or the other and it would have been impossible. Something seemed to be on his side.

  He kept moving, pausing here and there to drop a few francs at a roulette table or card game, trusting his instincts to spot the plainclothes cops and to keep his
distance from them. At a little after seven o'clock he went back through the lobby and into the admission-free room of slot machines. Here the traffic was thicker and the clientele more casually dressed. He pushed through snatches of conversations in a myriad of languages, found an open machine, and began unhurriedly feeding it.

  At about twenty minutes past seven, he went to the cashier's desk for more coins. As he was moving away, a large black man stepped up to the counter and grinned at him. Bolan's brain clanged and seized on an instant recognition. His eyes kept the secret, he returned the smile, and he went back to the slot machine.

  A moment later the big guy was standing beside him, feeding a coin into the next machine. The familiar basso voice advised him, "Just keep looking straight on ahead, Sarge, you're being scouted."

  Without turning his head, Bolan said, "You're a sight for homesick eyes, Lieutenant. Who's scouting me?"

  "Some guys." The black man fed in another coin and pulled the handle. "You're in a hell of a spot, aren't you?"

  "Yeah. Did you bring me a crying towel?"

  "No, I just brought myself. This is weird, Sarge. It's your voice, it's you, but it's the wrong face."

  "How'd you spot me then, Lieutenant?"

  "You kidding? Kids outside are already selling souvenir pictures of you."

  Bolan grunted and watched the combination come up on his machine. "You're a long way from home... football season and all."

  The Negro made a small payoff hit, chuckled gleefully, and scooped the coins into a huge paw. "My football days are gone forever, Sarge. Claymore mine, 'bout two months after we parted company at Song Lai. I been wearing a synthetic foot for about a year now."

  Bolan said, "Damn! That's tough!"

  "Don't give me no pity. I already gave myself all of that I can stomach."

  "Guys do that."

  "Yeah, I even forgot who I am, I guess. I just been another nigger for a long time now."