"Continental Contract" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pendleton Don)

8 Maison de Mort

Monzoor Rudolfi sat stoney-faced in the rear of the Citroen. Beside him was the somber Vito Bertelucci, Rudolfi's strong right hand. Driving and alone in the front was a weary native of Philadelphia, Charley quot;Rollerquot; Guevici, who was at the moment complaining of dizziness.

Rudolfi muttered, quot;Shut up, Roller,quot; and opened the miniature bar in the armrest. He poured himself a brandy and closed the bar, ignoring the needs of his companions. His rear end was paralyzed and he had a headache and he had long ago began to wonder about the wisdom of this hardset. Bolan was not stupid enough to return to the scene of his crime; he would not push his luck that far. But where did one begin? If not here, then where? Also, if Bolan had a terroristic interest in the Paris operation, would he not use this same starting point for an extension of further adventures?

Rudolfi sniffed the brandy and tugged at an earlobe, then he turned to Bertelucci and said, quot;Try the house again, Vito.quot;

Bertelucci grunted and picked up the mobile telephone, placed the call, and settled back with a gloomy gaze at his boss. He got his connection. quot;Roxanne? Vito. Anything?quot; He listened for a moment, then spoke past the mouthpiece to Rudolfi. quot;We have company. Lavagni and crew. What shall I tell her?quot;

quot;Tell her to get Lavagni and crew drunk.quot;

quot;Seriously, Tom.quot;

Rudolfi sighed. quot;Tell Roxanne to escort them to the chateau. Give them the full VIP treatment. She knows.quot; He glanced at his watch. quot;Tell her we should be there by midnight. Perhaps with a prize.quot;

Bertelucci nodded and relayed the instructions through the telephone, then he hung up and sat back with a sigh, lit a cigarette, and resumed the surveillance at the window. Around and around they went, and where they'd stop, nobody would... He flashed a quick glance at his boss and told him, quot;I need to take a piss.quot;

Rudolfi downed the brandy before signifying receipt of the request. Then he kicked the driver's seat and said, quot;The place on St. Jacques, Roller. I suppose we all should get out and refresh ourselves.quot;

Guevici's eyes in the rearview mirror were grateful. quot;Yeah, Tom, this ring around the rosy is making me dizzy as hell. Of course if it was accomplishing anything...quot;

quot;Shut up, Roller,quot; Rudolfi commanded. He did not like to hear his own doubts voiced. Bolan would come. He knew that he would come. An empire awaited that coming. A lion with a roar could not for long remain mute. quot;Go on around,quot; he said suddenly, changing his mind about the stop at St. Jacques. quot;Stop at the house of Celeste. We will refresh ourselves there.quot;

Guevici threw a delighted grin toward the rear seat. quot;Maybe me'n Julio can trade places for a while.quot;

Rudolfi grimaced disgustedly and replied, quot;How can you change places with Julio when you have never bothered to learn the language, Roller? How can you command a French crew when the only words in your vocabulary are deshabillez-vous and etendez-vous?quot;

Guevici chuckled. quot;I don't even know those. What'd he say, Vito?quot;

quot;Take off your clothes and lie down,quot; Bertelucci grunted.

quot;Well, I guess that would get me by in there, wouldn't it, Tom? Anyway, I got better words for it than that.quot;

quot;Give me a word for Bolan,quot; Rudolfi quietly commanded.

quot;Bastard,quot; said Guevici, coldly.

quot;Remember it then. And here is another. Death. Morte, Roller, in French. Morte has two faces. Remember that also. It comes and it goes, at the same time. Make sure, when you are looking at the bastard, it is going. Eh, Vito?quot;

quot;Just let me look at the bastard, Tom,quot; Bertelucci said. quot;You'll see which way it's going.quot;

The car was slowing and pulling to the curb.

quot;I would give ten thousand francs for such a look, Vito,quot; Rudolfi replied, sighing.

The monzoor was about to get that look... but it would cost him an empire.

The shiny blonde head moved up the stairway and into the shadows at the top. Her breathing lurched raggedly as the apparition in black detached itself from the darkness and arrested her forward movement. quot;My God!quot; she hissed. quot;It is you! This is insane! This is...quot;

Bolan tapped her lips with a finger and said, quot;Quiet. Take me where we can talk.quot; He could not see her clearly but he could hear the uneven breathing of tight emotions, could feel the warmth of her and smell the delicate aromas of boudoir grooming, and he could not keep out the vision of that enchanting female body as he had last seen it. He followed her down the hall and into a dimly-lighted bedroom. He closed the door as she dropped to the bed and turned to regard him in a mixture of fear and female interest. She wore flimsy harem pajamas and velvet slippers, leaving very little to the male imagination, and Bolan had to look away from her as he said, quot;You know why I'm here.quot;

Her lips moved woodenly in the reply. quot;I suppose it's obvious. But it's also insane. There are a dozen of them here, armed to the teeth.quot;

quot;Don't worry about that. I want you to get the girls out before the fireworks start.quot;

quot;But how?quot;

quot;What are they doing down there?quot;

quot;Talking, just talking. Julio won't allow any bedroom action, no drinking, no nothing.quot;

quot;Who is Julio?quot;

quot;The head thug, I take it. Large man, about 35 or 40, obscene and violent. He's in charge. Celeste is thoroughly frightened by him. Her husband, Marcel, was...quot;

quot;Marcel was her husband?quot;

quot;Well, not really, but they had a warm thing going.quot;

quot;What were you about to say?quot;

quot;Marcel was always the go-between. For the payoffs, I mean. He was mixed up in many other things, also.quot;

quot;Celeste is paying mob protection?quot;

quot;Of course. Otherwise she could not stay open a night through.quot;

quot;How does she feel about this invasion?quot;

quot;You mean this one, tonight? She is very angry. With you, too, Mr. Bolan.quot;

quot;I see you found the name.quot;

quot;Of course. It is all we have heard for hours.quot;

quot;Okay, give me the setup. How many on the second floor?quot;

quot;Eight. Three or four more on the ground floor. Others are in the street outside, I'm sure of that.quot;

quot;And the girls?quot;

quot;All right below, in the party room.quot;

quot;Yeah, okay.quot; Bolan was deliberating the possibilities.

The girl asked, quot;How did you get in here?quot;

quot;Same way I'm getting you out,quot; he told her. quot;The roof. Go get the girls, but very quietly. It all depends on you if they live or die. I'll give you two minutes to get them up here, into something warm, and onto the roof.quot; He was looking at his watch. quot;I'm making the hit at exactly 10:30. You'd better be clear by then.quot;

The girl's lips had begun to quiver. As she moved toward the door she asked, quot;How about Celeste?quot;

quot;What about her?quot;

quot;She hates you. I wouldn't guarantee her reaction to your presence here.quot;

quot;Does she hate me enough to die?quot;

quot;I guess not.quot;

quot;Be sure she understands the choice, then. Have you decided how to round 'em up?quot;

quot;Something will come to me.quot;

quot;Try this. The boys down there are probably getting bored as hell. Make an announcement of some special entertainment. You want all the girls upstairs to work it out. Gay, you know? Strip-tease or something. Can you do it?quot;

She was vigorously nodding assent. quot;Yes, that sounds good.quot; She hesitated in the doorway and turned back to whisper, quot;Mr. Bolan, it would be such an insane waste if...quot; She gazed at him for a brief moment, leaving the statement incomplete, then spun out the door and along the hall.

Bolan followed her to the stairwell and again took position in the shadows. Moments later a burst of excited chatter sounded from below. The young redhead was the first one up. She brushed against Bolan and whispered, quot;Merci,quot; and ran along the hallway. Apparently she had spread the word to the girls while Bolan was talking to the English girl. All were now racing up the stairs in a pretty good show of giggling excitement, but brushing by Bolan with whispered thanks.

Bolan was counting them through and, when Celeste and Judy appeared, he said quietly, quot;You two make ten. Is that all?quot;

The blonde girl replied, quot;Yes. Give us a minute to get our coats.quot;

Celeste gave him a hard look and pressed on by. This was one of the things Bolan hated about his work. He wondered how many other sad widows lay in the Executioner's shadow, but he flung the idea from his mind and steeled himself for what lay just ahead.

The roof stairway was creaking into place. Soft-footed women were wrestling with coats and quickly departing the battle zone. All but one. Celeste stood at the bottom of the stairway and gazed toward Bolan.

She thinks I'm going to get it, Bolan decided. She wants to see me get it.

It was time. He moved the safety release on the pistolet rapidly back and forth, assuring no failure, then went quickly down the stairs in a soft descent.

Three men relaxing lazily on a couch directly across the room took his first burst, the drumfire punching them deeper into the cushions as they gawked at him.

Two men at the window spun into the next burst, one of them crashing head-down into a nearby corner, the other going through the window in a shower of glass.

Bolan's death whirl continued unchecked. A bearded Frenchman in a beret, clawing gunleather, jerked his trigger prematurely and shot himself in the belly. Bolan added several more rounds for good measure, and whirled on.

Two men near the stairway had come unfrozen and had guns in hand, firing in a trigger-jerking frenzy at the fastmoving target. Bolan zippered them from right to left, then from left to right, and had to dodge back to avoid their falling bodies. He was feeding a fresh clip to the machine-pistol as he stepped over them and leapt down the stairs to the ground level.

Bare seconds had passed since the first eruption of gunfire. Two rather large men were jammed together in the doorway to the living quarters, both trying to get through at the same time. A gun hand was clear, though, and swinging on Bolan as he sent his own emissaries into the jam, and it dissolved and oozed to the floor.

Moving figures flashed beyond the doorway and a soft male voice inside was crying, quot;Julio! Julio!quot;

Bolan sent a figure-8 burst through the doorway and whirled to meet a challenge from the street door. A small man with a wolfish Italian face was poised there, gun cooly raised and spitting and trying to track onto Bolan's movements, the slugs chewing wood behind the elusive target. A raspy voice on the other side was commanding, quot;Down, Roller, down!quot;

Bolan helped Roller down, with a zipper across the face that punched him back out the door and sprawling backwards onto the sidewalk. A whistling slug literally parted Bolan's hair as he rolled toward the sound of the raspy voice, and as he came up to the new attack Bolan recognized the big man behind the roaring .45. It was Vito Bertelucci, once a rodman with the old Capone mob and lately missing from American Mafia circles. Bolan made it a permanent absence with a target grouping tightly about the heart. Vito went down without a sound, dead before the fall.

The Executioner stepped quickly to the front door and discharged a short burst into the air, wishing to discourage any rush from that direction but reluctant to spray indiscriminately into the street. Then he went to the other doorway and stepped into Madame Celeste's private quarters.

A well-dressed man sat there, on the floor, staring at him. He held a fancied-up luger in a bleeding hand. quot;Bolan,quot; he whispered.

quot;That's right.quot; Another man lay close by, face down in blood, breathing with a bubbly sound. quot;It seems to be down to you and me.quot;

The luger fell away and the soft voice announced, quot;I surrender.quot;

quot;That's nice.quot; Bolan could not help being struck by the ludicrousness of the situation. In all his lifetime of warfare, he had never heard those words.

quot;Look, I'm a businessman, not a street soldier.quot;

quot;I guess you're going to die like one.quot; Bolan went on into the room and placed the muzzle of the pistol against the man's head. It was hot. Hide fried, but the terrified man did not move so much as an eyebrow.

quot;Don't kill me, Bolan. Deal, I'm a businessman, let's deal.quot;

quot;Okay, start dealing. But damn quick.quot;

quot;You don't want Paris. No action here, Bolan. The action is south, the Mediterranean — Marseilles. Nice, that's the center of action. Evil action, Bolan, your kind of stuff. Narcotics, gun running, white slavery, all of it. That's where you want to be. Not here, not in Paris.quot;

quot;Who the hell are you?quot; Bolan asked, curious.

quot;I'm Tom Rudolfi. You don't know that name? I'm the Ambassador to France, Bolan.quot;

quot;Sure,quot; Bolan said. quot;I haven't heard any deal yet, Rudolfi. You have ten seconds, then I have to be splitting.quot;

quot;Names, Bolan. I'm giving them to you. Aumond, de Champs, Silvaterri. The big three, Bolan. South. Go south.quot;

Bolan said, quot;Yeah,quot; and slapped Rudolfi's skull with the muzzle of the pistol. The man sagged forward. Bolan stared at him for an indecisive moment, made a face, and went out. A guy was coming in from the street, saw Bolan, and flung himself back outside. Bolan grimaced and threw a short burst that splintered the doorjamb, then he sprinted up the steps.

He glanced at his watch as he ran through the chamber of death; the timing was great; hardly more than two minutes had elapsed since the first shot.

Madam Celeste stood stiffly at the third floor landing. Bolan paused beside her and murmured, quot;Je regrette, Celeste, je beaucoup regrette.quot;

The woman spit at him. Bolan went on to the roof. Only the blonde Englishwoman was there to greet him. She said, quot;I don't believe it.quot;

quot;I do,quot; Bolan replied, moving on across the rooftop.

The woman was trotting along beside him. He asked her, quot;Where do you think you're going?quot;

She told him, quot;You don't think I'm going back to that death house.quot;

quot;Where'd the others go?quot;

quot;I don't know. They just... disappeared.quot;

quot;You thinking of going with me then?quot;

quot;Well... I don't know where to go. The police...quot;

quot;Yeah, there's always that, isn't there.quot; Bolan slowed his pace and steered the girl around the clothesline area. Back across the rooftop, a shadowy figure and then another moved through the lighted doorway atop Madame Celeste's. The pursuit was on. Bolan took the girl's arm and hurried her along. The weird sound of French sirens seemed to be homing in from all directions. They reached the steel ladder of the end building and he told her, quot;Quickly, down.quot;

She said, quot;I-I don't know if I...quot;

The sounds of running feet were moving across the rooftop. Bolan heard a gurgle and a whoomp that could only mean a neck on a clothesline. Someone out there in the darkness was swearing softly and with great feeling.

The girl's hand was clutching his with a spasm of fear. He told her, quot;If you're going with me, Judy, it's now or never. The hounds are loose.quot;

She threw her leg across the parapet and lowered herself over the side, eyes wide on Bolan. He followed quickly behind her.

Thus far the mission had been a huge success. He had blitzed a Mafia hardsite and come away alive, with perhaps an item or two of useful intelligence and, for the first time ever, a soft bundle of spoils.

Now, if he could just make it back across a narrow area of hostile territory, maybe after all there would be a moment or two of Ramp;R in gay Paris. But the Executioner was not setting any plans along that line. The Executioner had learned to live one heartbeat at a time.