Sudden Death Read online

  A Honda 250 motor scooter rocked to a halt beside the wrecked Renault.

  "Quick! Jump on behind!" the helmeted, leather-clad rider yelled from beneath the rain visor.

  Bolan leaped for the little bike without thinking. He wrapped both arms around the rider's waist as he sat astride the saddle and the Honda jerked forward.

  The scooter arrowed between the two police cars as the lights changed again to green, roaring across the intersection and heading east before the rest of the traffic had started to move.

  By the time the prowl cars had swung around to follow, the scooter was three hundred yards ahead… and long before they hit anything like a respectable speed, the rider had circled between two iron posts blocking the entry to a narrow lane and had shot away between tall, old houses where the cars were unable to pursue them.

  It was only then, feeling the pliancy of the waist and seeing the glossy stream of black hair cascading below the back of the helmet, that Bolan realized his rescuer Was a girl.

  11

  Her name, she told Bolan, was Fawzi Harari. She lived on the eighth floor of an enormous nondescript apartment block, one of a group on the northern outskirts of the city.

  Without the crash helmet, he could see that she was beautiful. Blue jeans and a lightweight sweater did nothing to hide the tight curves of a voluptuous body. Large liquid brown eyes and a slightly broad nose and mouth combined with honey-dark skin to hint at a North African or Arab origin.

  The Honda scooter was chained to a rail among rows of shiny Renaults, Peugeots and Citroens bought on credit by the new poor who lived in the state-subsidized blocks. The bare concrete passageways stank of urine. Graffiti sprayed over the metal walls of the elevator mingled racist slogans with plugs for the local football team and crude sex images. Some of them were delicately executed in Arabic characters.

  "Why?" Bolan asked after they had sunk gratefully into imitation leather armchairs. The apartment was clean, sparsely furnished, featureless.

  "I had to find someplace fast," she said. "People from my country are not always welcome in France."

  "I don't mean why you chose this apartment. Why did you rescue me? How come you were there to do it?" Bolan was still breathless after a whirlwind ride that had taken them in and out of the rush hour traffic halfway around the freeway circling the city.

  Fawzi Harari walked to the window. She twitched aside one of the handmade draperies and looked down at a huge asphalt yard pockmarked with futuristic children's play structures. Several hundred kids milled and shrieked between the blocks, but very few were using the chutes and frames and cement tunnels the architects had designed for them. "I had special reasons," she said without turning around, "for wanting you… free."

  "Such as?"

  "Such as my brother, Hassan."

  "Hassan?"

  "The boy they killed before they took you away. In Algiers."

  "You mean Boardman's kid? The one who led me back to his place? That was your brother?"

  Still with her back to him, she nodded, the glossy black hair bouncing between her shoulder blades.

  "I'm… sorry," Bolan said awkwardly. "He was a brave kid, and he put up a great fight. It was unforgivable."

  "It will not be forgiven," she said in a choked voice.

  After a pause, the Executioner rose and stood behind her. He put a hand on her shoulder. Her body was shaking. Below, the kids in the playground tumbled and yelled. "What is the connection?" he asked gently. "I mean, why keep me at liberty?"

  "I should have thought it was obvious. You were there. You were shooting at the people who killed Hassan. His murderers were your enemies. You seemed to me the only person… big, strong enough… the only possible person to strike back."

  "You want me to avenge your brother?"

  "I believe," she said carefully, "as long as you are free from those people and free from the police, that whatever it is you are doing will avenge him."

  She turned to face him. The tears on her cheeks were drying. Bolan's smile was crooked. "Fawzi, what do you know of me?"

  "That you are a man of courage and initiative. That you made a rendezvous with Monsieur Boardman because he had some information concerning…" she paused "…concerning certain activities the world considers illegal."

  "Anything else?" And before she could answer, Bolan played another hunch. It was the use of the word considers that tipped him off. "Activities you are concerned in yourself?" he prompted. "Illegal activities concerning what people call… terrorism?"

  She blushed and looked away. "Not anymore."

  "Tell me."

  "It was when we were students. I had two cousins, boys a little older than me, who were very much involved. The AMER was strong in Oran, where I was at college. You know how it is."

  Bolan nodded. AMER — Arab Militants Against European Repression — was yet another splinter group from the main body of the holy war extremists orchestrated by Khomeini and his cronies from Iran. They were mainly young, fanatic, their immature passions inflamed and manipulated with ruthless cynicism by the men who used the envy of the dispossessed to satisfy their own lust for power. The letters of the acronym also happened to spell the French word for bitter, amer.

  "You figured it was brave and romantic," Bolan said. "Getting your own back on countries who for centuries had exploited your people, spreading the Word of the Prophet, cleaning up the decadent West. A catharsis by fire and the sword. At first you distributed leaflets, went to meetings and listened to inspiring speeches, joined in with the rent-a-mob guys and gals who manifest and riot any time there's a television camera within range. It was all very exciting. And then…?"

  "Then I found I was in deeper than I liked. There were organized groups staging small holdups to get money. Somebody was killed. Half a dozen of us were sent over to Italy, and I found after we got there that we had been ordered to place a bomb inside a synagogue. I… I drove the getaway car. Fortunately the police found the thing and defused it before it exploded."

  She sighed and shook her dark head. "I was not totally convinced of the religious angle anyway. I couldn't believe you were damned unless you belonged to our faith. I realized how stupid and pointless and wrong the jihad creed was. We were killing and maiming people just like ourselves — the people you see in this block, people you see in the subway. For what? What good did it do us? They were not responsible for our troubles."

  "You quit?"

  "I sort of disappeared. I had an excuse. Our parents were killed in a car crash. I had to look after Hassan. I went back to Algiers."

  "But you still saw your friends in AMER?"

  "Just my cousins. But they had been sent to Beirut. They only visited occasionally on their way through."

  "And then Hassan joined the other side?"

  "Not really. He was…" Fawzi bit her lip. "He was a smart boy. But he was not interested in politics. Not at his age. Yes, he did little jobs for Monsieur Boardman. But even if they were not always strictly legal, they had nothing to do with the people the Australian knew. Hassan could use the money… and he was there."

  "How do you mean — he was there?"

  "We live — lived — in the same house as Boardman. On the floor above."

  "So that's how you knew about my business with Wally? That's how you knew so much about the gunfight and… what happened after?"

  "I was outside the window," she confessed. "I saw those men burst in, and I ran down and hid in the courtyard."

  "And you saw them take me away? But how did you find me in this town?"

  "My brother was dead," she said fiercely, "so there was nothing I could do for him. Not personally. But if I stuck with someone who had tried once already to save him…"

  "How did they get me away?" Bolan asked.

  "They had a panel truck, and they stowed you in it. They left the… the dead, even their own. They rolled you up in one of Monsieur Boardman's rugs, a Persian prayer mat they took from the wall."

 
; "And you followed the truck on that little scooter all the way to Paris? How could you…?"

  "It is not so difficult, with a small maneuverable machine and people who do not suspect they are being followed. Why should they have suspected? They knew you were alone."

  "Over a short distance, yes. But to Paris…?"

  "There was a boat in the harbor about to leave for Marseille. They must have had an… arrangement… with the port police, and the customs people on the other side. They drove straight on in Algiers and straight off again when we arrived in France. I had money with me. I managed to buy a ticket and scramble aboard at the last minute."

  "And in France?"

  "I knew they were taking you to Paris. I overheard them talking on the boat. So I put the bike on a train, and I was waiting at the exit from the highway when they arrived after an all-night drive."

  "And then you followed me when I left the hotel?"

  "Yes, but that was not so easy," she admitted, "because this time they were following you also. They wanted to see what you would do, I guess."

  "You keep saying 'they.' Just who are 'they'?"

  "I do not know, I swear. Dangerous people."

  "Nothing to do with AMER?" Bolan asked.

  "Certainly not. But they have levers. They can put pressure on AMER. On other clandestine organizations, too."

  "How do you know?"

  "As I said, I do not attend meetings anymore, but my cousins trust me. They talk freely in front of me when they visit."

  "And?"

  "Something very big is going on. It seems that AMER, the PLO, the FPCQ, Abu Nidal's FRAL, even the IRA, the Corsicans and the Basques, have all been warned to lie low. Their activists must all arrange to have alibis on certain dates. The new people do not wish anyone else claiming credit — or being blamed — for their operations."

  "But you don't know anything about them at all?"

  "I know the reasons why they want the Islamic revolutionaries and the others to keep quiet — because they are using professionals. My cousins disapprove. They think it cowardly to pay outsiders for work that should be done by volunteers, for a cause."

  "They're dead right," Bolan said. "Except that what they call work should be stamped out altogether. This sacred cause, naturally, is…?"

  "The revolt against the Satans of the West who have contaminated the 'purity of Islam.' A holy war against the vices and corruption and injustices of the non-Muslim world. They want to establish a worldwide Islamic republic, to impose this on a world they have systematically destroyed." She laughed scornfully. "They are already claiming the return of Andalusia and a good third of this country!"

  "Luckily they fight so much among themselves over what is and what is not the true Islam that their impact is diminished," Bolan said soberly. "The threat is there just the same. But you're telling me this has nothing to do with these new terrorists? So what is the cause for them? Antisemitism? Communism? Some other form of pan-Arab conspiracy? A worldwide slave state?"

  She shook her head. "I have no idea. I only know what I hear my cousins say, and they do not know, either."

  "Beats me," the Executioner said. "Too many things here don't stack up at all. It's a very big deal, just the same, with real money behind it. Pro hit men don't come cheap. Nor does the kind of organization directing them. Nor does the kind of operation they pulled on me. Do you have any idea how many tails they laid on me here in Paris?"

  "At least four. Perhaps more. I cannot say definitely. It was too difficult making certain they did not discover that I was on the same trail myself."

  "You were taking some risk, getting that close to me," Bolan said. "You didn't see who was giving the orders?"

  "A man called Max Nasruddin seemed to be the boss. I saw him once before with my cousins in Algiers. A dark, chunky man with a mustache. He limps."

  "I didn't notice the limp," Bolan said, "but he was the guy directing the setup back in that Las Vegas Nights club."

  "I think he is a very dangerous man," Fawzi said.

  "They're all dangerous men. Fanatics who refuse to let the rest of the world do its own thing are always a danger. You can check that in any history book. Such people must be stopped."

  Bolan walked away from the window. It was dusk, and the children were being called in to eat. Outside the apartment he could hear footsteps, shouts and the whine of elevators. "I've dedicated my life to the destruction of these people," he said. "Whoever they are."

  "I know," she said. "That is why I know, too, that Hassan will be avenged."

  "How much of my conversation with Boardman did you overhear?" Bolan asked.

  "Not much. Hassan heard the beginning and came up to tell me. I heard enough to guess a little about your motives."

  "If you were still upstairs when the killers broke in, you wouldn't have heard my final questions and the answers Wally began to give. Does the name Baraka mean anything to you?"

  "The name, Baraka? No. It is a common enough word in my country, but not as a name. It means…"

  "I know what it means," the Executioner cut in. "It's probably a code name, anyway. Did you ever hear Boardman or your cousins speak of someone called Friedekinde?"

  The girl's nose wrinkled as she frowned in concentration. "I think I may have heard it," she said slowly, "but right now I cannot say where."

  "No sweat." Bolan glanced at his watch. It was eight o'clock. "Is there a radio in this apartment?" he asked.

  "Yes, a small transistor in the bedroom," she said.

  He went through and tuned in to the France-International network. A broadcaster was already a few seconds into the evening news.

  "…the device, which bomb disposal experts estimate as at least five kilos of plastique, was apparently lodged in the roof above the department store's top-floor Toy Fair. It exploded at the busiest hour, shortly before closing time. First estimates place the casualties at eighteen dead and fifty-two injured, some of them seriously, but salvage men working with cranes and cutting equipment fear there may be more victims beneath debris at one end of the department, where a section of roof collapsed under the force of the blast. It is feared that there may be many children among the casualties."

  Bolan bit back a curse, suppressing the anger he could feel rising within him.

  It was exactly this kind of horror that the Executioner had pledged to stamp out. The kind of slime-bucket creeps who could plan and carry out a thing like that deserved to be annihilated the way he had wasted Graziano that afternoon. There were no regrets on that score. The newscaster continued: "So far, no organization has claimed responsibility for the outrage. The mayor of Paris and the minister for home security were at the scene of the disaster, directing rescue operations, within fifteen minutes…"

  He switched off the radio and walked back into the living room. "Nice people, your cousins' friends," he said.

  Fawzi didn't reply. She was staring out the window again. Something about her attitude warned Bolan that things had gone wrong. He joined her and moved the draperies aside.

  She pointed wordlessly at the yard below.

  Beside a plastic play chute, a black Mercedes sedan had drawn up and was waiting with the engine idling. A thin plume of smoke issued from the tail pipe and assumed a reddish hue in the illumination from the rear lights. Four men had climbed out of the big car. The driver was still at the wheel.

  Three of the men, bulky silhouettes in the sodium lights above the yard, lounged against the sedan. The fourth stood by the front fender and lit a cigarette.

  Even from the eighth floor, Bolan could see in the sudden flare of the match that it was Max Nasruddin.

  "But they couldn't have followed us here!" Bolan exploded. "Not through that jam on the freeway!"

  "They did not," Fawzi said. "They must have known already. In other words, the team following you must have discovered that somebody else was following the same trail. They must have put a tail on me also."

  "Smart," Bolan admitted. "I th
ink we better get out of here. Is there an emergency exit?"

  "Yes. If you can stand the smell."

  "Could we get to your scooter from the exit without them seeing us?"

  "Certainly, if they stay where they are, but not if they have men watching the whole block."

  "They may not be certain which block, which apartment — or at any rate which window — relates to you," Bolan said. "They may not know for sure we've gotten back yet. Watch them and tell me if anyone moves. And don't let them see you, okay?"

  "They will know," she said. "But we can always try."

  Bolan whipped into the bathroom, cleaned up his hands and the gash on his leg, washed the stain from his face and peeled away the false mustache.

  "They are separating and heading toward the main entrance," Fawzi called out. "Max is still with the car."

  The Executioner was in the doorway, towel in his hand. "Okay," he said. "We split."

  The girl was right about the stairway. It smelled like dead fish. They switched on the light timer and ran down.

  Heavy iron locking bars had to be pushed up to open the emergency doors, and it was impossible to do this without making a hell of a noise. The steps continued down into a basement. "Is there a garage?" Bolan asked.

  "No," she whispered. "Just the furnace room, storage area, a laundry and some cellars. But there is a loading hatch for the delivery of things. If we could lift up the trap…"

  They could. Bolan stood on a packing case and cautiously raised half of the iron trap a few inches.

  The bike was on the nearer side of the parking lot, beyond a stretch of trampled grass and a line of dirty bushes. There was no sign of the pursuers.

  Bolan hitched up his sweater and eased off the safety of both guns. They waited, peering out at the deserted yard in the harsh yellow light. "There was one thing I forgot to ask you," he murmured. "The triple-F. Three Fs. Or just the acronym FFF. Do any of those ring a bell with you?"

  "Of course," she said, smiling. "It is a logo. A trademark, if you like. What the French call the sigle, of a clinic."