Assault on Soho Page 11

  The man in the lead vehicle leapt out and trotted down to open the large iron gate of the driveway, then hurried back to his car.

  The man on the porch called, “Don’t worry, I’ll get ’em behind you.”

  The motorcade pulled out and Bolan drew back to avoid the headlamps as the line of vehicles swerved into the street and headed toward Picadilly. As the last car cleared, the guy from the porch was walking down the drive toward the gate. Instead of closing it immediately, however, he stepped on through and stood on the sidewalk, gazing up and down the street. He threw the cigarette down and stepped on it, then put another between his lips and casually lit it, allowing the lighter to flame for an overlong time, putting his features in stark relief from the darkness.

  Bolan’s soul stirred in the recognition of that face over there. It belonged to Leo Turrin, the double-life Mafioso and undercover cop from Pittsfield. Once Bolan had been sworn to execute the cocky little Italian, whom he had known then only as the vice lord of Bolan’s home town, and it had been through that involvement that Bolan had first successfully penetrated the Cosa Nostra and learned so much of their operation. Bolan had worked closely with Turrin during those early days at Pittsfield and had found himself growing more and more reluctant to collect his “blood debt” from this likeable little guy. As things had turned out at Pittsfield, of course, Bolan had plenty of reason to be thankful that the Turrin execution had never come off. The guy had saved Bolan’s skin more than once—and then, of course, he had turned out to be an undercover cop.

  Now this glimpse of a face from the past was received with mixed emotions. Leo lived in the same brand of constant peril as Bolan’s. The slightest hint that Turrin was enjoying friendly relations with The Executioner could mean his immediate undoing, and the loss of a five year undercover operation. Also, on the other side of the coin, Bolan was not all that certain that, with all chips down, Turrin would not hesitate to sacrifice Bolan to the greater good. Cops were like that, sometimes, even good cops.

  Bolan’s inner conflict was resolved much quicker than the telling of it, however. He ejected a bullet from the Beretta and tossed it across the street to land at Turrin’s feet. The little guy bent over and picked it up, hefted it casually in his palm, glanced up the driveway toward the house, then unhurriedly crossed the street.

  Bolan stepped out of the shadows, smiling faintly, and said, “Why didn’t you just light up a neon sign?”

  They solemnly shook hands. Turrin gave Bolan his cigarette and told him, “I figured you’d be somewhere close by—just a hunch. What’d you do to poor Danno? He looks like he’s been to hell and back.”

  “He has. What brings you to London?”

  “You.”

  Bolan chuckled. “It figures. They calling in the reserves now?”

  Turrin nodded. “And more. Don’t laugh when I tell you this. I’m supposed to be bringing you a pardon.”

  Bolan did laugh. “A what?”

  “You heard me. They want to bury the hatchet.”

  “Yeah, right in my head,” Bolan said.

  “They’re serious about it. I think. I believe Staccio has his doubts, secretly though.”

  “Joe Staccio, upper New York?”

  “Right. He’s heading up the peace delegation. He’s a little worried that the other bosses are setting him up for something. You know how that crap goes, none of them really trust each other.”

  Bolan said, “Yeah. Well, so what’s your role in all this?”

  Turrin grinned. “They haven’t forgotten that you used to be one of my boys. They figured I could make the contact. By the way, have you heard? I’m running Pittsfield now.”

  Bolan chuckled and said, “Congratulations, that’s some territory. No more girls, eh?”

  Turrin laughed softly and stiffened his hand into a flat plane and tipped it from side to side. “I still keep my hand in,” he said. “They’ll never let me forget it anyway. I’ve got a new name, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know.”

  “They call me Leo Pussy.”

  “It’s a name that should stick,” Bolan commented, grinning.

  “Yeah,” Turrin said drily. “Well, so what are you up to? I mean, other than terrorizing the continent and bringing the blitz back to Britain?”

  “I’ve just been trying to get home,” Bolan soberly told him. “But I’m starting to smell something very rotten here in jolly old England. I think I might look around some.”

  “By look, you mean blast.”

  “Maybe that, too.”

  “Look, you better cool it a bit. These London cops are something else. You remember Hal Brognola?”

  “The Justice Department guy, yeah.”

  “Right. Listen, Brognola packs a lot of weight. He takes no shit off of anybody, not even the boys up in Senate Judiciary. He’s been trying to make some intercessions on your behalf with the local fuzz. No dice, buddy. They told him in plain text to jolly well butt the hell out.”

  “So what’s Brognola’s interest?”

  “You know how he feels about you. He figures you’re performing a national service, and I hear there’s considerable unofficial sympathy with his view. But that’s Fed level, understand. There’s not much he can do at the local levels, especially with you blitzing around. More to the point, though, Brognola’s been trying to engineer a line on this London arm for months now. Zero, buddy, not a damn thing. And I couldn’t help. I mean, I’ve got no right to know what’s going on over here, right? So this trip was a blessing, in Hal’s view. This is the first time we’ve gotten inside underground London.”

  “Have you caught the smell yet?”

  “What smell?”

  “The rotten smell I was taking about. If this thing does bust, I’ve been told that this whole country might shake from the explosion.”

  “Local corruption?”

  “No, worse than that, from a public point of view. It could be the Profumo thing all over again, times ten and in spades.”

  Turrin said, “Shit.”

  “Yeah. That could be why Scotland Yard is so hard-nosed. Maybe they know that smell already, and they’re afraid it’s going to bust wide open.”

  “I doubt that,” Turrin replied worriedly. “The CID has a hell of a lot of pride. They’re just not going to let you run wild over here, that’s all.”

  Bolan said, “Well, we’d better cut this short. What can I do to help your operation?”

  Turrin produced a small notebook, jotted a phone number, and tore out the sheet and handed it to Bolan. “Contact me here, sometime today if you can. We’ll work out a meet.”

  “Okay. Where were all the cars headed?”

  “Airport. Arnie Farmer Castiglione is bringing in a big head party, due to land at six. Staccio insisted that we come on ahead and try to get a jump on them. But nobody’s been home here all night and hell, we’ve just been sitting around waiting for someone to show.”

  “What do you mean, get a jump?”

  Turrin grinned. “It’s the big squeeze, buddy. Peace in one hand and war in the other. If we make contact first, meaning the peace delegation, the Farmer is supposed to lay off and give us a chance to work something out.”

  “But you think he won’t.”

  “Right, that’s the feeling. But we’re supposed to give it the old college try. For what it’s worth, Staccio brought with him the full authority of the Commissione to make a deal with you.”

  “Castiglione’s on that Commissione.”

  “Right. But you know how these things gō. The old warrior hates your guts, Sarge.”

  Bolan shrugged. “So, old warriors die too, you know.”

  Turrin said, “Yeah, you could look at it that way, I guess. Listen, I don’t really know all the details … Staccio’s playing this thing pretty close to the chest. I’m just supposed to make the contact and set up the meet. Maybe you should listen to what he has to say. It might be your out.”

  “Who says I want an out?”


  Turrin smiled faintly. “You can’t keep this going forever, Sarge.”

  Bolan grinned and said, “I can try.”

  “Well … okay. It’s your decision. Hell don’t look to me for advice, of all people. Uh, you need anything from me that doesn’t come under that heading?”

  “I could use some intelligence.”

  “I’ll do what I can. What do you need?”

  “I need a make on an old man named Edwin Charles, age about seventy or seventy-five. I think he was a biggie in OSS liaison during World War Two. Maybe someone can get a line from that angle. He died tonight.”

  Turrin said, “Friend or foe?”

  “That’s what I’m hoping you can tell me.”

  “Okay. I have a line to Brognola. I’ll put him on it.”

  “While you’re at it, look into a Major Mervyn Stone. The major part is a carryover, he’s not active military anymore. The name’s all I have, but there a connection with Charles.”

  “Pretty important stuff, Sarge?”

  “Yeah, pretty important. My head might be attached to it.”

  “Okay, we’ll shake the tree. You watch it, huh?”

  Turrin moved casually back across the street, pulled the gate shut, and walked up the drive whistling a pop tune. Bolan watched him out of sight, then faded away into the night.

  That was a good cop back there, a damn good cop. Bolan wished him long life. But he feared a short one for him. Perhaps as short as Bolan’s own.

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE PACT

  Another night had all but ended when Bolan returned to Russell Square. Lights were on here and there inside Queen’s House and a faint illumination marked the rectangle of Ann Franklin’s window. After a cautious recon, Bolan went in through the rear entrance and let himself into the flat with the key the girl had given him.

  Ann was waiting for him. She was in a chair directly facing the door, she was entirely awake, and she was holding the big Weatherby in a tense grip and pointing it right at his belly button.

  He closed the door and asked her, “Forgotten me already?”

  “I haven’t forgotten you,” she replied coldly.

  “What are you doing with my rifle?”

  “Protecting myself.”

  “Against me?”

  She tipped her head in a deliberate nod. “Against you.”

  Bolan tried a grin that didn’t quite come off. “Is it all right with you, Lady Gunner, if I have a cigarette?”

  “If that means may you reach inside your jacket, no, you may not.”

  Bolan did not like a bit of this. He said, “Look, I’m not feeling up to games. Don’t believe it about an infantryman’s feet. They get as tender as anybody’s, and I’ve been on mine all night. Now what’s going on?”

  She murmured, “Thank goodness your tender feet are no concern of mine.”

  He said, “Forget the feet, it’s tough shoulders that count. Particularly the gun shoulder. When those big pieces go off they buck into you like an enraged bull. I’ve known guys to come off the firing line with fractured collarbones.”

  “I’ve handled firearms before,” she assured him.

  Bolan did not like the icy stare she was giving him. He wondered, but would not ask, where Major Stone was at the moment. He said, “Where have you handled firearms? On the clay pigeon line?” He shook his head. “That’s no pop gun you’re holding there, Lady Gunner. It was made to deliver a killing punch at better than a thousand yards. That’s three thousand feet, better than half a mile, or roughly one kilometer, to put it in your terms. That kind of killing power requires a muzzle energy of more than four thousand pounds—that’s where the enraged bull comes from—and it takes a bullet of at least 300 grains. No military style steel-jackets on those jobbies, either. That Weatherby is a big game rifle, meaning the bullets are blunt-nose expanders, designed for high shocking power. They mushroom on impact, and they tear through like a small bomb. You pop me with that charge from where you’re sitting and you’ll be cleaning pieces of me off of every wall in the room, and maybe even some out in the hall. If you want to try for something really gory, then lay it in right between my eyes. You might get some scrambled brains clear into your frying pan. Or if—”

  “That will be quite enough of that,” she interrupted. Her face had gone white and a nervous tic was beginning to work at the corner of her mouth.

  Bolan said, “I think so, too. So if you really mean to shoot me, then why don’t you put the clip in?”

  “The what?”

  “The ammo clip. Why didn’t you load the gun?”

  A distressed look crossed her face. She said, “Oh,” and glanced down at the rifle.

  Bolan stepped forward and took it away from her.

  “How stupid of me,” she murmured.

  “Not at all,” Bolan said solemnly. “As a matter of fact, it is loaded. This piece doesn’t use a clip.” He pulled the bolt and ejected a long wicked looking bullet. It whizzed past the girl’s face and struck the floor with a heavy clatter. “That’s a magnum,” he explained, “and it has a hell of a lot more than 300 grains.”

  She winced and stared at the shell as though spellbound by it.

  He told her, “You know, I’m getting just a bit fed up with your whole nutty bunch.”

  “Obviously,” she replied in a small voice.

  “Now just what does that mean?”

  Her lip quivered and she said, “I told you that Charles was harmless. There was really no need at all to kill him. It was wanton and violent and … and inexcusable.”

  Bolan’s face showed his disgust with her. He said, “Lady, if you think I killed that poor old man then you’re clear off your pole.”

  He carried the rifle into the bedroom and began snatching his things out of the closet. He was stuffing the Weatherby into its case when the girl appeared in the doorway.

  She said, “Mack …” in a soft voice.

  He turned a harsh glare on her. Her eyes faltered and she slowly entered the room to stand uneasily at the foot of the bed. Bolan was thinking that she had performed that exact same maneuver the night before, and he had to wonder if it was sheer coincidence.

  Gruffly, he told her, “Okay, so maybe you had a right to think it. You’re right, I am a killer. In fact, I killed about a dozen men tonight, maybe two. Hell, I don’t even bodycount anymore. But I don’t murder doddering old men by bending them over a hot iron. That’s not exactly cricket in my circles, lady. Yours, maybe, but not mine.”

  She flinched and softly replied, “All right, I deserved that. Now will you forgive me?”

  “I already did.” He was carelessly throwing his things into the suitcase. “But it’s time I was moving on. Too long in one spot makes me nervous. Thanks, and all that.” He snapped the bag shut and dropped it to the floor, then finished securing-in the Weatherby.

  “Where will you go?”

  “I’ll find something.”

  “There’s really no need for all this, you know. You’re perfectly welcome to remain here.”

  “It’s better that I don’t,” he assured her.

  “Then you’re just ditching us, leaving us all alone to solve an impossible problem, and after all we’ve done to help you.”

  Quietly, Bolan said, “That’s right, you’ve helped a lot, haven’t you. You brought me to an ambush in Dover, then you brought me to an ambush in Soho, not once but twice. You people keep helping me, Ann, and you’re going to help me right into a grave.”

  She took a deep breath, let it all out, and said, “If you didn’t kill Charles, then who did?”

  Bolan’s eyes clashed with hers. He sat down on the edge of the bed and lit a cigarette, then muttered, “I wish I knew.”

  She said, “He died hideously. I was there, I saw it. The CID was there also. And I’m under technical arrest.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that I’m not to leave London until the investigation is completed.
It’s a technicality. CID is convinced that you are the murder. They seem to think that the museum is part of a Mafia racket. They think that you tortured Charles to get information out of him, then when the gangsters came, you killed them all in a shootout.”

  Bolan grunted and said, “It figures. I guess I’d be thinking along those same lines if I were a cop.” He took a long pull at the cigarette and slowly exhaled. “Actually,” he said thoughtfully, “I was hung up on the same kind of error, at first. I automatically concluded that the Mafiosi killed the old man. That tied everything into a neat bundle, see.”

  She shook her head. “No, I don’t see. What do you mean?”

  “Well, you stop thinking of motives and that sort of thing the minute you settle for a gang killing. But I’m convinced now that the mob didn’t do it. And I didn’t do it. So that takes us back to who and why—and especially the why. You tell me, Ann. Why was Charles killed?”

  The girl sat down beside Bolan, clasped her hands between her knees, and stared broodingly at the floor. “I haven’t the foggiest,” she said, sighing.

  He asked her, “Is that museum part of a Mafia racket?”

  Her eyelids fluttered as she replied, “Only in the way that I’ve already explained. We are being blackmailed.”

  “So how did Charles figure into that angle?”

  Her lips quivered. She leaned against Bolan and told him, “He was simply a sweet old love who enjoyed puttering about with electronics. Actually he was more of a maintenance electrician than anything else. Charles had absolutely no connection with any of the club’s business.”

  “He didn’t operate that peepshow console in the basement?”

  “It’s largely self-operative. Charles merely saw to it.”

  “Did Charles install the cameras and the other gadgets?”

  “Install them?” She shook her head. “Oh no, not the original equipment. That was all done quite some time before Charles came to us.”