Assault on Soho Read online

  “So about what time was that?” Bolan persisted.

  “I suppose … shortly past twelve. I had thought that you would come to Queen’s House. I waited until two o’clock. Then I went to the museum. The police were there and we had quite a fuss. You know about all that.”

  Bolan said, “Yeah.” He paced the platform for a moment, then told her, “Okay, get your stuff, we’re getting out of here.”

  “It’s dangerous for you out there,” she argued quietly. “And we shouldn’t be trying for Brighton until—”

  “It’s liable to get a hell of a lot more dangerous for both of us right here,” he told her. “And to hell with Brighton. I’ve got things to do. Come on.”

  He turned away and went quickly down to the main level. She scrambled after him, pausing for a moment beside the remains of Harry Parks to gaze frozenly at the tragic lump, then she snatched up her coat and hurried on through.

  Bolan was waiting for her at the door, and he was looking at the apartment as though he would never see it again and wanted to remember it.

  Ann caught the look and joined him in it. “Well,” she said with a soft sigh, “I’m sure it’s dreadfully callous of me to feel so selfishly at such a time, but …” She sighed again. “I suppose it simply shall never happen.”

  He knew what she meant. He told her, “This place is a fantasy, Ann.”

  “Yes, quite,” she agreed. “It’s rather like pornography, isn’t it?”

  “You don’t need it,” he said.

  “You haven’t proved that to me yet.”

  He said, “You proved it to yourself. Now come on, let’s get out of here.”

  “Poor Harry,” she murmured as they went out the door. “What a revolting way to die.”

  He led her down the stairway and replied, “It’s an even more revolting way to live.”

  “Yes, I see what you mean.”

  They moved on thru the lobby and Bolan said, “Charles told me that all of this is a symbol of our times. I mean this Sadian bit. What do you suppose he meant by that, Ann?”

  “I suppose he meant that we live in a pornographic age.”

  He steered her through the lobby and onto Frith Street. “No, I think he meant something more than that.”

  They hurried around the corner and along the side street to Ann’s vehicle. She had been thinking about Bolan’s last statement. “Well, I doubt that you’ll ever know one way or another,” she told him.

  “Don’t be so sure about that,” he said. “We just might be on our way to an answer right now.”

  “Where are we going, Mack?”

  “We’re going to the Tower of London, m’lady.”

  “Oh Mack! In broad daylight and with bobbies scouring the city for you? Whatever for?”

  “Maybe,” he replied, “for a glimpse at this symbol of our times.”

  What Bolan did not realize then was that he had been walking in the shadow of that symbol since his arrival in England. It was a symbol of death.

  Chapter Seventeen

  THE RAVENS

  Not one but two table-top conferences had been underway at the Mafia’s London headquarters at the moment of Bolan’s telephone conversation with Leo Turrin. A meeting in the library was chaired by Joe Staccio, and was attended by Turrin and the crew leaders of the peace delegation.

  Staccio had told them, “Just in case any of you are wondering why I brought such a large bunch over, I just want you all to understand this one thing. It only takes one man to talk peace. That one man is me. Now Leo here is the contact man, and maybe he can get Bolan to stand still long enough to hear what I got to say. Okay, that takes care of the peace end. So you’re asking yourselves, why’d Joe bring the rest of us along? Well, here’s exactly why. Arnie Farmer is a Capo, and we all have to respect him for that. But he’s also a double-dealing rat at times, and we have to respect him for that also. That’s why you’re here, the rest of you. Arnie Farmer I know is going to try crossing me up. I feel it in my bones. And he’s liable to get me killed. I want you all to feel that in your bones.”

  A Staccio underboss pushed a heavy ashtray into a slide down the mahogany table and growled, “He better not try it, Joe.”

  “Well, he’s going to and we all know it. But listen, he will be the outlaw in this thing. I just want you all to understand that, and to know where you stand in this thing. When Arnie Farmer crosses me, he’s also crossing the will of the Commissione, as decided in full council before I took on this responsibility. So you know where you stand. I brought you over here to keep Arnie Farmer honest. I guess I don’t have to say any more than that.”

  There followed a spirited discussion of strategy, defense, and of ways and means of convincing Mack Bolan that an honorable and rewarding peace could be his. Turrin was asked to recount various intimate details of his earlier association with Bolan, “so as to give us all a better picture of how this boy thinks,” and Turrin did so, relating the episode at Pittsfield with as much honesty as he thought practicable.

  Toward the end of this recitation, Bolan’s call came through. Turrin carried on his end of the conversation under the eyes and ears of “Staccio’s Peace Corps,” the tag laughingly applied to the delegation by its own members.

  When he hung up, Turrin grinned at the New York boss and told him, “Okay, my feelers are starting to pay off. This boy here knows Bolan from way back. I think this is what we been looking for.”

  “Yeah, I got that,” Staccio replied, a worried frown furrowing his forehead. “Now how many other ears you figure were listening on extensions around here?”

  Still grinning, Turrin said, “Probably at least half a dozen. That’s why I picked this Tower of London for the meet. We can protect a meet like that, huh Joe?”

  “You bet your ass we can,” Staccio growled. His eyes snapped to one of the crew leaders. “You get out there, Bobby, and keep an eye on the ratpack. If anybody leaves, you report it back to me right quick.”

  The crew leader hurried out, and the other leaders of the Peace Corps bent their heads to the strategic problems of the moment.

  Meanwhile another conference under that same roof involved Arnie Farmer Castiglione and his legion of headhunters. A large drawing room was filled to standing-room capacity with crew leaders alone, and the atmosphere of the room was charged with the tension and excitement of the task being outlined there.

  Castiglione, of course, was running the meeting.

  Nick Trigger and Danno Giliamo flanked the big man at the table. Both wore the look of a slightly whipped dog.

  The farmer was saying, “Now these two boys here know that I’m giving it to you straight. This Bolan has made a couple of monkeys out of both of ’em. He’s got them so rattled they can’t even both tell the same story about what’s been going on around here. You all know what this Bolan can do, you know what he’s been doing to us right along. A couple of the old men back home think they can tame this wild man and make ’im one of us. But you go talk to Frank Buck about that. He’ll tell you that no wild animal ever gets really tamed, it’s liable to turn on you at any time.”

  “Yeah, I tried to raise a baby alligator once,” put in a hood from Chicago. He stuck out a hand, revealing the loss of several fingers. “Look what that son of a bitch done to me.”

  “Shortfingers knows what I’m talking about,” Castiglione commented, glowering around the table. “You don’t make deals with wild men, and you don’t invite them into your house and turn over the bedroom keys, and you especially don’t give ’im a gun and tell ’im to run your palace guard for you.”

  “Christ no!” agreed another man.

  “Bet your ass it’s Christ no, but that’s exactly what these tired old men back home want to do—not all of ’em now, I’m not talking against no special families. I’m just saying a few put the pressure on, and what the hell could the rest of us say? Huh? We had to go along. But listen, only one or two are all for this thing, this peace bullshit. You notice, all of y
ou boys notice that you’ve come from every part of the country, and you were sent to join my head party, and you all realize that. But now listen, how many of you boys would like to see this wildman Bolan carrying a Commissione badge, and steppin’ into the shoes of the Talifero brothers?”

  At that suggestion every ounce of blood drained from Nick Trigger’s face, nor was Danno Giliamo looking overjoyed at the prospect. Their reactions were lost, however, in the general ruckus spreading throughout the room. Everybody was talking to everybody else, and the meeting fell into brief disarray, then a telephone in the corner sounded and the chatter quickly subsided as all eyes turned to the instrument.

  Giliamo pushed back his chair and walked quietly to the telephone, though it had stopped ringing, and delicately lifted the receiver. He turned about to stare at Castiglione as he listened in on the Turrin-Bolan conversation, then he hung up and returned to the conference table.

  “Okay, what was that all about?” Arnie Farmer growled.

  “That,” Danno thoughtfully announced, “was Leo the Pussy making his contact.”

  “Awright, don’t save yourself any secrets,” the farmer demanded.

  “Well, he’s meeting this boy at some tower of London at ten thirty. But listen. That boy sure sounded like Bolan’s voice. I mean, not exactly, but Christ, it give me the creeps, I think that was Bolan right there on the phone.”

  Castiglione glared at him while his mind ran through the implications presented. Nick Trigger, though, scowled at Danno and said, “When’ve you ever heard Bolan’s voice before?”

  “I’ve heard a lot of things you’ve never dreamed about,” Danno snapped back. “I think I’m right, I think it was Bolan himself.”

  “You two shut up!” Arnie Farmer commanded. “What time is it now?”

  Someone replied, “It’s almost eight thirty, I guess I run my watch ahead right.”

  “Yeah, it’s eight thirty,” Nick Trigger growled.

  “All right Nick, you get out there and get some boys on their toes. Danno, you go with ’im and make sure he don’t get rattled or mixed up or something, both of you watch each other.” He dismissed them with a disgusted glance. “Rest of you boys get your heads in and listen closely to what I’m going to tell you. Now don’t get fucked up on this, I mean you listen close ’cause I’m only gonna run through this once. Now listen …”

  Nick Trigger and Danno Giliamo found themselves alone in the hall and glaring at each other. Nick muttered, “That rotten old bastard. Where does he get off talking to me like that?”

  Danno lit a cigarette with angrily shaking hands and said, “You remember what we agreed to in the car last night, that Arnie the Farmer is a rotten bastard.”

  “Yeah that’s one thing I remember.”

  “Well, what’re you going to do about that, Nick? I mean, this Bolan deal. You heard what the old bastard said. They’re thinking of turning over your job to Bolan, I mean the job that’s yours by rights. And even if Arnie gets to Bolan first, you know he’s not going to see you up there on the hard arm, you know that. It only takes one guy like that to squeeze you out forever, Nick. And that job is yours, by rights.”

  “By right, yeah,” Nick Trigger muttered.

  “Well, I guess we know where we stand.”

  “I guess we do. Listen, Danno, I guess we are in the same boat. Now I don’t know what happened last night and I don’t give a damn. We’re in the same boat and I guess we better start doing some bailing.”

  “I’d like to show Arnie Farmer what a monkey feels like,” Danno said. “You just can’t let him get to Bolan first, Nick.”

  “Don’t you worry, he won’t. And neither will Leo the Pussy.”

  “You got something in mind, Nick?”

  “You could say that, Danno. Yeah, you could say that.” Nick Trigger, as a matter of fact, had quite a lot in his mind.

  Bolan and Ann reached the Tower Hill district a full hour in advance of the appointment with Leo Turrin, and Bolan prowled the streets of the area relentlessly for most of thirty minutes, getting the feel of the land. Then he parked at a tour bus station and told the girl, “They’ll let me get in there, all right. The problem will be in getting out with my head still on.”

  “But you can’t go walking about in there,” she protested. “Someone will recognize you, and then we shall see a CID convention at London Tower.”

  He smiled and told her, “Most people aren’t all that observant. How often have you walked past a friend on the street without noticing him? Those people in there will be looking at crown jewels and British history, and they’ll all be wishing they had four eyes to take it all in. They won’t be looking at me.”

  “The staff will,” she assured him.

  “To them I’ll just be another bloody tourist,” he replied, grinning. “Look, stop worrying. This is my kind of warfare.”

  She was scruffling around in the glove compartment. “At the very least you can wear these,” she urged, handing over tinted lenses in weird wire frames. “They’re adjustable, so no excuses.”

  He chuckled and slid the earpieces out and bent them onto his temples, then stared at her owlishly through the tinted lenses. “How’s this?”

  She cried, “Oh Mack!” and threw herself into his arms.

  They lingered in a kiss, then he gently disentangled himself and told her, “Stay loose now. Get this car moving and keep circling. Try to make it past here at least once every five minutes. But at the first sound of gunfire, you skedaddle and damn quick. Don’t worry about me, I’ll find a way through. If we get split up, meet me at the museum. I doubt that anyone will be expecting me to show up there again.”

  She nodded and slid her arms back around his neck. “Don’t you dare get yourself killed,” she whispered. “I doubt that I could survive it.”

  He chuckled, kissed her again, and left her sitting there with saucer eyes. He glanced back, saw that she was crying, and threw her a reassuring wave, then mingled in with a tour party which was just then debusing.

  It cost him four shillings admission to the grounds, and he paid another two shillings for access to the interior areas. He had almost a half hour to kill, and he used this time for a casual look around at the fabulous complex, once the castle of William the Conqueror. He saw the room where the Little Princes were smothered and visited the Armories in the White Tower for a glimpse of King Henry VIII’s armor. Then he went back onto the grounds where he engaged in a friendly conversation with a colorfully costumed Beefeater—the name given the Tower guards. The guy showed him the clipped-wing ravens, and told him that they were the symbol of the tower.

  Bolan thought, yeah, those ravens were a symbol of the time, too—like old Charles’ Sadian symbol. Civilized men had that same frustration constantly with them, that same clipped-wing freedom of the ravens. Throw away everything that makes you a man, man, and then be a man.

  Nuts, Bolan thought. He hadn’t been able to settle for the clipped-wing type of existence urged upon him by the Pittsfield cops; he’d decided to be an eagle … and now here he was practically a dead duck, despite his brave reassurances to Ann Franklin.

  The time was ten twenty. He wandered back and found the scaffolding where crowned heads had rolled, the final stop for kings and queens who’d found the power of reigning a bit too heady. Men never learned anything, Bolan was thinking. The scramble for power and the lusting for wealth would never end, it would go on and on as long as ravens had clipped wings.

  He was in a hell of a mood and he knew it. The Tower had done it to him, it had done something that all the macabre atmosphere of Museum de Sade had failed to do, and Bolan was beginning to get a glimmer of what old Edwin Charles had meant. The whole God damned world was bathed in blood, it had soaked into the earth behind every footprint of mankind, and the screams and groans of the tortured and the revolted and the shit-upon still lived on in every movement of the wind.

  Yeah, dammit, that was what Charles had meant. The agony of mankind wa
s only mirrored in the offbeat flesh routes that some men pursued. The reality of that agony would not be found in some pathetic devil’s pantings over sado-masochistic pornography. The reality was buried in the core of that worldwide panting for power over other men’s lives and the ruthless acquisition of wealth for the few at the expense of the many.

  Thank you, Edwin Charles, Bolan said to a memory. You’ve reminded me what I’m all about.

  And then it was 10:25 and Leo Turrin was making a quick approach with a very worried face.

  Bolan muttered to himeslf, “And here we go again. Another jug of blood for the ravens.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  SHOWDOWN AT DE SADE

  Bolan shoved the glasses up onto his forehead and told Leo Turrin, “I hope this turns out to be worth the risk.”

  “I don’t know about that,” the little Mafioso replied glumly. “This has turned into an Olympic Game called get Bolan, and it’s anybody’s game at the moment.”

  Bolan said, “That means you brought a convoy.”

  “Did I. It would be funny if it wasn’t so damned serious. You may have a hard time believing this, Sarge, but right now you’ve got four big mean Mafia crews protecting your hide.”

  “You brought them with you?” Bolan asked, his eyebrows rising into unhappy peaks.

  “No other way. Arnie’s head party is swarming all over. I smell a shootout, brother against brother, and all because of your hide, buddy.”

  Bolan chuckled. His tensions were leaving him. He said, “Okay, let’s make it quick, then. I wouldn’t want to miss the party.”

  Turrin took him by the arm and walked him along the scaffolding of Execution Row. “Okay, first the poop on Edwin Charles. Brognola hit a blank there right away. Charles’ army folder has a classified seal on it, and the British won’t even talk about him. Via our own army intelligence, though, Hal learned that this guy was retired with honors 15 years ago, with the rank of Brigadier.”