Canadian Crisis Read online

  “I know. I know, Augie. Well, anyway, I got Matty back on the horn and sent a dozen heavy crews over there. We even put a couple of helicopters in the air from Niagara and Buffalo.”

  “Too late.”

  “Sure, too late. The chopper from Niagara got there in time to see the downtown office get pulled out of the Niagara River. Their car was blown all to hell, and I guess they’re still trying to piece the bodies together.”

  Marinello sighed and reached for a cigar. “That’s the, uh, hitch you was tellin’ about,” he said softly.

  “Yeah. I have to buy it as Mack Bolan. It’s got his prints all over it. And I don’t like the territory he’s in, Augie. He’s mighty close.”

  “Could be a coincidence,” the old boss decided.

  “Well, there’s more.”

  Marinello was lighting his cigar. He peered out through the smoke and said, “Let’s have it.”

  “There was a man down from Montreal, working the Quebeçois angle with Bobby Gramelli. Bobby had the hardware concession for the meet—I mean, from my territory. This Montreal guy is supposed to be in with the Quebeçois militants, see. Well—I get it this morning that this guy—he was going by the name of LeBlanc—is really working with the Canadian cops. Bobby had tumbled to that, and he was getting ready to correct his mistake. The last anybody saw of Bobby Gramelli—alive, I mean, this guy LeBlanc is under his wing. This is just a few minutes before Bobby is laying dead on his office floor. Well, Augie, this LeBlanc is nowhere around, suddenly. It looks like maybe he left with Bolan.”

  Marinello bit through his cigar. “I guess we got a hitch,” he said quietly.

  “I’m afraid so, Augie,” Staccio replied worriedly.

  “What’ve you been doing about it?”

  “I got an army out looking for him. Planes and everything. He’s probably already ditched that whatchacallit, motor home—but that’s all we got to go on. Lot of territory to cover, Augie. If he’s headed for that meet in Montreal, he could be taking a hundred different routes. The Niagara thing could mean something or maybe not. He’s tricky. Shows his nose at the door to Ontario then maybe scoots for the other side. Anyway, it’s hard to cover all the possibilities but I’m trying. I got crews swarming down from Montreal, covering all the routes into town for a hundred miles out. I got planes in the air and people at the airports. I even got a watch on the damn St. Lawrence Seaway. The boy is tricky, mighty tricky.”

  “You better go now, Joe,” Marinello said tiredly. “Take personal charge of that. Don’t let that guy get into Montreal.”

  “You got my word on that, Augie.” The upstate boss rose to leave. “Don’t let this bother you. I’ll take care of Bolan.”

  “People been telling me that for a long time, Joe,” the old man said.

  “His luck can’t run forever,” Staccio said.

  “You better count on something more than luck.” Marinello grasped the blankets where his legs had once been. “Take that from one who knows, Joe.”

  “Yeah, Augie.”

  “If you can, bring him here. Alive.”

  Staccio grinned. “I’ll even put a ribbon in his hair for you.”

  “I’d like to get that boy, alive and looking at me, knowing what he’s gonna get.”

  “I’ll bring him to you, Augie. I swear I will.”

  “Not like London, Joe.”

  The Staccio smile faded. That had been a low blow, to remind him of the fiasco in England. “I said I’d bring him, Augie. That’s my personal word.”

  He went out of that august presence, repeating silently to himself the promise hastily made but oh so damned difficult to fulfill.

  A crisis was forming in Joe Staccio’s worried mind. A personal crisis, a family crisis—a crisis of the spirit. Too much was at stake at Montreal. The world—the whole damn world—was at stake.

  Joe Staccio was not going to allow one hotshot bastard to turn all that around.

  “I’m gonna get his ass, Augie,” he muttered as he let himself outside.

  5: ON TRACK

  Bolan did not underestimate the enemy. He knew that they would be watching every trail and kicking every rock in a determined effort to keep the Executioner out of Montreal.

  Very important things were about to happen in that city.

  An international underground congress was being convened there, with delegations attending from every area of the globe. The long whispered-about, meticulously planned, superevent of the criminal world was actually becoming a fact. The Montreal Conference was designed to give birth to Cosa di tutti Cosi—the Thing of all the Things—the most formidable crime cartel ever envisioned by the mind of men.

  It was actually happening—and it was happening in Montreal. The American Mafia would be the nucleus of the new, formal, supercombination. Augie Marinello would be officially proclaimed Capo di tutti Capi—Boss of all the Bosses. His throne would be installed in the Canadian province of Quebec; Montreal would thenceforward be the crime capital of the world.

  It was not a maniacal plan but a coldly calculated, heavily financed, and carefully instrumented conspiracy to seize the world.

  Bolan had only a hazy understanding of the political situation in Quebec—but it was obvious that it was this situation which prompted the Mafia bosses to select Montreal as their new capital. Quebec had been a French state since Cartier landed there in the year 1534, claiming the new territory for France. It was not until 1763 that Quebec was ceded to the British, becoming the “province of Quebec,” and the transformation from French to British control had never occurred in any meaningful sense.

  Quebec now had two “official languages”—French and English. Schools were strictly parochial—French Catholic and English Protestant—the major emphasis on Catholicism, naturally, with a heavy majority of French Canadians in the population.

  French nationalist sentiment in the province had been growing for decades and escalating into feverish intensity over the past few years. Parti Quebeçois, the political center of French nationalist sentiment, though still a minority party, had swollen its membership to a point where serious challenges were being made to the ruling liberals. A steadily growing sentiment within the Quebeçois was toward secession from the Dominion of Canada and the establishment of Quebec as a separate nation. Adding to the political unrest was the constant threat of militant action, with the young lions of the separatist movement arming and preparing for the final convulsion.

  Apparently the Mob—never to be accused of failure to respond to a golden opportunity—had read something of comfort to their plans in the political atmosphere of Quebec.

  Bolan’s intelligence was not that complete; he did not know the specifics of Mob involvement in Canadian politics or Quebeçois nationalism. One thing was certain, however: whatever was happening in Canada was definitely being exploited by the men with the golden fingers—and they were about to slip Quebec into their hip pockets.

  So, no, Mack Bolan did not underestimate the enemy. They would go to any lengths to write insurance for this Montreal Meet. They would not want the likes of Mack Bolan crashing their party.

  With this in mind, his route to Montreal was calculated not primarily for rapid transit but toward certainty of arrival. He had gone west from Niagara Falls, into Ontario and through Hamilton to Toronto, leaving the lakeshore behind at Newcastle to angle into the interior. He reached the outskirts of Ottawa for breakfast, shared hastily with his tense friend from Montreal, then bore north for a circuitous approach to the combat zone. A normal two-hour journey from Ottawa to Montreal, Bolan took it in five—meandering through the back country in a wary advance upon his goal.

  He had not deluded himself that he would reach Montreal without incident. The city is situated on an island, the St. Lawrence flowing by to the east, Rivière des Mille Isles to the west—Rivière des Prairies, also, cutting across the western suburbs. Rivers mean bridges and—bridges, to a hunted man, mean trouble.

  It was midday when the
warwagon nosed into a small fishing camp near Bois des Filion, at the northwest approach to the city. Bolan rented a space for his vehicle, taking the weekly rate, and two enthusiastic “fishermen” immediately went down to test the action at water’s edge.

  Bolan’s “fishing rod” was actually a highly refined optic instrument. He patiently scanned both sides of the river, the bridge area, the skies above—then told his partner, “They’re here, all right. In force.”

  “Then they are everywhere,” Chebleu assured him.

  Sure. They would be everywhere. With unlimited manpower and the riches of the world at stake—why not?

  Bolan said, “I guess that Buffalo crew was expecting reinforcements at that. They got the word out, anyway.” He sighed. “Well—it just makes the job harder—not impossible.”

  Chebleu delicately cleared his throat but said bluntly, “It is your own fault. This bravura habit of leaving behind the death medals—it is foolish. It is like a trail, a track.”

  “It’s also a signature,” Bolan replied absently, his mind obviously busy with more important matters. He grinned suddenly and said, “Bravura, eh? Well, maybe so. The psychological war is as important as any, brother Andy. My enemy understand bravura. They respect it. So maybe I lose a little by signing my hits. But it gains me a lot in the psychological war.”

  “Perhaps,” Chebleu quietly agreed, eyeing his companion with a level gaze. The gaze fell abruptly as he asked, “Did you know that it was I who sent Georgette to her death?”

  Bolan murmured, “Bury her.”

  “This is my way. Allow me.”

  “Go,” Bolan replied, resigned to it.

  “It was my recommendation that she be asked to take the assignment. It was a terrible crime we were investigating—a crime against the soul, you understand. So many young girls being sent into that hell, such a shocking … Well. One does not find reliable female operatives on any street corner. Georgette had the experience.” His eyes flared. “She had the body expertise of a courtesan, the mind of a great detective, the will and courage of a warrior. That she was also my own sister, I did not consider. I was simply seeking the best, and the best was Georgette. Washington readily agreed to make her available. And I used her. Like a piece of meat on a hook. I sent her into that—that …”

  “Georgette sent herself,” Bolan said coldly. “You’re trying to bury yourself, not her. You’ll do it, too, if you keep this up. It’s a hard world, Andre. Stay hard, dammit.”

  “Stay hard,” the Canadian echoed. The gaze came up, slowly. “This is the meaning of that phrase? The world is hard, so we must all, each of us, become also hard? Will the world, therefore, ever become soft?”

  Bolan was again sighting through the fishing rod. “There are many worlds,” he murmured. “Fish worlds, rabbit worlds, bird worlds. Are any of them soft?”

  “Perhaps,” Chebleu replied, shrugging. “Depending upon the point of view.”

  “Try one of these views,” Bolan grunted. “A fish view, from the belly of a whale. A rabbit view, from a coyote’s belly. A bird’s view, from the talons of a hawk. Where’s the soft, brother Andy?”

  “That does not make it right.”

  Bolan’s eyes flashed from the telescope. “It makes it real. Face this world, Andre—look at it squarely. It’s divided between the eaten and the eaters. Now maybe that’s not right, but dammit it’s the way it is. If it makes you feel better to shake your fist at the heavens, then go ahead. I’d rather shake mine at the eaters. Stay hard? Damn right, if you intend to do anything about the situation. Can one rabbit help another out of the coyote’s jaws? Georgette was no rabbit—and she was not a piece of meat on a hook. Try taking what she was away from her, brother Andy, and you also take away everything she accomplished in this life. Salute her, dammit—commend her soul to a happier place—and then, once and for all, bury her.”

  Bolan spun on his toe and returned to his battle cruiser. Chebleu returned a moment later, a faint smile playing at his lips.

  “Thank you,” he said softly.

  Bolan tossed him a change of clothes. “Get into these,” he instructed. “We’re going fishing.”

  “From the whale’s belly?”

  “Maybe,” Bolan replied, smiling back at his new friend.

  Less than an hour later, he was stepping ashore on the east bank of Riviére des Mille Isles at a carefully selected spot. From this point, he would be on his own. Chebleu would return the boat to the fish camp and enter the city later, under his own arrangements. The warwagon was remaining at Bois des Filion, for the time being.

  Chebleu shook his hand and told him, “Stay hard, L’Exécuteur.”

  Bolan smiled, said, “See you tonight,” and tracked on in his penetration of the new underground capital of the world, the quiet side of his mind reflecting upon that earlier conversation with Georgette’s brother. Montreal, sure, was going to be some kind of unholy bitch. It would take more than “hard” to see him through this one. He smiled, recalling Chebleu’s use of the word “bravura.” It meant a brilliant or daring performance.

  Yeah.

  It would take a hell of a lot more than that, too.

  6: BRAVURA

  He stripped off the woodsy outfit and abandoned it in a clump of bushes. Over the blacksuit, then, he donned dress shirt and slacks, tie, the Beretta shoulder rig, light jacket. The empty tackle box went into the bushes with the other clothing after yielding up the final items of the transformation—a cosmetic case and dark glasses, ID wallet, monogrammed handkerchief bearing the initials FR, a few pieces of junk jewelry, also monogrammed, and initialed cigarette lighter.

  From the cosmetic case he selected neatly flared long sideburns, considered and rejected brown-tinted contact lenses, then threw the case into the bushes with the other stuff.

  Time consumed: about a minute.

  He lit a tipped cigarette, stuck it to the side of his mouth, and took off toward the bridge at a leisurely pace.

  About halfway there, a tough-looking guy with New York written all over him came hurrying around a bend in the trail. They almost collided head-on. The guy jumped back with an alarmed snarl, a .45 combat Colt there and ready.

  Bolan beat him to the challenge. “What the hell’re you doing down here?” he growled in his best street voice.

  The enemy’s greatest weakness lay in their size and secrecy. Inter-family cooperative efforts, such as the Canadian operation, was a blending of strangers groping in the dark with often little more than instincts to guide them. Bolan had often played to this weakness. He had, indeed, become a master at the game.

  The guy was giving him a quick sizing as he replied, “Didn’t know you were back here, man. Could’ve taken your damn head off. Why don’t you—”

  “I asked, what are you doing here?” Bolan said, cutting in coldly on the lukewarm speech.

  The guy was taken somewhat aback by the ice in that voice. He was reappraising as he backpedaled a bit. “We, uh, saw a boat crossing the river—couple of guys fishing, looked like. Disappeared around the bend there. Only one guy when it came back. Larry said I should check it out.”

  “Larry was right,” the iceman said. He grinned suddenly, allowing a slight thaw as he added, “But it was just me.” He took the guy by the arm and turned him around. “Come on, we’re pulling out.”

  The guy’s mind was tumbling, trying to pull things together. “I don’t, uh, he didn’t say …”

  Through it all, Bolan’s confiding tone was mildly complaining: “Been in that damn fish camp over there since two this morning. Ridiculous! Frank Ruggi don’t sit around half a day in the woods, cracking his knuckles. Dumb! I called Augie and told ’im it was. Look—you’re with Staccio, right?”

  The guy dumbly nodded his head.

  “No offense, don’t read it that way. But I didn’t come all the way from LA to sit in the woods and swat mosquitoes. I told Augie that. You just don’t send Black Aces out to crack their knuckles in the woods.”
r />   The guy was stumbling along the trail, half a pace ahead, semi-propelled by Bolan’s firm grasp on his arm. His head jerked around at that “Black Aces” bit, the light of revelation dawning there. “That’s right, Mr. uh Ruggi,’ he muttered. “I don’t blame you for feeling that way.”

  “Call me Frank.”

  “Sure, Frank. So you told ’em where to get off.”

  “I told Joe Staccio where to get off.”

  The torpedo was grinning appreciatively. “Augie made ’im call you, eh.”

  “Let’s just say that we came to an understanding,” Bolan told him with a chuckle, eyebrows arched in secondary meaning. “Joe’s all right, don’t read me wrong. This just isn’t his cup of tea, that’s all. He should stick to his rackets. That’s where he’s king.”

  “You’re certainly right, Frank. He is king there.”

  “No question about it,” the “Black Ace” readily agreed.

  A panel truck was parked at the edge of the woods—a late-model sedan just ahead of it, another across the road and poised to leap off in either direction. Two guys in Levis were leaning on shovels. A guy in a business suit and yellow hard hat was stationed at the bridge, another was strolling across. The guys with the shovels looked hot and irritable. A “work force” such as this was onerous duty, tiring, hard on the nerves. Each approaching moment could be an explosive one, and these guys had to stay up and ready for it. Bolan understood these burdens, and he’d learned long ago to make them work in his best interests.

  The guys at the shovels were giving them an interested surveillance as they broke from the trees and approached the set. Bolan went directly to the panel truck and sat in the open doorway. He handed the ID wallet to his companion and said, “Tell Larry I want to parley.”

  The guy said, “Sure, Frank,” took the wallet, and headed for the car at the other side of the road. He flashed the open wallet at the shovel-leaners as he ambled past them. The guys exchanged glances then sent curious gazes toward the visitor. Bolan sent them not a look, but both became immediately uncomfortable and started halfhearted digging motions with their tools.