Assault on Soho Page 3

  Bolan said, “Thanks.” He jostled the man aside and passed on to the stairway.

  The girl cried out, “Wait!” and hurried after him. She overtook him at the bottom step and pressed a key into his hand. “Queen’s House,” she whispered, “front flat, upper. Across from the park on Russell Square. You’ll find it easily. It’s safe there, and you’re welcome any time.”

  Bolan kissed her forehead, murmured “Okay,” and went on. The key went into his pocket, though a flat on Russell Square seemed the remotest of all possibilities for him at the moment. If the stiff little man had not been trying to con him, a street full of Mafiosi awaited him just outside. He took a deep breath and checked the load in the Beretta.

  The cat that walked by himself, eh? Bolan grinned faintly to himself and fingered his spare clips: he liked that. He was going out there to wave his wild tail through those wet wild Mafia woods, and that was okay. Bolan had learned jungle law and how to live by it. All jungles were alike; the same law operated through them all. Kill quick and hard, then fade to return and do it again. Bolan knew the law. It was older than mankind, older than men’s laws. And Bolan himself could quote a bit of Kipling.

  “Now this is the Law of the Jungle—as old and as true as the sky.”

  Or how about, “Through the Jungle very softly flits a shadow and a sigh—He is Fear, O Little Hunter, he is Fear!”

  Yeah, Bolan decided, Kipling had been there too.

  He went back through the grim little cells of the second floor and down through the carved labia and spreading buttocks into the harem room. This trip through he noticed the phallic statuary, vases shaped like leather hipboots, lampshades made to look like corsets, and various other items of erotic decor. He shook his head sadly, thinking of the girl upstairs, and passed quickly on through to the clubroom.

  Then he found an elderly man kneeling beside an open panel of the wall. The man looked up with a frown at Bolan’s entry, then averted his eyes from the fierce encounter.

  Bolan commanded, “Show me a quiet way out”

  Charles heaved to his feet and said, “Down through the cellar is the best way, but it’ll only deposit you just across the square. I’d call it a very tiny advantage.”

  “Fine,” Bolan said. It was all he needed, one tiny advantage. He’d make it stretch all the way through the wet wild woods.

  Chapter Three

  DEATH IN THE SPOT

  Charles, it developed, was his family name. The given name was Edwin but he preferred to be called Charles. Per Bolan’s earlier voice judgement, he was indeed a former army officer—twice retired he was quick to point out. During World War Two, Charles had been a high-ranking staff officer in liason with the American cloak and dagger outfit, OSS. He’d grown to know the Americans quite well, admired them, and jolly well understood and admired Bolan’s quick reaction to “the security watch” at de Sade.

  Bolan would have had a tough time judging the old man’s age; he hung it in at about seventy-five, realizing that he could be five years off in either direction. Judging purely by mental spryness, Bolan would have scaled down the years considerably. Charles was alert and quick, with plenty of fire remaining behind the old eyes. Only the physical gave away his age, and even here only in his movements, for he was tall and straight, slim without appearing bony. He had once been a very powerful man, Bolan guessed. His jaw was long and hard, he was clean-shaven, his hair was thick and wavy, though snowy white. Bolan decided he would have liked to know Charles thirty or forty years before.

  The escape route from de Sade had been a sewer at some time in ages past. Charles accompanied Bolan out, proudly pointing out places where they had “restructured” around WW2 bomb damage to keep the old tunnel passable. Not too many years earlier, he added, a secret route of escape from the townhouse had been a must; now the tunnel was regarded as just another museum piece to be carefully preserved, as a link to the past.

  “Anything goes in London these days,” the old man told Bolan, his eyes twinkling. “Rather takes the fun out of sin, what?”

  When they arrived at the other end, Bolan thanked him, delivered an offhand apology for the shattered television camera, then he climbed an iron ladder and lifted himself to the surface.

  Charles, his face dimly illumined in the side glow of a pocket flashlight, was peering up at him with considerable anxiety. “Remember to look before you leap, Yank,” he called up.

  Grinning, Bolan replied, “Okay, I’ll remember that, Brigadier.”

  “This crackling museum of ours. You should realize that it has a deeper meaning, quite aside from its obvious purpose. It’s a symbol of our times, Bolan. Remember that. Our times.”

  Bolan’s grin faded. He gave a curt wave and lowered the door on the concerned face. What, he wondered, prompted a grand old man like this into such questionable activities? He should be sitting out his days in a quiet clubroom somewhere, recounting the glories of days gone by. Instead, he played Secret Agent at a house of kinks.

  Bolan shook Charles out of his mind and took up the problem at hand. He was in the basement of another building situated directly opposite the Museum de Sade. The Sades operated this establishment, too. It was a book store and sexprop shop. A dim yellow bulb revealed the basement was a storeroom, with cartons of merchandise stacked about rather haphazardly. Bolan went up the flight of rickety stairs, found a key where Charles had assured him he would, and let himself into the shop. Here was utter darkness, except for a limited penetration of street light through the windows up front.

  Bolan moved quietly to the edge of darkness and took up a patient surveillance of activities outside. The fog was gone, except as a faintly visible pall hanging just above the rooftops. A half-dozen regularly spaced street lamps broke the darkness here and there about the square without actually relieving it. After several minutes of watchful waiting, someone just outside the shop but out of Bolan’s range of vision lit a cigarette. Bolan saw the glow from the match and seconds later a puff of smoke drifting past the window. The guy was close.

  Some minutes later a large car cruised past, moving slowly. It was an American make, quickly identified by Bolan as a Lincoln. Four, perhaps five persons were inside. Bolan’s attention was drawn to a large spotlight mounted on the driver’s side. These boys were a hunting party.

  Shortly after the vehicle moved out of view, a man sauntered into the light of a street lamp across the way, seemed to consult a wrist watch, then he too faded into the darkness.

  Yeah, it was a hard set.

  The Lincoln returned some moments later and halted on Bolan’s side of the square, out of his field of vision. A large man with thick shoulders immediately strolled past the shop, barely ten feet from Bolan’s position, and disappeared in the direction of the vehicle. Almost at the same moment, the door opened at the Museum de Sade and Ann Franklin came out. Bolan watched her tensely, wondering about her reception by those waiting in the street. She crossed the traffic circle and halted in the small park at the center, standing beneath a street lamp. She seemed to be looking toward the bookshop; Charles had told her, no doubt, of Bolan’s mode of exit.

  Bolan fidgeted and watched the girl. What the hell was she trying to do? As he watched, a man came out of the darkness walking directly toward the girl. He made a close pass and went on by, Ann swiveling to watch him out of sight. Had they spoken? Bolan could not tell; it had appeared not.

  Seconds later a taxicab eased into the circle and halted alongside the girl. She entered and the cab went on. A moment later another vehicle which Bolan had not seen earlier swung into view and circled around to fall in behind the taxi.

  No, she had not spoken. They’d made an identity pass, pulled the make, and were now following her. They were missing no bets.

  Nor was Bolan. His quiet surveillance had gained him a rather valid impression of the terrain out there, and of the forces arrayed against him. It was a mighty hard set, too hard for any ideas of a frontal assault. So, once again, Bolan’s
time had come.

  He went back through the shop and let himself out through the rear entrance. The alleyway was narrow, smelly, and densely dark, running along the side of the shop and dead-ending a few feet to the rear. Bolan took the only way out, moving cautiously toward the square, and rounded the corner in a casual stroll. The big man he had noted earlier outside the shop was now standing just downrange, leaning against a building about halfway between the shop and the Lincoln, arms folded across his chest in a stance of tired boredom. He did not see Bolan until they were in an almost direct confrontation, then he started visibly and whispered, “Shit, don’t come up like that. You scared the—”

  Bolan told him, “Relax. I don’t think the guy’s over there. I think it’s a bum stand.” He edged in close to the man, keeping a distant street lamp behind him.

  “Is that what Danno thinks?”

  “Yeh,” Bolan replied. His mind was clicking out the name. Danno Giliamo? Could be. A lieutenant in a New Jersey mob. Bolan probed. “Jersey was never like this, eh,” he said disgustedly.

  “Any place is like this at two in th’ morning,” the man replied. He was showing an interest in Bolan’s face and having a bad time at identification in the London blackness.

  Probably, Bolan guessed, wondering about rank. People in the mob were very rank conscious. Bolan pushed his advantage. “Go on over and get some coffee,” he commanded gruffly.

  “They got coffee over there?”

  “I said coffee, didn’t I?”

  The man sighed, mumbled something disparaging about “English coffee,” and dug in his pocket for a cigarette. Bolan slapped the pack out of his hand, snarling, “Whatta you, nuts? You don’t go lighting no fires out here!”

  “You said it was a bum stand,” the man replied quietly. He retrieved the cigarettes and dropped them into a pocket. “Look,” he added, “I didn’t come all the way over here for a cup of lousy coffee. I want a shot at that hundred thou. Now if the guy ain’t here, then I say let’s go find out where he’s at.”

  A contract man, Bolan thought. Bounty hunter, twentieth century style. Not even in the mob, but a freelancer. This intelligence opened interesting possibilities. Bolan pushed a step further.

  “What’s your name again?” he growled.

  “Dunlap,” the big man replied defiantly. “Jack Dunlap. You want me to spell it?”

  “Just don’t forget, Jack Dunlap,” Bolan said, playing for all the marbles now, “that Danno and me are standing your expenses.” He chuckled drily. “I like a hot-trotter. You get over there and have yourself some coffee. And you tell Danno that Frankie says you get a spot up front. Understand? Where the action is. Eh?”

  The man was grinning. He said, “Sure, Frankie. You won’t be sorry. What I hit stays hit, you’ll see.”

  “Just save enough to identify, eh?”

  “Sure.” Dunlap chuckled. “I go for the gut, so I hope you don’t identify by belly buttons.” He made one last futile attempt to get a good look at Bolan’s face, then moved on out and started across the street.

  Bolan immediately glided down to the Lincoln which was idling at the curb just downrange, lights out, engine running. A stir of interest inside the vehicle greeted his approach. He bent down to speak through the driver’s window and snapped, “You boys get out there and cover Dunlap. He’s spotted something.”

  Three doors opened instantly and quiet feet began moving off into the darkness. The driver remained in his seat. Bolan swung the door open and snarled, “You too, dammit, get out there!”

  The man leapt out and ran quietly after the others. Bolan leaned inside and found the control lever for the spotlight. An instant later a brilliant beam stabbed across the darkness of the square and picked up the sauntering figure of Jack Dunlap.

  Bolan roared, “There he is!”

  Dunlap froze for an instant when the beam hit him, then he spun about with a large revolver in his hand and tried to dive out of the sudden brilliance. Others reacted quicker, and a hail of fire swept the spot, jerking the man about like a rag doll and punching him to the ground.

  Bolan was behind the wheel and easing the car forward. “Wrong guy!” he yelled, and the spot picked up another figure running in from the far side of the square. This one halted stockstill and thrust his hands high overhead.

  “Not me!” he screeched as another rattling volley descended, and sieved him, and flung him into eternity.

  Bolan had the vehicle moving swiftly now, out into the traffic circle with all lights extinguished, and angling toward a broad exit. Sporadic bursts of gunfire continued to disrupt the stillness of the night and an excited voice over near the Museum de Sade was loudly demanding a ceasefire.

  Bolan opened the big car up going into the turn. A gun crew at the corner gaped at him as he roared past, but no shots followed him. Apparently the confusion was complete.

  Allies, Bolan was thinking, should at least know each other. They should, also, know their enemy.

  This was an admonition which the executioner would have cause to remember later. For the moment, he was free and running through the wet wild woods of Londontown.

  Chapter Four

  THE CLOSING JUNGLE

  Danno Giliamo was a mighty unhappy man. Twice in one night he had set a flawless trap for that Bolan bastard, and twice in one night the bastard had skipped lightly away and left a pile of bleeding bodies behind him.

  “The trouble,” Danno complained to his local contact, “is that I’m trying to do a job with nothing but a bunch of two-bit amateurs. We’re never going to nail that guy with this kind of talent.”

  Nick Trigger, a powerfully built man about forty-five, thoughtfully chewed the end of an unlighted cigar, and studied the troubled caporegime from Jersey. Known earlier by various names—Endante, Fumerri, Woods, to list only the most recent—Nick had been a trigger man with various eastern mobs since the late forties. He had come to England less than a year earlier, with false papers and under the name Nicholas Woods, and with a singular mission to perform for the council of bosses back home in the U.S. In coded communications travelling between the two countries, this veteran triggerman was identified as Nick Trigger, and the code name had stuck.

  Nick’s mission in England was true to his trade. He had been commissioned to discourage organized competition with the mob’s British arm during their entrenchment there. A better man for the task could hardly have been chosen. Tough, tenacious, highly intelligent and coldly merciless, he is thought to have figured directly or indirectly in more than a hundred Mafia executions during his criminal career. Many of these victims had formerly been close associates.

  Now, as Nick Trigger, this same assassin was chief British enforcer for the Council of Capo’s, reporting directly to the Commissione—and he was not entirely happy with the untidy bundle being edged into his lap by the man from Jersey. He pulled the cigar from his mouth and quietly asked his visitor, “How many boys you running with, Danno?”

  Nervously, Giliamo replied, “I brought a dozen of my personal crew, and now two of them are hurt. I got about twenty freelancers left, ones I brought with me. Local talent I never know about, it keeps varying. For every one that gets shot, I lose ten to the trembling shakes.”

  “Well how many locals you think you got right now?”

  “I think maybe a couple dozen.”

  Trigger whistled softly. “Hell, you got a regular army. You can’t nail Bolan with all that?”

  “You gotta see this guy to believe it,” Giliamo said. “It ain’t numbers that’s going to get him, it’s talent. Now I got some pretty damn good boys with me, Nick, but I ain’t got any in that bastard’s league. As for these tagalong rodmen, it’s almost criminal neglect to even put them on the firing line. This Bolan just whacks ’em down and sends for some more. You ought to see what he did to us on this last hit, and I bet he didn’t fire a shot hisself. He had my boys shootin’ each other up.”

  “He’s pretty tricky, eh?”

&nb
sp; “Cunning is the word, Nick. This fuckin’ boy is cunning.”

  Nick Trigger chewed his cigar for another thoughtful moment, then asked, “Just what is it you want from me, Danno?”

  “I thought maybe you’d like to take it over, Nick.”

  “This Bolan hit?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know anybody else off hand could handle this job except Nick Trigger.”

  “I hear he put down the Talifero brothers in Miami,” the other murmured.

  “Hard, he put them down damn hard, that’s right. I was there. I saw it. Not just the brothers got put down. The whole place was a disaster area.”

  “The Talifero’s are about the two meanest boys around anywhere,” Nick Trigger observed, sighing. “What the hell, maybe this boy Bolan is as big as his reputation.”

  “He is, Nick,” Giliamo quickly affirmed. “Bigger maybe. He scares the living shit outta my boys, I gotta be honest about that. They’re so jittery and keyed-up they start shooting holes in each other if anything moves. I gotta be honest about this. I don’t know anybody could take this boy except maybe you.”

  The veteran triggerman smiled grimly. “Don’t try buttering me up, Danno. I don’t take jobs on butter.”

  “I’m just being honest,” Giliamo assured him. “You know I’m just being honest, Nick.”

  “Yeah.” Trigger was thinking about it. “I been walking a thin line here in England, you know. I mean, a lot’s at stake and we don’t have things nailed down too good. I have a hell of a big job without all this other trouble.”

  “I know, Nick, I know. I was just thinking that …”

  “We got a lot of legit money invested around. Hell we got movie companies and theatres, clubs, casinos—hell, we got a lot of money strung out around here, Danno. We even have musical groups and records and that kind of stuff. And it’s tight—the competish is tight. Nobody’s on the make in this town, neither. I mean the cops, the government people—they don’t have any handle to grab hold of. I never saw such an honest damn country as this one.”