Vendetta in Venice Read online

  Conrad leaped from the far side of the Mercedes and ran.

  Bolan emptied the remainder of the Beretta's magazine in his direction, but the heat was too intense, the wall of fire blocking the road too fierce, for him to see if he scored.

  Reception clerks ran out from the hotel to drag the murdered doorman away from the scorching heat. Passersby cowered as a gust of wind stirred the flames their way. The cabdriver, wielding a rug, was trying to beat out the tongues of fire licking at the wounded Nils.

  There was nothing more the Executioner could do. Pushing through the smashed revolving doors, he crossed the lobby and ran swiftly up the hotel's emergency stairway to Brognola's room.

  4

  "Did one of the guys who took you have sandy hair and pale eyes?" the warrior asked Brognola later that evening.

  "The leather coats? Yeah, I think so," Brognola replied. "He was mean-looking — looked like a slum-bred street fighter, if you know what I mean. The others called him Conrad."

  Bolan nodded. "Clearly the same team was out to hit me. It must be a big deal if they're prepared to kill to block a possible investigation. One blown away, one wounded, and a Mercedes off-roader lost in the attempt. It's significant, too, that they were onto me so quick. They must've been tipped off that I'd been to see you, guessed I'd be checking. Like I say, it's organized."

  "Good to be proved right."

  "Look, Hal. I'll say it again. I understand you're angry about being shoved around by these guys. It's natural to want to hit back. And our conversation earlier today was an interesting exercise in deduction. That's one thing. Mounting an undercover operation in a friendly NATO country without being invited is another. Sure, there's bad vibes here, but isn't it up to the Dutch and West German police, working in tandem to wrap the thing up?"

  "You're thinking too much about me, the man who was taken by mistake," Brognola said, "and not enough about the guy who should have been there."

  "Wünsche?"

  "Right. I put out a few feelers, and I think I know who he is. If I'm right, then you're wrong, thinking our friend Jaap picks up his clients east of the city docks. Wünsche would have come from the north, from Denmark. Outside the North Frisian Islands, then inside the East and West Frisians and through one of the giant sluice bridges beneath that sixteen-mile causeway that cuts off the mouth of the old Zuider Zee. From there you'd have a clear run, and a couple hours' sailing in a medium-size powerboat would bring you to East Flevoland."

  "What makes you so sure?"

  "Intel that's been channeled in since I saw you," the Fed replied. He took an envelope from an inside pocket and read out the notes scrawled on the back. "Wünsche, Helmut. German national sentenced to six years in the cooler for his part in a big-time company swindle in Copenhagen. He was being transferred to a maximum-security jail last week when the police wagon was ambushed near Kolding, in Jutland. He hasn't been seen since."

  Bolan's brows rose. "And you think?.."

  "The team who got him out are tough boys. A guard was killed when the van was rammed and another — the guy to whom Wünsche was cuffed — seriously injured. They couldn't unlock the cuffs, so they amputated the guy's hand — just hacked it off while he was still conscious so that they could get Wünsche away."

  "Nice guys. And this was Jaap's client?"

  "I would think. After that there'd be a close watch on places like Esbjerg, Malmö, Cuxhaven, Lubeck and even Oslo. But who'd think of looking for the refugee on the Ijsselmeer?"

  "Okay. But what would have happened when he did contact Jaap and found out some other guy had inadvertently taken his place?"

  "I don't think he ever did find out," Brognola said. "I believe the reason for his nonarrival lies in this news item." He picked up an old copy of the International Herald Tribune and read: "A converted torpedo recovery boat, eighty-two feet long with sleeping accommodation for six, broke up and sank instantly when it was rammed by a tanker in ballast between the island of Terschelling and the Dutch coast last night. There was a light fog at the time of the collision, but the forward lookout aboard the tanker stated that the smaller craft was carrying no navigation lights. It is thought there were at least three people on the vessel, though neither bodies nor survivors have yet been located. Dutch marine authorities said they had no knowledge of such a craft operating in the area of the Frisian Islands."

  Brognola laid the paper on the night table beside his bed. He took a cigar from his vest pocket, tore away the wrapping, removed the band and bit off the end. "That news report was dated the day I was knocked out. In other words, the collision would have been the previous night, though Conrad and his buddies wouldn't have heard of it yet.

  "I'll draw your attention to three more apparently unrelated items. First, one of the courtesy blacks sent to me FYI by the Company every day. This one is dated three weeks ago. It says..." he picked up a five-by-eight flimsy from the night table "...quote, we have now received confirmation that Colonel Ralph Bellinger, the USAF flyer-turned-pacifist who vanished seven days ago from his mess near Stuttgart, West Germany, is a guest in a Soviet-staffed officers' club near Dresden, East Germany, unquote.

  "Secondly there was an Interpol memo stating that a certain Ferenc Hradec, who robbed a bank in Plzen, Czechoslovakia last month, was thought to be on one of the Dodecanese Islands in the Aegean. It adds," the Fed commented dryly, "that he was believed to have spent several days in Liechtenstein on the way. Putting the loot back in a capitalist bank and creating a tax-free company or two, I guess!

  "The final exhibit is another press clipping," Brognola said, fishing a crumpled slip of newsprint from a pocket. "Here, you can read this one for yourself."

  Bolan took the clipping.

  PARIS, Tuesday. Bertrand Secondini, "the man they can't convict," has done it again! The stocky nightclub boss, summoned to appear before an examining magistrate today on charges concerning a gang shooting in Montmartre last month, fled minutes before detectives from the Police Judiciare arrived at his plush Avenue Marceau duplex.

  A spokesman from the Quai des Orfevres said that although a cordon had been thrown around Paris immediately, Secondini — against whom extra charges involving extortion and drugs may soon be lodged — seemed to have escaped the net. He was sure, nevertheless, that "the malefactor would be under lock and key within forty-eight hours."

  Underworld sources close to Secondini were openly scornful of this claim, and said that the wanted man had already left metropolitan France. Rumors current in Montmartre hint that "the man they can't convict" may be back among his own people in Corsica, and officials at Nice airport confirmed that an unidentified light aircraft crossed the Cote d'Azur in a south-easterly direction late this afternoon.

  If Secondini has in fact "gone to ground" in Corsica, informed opinion is that he will never be traced by the mainland police. Born forty-nine years ago in Bastia, he is known — despite his record and suspected links with the Cosa Nostra — to have become something of a hero to the people of the island...

  Bolan whistled. "Cosa Nostra means Union Corse means Mafia?"

  "It could be. And that would certainly make it our business." Brognola took back the clipping. "Look at the facts. Four movements: one south and east, from Denmark through Holland to Germany; one eastward, spiriting someone behind the iron curtain; another west, bringing a fugitive from the Eastern Bloc; and finally one south, from Paris to Corsica. An embezzler, a deserter, a bank robber and a gang boss. What do these cases suggest, Striker?"

  "Maybe that there's an efficient and organized escape network spreading all over Europe." The Executioner frowned. "And, I suppose that it's nonpolitical, because there's traffic both ways across the curtain — and therefore nonaligned so far as the terrorist groups are concerned. I'd read it as a gang of smart operators offering a service to anyone on the run, from wherever to wherever."

  "But do you think it's something we should check out?"

  "Only one of the cases you quote has a Ma
fia connection," Bolan said, "and that's at second or third hand."

  "Only he has a visible connection, agreed. But there's nothing to prove there may not be a hidden one in the others."

  Suddenly Bolan grinned. "Okay, you win, Hal. As a personal favor to you. But I want to talk to the local law."

  * * *

  Conrad was waiting for him when he left the hotel. There was no question of a direct shot this time: the wrecks had been carried away and the side street, brightly lit, was full of theatergoers hurrying to make the last train at the Central Station. A crowd of kids milled around a stall on the corner, eating raw herring and potato chips and drinking Cokes through straws.

  The German gunner was wearing a belted trench coat and a soft hat. There was blood on the green leather, and anyway he thought it would be too much of a giveaway with a man as quick off the mark as Bolan.

  He stood on the sidewalk, half hidden by the stall, his right hand wrapped around the butt of the Colt in the trench coat pocket. Although the roads still glistened with moisture, the rain had stopped falling. Since local contacts had told him the Executioner was staying at a second-class hotel less than a mile away, Conrad's plan, hastily improvised, was based on the belief that Bolan would walk that short distance rather than compete with the theatergoers for one of the few cruising cabs.

  The big guy crossed the street, towering above the kids around the stall. He strode purposefully toward the Damrak. Conrad allowed himself a small sigh of relief. Waiting until Bolan made the corner, he turned up the collar of his trench coat and followed.

  Bolan passed the huge cobbled square in front of the royal palace and walked down the Kalverstraat. He looked neither right nor left as he threaded his way between groups of window-shoppers staring at luxury goods displayed in the brightly lit stores that lined the narrow street.

  Conrad remained fifty yards behind, on the opposite sidewalk. The crowd didn't bother him. It was a useful cover in case the mark checked for tails. He was certain now, in any case, that the hunch had paid off: Bolan was on his way home.

  The Rembrandtsplein was the city's goodtime square, with nightclubs, strip joints and twenty-four-hour bars in between the cathouses, which were legal in Amsterdam, all around a central garden. Bolan's hotel was at the end of a narrow lane running down toward the Amstel River. He would make the hit there.

  Streamers of reflected neon, red, blue and green, shimmered on the polished wet road that circled the square. Bolan crossed to the garden, took the diagonal that led him to the far side and picked his way between the cars prowling in search of a parking space. An impatient driver leaned on his horn. Somewhere near the river a clock chimed eleven times. Bolan went into the alley.

  The killer increased his pace, hurrying to close the gap. The Colt was a good gun, a .38-caliber Cobra Special with a powerful knockdown capacity. But leaves moving in the night wind shadowed the lamplight filtering through from the square. The illuminated sign above the hotel entrance at the far end of the lane was too high to silhouette the Executioner. In such shifting, uncertain conditions it was best to be no more than thirty to thirty-five feet from the target — if you wanted the man you hit to stay down.

  Conrad took the Colt from his pocket and thumbed back the hammer. Bolan checked his stride, half stumbled, and then stopped, bending down to retie a loose shoelace. Better and better, Conrad thought. His teeth gleamed in the dark as he smiled and raised his gun arm.

  Someone thumped him familiarly on the back. Well, well, old buddy! Imagine seeing you here! What are you doing in Amsterdam? The possibilities flashed through his mind in the first millisecond of total surprise. Then — what the hell? — he was aware of a hot, wet rush in his throat, a gurgling sound, a bitter, metallic taste. His mouth was full of blood.

  He heard a clatter on the cobblestones. Before he realized he had dropped the gun the pain hit him and he went down, the silver haft of the knife between his shoulder blades glinting dully in the diffused light.

  Bolan shoved the Beretta into its holster and ran back. He glimpsed a short, stocky figure, a barrel-chested man with a prominent jutting chin, outlined against the glare in the Rembrandtsplein. An instant later the assassin had melted into the crowd.

  The Executioner let him go. What the hell. He had deliberately decoyed Conrad to the alley with the hope of getting in the first shot, maybe winging the guy and choking the truth out of him before handing him over to the police. Now someone else had done the job for him.

  Terminally.

  To make sure that the gunman couldn't talk? Or for some reason unconnected with Bolan?

  He bent over the fallen gunner. Conrad was definitely dead, and the cobblestones were dark with blood. Bolan dragged the body into a recessed doorway and went back to his hotel. There was a thoughtful expression on his face as he rode the elevator up to his room. The case was more complex than he had thought. Things were heating up.

  5

  Yellow leaves veneered the towing path and lay thickly on the surface of the canal. From a third-floor window of the redbrick police headquarters on the other side of the road. Mack Bolan stared at a row of old houses across the water. Farther along, next to a bridge across the canal, the trees had been cut down and there was a line of cars parked with their bumpers projecting over the unprotected bank. The sky was gray and a thin, persistent rain was falling. Bolan wondered if the sun ever shone in Holland.

  A paneled door opened behind him, and a tall, thin man wearing a brown suit bustled into the room. "Very sorry you had to wait, mynheer," he said, placing a pile of folders on the carved desk, "but it is well to have facts checked. I thought it best to verify first that my colleagues in other departments had nothing to add to the little we know here."

  The Executioner murmured a polite reply. He had agreed with Brognola that if he could carry the inquiry from the Fed's own experience to the international aspect of the suspected escape network, the authorities in more than one country could legitimately be asked if they had heard of such an operation — and, if so, how strong was the evidence in favor of its existence. Then, if the consensus was positive, they could consider the next step: finding out covertly how the organization worked.

  Papers rustled in the somber room. Outside, waves from an empty sightseeing launch agitated the leaves floating on the canal. A stream of cyclists poured across the bridge.

  The Dutchman cleared his throat. "Yes, well... it seems we have very little here of what you are calling the hard facts. First, the man found knifed last night near your hotel. A German with a record of violence. Armed holdups, suspected killings. Three prison sentences. From eyewitness accounts, he might be one of the three men involved in the shootings yesterday outside your friend's hotel. A strange coincidence, isn't it?"

  "Very odd," Bolan agreed blandly.

  "The man who was burned died before he could be questioned, so we can find nothing that explains why they were here. As far as an escape network is concerned, we have heard from informers that such an organization does exist. However, there have been no reports of anyone in this country who would have need of such an 'escape.' And when our officers pressed the informers for details, none could supply any. It does, then, appear that the organization is very secret indeed. Or that it simply does not exist."

  Bolan had turned his back to the window and was sitting on the broad radiator below the sill. "No positive link between the informers' stories and the team abducting my friend?" he asked with some surprise.

  The police chief shook his head. "Nothing positive, no. We have still not found traces of a Minerva taxicab, the boatman called Wim or the mysterious Jaap. But as this country might have been only an interim stopover in the operation, maybe that is not surprising."

  "And the offshore collision?"

  "Oh, yes." The Dutchman opened files and rustled more paper. "The boat was salvaged. An old Nazi naval craft, reconverted. They found one body trapped inside the hull. It was Wünsche, all right, but there was no sign
of Jaap or a third man."

  "I find that strange," Bolan said. "Here's a team, clearly well organized, with five distinct stages in an escape operation identified, yet the people feeding you your intel say they have no details of any escape organization."

  "The 'team,' as you are calling it, is German-based. Perhaps with one or two auxiliaries from our country. It is thought to be — how do you say? — for renting, for hire. We think they were paid to arrange this first part of Wünsche's escape. Paid by the escape organization. But they are not themselves a part of it."

  "But the guys involved in the shoot-out near the Central Station yesterday, the three men in leather coats — they were the same ones who took Hal Brognola."

  "As they are all dead, who can say? But it seems a fair deduction," the policeman admitted.

  "And the other guy involved in the shoot-out. Do you have a lead on him?" Bolan asked curiously.

  "We think we know who he is." The voice was suave. "But it is not expected that an arrest will be made in the foreseeable future. You are enjoying your stay in our city, Mynheer Belasko? Are you expecting to stay long?"

  "It's a nice place. It's called the Venice of the North, isn't it?"

  "Since this city was founded long before, we Amsterdammers feel it is Venice that should be termed the Amsterdam of the South. One more thing." He opened another file and removed a sheet of paper covered with typewritten notes. "The informer who was most emphatic about this supposed escape network has just come back from Vienna. Perhaps you should go to Austria and ask your questions there."

  "I'll do that."

  As Bolan left the building, a camera shutter clicked in the cab of a beat-up panel truck parked by the canal. The driver, a stocky man with a jutting chin, shot two more frames as Bolan stood on the edge of the sidewalk and hailed a cab.

  * * *