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  It was all he could do not to stare at her in amazement, not because he hadn’t figured out she was something other than she pretended, but because he was surprised that she would be so open so soon.

  She put her elegant arm around his neck and drew him to her. She kissed him gently on the lips, then put her mouth to his ear.

  “Follow my lead,” she whispered. Then, louder as she pulled away, “Matt! You naughty, naughty boy. I can’t do that in full view of everyone, can I? That will have to wait for later. But meanwhile…” She giggled and began to walk him toward one of the doors leading into the cabin section.

  The manner in which she spoke and acted left little doubt in the minds of those around as to what had occurred, and even the nearby security seemed to be grinning amiably as she pulled at Bolan’s arm. She slipped into an open portal and pulled the soldier after her. Once they were out of sight, her manner changed.

  “Okay, Matt, we need to find somewhere quiet. We’ve got some talking to do.”

  “Both of us,” Bolan emphasized.

  She nodded and began to lead him down the corridor. “Luckily, I’ve been here before, and I think I know…Whoa!”

  Bolan knew before she had even exclaimed that there was a security patrol coming the other way. He grabbed her and pulled her to him, kissing her hard and running his hands down her body as the security guard rounded the corner of the corridor and caught sight of them.

  “Sorry,” he said as he passed them, seemingly recognizing the rear view of the countess.

  Once he had passed, Bolan tried to disengage from her grasp but found that she was no longer pretending. It was considerably longer than necessary before they broke the embrace, and she gave him a wry smile, her chocolate eyes glistening.

  “Well, Matt Cooper, what’s your story?”

  “So neither of us are what we seem.”

  She shook her head. “No, and we need to find out if we’re on separate missions or if we’re going to get in each other’s way. I know something big’s going down, as all of a sudden we’re overrun with operatives.”

  Bolan frowned. “Overrun?”

  She nodded. “Yes, but we need to get some privacy before we discuss this. Come on.”

  She led the soldier down the corridor and opened the door to a stateroom. Flicking on the light, he could see that it was a bedroom complete with a built-in shower room. The countess led him into the shower.

  D’Orsini left the light off and slipped out of her dress. She was naked underneath, and her body was magnificent, even in the darkness of the unlit room. She leaned into the shower and turned on the spray, then moved over to Bolan.

  “We took too much of a risk saying as much as we did out there,” she said softly. “Hector’s a sly old dog, and there are no tricks left to teach him. The whole yacht is bugged, and there are cameras everywhere, except the showers. And once we’re under the running water, then we can talk safely.”

  She extended one of her lithe legs with extreme grace and pushed the shower-room door closed with a flick of her toe.

  In the darkness, Bolan quickly shed his outer clothes and the blacksuit, while the countess barred the door as best as possible. After Bolan was naked, they slipped under the running water.

  “Now, then, why don’t you tell me what exactly a U.S. military man is doing with Hector. I take it I’m correct, and that is a military blacksuit, right?”

  “Right enough,” Bolan answered.

  “Okay, let’s try again,” she said after a pause. She had expected Bolan to elaborate, but he was giving nothing away. “I’d say your appearance has something to do with that hijacked tanker and whatever went missing. I say this because you’re not the only mystery man to suddenly pop up.”

  “I’m not?”

  “No, but I’ll trade you that for your confirmation.”

  “Okay. I’ll tell you that you’ve made a lot of good guesses about me, but you’ve neglected to fill me in on yourself, Countess.”

  “Me, sweetheart? I’m a mere nothing.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Flattery might just get you a few answers. I’m part of a team that’s here not to monitor Hector so much as to keep an eye on Attaturk.”

  “Then we may have a conflict of interest. Your target wants to buy the stolen goods I have to recover, and they are probably on board right now.”

  She shook her head. “The yacht’s clean.”

  “The goods I’m referring to are small in size, about the size of, say, two volumes of an encyclopedia. That’s all.”

  “No, not even that. We have someone on staff—totally reliable—checking it out for us. There’s nothing here. If Hector has these goods—”

  “We’re certain.”

  “—then they’re elsewhere. Also, there are two agents new in town, freelance and dangerous. Real loose cannons, and we haven’t managed to figure out who they’re working for.”

  “Would I know them?”

  “Maybe. White guy called Jimmy Goldman, and a black guy with the most gorgeous English accent called Errol Ross. Ex-policemen gone bad, then good. Hard, and nasty with it. They’re not with the Brits, though, as both MI-5 and -6 hate them. So they’re mercs. And they’ve been sniffing around for something stolen recently.”

  “Ah, well, I thrive on competition. So it looks like we don’t have a conflict of interest after all. I want Chavez-Smith, the stolen goods, and Destiny’s Spear. And you—”

  “I want to nail Attaturk,” D’Orsini finished for him.

  “So we can go our own ways, and I know I’m going to have to watch my back for these two guys. In which case, I need to get away from here as soon as possible.”

  “Maybe that’s not as soon as you think.” She giggled as she reached for him. “I’ve got some unfinished business with you.”

  “We’ve both got work to do,” he murmured, disentangling himself from her. With the shower still running to neutralize any mikes in the bathroom, they dried off and dressed quickly.

  “Where was the last place these two rogue agents were seen?” he asked as he slipped back into the blacksuit. “If they’ve got a head start, I may as well try to catch up and follow, miss the places they’ve already drawn a blank.”

  “The last report was earlier this evening, before I came here. They were headed for that dingy little dive with the sewing machines. You know it?”

  “I drove past it on the way here,” Bolan said ruefully. “I doubt if they’ll be there now, but at least I can pick up the trail.” He pulled on the pants and shirt that covered the black-suit. The countess was already dressed, by virtue of having fewer clothes. She looked him up and down appreciatively.

  “Maybe our paths will cross again, Matt,” she stated. “You ready?”

  Bolan nodded, and the countess cleared and opened the shower-room door as Bolan cut the water.

  “Darling, that was exquisite,” she husked, taking his hand and pulling him into the bedroom, going into her cover act with practiced ease.

  They left the bedroom and headed toward the crowded deck. She led the way until they were near the boarding point, when she switched, pretending she was trying to stop him from leaving.

  “Are you sure? Are you sure I can’t tempt you to stay a little longer?” she implored in what, under other circumstances, he would have been convinced was a genuine manner.

  “No, baby, I turn into a pumpkin unless I get home early,” he said. “But maybe we can get together later.” With which he pulled her to him. “I’ll take it from here,” he whispered as he held her close, noticing the guards on the board eyeing him in a way that suggested he was a fool to leave her behind. “Good luck with your task.”

  “And you with yours,” she replied softly. Then, louder, “Oh, sweet, do remember where I am.”

  “I’m not likely to forget,” he replied with a smile that gave a clue to his real meaning, as he walked down the ramp and onto the boardwalk and jetty.

  He to
ok his last look at D’Orsini, and was sure there was a twinkle and hidden smile. Then she was gone, back to her mission.

  And he had some business of his own.

  4

  Bolan left his car where it was, walking past it on his way back into the city proper. To negotiate the traffic and then try to find another parking space in the crowded streets around the club would waste valuable time. He could walk it in less than ten minutes.

  In one way, his brief look at Hector Chavez-Smith had been unproductive. But there were two things he now knew for certain. First, Attaturk was the potential buyer for the stolen weapons, which meant that they had to be near. Second, that wherever they were, the yacht wasn’t their location.

  “Jack, have you been getting all this,” Bolan whispered as he brushed through the crowds coming down the hill toward the harbor.

  “Oh yeah…all of it,” Grimaldi replied, unable to keep the sly humor out of his voice.

  “Okay, so you’re up to speed on everything,” Bolan answered. “Can you get me some intel on those two guys the countess told me about?”

  “Already on it, Sarge,” Grimaldi returned, his voice suddenly adopting a more businesslike manner. “The Bear’s trying to find out what they’re up to, and get some background so you’re better informed.”

  “Good work. I’ve got a nasty feeling about them. It wouldn’t surprise me if they’re our guys, but not our guys, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, I get your drift. What’s the plan?”

  “Right now, there isn’t one,” Bolan said. “I can’t formulate something until I get a look into that club. Maybe they’ll be there, maybe some of the other targets will be there.”

  “Okay, but keep me up to speed. I’m ready for backup or evac whenever.”

  “Yeah, I know. And let me have that intel as soon as possible.”

  “Will do,” Grimaldi replied, signing off.

  Bolan was now in the square he had earlier driven across, which marked the delineation between the millionaires’ row of the yacht harbor, and the poorer area where crime was king. He had been aware of a few people giving him odd stares as he walked past them, muttering, but these days, with hand-free cell phones, it was becoming less and less of a spectacle, and he felt free from observation doing it in an area where the rich would have such toys.

  Rarer, though, in the poorer areas, so he was glad that the mike in the blacksuit was concealed, and the earpiece he wore was too much of a miniature to be detected, except by the trained eye. The last thing he wanted now was to draw attention to himself.

  He walked across the square and down into the maze of cobbled streets housing bars and clubs. These streets had a different atmosphere. The people were not on show. They were living their lives moment by moment, and all they wanted was a good night out. Without the level of scrutiny that he had along the harbor, it was easier for the soldier to study the crowds without being eyed suspiciously.

  The third cobbled street along, Rue Madelaine, housed the Club Noir. Black, as simple and easily identifiable as that. How the sewing machines came into the equation, apart from the fact that it once been a factory, he couldn’t fathom. But that was unimportant. What mattered was that it was one of the best-known clubs in Marseilles, and it was the one mentioned by the countess.

  Bolan walked down the street, keeping to the center, where the crowds were less congested. Only strangers drove down these roads by night, so traffic was sparse, and it was easy for him to move out of the way of any oncoming vehicles. The wallet in his pocket contained more than enough currency for the evening ahead—he knew how extortionate French club prices could be from previous visits.

  A piercing wolf whistle to his left drew his attention.

  Bolan turned and saw two women sitting on the step of a tenement. One was in her late twenties, with dyed black hair cropped short. She wore an orange halter top and faded blue jeans. The other was perhaps a couple of years younger, and had curls in varying shades of blond that tumbled over her shoulders, spilling onto the thigh-length print dress she wore. From the way in which the black-haired girl was laughing and prodding the other, it was the blonde who had whistled.

  “Yeah, I’m talking to you, mister,” she said in heavily accented English. “I saw you drive through earlier. What happened? Someone steal your car?”

  “I decided to leave it back along the way,” Bolan said easily, gesturing behind him, “maybe catch some nightlife.”

  “Yeah, you’ll get plenty of that along here, then go back to find your car gone. Everything gets stolen around here. You a tourist?”

  Bolan gestured. “Not really, just passing through.”

  “And want a little fun?”

  “Could be.” If the girls were whores, it was one of the most obtuse approaches he’d ever come across. The blonde obviously read his hesitation.

  “Hey, this is not a business deal. I whistled at you because I like the look of you. But I tell you something…”

  “What?”

  “You want to take me out, then you have to pay. I’m just a poor girl.”

  Bolan walked over to the step, hunkering down in front of her. “And where would you want to go? I was thinking of checking out that club over there,” he added, indicating the Club Noir.

  “Oh, you wouldn’t want to go there. Very dangerous for someone just passing through,” she said mockingly.

  “So I’d need a guide, someone who knows the area, knows the clubs.”

  “I’d offer to help, after all, you’re a nice looking guy, but you know how it is.”

  “Your friend comes too, or is it just you?”

  “Oh no, just me.” She smiled, bounding to her feet and taking his arm as he straightened. “Let me tell you something, you won’t forget this in a hurry,” she said, hugging close to him. Then, over her shoulder, “See ya, Claudette.”

  Bolan strolled back across the street, the girl clinging to him. Getting into the club with the girl as cover would make him much less suspicious. But on the downside, she was someone to look out for if a firefight broke out, which was always a possibility if he caught up with the freelance agents, especially if they were as wild as D’Orsini suggested.

  “So what’s your name?”

  “Mickey to you. But Michelle if you’re French.”

  “I’m Matt.”

  She pulled away from him. “Hey, Matt, you do have the francs to get in, right?”

  “Oh yeah,” he said as they joined the throng around the entrance to the club. From inside he could hear the pounding of drums and screaming guitars. It was more of a punk and metal club than a dance venue, which made a change—pleasant or not he didn’t like to say—from Chavez-Smith’s party.

  Immediately, he saw the advantage in having the girl with him as she pushed her way through the throng, dragging him with her as she cursed at those around them. They came up in front of the old, wooden double doors, most likely the same ones that were in place when the club had been a factory, and were faced with two doormen who looked far more solid than the doors themselves. Both were huge black men who stood more than six and a half feet tall, with their impassive stares hidden behind wraparound shades. One had dreadlocks, and the other had a shaved head. That was the only thing that set them apart, as they both obviously spent a lot of time in the gym. In cutoff T-shirts and tight black jeans, with black sneakers, their clothes were chosen to emphasize their muscular frames.

  And yet both of them cracked wide grins as the blonde approached.

  “Hey, ’Chelle, you been away long time, now,” Dreadlocks said with a thick dockside Marseilles accent.

  The girl shrugged. “Yeah. Sometimes I need a change. So you going to let me in? And my friend Matt, of course.”

  “Of course we are,” Dreadlocks said, standing aside and then bending to offer his cheek as the blonde stood on tiptoe to kiss him chastely. She led Bolan through the doors, and as he passed Dreadlocks, the man whispered, “’Chelle a good girl. Yo
u look after her or else.”

  This was promising. Bolan had a guide to the club who knew the staff—and probably the regular clientele—very well. Hopefully, Goldman and Ross didn’t have the same advantage.

  Of course, there was always the chance that this was a setup. Security was never one hundred percent, no matter who one was, or what organization one worked for. He had been spotted on the yacht, and perhaps not just by the countess. The soldier had a nose for trouble, and the girl seemed fine, but caution had kept him alive this far, so he would roll with it.

  They headed for the bar, the crush of people making the club seem claustrophobic. The club was black in every way: the walls, ceiling and floor were painted that color, and there was little, if any, air-conditioning. The low-level lighting barely illuminated more than a couple of feet in front of them as they moved toward the bar. It was only around the bar and stage, where light reflected from those areas, that the visibility was better.

  The layout of the club suggested that it was rectangular, extending back some way in length, while the width was narrow. Which made the positioning of tables and chairs all the more ridiculous. In theory, it had to have had a small capacity, but the crowd of people suggested that this was being judiciously ignored.

  The bar occupied the right-hand wall near the entrance, with three bar staff coping with the crush of customers pressing against the counter. Beyond, at the back of the room and down a three-step drop, the stage was recessed, suggesting that the club did widen out a little. This was lit by a battery of colored lights, and was occupied by a five-piece band, the drummer hidden by his kit and banks of amplifiers. The two guitarists, bassist and vocalist were in full view. Those with long hair flailed it around in wet stands, while the bass player’s bald head was spangled with sweat that glistened in the lights. T-shirts were soaked, and the singer’s bare chest was streaked not just with sweat, but from blood that streamed from his nose. The wild mosh pit dancers in front of the stage suggested how this injury had occurred. Even by small club standards, the band was incredibly loud, and Bolan wondered how he could effectively communicate with the girl, let alone hear any intel that Grimaldi would send.