Sold for Slaughter Page 4

  But the evil lingered on in Algiers, and Bolan had returned. This time, the cancer was an ancient one, with deep tenacious roots imbedded in the rocky desert soil.

  It was the blight of slavery, and its origins were traceable across the centuries.

  6

  The dancer made another pirouette, putting her body into it, with feeling. Her skimpy harem outfit — the snug, embroidered top and bottoms of diaphanous material, with nothing underneath — accented her fine figure. She had olive skin, flashing eyes, and black hair that fell almost to her waist.

  She moved with a fluid grace that was hypnotic, keeping time to music only she could hear. Her breasts responded to the writhing of her body, and they bounced and shimmered in the dusky light. Her skin, glistening with sweat, seemed to melt as she abandoned herself to the sinuous pulse of her dance. She vibrated with rapture, careless of the effect — beyond any caring or hope. She was wet from the exertion, dazed by the music and the sensations of her own throbbing body, so that all the reality around her seemed like a mist. She was lost in a Garden of Earthly Delights, imprisoned in an eternity of adolescent turmoil, sucked too deep into the turbulence of a will abandoned to the belly, to willpower entranced by a feeling in the groin.

  Lounging in his thronelike wicker chair, Rani al-Haj watched the woman spin and undulate in front of him, narrow eyes devouring every inch of her. He felt a tightness in his groin and shifted uncomfortably, crossing his meaty legs. The wicker groaned underneath his weight.

  The girl would work out nicely, he decided. The patrons of his club were constantly in search of something new, exciting. This one was a skillful dancer, and she might have other talents. If she proved amenable, perhaps he could direct her into other avenues of commerce on the side... and make a profit for himself, of course.

  Rani was accustomed to regarding people with disdain, as objects, bits of merchandise. It was an attitude he had cultivated during his thirty-seven years, developing a taste for power and the privileges that went with it. There were times, even recently, when he had been consumed with thoughts of day-to-day survival; but his instinct and cunning always confirmed that a patient man can watch and wait, seize the opportunities presented to him. And Rani was a living monument to perseverance.

  In his blood there flowed the very history of occupied Algeria. His father was a wealthy French colon, his mother an attractive Arab native. The fruit of their clandestine coupling was squat and dark, an animated social blemish and perpetual reminder of the gap between the ruling classes and their subjects. Rani's father had predictably ignored his obligation, spurned the woman who embarrassed him, and his mother, after failing as a beggar, joined the ranks of Casbah prostitutes in order to keep them both alive.

  One night, when Rani was fifteen, she quarreled with a drunken Legionnaire about her price; she tried to stab the man when he refused to pay, but he was stronger, faster. Rani had come home to find his mother dead in a pool of blood, the single dinar clutched tenaciously in one small hand. He swore an oath of vengeance on the French, the wealthy — anyone who stood between himself and power.

  There were gales of revolution rising in Algiers, and orphan Rani let them carry him away, the cause and its requirements devouring a portion of his pain, his loneliness. He became acquainted with the National Liberation Front and helped plot their raids against the hated Legionnaires. A scion of the streets, he made himself at home wherever foreign troops and officers were found, selecting targets for the bombers who would follow after. Once, the Arab tried his hand at demolition, but the satchel of plastique he place inside a hotel lobby failed to detonate, and Rani watched in grim humiliation as his enemies continued with their lives, unscathed.

  A week before the final independence, Rani stole a pistol, hiked the forty miles from Algiers to his father's grand estate, and crept inside. He intended to slay the man who had shamed his mother and abandoned him at birth, but he found the place deserted, picked clean as part of the ongoing French evacuation. It was the story of his life — too little and too late... at least until recently.

  Three years earlier, a chain of burglaries and drug transactions had provided him with enough working capital to buy the ancient Club Grandee and put himself in business. Now he dealt in liquor, dabbled in the sale of hashish with some small-time prostitution on the side. But his final hope for wealth — his one last chance to become a member of the ruling class that he was taught to hate from childhood — lay with his involvement in a larger, grander scheme.

  He was close and could almost taste the fruits of final victory. And the anticipation of success affected Rani like a potent aphrodisiac. He longed to seize the power, to possess it totally.

  In front of him, the dancer writhed and twisted. Rani stared at her, transfixed. She almost seemed to have forgotten him, surrendered to the rhythm of her dance. He rose impatiently out of the wicker throne and clapped his hands together, instantly commanding her attention.

  At a word, she came to him, unquestioning. She stood in front of Rani, silent, with her eyes downcast as pudgy fingers found the fasteners of her top. Rani slipped the fasteners open, freed her breasts. He reached out to cup them in his palms, but was distracted by a rapping on the outer door.

  "Come," Rani said as the woman covered herself.

  The door was opened and Rani's Tuareg bodyguard, Amal, appeared. Amal swept the private office with a glance, identified the woman and dismissed her as insignificant, the flat, black eyes returning automatically to Rani. Amal had little use for women at the best of times; now, his posture and the furrow of his brow bespoke preoccupation.

  "A visitor," the Tuareg said. "American."

  His voice was taut, and the act of speaking sent an ugly ripple through the razor scar along his cheek.

  Rani frowned and shook his head. He was expecting no one. "Not today," he answered. "Take a message. Have him call for an appointment."

  Amal was suddenly uneasy, his discomfort obvious. To Rani, the knife-fighter's air of hesitancy meant trouble. "He says DeLuccia is dead."

  The stocky Arab tried to mask his shock, but he could never fool Amal. The two of them had been together much too long. "I'll see him. Let me have a moment first."

  When the Tuareg had removed himself, Rani turned to the woman. "Business takes priority, my dove." He deftly slipped a key into her hand. "My private chamber is above. Wait for me there."

  The dancer bowed, kissed his hand, then retreated toward the exit and the stairs beyond. When she was gone, he leaned across his desk and keyed a button on the intercom. Another moment and Amal was ushering the unexpected visitor inside.

  Rani took a second to assess the man before he spoke. The stranger was a full head shorter than Amal but muscular, athletic-looking, broad across the chest and shoulders. An air of quiet menace radiated from the man, and Rani did not overlook the bulge a pistol made beneath the tastefully expensive jacket of his suit.

  And the Arab recognized a killer when he saw one. "Welcome to Club Grandee, effendi. I am the proprietor."

  "LaMancha, Frank," the stranger introduced himself. "We need to talk some business."

  "Ah."

  LaMancha glanced at Rani's bouncer from the corner of his eye and waited. Rani nodded to Amal, and the lanky Tuareg left them, closing the door. The stocky nightclub owner settled into a padded chair behind his desk.

  "The business?"

  The newcomer made himself at home, perching on a corner of the desk, lighting a cigarette before he answered. "Tommy Weasel's dead. You need a new connection."

  Rani spread his hands and made a show of ignorance. "I'm afraid..."

  "You should be," LaMancha interrupted. "There's enough heat to go around."

  The Arab felt his anger and confusion mounting, but did his best to cover both. "You speak in riddles. How am I to understand?"

  "I'll make it simple for you, Rani. There's a war on. You need to pick a side."

  "Assuming that you speak the truth, how does it
relate to me?"

  "A salesman needs suppliers. You're fresh out."

  "DeLuccia..."

  "Had an accident," the stranger finished. "Write him off."

  Rani smiled without humor. "He has — how do you say it — connections of his own."

  "Had," the tall American corrected. "Make it past tense. They're out of it."

  "I see." In truth, he did not understand at all. Rani needed time to think, but this American, LaMancha, seemed to want his answers in a hurry. He was pushing, forcing Rani back into a corner.

  As if in answer to the Arab's thoughts, LaMancha leaned across the broad expanse of desk, his jacket falling open to reveal the holstered pistol.

  "I don't have a lot of time," he growled, "and you don't either. Look around you, man. It's time to shit or get off the pot.''

  Rani grimaced at LaMancha's turn of phrase. Despite his hedonistic life-style, he found profanity offensive. Worse, the visitor's insistence made it difficult for him to organize his thoughts.

  "I am not in a position to negotiate with you."

  "Oh?" LaMancha's voice had frosted over, blue gray eyes turning flinty, cold.

  "I have superiors to deal with. They must be informed, consulted."

  "Well, dammit."

  "Surely you must understand. The business..."

  "Could blow away before you finish playing with yourself." LaMancha slammed an open palm against the desk top, making pens and pencils dance. "You're telling me there's nothing you can do?"

  "Until I speak with my superiors..."

  "Yeah, yeah, all right." LaMancha waved the explanation off. "Get on the horn and pull some strings. You could lose it by tomorrow, things are happening so fast."

  Rani nodded, feeling perspiration on his upper lip. "I understand."

  "You'd better." LaMancha's tone was menacing as he slid off the desk and started circling the office. "Screw this up, and there won't be a hole you can hide in."

  Anger jostled with the awe his visitor inspired, and Rani felt the color rising in his cheeks. With an effort, he controlled his temper. "I will pass your message on. If there is any word..."

  "Twelve hours," Frank LaMancha snapped. "I'll give you that. If your people can't get on the stick, I'll have to find another buyer."

  Rani stiffened. This American was more than crude and domineering; he was crazy. It was not advisable to argue with a lunatic, especially when he wore a pistol underneath his arm.

  "I understand your urgency. If there is someplace I can reach you in Algiers."

  "I'm at the Orient. You know it?"

  Rani nodded, picturing the old hotel on rue de la Révolution. It did not fit LaMancha's image. "Yes," he answered. "I will be in touch."

  LaMancha pinned him with an icy glare.

  "Twelve hours, Rani. That's all I've got. It's all you've got."

  Rani felt the ice begin to crystallize around his spine. "A threat?"

  LaMancha hesitated at the door and turned to face him. "A promise. Twelve hours max." He aimed a finger at the desk-top telephone. "You've got a call to make."

  The heavy door clicked shut behind LaMancha, and the Arab found himself alone. For an instant he could feel the office shrinking, closing in around him. The air was heavy, threatening to smother him.

  He would have to make the call, of course. Whatever LaMancha proved to be, Rani did not have the option of ignoring him. His people had to be informed without delay.

  His people.

  Rani's frown became a brooding scowl. It was the other way around, in actuality; he belonged to them. A temporary situation, if the Arab had his way, but for the moment very real.

  He hesitated with a hand upon the telephone. One call would do the job, and Rani knew that timing was essential. His function was to act as go-between, an agent; he was not expected to provide solutions. That was left to others, and the Arab did not envy their responsibility.

  He could alert the countess, but on second thought —

  Rani knew it had to be the Corsican, Armand. He was the strategist, the brains. Armand would have an answer for LaMancha when he heard the news.

  The Arab sat immobile for a moment with the telephone receiver in his hand, dial tone humming like a distant air-raid siren. Ancient sultans had made a practice of eliminating messengers when news was bad, and Rani's message had to be the worst Armand would hear today. DeLuccia's death, the rumor of a war disrupting trade with the United States —

  A sour taste invaded Rani's mouth, his stomach shifted, rolling like a raft at sea. He felt as if the floor beneath his feet might split open at any moment, dropping him into a black abyss. The woman waiting for him in the upstairs chamber was forgotten as he concentrated on the problem of survival.

  Salvaging the wreck was Armand's job. Rani, at the moment, was concerned with salvaging himself.

  At last, reluctantly, he bowed to the inevitable and started dialing.

  7

  Dusty noonday heat assaulted Bolan as he put the Club Grandee behind him. Turning left, keeping an eye open for a tail, he moved with loping strides along a narrow, bustling street. Sidewalk vendors and pedestrians regarded him with casual curiosity, but something in his manner kept them at bay. The beggars, prostitutes and pickpockets let him pass undisturbed; the barkers knew at once that he was not a customer. And Bolan — alias LaMancha — gave them no more than a passing thought as he brushed through their ranks, intent upon his mission.

  He was concentrating on Rani and the information he had gathered from their interview. The meeting had progressed according to his plan, with satisfactory results. He had not expected Rani to begin negotiations on his own; the point of his appearance at the Club Grandee had been to rattle the proprietor and send him running to his hidden masters for advice. It was a tried and tested part of Bolan's three-phase battle plan.

  Infiltration.

  Identification.

  Execution.

  Urgency never equated with carelessness in Bolan's world. An uninformed warrior not only jeopardized himself, he ran a risk of striking down the innocent, allowing enemies to slip away. When the Phoenix fighter closed in on this particular vipers' nest, all the serpents would be safely bundled up inside. And all would die. A clean sweep.

  Rani would be running scared, for sure. Bolan recognized the signs and knew the stocky Arab did not have the guts or the initiative to handle this one by himself. He would try to pass the heat along, unload the burden, and Bolan meant to join him for the hand-off.

  A long block down from the Grandee, he found the rented Audi in its place beside the curb. A slender youth was perched on the fender like a giant hood ornament, narrow eyes devouring the street around him. At the Executioner's approach, he scrambled down and took up station by the car, his face and attitude expectant.

  Bolan gave the car a rapid inspection, discovering nothing out of place. His lookout palmed the promised dinars, flashed a crooked grin and sauntered off along the sloping street. Bolan knew the boy would sell his license number and description to the highest bidder, but he was not concerned. The Audi had been rented under his LaMancha pseudonym, his address listed as the Orient... all a part of the facade.

  He settled in behind the wheel, removing a miniature receiver from an inside jacket pocket. He placed the tiny earplug into place, and turned up the volume control, frowning as silence emanated from the instrument.

  Bolan's visit to Rani's nightclub had been tactically as well as psychologically inspired. The Executioner had fastened a tiny limpet microphone underneath the lip of Rani's massive desk. In ideal conditions, the device possessed a one-mile working radius, but here — allowing for the labyrinthine streets and buildings crowded in — line-of-sight was necessary.

  Besides, Bolan wanted visual contact when the Arab made his move.

  He was picking up some restless, shifting sounds from the office, then he heard Rani dialing the telephone. Bolan waited through another momentary silence, then the Arab started speaking rapidl
y, excitedly. The bug would only give him Rani's side of the conversation, but with any luck at all, it might just be enough.

  Bolan listened, cursing to himself as Rani babbled on — in French. It had been a long shot. In old Algiers, the language of colonialism lingered on, and English-speaking residents were a large minority, at best. The Executioner had bet against the odds, and he had come up short.

  He was not bilingual, though a double tour in Vietnam — another erstwhile French possession — taught him fragments of the language. He could make out snatches of the Arab's monologue, a sentence here and there amid the verbal rapid-fire.

  Rani was arguing with someone named Armand. The names LaMancha and DeLuccia kept surfacing, and frequently the Arab had to stop, repeating something for his listener. Armand was trying to make sense of Rani's verbal avalanche, apparently demanding repetition for the sake of clarity. Toward the end of the conversation, Rani's tone was more subdued; he was agreeing with whatever his connection had to say. "Оui," the small, metallic voice was saying, "Оui, Armand."

  The telephone receiver rattled in its cradle, and the Arab slammed a fist against his desk, cursing to himself. "Merde."

  Bolan grinned. He could translate that one for himself.

  The little Arab was unhappy with his orders, but the Executioner was certain he would follow them. The tone he used when speaking to Armand betrayed the fear that Rani felt for his superiors. For this superior, at any rate.

  Rani would comply with his instructions, and if Bolan could stay with him, there was a good chance he would find the author of those orders waiting at the other end of the line.