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  Scalese, the Camorra boss, muttered something under his breath to Renato Ancarani. The New York capo, Borrone, scowled and only just managed to check a heated reply that sprang to his lips.

  “You are weak,” Antonin repeated, thumping the table, “because you are always in an inferior position relative to your lawmakers. However important the scale of your operations, you are scared of the law.”

  He held up his hand as the murmurs of dissent around the table rose to an angry climax.

  “I am not questioning your personal courage. My criticism is aimed at the position from which you mount those operations. And no reasoned analysis of the current situation could characterize your position as anything but weak.”

  In the gloom of the gallery above, Mack Bolan grinned. The hoods were being fed home truths... and they didn’t like it.

  Antonin pressed on relentlessly. “What I am offering is the means to reverse this situation. If you accept the offer, soon you will be in the driving seat; the law and its enforcement officers will be scared of you.”

  “And just how,” Toulon’s Pasquale Lombardo rasped, “do we get to be that way?”

  “Your present inferior position,” Antonin said, “is largely a matter of logistics. That plus a lack of coordinated command and a generalized resistance on the part of the public.”

  “Oh, yeah?” This was Borrone, and he clearly did not understand Antonin’s words. “And how the fuck do you figure we could change all that?”

  “An unlimited supply of arms,” the Russian said calmly. “We cannot, of course, be directly involved, but I can arrange for Omnipol, the official Czech arsenal, to furnish you with Kalashnikov AK-74s, Tokarev and Stechkin automatics, Skorpion machine pistols, explosives, RPG-7 grenade launchers, ground-to-ground guided missiles, anything you want.

  “With the firepower these sophisticated weapons will give you — especially if they are in unlimited quantity — you will have the police running for cover any time you choose to show your faces.”

  “Shit, I ain’t buyin’ that,” Arturo Zefarelli said. “Even with that amount of heat, the different goddamn families’ll never...”

  “Ah, but there is a corollary,” Antonin cut in.

  “Come again?”

  “A condition without which it’s no deal. Naturally we do not make such an offer without the hope of some... recompense.”

  “Here it comes,” Ancarani whispered to Scalese. “The fucking bite!”

  “Our interest,” Antonin said, “is in the destabilization of Western society. You know that, of course. I am assuming that none of you... disapproves.” The sneer in his voice was evident. “No? Very well, then. I will add that we believe this society carries within it the seeds of its own destruction. The existence of organizations such as yours proves the point. But we wish to hasten the process so that communism can take over more rapidly.”

  The KGB officer sat back in his chair and laid his hands on the table. “Our other efforts have had a limited success. And I am speaking of our support for the so-called extremist or terrorist groups, mainly among the Arabs, the Armenians and the Irish. But it is all too minor — too slow. That is why we have come to you. Properly organized and armed, you could wreak havoc with the world as the capitalists have ordered it. I emphasize: properly organized.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that even with the arms, I suggest you would remain a loosely connected but disparate collection of units. What we want is a single integrated group. The offer, therefore, is conditional on your establishing one individual worldwide crime syndicate, entirely disciplined, and obeying orders from a single central command.”

  “Which you would wish to control?” Jean-Paul asked.

  “Not control,” Colonel Antonin said suavely. “We should be pleased to offer advice.”

  “Okay, so what’s in it for us?” the gang leader from Detroit demanded.

  “For you there would be rewards a thousand times greater than anything you have achieved so far. But first you must unify.”

  “So what happens when the society’s fucked over and the Reds move in? I mean, what happens to us?” Luigi Abba said sourly. “I mean, I don’t see no Syndicate cat-houses or dope rings or numbers games in your friggin’ commie paradise. Me, I don’t fancy no salt mine detail.”

  “It is not a problem that is likely to arise for some time. Even if our project succeeds.” Antonin’s smile was bland. “In any case, room can always be found for men of enterprise and initiative.”

  Etang de Brialy, the Parisian, spoke for the first time. “This flood of arms you so generously offer,” he said mildly, “just how will it be paid for?”

  “Not with money, if that is what worries you,” Antonin replied. “Let us say by the rendering of certain special services.”

  “Such as?”

  The Russian did not reply directly. “You have a system, I believe,” he said, “for the removal of unwanted individuals. Well, from time to time we shall feed you contract jobs that call for the liquidation of elements embarrassing to us. Labor leaders, diplomats, an occasional politician. Maybe a journalist whose views we find uncomfortable. People with whose disposal we must on no account be directly connected. The success of such operations will amply reward my superiors for any... logistic help... they can supply.”

  Flat on his face in the gallery, Bolan could feel his heart pounding against his ribs. This was the conspiracy “brewing in the Riviera underworld” that Telder and Chamson had suspected.

  The KGB were now planning to recruit the entire Mafia brotherhood worldwide. They were deliberately marshaling the forces of crime to further their own despotic ambitions.

  Bolan was under no illusion as to the threat a global KGB-Mafia partnership would pose. With the means at their disposal, and the whole weight of the Soviet Union secretly behind them, they could — as Antonin prophesied — drive democracy to the wall.

  He wondered if the hoods below could see things equally clearly; if they were dumb enough to believe that the KGB would allow them to direct their own organization once they had accepted Russian aid.

  Bolan himself knew damned well what would happen. Once the Mob had accepted the KGB handout, they would simply become reinforcements to the seven hundred thousand agents already implementing Moscow’s plans all over the world.

  Right now, though, Antonin was spoon-feeding them the story that all would be best in the best of possible worlds. Hell, this is all the world needs, Bolan thought savagely.

  “Okay, okay,” he heard the Chicago gang boss say. “So we make with all these shooters and get the cops running. What if they bring in the army then?”

  “Yeah,” Borrone said. “Cops with .38 Police Specials or Brownings is one thing; paras with all the gear they have is another.”

  “The fact that the army might be involved would add to the confusion,” Antonin said smoothly. “People would see their world collapsing; they would be traumatized. In any case, you would still have the advantage.”

  “No kidding!” Zefarelli scoffed. “Just tell me how.”

  “Simple,” said the Russian. “The army would have to be careful to avoid civilian casualties in any shootout. Otherwise the political repercussions would be disastrous. You would work under no such restrictions. The more bystanders shot down the better. Calling in the soldiers is already an admission that the situation is out of hand. Either way we win.”

  “I don’t know,” one of the capos said dubiously. “We make enough bread the way things are. Why take a chance and...”

  “You would be taking no chances,” Antonin interrupted. “But there is no hurry. Talk it over. I shall be here until midnight. Why don’t we, uh, join the ladies? You can let me know what you have decided when you have discussed it among yourselves.”

  A smart time to ease off on the hard sell, Bolan figured. There was a scraping of chairs as the mafiosi stood up. Led by Sanguinetti, they filed, talking heatedly, toward a door leading to the ma
in part of the house. Bolan pushed himself to his hands and knees. Time to split before they found the guards he had zapped.

  Now that he knew the score, it would be great if he could somehow patch in to the hoods’ decision. He glanced over his shoulder at the garden exit.

  And froze.

  Eighteen inches from his head there was a pair of glossy black high-heel boots. Above the boots, glove-leather pants and a matching draped jacket clothed a shapely brunette. She held a small blue-steel automatic in her right hand.

  “The knockdown power is nonexistent,” she said softly. “But at this range, in experienced hands, it can be lethal. And I assure you I am experienced. I think you had better come with me.”

  5

  She wore a flame-colored scarf tucked into the neck of her jacket. Her eyes were green and her hair fell softly about her shoulders. She must be, Bolan guessed, all of twenty-two years old.

  She was cautious, never allowing the Executioner close enough to make any attempt to disarm her as she maneuvered him back outside the terrace and then into a small summer house on the far side of the pool.

  “Sit on that bench,” she said, indicating a seat opposite her, “and tell me why you are eavesdropping on my father’s friends.” She switched on a pink-shaded light in the wooden roof of the building. “Why you swam out here to eavesdrop on my father’s friends,” she amended, seeing the wet suit and helmet Bolan wore.

  Seeing her in the half light of the gallery, he decided she was even prettier than he had thought. “Who is your father?” he countered.

  “The owner of the property, of course.” She sounded irritated. “I am Coralie Sanguinetti.”

  “Some friends,” Bolan said. He pulled off the rubber helmet. The girl took in the rakish lines of his face, the blue eyes and determined jaw.

  “I have to admit you’re better looking,” she said with the hint of a smile.

  He was unclipping the neoprene satchel from his belt. “You don’t mind,” he began.

  “Yes, I do mind.” The voice was suddenly hard. “Drop that on the floor — kick it over to me...” She broke off, picking up the satchel. “Just as I thought!”

  Keeping her eyes on the Executioner, the little gun steady in her hand, Coralie Sanguinetti unclasped the neoprene container. “A 93-R!” she said. “That’s quite a... Wait a minute!” She stared at him again. “I know that face,” she said. “I’ve seen photos. You’re J-P’s new trigger man, Sondermann. From Hamburg. Am I right?”

  “Kurt Sondermann,” Bolan said gravely. “At your service, Fraulein.”

  “You don’t sound German.” Coralie was puzzled. “You don’t have much of an accent.”

  “In my line of business, it’s best to be as inconspicuous as possible. Know what I mean?”

  She was still looking doubtful. “But if you are working for Jean-Paul, why do you have to spy on him? Why not come to the front door and say who you are?”

  Bolan had an answer ready in case he was discovered by the hoods themselves. “Put the gun away and I’ll tell you,” he said.

  She hesitated, then thumbed the automatic to safety and thrust it into the pocket of her jacket. But she didn’t return the Beretta to Bolan; it lay on the bench within easy reach of her right hand.

  Smart, he thought. “Some gorillas tried to stop me from getting here. I’d been tailed. I was set up at a gas station on the expressway. I had to shoot my way out.”

  She remained unconvinced. “So?”

  “So I heard there was some kind of a meet on this island. But I’d never heard of your father. I didn’t know Jean-Paul was a buddy of his. I figured I’d make it here secretly and find out the score. If it was the same team that tried to waste me, there’d be hell to pay. But as soon as I saw who it was, I knew I had it wrong. I was leaving when you got the drop on me.”

  “Who tried to kill you?”

  “Guys from an outfit run by someone called Scotto.”

  “Oh,” she said contemptuously. “Scotto. Anyway, he’s dead now.”

  “So they tell me. But they didn’t tell the guys trying to liquidate me; they didn’t know the boss was long gone, so I was nearly dead, too. How come Scotto was killed, anyway?”

  “My father told me that J-P and his friends were going into business with... some foreigners. And it seems Scotto and some others didn’t like the idea. They wanted to stay the way they were. They were going to get together and...” She shook her head. “I don’t really know.”

  Bolan knew. The pieces were falling into place. Those four murdered mobsters had to be the splinter group. Yeah, that figured. Scotto, Ralfini and the others had been knocked off because they refused to join the ball game. But the KGB offer was contingent on the Mafia chiefs forming a single organization. If four of them were thinking maybe of forming a rival stay-as-you-are group, the Russian offer would be withdrawn.

  That explained why the contracts had been put out in a hurry. Any signs of dissension had to be dealt with before Antonin arrived. So that the racketeers could present a front that at least looked united, with no opposition visible.

  Bolan frowned. It followed that the mafiosi gathered together in Sanguinetti’s house had already made up their minds in principle. Details apart, the KGB-Mafia partnership was on.

  He was about to ask the girl what part her father was playing in the scheme when they were both startled by a fusillade from the far side of the house.

  Bolan grabbed the Beretta. It sounded like heavy-caliber stuff — 9 mm machine pistols or SMGs firing something weightier than the standard 5.56 mm Armalite rounds. “Come on,” he rasped. “It sounds as if someone’s trying to shoot their way into the party.”

  Followed by the girl, he sped around the pool and skirted the eastern wing of the house. As he had thought, the gunfire — punctuated now by deeper, heavier reports from single-shot revolvers and the crackle of automatic weapons wielded by the defenders — was concentrated at the head of the stairway leading up from the landing stage.

  Reflected light from a gallery bordering the landward side of the house dimly illuminated a paved slope that ran up from the entrance gates to a porch sheltering the main doors. Two formless dark shapes on the porch steps marked the spot where a couple of patrolling guards had fallen. A third lay with outflung arms a few yards from the stair-head gates.

  The attackers appeared to be entrenched on the rock steps immediately behind these, on a ledge that traversed the cliff off to one side, and on an open platform of the cable car.

  The livid orange and yellow hellfire flashes stabbing the gloom lanced out from these three places and from shrubbery and a storehouse on the far side of the porch. Evidently there were still enough guards alive to prevent the invaders from rushing the house.

  But they were too well protected to be picked off one by one, and for anyone trying to get to close quarters, that lethal slope of flagstones meant instant annihilation.

  Bolan pulled the girl down behind a row of flowers on the cliff top. Below, in the wan light of a moon that had just risen, he could see the bodies of the two power-launch crewmen stretched out on the stone jetty. A rubber dinghy bobbing beside the white boat showed how the attackers had arrived at the island.

  Bolan whispered. “Who are these dudes? Are they gunning for your old man or for his friends?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Coralie murmured. He saw a white blur of her face turn toward him in the milky light. “Better, perhaps. For all I know...” She left the sentence unfinished.

  Bolan was amused. “You think I was some kind of advance guard for these creeps? Think again. I’m on your side — yours and that of those other thugs your dad is hosting.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “Damn right,” Bolan said easily, as he began to move.

  On elbows and knees, he pushed his way between the flowers. On the cliff edge he leaned over and gazed toward the stairway.

  The killers perched on the rock traverse were invisible in deep
shadow now. Beyond them an overhang in the limestone face hid the men on the steps and at the top of the cable. When he and the girl arrived, Bolan had briefly seen bejeweled women huddled behind the windows under the narrow roof of the gallery. Now the lights had all been extinguished, and he could hear the angry voices of the Mafia bosses shouting orders.

  The gunfire, which had died away to a sporadic exchange of single shots, broke out again on both sides with renewed fury. Tongues of flame stabbed the darkness from windows on the upper floors of the building. The hidden guards, who seemed to have received reinforcements, redoubled their rate of fire. The attackers raked the facade of the house with a murderous hail of lead.

  “Try this way!” Bolan yelled during a lull in the clamor. There was a shout of surprise from the traverse. At once the muzzle-flashes swung his way. Slugs splatted against the rock, ripped through the flower bed and stung his face with stone chips.

  Bolan was ready with the Beretta, the folded-down foregrip snug in his left hand. Aiming above the flashes, he let off four 3-shot bursts, the big auto-loader bucking in his hands.

  Somebody screamed and fell. A second figure leaned out into the moonlight and dropped, cartwheeling dizzily down the limestone face.

  “Enough?” Bolan called to the girl. “Or do you want to make it a trio?”

  “Okay, I believe you.” She sounded angry again.

  Glass shattered on one of the upper stories and a heavy object crashed to the floor inside the house. A woman screamed and a man yelled an obscenity.

  Jean-Paul’s less hysterical voice called from farther along the facade, “Can’t you flush out these bastards, Smiler? There’s a meeting we have to finish here.”

  “Not as long as they stay where they are, J-P,” a hoarse voice replied from the storehouse. “We’d be mowed down if we tried to make it across the terrace. You can see...”

  The guard called Smiler bit off his words. A fresh volley of automatic fire sounded in the distance, on the eastern side of the house. A second wave of attackers was advancing up the slope from the inlet where Bolan had landed.