Assault on Soho Read online

  The Beretta whispered again, and the man in the overcoat probably never knew what was going on down there. He fell forward into the alley, a pistol clattering along in advance of the sprawl, and Bolan passed the remains at full gallop, erupting into the side street with Beretta swinging and ready.

  At that same moment car lights flashed into brilliance, from the curb just downrange. Bolan saw the spurts of muzzle fire streaking out from behind the lights even before the thundering reports reached his ears, but he was already across the blinding glare and arching down toward the vehicle, his own quiet replies sizzling into the argument and dead on target.

  A cacaphony of police whistles were sounding up on Frith Street and the sounds of excited activity were swirling around the corner and along the side street. A loud British voice of authority bawled, “This is the police! Cease your fire immediately!”

  Bolan’s fire had already ceased, as he was beyond the seal car and disappearing into the darkness, but someone in the vehicle was turning his fire toward the police. A volley of answering fire swept down the street and sieved the heavy car, and quiet abruptly descended as Bolan faded around the far corner.

  He was clear, for the moment, and he had thrown death back into their teeth once again. But how much longer could it go on? How many more trap plays could he blitz his way out of, and how much longer could he remain clear of these wily men from Scotland Yard?

  The London War was taking on a decidedly personal hue, and The Executioner was getting angry. He could not continue on in this purely defensive mode of combat. If he was to survive, he knew, he was going to have to take the offensive. His soul protested, but the battle-hardened flesh knew the truth. Full scale warfare, his kind of warfare, was the only route to survival in England.

  And he knew where he had to start. He reached the Lincoln, transferred the Uzi from the floorboards to the seat, and set off for the Museum de Sade.

  The Battle for Britain was on.

  Chapter Ten

  THE CELL

  Bolan was in combat uniform: midnight skinsuit, black sneakers, the little Uzi dangling from a neck strap, Beretta harnessed to his side. He was making his final approach on foot. The night was quiet, cold, and smotheringly black; Bolan was hardly more than a moving extension of the darkness, a silent shadow gliding across the London nightscape. He had stripped off his outer clothing and left the car inconspicuously parked, several streets back.

  He entered the square from the side opposite the museum and paused there. It was dark, all dark. He waited, taking a patient audio recon. Several minutes later his patience paid off. He heard sounds of human presence: a shoe scraping cement somewhere in the blackness ahead, a brief and muffled sound of voices, a subdued cough.

  The enemy was here. This time they were showing real respect for the man they hoped would show up. They had done something to the street lamps; all were extinguished, as though the London blackouts had returned. Only the most diligent listening could disclose any sounds. At the museum, across the way, a faint suggestion of light showed on the ground floor. Bolan remembered the heavy draperies at all the windows, and guessed that the museum might not be as deserted as it seemed.

  He went on, more slowly now, stepping with extreme care and staying close to the line of buildings. Someone sniffled, just ahead. Bolan halted. A foot scraped, and Bolan saw a barely discernible movement in the blackness, hardly more than a hint of bulk outlined in the stygian background. When, he wondered, would they ever learn to use dark clothing on a nighttime stakeout? He moved forward again, barely breathing, until he was close enough to reach out and touch the man, who was leaning against the building, his hands in the pockets of his overcoat, his snapbrim hat pulled low over his forehead.

  Bolan knew how difficult it was to remain alert and ready during these long quiet waits in the night. With all sense perceptions deprived of stimuli, often a mild form of vertigo resulted. Some men would literally go to sleep on their feet. This one was obviously in some lethargic state: he sniffed halfheartedly, trying to clear his nostrils of a troublesome mucus, and turned his head to look directly at Bolan.

  The blackclad figure sprang forward then, in one swift movement pinning the man’s head to the building and clamping a hand over the mouth, the other hand striking simultaneously in a stunning chop to the throat, his knee following through with a paralyzing smash to the diaphragm. The sentry stiffened in a momentary spasm, an involuntary squawk of pain and alarm dying unexpressed in the clamped-off mouth, and then he became a soft mass flowing toward the ground. Bolan helped him down in a quiet descent and quickly checked for a sign of continued breathing. There was none. The respiratory system was totally overcome by the shock of the attack. The wild black cat moved on through the jungle of night to the next target and repeated the process, with identical results. Then he reversed his ground and went to the other side of the square, seeking a man with a cough. He found him, and quietly cured the cough. Next stop was the porno bookshop and the entrance off the alleyway.

  He had taken note of the store’s lock on his previous visits. It was an ancient mechanism of dubious value. The blade of a knife applied at the proper spot, and then the insistent pressure of a shoulder, silently overcame the resistance. Bolan went inside.

  He went down through the basement and along the passageway, coming up in Edwin Charles’ security cellar beneath the museum. On his first time through, Bolan had paid only passing attention to this area of the building. He had simply wanted to get out, and he had very little curiosity regarding the location and operation of the security monitors. Now they were a prime consideration.

  The night before, Charles had led him from the ground level down the stairs and along a rather narrow cellar passageway to the manhole of the tunnel. Bolan had noted the two heavy doors at each side of that passageway and had assumed, without further interest, that the old man conducted his spying from behind those doors. Now, both stood slightly ajar. This time Bolan went exploring. Behind one door, he found himself in a spacious and elaborately furnished basement apartment. It was a single room affair but apparently held every conceivable convenience, including even a wet bar with tap beer and a handsomely outfitted electronics workshop.

  No one, however, was at home.

  Behind the door on the opposite side of the basement Bolan found the “security station.” It was far more elaborate than he had expected. An impressive electronics console and a battery of closed-circuit television monitors dominated the scene. Various other gadgets, including a film editing table and a projector, were present. Edwin Charles was not.

  First to draw Bolan’s interest were the TV monitors. All were activated, and the conglomerate seemed to be providing a complete surveillance of the first two levels of the building. One screen showed the entry hall, another a wide-angle shot of the clubroom in which Bolan had found himself imprisoned the previous night, still another the erotically decorated harem room—in several camera angles—and each of the small cells on the upper level had its own monitor.

  Those cells had been feebly lighted and deserted during Bolan’s earlier visit. Now they were lit well enough to allow televised surveillance, and none of them were deserted. Young men and women appeared to languish there in attitudes of suffering and submission, all naked and cowed and bound into the various types of imprisoning devices.

  The monitors showing the harem room were something else. Here men and women lay about in a variety of luxurious accommodations, and in a scene combining the best of Arabian Nights and the wildest in Roman Orgy. A party was most emphatically in progress, and just as emphatically it was geared to the most offbeat varieties of erotic delight. Most of the men, it seemed, were middle-aged or beyond—except for an occasional consortium of aged lechery with pretty lad. The women were without exception young and beautiful, and there were many. Everywhere Roman togas mixed and contrasted with colorful harem pajamas, slave girl costumes, and the inevitable devices of “bondage.”

  On a smal
l revolving stage at the center of all this, a huge black man was spread-eagled upon a simple upright cross, bound hand and foot. He was nude, and he was obviously in a state of wild sexual agitation. A tall blond girl, also nude, was tantalizing him with a lewdly suggestive dance in which she frequently wriggled against him then swayed back to avoid his wild lunging after her. Following each of these sallies, the big fellow was punished for his impertinence by another girl, an Amazonian figure, with a wicked looking black whip. It was theatre in the round, a la Sade, and it made Bolan’s guts creak. He had to wonder how many other acts had preceded this one across that small stage, and he began to understand what Ann Franklin had meant by “a paid staff.” These people were performers, actors and damned convincing ones in their own peculiar specialty. Even the cell-sufferers were undoubtedly acting out a role with all the stage vigor of any thespian anywhere. TV monitors were banked about the revolving stage, allowing the audience to also keep track of the activities in the cells.

  The console in the security station apparently was geared more to the entertainment angle than to items of security. Bolan wondered if they had video-taping capability—and he also wondered if the revellers upstairs realized that they themselves were on candid camera. Talk about blackmail mills—this one was a natural goldmine for anyone with such ambitions.

  His attention was drawn to the monitor showing the cell with the barrel balancing trick. An Amazonian beauty in weird garb had just stalked into camera range in that cell. She wore thigh-high boots of glossy black leather and a tightly laced corset affair that sucked her into an hourglass from armpits to hips. Cutouts at the chest provided a free and high projection of magnificently sculpted breasts. Thick black hair descended in a free fall to her waist. Grotesque facial cosmetics conveyed a convincing impression of satanic evil. She must have stood six feet tall even without the high-heeled boots, Bolan guessed, and she carried the inevitable black whip.

  A well formed young man occupied the balancing platform. His back was to the camera; he was imprisoned by the wrist irons with his face to the wall. The devil girl went directly to the task at hand, lashing out energetically against his nude flanks with the whip. He reacted with a believable display of pain, lunging away from the stinging tips of the lash, losing his footing, clawing desperately at the chains to relieve the harsh pressure at his wrists—just about as Bolan had visualized the thing earlier.

  The performance was too realistic for Bolan. He supposed that the whip was made of some sort of trick material, but it was still too much for his stomach. He whirled away from the console, wondering what had become of Charles and what had prompted the old man to desert his station and leave it wide open. This was obviously a party night at the museum, certainly no time for the security watch to be relaxed.

  Bolan made another quick inspection of the entire basement area, returning none the wiser some minutes later to the control room. During his absence the black man had left the stage in the party room and another act had replace him. This consisted of two young men lashed nakedly together back to back and two girls bound to each other in a side-by-side arrangement. The nude foursome’s problem of the night was an erotically obvious one, and their frantic attempts at resolving it were acrobatically ingenious.

  Bolan’s attention was suddenly diverted from the Siamese-twin act by a peculiar movement across the screen of one of the cell monitors. A satanic Amazon had uncharacteristically staggered past the camera lens, her face showing genuine shock and revulsion as she hurried out of the little room. Bolan bent closer to the monitor. The scene there, at first look, seemed a typical one. A “victim” was imprisoned in a variation of the stocks—a particularly evil device consisting of a small platform raised a few inches above the floor, in which were set ankle holes for imprisoning the victim’s feet; just behind this was another platform slightly higher off the floor, with holes for neck and wrists.

  Bolan had noticed the contrivance on his trip through the maze, and there had been no puzzle as to its function. The victim would be required to bend over double, standing in the stocks in a grotesque position with his head practically between his feet. Too much bodily fatigue, vertigo, dizziness, or any other circumstance which would cause the victim to sway too much in any direction would undoubtedly choke him. Total imbalance would result in a broken neck. Bolan had gathered all this in one quick glance, the previous night. Now he realized that he had not grasped the full diabolicalness of this device. In its present usage the victim was doubled over backwards, and an extra feature had been added. A narrow platform, resembling a sawhorse with steel spikes along its back, was thrust under the arched spine. If this had been a staged act, the role would have called for a contortionist.

  But this victim was no contortionist. The closer inpection sent chills along Bolan’s spine and sucked all the moisture from his mouth. This victim was no performer. He was quite an old man, and there was simply no way to feign the racking distress of that distorted body. The camera angle was in bad relation to the lighting, besides which only the back of the victim’s head showed—but Bolan knew immediately what had become of Edwin Charles.

  An animal growl rumbled past Bolan’s lips and he was out of there and running up the stairs to the ground level before his thinking mind took charge. He erupted into the small room which lay just beyond the clubroom and smashed through into the party chamber. The scowling black clad figure with submachine gun in hand went virtually unnoticed through the crowd. Indeed, he looked no more out of place there than anyone present, and he received his first challenge at the labial doorway.

  Two of the leather-clad Amazons guarded that portal, standing stiffly spread-legged with crossed arms and dangling whips. The satanic-pretty faces registered puzzlement at Bolan’s aggressive approach. At the last moment, one of the girls expertly curled her lash about Bolan’s chest and the other stepped into his path. The whip, he found, was of soft and harmless nylon. The girl herself was something else, as big and strong as she seemed.

  Bolan snarled, “The old man’s in trouble!” and pushed the girl roughly aside. He went on through and up the stairway, with one of the girls right at his heels and panting along in hot pursuit.

  He had only a vague idea as to his destination as he hurried through the cellular maze, but he knew he was getting warm when he spotted a devil girl crumpled to the floor in a doorway.

  To the girl following him, Bolan snapped, “Help her!”

  He stepped over the unconscious girl and into a reality much more horrible than could be gathered by a TV camera. The unmistakable smell of blood was mix-with the acrid odor of burnt flesh to overpower the atmosphere of the tiny airless cell; death had come there to release human agony and misery, and Bolan knew it the moment he stepped through that door.

  Here was one old soldier who had not merely faded away. Edwin Charles had died hard.

  The sawhorse affair was built of adjustable wooden legs and an iron crosspiece with conical protrusions along its top. The iron section had recently been intensely hot, and still was radiating considerable warmth. A blow torch lay discarded on the floor in the corner of the cell. Bolan decided that this had been used to heat the iron of the medieval device, which was then positioned beneath the arched back of the old man and -probably slowly raised in height until the brittle old spine could no longer accept the demands placed upon it. He had sank back onto the red hot iron, and it had literally eaten its way into him.

  It seemed likely also that the spine had snapped, and perhaps other bones as well. The red heat of the iron bar had probably cauterized and sealed ruptured blood vessels as it advanced into the body, but bleeding of an internal nature had found its natural exit through both the bowel and the mouth of the victim. It was a macabre scene. Bolan could understand why even the devil girl had fainted.

  He grimly inspected the remains and muttered, “The things men do to one another.” Then he stood there for a moment in angry contemplation of a grand old soldier’s final moments. What
was it the old fellow had said about the museum? Something about a deeper meaning, a sign of the times.

  Bolan grunted, “Yeah,” and went back out. He found the two devil girls leaning weakly against each other in the next cell.

  “Is he dead?” whispered the girl who had chased Bolan up the stairs.

  “He sure is,” Bolan muttered. “Just how long has this party been going on?”

  “Since eleven,” the girl replied in a funereal whisper.

  Bolan looked at his watch. The time was then shortly past midnight. He shook his head and said, “I don’t know how long the old man has been in that room, but he hasn’t been dead for more than half an hour.”

  The implications of that decision hit him immediately. Edwin Charles had died with his agony on full display in the party room below, the reality of the gruesome scene concealed by the bogus suffering going on all about him. Quietly, Bolan told the girls, “He’s been dying through half of this nutty party.”

  The girl who had fainted seemed in danger of doing so again. Her hands clutched at Bolan for support and she told him, “I was in and out of there many times. I didn’t know he was …” Her eyes rolled. “Until it started to smell so terrible …” She looked as though she wanted to be sick.

  “Who puts these people into these nutty devices?” Bolan asked.

  The other girl murmured, “Normally they attach themselves, and they can get out any time they wish, without aid. It’s all in fun, you know. I mean, who would’ve thought …?” Her naked breasts shuddered with the unspoken horror of the idea and she swayed toward Bolan.

  He steadied her and muttered, “Yeah, this is some kind of fun place,” and then he left them to console one another and he went back through the harem room. Little had changed down there, except that the frantic foursome had discovered a way for sex en masse to overcome the physical limitations of human anatomy.

  The cell of Charles’ final agony was in prominent display just above this living exhibition. As he walked past, Bolan drew his Beretta and sent a quiet round into the monitor. There would be no more ghoulish jollies from an old man’s final torment.