Assault on Soho (5 page)

Bolan dropped off to scout the area on foot while Ann Franklin circled about to put the car away in a garage at the rear of the building. Russell Square turned out to be an attractive little park in London's northeast section, close by the University of London and the British Museum. Queen's House headed a row of neat Georgian town houses which angled away to the south of the square, in what appeared to be a neighborhood of family hotels, pleasant rooming houses, and old but probably expensive apartment buildings. Bolan's recon was thorough but swift, and revealed no evidence of enemy presence. He met Ann at the garage, picked up his bag, and they went into the house through the rear entrance.

To Bolan's surprise, the girl's apartment was very plain. Somehow he had expected a continuation of the erotic motif at
Museum de Sade
. Instead he found minimal furnishings, an almost masculine austerity of decor, and a library atmosphere.

"Welcome to Ann's Retreat," the girl said quietly, then explained, "I don't live here, actually. It's my run-away-to place when I feel the need of privacy."

Bolan carried his bag on through the living room and paused at the windows to peer through a crack in the draperies. It was still dark out, thin fog haloing the street lamps in the park directly opposite.

"Bedroom is to the left, kitchen to the right," Ann announced. "Which are you most interested in, bed or board?"

Bolan turned to her with a sigh and said, "I'm suddenly running out of steam. Guess I'm pretty beat."

"The loo is off the bedroom," she told him.

"The what?"

She laughed. "Sorry, the bath. You look as though you'd love to have one."

"Thanks, I would." He went into the bedroom and placed his bag on a chair and opened it. The girl was watching him—rather nervously, he thought—from the doorway. He removed his jacket and asked her, "Okay if I put these things on some hangers?"

Her eyes were lingering on the gun harness at his chest. "Yes, of course," she replied in a near whisper. She pointed out the closet. "Over there."

The closet was totally bare except for a half-dozen wire hangers. Bolan put his jacket and his spare suit in there and said, "Ann's Retreat, eh?"

"Yes," she replied from the doorway. "I told you that I don't live here. I live with Major Stone."

"I see."

She came on into the room then and stood tensely by as Bolan continued unpacking. "I suppose I've given you a false impression," she told him. "Earlier, I mean. When I told you that we would… get to know each other. I did not mean… in bed."

Bolan showed her a tired smile. "Of course not," he said.

"But it's nothing personally against you," she hastened to add. "Actually I… well it's simply… that… I-I'm terrified of men, you see. All men, not just you."

Bolan stared at her through a moment of silence, then he nodded his head and said, "Okay."

He opened the false bottom of the suitcase and took out what remained of his "war chest." It had shrunk to a few thousand dollars, in bills of large denomination, and made a rather thin stack. He placed the money on a bedside table and lay the Beretta atop it, then came out of the harness and began removing his shirt.

Ann Franklin was fingering a nylon nightsuit he'd placed on the bed. "You wear black underwear?" she asked solemnly.

Bolan chuckled. "That's my combat uniform," he told her. "Some
soldados
I met in Miami told me that it strikes fear into the hearts of my enemy. But that's not why I wear it. The color gives me a nighttime invisibility, and the skintight fit helps me in and out of tight places."

"Like the commandos," she commented.

"I guess so. That was before my time, though."

She nodded. "Mine also." Their conversation was becoming less strained, more comradely. The girl had unfolded the suit and was holding it to her body. "Does it keep you warm?"

"Pretty well," Bolan replied. He was seated on the edge of the bed, removing shoes and socks. "It's a thermal suit."

"I see."

"Did, uh, you really mean that… about men?"

She colored visibly and dropped the suit to the bed. "Yes I—it's silly, I know. I suppose it's… the men I've known."

"Like Major Stone, eh," Bolan said quietly.

"Don't misunderstand that," she quickly replied. "Major Stone is the only father I've known. He's raised me from the age of 12."

"Uh-huh." Bolan pawed through the bag for his electric shaver.

She seemed to have a need to explain. "Major Stone has never mistreated me, never. He's protected me from… all that. And he's always given me the best of everything."

"Good for him," Bolan murmured. He was suddenly very tired. "I don't suppose you'd have any coffee around here."

"Oh, yes," she said, moving toward the doorway. "You get your bath, and I'll be doing things in the kitchen."

Bolan watched her out of sight, troubling thoughts nagging at him. None of this, he was thinking, made any sense at all. He was becoming too fatigued to care, however. He finished undressing and removed his watch, noting the time at close to seven o'clock. It had been a long night. It was cold in the bedroom, but Bolan was too tired to shiver. He picked up the Beretta and the shaving case and went into the bathroom.

Ten minutes later, Ann Franklin rapped lightly on the bathroom door and walked in. She carried a tray and was humming softly under her breath. Bolan was lying back in a tub of steaming water, seemingly utterly relaxed and half asleep in a sea of suds, but half-closed eyes were watching the girl's every movement.

She maneuvered a low stool alongside the tub and set the tray on it. Her eyes found the Beretta, jammed into a towel rack within Bolan's easy reach. Whimsically, she said, "I've heard of
sleeping
with one's pistol, Mr. Bolan, but isn't this a bit ridiculous?" The comradely tone was gone, Bolan noted, replaced by the earlier tense nervousness.

"Survival," he replied, his speech slurring a bit, "is never ridiculous."

Her eyes fell and she said, "Of course you would know more about that than I. Well," she added, with a forced perkiness, "I have bere coffee and muffins, which are also a matter of survival. Shall we break bread over the tub?"

Bolan grinned and reached for the coffee. She placed the cup in his hand and asked him, "How long since you've slept?"

He carefully sipped the coffee, then replied, "I forget."

"Then it's been much too long." She knelt on the floor beside the tub, broke a muffin, and held it to his lips. He ate, realizing that it had also been some time since that event. She told him, "You are an unusual person, Mr. Bolan."

"Not really," he murmured. "I'm an ordinary person in unusual circumstances. Are you still afraid of me?"

She hesitated, then whispered, "As a person, no, I suppose not."

"I'm afraid of you," he told her.

Another pause, then: "I don't find that particularly flattering."

Bolan sighed. "It's the survival instinct," he explained, grinning tiredly. "I have to suspect the very worst in everybody."

"Then why survive?" she asked dully. "I mean…"

After a brief and almost embarrassed silence, Bolan said, "I know what you mean." He had asked himself the same question, many times. Though Ann Franklin apparently could not, some thinker had long ago expressed her idea rather well: when love and trust are dead, then the man himself is dead and awaiting only official notification of the fact. Yeah, Bolan had considered the idea. And rejected it. He told the girl, "I have a job to do. I live to do that job. That's what survival means to me."

Small-voiced, she replied, "You're speaking of your job as executioner."

He sighed. "Yes. That's the job."

"You live only to Mil."

"That's about it." He finished the coffee and returned the cup to her hand.

"I simply cannot believe that," she told him.

He shrugged. "Then don't."

"If you came to believe that I were your enemy, you would kill me?"

He smiled faintly. "Are you my enemy?"

"No."

He said, "I've never killed a friend."

She gazed at him with sad eyes, then got to her feet with a loud sigh. "You have no
true
friends in England, Mr. Bolan. I suggest that you simply slaughter the entire population straightaway, and leave as quickly as possible."

She went out, lightly closing the door behind her.

Well hell, Bolan told himself. She'd been trying to get him to open himself up, to give her something to admire, perhaps something to pity. For what? Games of conscience. She was mixed up in something she did not like, and she wanted someone to tell her it was all worthwhile.

Well, she would not get it from Bolan. He had a hard enough time keeping himself convinced. Right now, for example, it would be so easy to simply slip beneath the warm water and give it all up. No more fear, no more pain, no more blood, just blissful euphoria and quiet oblivion in the soothing warmth of Ann Franklin's bath. Why not? After all, who the hell was Mack Bolan to appoint himself physician to a sick society? So what if the Mafia cancer was spreading into vital tissues?—weren't there other surgeons around who were better equipped than Bolan for the job?

Wasn't it sheer ego that kept him on the job? They'd called him a Quixote in the press. They should have called him a cockalorum—yeah, that would be more like it—Sergeant Self-importance, self-appointed Saviour of the Western World.

Bolan had gone for more than sixty hours without sleep. During that period he had been under constant stress, harassed by lawmen and the underworld alike while effecting a "tactical retreat" covering hundreds of miles and many different modes of transport. He had fought his way out of four death traps and eluded the police of three nations, yet he had failed to make his way back to "safe" territory. And now he was at the point of complete physical and mental exhaustion, his last bit of reserve strength fully gone, occupying a narrow ledge of questionable refuge in a world trying its best to swallow him.

Lesser men would have succumbed to the pull of defeat far sooner than this. For Bolan, the moment of defeat had come as a reaction to a young woman's visible disgust, and the wave that inundated him was the cresting of his own mind and soul in a deep pool of self-doubt.

For one infinite and timeless moment he hung there in suspension between the instinct for life and the comfort of death as he let go and slid beneath the actual waters of the warm bath—and then he came threshing out of it, coughing and spluttering and lunging for the Beretta.

Though his present danger was totally within himself, the depths of his exhaustion projected phantom enemies somewhere
out there
, and Bolan's response came from the very core of himself. When Ann Franklin stepped back through the doorway, in response to the commotion, Bolan was sitting upright in the tub. His fist was full of Beretta, suds were clustered about his face, his eyes were straining for focus, and he was muttering, "It's okay, it's okay."

The girl immediately understood the situation. She dropped to her knees at the tub, one arm going out to encircle his shoulders, the other hand gently and carefully working at the deathgrip on the pistol.

"Give me the gun, Mack," she whispered.

"It's okay," he told her.

Bolan was technically unconscious, and Ann Franklin knew it. "Give me the gun," she urged, "before you get it all wet." The struggle ended then. She took control of the Beretta and carefully placed it on the floor, then pulled the plug from the drain and put a towel about Bolan's shoulders. "Let's go to bed," she whispered.

He struggled out of the tub and steadied himself with a hand against the wall while Ann towelled him dry, then she moved inside the arm and helped him into the bedroom.

"It's okay," he told her again as she fought the covers back and guided his head to the pillow.

"Yes yes, I know," she assured him.

"Where's my gun?"

She returned to the bathroom for the pistol, showed it to him, and shoved it under the pillow. "How's that?" she whispered.

"Great." Bolan's eyes focussed on the girl then, awareness flashed there, and he muttered, "Hell, I'm naked."

"Utterly," she replied, smiling solemnly. "Body and soul." She flipped the covers over him and said, "Get some sleep now."

He was laboring to hold the focus. "You asked… why I bother to live. Okay. I live to win. When I die,
they've
won. Can't let them win, see. Show them… they're not God. Throw death… back in their teeth, see."

"Yes, yes, I see."

"That's all it means. Not ego… not cockalorum… it's tactics. That's the game. Beat them… at their own game, see."

"Yes. I understand that now." She began removing her clothing, her eyes steady on his.

"What're you doing?" he asked thickly.

She removed her bra, waved it delicately over the bed, then dropped it to the floor. "Getting ready for bed," she replied. "Girls sleep too, you know."

Bolan lifted himself groggily to one elbow as she stepped out of the panties. "Better not," he growled. "I'm not all that beat."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," she replied solemnly. She slid in beneath the covers and snuggled over to him. "I have a survival problem also, you know," she confided in a quivery whisper.

He clasped her in both arms, pulling her in tight, and murmured, "This is great."

"Uh huh." A moment later Ann felt his embrace slacken. Borderline consciousness had surrendered to complete exhaustion. She pushed him onto his back and adjusted the pillow to his head, studied the strong face for a moment, then impulsively kissed his lips.

"Big bad Bolan," she whispered, then nestled her face in his throat and very contentedly joined him in sleep.

For both of them, man and woman, a survival crisis had been reached and passed, each in their own way. It was not to be the final one for either of them.

The Executioner's long night had ended, but across the Atlantic, in an eastern U.S. city, that same night was just beginning, with an informal meeting of Mafia bosses. The site of the conference was the suburban home of Augie Marinello, head of a powerful New York family: the subject was Mack Bolan, and what to do about him.

Contrary to popular myth, there was no "boss of all the bosses," or Chief Capo. There had been none since the violent demise in 1931 of the first and final
Capo di tutti Capi
, Salvatore Maranzano. Instead, each Cosa Nostra "family" now had representation on
La Commissione
, or Council of Bosses, which ruled the sprawling crime syndicate.

The present meeting was not a full council, but considerable power was represented there. In attendance were Marinello and the bosses of two other New York families, plus the overlords of several neighboring territories. Only once since the embarrassingly aborted 1957 summit meeting at Appalachia had a new full conference been attempted. And that one, at Miami a short few weeks earlier, had become a fiasco to wipe Appalachia out of the mind forever, thanks to Mack The Bastard Bolan.

Now the eastern power clique sat in sullen thoughtfulness. Each of the men present had been present also at Miami; some bore visible wounds to remind them of the traumatic event; all bore wounds of the soul which would never heal, haunting their dreams and irritating their waking moments. Miami would never be foregotten. Nor would the man who had caused it all.

Two burly men in tailored suits moved silently about the conference table, pouring wine from napkined magnums. With this chore completed, they quietly withdrew and closed the doors on the convention of royalty.

Augie Marinello, host of the occasion, broke the silence with a deep-throated growl. "So the" bastard turns up in England," he said.

Arnesto "Arnie Farmer" Castiglione, chief of the lower Atlantic seaboard, shifted uncomfortably in his chair and explained, "So I guess we didn't get him in France. I got to apologize for the bum dope. But I would've sworn… I mean, I just don't see how the bastard could have got out alive."

"It looks like he did," spoke up a Pennsylvania boss.

"Bet your ass he did," said the man from Jersey. "I got a bunch of dead soldiers over in England to prove it."

Arnie Farmer grimaced. "Don't tell me about dead soldiers. We're still counting the dead in France, and tryin' to get the rest out of jail."

Marinello sighed loudly and sibilantly. "I got word from Nick Trigger." His glance flicked to the Jersey boss. "He wants to take over the Bolan hunt."

"I got a full crew over there right now, Augie," the Jersey man advised.

"Sure, but how're they doing?" Marinello asked thoughtfully.

"Well… like I told you, they've made contact twice."

"We made contacts all over the place down in Miami," an upstate boss pointed out. "So what's that make anything?"

"They're good boys," Jersey argued. "I think they're on top of it pretty good."

"Bullshit," said Arnie Farmer.

"Whattaya mean, bullshit?" Jersey flared back.

"I mean I sent a whole damn army to France, a regular AEF f'Christ's sake, and not even half of 'em got back. That's what I mean bullshit. I mean boys like Sammy Shiv and Fat Angelo and Quick Tony went to France and never came back, that's what I mean bullshit." He tasted his wine, returning the angry glare from New Jersey over the rim of the glass. "So who've you got in England that's on top of it pretty good?"

"I got Danno Giliamo and his boys," Jersey replied through flattened lips.

Arnie Farmer raised his eyebrows in respectful receipt of this news and replied, "Okay so I'm surprised you sent Danno. I take it back the bullshit remark."

"Danno's a regular bulldog," Marinello put in. "Nobody'll say different to that—and listen—it's no dig at Danno that I'd like to see Nick Trigger take over the hit. Nick tells me that he talked this over with Danno— and Danno says it's okay with him. Listen, this is no time for hurt feelings. We've got to stop this boy, hard and fast. And the cost is getting out of hand, it's getting awful."

"Not even mentioning the contract purse," Pennsylvania added.

"I'd gladly pay it twice," Arnie Farmer Castiglione declared passionately "In fact…" He raised the wine glass to his lips and sipped delicately, then continued in a milder tone. "I'm for upping the ante to a cool million. That'd make the scramble for real, and we already lost more than that on account of this boy. Besides that he's making us look foolish. How long are we going to stay in business if…"

The speech ended on the uncompleted question. Silence descended and reigned for a long moment, then the New Jersey boss grunted and suggested, "Contract money is not the answer."

"Then just what the hell is?" Arnie Farmer demanded, his voice rising with emotion. "You can't cop a plea with this boy, you know."

The latter statement had reference to an older and more painful period in the life of the boss from Jersey, who had served three successive prison sentences on "copped pleas"—pleading guilty to a lesser crime to avoid prosecution of graver ones. He resented being reminded of these past indignities, and his angry face plainly showed it.

Marinello hurried into the breech. "We already got the answer," he declared softly. "We are doing the right things, make no mistake about that. It's just a matter of—"

"No, wait a minute. Who says we can't cop a plea with this Bolan?"

All eyes turned to Joe Staccio, the upstate New Yorker. Someone growled, "You nuts or something, Joe?"

"Maybe I am," Staccio calmly replied. "Then again, maybe I'm not. I'm just saying it ain't all that far out an idea. Maybe we been acting like old-time hoods about this thing. You know? And even the old-time hoods found out there was more than one way of getting out of a problem. You know what I mean?"

Augie Marinello was giving Staccio a thoughtful gaze. Castiglione's lips had curled into a snarl as the full implications of Staccio's suggestion registered. The man from Jersey was watching Marinello.

Castiglione sneered, "What do you want us to do, Joe? Throw up our hands and beg for mercy?"

"Now wait," Marinello said, as the noise level began to rise in the conference room. "Joe has brought up the question I'm sure all of us has thought about at one time or another. So now that it's in the open, let's talk about it. Maybe he's right and maybe we're going about this thing all wrong."

"I was just thinking about the days of the old man," Staccio quietly put in. He was referring to Salvatore Maranzano. "Everybody was shooting at everybody else, nobody knew who to trust. I mean those wars got out of hand too, you know. If Charley Lucky hadn't made his peace, and forgave and forgot and patched things over, then none of us would be sitting here right now. Right?"

"You're right, Joe," Marinello agreed.

Arnie Farmer drily observed, "Charley Lucky Luciano and Mack the bastard Bolan are not exactly the same two people."

"Yeah, you're right there, Arnie," Staccio replied. "But that's not the point, and it's not the right comparison. The point is, there's more than one way to end a war."

"We're getting hurt," the man from Jersey put in. "And bad. Nobody is going to deny that. We've got to get this thing over with, one way or another."

Marinello nodded and asked Staccio, "Just exactly what was you thinking about, Joe?"

"A deal," Staccio replied.

"What kind of a deal?"

"He forgives, we forgive. And we bury the hatchet."

Arnie Farmer exploded with, "What the hell has
he
got to forgive?"

"We gotta be realistic, Arnie," the upstater explained. "This boy lost his whole family, and he figures their blood is on our hands. Now if we understand anything at all then we just got to understand a debt of blood. Right? So I say let's agree that one debt cancels out the other. Let's be realistic and see if we can't end this damned war."

Arnie Farmer fumed silently.

Marinello said, "Okay, let's say that both sides agree to bury the hatchet. Then what?"

Staccio shrugged his shoulders. "I haven't sat around and thought it out. But I think maybe Charley Lucky had the right idea, way back when."

"You mean we invite Bolan into the organization," Marinello said quietly.

Staccio again shrugged. "Why not? It worked before, it could work again. He'd be a hell of a good boy on our side of the fence. We could all respect him, right? Wouldn't that boy make one hell of an enforcer?"

Arnie Farmer rose jerkily to his feet and delicately fingered the fabric of his trousers. "I got a hole in my ass the size of a golf ball," he announced in a voice thick with emotion. "That bastard put it there, and I'll never sit down in peace again until—"

Staccio said coldly, "You're not the only one. We all got our reasons for hating that boy's guts. But that's not the point. We got to be realistic. Our whole thing is going to fall apart around us if we don't start using our heads instead of our hots. Now we got a crisis, just like with the old wars. We got a crisis and we got to face up to that!"

Castiglione shivered. "Cop a plea with Bolan," he muttered, "… never! I mean
never
!"

"Hey, hey, let's cool it off," Marinello suggested. "You've both made your point, now let's sit down and discuss it, eh."

Castiglione sat, but growled, "You try burying the hatchet with this Bolan, you're gonna tear our thing apart for sure. There's too many scars, Augie, entirely too much to try forgiving and forgetting."

"Okay, okay, let's just talk about it," Marinello urged.

The Pennsylvania boss said, "What if we just made Bolan
think
we wanted to deal? Huh?"

"Don't you think he'd be smelling for that sort of thing anyway?" Staccio replied. "He's going to be suspicious as hell. I doubt if we could get him to listen even if we were a hundred percent sincere."

"So we're just wasting our time anyhow," Arnie Farmer commented. "Why are we wasting our time talking dumb ideas?"

"I got a boy," Pennsylvania said quietly. "He could get to Bolan."

"You mean Leo Pussy," Marinello replied thoughtfully.

"That's the boy. Sergio's nephew. He's running my Pittsfield action now. I think he—"

Staccio interrupted with, "That's the boy was with Bolan back when?"

"Yeah. I guess he could make the pitch if anyone could."

"What pitch?" Castiglione cried. "We ain't decided on no pitch!"

"I mean," Pennsylvania explained, "if we decide to go that way."

"Save us all a lot of time: I'm not deciding that way!"

Marinello said, "No harm in talking it over, huh Arnie? Let's think of it as flexibility, huh? Maybe we could have
two
things going at once. Like Appaloosas and stevedores… you catch?" He winked again, while shielding his face from the view of Joe Staccio. "Like a horse race, eh?"

"I don't know what you're getting at," Arnie Farmer Castiglione said sullenly.

"Well, let's just talk the possibility. Suppose we set up two programs. Huh? We turn Joe loose at this end, turn you loose at yours, see who gets to the finish line first. Huh?"

"Bullshit," Arnie Farmer replied.

"No, I'm serious." Marinello's glance flashed to the Pensylvania boss. "You really think this Leo Pussy could get next to Bolan?"

The other shrugged his shoulders. "If anybody can, he can."

The shrewd eyes moved to Staccio. "How about it, Joe? You want to sit down with Leo the Pussy and discuss things?"

The upstate man nodded solemnly. "I'll give it a try."

"I say bullshit," Castiglione coldly commented. "I already tried that route. Trying to get next to Bolan, I mean. I sent him a nigger friend. He sent me back a planeload of dead soldiers."

"I still think it's worth a try," Staccio insisted.

"All right, let's talk it up this way," Marinello suggested. "Arnie, you head up the contract campaign. You'll have Nick Trigger as your number one boy, and you sure can't complain about that. You also got Danno and his crew. You add whatever else you think you need, and you go after Bolan's ass. Joe, you take whatever you need and go after his
head
. How about it? Does it make sense? I'm asking all of you, now. What do you think?"

"I still say bullshit," said Arnie Farmer. "But I'll go along with it, even if it is dumb… if that's what everyone wants. But understand this. I take no responsibility for what happens to Joe or this Leo the Pussy.

We'll just get in each other's way, and my boys are going to be shooting first and talking afterwards."

"Why do you keep saying it's dumb?" Staccio asked.

"Because," Castiglione replied, "if this Leo can get next to Bolan, he can get there also with a gun in his hand… and I don't see—"

"What you don't see is that Bolan is more than a common rodman. That boy has a sixth sense about this stuff. I been studying him, ever since Miami. I keep thinking about the Talifero brothers. Also I just can't forget this fantastic stuff he pulled off at Palm Springs, against Deej and his boys. He's got something going for him, I don't know what. But you got to remember, every cop in the world is after this boy's ass, just like us. And he keeps dancing away from them just like he does us. It's a sixth sense, that's what, and he can smell a trap two days before he gets to it. He's—"

The boss from New Jersey interrupted with quiet laughter. "Maybe he uses black magic, Joe," he said. "He puts on this black suit and turns into a devil or something."

Another man at that table shivered and said, "Shit, don't even kid about that."

"What I'm saying," Staccio went on grimly, "is that I have to go into this thing with a very sincere approach. No tricks, no traps, straight all the way. The horse race ends the minute I make contact. We got to get that straight right now. And whatever I make with Bolan, I make with all the authority of the full council. It's got to be like a contract hit—all the families have got to honor it. That means everybody, not just us here now, but all of us, and that means also Arnie the Farmer Castiglione and the Virginia bluebloods."