Thus there was no such thing, per se, as a French Mafia. There were local mobs, home-owned and operated, but finding cohesion only in the franchise-like manipulations of the America families of La Cosa Nostra. Some American families maintained direct representation to their French interests, but on the broader scale of international syndication, Thomas Rudolfi was the indisputable authority.
Thus, Monzoor Rudolfi's dream of empire. He was, literally, in the Commissione's diplomatic service, directly serving the foreign interests of the American Mafia in their internationally syndicated strata of 'business.' He was also lobbyist and payoff man, arbiter and counselor, a central point of contact for the various American families who were doing business in France, and a liaison between the syndicate and non-syndicated crime elements who plied the French trade routes. After nearly a decade of such service, Monzoor had established links and broad avenues of influence which, in everything but fact, had enthroned him as Monsieur Mafia of France.
His income was derived from a fixed percentage of business grosses, as determined by the Commissione. He was sternly forbade any 'independent action' on his own behalf, it being generally felt by the Council of Capos that a conflict of interest could thereby arise. As fair exchange for this latter restriction, however, the Commissione provided their ambassador of crime with a substantial living allowance and expense account, enabling him to move about freely and effectively in the higher strata of French society and thus better serve the masters at home.
Somehow, though, for Monzoor Rudolfi, this was not enough. There was nothing in this arrangement for the soul of a man, nothing to placate that insistent little voice from the inner man that cried for self-realization and fulfillment. If justice were to be done, Thomas Rudolfi would be officially declared Capo of France. It was his due. Instead of all the wealth moving toward America, with only a dribbling percentage left behind for the man who had made it all possible, the profits should remain in France and let the driblets cross the Atlantic. For some years now the conviction had been growing in the Rudolfi breast that this justice would inevitably one day find its level in the natural birth of the Rudolfi Family of France.
But now, on this particularly gloomy Paris day, Monzoor Rudolfi was a particularly troubled man. From the window of his townhouse study the massive architecture of the Arc de Triomphe was just becoming visible in a dissipating fog. He had moments earlier completed his third trans-Atlantic telephone conversation of the day — one of those guarded, heavily coded, and utterly depressing dialogues which usually left him with a mild case of the inner shakes. This one had left him with the outer shakes. Not only his dream but his lifestyle, his image — indeed, perhaps his very life — seemed to be in some precarious balance which was entirely beyond his direct control.
So Mack Bolan was in Paris — so what? Bolan was an American problem. Rudolfi should have no interest — certainly no percentage interest — in this mad chase across the oceans and the continents, this vendetta on the blood of a cheap rodman, a lone madman who should have been squashed months ago but for the gross mismanagement in the American branches. If Bolan meant anything to France, that meaning could only be stated in dollars or francs.
Rudolfi had long ago come to think of himself as a Frenchman. He spoke the language like a native, had begun to think in French and to speak English and Italian with an accent. Under his dedicated auspices, the French territories had established a power that would survive the rise and fall of a dozen republics — and, oui, of a dozen Commissiones. So who was this Arnesto Castiglione to suggest that it was time for a change in Paris? Eh? Perhaps it would be closer to the truth to suggest that it was time for a change on La Commissione. Eh? Oui.
What could this farmer, with an army behind him, know of the problems of Paris? What could anyone expect of a Capo who was not truly a Capo, or of a family which was not truly a family? The Paris headquarters consisted of five brothers-in-the-silence — non, but four now, the fifth lay in the morgue, poor Shippy, a toasted marshmallow of blackened remains. Rudolfi's crew! Ha! Was this not laughable? And yet this Arnesto had vilified and ridiculed this tiny family of France for failing to accomplish what all the collective armies of America had failed to accomplish, the squashing of the cockroach Bolan.
True, the cockroach behaved as a lion. But France had heard less than one day of his roar. How could the farmer of Virginia be so critical of France's restricted efforts?
Rudolfi thought that he knew the answer to that. Oui, he knew. He knew the workings of logic of these Capos who had once been common soldiers of the streets. Keep France poor, this was the plan. Keep France wholly dependent upon the small commissions from gigantic business deals, make her account franc by franc for each business expense and the most microscopic item of the operating budget. Keep Rudolfi's crew busy with decimal points and give them no time to dream of genuine empire. Let France continue to be poor and dependent upon the pleasures of the bloodsuckers of America. But ask her to risk all to capture Bolan, the Lion of America, the lion which all America could not ensnare, but let not France expect the reward which all America sought. Fail, then, and suffer ridicule and personal vilification.
The underground ambassador to France sighed and stepped away from the window — but not, he resolved, away from the dream — the image of the Arc de Triomphe lingering in the optic nerves. Oui, let that be the symbol of the lion hunt of Paris. France would triumph. If necessary, the budding Capo would descend to the streets and bear arms. But France would triumph. Let the foreign armies come, let the great white hunters descend en masse from the streetcorners of New York and Chicago and Philadelphia — and, yes, from the fields of Virginia — and let them prowl the boulevards de Paris; they would all go away empty handed and foolish-faced. France herself would bag the lion, and France herself would demand the reward. Let them try denying it.
Rudolfi was not without local power. He could command one thousand guns upon an hour's notice. He could command government officials, courts, and entire police corps. But this was not merely a contest of power. Non. This was a challenge to the soul of a man.
So, Thomas Rudolfi thinks with his balls, eh? He went to his desk, unlocked it, withdrew the prized luger with swastika inlays in the handle, tested the action, then picked up the telephone and buzzed the garage for his car. The dream, he had decided, was not going to crumble. It was going to grow. It would grow in the fertile soil of Bolan's carcass.
7
The Hard Set
Bolan awakened at shortly past three o'clock, showered again, shaved, and had lunch with a towel draped about his middle. The valet shop had freshened his suit; new shirts from the tailor shop hung beside it. He deliberated a course of action over coffee, then came to a decision and first donned the black skinsuit which had become an Executioner trademark. Another brief silent debate followed, regarding the .45 automatic and its sideleather. He had heard of a place where one might obtain more exotic weapons... He resolved the debate by checking the clip in the .45 and the spares in the belt, then carefully stowing the set in his briefcase. Then he put on shirt and pants, strapped on the .32, tested the breakaway, finished dressing, grabbed his briefcase, and went to the lobby.
The desk clerk sent for his rental car and gave him a note which had been left in his box. It read: 'Welcome to Paris, darling. But why have you not called?' It was signed 'Cici.'
The smiling clerk was anxious to be helpful. 'Mademoiselle Carceaux is staying at this very hotel, M'sieur.' His hand was on the telephone. 'If you wish now, I will ring her...'
Bolan grunted a blunt, 'No thanks,' and went outside to await the car, his mind freezing around the implications of that little note. Sure, Gil Martin was undoubtedly known throughout Europe — why shouldn't he have personal connections right here in Paris?
Bolan knew enough about human perceptions that he had had no great qualms about masquerading as an American celebrity in front of those who knew him only from his films... but anyone who knew Martin in the flesh would not be deceived by Bolan's likeness.
So okay, he would have to get out of the Gil Martin cover with all possible haste. One day... he would try it on for one day... and even that might be pushing things beyond the limit.
The car was a small sedan of French make, ideally inconspicuous for Bolan's purposes. He drove directly to the Opera, encountering no difficulty in finding that Paris landmark, then onto Grands Boulevards — that great succession of avenues which begins as Boulevard des Italiens and progresses through several other names and successively poorer neighborhoods, yet flowing on as a single bustling avenue of movie houses, music halls, shops, and a thousand interesting flavors of France.
