quite free to leave.”
Bolan was amused by the way this girl blew hot and cold. “Sorry to disappoint you, ma’am,” he said, “but I’m afraid that’s out of the question. I’m employed by one of your father’s, uh, friends. I can’t leave until I get his go-ahead.”
She gave him a contemptuous look. “Is that why you are lurking in the servants’ entrance?”
Before Bolan could think of a suitable reply, Jean-Paul himself came toward them. “My dear,” he said, taking the girl’s arm in a proprietorial way, “your father needs some help entertaining the guests.”
“Whatever you say, darling,” Coralie replied with a defiant glance at the Executioner. Tossing back her long hair, she strode into the salon.
Bolan shrugged. It was understandable that she would have been hostile, catching a stranger eavesdropping in her father’s house. But she had seemed friendly and efficient during the firefight outside. But now the battle was won, suddenly he was bad news again.
No matter. He’d figure it out later. Jean-Paul interrupted his thoughts.
“You better come downstairs, Sondermann. Our bird is singing all right, but I want you to hear the last verse: you might need to learn some of the words.
They crossed the crowded room, threading their way among the guests. One or two of the hoods, and most of the women, stared curiously or appreciatively at the Executioner’s tall, muscled, blacksuited physique. Antonin paused with his champagne glass halfway to his lips. This time, as he saw Bolan’s blue eyes and the dark hair without the helmet, his brow creased in a frown. Then he turned away, and continued talking to Borrone.
Bolan was glad when they left the brightly lit room for the passageways honeycombing the extraordinary house.
Smiler met them at the door of the cellar. There was blood on his hands. “I’m sorry, boss,” he apologized after a suspicious glance at the Executioner. “The bastard croaked on us. Maybe he was too far gone to start with.”
Bolan looked beyond the hardman into a room with stone walls, part of which had been hollowed out of bedrock. The wounded attacker’s end had not been pleasant.
“Reckon there was no more to tell, anyway,” one of Smiler’s henchmen told Jean-Paul. “We know who an’ why an’ how. Since you and the Russian left, we learned a little about this bastard’s buddies and what they aim to do.”
Bolan looked enquiringly at the gang leader. He was not supposed to know the background; it was reasonable that a new arrival should want to be filled in.
“We are about to start a new... project,” J-P explained. “The details are not important. But I will tell you that certain hostile elements have been trying to wreck it. We thought we had eliminated them... but it seems we were mistaken. There are still some around.”
“Would these be from the same stable as the gorillas who jumped me on the way down?” Bolan asked. He had given the Marseilles boss a full rundown on the gas-station ambush.
“Neighbors,” J-P replied. “The soldiers you wasted there were Scotto’s boys. These punks tonight were the tail end of a small time outfit run in Paris by a guy name of Secondini. Or so this loser said.” He nodded toward the corpse.
“There’s more, J-P,” one of the hoods said.
“Such as?”
“There ain’t no more Secondinis. But there’s another team aiming to make it. They figure if you was outta the way and the plan with the Comrades fucked up, they could muscle in to your manor. Not worldwide... just your territory down here.”
“Who?” Jean-Paul’s voice was rock hard.
“The Corsicans. Balestre’s old mob.”
Jean-Paul slammed one fist into his other palm.
“Can’t trust anyone, can you, boss?” Smiler said with a shake of his head. “I fixed that guy myself, personal. There wasn’t even a piece of rope left after that buoy blew.” His small, mean eyes flicked over Bolan as if he wished the Executioner and not the young Corsican had been his victim.
“What’s their plan?” Jean-Paul said tightly. “Did he know? Did you get it out of him before he died?”
“Oh, sure.” Smiler’s mouth twitched in a grin that was pure evil. No prizes, Bolan thought, for guessing how he came by the name.
“Well?” The tanned face creased into an expression of impatience.
“They was in league with the Corsicans,” Smiler said. “This lot, I mean. Balestre’s boys were to be the backup detail — if the raid had worked out. They were waitin’ for a signal.”
“Where?”
“At sea. If they don’t get the go-ahead by midnight, they play Cinderella and try again another day.”
“You didn’t find out the signal?”
Smiler shook his head. “This punk wasn’t the boss. I don’t think he knew.”
“Does Ancarani know? About the whole deal, I mean.”
“Not on your life,” Smiler said. “Balestre and him, they weren’t exactly buddies!”
Interesting, just the same, Bolan reflected: Jean-Paul was already unsure of the Corsican capo. He could use that later.
“The guys at sea, where do they run to? Balestre’s hideout near Calvi?”
“I would think.”
“This mess must be cleaned up,” Jean-Paul said. “Fast. The Russian’s already sore about tonight. We were supposed to have sewn up any possible opposition before he showed. Now he’s staying for a couple of days instead of splitting tonight... and the slate has to be clean before he signs. So I guess it’s a surprise party at Calvi tomorrow night.”
He turned to Bolan. “You string along, Sondermann. We can use all the muscle we got. But first there’s a couple of solo deals I want to talk to you about. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
He took Bolan’s arm and piloted him away from the cellar.
“You got the retainer okay?” Jean-Paul asked as they climbed to the garden floor.
“Sure,” Bolan lied. There had been very little money in the hit man’s pockets or baggage. He guessed that whatever had been advanced to Sondermann would remain forever unclaimed in some discreet account in Hamburg or Switzerland.
“The terms are still agreeable to you?”
Bolan nodded.
“Good. You’d better get back then. I’ll brief you tomorrow night. A car will call at your hotel. I’ll have one of the guards run you back to Cassis in the launch.”
“Forget it,” Bolan said. “My car’s just across the water. I’ll take the rubber dinghy.” He grinned. “I don’t think the owners are going to need it again tonight.”
Bolan left the dinghy at the foot of the bluff, dressed and drove back to the city. He found a pay phone on the old port, fed in coins, dialed eleven digits.
A girl’s voice answered at once. “Yes?”
Bolan quoted an identification number and a password. The girl gave him a Paris number to call.
He memorized the number, waited half a minute and dialed it. The number, which was changed twice every day, was answered on the eighth ring. Bolan identified himself again, quoted the code number of the person he wished to speak to, waited while he was further checked and then patched in to a scrambler line.
“The ball game has started,” he said when finally he was put through. “We have to meet and it’s a red. Tomorrow, Number One on the list. No, make it midday. I expect to be killing some Corsicans in the evening!”
7
Mack Bolan took the early railcar east from Marseilles to the small shipbuilding port of La Ciotat. A sultry
