Sunscream

“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 main 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.