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
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
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