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 humidity had hazed the air and turned the sea from Mediterranean blue to a dull pewter color that merged with the sky.
Still, the long curving strip of shore that lined the bay beyond the old town was crowded. Oiled vacationers lay packed like sardines on the blistering sand. The water was busy with swimmers, windsurfers and pleasure boats. It seemed a far cry from the murderous exchanges less than twelve hours ago at La Rocaille.
Bolan intended it to be. Of the handful of passengers who had left the diesel railcar at the station, none,
“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 humidity had hazed the air and turned the sea from Mediterranean blue to a dull pewter color that merged with the sky.
Still, the long curving strip of shore that lined the bay beyond the old town was crowded. Oiled vacationers lay packed like sardines on the blistering sand. The water was busy with swimmers, windsurfers and pleasure boats. It seemed a far cry from the murderous exchanges less than twelve hours ago at La Rocaille.
Bolan intended it to be. Of the handful of passengers who had left the diesel railcar at the station, none,
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