Listen, Sondermann, said J-P, there isnt anyone in this town, or my town, that I cant get some kind of a lever on.
Better still.
What do you have in mind? the gang boss asked curiously.
Bolan told him.
You must be mad! Jean-Paul said. It must be at least three hundred yards.
Of course it has to be the right time, with the right light, but given the help Im asking for, its a piece of cake.
But the angle... the deflection... youd never make it.
Ill earn my money, Bolan said.
Maitre Delpeche was the difficult one. He could not accept the fact that someone wanted him dead.
Dassin, the columnist who cherished a secret passion for high-school girls, thought it was a joke. What is this? he said good-humoredly when Bolan showed him the Beretta.
Look, Dassin, Bolan snapped. Ive been hired to kill you. But for reasons of my own, I dont want to do this one... but for other reasons, equally vital, its got to look as if the contracts been filled.
No way! the newspaperman chided.
Bolan pulled back the slide on the auto-loader.
All I have to do is fire a single shot into your temple and put the gun into your hand before I push you out the window. Therell be a suicide note, too. Something about underage kids and photos.
Youre serious, arent you? Dassins voice was suddenly shaky.
Damn right, Bolan growled.
Ill come with you, Dassin said.
Bolan took a bleeper from his pocket, thumbed a button and spoke a single word. It was necessary to have witnesses who could support the theory of an abduction, so Bolan walked behind the columnist, a folded topcoat over one arm, as they walked out through the Provencals entrance lobby. There was no reason for Dassin to put on an act: he looked scared enough to convince anyone that the tall, dark stranger with the ice-chip eyes held a gun on him.
A block away, the two men got into a black Peugeot sedan with tinted windows. Bolan was dropped off a mile farther on. Dassin and the three other men in the car drove north to a safe house built into a ruined castle.
Bolan was waiting in the underground garage of Michel Lasalles plush apartment block. The TV broadcasters handsome face paled the moment he stepped out of his Alfa Romeo and saw the dim shape of the Executioner, half-hidden in the shadow cast by a concrete pillar at one side of his parking slot.
Bolan had no trouble persuading the young man to step into the nondescript van standing nearby with its engine idling. Lasalles hands were shaking as he sank into the passenger seat.
The takeover in a black Citroen this time was in a rest area on the Marseilles-Aix expressway. Lasalle would be kept isolated in a motel near Toulon until Bolan gave the word.
Fortunately for Bolan, Maitre Delpeche was working late in his office near the cathedral. But the Executioners luck ended there. Delpeche was a courtroom bully who gained most of his acquittals especially in the defense of criminals by intimidating witnesses. His work had given him an angle on the underworld.
Who the hell do you think you are? he stormed when Bolan, easing himself, gun in hand, through the half-open door, had said his piece. What kind of hoax is this?
No hoax. Theres a contract... Bolan began.
Bullshit! Theres not a villain in the country whod want me out of the way; there isnt one whod dare. If it wasnt for me, most of the bastards would be in jail, anyway.
Bolan folded down the Berettas front handgrip.
Delpeche was sitting in a swivel chair behind his desk. He swung left and right, shaking his head. I dont believe you have orders to kill anyone. This is some kind of amateur attempt at a shakedown, isnt it?
Bolan approached the desk. I kill you... or we make it look as if I killed you. I get paid either way, as long as you stay out of sight until I leave town.
So kill me, the lawyer said.
Bolan hesitated.
No? the lawyer said. I thought not. And Im going to call the police. He reached for the telephone.
The Executioner frowned. The last thing he needed was a confrontation with the local law. And the cop or cops in question just might be on Jean-Pauls payroll... and if he discovered that Bolan was trying to fake the hits he had been hired to make, the whole scheme and Bolans cover with it would be blown wide open.
Delpeche was dialing.
Central Commissariat? Delpeche speaking. Look, I want to report an attempt...
Bolan crashed the barrel of the Beretta down on the receiver rest, cutting off communication. Delpeche looked up, a cynical smile twisting his features. Just as I thought... he began.
Bolans left fist traveled only a short distance, but it had all his weight and all his exasperation behind it. The blow caught Delpeche on the side of the jaw and knocked him cold.
Bolan picked up the unconscious lawyer, slung him over his shoulders and carried him to the service elevator.
He met nothing in the way of true resistance as they descended to the basement parking lot. Nobody saw him dump Delpeches limp figure in the passenger seat of the lawyers Jaguar. But there was a barrier pole barring the exit at the foot of the ramp leading to the street. A uniformed guard in a glassed-in hut at one side of the pole was sharing a bottle of beer with the janitor.
Recognizing the car, he moved toward the lever that raised the barrier... and then, seeing Bolan at the wheel and the inert figure slumped beside him, he leaped for the doorway of the cabin, reaching for the revolver holstered at his waist.
Bolan was out of the car before the guy had time to draw his weapon. The Executioner fired two shots from the Beretta deliberately high, above the heads of the two men, shattering the glass, wrecking an electric clock on the cabin wall.
On the floor, he snapped. Both of you, if you want to stay alive. Facedown. Hands above your heads.
The two men complied and Bolan plucked the guards gun from its holster and sent it skittering away beneath the parked cars. While the two men quaked on the floor, he yanked the lever operating the barrier and ran back to the Jaguar. The big rear tires laid rubber on the ramp as he took off.
The warrior was satisfied how everything had worked out so far. The interrupted call to the police, added to the assault on the guard and his friend, who would have seen the lawyers unconscious body in the car, would strengthen the abduction scenario. Bolan spoke into his transceiver.
Chamson and Telders undercover operatives took Delpeche ten miles outside the city limits. Keep a close watch on this one, Bolan advised. Hes tricky. Doesnt believe a thing hes told. If he still doubts the story when you guys fill him in... well, I guess thats just his bad luck!
The Jaguar was abandoned near an unused gravel pit filled with stagnant water. Police frogmen would be dragging it for Delpeches body within twenty-four hours.
There was blood, Delpeches, on the Jaguars beige leather seats. The lawyers nose had been bleeding when Bolan put him in the car.
Beneath the seats, the investigators would find three more spent shells Bolan had fired a burst into the air that matched the two outside the cabin in the basement parking lot.
If that didnt add up to a prima facie case of kidnapping and murder, Bolan reflected grimly, nothing would.
12
Bolan was wearing a white coverall when he approached the police line with Raoul, the stockier of Smilers henchmen.
Raoul was similarly dressed. He was carrying a canvas case and there was a short aluminum ladder supported on his left shoulder. Bolans hands were weighed down with two five-kilo cans of anticorrosion paint that had already been opened and partly used. Paintbrush handles projected from the knee pocket of his coverall.