Assault on Soho by Don Pendleton Page B

his embrace slacken. Borderline consciousness had surrendered to complete exhaustion. She pushed him onto his back and adjusted the pillow to his head, studied the strong face for a moment, then impulsively kissed his lips.
    "Big bad Bolan," she whispered, then nestled her face in his throat and very contentedly joined him in sleep.
    For both of them, man and woman, a survival crisis had been reached and passed, each in their own way. It was not to be the final one for either of them.

Chapter Seven
Counterpoint
    The Executioner's long night had ended, but across the Atlantic, in an eastern U.S. city, that same night was just beginning, with an informal meeting of Mafia bosses. The site of the conference was the suburban home of Augie Marinello, head of a powerful New York family: the subject was Mack Bolan, and what to do about him.
    Contrary to popular myth, there was no "boss of all the bosses," or Chief Capo. There had been none since the violent demise in 1931 of the first and final
Capo di tutti Capi
, Salvatore Maranzano. Instead, each Cosa Nostra "family" now had representation on
La Commissione
, or Council of Bosses, which ruled the sprawling crime syndicate.
    The present meeting was not a full council, but considerable power was represented there. In attendance were Marinello and the bosses of two other New York families, plus the overlords of several neighboring territories. Only once since the embarrassingly aborted 1957 summit meeting at Appalachia had a new full conference been attempted. And that one, at Miami a short few weeks earlier, had become a fiasco to wipe Appalachia out of the mind forever, thanks to Mack The Bastard Bolan.
    Now the eastern power clique sat in sullen thoughtfulness. Each of the men present had been present also at Miami; some bore visible wounds to remind them of the traumatic event; all bore wounds of the soul which would never heal, haunting their dreams and irritating their waking moments. Miami would never be foregotten. Nor would the man who had caused it all.
    Two burly men in tailored suits moved silently about the conference table, pouring wine from napkined magnums. With this chore completed, they quietly withdrew and closed the doors on the convention of royalty.
    Augie Marinello, host of the occasion, broke the silence with a deep-throated growl. "So the" bastard turns up in England," he said.
    Arnesto "Arnie Farmer" Castiglione, chief of the lower Atlantic seaboard, shifted uncomfortably in his chair and explained, "So I guess we didn't get him in France. I got to apologize for the bum dope. But I would've sworn… I mean, I just don't see how the bastard could have got out alive."
    "It looks like he did," spoke up a Pennsylvania boss.
    "Bet your ass he did," said the man from Jersey. "I got a bunch of dead soldiers over in England to prove it."
    Arnie Farmer grimaced. "Don't tell me about dead soldiers. We're still counting the dead in France, and tryin' to get the rest out of jail."
    Marinello sighed loudly and sibilantly. "I got word from Nick Trigger." His glance flicked to the Jersey boss. "He wants to take over the Bolan hunt."
    "I got a full crew over there right now, Augie," the Jersey man advised.
    "Sure, but how're they doing?" Marinello asked thoughtfully.
    "Well… like I told you, they've made contact twice."
    "We made contacts all over the place down in Miami," an upstate boss pointed out. "So what's that make anything?"
    "They're good boys," Jersey argued. "I think they're on top of it pretty good."
    "Bullshit," said Arnie Farmer.
    "Whattaya mean, bullshit?" Jersey flared back.
    "I mean I sent a whole damn army to France, a regular AEF f'Christ's sake, and not even half of 'em got back. That's what I mean bullshit. I mean boys like Sammy Shiv and Fat Angelo and Quick Tony went to France and never came back, that's what I mean bullshit." He tasted his wine, returning the angry glare from New Jersey over the rim of the glass. "So who've you got in England