terrace.
Lights came on all around the house. The gangsters’ women, huddled together, could be seen anxiously peering through the windows. The capo from Marseilles stepped down into the garden and approached Bolan. “It seems we have to offer you a vote of thanks, guy,” he said. “Like twice this same night.”
“Part of the job.” Bolan made his voice gruff. “That’s what you’re paying me for, isn’t it?”
“Paying you?..” Jean-Paul stared at the wet-suited warrior, his brow knitted into a frown. Then suddenly the handsome face cleared. “Sondermann!” he exclaimed. “You’re Kurt Sondermann, right?”
“When I’m not playing with fire!” Bolan said.
6
The man in the cellar was screaming again. Marcel Sanguinetti walked to the stereo and turned up the volume. He snapped his fingers at a white-coated waiter, ordering him to circulate more rapidly with his tray of champagne-filled glasses.
Conversation among the wives and mistresses of the gang bosses became shriller, boosting the pretense that they had heard nothing.
The wounded raider had cried out often enough as he was manhandled into the house from the gutted cabin. But that was because of the pain from the burns and injuries he had suffered in the bomb blast. Now the screams had a more desperate note. Smiler and his two buddies were in the cellar exercising their sinister skills on the nerves and flesh of an already ravaged body.
Bolan stood outside a huge salon. Scalese, Ancarani and the Toulon capo, Pasquale Lombardo, were standing by a window in a haze of cigar smoke. Borrone huddled with the three other Americans and the Parisian baron. Only Sanguinetti and the Sicilian, Arturo Zefarelli, were making any attempt to mix with the women.
The Executioner had declined to join the party on the excuse that a frogman suit was hardly ideal wear for a social occasion — even one that had been interrupted by an armed assault that he himself had been largely instrumental in repelling. His real reason was the fear of being recognized by the KGB colonel, Antonin.
Jean-Paul had introduced them when the attack was over, but Bolan had already pulled the helmet on again and the Russian had hardly glanced at him.
Bolan sipped a glass of champagne in the passageway between the salon and the bar. The waiter passed in and out with foaming bottles, hors d’oeuvres, fresh glasses.
Jean-Paul returned to the big room with Antonin in tow. Bolan figured they had been below to check out the information acquired by Smiler. “A few minutes more, Colonel,” the gang boss had promised within Bolan’s earshot.
Antonin nodded and turned to talk to a group of the younger women.
Jean-Paul moved among the guests, his thick white hair and tanned, handsome face conspicuous above the glare and glitter of the underdressed and overpainted females. The Executioner observed that Scalese, Ancarani and Lombardo stopped speaking as the capo from Marseilles approached them.
Bolan recalled that the Toulonnais boss had been the least enthusiastic of the hoods during the conference he had overheard, and the other two, besides throwing out the most challenging questions, had from time to time been whispering to each other.
Maybe their sudden silence now was due to fear. Or even politeness. But he filed the fact away in his mind for future reference.
Coralie Sanguinetti emerged from the kitchens and approached him. She was stuffing her small gun — it was a twenty-four ounce Semmerling LM-4 with a cobblestone Hogue combat grip — into her purse before she joined the party.
“It’s a good professional lightweight,” Bolan told her as she passed. “Looking at the guests, I reckon you’d be wiser keeping it handy.”
She swung around and stared at him. “Herr Sondermann,” she said coldly, “you may have assisted us in a material way, but please remember you are a guest in my father’s house. If you don’t like the company, you are quite free to leave.”
Bolan
Lights came on all around the house. The gangsters’ women, huddled together, could be seen anxiously peering through the windows. The capo from Marseilles stepped down into the garden and approached Bolan. “It seems we have to offer you a vote of thanks, guy,” he said. “Like twice this same night.”
“Part of the job.” Bolan made his voice gruff. “That’s what you’re paying me for, isn’t it?”
“Paying you?..” Jean-Paul stared at the wet-suited warrior, his brow knitted into a frown. Then suddenly the handsome face cleared. “Sondermann!” he exclaimed. “You’re Kurt Sondermann, right?”
“When I’m not playing with fire!” Bolan said.
6
The man in the cellar was screaming again. Marcel Sanguinetti walked to the stereo and turned up the volume. He snapped his fingers at a white-coated waiter, ordering him to circulate more rapidly with his tray of champagne-filled glasses.
Conversation among the wives and mistresses of the gang bosses became shriller, boosting the pretense that they had heard nothing.
The wounded raider had cried out often enough as he was manhandled into the house from the gutted cabin. But that was because of the pain from the burns and injuries he had suffered in the bomb blast. Now the screams had a more desperate note. Smiler and his two buddies were in the cellar exercising their sinister skills on the nerves and flesh of an already ravaged body.
Bolan stood outside a huge salon. Scalese, Ancarani and the Toulon capo, Pasquale Lombardo, were standing by a window in a haze of cigar smoke. Borrone huddled with the three other Americans and the Parisian baron. Only Sanguinetti and the Sicilian, Arturo Zefarelli, were making any attempt to mix with the women.
The Executioner had declined to join the party on the excuse that a frogman suit was hardly ideal wear for a social occasion — even one that had been interrupted by an armed assault that he himself had been largely instrumental in repelling. His real reason was the fear of being recognized by the KGB colonel, Antonin.
Jean-Paul had introduced them when the attack was over, but Bolan had already pulled the helmet on again and the Russian had hardly glanced at him.
Bolan sipped a glass of champagne in the passageway between the salon and the bar. The waiter passed in and out with foaming bottles, hors d’oeuvres, fresh glasses.
Jean-Paul returned to the big room with Antonin in tow. Bolan figured they had been below to check out the information acquired by Smiler. “A few minutes more, Colonel,” the gang boss had promised within Bolan’s earshot.
Antonin nodded and turned to talk to a group of the younger women.
Jean-Paul moved among the guests, his thick white hair and tanned, handsome face conspicuous above the glare and glitter of the underdressed and overpainted females. The Executioner observed that Scalese, Ancarani and Lombardo stopped speaking as the capo from Marseilles approached them.
Bolan recalled that the Toulonnais boss had been the least enthusiastic of the hoods during the conference he had overheard, and the other two, besides throwing out the most challenging questions, had from time to time been whispering to each other.
Maybe their sudden silence now was due to fear. Or even politeness. But he filed the fact away in his mind for future reference.
Coralie Sanguinetti emerged from the kitchens and approached him. She was stuffing her small gun — it was a twenty-four ounce Semmerling LM-4 with a cobblestone Hogue combat grip — into her purse before she joined the party.
“It’s a good professional lightweight,” Bolan told her as she passed. “Looking at the guests, I reckon you’d be wiser keeping it handy.”
She swung around and stared at him. “Herr Sondermann,” she said coldly, “you may have assisted us in a material way, but please remember you are a guest in my father’s house. If you don’t like the company, you are quite free to leave.”
Bolan
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