"On to Cannes, stand-in," she replied, smiling.
"Understand this," he added solemnly. "At this moment, we're even. We can say goodbye and, as far as I'm concerned, part as friends. But if we go on... and I discover that you are my enemy... well, you will be in very great danger, Cici."
"On to Cannes," she repeated, the smile remaining.
Bolan sighed inwardly and his foot grew heavy on the accelerator. Something, he knew, was screwy as hell about Cici Carceaux. At the moment she was playing the role of friend. He would accept that... for the moment. But he would watch her... and with his mind, not his heart. With ten female lives consigned to a living hell on his account, The Executioner could not afford a heart.
As for those moments in Eden... they seemed now lost forever.
12
The Riviera Plan
Most of the trip from Lyon to the coast was conducted in virtual silence and it was nearing noon when the Rolls entered Nice and eased along the main boulevard, Avenue Jean-Medecin. Bolan's thoughts had brought him here; now Cici's directions guided him to the specific objective he sought, the Mediterranean headquarters of an American press service.
He parked just off the Promenade des Anglais, the beach-front drive, and he and Cici went separate ways from there she insisting upon performing a particularly important service for him.
Bolan first stopped at the telephone exchange and placed a call to the Pension de St. Germain in Paris. After some small delay, the breathless voice of Nancy Walker came pleasantly across the wire.
Bolan told her, "This is the alter-ego. Just checking. Are things all right there?"
She said, "Oh my gosh, they're turning this town upside down for you! Where are you calling from?"
"A safe place," he assured her.
"Well, burrow deep! Even Interpol is nosing around. They were here early this morning."
"There? At your hotel?"
"Yes. Real tough guys. Gill thinks they were phonies, but I don't know what..."
"Where is that telephone, Nancy?"
"This one? In the hall just outside my room."
"Could I possibly speak to Gil?"
"Well... I don't know... his poor hands. I'd have to hold the phone for him."
Bolan said, "I need to talk to him, Nancy."
"Just a sec."
After a short wait, Martin's voice announced, "You've blown the cover, boy. They're tearing Paris apart for old Gil Martin. What's more, your other buddies are hot on the scent. They were here this morning, posing as Interpol agents of all things."
Bolan asked, "Did they challenge you?"
"Hell no, I was under the bed. They were calling on Nancy."
"You didn't get a look at them, then."
"Only through the window, as they were leaving. But I'd bet my residuals they were Mafia. Where are you?"
Bolan told him, "I'm with Cici."
"Cici who?"
Bolan recalled uttering those precise same words a few hours earlier, and in just about the same tone of voice. He replied, "You're old loving buddy, Cici Carceaux. I picked her up in your hotel room."
"Good work, but I've never met the lady. We almost worked together once but the deal fell through at the last minute. Where'd you get the idea that?.."
Bolan said, "This is important as hell, Gil. No cute stuff... do you or do you not know Cici Carceaux?"
"Professionally, by reputation, that's all. She's currently the hottest thing on film, the sex darling of Europe but no, sorry to say, I do not know her personally."
"Okay." Bolan's voice was tinged with an I-knew-it sadness. "I guess that's all I wanted, Gil. Uh... you're right about that cover, it's blown all the way off. You may as well come out now if you'd like. But very carefully. Call the cops to you, don't go out on the street looking for them. They might shoot first and check identities later."
"Hell no, I'm staying put for awhile. Never had it so good."
Bolan could hear Nancy Walker's soft laughter in the background. He grinned into the mouthpiece and said, "Okay, see you in the movies," and hung up.
Yeah, Eden was a total flare-out.
He went back to the street and quickly to the press service headquarters. He stepped in off the street just as a guy was coming through the doorway from an inner office into a smallish room of quiet activity. A girl was bent over a teletype machine in the corner, another was busy at a typewriter at the far side of the room.
Bolan and the man stared at each other for a frozen moment, the guy doing a double-take on Bolan, then he stepped quickly back into the office and snapped, "Jesus Christ, get in here!"
Bolan followed the man into the private office and accepted a chair. The guy shut the door and went immediately to a filing cabinet, took out a bottle and two glasses, and told his guest, "I don't have any ice or mix, sorry."
Bolan said, "Thanks, I'd better have nothing at all."
The man promptly returned the bottle and closed the drawer, then paced nervously across the floor to his desk. Bolan told him, "Guess there's no need to introduce myself."
"Please don't," was the quick reply. "Just tell me why you're here."
"Are you Lon Wilson?"
The man shook his head. "I'm Dave Sharpe, bureau chief,"
Bolan nodded. "I remember some feature stories from this part of the world. Two, maybe three months ago. An expose of Mafia connections, something about the drug traffic. I figure you know more than you reported."
"Lon did those. He's in Turkey now."
"You must have records, files, something. All I want is a list of names and addresses people known to have Mafia connections in this area."
Sharpe smiled grimly. "Oh, is that all you want? Why do you think I had to send my man to Turkey?"
Bolan said, "I'm thinking of an exchange of information.''
"What did you think you'd exchange?"
"My reasons for wanting the list."
"Huh?"
"I'll tell you why I want the names and what I intend to do with them... if you'll just give them to me."
Sharpe offered Bolan a cigarette, took one for himself, nervously exhaled a cloud of smoke, then said, "Any idiot knows why you want the names, friend. Also, any idiot who gave them to you would become an accessory to murder. Isn't that right?"
Bolan shrugged. "It isn't privileged information. Those names are a matter of public record, and you know it. If I could move about freely I could get them from various sources. But I can't move freely and I'm racing the clock. I need them right now."
"Why?"
"That's part of the deal. I can tell you this... the story will shake France."
"Yeah?"
Bolan grinned. "Yeah."
The guy was thinking about it. He said, "Convince me."
"It has to do with the ten girls snatched from a house of joy in Paris early this morning."
The newsman's hand trembled as he removed the cigarette from his lips. He said, "Then they really were snatched? For Africa?"
Bolan nodded. "I've confirmed it. And I intend to get them back."
"How?"
"That depends on you."
Sharpe seemed impaled on the horns of a moral dilemma. He stood in a silent cloud of smoke for a moment, then: "Over in that cabinet, third drawer, there's a file marked LW. I'm going to the john. Be back in about a minute. What you do while I'm gone is a matter of your own conscience, not mine."