Bolan smiled. "There isn't a police hotline from that john, is there?"
The bureau chief faintly returned the smile. "I'm not that big an idiot, friend."
He went out and Bolan went to the file cabinet. He found a small spiral notebook which seemed to fill his requirements and dropped it into a pocket. An oblong manila envelope contained small mug-shot photos with names pencilled on the back. This also went into Bolan's pocket.
When Sharpe returned, Bolan was standing at the window. He turned to show the man a tight smile and told him, "Well, I won't take any more of your time. On second thought I have everything I need. I'd appreciate it, though, if you'd put out a news story for me."
Sharpe gave him a wry grin. "An obituary preview?"
"You could call it that. The story, though, concerns the why much more than the who. Beginning very soon now, for every hour that those ten girls remain missing, a top Mafia connection is going to die."
A momentary silence, then: "Jesus Christ! So that's how..."
Bolan soberly nodded his head. "That's how. And I'd like to see the story go out. It's important that these guys know why they're dying."
"One every hour?"
"More or less. Until the girls are turned loose. And I suggest that somebody work out a method for verifying it when the girls are freed." Bolan stepped toward the door.
"Wait, dammit. How soon can I release this story?"
"Give me about two hours. After that, the sooner the better... and the louder the better. Uh, how about verification that the girls are free?"
"Can you keep check on the Nice TV station?"
Bolan said, "I'll make a point to." He smiled and departed.
There was nothing secret, of course, about the information in his pocket. The police knew those names, various agencies of the UN knew them, and they had appeared in syndicated news stories throughout the world at one time or another. Knowing was one thing; establishing legal proof was quite another; even in the face of legal proof, obtaining prosecution and convictions was often quite another thing also. Bolan did not need to establish legal proof, nor was he interested in political influence. Bolan merely needed to know. And now he did.
The rabbits would run for their holes, of course if not right away, then as soon as the first one fell over dead. It would require all the skill of his trade to carry out the promise. Somehow, he would have to do so and he would be required to run risks which he would prefer to avoid. But a lot was at stake. So, once again, he was finding himself faced with a do-or-die situation.
He was wondering at which side of the question he would finally find Cici Carceaux. Regardless of where she was placing herself, Bolan was resolved to use her as much as possible on the do side. She knew the country, she knew the people, and she seemed eager to help. Bolan was in no position to refuse any offer of help, no matter how suspect the source.
Cici was waiting for him in the car. In the back seat reposed a lengthy object in heavy brown wrapping paper. "Oh-kay, I found what you wanted," she reported. "In the Safari Shop. It is a formidable weapon. I could 'ardly carry it."
"Any problems?" he asked.
"For me, a citizen of France, no. Why do you need such a formidable weapon?"
"I'm going to be doing some big-game hunting," he replied quietly.
"The salesman assures me that this will drop the charging rhino," she said. "But there are no rhinos on the Riviera, stand-in."
Bolan said, "That reminds me. I was just talking to Gilbear. He doesn't remember you, Cici."
Very softly, she said, "Oh, my."
"You're not going to explain?"
"No."
"Okay. Point me to your 'ouse."
"Take the 'ighway to Cannes," she directed. "The villa is about 'alfway."
"I hope, for everybody's sake, it's not 'alfway to 'ell, Cici."
"Between 'eaven and 'ell exist many levels," she said in a small voice. "I 'ave not betrayed you, Mack Bolan, whatevair you may be thinking."
"Just don't betray yourself," he muttered. They were leaving the beautiful seaside city behind them and cruising along a beach drive lined with palm trees. He thought briefly of Miami and Palm Springs and many battlegrounds beyond and, for one flashing moment, knew an almost overpowering sorrow for himself.
The French Riviera would have made a nice setting for Eden.
He quickly flung Eden away once and for all and savagely discharged the destructive little flicker of self-pity. He opened his jacket and checked the side-leather with his fingertips. Cici was on her knees again, quietly watching him from the far corner of the seat. He stated straight ahead and solemnly told her, "I believe I was falling in love with you."
"And I with you," she replied, almost whispering.
"We make a nice pair of frauds."
"Yes, but I 'ave not betrayed you, Mack Bolan."
"Why did you bring me down here?"
"To save you."
"Oh, come on now. All this risk to save a total stranger?"
"I 'ave my reasons," she insisted. "And now, after these hours at your side, the reasons 'ave grown."
He sighed. "Cici, if there's a set waiting for me at that villa we're both going to die. I hope you realize that."
"What is this set?"
"Ambush, trap."
"There is no ambush at Cici's villa."
Bolan hoped not. He wanted to believe her, and not just for reasons of the heart. He needed a headquarters which would offer him easy access to the resort towns along the Riviera, a strike center which would put him within range of places like Monaco, Nice, Cannes, St. Tropez, Monte Carlo, Juan-les-Pins, St. Jean-Cap-Ferrat the campgrounds of international high society and fellow-travelers. The villa, as described by Cici, seemed perfect for Bolan's plans, and worth the calculated risk involved.
"You are looking very angry," Cici whispered.
"I'm not angry, Cici."
But he was. He was thinking of another fraud, a refined Englishwoman masquerading as a whore one who had sought the taste of life in purgatory and who was at this very moment probably descending into the hell of all hells. He was thinking also of a redheaded kid with plump breasts and painted nipples and of an entire line-up of faceless ones who had brushed past him with whispers of "merci." And an older one with bitterness in her face and spit at her lips for the pains of life. Yes, Bolan was angry. Very shortly now, that anger would be spilling out in the most coldly violent expression of his violent life and the most fearsome experience since the days of the Third Reich would descend upon this international playground The Executioner in rampage.
13
Battle Order
The villa checked out clean and was in every respect ideal for Bolan's plans. The two-story archetype of Mediterranean architecture stood atop a low bluff overlooking a small private cove and beach. A lock-gate and extensive grounds to either side assured privacy. At the rear, winding stone steps descended from a marble patio to the beach and boat dock, where a sleek cruiser glistened in the Mediterranean sun.
At Bolan's suggestion, Cici sent away an old man and his daughter, caretaker and maid and Bolan immediately went to work. He carried the package from the Safari Shop into the house and broke the big rifle down piece by piece, closely inspecting all critical components then he oiled and reassembled it. It was a clip-fed Belgian model, accepting .444 high-velocity and sharp-impact steel-jacketed ammo, with a 20-power intense-field scope and range finder.