So… twelve to fifteen… and only five New York bosses. Turrin had made no mention of other members of La Commissionetrekking in. So who, besides the bosses, was in there? Not underbosses, Turrin had made that quite clear — this stuff was strictly top level.
Going on the number of vehicles in the parking area, with other observations, Bolan decided that fifty to sixty men were inside that compound. So… thirty-five to forty-five hardmen… and probably the cream of the town.
Lights were beginning to come on in the three smaller buildings clustered about the lodge. The lights for the grounds and on the wall were also on — ready for the night.
One of those small buildings was an armory. Bolan could see the gunracks through the windows along with sporting gear, targets, and so forth.
Another seemed to be a sort of lounge area for the troops. He could see the corner of a pool table, a small bar, several men sitting around in leather chairs drinking beer from cans and talking, a few metal bunks. Sure, a bunkhouse, and about ten guys on R and R.
In the final fading light of the day, bolstered by a sudden lamp flaring on from within, Bolan saw a woman move across a window of the third building. He froze, and sharpened the field of the binoculars and waited, and he saw her again, moving past in the background, hardly more than a shadow, but definitely the shadow of a woman with a rather familiar movement — even glimpsed so fleetingly — a sort of gliding feline movement.
Bolan smiled, and sent up a silent thanks to Rachel Silver's special angel, and he watched that house with an intense interest and took note of significant things, and began to mentally fill in the outline for his own movements in the coming night.
Sure, it figured. Not even Freddie Gambella had the heft to bring skirts into that sanctorum. Onto the grounds, maybe, into an outhouse, maybe — but not through those consecrated doors of Our Thing.
Some time after the shades of darkness had draped completely about Stoney Lodge in a mantle of foreboding, Bolan looked at his watch and withdrew to the van to begin his countdown into the purest movement of warfare The Executionerhad ever undertaken.
This one was for all the marbles. Tutti o niente, Freddie, all or nothing. And the winner take all.
Chapter Seventeen
Timing
Bolan was wearing an ordinary business suit, of the type usually affected by Mafia soldiers, a bulky gray topcoat with the collar pulled up — light blue shirt with a wide flashy tie, and a snapbrim hat pulled on square and low on the eyebrows. Beneath all that he wore the shoulder harness with the silent Beretta, a short stiletto with a needle-sharp point, and a .38 revolver was thrust casually into the waistband of his trousers. He carried a bulky canvas bag over one shoulder and he was humming an Italian wedding song as he walked casually across the grounds toward the big building.
One of the patrols, about ten feet off Bolan's path, raised a hand casually and said, "Ay."
"Ay," Bolan said back to him. "Jesus I'm too cold to fart."
"Me too," the patrol growled.
"Well, try to relax," Bolan called over his shoulder. "This can't last much longer."
"God I hope not."
Bolan heard another voice in the darkness call over, "Hey, what'd he say?"
"Said it won't last much longer," the first guy replied.
"If those guys had to palaver out here," complained the invisible speaker, "it'd been over ten hours ago."
"You ain't shittin'," said his companion in suffering.
Bolan grinned to himself and went on to the back door of the main building. A soldier in an overcoat was standing just inside the kitchen with his back resting against the glass panel of the door. Bolan pushed on the door and the guy moved away.
Speaking from outside, Bolan growled, "Hey what the hell are you doing in there?"
"Warmin' my toes," the guy replied defensively. "Hell I thought I'd lost 'em."
"Well, you better get some coffee to these boys out here. Their turds are freezing inside of them."
"Yeah, sure," the guy said.
"And put something stiff in it"
"I thought the boss said no — "
"Bullshit what th' boss said. These boys are turnin' into statues."
"Okay," the guy said, the surly face breaking into a wide grin.
"Get 'em something to chew on, too."
"Christ they just had supper a hour ago."
"I don't give a shit if they had it ten minutes ago," Bolan snapped. "Get 'em something to chew on."
"Well like what?"
Bolan snorted disgustedly and replied, "Like anything. Jesus do you have to have somebody hold your dick when you pee?"
The guy moved away muttering to himself. Bolan closed the door and went on to the corner of the building, smiling over his private joke. Laced coffee and Italian pastries would get the outside men pretty well relaxed and diverted, he guessed. He stepped into the shadows at the rear for a close inspection of the main power box, a facility which he had noted during his recon of the previous night.
He set the canvas bag on the ground and removed a glob of plastic explosive, carefully molded it around the cable where it entered the box, inserted a detonator-timer, and went on.
Bolan circled the house, muttering a greeting to a sentry on the porch in front. "Ay, stay alert there," he told the guy.
The sentry eased up from a chair and stretched his back. "Let's all go to Miami for the winter," he suggested humorously.
Bolan kept to the shadows and replied, "Freddie catches you sittin' down on the job, you might go to Miami for permanent."
"Maybe you have to worry about Freddie," the guy said. "That's your problem. Augie ain't that stiff."
The reference was to Augie Marinello, until very recently regarded as the strongest boss in New York. Bolan tried his luck and told the sentry, "You better worry about Freddie until this meet is over. He's the man with the say."
The sentry coughed, and walked to the edge of the porch to spit. Then he told Bolan, "Yeah, I guess you're right."
The Executioner suggested, "Go on back to the kitchen. I got what's-his-name gettin' up some stiff coffee and snacks for you outside boys. Go on, you better get yours before he forgets you're out here."
The guy was trying to get a clear look into Bolan's face. Between the upturned coat collar and the brim of the hat, there was little more to see than a pair of eyes. That curious code of Mafia ethics prevented the common soldier from asking the simplest of all questions. He merely nodded and asked Bolan, "You covering for me here?"
Bolan said, "O' course. But don't be too long."
"Okay." The guy hurried down the steps and disappeared around the corner of the building.
Bolan went on up to the porch, opened the screen doors, and inspected the massive double doors that guarded the sanctorum. They were made to swing together, like the doors of an old-fashioned vault, and the locking mechanism was as good. The hinges at either side would have held a Cadillac together. Bolan went to work with his plastics, wedging in a thin trail along the hinges and around the entire jamb area. A little bit of this stuff, he realized, went a hell of a long ways. He completed the job and went on, leaving the sentry post "uncovered." Let the wise guy worry about it, he thought.
He crossed to the armory building, looked in through the windows, saw nothing moving in there, and stepped inside. There were cases upon cases of ammo, of all sizes and types, and racks of hand weapons of every description. All was under lock and key, and Bolan meant to keep it that way. Again he made plastic molds, placed them liberally, and got out of there.