Assault on Soho (11 page)

Her voice dropped into low key again as she said, "Then I would fear that he had gone quite mad. I would feel the deepest pity for him."

"If he did do it, Ann, I'll probably have to zap him."

"You'll have to what?"

"There's something smelly about this whole setup, and I'm not talking about sexual perversion. Something very rotten and very evil is underlying this entire mishmash, and I'm betting that Edwin Charles did not die at some madman's spur of the moment whim. He died for some damn good reason. I believe that this reason somehow is related to my presence in London, and I'm betting that the killer and I will have a showdown before it's all over. When that happens, Ann, I will probably kill him."

She murmured, "And you believe that this shadowy 'someone' could possibly be Major Stone."

"It's more than a possibility," he told her.

The girl pulled herself erect. She crossed her legs, Indian fashion as she sat on the bed. She gazed steadily at Bolan for a thoughtful moment, then said, "But suppose that Charles was actually in on the blackmail plot?"

"That could change things," Bolan admitted. "Do you think he was?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "I hardly know what to think at this point." She got off the bed and went to the window, pulled back the blinds, and stared somberly outside. "It's daylight," she announced quietly. "What a difference twenty-four hours can bring."

Bolan wanted to get things firmly understood. He told her, "The point of it all, Ann… I may turn out to be your very worst enemy."

"You could never be that," she murmured, still gazing out the window.

"A few minutes ago you were ready to blow my head off," he reminded her.

"Not really." She sighed and her head drooped toward the windowpane. "I was simply shocked and frightened and confused. I could never have pulled that trigger. I'm in love with you, Mack."

Bolan said, "All right, maybe I feel something of the same for you. But it won't change a thing at the nitty-gritty level, Ann. I'm going to keep hacking at this thing, and the chips are going to lie where they fall."

Silent tears were oozing down the smooth cheeks as she turned to him and said, "Then let's make a pact."

"What sort of pact?" he asked gruffly.

"To love one another… 'til murder do us part."

He said, "Dammit, Ann," and moved to her and took her in his arms.

She gave way entirely then, the sobs racking her and the tears flowing unrestrained. Bolan held her and patted her and whispered, "Hey, hey, hey…"

She had her cry, and a tender kiss or two, and she was nuzzling contentedly at his shoulder when suddenly she stiffened and raised her head to gaze intently out the window.

"Mack!" she said, her voice tight with alarm. "You said you've been afoot… but… did a taxicab bring you here?"

He followed her gaze to the window and replied, "Yes, but I had him drop me up on Euston Road. What's going on out there?"

"Did I forget to… ? Charles warned me that the taxi companies were alerted to watch out for you. Now see what…"

Bolan grabbed the blinds and closed them with a jerk. Russell Square was beginning to crawl with bobbies. He flung himself away from the girl and snatched up the guncase and headed for the door.

Ann grabbed his suitcase and ran after him.

"You stay!" he commanded.

"I'll not stay," she replied firmly. "I've a rental car in the alley. Don't waste time arguing."

Bolan knew the wisdom of that last remark. He quickly doused the lights and grabbed Ann's elbow and hustled her through the doorway and along to the rear stairway.

With a lot of luck, they just might make it. "Listen," he said urgently, "if the cops start shooting, then that's it and it's the end of things. You hit the dirt and dammit don't move a muscle. And you tell 'em that I was holding a gun on you. Remember that, you were my prisoner—otherwise they'll throw the book at you."

"We'll escape," she said confidently. "Never worry, we'll get through."

She was plucky as hell and Bolan was proud of her and… yeah, he was more than just proud of her.

He hadn't really wanted to leave her behind. They'd made a pact. They were together until… Bolan was hoping for a long romance. But, under the circumstances, he was not counting on it.

Giliamo and Turrin were outside to greet the new arrivals as the glistening motorcade swept into the drive. Staccio had remained in the house, growling, "If Arnie Farmer wants to see me, let 'im look me up."

As the vehicles continued to pull in, Giliamo leaned back toward Turrin and remarked, "Christ, how many heads has he brought with him?"

Turrin grinned. "You ain't seen nothing. This is just his personal party. We made arrangements around town for the other crews."

The driver of the lead vehicle jumped out and snatched open the rear door. A loud command from inside resulted in the door being hastily closed again. The driver ran down the line of vehicles, thumping doors and issuing orders on the run. Men began erupting from the cars and milling about in confusion until crew leaders took over and turned the chaos into order. Two groups went to the street, broke up, and disappeared. Others began prowling the grounds and manning the fence. Another group filed solemnly past Giliamo and Turrin with hardly a glance at the reception committee and went inside, presumably to shake down the house.

Turrin had watched all this with a bemused smile. In a low aside to Giliamo, he remarked, "Talk about your palace guard. The President should have such a security thing, eh?"

Giliamo, though, was obviously impressed by the show of force. He said, "Look I don't blame 'im. I know. I been there."

"You been where?"

The Jerseyite flushed and replied, "Never mind, I know all about this Bolan and I gotta hand it to Arnie Farmer, he knows what he's doing."

Turrin chuckled and watched the proceedings without further comment. Presently a hard-looking man approached the Castiglione vehicle, quietly opened the door, and said something to the men inside in a hushed voice. Two bodyguards exited from the front seat, on the opposite side, and took up waiting positions there, looking nervously around. Another two came off the jumpseats in the rear and bracketed the doorway with their bodies. Then the man himself stepped out, followed quickly by a companion. The bodyguards fell in to form a tight circle and the party moved forward with Castiglione barely visible in the center.

As they were ascending the steps, Turrin muttered to Giliamo, "Now don't forget and call 'im Arnie."

Giliamo nodded and stepped forward with a big smile. "Glad to see you, Mr. Castiglione," he called out. "Christ, things have been going to hell over here. I'm sure glad to see you." Then the smile faded, and Danno pulled on a shocked face. Nick Trigger was standing there beside the great man, and he also was wearing a dumbfounded look.

Castiglione was giving Giliamo a thoughtful glare. He said, "I'm glad to see you too, Danno. Nick's been telling me all about your fuckin' head getting blown off."

Giliamo said, "Christ, I thought the same about him! For Christ's sake, Nick, how'd you get out of that?"

Nick smiled pastily and glanced at Arnie Farmer. "I don't know," he mumbled. "I think I got my brains rattled a little."

"I think somebody's got something rattled, Castiglione growled. "Let's talk about it inside. This's the lousiest weather I ever saw, Danno. Is it always like this over here?"

Turrin recognized the weather-talk as a subtle shift of favor from Nick Trigger to Danno.

Giliamo had picked it up also. He replied, "It's been pretty bad. They got a polution problem, I think, but then who hasn't. And it mixes with the damned fog I guess, and you gotta wear warmer clothes than that, Mr. Castiglione, that'll never do over here, you'll catch your death o' cold."

They went on past Leo Turrin with only a glance and a nod of the head from Arnie Farmer. Turrin nodded back and watched them go inside, and he was thinking that Danno was a Mafia politician to watch. Disarmingly frank and open, all smiles—and all the while probably, a switchblade concealed in his fist.

The man who had been driving the Castiglione vehicle came slowly up the steps and stood beside Turrin. Leo gave him a cigarette and they both lit up. The driver exhaled and said disgustedly, "Big fuckin' deal."

Turrin grinned and told him, "Maybe you'll be Capo some day, Wheeler."

"No way," the wheelman replied. "Not if I gotta act like that. That turns my stomach, Leo."

Toby Wheeler was a member of Turrin's crew from Pittsfield. The name was obviously a Mafia monicker, but Leo had never heard any other used on the man. The story went that Wheeler had once been a racing car driver and twice had narrowly missed qualifying for the big one at Indianapolis. Now he was a valuable chauffeur, a wheelman
par excellence
. He sucked again on the cigarette and told his boss, "I got to take that Caddie back to the U-Drive, Leo. It's pulling a little to the left in the turns. They shouldn't check out faulty equipment like that."

Turrin nodded and said, "Okay, I'll tell you when. Right now I want a report. What was Arnie talking about on the way in?"

"This'n that, mostly that. Buncha shit, really. All about what he's going to do to this Bolan bastard. And that other guy… what's his name?"

"Nick Trigger."

"Yeah, that Nick Trigger… did you see his face when he spotted Danno? He was out at the airport on his own, to meet the planes. Do you know what he was talking about most of the way in here? He was telling Arnie the Pig all about how Danno had fucked up everything over here, just everything, and about how Danno wound up walking into a Bolan trap and getting hisself splattered all over some street."

Turrin smiled and commented, "So that's what it was."

"Yeah, and did you hear the first thing Danno says to Nick? He says for Christ's sake, how'd Nick get out of that. How did
Nick
get out. And Nick had been telling Arnie the Pig that he wouldn't go with Danno because he knew Danno was all fucked up. He told him that flat out, I heard it."

"You better go easy on that Arnie the Pig stuff," Turrin advised quietly.

"With all due respect to the good bosses, Leo, that's what he is. But you're right, I better go easy on it. I hear he took a territory away from a boy once just because the guy forgot to call him
mister
. Imagine that. Next he'll be wanting to be called
Don
Castiglione.

Listen, Leo, I'd rather not wheel for Arnie if you can get someone else."

Turrin chuckled. "Don't worry, Arnie will be rolling with his own wheelman from here on. You was just a courtesy. Say, is that all you got to tell me?"

"Naw, you were right, they're planning something. They were talking careful because they know I'm with you. And I couldn't put my finger on any one thing they said, but I know shit when I hear it. Take my word, Leo, they're planning something."

"Okay thanks, Wheeler." Turrin squeezed the man's arm and went on inside to join the others. Leo knew damn well they were planning something. But that was okay. Leo knew how to make plans too.

It seemed that the park at Russell Square was being used as a marshalling point for the police. Bolan could hear the sharp commands and sound of running feet as the squads split off into their search areas. He had agreed that Ann would pilot the car; she slid in behind the wheel as Bolan put his things in and dived into the back seat.

A uniformed policeman ran into view and cried, "Hold on there!"—but the car had already begun to move and was picking up momentum in a quick plunge down the alley.

Whistles were sounding back there, and a sudden swirl of blue suits in the area they had just vacated revealed to Bolan the narrowness of their escape. And they were not all that clear yet.

The little car swerved into the street below Russell Square and skidded off into an easterly run. Bolan threw a leg over and fought his way into the front seat as a tootling wail of sirens rose up to plague fheir rear. He asked the girl, "Do you know where you're going?"

"Not just yet," she gasped. "Never worry, they'll not catch us."

Bolan could believe it. She was an expert driver, and she was pushing the car to the limit of the terrain, zig-zagging through the London maze in a way that would make downstream interceptions very unlikely. After several minutes of this it became evident that they had gotten away. The sounds of pursuit became fainter and more confused, and Bolan told her, "You're some wheelman."

"It's my first time," she admitted, the dark eyes flashing with excitement. "I mean, very nearly."

They were running easy now, angling toward the Thames and slowly working into a westward swing. The town seemed fully awakened, and the streets were becoming choked with buses and private vehicles as the off-to-work crowd descended on the inner city.

The girl told Bolan, "I believe I've decided where we shall go."

"And where is that?"

"Soho Psyche, for now. We'll spend a few hours there, until things cool off a bit, then we'll be off to Brighton. I've a cottage there. And it will be a perfectly smashing place."

Never mind smashing Brighton, Bolan's mind was still hung up on that first place. His eyes narrowed somewhat and he echoed, "Soho Psyche?"

"Yes, there'll be nobody about but the cleaning personnel—and surely no one would think to look for you there. Then the cottage in Brighton will make an ideal layover. We'll keep you concealed there until we can find a way to smuggle you out of the country."

"Wait just a minute," he growled. "What's the deal on Soho Psyche? I don't know that I—"

She interrupted with a peal of nervous laughter.

"How rotten of me, I assumed you knew. The Psyche is my place, at least half of it is."

"Who owns the other half?" he asked darkly.

"Major Stone is my partner. But never worry, if you're still thinking of your dreadful suspicions. The Major rarely visits the place, he's what you would term a silent partner."

The whole idea was a bit too overpowering for Bolan to assimilate immediately. He mulled the thing through his mind, finally growling, "Okay, we'll try it."

She smiled. "I have a flat there. We shall be quite comfortable."

"It seems that you have flats all over London," he replied drily.

She tossed her head and said, "Not really. The place back at Queen's House is merely a convenience for me. You'll never realize what a luxury absolute privacy can be until you've lived my life of the past few years. Sometimes I simply must get away from all of it. Queen's House is my getaway place."

"Yes, you mentioned that," he said, still watching her narrowly.

"The flat at the club is another convenience, a business one though, I assure you. Frequently I'm there until all hours. It's nice to have a place to refresh one's self from time to time."

"Uh-huh." Bolan was not enjoying the thoughts that were crowding his mind. "And, of course, you share another place with Major Stone."

"Yes." She looked at him and smiled. "Cheer up. I just sleep there, and even that as seldom as possible. It's a matter of family, actually. I grew up in that house."

"And then there's Brighton."

"Yes, well, that's my weekender. Brighton is on the sea, you know. A very nice resort, really. I love it there, by the sea."

They drove in silence for several minutes, during which time Bolan was attempting to organize his mind. They swung past Piccadilly and began angling into Soho. The big house with the iron gate slid past. Bolan noted that the vehicles had returned. He asked Ann, "Who's place is that?" He wouldn't have been surprised to hear her identify it as the old family home.

She had sensed his hostility, and her own mood had suffered a marked deterioration also. Coolly, she replied, "It once belonged to the Earl of—"

"I mean now. Who lives there now?"

She shook her head and told him, "I haven't the foggiest."

He almost grinned and said, "You're sure of that?"

A smile hovered just beneath the surface of her lips. She murmured, "Whatever is the matter with you? Honestly, you're the bloodiest, most suspicious person I have ever known."

He sighed and told her, "It keeps me breathing, kiddo."

"Well, please don't start to get edgy with me. I've plans for you this beautiful morning."

"What sort of plans?"

One hand dropped away from the steering wheel and found Bolan's in a warm grip. "I'm going to ask you to prove something to me."

"And what's that?" he asked, though he already suspected the aswer.

"It's high time I discovered whether or not I'm a natural woman. Don't you think so?"

Bolan thought so. He murmured, "Just so you know exactly what you're doing, Ann."

"But I'm leaving all that to you," she said, with what he was sure was a forced smile. She was an open gal, yeah, but she wasn't brassy. "I intend to place myself entirely into your hands."

Bolan was looking at her and visualizing all that entirely in his hands. Either he was the most fortunate man in London or the biggest sucker. He sighed and said, "Wrong."

"What?"

"It's the other way around, m'lady. I have placed myself entirely in
your
hands."

She understood his meaning. She shivered slightly and said, "Trust me, Mack."

"I guess I have to," he said solemnly. But not entirely. Bodies like that one had launched armadas, sure. They had also brought down Samsons and Caesars. No. Bolan would never be
entirely
in her hands. Or so he thought at the time.