Don Pendleton - Continental Contract

He only partially understood the English girl, God love her. Searching for her soul in a French whore house! He tried to relate her search to his, but quickly gave it up as a hopeless intellectual exercise. He quite frankly did not understand the female mind. Women lived for different reasons than men. They were nest-builders, civilizers. Even in prostitution they labored toward an affirmation of life, consciously or not.

Bolan, too, affirmed life — but in that paradoxical way. His supreme affirmation would be in his own death — and that awaited him around every corner.

He sighed and tried to bring his mind out of the depths into which it had been plunged by the set-to with Judy Jones. He sent the little car along Quai Voltaire and across the Seine at Pont du Carrousel, then swung up Quai des Tuileries past La Place de la Concorde and onto the Champs.

The skies had cleared, traffic was extremely light, and he found himself enjoying the quiet drive through early-morning Paris. It was with a feeling approaching regret that he pulled into the hotel garage.

He left the car with a sleepy-eyed attendant and took the elevator directly to his floor, bypassing the lobby, and was thinking of the contrast between left-bank and right-bank Paris as he entered his suite. It was like two separate worlds. With all this luxury, he was thinking, the crumbling little hotel on Rue Galande had held something for Bolan that all this elegance could not supply. He went into his bedroom and switched on the light — and abruptly changed his mind regarding Champs d'Elysees accommodations.

The girl in his bed was wearing nothing at all from the waist up. What he could see was solid elegance, and he could guess about the other areas. She sat up abruptly and held her arms out to him, her eyes straining for an adjustment to the sudden light.

"Gilbear," she crooned in a gently chiding tone, "I 'ave wait all night for you."

Oh hell, Bolan told himself.

Her eyes found the adjustment they sought. She did a startled little double-take at Bolan and jerked the sheet up to cover the delectably bare torso.

"But you are not Gilbear," she quietly decided. "And so, 'o are you?"

Oh double hell, Bolan thought.

And he was not using paradoxical logic.

The chateau at the edge of Paris was ablaze with lights, but there were no sounds of revelry in the big house this night. A large charter bus was parked in the circular drive; groups of heavily dressed men walked restlessly about the lighted grounds or stood in quiet circles and spoke of solemn things.

Inside, in a large game room with a cathedral ceiling, Tony Lavagni perched atop a bar stool conversing in low tones with a statuesque French woman, the lovely Roxanne Loureau — confidential secretary and mistress to Thomas Rudolfi — a charming woman whose good breeding showed in her every gesture.

Gathered about a billiard table but obviously not overly interested in the game were five of Arnie Castiglione's most trusted hardmen. Each of these captained a crew of ten guns, all of whom had been personally handpicked by Castiglione himself.

This was a no-nonsense company of pros which had descended upon the Republic of France. The dismay and cold fear which lurked in the depth of Roxanne Loureau's eyes revealed that she, too, recognized this truth. Speaking in precise English, she told Lavagni, "I am certain that Mr. Rudolfi will be along most any minute now, Mr. Lavagni. But perhaps it is unreasonable to expect you to wait longer. Perhaps you would like to get some rest and..."

"The night's shot already," Lavagui growled. "Look, we didn't just drop in for protocol purposes. I need to make sure that Monzoor's covering us — I mean, you know, official-wise."

"But I have given you the necessary papers."

Lavagui grinned at her. "It takes more than that, and you know it. We want the right words in the right places, so's we can all go home when the job's finished. I ain't leaving no boys of mine in no bastille."

The woman was gazing at a list of names in her hand. "If they all are here, then have no worry. They will be protected."

Lavagui said, "I'd like to hear Monzoor tell me that."

"It is the same that I have told you."

Lavagni could almost believe it. This was a woman to be respected. He was telling her, "Just th' same, I'd like..." when the screech of tires on the drive diverted his attention. He slid off the stool at the same moment that the huge Negro, Wilson Brown, stepped in from outside.

"This must be him," Brown rumbled.

A Ferrari sports car had lurched to a halt just beyond the door. Rudolfi got out and stood beside it, gazing speculatively at the tour bus. He left the Ferrari's door standing open and walked around for a look at the front of the bus, then entered the chateau through the main entrance.

Roxanne excused herself and went through the passageway to the entrance hall. She reacted visibly at sight of Rudolfi. His right hand was bandaged and his hat was pushed back to clear the forehead where an angry circular blister marred the handsome features. Some sort of medicated ointment had been applied to the burn, only adding to the ugliness of it. Silently Rudolfi removed the hat and gave it to the woman. A small area of scalp atop his head had been shaven clean and an adhesive bandage applied there. His eyes were wild.

Roxanne asked no questions, but announced, "The Americans are in the game room."

He said, "Yes, and encamped upon the grounds. I do not want to..."

"Their mood is nasty and their patience is gone."

"I will be down in a moment. I must..."

Lavagni stepped in and said, "Ay, Monzoor. Where the hell you been?"

"At the hospital," he snapped. "An accident. I am not feeling well, Lavagni. Can we talk in the morning?"

"It's already morning," Lavagni declared. He could see that the Monzoor was not his usual suave self, but this was no time for tea and tears. "And we already lost four hours too many. We better talk right now. I got a message for you. From th' council." Lavagni spun about and returned along the passageway to the game room.

Roxanne whispered, "These men are extremely dangerous. I would recommend that we conclude our business and permit them to leave."

Rudolfi nodded gloomily and followed Lavagni toward the game room. Roxanne stopped him and helped him out of his overcoat. He groaned as the bandaged hand passed through the sleeve. She hissed, "What happened?"

"Bolan," he sighed, and went on.

Roxanne carried the coat and hat to a closet, neatly put them away, then sank into a chair and lowered her face into her hands.

Lavagni was introducing "the boys" to their host. Rudolfi murmured a polite greeting and went to the bar. Lavagni said, "Accident, eh?"

He replied, "Yes," and filled a tumbler with bourbon.

The Washington Caporegime withdrew a notebook from his breast pocket. "That message, Monzoor. You prob'ly can't read my scratchings, so I'll read it to you. This is a directive, and it's straight from you know where. Thomas J. Rudolfi, Paris. Extend every co-operation and assistance to Anthony P. Lavagni and his touring party. Spare no expense and/or personal inconvenience toward assurance of a successful tour. Assure that all official and legal arrangements are both adequate and conducive to continued goodwill. Undertake no independent actions or activities which could conflict with the schedule for this tour. It's signed Better Trade Council. You'll get a copy by cablegram, so don't get no ideas of laughing it off."

Rudolfi sighed and sipped at the bourbon. "Why should I wish to laugh it off? Orders from the top are orders from the top. Of course we will provide every necessity for your tour, Anthony P. Lavagni."

"That burn on your forehead. It looks like somebody branded you."