106 Countdown to Chaos by Don Pendleton

Author:Don Pendleton
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

13

The house looked as if it belonged to somebody's aunt. Stiff silk brocade covered the fat cushions of the easy chairs in the parlor; there were white antimacassars draped over the back of the couch. Opposite the front door, a grandfather clock ticked loudly once every second, each time the pendulum swung.

A stout, high-busted woman in a jump suit led them in. She was about sixty years old, and her lacquered hair reminded the Executioner of the steel swarf that curled away from a factory lathe.

"You can have number four, dear," she said to Ginny. "But no slapping, please. Bridie's in six with the old colonel, and you know how light he sleeps." Flashing gold-rimmed spectacles momentarily toward Bolan, she added in a low voice, "I hope you know what you're doing."

Bolan, taking in the gilt-framed Irish landscapes that punctuated the striped wallpaper, was suddenly conscious of his appearance. He could see her cash-register eyes taking inventory of his mussed hair, his lack of a raincoat, the missing heel of one combat boot, the damp soot from the balcony that grimed his face, hands, elbows and knees. "I'm one of the more eccentric millionaires," he said with a bow.

Ginny laughed. "Don't worry about me, Mrs. Mac," she said. "Could we have something to drink, please?"

Bolan laughed as he pulled two chairs close to an electric heater presiding over artificial logs pulsing with a plastic glow. "You're the only person in town who seems to know anything about anything," he said. "Tell me more about my buddy's namesake and the guys he deals with, okay?"

The "girl"—a woman of about fifty with a sour expression—carried in a tray loaded with ice, soda, highball glasses and a bottle of John Jameson. She placed the tray on a walnut veneer occasional table, took money from Bolan and went away. Somewhere upstairs a door closed with a solid click.

Bolan poured drinks while Ginny talked. It seemed that the fake Gage had appeared about a week ago, ironically enough following much the same technique as Bolan and his companion to find his way to extremist elements on both sides. He had talked to Mulligan and the pastor; he, too, had offered the secret of the arms dump to Rafferty and his gangster sidekicks. He had, in addition, contacted Citizens' Defense Committee members and spokesmen for the People's Democracy, all of whom had refused to have anything to do with him. Where he was one step ahead was arranging a meet with a Protestant racecourse gang leader who sometimes worked with the ultraright wing of the Unionists. Man by the name of Connolly.

Correction. Bolan had met, if not Connolly then at least some of his men. At the wrong end of a Russian-made SMG in a vacant lot near a burned-out panel truck.

Could the Belfast underworld grapevine have worked swiftly enough for that ambush to have been set up for him and not for Deirdre O'Mara?

That didn't matter anymore, Bolan thought. What was certain was that the

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