An old salvage boat cruised a slow circle in the sparkling Caribbean several miles off Bahia de Vidria. In the pilot house, Juan Escadrillo stood a tense watch over the radio equipment while the man with the handlebar mustache stared expectantly into the moonlit skies.
The mate brought coffee from the galley, and drank most of it himself, and twice the engineer came topside to restlessly roam the deck and gaze toward shore, and the quiet watch went on.
At almost exactly 12:30 the radio in the pilot house crackled and a familiar voice came through the international distress frequency to give the awaited announcement.
"Okay Juan, we're off and running. The number here is 25, 12, 12, 14. That is two-five, one-two, one-two, one-four. Thanks to all of you. And give those treasures back there my, uh, deepest regards."
"Ok," Juan replied immediately. "Run with luck, my friend."
"Adios, amigo."
"Return to us one day."
"Ill try, Juan. Leave a light in the window."
"It will be there."
The boy's eyes were brimming with moisture as he shifted the gear to the harbor frequency. The crew had moved outside to search the sky for visible evidence of the small aircraft.
Juan made the call in the Spanish language. This is salvage tug Salvadore calling Puerta Vista Harbormaster.
"Go ahead, Salvadore."
"I am ready with the Matilda report."
Evita Aguilar's voice responded. "Matilda. Go ahead, Salvadore."
"It is done. Ok. The numbers are two-five, one-two, one-two, one-four. He sends love. We return to port."
In the little shack on the Puerta Vista wharf, Evita turned away from the radio and spoke into a waiting telephone connection to San Juan.
"Success," she reported, using the official language. It is clear. Suggest that you move on Glass Bay immediately."
"Right," was the reply. "We are moving."
"Connect me now with Glenn Robertson."
"Right, standby."
A moment later an American voice came on the line and the language shifted to English. "Robertson here."
"Glenn, Matilda."
"Save it, I know. Bolan busted loose."
"Yes. Ramirez is now moving on Glass Bay."
"Yeah, I heard. So there goes your sweet little intelligence drop. Should've played it my way, pretty lady."
"The sweet drop was gone the moment he arrived. Do not fear, we are awaiting the reorganization and we know whom to watch. As for doing it your way, I would have more compassion on a pig in a slaughter pen."
The American sighed heavily. She heard the snap of a cigarette lighter and he said, "You know that none of us like the order, Matilda."
"We may as well drop the 'Matilda' now, also."
"Right, right. How come it's so hard to hate the guy, Evita? What's he got that John Dillinger and Pretty Boy Floyd never had."
"Integrity, maybe," she replied coldly.
"Well, that's a lot of deadly integrity you turned loose on the world, pretty lady."
"It is simply a matter of time, anyway," she told him. "The way this hombreoperates, he cannot be long for this world."
"How many did he clobber there?"
"We will be counting the dead for days," Evita said. "Some may never be found."
"Well, that's Bolan. He leaves a hell of a wake. One of these days, Evita, the guy is reallygoing to run amuck. He's going to start killing cops and little kids and anything that gets in his way. And then you'll understand why we..."
"That is a stupid idea!" Evita stormed. "This is as gentle and fine a man as I have ever known! Polida estupido! Acerca de..."
"Hold it, hold it, don't start throwing hot Spanish at me." The federal agent chuckled drily and added, "Sounds as though he made more than one kind of kill. Just how well did you get to know this fine gentle man, pretty lady?"
She said, "Get to hell, Glenn Robertson."
He said, "Well… I guess I better alert Washington. Battle stations, repel all boarders, and so forth. Give me a clue, just a sniff. Where should we concentrate the defenses?"
"Never mind," she replied.
"What?"
"Never mind." Her voice broke as she added, "I have sent him to his death."
Grimaldi set the little bird down on the tiny island which gave its name to the Mona Passage, between Puerto Rico and Hispaniola, and the two-man assault team laid their battle plans and awaited the countdown to the kill.
Bolan studied terrain maps while the pilot pored over radio navigation charts and reviewed in his memory the various details of Haiti's border security setup.
"How long since you flew in there?" Bolan asked him.
"About three months ago," Grimaldi muttered. "Uh… put an X on your chart, uh… down here at Charlie Eight. There's a Haitian Coast Guard station there. They have radar and hot-pursuit capability. Also up at, uh, Bravo Three, a base for jet fighters."
"How good are they?"
"Can't say. Never had to evade them. Always had the right words."
Bolan studied his companion for a thoughtful moment, then he suggested, "Let's figure the withdrawal through the gap, on a 340 magnetic from Port au Prince. That looks like high mountains to the north."
"It is, and rugged as hell," Grimaldi replied. "They still have insurgents operating in those mountains."
"Perfect. If we have to take to the ground then there'll be good cover and maybe even a helping hand along the way."
"Don't count on it," Grimaldi warned. "Most of the rebels have turned commie. They worship Che and Fidel, and I'll have to say that's a better alternative than Papa Doc. But America has become a nasty word in those hills, I hear."
"I thought the old man died," Bolan said.
"Yeah, but Doc Junior stepped right in, same regime, same ruthless repression. Look, Bolan, are you sure you know what you're getting into? That country is crawling with secret police. If they catch you, the nicest thing they can do for you is to show you the firing squad. They've got people chained in rat holes who haven't seen the light of day — or a courtroom, I might add — for more than ten years."
"Nice country," Bolan muttered.
"It's not the country, it's the government. They're blacks, you know. A bit of French mixed in here and there, but it's mostly black. And if the people at home think the panthers are mean, they need to clue in on this Haitian gestapo. They make the Mafia seem like gentleman students pranking around."
"Is Sir Edward black?"
Grimaldi's eyelids fluttered. "I couldn't say," he replied.
"You've never seen him?"
"No."
"How many times have you been into Sir Edward's joint?"
"Just once, my last trip in, three months ago."
"What was the occasion?"
"Meeting of the board. Finance matters."
"Who'd you bring in?"
"Manny Walters and his legal eagles."
"Manny the Muck?"
"The same."
"What's Detroit got going down here?"
"Bit of juice, I hear, among other things."
"You don't mean nickel and dime juice."
"Hell no, big league stuff. Unofficial loans for off-the-record business enterprises And the take is high. I hear as much as thirty percent in some cases."
"The Haitian government condones that?"
Grimaldi shrugged "What the hell is the government? In a country like this one, especially. Look, Bolan. Get the picture. The black people in our country have been screaming about white repression of blacks and all that jazz — and I'm not saying they shouldn't. They're right. Every guy has a right to his own shot at life, his own way. That's not the point. Here's a country that's all black. But it's not very beautiful down here. It's misery and poverty and repression like no American black man has experienced in this century. And he's getting it from his own brothers, see. I mean, when you speak of the Haitian government, you're talking about a gang of thieves and cutthroats with licenses."
"Okay, I have that picture," Bolan said.
"They're all on the take."
"Is Sir Edward a black man?"
"I told you I didn't know, dammit."
"What's his real name?"
"I don't know. In Haiti, he's Sir Edward Stuart. That's all I know."
"But he is not a citizen of Haiti."
"No, hell no. Look, Port au Prince is just the center. Everything down here revolves around that center."
"Who does Sir Edward belong to?" Bolan asked quietly.
Grimaldi snorted and replied, "It's the other way around, friend. Look, he's bigger than — look, get the picture straight, huh? Sir Edward Stuart is not a Mafioso."
"I understood that."
"A private pilot is like a bodyguard, you know. We hear all kind of stuff — but we're supposed to pretend that our ears are missing. This Sir Edward is an international biggee. I thought you knew that."
"I do. Who else is getting burned — other than the people of Haiti."
Grimaldi sighed. "Everybody, man. Cuba, even, and that's a whole ball game of its own. Fidel thinks he's got Cuba snookered. The poor sap. I could tell Fidel, capitalism is flourishing in his living room. And it's black money, and it's moving through Cuba like Ex-Lax."
"Panama bankers?"
The pilot nodded. "Same laws as Switzerland, you know. Hell, it's tailor-made for the Caribbean takeover."
"Then it really is a takeover," Bolan mused.
"You'd better know it is. Did you ever notice the way the good money always flows behind the blood money? Watch the so-called legit businessmen swarming toward the good thing. They know."
"What do you know about the Mediterranean tie-in?"
"What the hell is this, Bolan?" Grimaldi asked irritably. "A pump job or a hit?"
"It all figures in, Jack. The more I know, the better I can operate. What's this stuff about the Med?"
The pilot sighed and replied, "Just talk, that's all I know. A word here and there, a joke, a slip, it doesn't amount to much."
"Give."
"They just call it 'the island.' Somewhere in the Med, I don't know where. Someplace around Italy, I think — or maybe it's Greece. Hell, I don't know. The international Commissionemeets there, I hear. It's like a little UN. But it's more than Mafia, bigger than Cosa Nostra. I don't know just how it's structured. But it's a cartel, Bolan. The world monopoly on organized crime. And it's big, daddy, it's damn big."
"And Tel Aviv?"
Grimaldi smiled sourly and said, "Shit you do have big ears. That guy is officially retired, I hear. He requested and received political sanctuary under the Israeli charter. You know, the inviolate home of the international jew. The Israeli government doesn't like it, I hear… I mean, giving refuge to a guy like him… but they're stuck with it, gored by their own constitution."
"Ishe retired?"
"Thatguy?" Grimaldi snickered. "Does a shark turn into a goldfish in its old age?"
Bolan muttered, "It just goes on and on, doesn't it."
"Make you feel like you're trying to dam the tide with turds?"
Bolan growled, "Sometimes, yeah. But then I remember."
"You remember what?"
"I'm not here to cure, just to kill."
Grimaldi shook away a shiver and said, "Well, you do that pretty well. And Sir Edward is next on tap. Right?"
"Right. You get me in there, Jack. That's all I ask."
"You don't want me to get you out?"
Bolan grinned. "I'd consider that a bonus. But yeah. Yeah, I'd like to get back out, Jack."
"That's my specialty. But tell me, Bolan. Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why this Mil? Why any of them? What the hell are you winning? I mean, realistically now. You know the score. You pop one, he falls over, another steps up, you pop him, up comes the next guy. They're too big for you, fella. You're fighting a machine that fixes its own hurts. So why?"
"Crime pays," Bolan replied quietly. "It pays damn big."
"So what else is new? Was that supposed to answer my question?"
"Yeah. I'm not fighting a machine. I'm fighting people. People who intend to profit from crime. I'm showing some of them that there is no profit. Okay?"
Grimaldi said, "Okay. Maybe you're right. If you can stay alive and keep it going, then maybe so. Maybe you'll make it too damn hazardous for the next guy to step to the head of the line. But I doubt that you'll live that long, Bolan."
"I'm going to try."
"By trying a hit on the hell hole of the Caribbean? So keep trying that hard, buddy, and… aw, what the hell. Let's go do it."
"You got everything straight in your mind?"
Grimaldi glanced at his watch. "We have plenty of time, let's run through that floor plan once more, just in case I forgot something."
Bolan shuffled the map to one side and laid out the diagram of the cliff side, mansion near Port au Prince, as reproduced from Jack Grimaldi's memory of a brief visit three months earlier.
"Okay," he said. "North wall here, gate to the west, guard shack over here. Bedrooms..."
"Hell I'm glad I looked again," Grimaldi interrupted. "There's a courtyard between the east and west wings."
"Right here?"
"Yeah. Flower gardens and stuff. Uh, I think — yeah, French doors into the house, ground level. Security station down here at the corner."
"Hardmen?"
"Hard blackmen. Civilian clothes."
"Weapons?"
"Sidearms, concealed."
"How many at that station?"
"Two, I believe. Yeah, two."
"Okay, let's take the whole thing again, detail by detail. First floor, reception hall — a man and a dog. Right?"
"Right."
"Winding stairway up to the left, library to the right, ballroom straight ahead."
"Yeh, but they don't ball there."
"Kitchen, dining room, butler's pantry, security cell. Right?"
"Right. The cell is manned day and night. Electronically locked."
"Any idea about the duty shifts in that cell?"
"I think three. I saw them changing at midnight."
"Okay. Now. The guy in the cell. He monitors all three floors."
"Right. The television cameras are all over the place. They might even have hidden ones in the bedrooms. I wouldn't put it past them."
"Anything else about that first floor? Anything at all?"
Grimaldi pondered for a moment, then replied, "That's all I can draw."
"Okay, upstairs. Sir Edward's suite."
"I never got in there."
"Think of it from the outside."
"Well… yeah, I told you… uh, come to think of it, he must take the whole damn corner there. Let's see, the doors are…"
"Think about it."
"I'm thinking. The guard in the hall and one in the inner security room. Let's see… oh, all the inside guards are hard Mafia, I mean wops like me. Uh, I'll bet he has about three large rooms in that suite. I mean, not counting the security jazz."
"Women?"
"I never saw one on the whole place."
"Okay. Over to the west wing, now. Offices, conference rooms, a vault."
"Yeah."
"Second floor. Is this all the windows there are on the second floor west?"
"Hell I didn't build the damn place, I just spent an evening there."
"If you think hard enough, Jack, you could tell me all about your mother's womb. Are you saying there are just two damn windows on that whole floor?"
"Well now wait, no — I've got the stairs in the wrong place. Look. Gimme the damn pencil. Here's the way…"
And so it went, toward the dawn.
The Caribbean Kill was definitely not over.
The big one was yet to come.