Bolan looped the towel over his shoulder and walked to his bunk. He pulled open his duffel bag and took out clean underwear, socks, a black T-shirt and a pair of black cargo pants. He put them on and sat to lace up his boots.
“Damn,” Grimaldi said. “You look ready for the next mission.”
“Hal probably will have something to say about that.” He grabbed the sat phone and hit the button to call Hal Brognola.
The big Fed answered with a sleep-laden voice.
“Good morning,” Bolan said. He switched the phone to speaker.
Brognola blew out a deep breath.
“You sound pretty good for—” the Executioner looked at his watch and did the calculation “—two-thirty in the morning. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“You know damn well you did, but that’s okay. I received a previous update through State that it was ‘mission successful,’ but I’ve been waiting to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.”
“It was,” Bolan said. “We recovered the two IGRDs, and took out a bunch of bad guys.”
“Did you expect anything less?” Grimaldi yelled.
“What?” Brognola said. “Is that Jack?”
“Yeah. He’s still wired on too much coffee and adrenaline.”
“Probably jealous because he was up in the air instead of getting down and dirty on the ground with you to take out those Industrial Gamma Radiographer Devices,” Brognola said. “You know how those flyboys are.”
Grimaldi blew out a loud guffaw.
“He says—” Bolan said.
“I heard him.”
Bolan could hear Brognola’s yawn through the phone. “Sounds like you need to get back to bed.”
“Bed? What’s that?” Brognola asked. “You know I always stay in the office when you guys are on a mission, till I hear from you.”
“Well, you’ve heard from us,” Bolan said. “Jack is chomping at the bit to go on another op. Got anything pending?”
Grimaldi’s eyes popped and his face twisted into an exaggerated grimace.
“Not at the moment,” Brognola said. “It’s actually been pretty quiet around these parts. The Hill’s been doing some bullshit investigation of some drug company CEO supposedly inflating the prices of some new cancer drug, but other than that, everybody’s been quieter than the President’s turkey the day before Thanksgiving.”
“Okay, Hal,” Bolan said. “Since we’ve got everything tidied up on this end, we’re going to sign off and get some shut-eye. I’ll check back when we get to port.”
The Chevalier Institute
Outside Luxembourg, Belgium
AUGUSTINE FRANÇOIS, ALSO known informally in certain circles in Europe as the Talon, adjusted his wig and checked his lipstick before getting out of his car. That the car, a Citroën, had been stolen only hours ago didn’t concern him. The police would not have been notified as of yet, because the owner was quite dead and in the vehicle’s trunk. Stepping out and smoothing the skirt over his thin but powerful legs, the Talon made his way toward the entrance to the building.
The Chevalier Institute, he thought in English. Since he would be traveling to the United States shortly after he finished here, the Talon knew it would be apropos to start thinking in that language.
He was fluent in at least five, and had a working knowledge of half a dozen more. In his business, being able to listen to the conversations going on around him was imperative. It could easily mean the difference between escape and apprehension, life and death. Ultimately his goals were prosperity and survival. This protracted new assignment was so complex, so far-reaching, that he had the feeling it would be his last. The amount of money he was being paid would afford him a nice retirement somewhere, watching the sunsets and appreciating the scenery.
The building itself was a modern-looking brown, brick-and-mortar structure, three stories high and artfully laid out with large windows winding along each wall. A small pond was in front, a statue of a boy on a dolphin releasing fountain spray into the water. The grounds, lushly verdant with meticulously trimmed bushes and a manicured lawn, gave the place a pseudo-palatial appearance. A winding, pebbled walkway led from the parking lot to the front entry.
He reached the main entrance and stood in front of the solid glass door with its ornate golden handle.
Rather garish, he thought, using a tissue to keep from leaving any fingerprints on the elongated handle.
He stepped into a large foyer. Inside, the walls were a pale cream color and a skylight let the burgeoning morning sunlight filter down onto the highly polished floor. The opaque, plastic half-moon bubble of a pan, tilt and zoom camera was mounted to the ceiling behind the desk near the stairway and elevators. He wondered how many pairs of eyes were watching and made a mental note to not forget to deal with any surveillance disks that might be recording his entry.
Just inside the entrance a man in a blue suit sat behind an artfully shaped desk. The Talon knew immediately that he was security. His dark hair was slicked back and his cheeks had a sagging, pouty look. Obviously not the athletic type.
The curved, metallic desk obviously afforded the man access to phones and alarms, and perhaps even a modicum of ballistic cover. But since this was Belgium, he doubted the guard would be armed, even in view of the upgraded concerns over possible terrorist attacks. Still, the Talon decided, caution should outweigh any assumptions. This front-desk lackey might not be the only security person working. He knew he could not discount the possibility that one of the others, if they did exist, might have access to a weapon.
Behind the security guard, a series of seven-foot rectangular portals lined the entranceway to the rest of the building. Metal detectors, no doubt. The company had taken some precautions. But no matter. Each obstacle, now that it was known, would be dealt with in kind.
The Talon smiled in his most fetching manner, held out the little finger on his left hand—the one with the exaggeratedly long, false, bright red fingernail—and spoke in a husky yet feminine-sounding voice. “Pardon me, but do you speak English?”
The man in the suit smiled and shook his head.
“Parlez-vous français?” the Talon asked, relishing that the French sounded so much more sexy in his altered, husky-tenor voice.
“Oui.” The man smiled this time, his eyes roving over “her” exquisitely padded bosom, and asked how he could be of assistance.
The Talon decided to play it with coyness, smiling and saying in French, “This is the Chevalier Institute, isn’t it?”
The man nodded, his eyes still fixed on her breasts.
“I’m Ms. Juliette Fornay,” he continued in French. “Is Mr. Chevalier here? I have an appointment.”
The guard smiled and picked up the phone, obviously checking on the appointment.
“Thank you. Where is the ladies’ room?” The Talon punctuated the question with a smile and salacious wink.
The guard pointed to a door marked Dames.
The Talon went inside, once again using the tissue to grip and twist the door handle. He made certain he was alone, then braced himself against the door and quickly removed the 9 mm Heckler & Koch VP9 pistol and the two extra magazines from the zippered section in his purse.
In total, he had sixty-five rounds...well, sixty-six with the one in the chamber. He deemed that more than sufficient for the task at hand: going through the building, killing all of the employees, which the estimates had placed between twenty-three and twenty-seven, depending on vacations and sick days. It wasn’t a pleasant task, nor was it particularly unpleasant.