Killing Game. Don Pendleton

this file during the flight to Paris,” he said. “But one little detail—a detail that seemed insignificant at the time—evidently stuck in my head.”

      “What’s that?” Platinov asked.

      “Chartres is Rouillan’s home town. He was born and grew up there.”

      “Then it is likely he might pick Chartres for whatever that scrap of paper indicates,” Platinov said. “He would be familiar with the area. And know all of the possible escape routes if something went wrong.”

      Bolan nodded. He knew the area, too, from past missions. Several roads led in, and out, of the small French village that was famous for the Cathedral of Our Lady of Chartres. This structure ranked right alongside Notre Dame as an example of the greatest Gothic architecture in the world. The cathedral was particularly noted for its lavish stained-glass windows. “That’s the ‘up’ side of things,” he said almost under his breath.

      But Platinov’s hearing was acute. “What is the ‘down’ side you are insinuating with that remark?” she asked.

      “Everyone in Chartres will know him,” Bolan said, replacing the file in the briefcase and closing the latches. “And some will be his friends.”

      When Bolan hadn’t spoken again for several seconds, Platinov finally said, “So…do we go there or not?” She uncrossed her legs but made no effort to pull down her skirt.

      Slowly, Bolan nodded. “We go there,” he said. Staring straight ahead at the wall, he added, “We don’t have much to go on and the odds are stacked highly against us. Chartres isn’t very big. But it’s big enough that we’ll have to find some way of locating Rouillan once we’re there. And as soon as we start asking questions, word will be out all over town that we’re looking for him.” He stuffed the paper into the side pocket of his jacket. “But, the way I see it, it’s all we have at this point.”

      Bolan turned to face Platinov now, and saw the same “come hither” smile on her face that he’d seen so many times before. The beautiful Russian woman’s skirt was still hiked up almost to her waist, and the muscles in her Olympic sprinter’s legs all but rippled through her transparent hosiery.

      “Whatever this note means,” Platinov purred seductively. “It will not take place until four in the afternoon. We have nearly twelve hours, and Chartres is only a short drive from here.” She cleared her throat with a husky sound. “I wonder how we could pass the time between now and then?”

      Bolan stared at her. He was only human, and he and Marynka Platinov had been attracted to each other like magnets since the first time they’d met. For a moment, he was tempted to take the Russian woman up on what was a blatant offer of pleasure.

      But then the warrior in the Executioner’s soul took charge of him again.

      Bolan stood up next to the bed. “I think the best way to spend that time is to get to Chartres and start snooping around. We need to find out what’s supposed to happen at four o’clock and where it’s supposed to go down.” He cleared his throat and glanced at his watch. “We may not have enough time already.”

      Platinov’s smile turned to a slight frown and then a sigh escaped her lips. “You are hard on a woman’s ego, Cooper,” she said as she stood up, lowered her skirt, then smoothed it out again by running the palms of her hands up and down her thighs.

      Bolan laughed softly. “Don’t take it as a rejection,” he said. “It’s just that finding Rouillan has got to come first.”

      Platinov had taken off her jacket but left the shoulder rig carrying her twin Gold Cup pistols in place. Now, she lifted her Model 1911 from the nightstand where she’d set it earlier, and returned it—along with the inside-the-waistband holster—to the rear of her skirt.

      Bolan watched her run her fingers around the waistband, making sure that the Spyderco Military Model folding knife was clipped in place. As she slid her arms into the suit jacket, she said, “Business before pleasure, I believe is the way that you Americans put it.”

      The Executioner nodded.

      “Then let’s go,” the Russian woman said. One at a time, she pulled out all three of her .45s, checked to make sure a round was in each of the chambers, then returned them to their hiding place. Bolan did the same with the Desert Eagle and Beretta.

      The Executioner made one final check at the small of his back. The TOPS Special Assault Weapon, or SAW as it was more commonly called, was clipped in place in its sheath.

      They were ready. A moment later they were out of the door.

      And a moment after that, they were on their way to Chartres.