Desperate Cargo. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ shook his head. He took out one of his business cards and slid it across the counter for the young woman to read.

      “I only got in last night. Haven’t had the chance to make formal arrangements yet. Would have done it this morning but my meetings went on longer than I expected. Next thing I received a call from my CEO to catch the evening flight to Paris, but to call in and say hello to Mr. van Ryden. We’re hoping to meet up with him soon to negotiate some long-term representation with our company.” He increased his smile. “Help, please.”

      She returned his smile and picked up her phone, tapping in a number. When it was answered she spoke quietly, her eyes never once leaving Bolan’s face. When she was finished she replaced the receiver.

      “Mr. van Ryden will see you immediately,” she said. “He has a meeting in half an hour but says he can spare some time.” She directed Bolan to the bank of elevators across the lobby. “Sixth floor. Suite thirty-two.”

      “If I wasn’t leaving in a few hours I would invite you out for dinner.”

      “If you were not going away I would accept.”

      “Maybe next time.”

      “Yes. Maybe next time.” She watched him walk to the elevator, giving a sigh before she returned to her duties.

      Definitely next time.

      BOLAN STEPPED OUT of the elevator, checking the wallboard for directions. Suite thirty-two was to his left. He pushed open the pale wood door and stepped inside. An outer office contained a desk and another attractive young woman. The Dutch seemed to have got it right, Bolan decided.

      “Mr. Connor?” the woman asked, pushing to her feet. She was strikingly tall. She guided him to double doors and knocked, pushing open one of the doors to let him enter. It closed firmly behind Bolan.

      Ludwig van Ryden’s office was wide, spacious, furnished expensively. The man’s desk looked large enough to host a dinner party. There was an open laptop computer in the center. The office was a mix of pale wood, glass, stainless steel. Hidden lights illuminated a collection of slender glass sculptures housed in wall cabinets. A half-open door showed a private washroom. Underfoot the carpet was thick and soft.

      The lawyer rose from behind his desk to meet Bolan. He was in his forties. A tall, leanly fit man wearing a suit that had probably cost a small fortune. His thick brown hair fell to the collar of his jacket. He came around the desk to take Bolan’s hand, his smile showing even white teeth.

      “Please sit down, Mr. Connor. Would you like a drink?”

      “Thanks, no.” Bolan sat in one of the cream leather chairs, watching van Ryden fill a heavy tumbler with whiskey. “You might want to make that a double, van Ryden,” he said quietly.

      The lawyer half turned, an amused smile on his lips. Then he saw the pistol Bolan was pointing in his direction. For a moment he froze, glass in his hand.

      “I don’t understand. What is this?”

      “This is a gun. Taken earlier from a friend of yours. Rik Vandergelt.” Bolan saw the color drain from van Ryden’s face. The name had meant something to him. “I see I have your attention now.”

      “I do not know what you mean. The name means nothing to me.”

      “Right. So you’ve forgotten that you represented him legally? I’m sure he could have done with your advice a couple of hours ago. Then we have Paul Chambers. And Wilhelm Bickell. I don’t suppose you know them, either?”

      “Of course not.”

      “So you’ll be even more surprised if I tell you my name isn’t Connor. It’s Cooper.”

      The lawyer flinched at the mention of the name. He recovered enough to move the whiskey glass, raising it to his lips and swallowing the liquid in a single gulp. Bolan saw it as a simple ploy to allow van Ryden time to gather himself. When the man returned his gaze to Bolan he had composed himself.

      “We could spend the next hour playing word games,” van Ryden said. “But that would be a waste of your time and mine, Mr. Cooper. So, what is it you want?”

      “American agents Turner and Bentley were both murdered by your associates. Bickell arranged for the same to happen to me. It didn’t happen as planned. Bickell is dead. So is Vandergelt,” the Executioner said.

      “If I knew these people, what am I supposed to understand from what you have told me?”

      “It’s simple enough. You and your associates are involved up to your necks in human trafficking. I’m here to serve notice. Nothing fancy wrapped up in legal terms. Time is up for all of you. I’m going to close you down. All the way. Mark it in your diary, van Ryden.”

      The lawyer took a moment to absorb Bolan’s words. He looked like a man who couldn’t decide whether he had heard the truth, or been fed a line. He ran a hand across his mouth, then wagged a finger in Bolan’s direction.

      “A joke. This is a bad joke. Ja?”

      “Call your associate Chambers. Ask him about Cooper. We were face-to-face this morning. Maybe he’ll see the funny side. And don’t waste time denying any involvement with Chambers. It’s on record you’ve had meetings with him in the U.K. And with Hugo Canfield.”

      The lawyer sobered up suddenly, accepting that the stranger in his office was deadly serious. He glanced at the black muzzle of the pistol. At Bolan’s unflinching gaze. He realized he was in a risky position. He became a lawyer again, relying on his bargaining skills.

      “You have virtually admitted killing Bickell and Vandergelt. You’re an American in a foreign country. You represent the U.S. government. How do you think the Dutch police will view this? Add the fact you have walked into my office and threatened me with a gun?”

      “I’m sure you’re going to make it clear for me.”

      “Cooper, you cannot win. Everything is against you. So I admit I am working with Chambers. There are others. Far too powerful for you to influence. I am a respected member of the community. Who do think they will side with? You? I do not think so.”

      “Let me think about that. In the meantime I need to make sure you don’t raise the alarm when I leave.” Bolan pressed the muzzle of the pistol against van Ryden’s forehead. “Take off your belt,” he ordered.

      “Why?”

      Bolan waggled the pistol. “Humor me. I’m an American in a strange town and it’s been difficult to say the least. So I’m allowed to act oddly. Now do it.”

      The lawyer did as he was told. Bolan made him face the desk, hands behind his back. He used the thin belt to strap the lawyer’s wrists together, tightly. Pushing the man around the desk Bolan shoved him into his chair. He yanked out the telephone cable and circled van Ryden’s neck, drawing it around the seat’s headrest. Bolan pulled it tight enough to be uncomfortable.

      “Don’t struggle against it. The knot I’ve tied will pull tighter if you put pressure on it,” the Executioner said.

      Bolan was lying but van Ryden didn’t know that. His face was shiny with sweat and his eyes showed real fear.

      The СКАЧАТЬ