Deadly Command. Don Pendleton

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      Next Morning.

      “BERTOLLI IS THEIR paymaster,” Zader Poliokof said. “Maybe he can help us out with our cash problem. Find him, take him somewhere you won’t be disturbed and have a talk with him.”

      “A friendly talk?” Leminov said.

      “Of course. We are not animals, Gregor. Allow him his say. Within reason.”

      “He may not be all that willing to cooperate.”

      “Then make him realize he has no choice,” Poliokof stated.

      “I can see this having a less than pleasant outcome.”

      Poliokof smiled. “If it happens, it happens.”

      Midafternoon.

      FREDO BELLA PICKED UP the phone. “Yeah? What do you mean he isn’t around?”

      “He’s not at his office, boss. We checked his apartment. He isn’t there, either.”

      “Okay. I got the exchange tonight. Check around and see if anyone knows where he is. Go back to his office. Bring his laptop to me at the site,” Bella said. “No excuses on this, Jerry. Until we know where Bertolli is, I want those codes safe.”

      “No problem, boss. Hey, boss, what do you think happened to him?”

      “I’m working on it. You just concentrate on finding him.”

      3

      Bolan found Bertolli’s building and parked in the alley, then walked back to the front and entered the lobby. It was an old building, with few modern electronics. He paused at the indicator board and read off the list of offices and companies. Bertolli—Financial Adviser was on the third floor. Bolan climbed the stairs. He could hear business being conducted behind the closed doors of the offices he passed—the occasional sound of telephones, people chattering.

      He reached the third floor and walked the corridor until he came to the door he wanted. The carpet underfoot was worn and dusty. It was obvious that Bertolli had maintained a low profile, conducting his dealings for Bella in seclusion. His financial advice business concealed his involvement in more lucrative operations.

      The door, with its frosted glass upper panel, was in keeping with the rest of the building. Bolan grasped the handle and put his hip against the wooden frame, feeling the inner lock give after the third solid thrust. He held the door, glancing round. The corridor was empty. The soldier eased the door open and slipped inside, closing it behind him.

      The office decor was impersonal and drab: one desk with a leather swivel seat, shelves holding box files, a row of filing cabinets, a couple of wooden chairs lined up against a wall. Bolan crossed to the desk, which held only a few office items—a phone, a desk pad.

      Bolan checked the desk drawers. In the second one down he found an expensive laptop. He slid it out, then closed the drawer and straightened.

      And looked at the muzzle of a pistol aimed at him.

      There were two men, young and hard-faced. The one by the door had the look of the leader, and he had a hefty pistol in one hand. The other guy, who was holding the pistol on Bolan, had a faint smirk on his angular face.

      “Naughty, naughty,” he crowed. “It’s illegal to break into someone’s office and steal things.”

      “I’ll try not to lose sleep over it,” Bolan said.

      “Should I rap him in the mouth?”

      The guy at the door said, “No, Rick, but you should check him for a weapon.”

      “Yeah,” the gunner said, and proceeded to feel under Bolan’s coat. He withdrew the Beretta. “You got a license to carry this?”

      Bolan resisted the urge to make another smart reply. There was a gleam in the guy’s eyes that told him this one was less in control than his partner.

      “You think he’s a cop?”

      “No.”

      “Fed of some kind. I don’t like Feds.”

      “Only their mothers like Feds.”

      The gunner dropped the Beretta into a side pocket of his jacket and flicked his head at Bolan.

      “Let’s go,” he said before scooping up the laptop and stepping up close behind Bolan.

      The guy by the door opened it and checked the corridor.

      “Out,” he said. “Turn left and make for the fire exit at the end of the hall.”

      The exit door was unlocked and Bolan was escorted through and down the iron fire escape fixed to the outer wall. It took them to a small parking lot, at the rear of the building.

      Bolan watched as the laptop was placed inside a late-model Ford. He was considering his options, trying to place himself ahead of the game.

      “We taking a ride?” he asked, directing his question at the lead guy.

      “We’ve got what we came for, plus you,” the man said. He was looking pleased with himself. “You’re a bonus. The boss is going to be happy seeing you. Maybe you can tell him where Bertolli is.”

      “Why should I know? He’s the guy I was looking for myself.”

      “Rick, check him over again in case he has a backup.”

      Bolan let the guy frisk him. They had his 93-R. It was his only weapon, but the pair was smart enough to make sure for themselves.

      “He’s clean,” Rick said, disappointment in his tone.

      “Hand me his pistol,” the lead guy said.

      Rick passed it over.

      “Thought I recognized it.” He inspected the Beretta, balancing it in his hand. “Nice piece,” he said with genuine appreciation.

      Rick glanced at it. “It’s just a fuckin’ gun, Jerry. Don’t go getting a hard-on for it.”

      “You think? This is a Beretta 93-R, an Italian masterpiece. There’s a setting on the selector that let’s you fire three-round bursts. How many other semiautos can do that?”

      Jerry’s partner waggled his head. “Big whoop.”

      “Rick, being a moron isn’t enough for you. You prove it every time you open your mouth.”

      “Hey! There’s no call for that. I ain’t that dumb. Who got the blonde piece everyone was after the other night? Huh? Go on, tell me. Well, it wasn’t you, Beretta man.”

      Jerry shook his head. “Just like I said, Rick, dumb as ever. Stop thinking with your dick and use your brain for a change.”

      Rick stared at his partner for long seconds, concentration screwing up his face. Then СКАЧАТЬ