Part 7 (1/2)
”Yo.”
”Anything?”
”Plenty. Are you clear?”
”For the moment. What do you have?”
”Our young lady called a lot of people and said a lot of screwy things. The one you'll be most interested in is a guy she called Max. You tie that?”
Bolan replied, ”I tie. Our VIP. That's a fast bingo.”
”Yeah. Faster than you'll follow until you've screened this stuff. It's too much for a quick report. Where are you?”
”Aboard Danger's Folly, Danger's Folly, heading for open sea.” heading for open sea.”
”G.o.d! What's the tie?”
”I decided to make that buy for Tony.”
”G.o.d! Hope you know what you're doing.”
”Me too, Gadgets. Off. Don't beep me. I'll check in soon as I'm back on dry land.”
”Do that. I'll be monitoring.”
Bolan repeated, ”Off,” and deactivated the radio. He lit a cigarette and strolled casually toward the bow.
He noticed the two crewmen perched tensely at the rail on the starboard side, each displaying the b.u.t.t of a revolver in the waistband of their bell-bottoms, watching him as though he were a prize exhibit at some zoo.
He went on to the bow and leaned out to watch the water swirling past.
Yeah.
He hoped he knew what he was doing.
In all truth, though, he had not the faintest idea of where he was going or what he would do when he got there.
Danger's Folly, h.e.l.l! h.e.l.l!
It was very possibly going to prove Bolan's Bolan's folly... and that was the brutal truth of that. folly... and that was the brutal truth of that.
8:
THE BUY.
They'd been underway for nearly an hour and -to Bolan's best calculation-on a due-west heading. There'd been no conversation between Bolan and the crew. He had not encouraged any, but spent the early time prowling the boat to get the feel of it.
The main cabin-marked ”Salon” with a bra.s.s plaque above the doorway-was done up for solid creature comforts. It was not overly large, but a lot of entertaining could be done in there. Couches and chairs, he noted, converted to sleeping arrangements for eight.
The engine room was crammed full of the most impressive-looking power plant Bolan had ever seen. It was quietly and smoothly propelling the big boat through the heavy swells of the open sea at a very respectable cruising speed.
The crews' quarters were housed in a small cabin behind the engine room. Four bunks, adequate headroom, small galley and lounge area- all of it clean and neatly s.h.i.+pshape.
The familiarization completed, Bolan sprawled into a deck chair on the fantail and watched the churning wake billow out beneath him.
They must have been twenty-five miles or so out when Bolan spotted the other boat. It was a cla.s.sy speedster, deep draft, done up for sports fis.h.i.+ng and flying a line of pennants from the mast.
He left his chair immediately and headed casually toward the bridge. Tarantini was inspecting the other boat through binoculars. He lowered the gla.s.ses as Bolan walked up and handed them to him.
”That's her,” Tarantini announced. ”And ready to deal.”
They were still about a mile away.
Bolan growled, ”How do you know?”
”Those pennants. It's a signal meaning everything's okay. If the Coast Guard or anything else suspicious had been in the area recently, she'd be flying a warning signal.”
Bolan nodded. He said, ”Okay, let's go.”
They were running on the other boat's beam, pa.s.sing to the rear now.
”We're going,” Tarantini a.s.sured his pa.s.senger. ”We don't just run right up to them, y'know. But you can relax. I don't see no signs of trouble.”
”You won't until we get there,” Bolan warned. ”Tell your boys to stay alert. And you run with my play. Understand?”
The Turtle smiled soberly. ”You expecting some kind of double-cross?”
”Maybe something like that,” the Executioner replied, and turned his full attention to a binocular surveillance of his target.
Five minutes later Danger's Folly Danger's Folly was coming alongside the other boat, sliding in from the starboard quarter. She was marked was coming alongside the other boat, sliding in from the starboard quarter. She was marked Pepe Pepe and, beneath the name, and, beneath the name, Ensenada. A Ensenada. A Mexican registry. Mexican registry.
Undoubtedly the rendezvous was taking place in international waters.
Bolan had to give Tarantini due credit. He knew his boat handling. It was a delicate maneuver; boats in open sea did not handle like rolling objects on a stable surface. They slid, wallowed, lunged and leaped. Both boats were maintaining sufficient headway for maneuverability, moving along at a speed of about ten knots. Horizontal separation was only about twenty feet, but both were maintaining station beautifully.
Bolan counted four Mexican crewmen, including the guy at the wheel. Standing beside the Mexican skipper was a beefy, red-faced man wearing slacks and a gaudy sports s.h.i.+rt, no hat, partially bald. American ... or European.
The sailors were throwing lines across and setting up a transfer operation, the usual nautical bit of pulleys and control lines.
Tarantini's full attention was being absorbed by the demanding job at the wheel. Without looking at Bolan, he told him, ”Okay, we're on station. You can do your thing now.”
Bolan had already noticed that his counterpart aboard the Pepe Pepe was moving toward the main deck. He took his cue from that and descended the ladder, dropping beside the two crewmen near the transfer lines. One of them silently handed him a battery-powered megaphone. was moving toward the main deck. He took his cue from that and descended the ladder, dropping beside the two crewmen near the transfer lines. One of them silently handed him a battery-powered megaphone.
Bolan growled, ”Watch those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.” The crewman nodded understandingly and stepped aside.