Part 2 (1/2)

The combat zone itself had once been the site of a small college, about a four-acre plot of land ab.u.t.ting the park and set off by a crumbling eighteenth century wall of fieldstone. The original building remained, a vine-covered brick structure of two stories, rather small and unpretentious in this age of super-architecture. Surrounding it were a collection of ten bungalow-style smaller buildings. These had obviously been built in more recent times, with no apparent attempt to gracefully bridge the centuries between the architectural styles.

The college itself had long ago ceased to exist. Somewhere around the beginning of the twentieth century the site had become the home of a local millionaire who had renovated and modernized the interior facilities. Little else had been done to the old building until the early 1950's when it once again became a seat of learning. The original cla.s.srooms were restored at that time, the bungalows added, and the ”FairmountSchool for Special Children” came into being.

The new school had catered to handicapped children of well-to-do families, providing resident education and medical services ”in a homelike atmosphere”-this latter claim being attested to by the new bungalow-style dormitories, each of which could house eight to ten children in a family environment. Each bungalow featured a kitchen, dining room, recreation room, a large formal living room and five double bedrooms.

Stefano Angeletti had picked up the property in 1965-”at a price they couldn't refuse” - and turned it over to son Frank in a bid to ”put some legs under the boy”.

The idea had been to create the cla.s.siest wh.o.r.ehouse in the East, catering exclusively to carefully selected VIP's in business, labor, and political circles. The old building had been lavishly renovated, walls removed, marble floors and bubbling fountains installed, and a veritable ”Caesar's Palace” created.

The finished product was rumored to have cost the Don ”more than a million bucks”. Untold thousands more went into a refurbis.h.i.+ng of the ten bungalow units, in which smaller ”private parties” could be lavishly staged in satisfaction of virtually any offbeat s.e.xual appet.i.te.

The original idea had been Frank's. Don Stefano had put up the money, the influence, and the contacts to get the new club into operation. Frank had brainstormed the renovation and flapped about with the interior decorators. He had also personally recruited each of the dazzlingly beautiful hostesses and, as the story goes, ”bed-tested every d.a.m.n one of 'em.”

At the height of its popularity, the ”Emperor's Key” private club was booking parties and business conventions from throughout the country. According to a cla.s.sified FBI report, the club numbered in its members.h.i.+p an impressive list of state and federal bureaucrats and elected officials.

These had been Frank Angeletti's most glorious days, a brief era when he had rubbed shoulders with some of the most powerful men in the nation.

The younger Angeletti had been operating beyond his depth, however, and the bright new bubble of success blew up in his face early in the second year of operation.

The ”fall” had been typical of Frank's many other aborted ventures.

Without first consulting his father or anyone else, Frank the Kid had taken it upon himself to ”clout” a local federal judge by adding him to the Emperor's secret members.h.i.+p roles and sending him his own personally monogrammed key with an invitation to attend the premiere performance of a new ”very special live show in our Theatre-in-the-Round.”

The invitation, as it turned out, was a sad error in judgment. Perhaps it had never occurred to Frank that not every man would feel honored by a VIP members.h.i.+p in the cla.s.siest wh.o.r.ehouse in the East, nor even recognize the honor when it descended upon him.

The unsuspecting judge turned out for the event, all right, but with his wife and daughter in tow. The fl.u.s.tered doorman didn't quite know how to handle the situation and he couldn't locate Frank the Kid for advice.

The judge and his ladies were eventually seated in the RomanGardens on a waterbed couch surrounded by tables of wines and fresh fruits just as the curtain was going up on ”Sinbed the Great and his Harem of Bedspring Acrobats”.

Sinbed was the only male in the troupe of ten but it immediately became evident that he was the only male needed and also the best acrobat in the bunch.

The judge and his ladies beat a frantic retreat just as Sinbed the Great was demonstrating his unique ability to service nine moaning lovelies simultaneously.

Thirty minutes later the joint was raided by a flying squad of county vice agents, and not even Papa Angeletti could salvage anything of lasting value from that disaster, even though he did manage to quiet the thing and keep most of the big name guests off of the official police blotter.

The Emperor's Key club disintegrated virtually overnight. Frank the Kid, a mere thirty-two years of age at the time, went on to bigger and better disasters. Papa Angeletti sighed and alibied, and kept hoping that some day ”the kid” would find some legs under him.

From that time until very recently, the property in Northwest Philly had been in mothb.a.l.l.s.

Now it was a camp for Don Stefano's foreign recruits. They were billeted five to a house with all ten bungalows occupied. The old building was being used, once again, as some sort of school. It figured. Most of the guys spoke no English. If they were to avoid problems over their illegal entry, they would need some understanding of the language. They also would need carefully constructed new ident.i.ties. The Don was the sort to take care of little details like that. Sure. He was sending those dudes to school. For some of them, it was for the first time in their lives.

Bolan was satisfied now that he had their numbers and their defensive layout. The sun was dropping into the west and the shadows were growing long across the grounds of the gradiGghia encampment.

He tied off the last of his dummy cable and descended the final pole of his grid. By no coincidence, it was placed directly across the street from the joint's main gate.

He crossed over and, as he removed the climbing spikes from his ankles, struck up a one-sided conversation with one of the troops, a bright-eyed guy of about twenty-five who was lounging about just inside the gate and trying his best not to look like a sentry.

Bolan wagged his head toward the pole he had just abandoned and told the guy, ”Warm day for winter, eh? Guess it'll snow tonight.”

It was Spring. The sky was clear and unruffled. The temperature was hovering near the seventy mark.

But the guy smiled, jerked his head in a reply somewhere between yes and no, and spread his arms.

Bolan smiled back, said, ”h.e.l.l, I guess You're a dumb s.h.i.+t, you know that? I think I'll kick your teeth out.”

The guy kept on smiling. He said, ”That's what I say,” with beautiful articulation, showed Bolan gleaming teeth, rubbed his chest, and ambled away.

The guy was no dumb s.h.i.+t. He'd handled it beautifully, reading Bolan's face instead of his words, and the response would have been perfect for most small-talk.

But he obviously had understood not a word. And there were fifty more just like that dude inside those walls.

The combat freeze was seeping into Bolan's chest, trying its best to arrest the heartbeat and paralyze the lungs.

It was going to be a mean mother this time.

The Executioner returned to the war wagon and stripped off the coveralls, then began field-checking his weapons.

A daylight strike.

Fifty very mean dudes who had everything to gain and nothing to lose, This one would have to be played directly on the numbers.

There would be no room whatever for the slightest fumbling or miscalculation. There would be room only for death-either his or his enemies.

Bolan the b.a.s.t.a.r.d meant to make it them. Or die trying.

Chapter 5.

On the Numbers.

I'm Going in to meet the gradigghia. This isn't just a wild-a.s.s charge to prove who's the meanest. It's probably the most crucial maneuver of my war. It may even decide who'll be running this country for the next few years.-a page from Mack Bolan's journal

He dropped in over the wall, coming from the street side in full combat regalia, landing behind a bungalow and almost directly over one of the hastily dug defenses.

A head popped from the foxhole, the guy's mouth opening to scream out the alarm. There was nothing in his hands but a small shovel.

The silent Beretta phutted once and the cry of alarm was b.u.t.toned into collapsing jaws, choked, drowned and reduced to a gus.h.i.+ng whimper. Black death moved swiftly on.

He'd launched the a.s.sault at the best possible moment, when most of the troops were inside the old building getting stoked up on a hasty meal and a last-minute combat briefing.