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uncomfortable. People with whose disposal we must on no account be directly connected. The success of such operations will amply reward my superiors for any... logistic help... they can supply.”
    Flat on his face in the gallery, Bolan could feel his heart pounding against his ribs. This was the conspiracy “brewing in the Riviera underworld” that Telder and Chamson had suspected.
    The KGB were now planning to recruit the entire Mafia brotherhood worldwide. They were deliberately marshaling the forces of crime to further their own despotic ambitions.
    Bolan was under no illusion as to the threat a global KGB-Mafia partnership would pose. With the means at their disposal, and the whole weight of the Soviet Union secretly behind them, they could — as Antonin prophesied — drive democracy to the wall.
    He wondered if the hoods below could see things equally clearly; if they were dumb enough to believe that the KGB would allow them to direct their own organization once they had accepted Russian aid.
    Bolan himself knew damned well what would happen. Once the Mob had accepted the KGB handout, they would simply become reinforcements to the seven hundred thousand agents already implementing Moscow’s plans all over the world.
    Right now, though, Antonin was spoon-feeding them the story that all would be best in the best of possible worlds. Hell, this is all the world needs, Bolan thought savagely.
    “Okay, okay,” he heard the Chicago gang boss say. “So we make with all these shooters and get the cops running. What if they bring in the army then?”
    “Yeah,” Borrone said. “Cops with .38 Police Specials or Brownings is one thing; paras with all the gear they have is another.”
    “The fact that the army might be involved would add to the confusion,” Antonin said smoothly. “People would see their world collapsing; they would be traumatized. In any case, you would still have the advantage.”
    “No kidding!” Zefarelli scoffed. “Just tell me how.”
    “Simple,” said the Russian. “The army would have to be careful to avoid civilian casualties in any shootout. Otherwise the political repercussions would be disastrous. You would work under no such restrictions. The more bystanders shot down the better. Calling in the soldiers is already an admission that the situation is out of hand. Either way we win.”
    “I don’t know,” one of the capos said dubiously. “We make enough bread the way things are. Why take a chance and...”
    “You would be taking no chances,” Antonin interrupted. “But there is no hurry. Talk it over. I shall be here until midnight. Why don’t we, uh, join the ladies? You can let me know what you have decided when you have discussed it among yourselves.”
    A smart time to ease off on the hard sell, Bolan figured. There was a scraping of chairs as the mafiosi stood up. Led by Sanguinetti, they filed, talking heatedly, toward a door leading to the main part of the house. Bolan pushed himself to his hands and knees. Time to split before they found the guards he had zapped.
    Now that he knew the score, it would be great if he could somehow patch in to the hoods’ decision. He glanced over his shoulder at the garden exit.
    And froze.
    Eighteen inches from his head there was a pair of glossy black high-heel boots. Above the boots, glove-leather pants and a matching draped jacket clothed a shapely brunette. She held a small blue-steel automatic in her right hand.
    “The knockdown power is nonexistent,” she said softly. “But at this range, in experienced hands, it can be lethal. And I assure you I am experienced. I think you had better come with me.”

5
    She wore a flame-colored scarf tucked into the neck of her jacket. Her eyes were green and her hair fell softly about her shoulders. She must be, Bolan guessed, all of twenty-two years old.
    She was cautious, never allowing the Executioner close enough to make any attempt to disarm her as she maneuvered him back outside the