style="font-size:15px;"> It was not anything that he and Marynka Platinov had found at the two CLODO safe houses that bothered him. It was what they hadn’t found.
Platinov had evidently been thinking along the same lines because as they neared the hotel, she said, “Correct me if I am wrong, but the last time CLODO did anything big—I mean really big—was when they bombed the Phillips Data Plant way back in the 1980s, right?”
“Right,” Bolan said, pulling the Nissan into the hotel’s parking lot.
“And since Rouillan revived them a year or so ago, everything they have done has involved explosives of one kind or another. Correct?”
Bolan could tell she was headed in the same direction he’d been thinking. “Or guns,” the Executioner said. “Bombings and random machine-gunnings at train stations and other public places are pretty much their trademark.”
“Then why haven’t we found any bomb-making supplies at either of the safe houses we’ve hit?” Platinov asked bluntly. “Or weapons? Oh, we’ve found these men’s personal weapons. But we haven’t found either stores of arms and ammunition or the ingredients it takes to make bombs.”
Bolan nodded. “You’re right,” he said. “All we’ve come across are personal arms. The biggest and ‘baddest’ thing so far was that lone Browning on the second level back there.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Where are they storing their other rifles, hoarded ammunition, and everything else along that line if not at the safe houses? If CLODO’s really back in business, and going to war with the computer companies and everyone who uses computers, what are they planning to destroy everything with? Sledgehammers?”
The last suggestion had been meant to be sarcastic and Platinov took it as such. “That is bothering me, too,” she said. “Do you believe it is likely that their other weapons and explosive materials are hidden at some other location we haven’t come across yet?”
“That’s one possibility.”
For a moment, silence reigned over the Nissan again. Bolan parked the car, they got out, and he opened one of the rear doors. Then Platinov said, “Your tone of voice indicated that you believe there are other possibilities.” She opened the back door on her side of the vehicle.
“There are,” Bolan answered as they each pulled out one of the canvas bags and started toward the main entrance of the hotel. “But let me mull them around a little longer before I tell you about them,” he said. “I’m not all that straight with it myself, yet.”
Platinov had slipped back into her suit jacket to cover her double shoulder rig and now she shrugged. “Okay.”
Bolan shook his head at the bellmen when they hurried down the steps to help them with their bags. A moment later, Bolan and Platinov were picking up their key at the front desk, then boarding the elevator toward the third floor.
Once in the room, Bolan took a look at his watch. It was nearly 0200 hours in Paris, which would mean it was around 9:00 p.m. back home in the eastern States. Pulling his satellite phone from the inside pocket of his jacket, Bolan dialed the number to the Farm.
Barbara Price, mission controller at Stony Man Farm, answered. “Hello, Striker,” she said, using his mission code name. “What do you need?”
“Nothing at the moment.” He gave her a quick rundown of what had happened since their last conversation, then said, “I’ll probably be calling you back with more after we go through these bags.” He glanced at the two canvas bags that contained all of the evidence they’d taken from the safe house. “In the meantime, pass what I’ve just told you on to the Bear and see if he can make use of any of the information. He not only speaks, he thinks in computerese, so he may come up with some way to use some of this intel that would never cross the rest of our minds.”
“Will do, Striker,” Price said. “May I assume that you’re still working with Agent Platinov?”
There had been no trace of jealousy in Price’s voice. And no one who had heard the question would even notice that a tiny amount of resentment had even been in the question. But Bolan knew Barbara Price better than anyone else in the world, and he had picked up on it.
Barbara Price was a world-class beauty in her own right. And while both she and the Executioner were far too professional to allow their mutual attraction to interfere with the Farm’s operations, on the rare nights when he was able to stay over at Stony Man, Price had his undivided attention.
Finally Bolan said, “It’s still a joint op between us and Russia, but I’ll be the one who calls you.”
“Affirmative,” Price said. “Stony Man out, then.”
“Striker clear,” the Executioner said before tapping the “call kill” button. He looked across the bed to where Platinov sat cross-legged. She had already kicked off her shoes and dumped the contents of the canvas bags onto the bed in front of her. In her hands, she squinted at a scrap of paper that looked to have been folded and unfolded dozens of time.
Bolan joined her, and they came across the usual things found in men’s pockets—billfolds, keys, a few French Lagouille pocketknives. Hideout weapons such as fixed blade knives in ankle holsters, and one tiny .22 short North American Arms minirevolver. Some of the terrorists had carried several sets of IDs in different names—passports, driver’s licenses and other picture identification cards. When he had finished inspecting everything in his bag, Bolan frowned. There was a lot of stuff here. But as far as he could tell, none of it would lead them on down the trail toward Rouillan, his revived terrorist organization, or their upcoming big strike that was rumored to soon take place.
As he had searched the contents of the canvas bag, the Executioner had seen Platinov out of the corner of eye as she dug through her own pile of personal effects. But when he looked up now, he saw that the woman was again holding the same folded, then unfolded, scrap of paper he’d seen her looking at earlier.
“Got something?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Platinov said. “Maybe, maybe not.”
“Let’s see,” the Executioner said.
Platinov had moved up on the bed to rest her back against the wall and sat cross-legged, looking as if she might break out in some yoga mantra at any moment. But the posture had caused her skirt to ride up.
Forcing his eyes down to the scrap of paper, Bolan studied it. It looked to have come from a yellow legal pad and had been torn off rather than cut. It read: Chartres—Achille LeForce, 4:00 p.m. At the bottom of the scrap of paper was a date.
That very day.
Bolan looked up at Platinov. “Whatever it is, it takes place this afternoon,” he said.
“LeForce is a common French name,” Platinov said. “So is Achille, for that matter. And Chartres is a village in the province of Touraine. It’s southwest of here.”
Bolan stood up, walked swiftly to a leather briefcase on top of the other equipment bags they had dropped in the corner of the room and brought it back to the bed before opening it. Pulling out a manila file envelope, he shuffled through the papers contained inside.
“What are you looking for?” Platinov wanted to know.
Bolan held
