And unless the Interpol chief or the French Counter-intelligence man were tied in with the Mob, there was no way anyone could have guessed at the Executioner’s involvement.

On the other hand, Chamson and Telder had known of the hit man’s plans, so perhaps others closer to his own line of business could have been equally well briefed.

Sondermann’s BMW had run off the road at 100 plus miles per hour, the Swiss and French lawmen had told Bolan. The German had been thrown clear of the blazing wreck, killed instantly. In his pocket, there was a reservation confirming a two-day stopover at a motel outside Lyons. Bolan — provided with a similar car, Sondermann’s license plates, and the dead man’s papers — had taken up the second of those days.

The Executioner spent a moment reasoning out how the killers had known which gas station the BMW would stop at the following night on its way south.

They knew the car and its fuel capacity. So, it was simple to estimate roughly where the BMW would need to refuel. The filling stations on the expressways were between ten and twenty miles apart, as a rule. If the killers covered three they should be ninety percent certain to catch the BMW.

So, sure, it all made sense to the soldier. What did not make sense was why they were so anxious to keep Kurt Sondermann away from Marseilles.

Right now, Bolan had no time to squander on guessing games.

The sedan had stopped on the far side of the canopy, out of effective range for the Beretta. Bolan was familiar with the pattern. Once the guy coming up through the bushes was in position, the car would move forward again, high beams lancing the darkness. Anyone caught in the open would be pinned against the night, as effectively as a moth on a display board, target for a hail of death hosing in from three directions.