Malcolm Parsons liked to live high on the hog. It was an aspect of his personality that had attracted a great deal of media attention. He was lavish in his treatment of people in a position to do him some good, more lavish still in his treatment of himself. It was this, more than anything else, that made Peter Achison hate him.
The ostentation of Parsons's life-style, public or private, was purely self-indulgent. And Peter Achison longed for the opportunity to indulge himself. Looking around at the faded opulence of the country estate where Parsons secreted himself, he felt only contempt for the antinuke leader. Drumming his fingers on the tabletop, Achison felt his temper rise.
Parsons was forever pointing out, at times subtly, at others with arrogance, that he could pull Achison's strings. But the bastard didn't know half of what was going on around him. By design.
He was useful, sure, but annoying. And things hadn't been going well lately. For all Achison knew, Parsons had something to do with that.
First, four men, imported heavy hitters, had been lost in the bungled Central Park ambush. Now another screwup. It would be interesting to see how Parsons reacted.
Nominally his superior, Achison was unable to control the more flamboyant Parsons, who believed his prominence entitled him to ignore the guidance and discipline that Achison sought to impose. Parsons believed himself indispensable. Only the knowledge of just how wrong that was kept Achison from exploding when Parsons finally appeared.
"Have you been waiting long, Peter?"
"You know damn well how long I've been here."
"How was she?"
"I don't understand."
"Do you really think I don't know what you've been doing while I sat here twiddling my thumbs?"
"I'm sure I have no idea what you think I was doing. However, that's not why you're here, is it?"
"No, it isn't."
"Well, then... why have you come?"
"We lost the plutonium."
"You what?"
"You're not listening to me, Malcolm. That's a very bad habit to develop. I said we lost the plutonium."
"In heaven's name how?"
"I was hoping you could tell me."
"That's preposterous. How should I know?" Parsons got to his feet, one of his nervous habits. He paced back and forth along the length of the large walnut table between them. Looking for something to occupy his hands, he grabbed a poker to stir the ashes in the earth, then busied himself with rebuilding the fire. Finally, unable to stall any longer, he returned to his chair. "Tell me what happened."
"I don't know what happened. The plutonium left West Virginia, but it never got to Philadelphia. None of the men have returned, and there's no one at the rendezvous point."
"No one?"
"That's what I said."
Achison, sensing he had Parsons on the defensive, stood up. Crossing to the other side of the table, he stood behind Parsons, placing his hands on the back of the seated man's chair.
"There was nothing, and no one, there."
"I knew something like this would happen. I just knew it. I told you no one was to be hurt. Those policemen, you shouldn't have done that."
"I already told you. We had no choice. Besides, that's spilled milk. What matters is the plutonium."
"How did you find out?"
"When the shipment didn't show up in Philadelphia, our clients contacted me. Understandably, they were upset. They thought, perhaps still do, that someone was trying to pull a fast one on them. Of course, I reassured them on that score. I only wish I were as certain as I claimed to be."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"It means that until I know what did happen I have to assume anything could have, might have."
"Are you suggesting that I had anything to do with this?"
"You knew where the plutonium was, didn't you?"
"Of course. I was the one who organized the transportation. You know that."
"How about your people? How trustworthy are they?"
"I can vouch for them all."
"What about our little snitch?"
"What about her? She didn't know where the stuff was."
"Are you sure?"
"Certain."
Achison hoped that Parsons was getting the distinct impression that he was being grilled. He knew the antinuke leader didn't like it. He wasn't used to being in the hot seat. Achison rather enjoyed watching the erosion of the man's confidence. He kept the pressure on, partly to make certain that Parsons was telling the truth, but mostly because he enjoyed watching Parsons squirm.
Neither man noticed the door open.
"How pathetic you are!" Achison turned, his mouth hanging in midsentence.
"Who the hell are you?" Parsons demanded.
The new arrival walked to the table and sat down.
"Why don't you introduce us, Mr. Achison?"
Achison shuffled his feet. "Malcolm Parsons, Andrey Glinkov."
Parsons looked at Glinkov. "Who the hell are you? I don't know you. What are you doing here?"
"You idiot," Glinkov spat. "Who do you think pays for all of this?" He swept his hand around the kitchen, a gesture meant to encompass far more than their immediate surroundings. "You work for me, Mr. Parsons. So does Mr. Achison."
Parsons turned to Achison. "What the hell is he talking about? Who is he? What's going on here?"
"Like the man says, Malcolm. We work for him."
"The hell I do. I'm my own boss. Always have been. You better leave while you still have the opportunity." Parsons stood up angrily. He walked to the end of the table and called into the room beyond. "Bert, get in here! Now!"
Silence. Either Bert hadn't heard or he was part of this outrage.
"Sit down," Glinkov said. His voice was soft, almost gentle. But there was no mistaking its steely edge. "I am more than a little annoyed at what has happened."
"What are you talking about? Annoyed at what? What business do you have being annoyed at anything?"
"I pay the bills, Mr. Parsons. And right now I don't believe I'm getting my money's worth. Where is the plutonium?"
"How did you... would you please tell me what's going on here?"
"That's precisely what I want you to tell me, Mr. Parsons. What happened to the plutonium?"
"I, uh... I don't know. I didn't even know it was missing, until a few minutes ago. Isn't that right, Peter?" He turned to Achison for support, but the latter merely shook his head.
"I don't know, Andrey. I was just trying to find that out myself when you walked in."
Glinkov leaned back in the chair. He sighed with equal parts of exasperation and disappointment. "Oh, Malcolm, what are we to do with you?"
"What do you mean?"
"Obviously you have bungled your assignment, at least insofar as Ms Peres is concerned. You were supposed to make good use of her, Mr. Parsons. But it seems she has made more use of you."
"She didn't even know about the plutonium."
"Can you prove that?"
"I swear she didn't know. I let her leak some information, like Peter wanted, but she didn't know where the stuff was hidden. There's no way she could have told anyone. She didn't know."
"Then what happened, Mr. Parsons? Who did know? Who told Mack Bolan?"
"Who's Bolan? I don't know anybody by that name." Parsons looked helplessly from Achison to Glinkov and back.
"Peter will brief you on him later. Right now I'm more interested in seeing to it that he doesn't interfere in any more of our activities."
"But..."
"Shut up, Mr. Parsons. Shut up and listen. This is what I want you to do."
Quickly Glinkov sketched his plan. Rachel Peres was to be taken to a "people's prison." There was to be no announcement. In due course, Glinkov knew, the underground would buzz with the story. Sooner or later, it would reach Bolan. But no effort was to be made to ensure that it did, lest Bolan realize he was being set up.
Glinkov knew that, being uninvited, Bolan was certain to show. Their silence was designed to attract his interest. It would, of course, be a trap.
Achison was to be in charge.
"I hope I have made myself perfectly clear. Any questions, Peter? Mr. Parsons?"
Each man shook his head. Whether they understood was less certain than that they wanted Andrey Glinkov to disappear for the rest of the evening. Parsons felt a surge of gratitude that Achison had been present. Something in Glinkov gave him the chills. There was such certitude in the man's voice. Obviously he wasn't used to having subordinates fail him. Parsons chose not to think about what might happen should this latest effort end abortively.
Achison, on the other hand, was glad to see Parsons ground under Glinkov's thumb. The bastard had it coming. As many times as he'd tried, he had been unable to ruffle Parsons's feathers.
Glinkov, master of the art, had had no trouble at all. And sharing the burden of Glinkov's icy stare made the room seem warmer by half. His contempt for Parsons hadn't been diminished, but he had discovered a reluctant kinship. It must have been like that for enemies chained to the same bench in a Roman galley. The lash bit everyone with equal indifference. A shared hatred made allies of the oddest kind.
Glinkov sat silently. He despised both of them. Neither was more than a tool for the KGB man. And tools were made to be used, then thrown away, replaced by newer, better tools. He stood abruptly. "Peter, you'll be hearing from me. Goodbye, Mr. Parsons."
The Russian left as suddenly as he had come.
Parsons turned angrily to Achison. "What the hell did he mean when he said I work for him? I don't work for anybody."
"Tell him that, why don't you? The next time you have the chance. And the nerve." Achison laughed. "I think we should tend to Ms Peres. Where is she?"
"Upstairs, sleeping."
"Get her down here. Now. Bert?" Bert came into the kitchen.
"Where the hell were you ten minutes ago?" Parsons demanded.
"In the living room, why?"
"Didn't you hear me calling you?"
"Yeah, I heard you." Bert smiled.
"I see. So that's how it is?"
Bert nodded.
"Mr. Glinkov has deep pockets, doesn't he?" Parsons asked of no one in particular.
No one answered. No one had to.
"What did you want, Malcolm?" Bert asked. There was a certain impatience in his voice.
"I want you to take Ms Peres for a ride. Take her clothes. She'll be staying awhile."
"She's not here, Malcolm."
"What do you mean she's not here?"
"She left a few minutes ago. With Mr. Glinkov, Malcolm."
Achison laughed, and Parsons turned to him.
He stepped toward the larger man, his fists clenched.
"I wouldn't if I were you, Malcolm," Achison said.
Bert laughed out loud.
"This just ain't your night, Malcolm," he said.
He laughed again and walked back out of the kitchen. The others could hear him chuckling as he mounted the stairs.
Parsons was about to say something when the door opened with a bang. A small athletic-looking man stumbled through the open door and collapsed at the foot of the table. His face was badly bruised, his clothes torn and dirty.
"My God, what happened to you?" Parsons shouted, kneeling by the fallen man.
"Ambush," the fallen man mumbled. "Somebody jumped us. They got the stuff."
"Who? Who was it?" Parsons demanded.
"You already know that," Achison whispered. "Bolan."
"Who the devil is this Bolan? Everybody talks about him as if he were the Angel of Death or something. You all sound like a bunch of superstitious savages."
"Take my word for it, Parsons, you don't want to know. And if you ever do meet him, I dare say you'll write a few prayers of your own. If you have the time."
"Forget that now. Help me get him upstairs." Parsons turned the now unconscious man over and took him by the shoulders. Achison grabbed his feet, and together they strained to lift him. He was slight, but the deadweight was a challenge. They passed through the door and navigated the broad hall.
At the foot of the stairs, Parsons laid him down.
"Wait here," he said. "I'll go get Bert. We'll never make it by ourselves."
Parsons mounted the stairs two at a time, returning with Bert a moment later. The big man effortlessly hoisted the prostrate form and reclimbed the stairs.
"Poor guy looks like he's had a rough time. Who is he?" Achison asked.
"A new addition to our little family. He was one of the West Virginia team. His name's Eli Cohen."