After thirty hours of close surveillance, he felt like a traffic cop on a day off.
He was watching because he couldn't afford not to. It was his instinct. It was natural. And it was frustrating as hell. Bolan had to sit tight because doing anything else might blow the whole operation sky-high.
Parsons was very visible, orchestrating things in the overblown style and with the exaggerated gestures that marked his public addresses. Also prominent was the balding man who had been Bert's companion. Bolan knew that he must be Peter Achison. The guy seemed inoffensive enough, but the few moments he had spent in the outbuilding with the man had convinced Bolan that there was more to Achison than met the eye. His eyes were the giveaway. Even in the dim light, Bolan had seen the flat, deadly glitter. They were killer's eyes. And Bolan was convinced he had seen the man before.
The trees around Parsons's hideaway offered some cover but little shelter from the biting wind. It had been a few days since the last snow, and the sky seemed uncertain about its next move. An occasional burst of sunlight warmed Bolan slightly. At night it was below freezing. By the evening of the second day, Bolan was losing his patience. The big guy wanted, needed, action.
Sitting around just gave him time to think.
Too much time. The longer he waited, the more helpless he felt. But he knew that waiting was the only thing to do.
After dark he planned to move in closer, check the place out again and see if he could pick up any conversation. If they were getting ready to make their move, they had to be talking about it. If he knew when, he could make his own plans.
As the sun started to slip behind the trees, the sky began to cloud over. It had picked up a deep red color at the horizon, then, as suddenly as if someone had thrown a switch, it was dark. Overhead the clouds pressed toward him. What little light there was came from the house, but by eleven even the houselights were gone. The place looked almost deserted. A single lamp burned in the kitchen, throwing a dull rectangle onto the snowy lawn. Bolan knew that it was time for a closer look.
Inching through the trees, the snow crunching under his feet, Bolan kept his eyes on the house. So far there had been no sign of movement. Everyone must have gone to bed. Tonight obviously wasn't the night.
As he reached the outbuildings, the kitchen grew brighter when someone turned on the overhead light.
Using the rough stone wall of the outbuilding to his advantage, Bolan boosted himself onto the roof so that he could see into the kitchen.
Parsons moved nervously back and forth across Bolan's line of sight. Pacing with his hands behind his back, he was talking with someone Bolan couldn't see. Shifting his position on the roof, the warrior could just make out the back of the other person's head and one shoulder. Parsons seemed to be arguing, but his voice didn't carry across the broad lawn.
Bolan had to get closer.
Sliding off the roof, he landed in a frozen drift behind the outbuilding. Keeping well away from the kitchen window, he moved in. At the house wall, he edged his way to a position directly beneath the partially opened window. A telephone rang.
Parsons picked up the receiver after one ring. Bolan was able to hear every word of the conversation.
"It's for you, Peter."
The second man began to talk. "Yes, Andrey... Of course... No, no... Of course we will... Right away." The receiver was replaced with a click. The scrape of a chair obscured the man's next sentence.
Parsons responded with some irritation. "Why? I don't see why we have to go out in the middle of the night. I don't mind telling you I'm getting fed up with these childish games."
"You can tell that to Andrey the next time you see him, Malcolm."
"Perhaps I will."
"We'd better get moving."
The voices moved off. They were going to be coming out, but Bolan wasn't sure which door they would use.
He couldn't take the chance of being discovered. Sprinting through the snow to the safety of the outbuildings, he pressed himself flat against the wall and waited. A few moments later lights flooded the lawn. The front door opened, and both men walked out into the cold. Parsons was still arguing, but Bolan was too far away to hear what was being said. He had to follow them. The caller's name had been Andrey. It could only be one man. This might be his best chance to get a look at Glinkov. The two men headed down the path leading to the parking area. There was only one thing for Bolan to do. He couldn't follow them; his car was too far up the road. The only answer was to get back to his car by the most direct route and then wait for them to pull out. Even tailing them would be risky. At this time of night there would be little traffic on the country roads. He'd have to give them plenty of room.
Struggling through the heavy snow, Bolan felt a natural high, his adrenaline pumping. Finally he could do something besides twiddling his thumbs. If he got a look at Glinkov, the waiting would have been worth it. As he reached the road, Bolan heard the slam of a car door, followed quickly by another. He got in his own car, closing the door quietly. He was a hundred fifty yards away, but sound carried in the crisp night air. Rolling down his window, he waited for Parsons to crank up his engine. When he heard the whine of the starter, Bolan turned his own engine over. It caught immediately.
Headlights stabbed out into the road ahead. Bolan threw his car into gear. He had to hope they weren't going to head his way. The shadows thrown by the headlights wavered as Parsons's vehicle moved forward and away from him. Bolan breathed a sigh of relief. Once they got onto a more heavily traveled road, he could fall back a bit and not worry about attracting attention. For the time being, though, it was going to be tricky.
The Chevy Blazer driven by the two men would be fairly easy to spot even in traffic. Its height would be an advantage for Bolan.
The Blazer moved slowly, trailing exhaust in the cold air. When it had passed from view around the first curve in the road, Bolan put his own lights on and pulled out of the snow onto the road. As he followed behind, he could track the vehicle by the play of its lights among the trees. The nearest major highway was several miles away, so he could hang back. As the Blazer reached the first intersection, Bolan was several hundred yards behind. He spotted the sweep of the headlights as the vehicle made a left turn, heading north on Route 84. Bolan followed, narrowing the gap a bit.
He still hadn't seen another car, and at two o'clock in the morning he knew that it might be a while before he did. The Blazer didn't seem to be in any hurry. It settled into the right lane and moved at a steady fifty miles per hour. After fifteen minutes, Bolan spotted the blinking turn signal and made ready to follow it off the highway onto a secondary road. It continued northward, slowing a bit to allow for road conditions.
Bolan wondered where Parsons was going. Nothing in his intel suggested there was anything nearby that Parsons and his followers were even remotely connected with. It was too late for sightseeing, and this trip had clearly been connected to the telephone conversation. Parsons had been given orders of some kind; reluctantly he was carrying them out. Bolan wondered what they were and if they were from Glinkov. The Executioner knew that Thunder Mountain was in the opposite direction, so it couldn't be a reconnaissance trip. There were only two men anyway, not enough to mount an offensive against a well-guarded installation like the nuclear power station.
Conjecture was leading him nowhere, so Bolan resolved to wait it out. As long as Parsons and his companion continued driving in the opposite direction, it was unlikely that anything would happen at the power station. After fifteen minutes, the Blazer signaled to make another turn, this time into a narrow, winding road heading due west. The Blazer and Bolan's Camaro were the only vehicles on the road.
Hanging well back, Bolan began to wonder whether Parsons was going anywhere at all. Maybe the men had just gone for a ride to settle their nerves.
Maybe Parsons was getting cold feet. The antinuke leader had never been involved in anything as deadly as this plot before.
Suddenly the Blazer made a sharp turn without signaling. It sped off down a rutted side road, traveled thirty yards and then stopped. Bolan couldn't chance following, so he continued past the entrance. He slowed a bit, but couldn't see anything. It appeared as if the Blazer had simply stopped, although the clouds of exhaust told him it was still running. Bolan hadn't seen any illumination other than the headlights, so no one had gotten in or out.
A half mile past the turnoff, Bolan knew he had no choice. He had to chance being spotted.
Banking into a small clearing, he made a quick turn and extinguished his lights, then coasted back toward the narrow road, keeping his approach as silent as possible.
He brought the car to a stop and rolled down the window to listen. The Blazer was out of sight, but he could still see the glare of its headlights. He debated about moving in on foot. Bolan knew that it might be worth a closer look. He had seen any buildings down the side road, and there were no other cars in sight. If Parsons and Achison had come here to meet someone, Bolan was at a loss to explain how the other party would have gotten to so remote a location.
While he pondered what to do, the Blazer's engine revved, and the 4Xbled began to back out of the cul-de-sac, its engine groaning against the heavy snow. The red glare of its taillights stained the snowy bank on either side, and then the rear of the Blazer burst into view.
The vehicle bounced unsteadily as it backed onto the road. In a sudden hurry, it sped back in the direction it had come. As soon as it was out of sight, Bolan clicked on his lights and roared after it. This time, Parsons drove like a man with a mission. The Blazer was bouncing recklessly, and Bolan had to goose his engine to keep it in sight.
At the intersection the Blazer continued to retrace its route, heading toward Route 84. Bolan was mystified. Nothing had happened. Parsons and his companion had met no one. They had visited a snowbank in the middle of nowhere and now appeared to be heading home. In a hurry. Moving up on the Blazer carefully, Bolan decided it was time to take a chance. He slowly narrowed the gap between the Blazer and himself. He intended to pass the Blazer and drive back to the Parsons place. It was clear that nothing was going to happen tonight. As he pulled up on the Blazer, Bolan realized with a start that there was only one occupant. The passenger seat was empty. He had never actually been close enough to know whether anyone had ever been in it. Could Parsons have been alone all night? If so, where was the other man? Had he merely walked Parsons to the car and then gone back to the house? Bolan drove closer, and as he did, he knew he'd been had. The Blazer pulled onto Route 84, and Bolan had his chance. The four-lane highway would allow him to pass without calling attention to himself. Not that it mattered, he thought. He had been lured out there on purpose. Bolan's car eased alongside the 4Xbled, and Bolan glanced at the driver. It wasn't Malcolm Parsons.
It was the skinny guy, Achison. As Bolan pulled alongside, the man ignored him. Bolan pulled slightly ahead, then eased into the right lane.
He glanced into the rearview mirror just in time to see the Blazer veer to the right, bumping over the shoulder.
With a roar that Bolan could hear over his own engine, it continued on into the open field and up the side of a hill. Bolan hit his brakes, skidded to a halt and bounced out of his car. The Blazer was gone.