Leaning toward the front of the cab, Peter Achison snapped at the driver. "Move it, can't you? I've got a plane to catch."
"Keep your shirt on, pal. Everybody's got a plane to catch. That's why there's so much traffic."
Achison was too distracted to appreciate the cabbie's irony. He was already in hot water. He hadn't gotten Hanley's papers, Otto and Jameson were dead, and now he was going to miss his plane. He'd be lucky if he kept his head, let alone his job.
Achison had taken a bus from Washington to Philadelphia, switched to the train in Philly, looked in on Malcolm Parsons, and then laid up at a cheap hotel in the Times Square area for two days. No one knew yet whether he had succeeded or not. Communication was strictly personal. No phones, no telegrams, no letters. And no papers. Unable to sleep soundly, he had passed the time in the hotel with whiskey and television. Now his nerves were stretched to the breaking point.
As they neared Kennedy International, the traffic got even heavier. A light rain, which had melted any remaining snow from the city's first storm of the season, had made the road slick, and the cars were moving gingerly when they moved at all. His flight was still an hour away, but check-in was a lot more complicated than it used to be. Ironically it was the threat of terrorism that slowed the process to a crawl. He would be a casualty of his own beliefs. Lateness was not expected of someone in his line of work. Nor was it appreciated.
"Hey, pal!" the cabbie hollered. "I said what airline? Ain't you in such a big hurry, after all?"
"BEA, and step on it."
They pulled into the terminal approach road, and cars began to peel off the line as passengers found the appropriate airline. The traffic was still sluggish, but moving with more purpose now. As the car pulled up to the BEA terminal, Achison fiddled with the buttons on his coat, removed his wallet and then jumped out of the cab. After closing the door, he handed the driver two twenties. "Keep the change," he said, extending the money to the cabbie.
"Yeah, pal, thanks," he said. He watched Achison enter the terminal, then pulled away, muttering, "I break my butt to get him here on time and he gives me a buck tip."
Once inside, Achison went right to the check-in counter, checked his bag and got his boarding pass. The clock overhead showed ten minutes before boarding time, so he found a cigar stand, bought a pack of English Ovals and a newspaper, then went to the lounge to wait for his flight. Once on board, he ordered three drinks, added them to the several he had drunk before leaving the hotel and fell asleep. When he woke, they were beginning their approach into Orly. He called the flight attendant for a hot towel to freshen up and ran a nervous hand through his thinning hair. He was to be met at the airport, and he wanted to make a decent impression. His fastidiousness had deserted him under the pressure of the past few days, but it was an asset, and he struggled to restore a sense of control over events.
The terminal at Orly was crowded. The mob scene around the luggage carousel put him on edge, and he had to remind himself that he was in control. When his bag finally showed, he snatched it hurriedly and went to the main lounge. It was eight o'clock. Time to go. Right on the dot, he stood and folded his newspaper three times, tucked it under his left arm and picked up his bag. A man seated across from him also rose and followed Achison into the main lobby. Achison stopped abruptly. The second man bumped him and continued walking. Achison followed.
Out in the cold air, Achison followed the man to a dark green Renault in the parking area and got in the passenger side. His companion started the car and pulled out into the exit lane before speaking. "How'd it go?"
"Well enough, I expect."
"You expect?"
"Yes, I expect. I'll let Andrey make the final evaluation." Achison's tone was abrupt.
He resented the questions. This clown was not someone to whom he owed any sort of explanation.
"Oh, he'll do that. I expect." The man smiled, but Achison ignored him. "He's anxious to look at those papers, you know. He's worried they may be getting onto us."
"I don't think so," Achison said.
'Andrey does."
"Just drive. I'm tired. I don't want to talk."
"Suit yourself."
On the outskirts of Paris, the driver pulled into the driveway of a large estate. A brick wall surrounded the wellmanicured lawns. It was topped with broken glass that glittered in the security lights mounted at thirty-yard intervals.
The estate was the headquarters of an international trading firm, and the rather extensive security was considered a necessity. Too many industrialists and executives had been kidnapped in recent years for the precautions to seem unusual.
After the Renault had passed through, a uniformed guard pulled a heavy iron gate closed behind it.
The Renault continued up the drive and pulled around to the side of the house. Achison got out, taking his bag. Before he could close the door, the driver leaned across to the passenger side and said, "Andrey's in the library. He'll want to see you right away. I expect."
Achison slammed the door on the man's harsh laughter. The huge walnut side door opened as Achison approached. An attractive dark-haired woman greeted him politely and took his bag. After he hung his coat on a rack, she led the way into the dim exterior of the large house. She stopped at a double-doored archway, indicating that Achison should enter. He stepped into the gloomy room, only vaguely aware of the doors closing behind him.
"Sit down, Peter." A flickering flame broke behind a large desk.
Achison could discern the outlines of a large leather chair. As his eyes adjusted, the chair spun.
Andrey Glinkov finished lighting his cigar and snapped his lighter shut. "Did you get the papers, Peter?"
Achison sat down before answering. "No, there was... uh... there was some trouble." Despite his intention to remain calm, he could hear the quaver in his voice.
"What kind of trouble?"
"Someone else was there. He... uh... he killed Otto and took the papers."
"But he didn't kill you? That's very interesting. I should imagine Otto posed more difficulty than you would."
"I don't know. I wasn't there. I mean, I was there, but not when he got Otto. I sent Otto to the car with the papers. Before I left the house, somebody attacked us. He killed Otto and Jameson. He was coming back for me, but I got away. I took a shot at him, but I missed."
"I'm not surprised. It's rather difficult to hit a target you're running away from. I am disappointed, Peter. Very disappointed."
"I know how much you wanted those papers."
"But you did kill Robert Hanley, didn't you?"
Achison relaxed. "Yes, I did. At least that went okay."
"No, Peter, it did not go okay. Your orders were only to get the papers. I said nothing about disposing of Mr. Hanley. This unfortunate matter has called too much attention to affairs we would prefer were unnoticed."
"I don't understand what you mean. How?"
"By disposing of Mr. Hanley as you did, you have called attention not only to him, but to his work, Peter. If the papers were the cause of his death, as will most assuredly be assumed, thanks to you, people will naturally look very closely at those papers. Won't they, Peter?"
"Yes. But I thought I had the papers. Then it wouldn't have mattered. There wouldn't have been anything to look at. It would have looked like a burglary. Would have, if that big bastard hadn't interrupted."
"Tell me about this man."
"I don't know much. I didn't get a real good look at him. He's about six two or so I guess. Dark hair. Hell of a shot. He must be a real pro to take Otto out that easily."
"Yes, he is. You have no idea how good."
"You know who it was?"
"Let's just say I have my suspicions. And if I'm right, Peter, your job is going to be much more difficult than any of us thought."
"Who is it then?"
"If the same man you met was behind the unpleasant failure at Dunford, and I believe he was, it sounds very much like the work of a man known as Mack Bolan."
"Who?"
"Never mind, Peter. Just think of him as the Executioner. He may very well be yours."
"Who the hell is he?"
"All in good time, Peter. All in good time. I have a few more questions to ask before I answer any of yours."
Glinkov's calm was a lie, and Peter Achison knew it. There had been much expected and little delivered. At their last meeting, Glinkov had outlined the KGB'S current efforts to destabilize American energy programs. The Kremlin knew, as did anyone who thought about it clearly, that American independence from Third World oil was crucial to a continued American presence on the world stage. If she had to kowtow to every backwater nation with any significant amount of crude underground, the United States would be unwilling to step on toes.
What the Kremlin wanted, and what it was Glinkov's job to deliver, was an American public frightened of nuclear energy. Once that was accomplished, the Soviet Union would have a free hand throughout the Middle East and much of Africa.
Andrey Glinkov wanted to deliver, and Peter Achison was letting him down.
Unable to keep silent any longer, Achison cleared his throat. "Do you want to ask those questions now, or shall I come back in the morning?"
"Will your answers be any different tomorrow?"
"Well, no. No, they won't."
"Then kindly wait until I am ready to continue. We may as well get the whole sorry mess over with this evening." Glinkov picked up a folder and spun his chair away from Achison.
The Russian was a cool one; Achison had to give him that. Andrey Glinkov was already notorious throughout the European intelligence community. On both sides of the fence he had a reputation for his ruthlessness and cunning. As near as Achison could tell, he was no more trusted by his Red comrades than he was by Western agencies. The son of an assistant to Lavrenti Beria — the most dreaded secret police chief — he had parlayed his father's bloodthirsty reputation into a career of his own.
Beria's influence had long since faded, but the mention of the name still sent shivers down Soviet spines.
Glinkov knew it and was not above trading on it.
The prevailing opinion in KGB circles was that one should stay on Glinkov's good side... if only one could find it.
Glinkov's current position gave him a free hand to draw on recourses from any directorate, any section, at will. He was determined to make the most of it. And if Achison couldn't help him, he'd have to find someone who could.
Glinkov turned back to face his worried agent. "You know my reputation for impatience, Peter?"
"Yes." Achison swallowed hard. He didn't want to hear what was coming.
"Well, it's all true. One might say I have worked very hard to earn that reputation. However, even a man as impatient as I am can be patient when the situation warrants. This is such a situation. You have done well in the past. I am sure your latest failure is, shall we say, a momentary lapse. I want to give you the chance to redeem yourself."
"Thank you, Andrey. You won't be sorry."
"No, I won't be. But if you fail me again, my friend, you most assuredly will be."
"I understand. What do you want me to do?"
"This man Bolan must be eliminated."
"That might not be so easy. How do I find him?"
"The trick, dear Peter, is to let him find you. And we are already taking steps in that direction. We have a number of operations planned. Nothing major, of course. I want Bolan out of the way before we unveil our masterpiece. But Bolan will be given the opportunity to learn of these minor plots. Sooner or later he will, no doubt, attempt to interfere. When he does, you will be waiting for him. And..." Glinkov ground finger and thumb together as if squashing a bug.
"How can you be sure he'll take the bait?"
"Quite simple, really. We have already recruited someone who will tell him. An Israeli woman who is working for the Americans. Our friend Parsons is making sure that she will pass the correct information to Bolan. You will do the rest. Won't you?"
Achison nodded. "Just one thing, though. Aren't you putting Malcolm Parsons at risk?"
"We are all at risk, Peter. We all have our jobs to do. We all have sacrifices to make."
"Does Malcolm know this?"
"Malcolm Parsons is an idiot. He has been useful, and will continue to be, for now. That's all. I'll be in touch with you."
"Will see."
Glinkov spun away in his chair again. Achison rose to leave.
"Just one more thing, Peter," Glinkov said without bothering to turn around. "If you should fail to eliminate Mack Bolan, and if he doesn't kill you in your attempt, there will be no place for you to hide. Do I make myself clear?"
Achison knew better than to answer.