Parsons, though, was out on bail-heavy bail.
Rachel Peres wanted to know where the money had come from. So did a lot of other people, including Hal Brognola.
At seven o'clock, Rachel was ready to go.
Patterson wouldn't be there for another half hour, but she was anxious to get on with it. If she was right, a year's work might finally pay off — if she was careful.
Parsons was dangerous, but just how dangerous she didn't know. When Patterson finally arrived, he wasted no time bundling her out of her apartment and down the stairs.
"What's the big hurry, Don?"
"Malcolm doesn't like to be kept waiting, Rachel. He's a busy man."
"I know, but it's not like he's the President, for chrissakes."
"Don't be too sure about that."
Outside, the dingy streets of the East Village looked a little better than usual, covered with the city's first light snowfall. Patterson's beat-up Chevy was parked at the curb, the engine running. In the back seat were two people she didn't know.
When Patterson closed the door behind her, one of the men in the rear reached forward and slid a blindfold over her eyes. She ripped it off and turned to confront him.
"What the hell's that all about?" she asked.
"Just a precaution, Rachel," Patterson reassured her. "Not too many people know about the house we're going to. Malcolm doesn't like people he isn't sure of to know where it is. If everything's okay, you won't have to wear it on the way home."
"Okay? What the hell do you mean, okay?"
"I mean, if Malcolm likes what he sees."
"And if he doesn't? Then what?"
"Let's cut the bullshit. We're late already." The man in the back reached forward again with the blindfold as he spoke. He pulled it down over her eyes and tied a small, hard knot in the dark cloth. "That too tight?" he asked.
"Yes," Rachel answered.
"Good! Let's move it, Patterson."
The car lurched away from the curb, its wheels spinning slightly on the snowy street. After nearly an hour, Rachel had a splitting headache. The cloth was biting into her flesh and cutting off circulation. Her temples throbbed, and the back of her skull felt as if it was ready to explode.
She was about to reach up and loosen the blindfold when the hardguy in the back seat said, "Take the next left. Past those trees."
"I know. I've been here before, don't forget," Patterson snapped.
"Yeah, I know, although I don't understand why."
The other stranger, who hadn't said a word during the trip, finally spoke. "Why don't the whole lot of you shut up? You're worse than a bunch of high school kids."
"He doesn't have to talk to me like that," Patterson said.
"Nobody's saying anything until we get inside. All of you, shut the hell up!"
The car bumped into a rutted road, and Rachel could hear snow blowing through trees on either side. It was coming down a lot harder now. The wind had picked up, and the snow scratched at the roof of the car. "Here we are," Patterson announced.
"Can I take this damn thing off?" Rachel Peres asked. "Or do you want me to spin around three times first?"
The man behind her snapped her head back hard and jerked the blindfold off without bothering to untie it. The rough cloth scraped the skin as it came away.
When they were out of the car, she turned to the man and smacked him across the face. He raised a fist, but the less talkative of the two strangers caught his arm.
"Leave her alone, Bert. It won't accomplish anything."
Bert rubbed his cheek, trying to ease the sting. He glared at Rachel, but said nothing. She could tell by the look in his eyes that he wouldn't forget it.
"Let's go. I need something hot to drink," Patterson said. He sounded as eager as a Boy Scout on a camping trip.
Rachel's eyes were used to the dim light by now.
She looked around and was surprised when she couldn't see a building. Three cars and a van were parked in the clearing. Otherwise, there was nothing but trees.
Trees and snow and, off to the right, an open field sweeping uphill toward another line of trees.
"Where are we?" she asked.
"Almost there. We have to walk from here because the road's no good," Patterson told her.
Bert led the way through the snow, turning now and then to glare at Rachel over his shoulder. A half-mile trudge through the trees brought them to a large frame house sitting on a hill. It was surrounded by wide lawns, which even under a covering of snow obviously hadn't been tended in a long time.
Clumps of weeds sprouted everywhere.
Inside, the house showed the same neglect. They tossed their coats in a heap in one corner, stamped the snow from their shoes and entered a large kitchen. A huge fireplace filled an entire wall. It held a small fire, and there wasn't much heat.
The windows were glazed with ice even on the inside.
A large round table dominated the center of the room. Three men, drinking from chipped mugs, were seated around it. They ignored the newcomers. At a counter two women were talking softly. One poured coffee into several mugs identical to those already on the table.
The taller of the two, a slender blonde, winked at Bert. "You guys must be freezing," she said. "Have some coffee."
The blonde took a seat at the table. Her companion added milk and sugar to one of the mugs and carried it over to the table to sit next to one of the men.
"Who's the girl?" she asked.
"Some friend of Donny boy here," Bert said.
"Rachel Peres," Rachel said. "Nice to meet you."
"I'm Connie, and that's Alice," she answered, indicating the blonde. Pointing at each of the men in turn, she continued, "And these guys are Moe, Larry and Curly."
"Put a sock in it, Connie," Bert snapped. "Where's Malcolm?"
"Upstairs, sleeping."
"Well, wake him up. He wanted to meet this broad."
"Broad?" Connie asked, raising an eyebrow. "You been reading detective stories again, Bert?"
"Nah," Alice said. "Bert can't read, Connie. You know that!"
The three stooges at the table laughed. Bert stomped out. They could hear him climbing the stairs, cursing as he went. In a few minutes he was back, followed by a tall, gaunt man. Rachel recognized him immediately. She had seen his face on the front page more than once and had attended several meetings that Parsons had spoken at.
Parsons nodded to the others before turning his attention to Rachel. "Ms Peres. How nice to meet you. I've heard so much about you."
"Oh? From whom?" Rachel asked. She didn't want to be too brusque, but she also knew Parsons was tough. Everything she had heard told her that he admired toughness in others.
Parsons smiled. "So, you're as sure of yourself as I've been told."
"Is that bad, Mr. Parsons?"
"On the contrary. And it's Malcolm."
"Okay. Malcolm."
"You and I have a great deal to talk about, Rachel. Why don't we get started? Please join me in my study." Parsons turned to lead the way out of the kitchen.
Down a long hall, he turned to the left.
Rachel followed him into a room that was actually a large library. Its shelves were crammed with books at all angles, some upright, some stuck in lengthwise. Many of the shelves were full of papers covered with notes. There was a second fireplace, this one with a huge fire raging in it. Parsons dropped onto a sofa, lying back in a luxuriant stretch.
"Please, make yourself comfortable," he said, indicating a pair of overstuffed easy chairs.
"What do we have to talk about?" Rachel asked.
"I have plans, my dear. Big plans. I can use someone like you."
"Nobody uses me, Malcolm. I won't allow it."
"Let me rephrase that. There is a real need for someone like you in our organization."
"How do you know that? You don't know anything about me."
"That's where you're wrong, Rachel. I know everything about you. I have many friend
s, as you might have guessed. I've had my eye on you for quite a while now."
"Why?"
"As I said, because I need someone like you. Someone intelligent, someone with courage. I have had you watched for a couple of months. Closely. At the Big Falls sit-in you didn't panic when things got rough. That alone makes you special. Most of the members ran around like lost sheep when the police moved in."
"I never cared for getting hit from behind," Rachel said. She smiled stiffly. Parsons nodded. "I gather you're planning something special."
"Oh, yes, indeed. Something very special, Rachel. Nothing like it has ever been tried before."
"What is it?"
"All in good time, my dear. It's time to explore some of your other qualities."
"Like?"
"You are a very attractive woman, Rachel."
"I see. Is this your idea of initiation?"
"You might say that, yes."
"And if I agree? Then do I get to hear about your special project?"
"You're very curious about that, aren't you?"
"Sure I am. I've never considered a roll in the hay as a political statement. If I'm going to make a difference in this world, I can't spend too much time on my back."
"Oh, you'll make a difference, all right. We all will. If I can pull this off, it will be the end of nuclear power in this country. Perhaps in the world. That's something worth doing, don't you think? Something worth enduring 'a roll in the hay' for? Besides, you might enjoy this more than you think." Malcolm Parsons looked every inch the scholar.
A shock of wild, white hair drooped over his brow. His skin was lined and leathery looking, yet pale. It had the doughy pallor of someone who lived under artificial light. Despite his age, his features were strong, accented by his gauntness. He looked like a poet should look. He was the kind of older man an impressionable sophomore might find attractive — if she were a romantic, and if she didn't look too closely.
He extended his arms. Rachel got up and walked to the sofa. She knew there were some things you just had to do, no matter how distasteful you found them.
Enjoy it, hell. The only thing she would enjoy about Malcolm Parsons was watching the sleazy bastard fry.
She pulled her sweater over her head. What would Mack Bolan think if he knew what she was about to do?
6
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 y
ou 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."
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