"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.
7
There was something in the air. Mack Bolan could sense it. Ever since the previous evening, when he had received an urgent message from Rachel Peres, his mind had been racing. The message, of course, had been brief, and coded. But for some reason the young woman had a hold on his imagination.
And now it seemed like she might have something more than that. She just might have managed to get them the break they needed. Bolan was aware of how hard she'd worked to get into the inner circle. The going had been slow.
Wary of being set up, Rachel had had to push deeper without seeming to. Every step she'd taken had had to seem like one she had been asked to take.
The minute anyone in the organization felt she was pushing, they would back off. Not only would her access to information be cut, her life might be and probably would be in danger.
Bolan, unlike Brognola, was not convinced that Rachel's ties with Mossad had been cut. But as long as they were after the same thing, he knew it didn't matter. And if there ever came a time when it did matter, he thought he could trust her.
Probably.
There were still two hours before their meeting, and Mack Bolan had things to do. No action meant no progress. Since the attack on Robert Hanley, he had felt like a blind man in a fun house. Rachel had fed him enough to convince him that there was something big in the works. He wanted a piece of it. Now. There was something hypnotic in his preparations. Carefully cleaning the .44 AutoMag had become second nature. The concentration was total. Pure. His life and the lives of others would depend on the weapon. It had been that way so many times in the past that it had become a given. There was an irony in the situation that never escaped him. But he seldom dwelled on it. That something so lethal could also be life giving was just one more of life's contradictions. The Beretta was less awesome, more like an old friend than a skull-busting ally. The three had been through some tough times together.
And that was the key together. Tonight, Bolan thought, he might depend on them again. Rachel's news would be important. Of that there could be no doubt. That it could be a setup was more than a possibility, though. Her success had been extraordinary. It had been quick and, apparently, total. What Bolan didn't know was why. Rachel Peres was a professional.