"No, that's just coincidence. He'll be there, I guess, but mainly Frank is just checking him out." Toby shifted the sedan into gear.
"Take it easy, Toby," the gateman called as she moved on into the one-time USAF base turned terrorist nerve center.
Bolan let out breath and loosened his death grip on the Uzi. He had changed out of the midnight suit and into light cotton twill slacks, a khaki safari shirt, and dark glasses. In the front right-hand pocket of the slacks was stowed a C.O.P. (compact Off-Duty-Police), Inc. SS-I four-barrel hideaway pistol, in .357 Magnum.
The Jaguar rolled to a smooth stop. From the sound of the engines as they were killed, the plane was close by. The Jag's door opened, slammed again.
"How they hanging, Toby?" a man's voice asked.
"Keep your mind on flying, Jerry." Toby's tone was just as bantering. "Are you Bryant?" she asked after a pause.
A different man answered, "That's right."
"Your chariot awaits, chum."
Both front doors opened, and the Jag's suspension shifted under the weight of Toby and Bryant. The car started up again, swung around in a U-turn. It slowed long enough for Bolan to hear the gateman's, "Later, Toby," then sped up again." "Welcome to Tripoli, Bryant," Toby said casually Bolan slipped out from under the blanket and rose silently to his knees, bringing up the Uzi.
Bryant had started to murmur a response to Toby's apparent pleasantry when the barrel of the Uzi drilled into the base of his skull. "You've got two choices, Bryant," Bolan said into the guy's ear, his voice sharp and cold as an icicle. "It you keep your eyes straight ahead and your hands in sight, you get a long walk back from the desert. If you even twitch, you get your brains all over the dashboard."
"I guess I've got a long walk coming up," Bryant said expressionlessly.
12
Understanding the enemy, in everything from motivation to method, was an invaluable aid, Bolan had learned ( it was the edge that kept a man living. So from the moment he had received in London from Aaron Kurtzman at Stony Man Farm the telexed precise of Frank Edwards's dossier, he had budgeted a significant portion of his available waking time while in transit to studying, analyzing, and extrapolating strengths, weaknesses, causality, technique. By applying his vast storehouse of experiential knowledge of the human animal, Bolan was able to virtually open the lid of the man and examine the works inside.
Frank Edwards, age 38. Born Manchester, New Hampshire, to Earl Edwards, grocery wholesaler, and Bernice Edwards, high-school teacher. Educated in public grammar and high schools; two-year letterman in football and track, vice-president of the student council, honor roll academically. B.A. degree from Yale University; dual major in history and political science, upper-level courses in psychology, sociology, Spanish, German. Four years army ROTC. Grade level of 73rd percentile, i.e. academically above average but not extraordinary.
The bare-bones outline of Edwards's post-graduate career went like this: Commissioned a 2nd Lieutenant, U.S. Army, assigned to military intelligence. Stationed in Saigon for twenty months during the height of the Vietnam War. Usual citations, honorable discharge six months before scheduled expiration of enlistment at administrative request, discharge rank of captain.
Joined the Central Intelligence Agency on discharge, posted to Langley for training. Subsequent postings to Caracas, Malaysia, Belgrade, Bonn, Paris. Chief of Middle East Section, HQ in Beirut, when his service was terminated. Total agency service: fourteen years, four months. The anecdotal material that the Bear had appended to the dossier fleshed out the skeletal, and fairly typical, description of one agent's career ( and revealed that Edwards was hardly typical at all. The CIA, Bolan knew, was not some sort of arcane secret society, approaching potential agents in the dead of night, swearing them to secrecy and offering them a James Bondian life of excitement and high adventure. Sure, of necessity there was a certain covertness to the agency's activities, and the mental and physical prerequisites for agents were extremely rigorous, designed to screen out all but the very best. But the CIA hired much like any other corporation, interviewing applicants on college campuses for example, as openly as General Motors. Occasionally, if in the course of his work a field agent encounters a particularly promising candidate, he might recommend he apply. This was the case with Frank Edwards, who during his military stretch came in normal contact with the head of the CIA'S Saigon station. It was Edwards's successful application that led to his early discharge from regular military service. A senior CIA field agent is given a great deal of autonomy; that was the reason for the meticulous screening procedure through which Edwards passed with flying colors. Although an agent enjoys the resources of the world's finest intelligence agency, he is also expected to develop and exploit his own sources. His primary mandate is explicit, and he is often given specific assignments, but he may also act on his own initiative if the contingencies of the moment demand it. In the words of William Colby, one of the CIA directors under whom Edwards worked: "It is the function of an agent, in the proper use of the situation, to maneuver himself into a situation by his own wits." Quite simply, Frank Edwards made an excellent spy. He was intelligent, cool-headed, resourceful, imaginative. His natural personality was affable and outgoing; he genuinely enjoyed people and got along with those of every social stratum. He would physically courageous, and unflappable in a dangerous situation. On three occasions in his agency career, he had killed twice under pressure when operations had been bollixed or betrayed. In each instance he had revealed none of the hesitation of compunction that could get a man dead.
And yet, for the last five years of his service, this model agent had been exploiting his position and contacts to lay the foundation for his ultimate act of betrayal of his colleagues and country.
CIA psychologists had developed a theory to explain Edwards's actions. The world of espionage was incredibly complex, they pointed out.
Double-cross, betrayal, and deception were everyday components of it, so that the line between ally and antagonist could change position almost daily. In addition, the individual agent was only one small cog in the great intelligence machine; often it became difficult for the agent to relate the purpose of his operations to the greater scheme of his nation's interest.
As a psychological defense, even a competent and loyal agent perceived his work as an exercise in logic tics and intellect. Accepting as a given fact that he was working on the right side, he would then bring nothing but a cold precision to his operations.
There was nothing wrong with this, the psychologists pointed out. It was mentally healthy and stable, and served the agency's best interests. It became dangerous only when it was carried one step further, as Frank Edwards had done.
Edwards had rejected completely the link between his intelligence activities and the greater good.
Sure, he understood that as an agent of the CIA he was promoting the interests of the United States; it was just that he had decided that those interests no longer had anything to do with him. The operation ( the game ( became an end in itself. From there, the decision to operate solely in one's own behalf was not a large step.
"It would be erroneous," one CIA psychologist wrote, "to diagnose Edwards as mentally unhealthy. On the contrary, from a purely logical point of view, Edwards's behavior is entirely rational." Rational, maybe. But Bolan knew that the world does not revolve upon an axis of rationality. To coexist, people had to accept and embrace emotion as well-emotions like loyalty, commitment to something of worth, moral vision.