Glinkov was supposed to be shown in two of them, but no two men looked alike, and there was so little to go on that even computer enhancement hadn't helped. What galled Bolan the most was the possibility that Glinkov might walk in right under his nose and walk right out again. There was so much activity around the place that it was difficult to keep track of the comings and goings.
16
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 d
ue 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.
17
Malcolm Parsons sat in the car, watching Peter Achison drive away in the Blazer. Just as Achison had predicted, a second car, a Camaro, drifted past the end of the driveway.
Clearly it had been waiting, planning to follow them. He didn't like Achison, but he had to give the man credit. He certainly knew his job.
Parsons had grown increasingly cynical in recent years. Ideas that had attracted him out of a sincere desire to make a difference in the world, to change it for the better, had lost their meaning. They had become the means rather than the ends. Notoriety had been good to him. He felt warm in the glow of the spotlight; it was an easy way to make a living, and it gave him ready access to young women.
He couldn't say with a degree of certainty when he'd stopped caring, when he'd stopped trying to make things change. He knew that he had become exactly the sort of hypocrite he had once deplored. He had been seduced by the trappings of success.
But lately he felt that things were slipping out of his control. Achison scared him. Without making any overt threats, Achison made it clear that Parsons had better do as he "suggested" if he wanted to continue his activities. In more reflective moments, Parsons wondered just what might happen if he were to balk. But Parsons knew that such a move would put his life on the line.
It had been bad enough, realizing that Achison controlled him. But learning that someone else controlled Achison had come as a shock. The master of duplicity had himself been tricked, not once but twice. He hated the fact that the Arab money he had been spending so freely was not Arab money at all. Glinkov was Russian, which meant he was probably KGB. Parsons quickly dismissed the thought. The Camaro was long gone. It was time to keep his appointment with Andrey Glinkov. He didn't like the man; his eyes were pools of emptiness. The antinuke leader had encountered that look only once before. It was during a hiking trip in Arizona when he'd stared into the eyes of a rattlesnake that had just bitten him. Starting his car, Parsons pulled out into the road and headed in the opposite direction. His appointment was for three o'clock, and he had been advised not to be late. He wouldn't dare. If he played his cards right, he might regain control of his organization.
As much as Achison and, Glinkov frightened him, he was unwilling to give up the easy life. He had been comfortable for too long to go back to square one. He had fought the good fight, and no one had given a damn where his next meal had come from.
Sleeping on the floor of cold-water flats was not for him. No more. He had paid his dues. And if the price of comfort was his soul, what the hell. He'd pay.
* * *
Glinkov's eyes watched the door of the secluded farmhouse as it opened. The Russian was clearly annoyed.
"You're late, Mr. Parsons. I don't appreciate that. I won't tolerate it," he said before Parsons was, barely through the doorway.
"Who the hell are you to talk to me like that?"
"That doesn't matter, Mr. Parsons. What matters is that I can, and do, expect you to be on time. I'm a busy man."
"Yeah, sure. We're all busy. I have things to do, too. Why am I here?"
Glinkov didn't answer. He watched Parsons closely, waiting for the telltale signs. If he knew Parsons as well as he thought he did, the man would begin to squirm.
Until then, he would hold his silence.
"I thought you had something you wanted to talk to me about," Parsons said, shifting his feet nervously. "Let's get down to business. I want to go home to get some sleep."
Glinkov leaned back in his chair, still keeping silent. It shouldn't be long. He knew why Parsons was being so antagonistic. Camouflage.
Parsons was obviously feeling the strain.
"Look, are you going to talk, or aren't you?" Parsons made a show of walking deliberately back to the door he had just closed. With his hand on the knob, he turned to Glinkov, arching an eyebrow as if giving the Russian one last opportunity to speak.
And Glinkov smiled.
Parsons stood with his hand on the knob. He turned the knob, pulling the inner door toward him.
Still watching Glinkov, he reached for the outer door.
Glinkov was still smiling. His eyes had that same flat, empty glitter. Parsons threw in the towel. He knew that he had lost. The Russian owned him.
"All right, look, I'm sorry. I guess I'm a little edgy."
"Sit down, Mr. Pars
ons."
Parsons did as he was told. He returned to the sofa across from the Russian's easy chair. When he was seated, Glinkov stopped smiling. Finally the Russian spoke.
"Our little diversion was successful, wasn't it?"
"Yes. You were right. There was someone watching the house. Who was it?"
"It doesn't matter, yet. For the moment, as long as we know where he is, it doesn't matter who he is. It is always the enemy you can't see who poses the greatest threat, Mr. Parsons."
"Always?"
"Yes, always."
"Why did you want me to come here?"
"To inform you of a few things."
"Such as?"
"And to request a favor of you."
"A favor?"
"We shall get to that later. First, the information." Glinkov glanced at his watch. "As of this very minute, our little adventure at Thunder Mountain is under way."
"What? But how? I mean, I didn't give that order."
"Mr. Parsons, it's time you realized that you are no longer in a position to give orders. It is no longer your prerogative. From now on you will follow them."
"But the plans were for..."
Glinkov cut in. "The plans have been changed. Mr. Achison is in charge of the operation."
"You bastard. You had this all worked out. You didn't want Peter to lose anyone. You wanted me out of the way."
"Not at all. When we are finished here, we will go directly to Thunder Mountain. But Mr. Achison, you will have to admit, is more... military minded, let us say. And this is, after all, a military operation, is it not?"
"But we're not ready. We still need some information on the layout of the plant."
"I have that already. I've passed it on to Mr. Achison. I'm sure he'll make good use of it. Your Mr. Reynolds was an invaluable source of information. I congratulate you on finding him."
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