"Liquid electricity," Bolan repeated. "What exactly is that?"
"The problem with electricity," Arnold said, "is that storage for anything that requires a great deal of it is a near impossibility...unless you find a way to carry a substation around with you. Theoretically the electric charge can be reduced to a series of tightly packed, bonded electrons that can be stored in a medium, say water, to be siphoned as needed. In the laboratory, we've managed to put upward to a billion volts in a single drop of water. Unfortunately we've never quite devised a method that holds that charge. It dissipates quickly."
Bolan was fascinated. "Are you saying that if you could find a way for the water to hold the charge, you could, on one drop of water, run an electric car for..."
"Forever," she finished. "Your car would wear out long before your drop of water."
"Amazing."
"I have to ask you what happened to your husband's notes."
"Lost," she told the big Fed hesitantly. "Lost with the car.
Brognola exhaled a long breath. "How familiar are you with the research?"
"Very," she claimed, then pointed to her head. "I have a photographic memory. It's all up here."
Both men stared at her. "If this was perfected," Bolan said, "cities could be run on it, rocket engines ..."
"Weapons," Brognola said. "Dr. Arnold, with what you carry inside your head, you are one of the most important people in the world right now."
"The ultimate endangered species, you mean," she returned, her voice hard.
"Any idea of who's doing this?" Bolan asked.
Brognola shook his head. "This was never a priority project, Striker," he said. "We funded some research, mostly through colleges. The Russians funded some...hell, most of them were dead before we realized there was a conspiracy going on. Who'd have thought that this..."
He put his hands in the air, letting the sentence drift off. "We still don't know why, but we tightened up our security on the Arnolds. We pulled all our lines in, tried to keep out any leaks. That's why we used you. You were unconnected in any respect. You didn't know, so there was no one you could tell. We figured it was the same with everyone involved in setting up the safe house. I handled this one myself, and I swear that no one except Pentagon brass, top Company people and my own staff were in on it."
Bolan finally realized the reason for Brognola's mood.
"This is a major, high-level coup we're talking about," the Fed confided. "Someone highly placed is destroying all research into liquid electricity. And we don't even know why. Look. They're working on a whole different track, and judging from their worldwide connections it's a huge operation."
"Could this tie up in any way with the Challenger disaster?" Bolan asked.
"I brought a whole data file with me on that subject," he replied. "The results were negative all the way around, but you might want to go through the files yourself."
"Just hold it a minute," the woman said. "Before you people start pointing your fingers, I want to know what the government intends to do to protect me."
Brognola looked at her hard. "I'm sorry, but I owe you the truth. You've got three choices at this point: one is to go back to Washington and publicly come to the Justice Department and ask for help; second, you can take off on your own and try to hide; third, you can try an idea I've been setting up on my own."
"The first idea is what got me here to begin with," Julie Arnold said.
Brognola nodded. "And if you take the second, everybody, including the government, will be out looking for you, since you apparently have information worth killing for locked up in your head."
"What's the third idea?" the woman asked.
"Let's go to my car," Brognola suggested, walking away slowly. "In every instance, the researcher was killed and his research destroyed. The knowledge, not the man, was the important thing. You have the means, not only of your destruction but of your salvation, at your fingertips."
"I don't understand," the woman said.
"Transcribe your knowledge. Get it into print where it's public knowledge. Once the information is out there, you lose your importance. There's no reason to kill you."
"You're not speaking for the government," Julie Arnold stated flatly.
They reached a small drive that circled through the outskirts of the huge cemetery. A Jeep Cherokee was parked on the drive, other cars occasionally moving past, wide- eyed occupants getting a quick lesson on the value of life.
Brognola climbed into the driver's seat, Bolan taking the passenger side. Dr. Arnold climbed into the back seat.
"I'm speaking for myself," Brognola admitted, turning to face Bolan and the woman. "The government would want you under wraps, giving the information to no one but them. I can't trust anyone right now, and you shouldn’t, either."
The woman narrowed her eyes, confusion on her face. "But the government…"
"The government is like any other bureaucracy," Brognola interrupted. "It's the largest employer in the United States, and not all of its employees are going to be good or even honest." He pointed out the window toward the cemetery. "Before you become just another unmarked headstone like your husband or these soldiers, you'd better do some serious thinking. You're just a pawn right now; you need to actively get into the game."
"Why should you help me?" she asked him.
"Two reasons," he said without hesitation. "First off, your husband died because something in my department went wrong. I owe you as a human being. Secondly, I sincerely believe that this information needs to be made public. If everyone has it, it loses its strategic importance."
"The truth shall make you free," Bolan said.
"Perhaps it will make us all free," the Fed replied.
Julie Arnold looked out the window for a moment, her eyes scanning the rolling fields of death. "What's your plan?" she asked at last.
"I spent the night at the computer and by the telephone," Brognola said. "I put something together that might help us all the way around, and the beauty of it is that no one except the three of us knows anything about it. When Jerry Butler was killed, he was working at a government think tank in Florida called the Grolier Foundation. From what I've heard, his research was further developed than everyone else's, yet no records of any kind were found. His death started all this, and it may have re-suited from a leak at Grolier." He looked at Bolan. "Striker, I've set you up to take Butler's place at Grolier."
"I'm no scientist."
"You don't have to be. I can get you a small project to work on that will pass muster. All you've got to do is playact. Your cover name is David Sparks. And you, Dr. Arnold, will be his wife."
Julie started. "Now, wait a minute "
"Hear me out." The ghost of a smile touched Brognola's lips. "You two pose as husband and wife and move to Florida. While Mack is poking around Grolier, coming at this thing from one end, you can be transcribing your notes and getting protection from one of the best in the business. No one will know but the three of us. And to start you out..."
He reached across the dash, opened the glove compartment and pulled out a large manila envelope that contained the Jeep's registration, identity papers and a large amount of cash.
"The Jeep and money are yours. You have new identities. They won't hold up forever, but maybe they'll help keep you safe until you're either ready to present your findings to the world or Mack uncovers something on his end. So what do you think?"
She looked at the money, then at Bolan, her eyes finally settling on Hal Brognola. "I think I want to get very, very drunk," she said, and as far as Bolan was concerned, he couldn't blame her a bit.
Chapter Four
The small motel bar had been decorated with a Polynesian theme, with huge, grotesque masks on the walls above crossed spears. Dried grass hung from the canopy above the bar, and all the drinks had Polynesian names and came served in coconuts or hollowed-out pineapples. The lights were dimmed, highlighting the dancing, globed candles in the center of each s
mall table. Eddie Rabbitt and Ronnie Milsap blared through the jukebox, though, reminding anyone who was likely to forget exactly where they were.
Bolan wasn't likely to forget.
The motel was cheap, just like its club. Besides Bolan and Arnold, a few Spanish merchant seamen put to port at the Mobile, Alabama, harbor leaned against the bar, while playing quarters to see who would dance with the dime-store hooker in the miniskirt. The bartender never smiled, the cocktail waitress, dressed in a shiny blue evening gown, didn't do anything but. Bolan cared nothing about the details; he'd come in here because of the dim lights.
"You ever been married before?" Julie Arnold asked, her voice slurring as she sucked the straw of her fifth drink.
Bolan frowned, shaking his head.
"Of course you haven't," she said, taking the tiny umbrella garnish out of her pineapple and tossing it onto the table, where it joined a growing stack.
"What do you mean by that?" he asked, watching as the hooker took to the small parquet dance floor with a dark Castilian with a huge black mustache. The man's buddies clapped in time with the country and western song.
"A man like you," she said, shrugging. "A killer. What would you do if dinner was late or your old lady had a fender bender?" She pointed her finger like a gun. "Pow!"
He stared at her. "You don't know anything about me."
"No?" She stared at him over her pineapple, trying hard to focus her eyes. "I was there with you that night, remember? How many men did you kill out there in the woods — six, seven?"
He returned her gaze. "I didn't count."
"Of course you didn't," she replied, and her attitude was beginning to wear on him. "How many have you killed in your life? How many lives have been snuffed out because someone paid you to…"
"Stow it!" he hissed. "You're in no position to pass judgment. I saw plenty that night, too. I saw a young woman riding on the coattails of an old man so some of his talent and fame would rub off on her."
"Stop it!" she said loudly, pulling her hands out of his grasp.
There was some loud talk at the bar, and one of the Spaniards broke away from the group and moved toward the table.
"Great," Bolan muttered, sitting back resignedly.
The man reached them, his buddies urging him on. He swayed slightly and stared down at the woman. "Does this man bother you?" he said in heavily accented English.
"Yes," she replied, glaring at Bolan.
"Maybe you come and join up with us," he said, and put a hand to his chest. "I, Miguel Corona, will protect you."
"Maybe I will," she said, smiling triumphantly.
Corona looked at Bolan, his black eyes flashing. "You will stay out of this, señor."
"I wouldn't think of interfering," Bolan said.
The man grinned, his teeth a picket fence. He wrapped a callused hand around Julie's arm, then turned to his friends. "¡Esta cobarde!" he called, all the men laughing.
He tugged at her arm and the woman was pulled to her feet. She laughed at Bolan as she was led to the bar.
He felt himself getting tired, another full day on the road wearing him down. They had left Mississippi right after their meeting with Brognola, dropping him off at Van de Graaff Field in Tuscaloosa.
The whole deal was rotten from top to bottom as far as Bolan was concerned, but he was going along with it because he felt a sense of responsibility toward the woman because he had accepted the mission and her husband had been killed. He watched her at the bar, drinking and joking with the seamen, not realizing she'd have to pay the freight after the place closed. She wouldn't last a week without him.
What motivated Julie Arnold, he couldn't imagine. She was no drinker, that was certain, and no femme fatale; yet there was something just beneath the naive surface that he couldn't quite put his finger on. Whatever it was, it nagged at him and kept him from being completely at ease with her. He was usually a good judge of people, and it bothered him that she messed up his emotional radar enough to keep him off balance. The fact that he disliked her more every minute didn't help matters.
The song on the jukebox ended, and the hooker took her partner by the hand to pick some more. Bolan watched the situation at the bar carefully, though it would serve the woman right if he left her there with the Spaniards.
A slow song came on, a steel guitar crying in its background. The hooker moved back onto the floor, and Julie Arnold was led by her protector to join them.
The waitress showed up with the second drink Bolan had ordered. "Looks like your girlfriend likes to live dangerously," she said, smiling.
"Looks like," he replied, taking the Scotch from her and paying the tab, rather than letting it build. An old habit for someone always on the run.
"I'd keep an eye on it, if you know what I mean," she said.
Bolan nodded. "Thanks."
The woman wiped the table. "What do you want me to do with all these damned little umbrellas?"
"Get rid of them before she gets back," he replied.
The waitress wandered off, and Bolan returned his attention to the dance floor. Julie Arnold and the Spaniard were dancing close, cheek to cheek. The hooker and her friend had already stopped pretending and were standing in the middle of the floor, kissing.
The first thing Bolan and Julie Arnold had done after leaving Vicksburg was to stop and buy new clothes, and Julie was looking great in a double knit dress in greens and browns.
Apparently Miguel Corona thought so, too. He couldn't keep his hands off her. Bolan watched, his gaze narrowing as the man's large hands returned again and again to Julie's buttocks, only to have her pull them forcefully above her hips. With every attempted intimacy, the remaining sailors at the bar laughed louder, and Bolan could see Corona beginning to get angry. It was almost time to stop the game.
"¡Querida!" Corona said loudly, grabbing Julie roughly and pulling her tightly against him.
"I said, no!" Her eyes darted frantically to Bolan, her mouth forming a silent call for help.
Bolan sighed and took a sip of his Scotch. He moved out onto the dance floor, reaching into his pocket for a little help.
Corona had Julie doubled over, his mouth clamped on her neck.
"Do something," she said through clenched teeth.
"Want me to shoot him?" he asked dryly.
"Bolan!"
He placed a hand on the man's shoulder. "That's enough, pal," he said.
The man ignored him, and began running his free hand over Julie's body. Bolan reached out and grabbed him, pulling hard.
Corona let go of Julie, and she fell to the floor. His face was twisted with alcohol-induced rage, and without a word, he cocked a big fist and tried to take out Bolan with one punch.
The warrior was ready, sidestepping easily and catching the fist in the palm of his hand. The sailor's expression became puzzled when he felt the paper Bolan held.
Corona pulled back, gazing at the hundred-dollar bill jammed between his fingers. His eyebrows shot up, and he looked at Bolan in perplexity.
"That's for you." Bolan ignored the hand that Julie Arnold was waving around as she looked for help up. "Go have your fun somewhere else."
The man's friends had formed a semicircle around him, ready to offer assistance.
"Let's call it a night," Bolan suggested.
"Sabas mucho dinero," Corona said, his face settling into a menacing scowl. "Maybe you could share some more with my friends and me."
Instead of answering, Bolan unbuttoned the sport jacket he was wearing and eased it open, giving them a glimpse of the combat harness and the holstered automatic pistol.
The men backed away, their faces going slack, then the hooker said, "Looks like you boys got some extra cash. Let's party!"
The atmosphere turned jovial again, the Spaniards celebrating their windfall as Bolan reached out to help Julie Arnold, who was on all fours, drunkenly trying to get to her feet.
"Go to hell," she said, batting his hand away. She wobbled to her f
eet and tried to straighten her disarrayed hair with her hands. "I need another drink."
"Not tonight, Mrs. Sparks," Bolan replied. "I think we've had enough excitement for one trip."
They reached the table. Bolan picked up the woman's purse and hooked it on her arm.
"I said I wanted a drink!" she demanded loudly, the sailors laughing in response.
Bolan picked up his glass and drank what remained of his Scotch. "I'm going to the room. You stay down here with your friends. I'm sure they'll be able to entertain you for the rest of the night."
She thrust out her lower lip and stared at the crowd at the bar. "I was getting kind of tired anyway," she mumbled. "Come on, Dr. Sparks. Let's go to bed."
They walked out the exit and into the Alabama night, heavy with humid air pushed up from the Gulf. Julie sagged against him as he walked them toward their room.
"I just went from one husband to the next," she said into his jacket, her voice tired. "That's me, little Julie Jacobs Arnold. Just cart a dead one out and bring on the next one."
"Easy," he said, his arm casually around her.
"Easy's easy for you to say," she replied, words slurred, as he led her up the flight of wooden stairs that led to the second-floor rooms. "I feel like the last of the Mohegans."
When they reached the door, Bolan leaned her up against the frame while he fished the key out of his pocket.
"My whole world is gone," she said. "Everybody I've known and worked with over the past ten years...gone."
Bolan got the door open, and Julie all but fell into the room, landing heavily on the nearest of the double beds. He entered the room, locking and chaining the door behind him.
"You should sleep now," he said, taking off his sport jacket and draping it on the back of a chair.
She sat up, staring hard at him. "I don't want to sleep — ever," she said. "I want to be dead... like Harry and Martha and..." Her voice caught in her throat, lips trembling as the words stammered out. "At a conference in
Denver once I... I had a... what do you call it... fling... with Jerry Butler. The only time I'd ever... ever..."
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