"I'll be in here every day, trying to work this thing out."
"I'll keep in touch," Bolan said. "Take care, Hal."
"You too, big guy. Believe what I told you."
"Sure."
When Brognola clicked off, Bolan turned full in his seat to watch the van across the street. It had yet to disgorge any passengers. Suspicious under any circumstances, it was downright incriminating given the present state of affairs.
"Can we go in now?" Julie asked, looking at him across a span of darkness. "I've burned all my fingers."
"I think we're being watched," he said.
She turned to look at the van. "By whom?"
"That's the question, isn't it?" Bolan returned, noting the fear in her eyes. "Come on, let's go in the house."
They got out of the car and entered the house through the side door. Not being absolutely convinced of Julie's loyalty, he'd been reluctant to give her the notebook. But it was a chance he had to take. There was no one else around who could interpret it for him.
They walked into the living room, all the lights still off. They could see out to the street, but couldn't be seen from it. The blinds were open. The van was still there, ominously quiet.
"What are we going to do?"
Bolan tightened his lips. "I'm tired of sitting around and waiting for things to happen. I think it's time to stir up the mix a little bit."
He walked to the switch and turned on the bright overhead light, making them highly visible from the outside. "Come here," he said, taking her by the arm and drawing her close to him in the center of the room. "Kiss me like you mean it."
"Wha..."
He pulled her tightly against him. At first she stood stiff, rigid in his arms. He tilted her head up and he found her lips with his, kissing her deeply.
There was a second's hesitation, a fear almost, then she suddenly relaxed, giving herself fully to the kiss, molding her body to his as he felt himself grow hard against her. She was all softness and gentle perfume.
He forced himself away from her, their eyes still locked light, and for just a second all the doubts and suspicions vanished. They were two lovers giving and taking equally, sharing as one. He wished with all his being that they were anywhere in this world than where they were right then.
"Take my shirt off," he whispered, surprised at the hoarseness in his voice. "I want them to think we're going to be occupied."
"Mack..." She slowly unbuttoned the shirt as he let his hands roam freely over her body. "I need...I need..."
He kissed her again, his resolve nearly evaporating as she ran her palms gently across his muscled chest, then moved up to his shoulders to slide his shirt off.
He gathered her in his arms and held tightly. "Let's move back to the bedroom," he whispered in her ear.
"Oh, yes," she agreed, her breath coming in short gasps.
They broke the embrace and walked, arm in arm, out of the living room to her bedroom, which faced the front. He took a deep breath and forced himself to reality.
"Okay," he said, pulling away from her, "turn on the light. I think I can sneak up on them now."
"You mean..." she began, her face lost in perplexity. "That we're... we're not..."
"Turn on the light," he repeated, then went to his room to get the combat harness that hung on a chair.
He slipped on the harness, then covered it with a light jacket. He hurried back to Julie's room and poked his head in the door. She was sitting on the bed with her arms folded across her chest, face angry.
"I'm going out the back window. Hide in the closet in case they try for the room."
"I'm not hiding in any closet," she said, face set hard.
"All right."
He withdrew the .44 from its holster and tossed it onto the bed. "Then at least hold on to this."
She stared at the gun as if it were a dead cat, and he felt a sadness well up inside of him.
"Julie, I..."
"Go on," she said, her eyes still fixed on the automatic.
He walked quickly to his bedroom window and climbed out, hurrying through the backyard to the yard next door.
Bolan stopped at the front corner of the house next door, peered cautiously around and saw that the van was still parked in front of his house.
This was no place for gunplay, a residential neighborhood full of children, but Bolan wasn't about to let this opportunity slip away without making some points.
Staying in the deepening shadows of a tall hedge, he quickly traversed the lawn, then crossed the street. He turned in the direction of the van and approached it rapidly from behind. The van bore South Carolina tags.
The warrior slid the Beretta out of its holster, leaving the safety on. He reached out and wrapped a fist around the back door handle, his thumb gently depressing the catch release. It was unlocked. With a hand still on the latch, he put his right foot on the back bumper, prepared to throw open the door and follow it in.
He was a half second from springing into action, when Julie suddenly turned on the front porch light and threw open the screen door, which banged against the house.
The driver responded by throwing the van into gear and jamming his foot on the gas. The van leaped forward, and Bolan fell backward onto the street, landing awkwardly because he hadn't been prepared for the fall.
The van disappeared quickly, taillights winking as it squealed around a corner.
Julie ran across the street. "Mack ..."
"Why did you do that?" he demanded, rising painfully to his feet. "You could have gotten me killed!"
"I was...worried about you," she stammered, staring at the ground. "I'm sorry. I… I guess I wasn't thinking."
He reholstered the Beretta. "I only hope it's because you weren't thinking," he said darkly, unable to keep the anger out of his voice.
"I said I was sorry!" she yelled, and, turning, stomped off.
Bolan watched her retreating back. What a fool he was to have trusted her.
* * *
Hal Brognola hung up the phone and leaned back in his desk chair. He took Bolan's nightly phone calls with a sense of relief that he and Julie Arnold had survived another day. This business was a lot stickier than it should have been, mainly due to the fact that this time their quarry was also hunting them — and they had absolutely no idea of who it was. But one thing he was sure of: whoever was behind the killings was camouflaging himself with the trappings of the United States government. The real problem was going to be isolating that camouflage and cutting it out without hurting the government as a whole.
He reached into the pocket of his sport jacket and pulled out a cigar, slowly unwrapping it from crinkling cellophane as he thought about the Challenger flight, of the seven people who died a horrible, screaming death, as their cabin plummeted to its fatal rendezvous with the sea. He stuck the cigar in his mouth and thought about lighting it. Surely even Helen wouldn't begrudge him a smoke at a time like this. But he left the lighter in his pocket, instead honoring his commitment to give it up.
No, he could never believe that the government could be capable of that cold-blooded murdering of its own citizens. There had to be another explanation. Unfortunately the other explanation had to be just as bad. His research on Project GOG had led to a number of dead ends, all pointing to the notion that a secret organization existed within the command structure of the United States that was making its own sort of policy decisions running contrary to the stated policies of the government and the country as a whole.
Why? Toward what end did this mechanism operate?
Brognola took the cigar out of his mouth, rolling it between thumb and index finger. It wouldn't do to speculate this soon on the possibilities; he had to keep his head clear and his options open right now, lest he jump to the wrong conclusions. He was going to have to build a solid groundwork of evidence before he could justify any action.
He looked at his watch. It was late, already dark outside. Everybody but the lawyers down the hall had al
ready gone home. Lawyers never went home. It was part of their makeup. He thought about it, then considered how empty his home was going to be without Helen. Instead, he juiced his computer terminal and phone modem, then started working his way into the vendor files to start getting addresses and information on the private companies who paid the government to carry their materials into space.
Access to these files was relatively easy, well within the security authorization codes on his list. He phoned the proper computer net, and accessed his way into the records. Then he reached into the long drawer in front of his desk for the manifest. It wasn't there.
He sat staring at the open drawer for a minute, then remembered giving the manifest to Marie to make a photocopy. Leaving the connection to records open, he got up and walked out of his office.
The large outer room was in darkness, some light spilling from his office across Marie's niche just outside his door. A light glowed solid on the push-button unit at the bottom of her phone, denoting the open connection he had left with the records computer in his office.
He tried the drawer; it was locked. He took the keys from his pocket and used the smallest one on the desk lock, which sprung with an audible click.
He pulled open the drawer, finding the manifest right on top. He removed it, then began to shut the drawer, stopping only when it was almost completely closed. A light, a faint red glow, seemed to emanate from within the drawer. He barely noticed it, and wouldn't have if the lights in the room had been on.
Brognola slid the drawer open again, kneeling to get at eye level. There was an unmistakable haze coming from the drawer.
Cautiously he reached inside, feeling around in the back behind the paper clips and the staple machines until his hand came upon something square and metallic, no bigger than a package of cigarettes.
He pulled it out, a small red running light glowing on top. It was a tape recorder, and it was recording on a cassette no larger than a postage stamp.
He stared at it dumbly for nearly a half minute, not wanting to make the connection that was begging to be made. Marie had been his secretary for nearly five years. She not only kept his appointments straight, talked him down when he was angry and got his reports filed on time whether he was finished with them or not, but she also helped him choose anniversary presents and provided an incredible array of friendly services that went far beyond ordinary secretarial work. To make the connection that the tape recorder forced him to make was to admit that someone close to him was a deadly enemy and that his trust and friendship had been completely misplaced.
The small machine sat glowing in his hand. He looked at it, then at the light on her telephone. He set the tape recorder on her desk and walked back into his own office, hung up the phone and broke his modem connection. Then he walked back into the larger room. The light was out on the tape deck. The damned thing was attuned to his phone line. Every call was recorded. A secured line was useless when its extension was bugged.
He took the cigar out of his mouth and spit out a piece of leaf. He opened the tape recorder and ejected the small tape into his hand, replacing the unit in Marie's desk.
This at least explained a part of the problem. There was a leak in his office, all right, maybe more than one. But this one hurt bad. Marie had an eight-year-old son with spina bifida, a real weight for a divorced woman to carry. He'd always wondered how she was able to afford the proper medical care the boy needed. Now he knew.
He had a friend in Enforcement named Greggson, whom he trusted implicitly. Now that he had someplace to start, it was time to bring a select group into the scenario. They could begin with a search warrant on Marie Price. Greg would have gone home for the weekend by now. He'd have to get him there, and he'd rather not do it by telephone at this point.
He went back into his office and gathered some paperwork to take home with him. Given the passwords, he could do the legwork on the matériel manifest from his computer at the house, though it was time to get a technician out from Greg's office to check the integrity of his lines at home, too. At this point nothing could be taken for granted.
Cigar planted firmly between his teeth, he walked out of his office and through the nearly deserted corridors of Justice to take the elevator to the underground parking garage. He'd go home and grab a bite to eat before finding his way to Greggson's house. Once they sat down together, he figured it would be many hours before they stood up again. Greg would take a lot of convincing.
He got off the elevator at the third level underground. The parking garage was dark, cold concrete, cut by the fuzzy glow of irregularly spaced fluorescent lights. He moved across the quiet landscape rapidly, his senses honed keen on the whetstone of the current trouble.
The big Buick was waiting for him in its assigned place. He unlocked the door and climbed in, putting the key in the ignition. But something stopped him from turning it.
He sat for a moment, wondering what was wrong. The car looked the same, felt the same, but something was off base. He berated himself for his foolishness, his hand going to the key again, stopping again.
Something was — He stared out through the windshield. Something about the hood...
That was it! Last year when Eileen had been home from college, she had been involved in a small fender bender that had bent the frame just enough so that the hood wouldn't close all the way unless it was pushed in just right.
The hood wasn't sitting level now, even though he never drove it that way for fear of its popping open at high speed.
Rigid with tension, he pulled the hood release and stepped out of the car. He moved to the front, eyes scanning the still-deserted garage.
The second latch slid easily, the hood wobbling to the open position, the small light within coming on. He peered inside. It wasn't difficult to find. A small blob of C-4 plastique explosive was stuck on the block, just next to the starter, the detonation caps poking out of the gray mass, trailing wires to the starter.
Hands shaking, Brognola backed away from the car. This was the first bomb, the obvious one. There would probably be another, either in the tail pipe or hooked into the brake system. This was a job for the bomb squad.
He moved slowly away from the car, watching it. Things were beginning to unravel faster than he could have imagined. To make this obvious attempt on his life meant that his adversaries were either in a tremendous hurry or immune to retribution.
Both observations chilled him to the bone. He turned and ran from the garage.
Chapter Eleven
Bolan walked back into the living room with his fifth cup of coffee. He'd been up all night, to no avail, and now was having to keep himself awake with caffeine.
He moved to the low coffee table, its surface covered with papers, and folded himself up painfully to sit on the floor in front of it. His knee still hurt from where he'd fallen out of the back of the van the night before, a constant, nagging reminder of Julie Arnold's vacillating loyalties.
The woman wasn't here now. After the previous evening's experience, he'd taken her to a motel for the night, then he stayed at the house, a target, waiting for the return of the men in the van.
It was a wasted night. Neither the van, nor anything else for that matter, came down Avondale Drive all night long. It was the quietest neighborhood he'd ever seen. The closest thing to excitement was the newsboy throwing papers around five in the morning.
And now he sat before the clues he'd found in his office at Grolier, trying to stay awake long enough to make head or tail out of them.
He took another sip of coffee and rearranged the papers in front of him. The house seemed strangely empty without Julie in it, which was odd since they didn't get along together.
He had replayed the events of last night a hundred times in his head, trying to get a handle on her actions. But just like everything else that had happened in the previous week, the truth of the matter simply eluded him. He was a cat chasing his own tail, satisfaction always just out of reach.
He picked up the paper in front of him, which contained the code Jerry Butler had used. It seemed to be a position code that used abstract symbols from a recurring pattern of symbols to represent letters of the alphabet. He had tried and discarded several different positioning possibilities, but it still seemed to him that he'd be able to get it without too much trouble. And that was the part that made no sense. If Butler was going to use a code, why one that could be easily cracked?
He heard an engine roar in the driveway, and glanced out the open window to see the Jeep rolling to a stop. Julie climbed out, arms loaded with packages.
Bolan grimaced in pain as he stood once again on the sore knee and limped over to the door.
"Well, I see you're still in one piece," Julie said, breezing past him.
"And I see you've been busy."
She turned, smiling at him. "I've been shopping. I woke up this morning asking myself why we shouldn't spend a little of that cash your friend, Hal, gave us, since we're risking our lives and all."
"Why not?"
"Go out to the car and make yourself useful," she said. "There are other things to bring in."
Bolan moved outside and saw little Mel from next door riding up and down Avondale on his too-big bike.
"Hi, Dr. Sparks," he called, waving and almost losing his balance.
Bolan waved back. "Hiya, Mel."
He looked into the rear of the Jeep. A television set, still in the packing crate was there, as well as a boxed-up computer. He opened the door and took out the TV, carried it into the house, then went back for the other box.
Julie was standing in the living room when he returned with the computer. She was wearing a new sundress, with the tags still on.
"How do you like it?" she asked, turning in a circle.
He smiled, unable to stay angry with her. "It suits you," he said, and meant it. The dress molded her gentle curves nicely, yet gave the impression of comfort and ease of movement. She had also fixed her hair in a French braid, and he could imagine what she must have looked like as a college student ten years before when Harry Arnold had asked her to marry him.
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