Achison slammed the door on the man's harsh laughter. The huge walnut side door opened as Achison approached. An attractive dark-haired woman greeted him politely and took his bag. After he hung his coat on a rack, she led the way into the dim exterior of the large house. She stopped at a double-doored archway, indicating that Achison should enter. He stepped into the gloomy room, only vaguely aware of the doors closing behind him.

"Sit down, Peter." A flickering flame broke behind a large desk.

Achison could discern the outlines of a large leather chair. As his eyes adjusted, the chair spun.

Andrey Glinkov finished lighting his cigar and snapped his lighter shut. "Did you get the papers, Peter?"

Achison sat down before answering. "No, there was... uh... there was some trouble." Despite his intention to remain calm, he could hear the quaver in his voice.

"What kind of trouble?"

"Someone else was there. He... uh... he killed Otto and took the papers."

"But he didn't kill you? That's very interesting. I should imagine Otto posed more difficulty than you would."

"I don't know. I wasn't there. I mean, I was there, but not when he got Otto. I sent Otto to the car with the papers. Before I left the house, somebody attacked us. He killed Otto and Jameson. He was coming back for me, but I got away. I took a shot at him, but I missed."

"I'm not surprised. It's rather difficult to hit a target you're running away from. I am disappointed, Peter. Very disappointed."

"I know how much you wanted those papers."

"But you did kill Robert Hanley, didn't you?"

Achison relaxed. "Yes, I did. At least that went okay."

"No, Peter, it did not go okay. Your orders were only to get the papers. I said nothing about disposing of Mr. Hanley. This unfortunate matter has called too much attention to affairs we would prefer were unnoticed."

"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.