It was an incredibly beautiful and peaceful spot, and Bolan had to wonder how often the native San Franciscans actually visited the place.

It was called the Japanese Tea Garden, and it occupied a relatively small area of Golden Gate Park. Winding footpaths through exotic shrubbery, pygmy trees and authentic Japanese statuary led the visitor beside reflecting pools and across an arched bridge where you could take your choice of an open-air tea house, a temple, or a shrine — and, yeah, this was a place where a guy could go to meet his soul.

At the moment, though, Bolan's primary interest lay in a meeting with a grizzled old maverick cop who just maybe wouldn't mind a bit of official larceny, if a greater cause were thereby being served.

Bolan was betting that Barney Gibson was that kind of cop. He was, in fact, betting his life on the idea.

He watched from behind the cover of purple sunshades and a poised teacup as the girl and the cop made their prearranged meet beside the pool. Gibson had not yet been told the reason for the meeting and — watching them now — Bolan knew the precise moment when that reason was revealed.

The big guy stiffened, but just across the shoulders. He did not break stride nor was there any other gross reaction, but Bolan knew.

They were talking about it now. Mary Ching, selling the Executioner. Not, he hoped, selling him out... just selling him.

And the cop was buying. That face became immediately evident. The pair strolled on, into the enfolding garden, and just as they disappeared from view Mary hung a white flower in her hair.

Bolan promptly left his table at the tea house and went around the other way, on an intersecting path.

He got there first, per plan, and watched them approach.

Gibson was one of those guys who could fool a casual observer. On the surface he simply looked overweight, grumpy, a bit dull — maybe even a bit dumb. The head was too large, the jaw too overslung, the eyes bloodshot and masked with indifference.

But that was just the surface man.

Bolan had learned to read men, just as he read Jungle signs and trails. Men, after all, were a jungle product.

All the deeper signs of Barney Gibson revealed him as definitely a cop of the old school. He wasn't a constitutional lawyer, he wasn't a civic moralist, he wasn't even a law officer. He was a cop. He wasn't there to protect anybody's civil rights, he was there to protect his town; to keep it straight; to keep it safe. He would bend the law — even break it — to do his job as he saw it.

Yeah, Bolan had known a couple of cops like Barney Gibson. Flaming, stubborn anachronisms who absolutely refused to get in step with the times. And there was still room in the world for a few Barney Gibsons.

There was no introduction, nor did the two men shake hands. Both pairs of hands, in fact, were pointedly kept in full view. The Captain said, by way of greeting, "So you're the guy. What d'you want with my town, Mister?"

Bolan solemnly told him, "Your town has a rotten smell, Captain. I sniff Mafia every step I take."

"So what's new?" the cop growled.

"Me, I'm new," the Executioner replied.

The Captain snorted. "You're practically dead, fella."

"A dead man can do things," Bolan said. "Things a living man wouldn't even think about."

"I guess you're right there. What've you got in mind?"

"I left a couple of samples around," Bolan said.

The big guy grunted. He stared at the Executioner for a moment, then admitted, "Yeah, I saw your samples. Pretty impressive. Those were just samples, eh?"

Bolan said, "Well, call it a pattern."

"I like your patterns, Mister. But somewhere else. Not here. Gives the town a bad feel. Look. I wouldn't have come if I'd known what was up. I can stretch, but not that much. You turn around and walk away from here. And keep going until you're clear out of town. That's as far as I can stretch."

"The thing is going to split wide open, Captain. Whether I leave it or not."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Things have become too good here. For the mob. It's time for the thieves to start falling out. They've already started."

"You have some definite knowledge of that?"

"I have," Bolan assured him. His gaze flicked to Mary Ching. "Mary can fill you in later, I don't have the time. But you better believe this. A full scale mob war is brewing here. It involves not only the organization boys but their fellow travelers as well. That means blood in the streets, and maybe a lot of innocent blood with it."

"Go on."

"So my way is much cleaner."

The shrewd old eyes were sizing him up, wondering, measuring, taking a vote. The ballot fell in the box, and Captain Gibson told the Executioner, "Okay, I'm still listening."

"I'm thinking of a clean sweep, from the bottom to the top. I'll take the top and leave the bottom for you."

"That's damn nice of you."

"Be realistic," Bolan argued. "You'll never wrap up the big boys and you know it. And as long as they're up there, this town will be crawling with torpedoes and leeches of every variety. When the big boys fall, the influence falls with them. You'll need to set up annexes to your jails to handle the load."

"So why tell me about it?" The guy was interested, though, definitely interested. "Why don't you just go ahead and do it. Why consult me first?"

"I might need your help."

"Uh huh, I guess I saw that coming."

"Nothing open, nothing that would put you on a spot. I just want you to pass a few words around for me."

"And what are those?"

Bolan smiled, for the first time during the meeting.

"Would you say that we've come to an agreement in principle?"

The cop smiled back, and it was a hideous thing. He wasn't used to smiling, and it moved all the wrinkles the wrong way. "You might say that."

"Okay," Bolan said. I'll be in touch with you through Mary."

"Why not get it all on the table right now? I'm here, you're here, let's have it."

"Not yet," Bolan told him. "I'll be in touch."

"Hell, you've got me dangling, fella. What the hell have you got in mind?"

"You'll know very soon," Bolan assured him.

He grabbed Mary's arm and they left there in a hurry.

Yeah, very soon. The whole thing would be cracking... very soon now.

"Say that again," requested Leo Turrin's troubled voice, all the way from Pittsfield.

"Something wrong, Leo? You don't sound too good," Bolan decided.

"No, I'll tell you later. I'm just not sure I heard you right. What was that again?"

"I said I want you to get a message to Augie Marinello."

"In your name?" the Caporegime asked.

Bolan said, "No, just in my spirit. Don't make the impression that it came from me."

"What do you have in common with the Lord of the East?" Turrin wanted to know. He still sounded troubled... almost cold.

"Blood, maybe," Bolan said, chuckling. "He's still the big boss?"

"More or less," Turrin replied in that curiously masked tone. "What he says at council usually turns out to be the way things go. What kind of a message, Sarge?"

"I want him to know there's a conspiracy brewing on the west coast. Top drawer stuff. Big enough to wreck the whole arm. The shot heard 'round the world, that sort of thing. Following?"

"Yeah. What's the pitch?'

"A new coalition," Bolan replied.

"Coalition of what?"

"Try the ChiComs with Daddy DeMarco as a starter. How does that grab?"

"Easy, easy," Turrin said. "I've told you things have been in the wind."

"But you didn't tell me what sort of things, Leo."

"Right, well... hell. Okay. Here's the way I'm reading. The boys hate the hell out of the commies. You know?"