They shook hands warmly, then the soldier followed him inside.

"Looks cozy."

"It'll do." He hesitated, finally beckoning the Executioner to follow him. "I'm glad you could make it."

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that, guy." The sunken living room was on their left as Bolan followed Leo down a narrow hallway. Hal Brognola rose to greet them, setting down his whiskey glass. Bolan shook his hand then sat down beside him on a sofa facing picture windows, which were curtained now against the threat of prying eyes.

"You made good time," Brognola said. "I caught a charter."

Bolan cleared his throat, aware that there was no time to be wasted on preliminary small talk. "So, let's have it."

And Brognola gave it to him, everything that had happened in the hours since he signed off work on Friday evening. Bolan took it in, refraining from the vacuous commiseration that does nothing to relieve the suffering of the bereaved. He understood Hal's pain, had been there — and beyond — on more than one occasion, and he knew that what Brognola needed at the moment was decisive action to retrieve his loved ones. Platitudes and sympathy were useless in the present situation. If he couldn't get the big Fed's family back, his most sincere condolences wouldn't be worth a damn.

"No progress on the name?"

It was a long shot, almost laughable, and when Brognola shook his head, the Executioner felt no surprise.

"It's hopeless. I've got seven different guys who might be 'Gino' in the local Family alone. That's seven guys we know about, and never mind the other Families from coast to coast."

"You have some reason to believe it's national?"

"I haven't got the faintest fucking notion what it is," Brognola said, disgusted with himself. He downed his whiskey and started for a refill, then thought better of it and pushed back the empty glass.

The Executioner relaxed a bit. Despite his pain Brognola was maintaining self-control. A lesser man, with booze at hand, might have been verging on unconsciousness by now.

"Let's call it local for the moment," Bolan said. "What's going on that might provoke this kind of action?"

Leo glanced at Hal and answered for his boss.

"I'm running down a drug connection that involves some congressmen. It's youngbloods, mostly, but we've locked in on a heavy name or two along the way."

"How strong is the connection?"

"That's the problem. We can prove possession based on what we have right now. I've got a junior senator set up to fall for dealing. As for the supplier..."

"Is there any doubt?"

He shook his head.

"No doubt at all, except we haven't got a thing to hang indictments on. This time next month we might be ready for arrests."

It was a tantalizing lead, but years of jungle warfare had conditioned Bolan to search for hidden traps before he forged ahead.

"I understand that Gianelli's still in charge."

"You called it."

"And he has some difficulties at the moment?"

Turrin smiled.

"What Nicky has right now are multiple indictments charging tax evasion, a subpoena for the President's commission and the makings of a shooting war with Cuba's finest."

"Plus your own investigation."

Leo nodded.

"Right."

"So there's a motivation. With your witness list, he has the chance to plug some leaks and maybe win some points with other Families."

"I know a dozen capos who would kiss his ass on Pennsylvania Avenue to get those names," Brognola growled.

"And with the names of undercover officers..."

"He cripples out continuing investigations," Leo finished for him.

"So."

"It fits."

"All right, it fits," Brognola snapped. "But what about this other bullshit at the office?"

Bolan spread his hands. "Somebody wants that information," he reiterated. "Call it Gianelli for the moment. But he also wants you out, discredited before you have a chance to blow the whistle. As it is, you'll be suspected of delivering the information for a price. Two birds with one stone, Hal. Case closed."

"Okay, so what's the answer?"

Bolan's smile was thin, devoid of warmth. "The shortest route is still a straight line," he replied. "Remember Boston?"

Something dark and fearful flickered in Brognola's eyes. "It's not the kind of thing you're likely to forget."

"I'm turning on the heat, beginning now. Let Gianelli simmer for a while and see what comes up to the top."

"I may not have a while," Brognola told him earnestly. "They're calling me at six, remember?"

Bolan checked his watch. "Go home and wait. Hang tough. No matter what they say, you need more time. If the snatch and frame-up are connected, then they have to know you're working with a handicap."

"My family..."

"Is safe until you make delivery."

And even as he spoke, the soldier wondered if his words were true. There was no guarantee that someone on the firing line would not get hinky, blow it in an angry moment. Hal Brognola knew it too, but in the absence of alternatives he would be forced to follow Bolan's lead.

"All right."

"With any luck, I should have time to make a tag or two before you take that call."

Brognola cleared his throat, his weathered face a study in anxiety. "You've got another stop to make," he told the soldier haltingly. "Somebody wants to see you."

Bolan stiffened. "Come again?"

"The Man is anxious for a face-to-face. He's waiting for my call."

The soldier shook his head. "No good. We've played that scene before."

It was as if Brognola's frown were etched in stone. "He's given me two days. The sit-down was his price."

"You made the deal. You call it off."

"I can't do that. Considering the so-called evidence, this meeting is the only thing that's kept me on the street. You need me on the outside if we're going to make this work."

And Bolan couldn't get around his logic. The abductors would not deal with intermediaries if Brognola was arrested. Bolan needed time in which to rattle cages, turn the heat up under Nicky Gianelli and his outfit, but the time could only be obtained through Hal's negotiations with the enemy. If he should disappear, break contact suddenly, his family was as good as dead.

The news of an impending sit-down with the President had taken Leo Turrin by surprise, as well. Before the Executioner could grudgingly consent, the former mafioso blurted out a cautionary warning.

"I don't like it," he declared. "It's got the makings of a setup."

Bolan smiled. "I don't think so," he said at last. "Okay, confirm the meet and give me the coordinates. I want it somewhere public, where I won't get claustrophobia."

"No problem." Hal was on his feet, already moving toward the kitchen and the telephone. He hesitated in the doorway, cleared his throat again. "Uh, Striker..."

Bolan heard it coming, moved to squelch the words of gratitude. "It's premature," he said. "Let's see what happens."

With a thoughtful nod, Brognola disappeared. A moment later they heard his muffled voice in conversation on the telephone.

"I didn't know about this meeting," Turrin told him.

"Forget it. If the Man was working on a scam, he'd have the troops outside right now. I'm just concerned about the wasted time."

And time was one commodity that they were short of at the moment, Bolan realized. Within the hour, Hal would be receiving his instructions for delivery of the information, stalling if he could, and listening to threats against his family. The Executioner had never seriously entertained the thought that Hal would fold, deliver names of undercover officers and witnesses in hiding, but he was afraid of the alternatives. The guy might crack, agree to the delivery with an eye toward laying hands on someone he could squeeze for information. In his emotional state, Brognola might react with violence that would doom himself and seal his family's fate — unless he had the nerve to sit and wait, ride out the threats and anything that followed, placing all his faith in Bolan and the Executioner's ability to turn the heat on his enemies.