"Suffering silently on the sidelines. The marriage was strictly an arrangement, sure, not a Hollywood type romance — but there's still such a thing as pride, you know. In my mother's circles, especially.

Imagine being married to a sex-driven — uh, what's the male equivalent to a nymphomaniac?"

"Lecher," Bolan said. "Unless he's really over the edge. Then a medical diagnosis could be satyriasis." "Satyr," the girl said, nodding, "that's the word I was thinking of, and believe me, that's Allan. He is over the edge. My poor mother. Things like that don't remain quiet."

Bolan knew. He said, "Nothing does. Nyeburg has larger problems, though."

"He sure does," she quietly agreed. "I think he's really sick. He tried to put the move on me when I was fifteen. I was terrified. Didn't know how to handle a thing like that then. I mean he came on real crazy, tearing my clothes and everything. I stabbed him."

Bolan blinked his eyes at that and said, "Yeah?" "Sure. Look, here's a kid who gets sick and practically goes into shock if someone pricks a finger. My father was ... well ... we found him in the bathtub. He, uh, slashed his wrists. Ever since, well — I just can't stand the sight of blood." She wrinkled her nose at a conflicting idea. "I don't know, maybe I'm over that now — after being baptized in the stuff last night. I honestly didn't feel anything when I woke up a while ago — except your presence."

Bolan nodded his head, understanding. He lit a cigarette and said, "So you once put a knife into your stepfather."

"Scissors," she corrected him. "And it wasn't all that big a deal. Of course I suppose I could have killed him. Obviously he thought so, anyway. It just caught him in the hand — and I guess it damaged me more than it did him. But it scared him, all right. And got me out of a bad situation." "Would you do it again?" Bolan asked. "Now?"

"To him?" She mulled the idea briefly, then replied, "I suppose so, as a last resort. Actually, Allan does still try with me. I've learned how to handle the feints. And when he comes on real strong, I just tell him, 'Allan, I'll kill you.' He believes it." She sighed. "Well, you aren't interested in this dirty linen, are you?"

He showed her a faint smile and said, "Yes, I am. How does your mother feel about her husband's interest in her daughter?"

"She doesn't know. I'd never tell her a thing like that. The first time, when I stabbed him, Allan told everybody he'd accidentally cut himself with a letter opener. She knows about the others, though, the million and one faceless ones. She knows the sort of man Allan is. Driven."

"He's driven by more than sex," Bolan said with a sigh. "Aren't you curious about my interest in the guy?"

She smiled soberly. "Sure. When are you going to tell me about it? For that matter, when are you going to tell me about yourself?"

"You don't know about me?"

"Don't tell me that you're an undercover G-man."

Bolan chuckled. "Worse."

"Oh God, no! You couldn't be a Narc!"

It was a disturbing moment for Bolan, as were all such moments. Different individuals reacted in diverse ways to his unveiling. He'd assumed that the girl had known his identity since those first early moments at the warehouse — apparently she did not know but had accepted him on sheer face value. Soberly, he told her, "My name is Bolan."

"Bolan who?"

"Mack Bolan."

"Oh." She smiled. "Sure, it fits. It's a nice, Thor-type name. But what's the big deep secret?"

He'd hoped that the name alone would have told the tale. Certainly it was a name that could be recognized by anyone who read newspapers and magazines or watched television news shows.

She was saying, "I get the feeling I've heard that name before, haven't I?"

Bolan dug into the death trove and scattered medals across the breakfast table. "Some people know me by these," he said quietly.

She picked one up, inspected it with the eyes and fingers. "Hmmm. What in the world is it? Military, isn't it? What is it — an iron cross?" She laughed. "Are you a neo-Nazi?"

He shook his head, giving her the cool gaze. "The four-sided cross signifies, I guess, dedication and loyalty — something along that line. To me, it means judgment. The circles in the center represent a marksman's target — a bull's-eye. It's a marksman's medal."

The girl's eyes danced and her cheeks puffed with air. She released the trapped air with a Donald Duck squawk that sounded like "Wow!" Then she slid deeper into her chair to peer at him over crossed hands. "Sure," she said, reverting to the whispery voice. "I know you. I know all about you. You're a very tough guy, Mr. Bolan. Well I feel ... gosh, I feel ... why didn't you tell me? I mean, before... before ... you know."

Indeed, Bolan knew. He said, "I assumed you knew. I identified myself when I stepped into that warehouse. You were there."

"Yes, but I — I guess I was thinking only about poor little me. I — I didn't ..."

He asked, "Why were you there?"

"I was dragged there. So what am I to you? Is this... ?Her eyes darted about the warwagon. "Is all this just ... ? I mean, am I just a business matter?"

Gruffly, he replied, "Of course not. As long as you're here, though, you could be of help. I need to know what you were doing at that warehouse."

She sniffed and said, "Allan's bullycats dragged me down there. Made me show them where the stuff was."

"What stuff?"

She shook her head. "I don't know what it was. I never know. They're moving stuff into this country by the shipload. By air, too, I believe. But I don't know what they're doing with it."

He asked, "Why should you have to show them where it is? How would you know?"

She tossed her head and showed him a wry smile. "I didn't know until very lately, but I guess I'm their inside person. Allan got me this job with the exhibitor's council — Expo '74, you see. Stuff moving into the fair for exhibition enjoys duty-free status, you know."

"So?"

"So they've been moving this stuff in under Expo licenses for months. Smuggling, I guess — I don't know for sure. I work in the transportation section. It's my job to see that all the stuff coming into the Port of Seattle for storage pending exhibit is received and properly stored. This is a big thing, you know. It could be chaos if we couldn't keep track of the exhibit materials."

Bolan commented, "Yeah, I guess it would. So where does Nyeburg enter all this?"

"He got himself named as an advisor to the Expo board of governors. And he worked a deal with several of the foreign exhibitors — to act as their agent in this country during all the complexities of getting this fair together. Spokane is — well, you know — it's not a very large city. This is all quite a giddy experience for them."

"Back to Nyeburg," Bolan prodded.

"Oh sure. Well he's a rat, that's all. I found out that half the stuff coming through this port with his name on it has nothing whatever to do with the fair. His bullycats have been coming down here and taking the stuff out of storage and spiriting it away somewhere. Then he expects me to dummy the records. I believe they're running narcotics, or something. I really do. I confronted Allan with my evidence last week. He laughed right in my face. Told me I'd better be a good little girl and keep those records straight. Otherwise he'd drag my mother through all the mud in Seattle."

"How would he do that?"

"He incorporated a legitimate company. It's called Pacific Northwest Associates. My mother is recorded as one of the officers."

Bolan said, "I see. I know about PNA. And he's right. He could implicate her. But you say they dragged you to the warehouse. Do you mean that literally?"

"I sure do. I told Allan to go to hell with his little crooked games. Told him I'd keep quiet about all the stuff in the past, but I was walking out of the rest of it.