She said, "No. I don't recognize that. Maybe it was the important person — yes, I guess it was. They went to the airport to meet someone from Rome."

"Rome, eh?"

"Yes. Someone important. They were all atwitter. That's why I was tied and gagged. They didn't want me to — "

"That's not the only reason," he pointed out.

"I guess not. I tried to get out of there twice tonight, before they tied me up. I guess I was running around and yelling a lot. They were going to kill me, Mack. I know that. Eventually. They were."

He said, "Probably. Homburg from Rome, eh?"

"Huh?"

"Never mind. You keep saying 'they.' Is that a figure of speech, or ...?"

"No, there's a bunch. Johnny's the boss. They all call him 'Captain' to his face and do everything but salute and kiss his shoes. It made me sick. But all those men at the penthouse are sort of like bosses. I mean — well, not David and the ones that just stand around feeling of their guns. But he has about ten other men that come there. Honestly, you know what came in my mind when I was watching them together up there tonight? Hitler and his gang, or something like that. They're all maniacs. But Johnny is the boss maniac. D'you remember me asking you if the little iron cross made you a neo-Nazi? Boy! How close — but the wrong side."

"That's the way they struck you, huh?"

"Sure. Heil Johnnyl They do everything but goose-step and wear comic uniforms."

"What do you think they're getting ready for?"

"Gosh, I don't know. Except that they're all high, very high."

"Okay, let's go back a bit. To Allan. You didn't tell me the whole truth about that, did you?"

Very quietly she replied, "No. I was the first in the family to meet John Franciscus. I went to work for him. Next thing I knew, I was going to bed with him. He was ..." The girl batted her eyes rapidly and took a deep breath. "I guess I thought he was sent from heaven, gift-wrapped and all. I've noticed that most people get that feeling about him — at first, anyway. He's a rat, though."

"Allan."

"Huh? Oh. Well I was just an avenue to Allan. Not that he had to twist Allan's arm any, but — well, I blame myself for Allan."

"Don't. They knew exactly what they were doing and so did Allan. They hit the guy in his weak spot."

"What?"

"His habit. A very expensive one."

"Yes, I — I guess I hadn't thought of it that way. But that doesn't let me off. I — Mack, I knew what was happening, all along. I mean, generally, though — never any of the particulars. Still don't. But, well, last night, now — when you came storming into that warehouse — well, I simply seized the moment. We thought it was the police. There was no gun at my head."

Bolan solemnly nodded his head at that revelation.

"But I really did pass out. I didn't have to fake that."

"What else did you have to fake?"

"Nothing. I — I wasn't putting you on, Mack. Thor."

He said, "Okay. Things fit better now, anyway. Level with your mother, too, Dianna."

She sighed. "I will."

"Learn from her. She's got it together pretty well."

"Yes, I guess so. I'll try."

He was wheeling into the Holiday parking lot.

"She's in one-oh-four. Her name is Hammond. So is yours, until everything settles around here. Watch yourself, Dy. Take care of it."

"You're not coming in?"

He shook his head. "Things to do. Stay down, this time."

"Will I — will you be coming back?"

"No. This is goodbye. We've seen a lot together. Right? Remember it."

"Oh I will! Kiss me goodbye?"

Their lips met tenderly, briefly.

She said, "You're really something else," and bolted out of there.

He watched her out of sight, then cruised on through and back onto the road, reverse course.

Yes, she was very young. But searching, and growing. That was more than could be said for some.

Bolan heaved a sigh of genuine regret — regret for a lot of things, a lot of people — then he wiped it all clean and cast his mind forward into the night.

There were things to do, yeah. Lots of things.

First, a "collection" pass of 40 Washington Towers. It would be interesting to hear the initial reaction to the strike on the penthouse.

Then that meeting with a real solid guy, Leo Turrin. It wasn't all pain ahead.

Old Hardguts was standing a few feet back off the curb, a solitary figure with coat collar turned up against the mists, snapbrim hat pulled low, unlit cigar clamped between the teeth — breathing through his mouth.

Bolan could have pulled him out of any crowd, at any time. Some undercover guy.

He frowned darkly, recalling that he'd come close to killing the guy once. Not once but several times. That had been before, of course. Before Bolan knew who and what Leo Turrin really was. No man in Bolan's memory had earned the respect that this one had. There were few compensations to the life Bolan had chosen; Turrin was one of them.

He pulled to the curb and hit the door control. The center door slid back, and Turrin stepped inside.

"Sarge?"

"Welcome aboard, Leo. Come on up."

"Go around to the other side first. Hal's on the corner next to the building."

Sure, and there was another one. Hal Brognola, super bureaucrat — a man within a man — a public servant who really cared. And, who did not think like a machine, all input/output — he was a cop with soul.

Turrin was marveling at the rig. "You son of a gun! This's some damn rolling palace you've got here! Bolan chuckled and replied, "She's got claws, too." He halted at the opposite corner, door open. Turrin had to call to the guy before he broke cover and hastened aboard.

"What the hell isthis?"Brognola growled. "Isn't it something?" Turrin said gloatingly, as though it were his own.

"Yeah, it's real peanut butter and bananas," the federal man said sourly. "Stands out like a bawdy house madam in Sunday school. What d'you do with a thing like this?"

"Ask the man who owns one," Turrin replied, wounded.

The two made their way forward and dropped onto the padded side-facing bench opposite the command chair. Bolan grinned and shook steely hands as he eased on past the civic center.

Brognola said, "You're looking well. Better than you have a right to."

"It's the climate," Bolan replied. "Very strong atmosphere out here."

Turrin sniffed and commented, "Say that again. I got about forty pounds of it wedged into my sinuses."

Bolan shot a weighted glance at the man who was perhaps the second or third ranking law enforcement official of the nation. "How're things in paradise, Hal?"

Brognola grinned sourly. "How do you spell that?" "Try S-H-I-T," said Turrin. "You ever read that book by Orwell?" Brognola said tiredly. "Well. I can report that Big Brother is alive and well and running paradise." "It's that bad?" Bolan inquired, eyes glinting.

"It is."

"Leo was telling me a while back that you're getting kicked upstairs. I guess it hasn't happened yet."

"Told them I'd resign first," the JD man replied. "But let's talk about this Washington. What the hell is happening, Striker?"

Bolan smiled to himself. The guy couldn't bring himself to address Bolan by name — probably wouldn't even admit the name to himself, anymore. Sure, it was a tough world, this one. He told the worried friend, "I was hoping you could tell me. The roots are in your Washington. This is just the flowering bush, out here. It's some sort of an international deal, Hal. It couldn't work without cooperation from paradise."

"What's involved? Maybe I can add a piece or two if I know the name of the game."

Bolan quickly brought them up to date on the specifics, omitting the Langley Island angle. Then he added, "So this guy Franciscus seems to be the local power center, operating under some franchise from the east."