Sure — corner the money market and rape the world. The guys had been looking for a handle for years, and maybe now they'd found it. The Thing of all the Things— the big hit — the clout to end all clouts — financial domination of the entire civilized world!

It could be done. Bolan knew it could. He didn't know how, but he knew that it could. In this country alone it required an entire department of government just to keep the legitimate giants from taking over and gobbling all the little people, destroying competition, rigging markets, gouging the consumer for all he could stand.

Take that same type of super-businessmen and give them the Mafia mentality, spread them across the globe in a multinational network of financial manipulations that could reach into every monetary system, every national and international market — give them the absolute, raw power that comes from the control of economic life or death for entire industries and whole nations — and what do you have? — sure, you have Cosa di tutti Cosi.

They'd been dreaming of it ever since Capone — nibbling at it with guys like Cohen and Lansky — now, somehow, by some handle, by some freakish turn of world circumstances, they'd managed to actually start putting it together. Apparently they had the kicker. But what was it? The worldwide energy crisis? The international crunch in virtually every critical commodity? The paralysis of international inflation? The contagion of political crises in just about every nation of the world?

Was that combination of circumstances the kicker? — or was it, conversely, an immediately visible effect of a take-over already in progress?

Was the creation of a secret super world bank the next logical step in the pattern? — or was it simply another kicker?

The cross-town conversation in Bolan's war machine was concerned with those considerations, and more.

Brognola told the others, "It hurts my brain, I don't want to think about it any more right now."

To which Leo Turrin retorted, "You've just got battle fatigue from round one, in Washington. It won't help to close your eyes and retire to a neutral corner. The mob boys love that — they'll just swagger over and keep on kicking the shit out of you."

Tiredly, Brognola admitted, "Okay, so I'm getting neurotic. Haven't had a decent night's sleep in months. Striker — what are you thinking? How far has the thing gone? How much time is left?"

"I have the easy part," Bolan muttered.

"How's that?"

"I don't have to think about it. You call me Striker. Right? You don't call me Thinker."

"That simple, eh?"

"For me, yeah. There's inductive and deductive logic — right? One form generalizes from particulars. The other particularizes from generalities. In my language, that's simply the difference between strategy and tactics. You guys handle the strategies. Right now I'm busy as hell with tactics."

Brognola and Turrin exchanged glances.

Turrin grinned.

Brognola said, as though Bolan were not present, "Sometimes I dislike that son of a bitch."

"You envy him," Turrin argued.

"Same difference," Brognola replied, sighing. "I'd just like to go kick the shit out of somebody, myself."

Turrin said, "He's right, you know. We're sitting here trying to solve the problems of the world. But the only problem we can touch is right here. Right, Sarge?"

Bolan commented, "Even right here, all we can do is try."

Brognola asked him, "What do you expect to find in that warehouse, Tactician? Not gold or silver, surely."

Bolan smiled thinly. "No. But maybe the logistics for it."

"Oh hell, now he's a logistician," Brognola growled.

Bolan chuckled. "I've been holding out on you guys. I do have some rather heady stuff to tell you. But first I want a look inside that warehouse."

Turrin said, "This is where the contraband has been going. Right?"

Bolan nodded. "Martialing area, anyway, I think. It has been moving on, I'd say quite steadily. But I want a look-see. I believe those shipping manifests were generally correct. I think it's been mostly machinery. The kind of machinery nobody wants traced to its ultimate use. Most of that stuff I'd think they could have picked up here in this country — maybe even locally. Take those weapons, now. It's a special case, sure, but the same logic applies. Hell, they were made in this country. But look at the route they took to Puget Sound. Legally exported to Europe. Exchanged through three different legitimate brokers before finally disappearing from view. Then they pop up here, in a marine crate marked for Expo 74."

"For most stuff," Turrin said, "there'd be no tracks, no tracks at all."

"Yeah. Super secret. These guys are sparing no effort, in that sense. You'll see why, if I can tie it all together."

"But don't call him Thinker" Brognola said, smiling.

"What's the big mystery, Sarge?" asked Turrin. "A new gold mine in Alaska?"

Bolan chuckled and said, "That may not be far wrong, either. If our people ever start hauling that oil from the new fields up there, anyone sitting here on Puget Sound is going to be in a hell of a good position to cash in on all sorts of trade. That's what built Seattle in the first place."

"Commerce, huh?" Brognola said.

"Yeah, sure," said Turrin. "Or harassment."

"Why would anybody want to harass that?" Brognola asked disgustedly.

"Are you crazy?" Turrin shot back. "That's the favorite occupation of the nickel and dime boys."

"We're not talking about nickels and dimes."

"How do you think they got to the Cosa?" Turrin argued. "Numbers, bimboes, protection, smack, alcohol, vending machines, pinballs, jukes, bandits — you name a nickel or a dime, I'll give you the name of the guy that rolled it into a million dollar territory."

"Sure, sure — but I'm saying that none of that anywhere approaches the magnitude of potential commerce from millions of barrels of crude a day."

It was a pointless argument, and both seemed to realize it — but on it went.

"Ah hell, they play both sides of the street, Hal — you know that. One guy's territory is commerce, the other guy's is knockdowns. As an example, look what Luciano did with the — "

"Hell, forget Luciano. That's old history. It's the now that counts."

"It's the now I'm talking about. Luciano's empire didn't die with the man. Just look at..."

Bolan turned off the banter from the friendly antagonists, recognizing it as sheer nervous release.

Both these men spent their lives balanced precariously on the edge of a knifeblade. This was probably the first chance in months for either to let the hair down a bit, to unwind just a turn.

Bolan ordinarily translated his own tensions into action.

These guys had to sit and fester with it.

Which was another reason why Bolan would accept no concept of "secret portfolio" — undercover sanction and amnesty for past "crimes." He'd play his game his way, thanks, for as long as the game could last. And he would die the way he'd lived — with blood on his hands and unpardoned scars on the soul.

The American writer Elbert Hubbard had once observed: "God will not look you over for medals, degrees or diplomas, but for scars."

Bolan would carry his own scars to his own judgment.

Right now he was simply trying to carry them to the next zone of combat. And the going was getting rough, with the interstate route now behind him and the atmosphere out there getting thicker with every turn of the wheels.

Brognola and Turrin suddenly became aware of Bolan's intense concentration into the problems of navigation. They fell silent; Turrin chewing on his cigar, the man from "paradise" bent forward and massaging his knuckles as he peered into the misty shrouds of that night in "that other" Washington.