Leo Turrin bit down savagely on his cigar and spoke around it via the side of his mouth to snarl, "What the hell is this, guy? Don't tell me you're laying around here on your dead ass in fancy pajamas while this Bolan is romping all over your town!"

The Captain could not believe his ears. He shook a sleep-fogged head, zeroing attention onto his executive officer, Harve Mathews. "What is this, Harve? Who is this guy? Get him out of here!"

"This is Mr. Turrin, Captain — our liaison. He insisted — I didn't know — he says it's urgent. Just busted right in."

"I'm gonna bust some asses, too," Turrin raged on. "I never saw such a disgraceful — what kind of a junior commando outfit is this, anyway? Get outta that fuckin' bed, you looneytune! The fuckin' guy is taking your whole thing apart for you!"

Franciscus threw back the covers and leapt to his feet. "What?" he howled.

"You don't lay on your ass while this guy's in town! He'll jerk it right out from under you while you're liftin' your leg to pee! While you lay here sleeping in fancy pajamas, he's got the whole damned joint wired for sound! Don't you ever shake it down? Don't you have any goddam electronic security, for crissakes!"

Franciscus was stunned, dazed by the verbal attack. He directed a wavery gaze toward Mathews and commanded, "Coffee, Harve. Lace it good. Give some to the mouth here, too. Then sound reveille. Roll everybody out."

"Mr. Turrin has people running all over the penthouse," the exec reported as he moved toward a bar in the corner of the bedroom.

"He has what?"

"Damn right!" the liaison shouted. "We're shaking you down, jake! I was told that you limberdicks out here knew what you were doing! Listen, boy scouts in my town know better." He tossed a small, plasticized sphere, roughly the size of a quarter, onto the bed. "I walked right in outta the cold and picked that off one of your chandeliers! You know what that is, dammit? Do you know?"

"Bugged!" the Captain said in a hollow voice.

Turrin cried, "Ahhh shit!" and swaggered to the window, stuck both hands in his pockets, and turned his back to it all.

He had the guy shook, yeah. It could be an unnerving experience, awakening to something like that. It'd happened to Leo Turrin a time or two; he knew.

He lit his cigar and gazed into the night for a while, giving the "elite" time to compose themselves. When he turned back to them, Franciscus was dressed in pants and shirt, had a cigarette going, held a coffee cup in one hand and Bolan's bug in the other. Mathews stood stiffly to the side, eyes on the floor.

In a much milder tone, Turrin called over, "Ay. I'm sorry, eh. I shouldn't come in like that. I get too excited. Sorry if I fucked up the protocol or what d'you call it. But hey, I've had my boys out for hours, running this thing down."

"What do you mean?" Franciscus asked, the voice crisp, now — but not unfriendly.

Turrin waved the cigar in a circle and moved slowly back to the center of the room. "I can't expect a guy with your — I mean, you know, my boys knew all that crap before they got ten years old. Otherwise they'd never reached ten years old. Know what I mean? Street ways. You should get your boys to shaking this joint. Check the window ledges, inside and out. Even the walls outside. This's a top floor — right? Better check the roof. There's a relay rig somewhere around here."

"How do you know that for sure?" Franciscus barked.

"Common sense would be enough," Turrin replied loftily. "But I got more than that to go on. It's all-over the damn streets."

"What is?"

Turrin's tagman poked head and shoulders through the doorway and called in, "Hey boss."

"Come on in, Jocko."

The little guy had his hands cupped together, bearing a near overflow of quarter-size gadgets. He stepped up and deposited them on the bed, then went to stand behind his boss before reporting, "Chick sends it. He says he thinks it's clean now."

The Franciscus gaze jerked away from the embarrassing evidence. "What is all over the streets?" he asked, the voice dimming again.

"You have a guy named Helmann up here last night?"

A sick look briefly transited that military countenance.

Mathews jerked noticeably.

Turrin said, "Sure you did. The local cops know it. The feds know it. The whole damn town by now knows it. Bolan blitzed in here sometime last night and wired you. He recorded you and the Helmann guy in dark conference. The feds have that conversation, Johnny."

"Find that transmitter, Harve," the Captain quietly commanded.

Mathews moved quickly out of the room.

Franciscus showed his visitor a strained smile and said. "Well. I've heard of you, Leo. Mostly good. I'm very impressed. Just sorry to meet you for the first time with egg all over my face."

"It beats shit," Turrin replied, smiling sourly. "After a brush with this guy Bolan, most boys come off looking more that way — shitfaced, I mean. Look, it's your show. The men told me to stand by and assist. But you better do something quick. What's this I'm hearing about an island?"

The military gaze retracted then lashed across that room and seized Leo Turrin's lips. "What did you say?"

"God, you have a hearin' problem? You know what I said, dammit. My sources say that Bolan knows. He knows, guy. Have you studied this boy?"

"Not in depth, no. Nobody expected him to pop up here so soon. I'm getting a profile run on — "

"You better forget the damn profiles and concentrate on the guy. He has popped, see. And you better start scrambling. You better grab your balls. Translation: take care of the things you prize the most. The guy will be laying all over you before daylight. Take it from one who's been laid enough already to know."

Franciscus snapped an anguished gaze to his wristwatch. He whirled and went to the window. "He couldn't know," he muttered. "Nobody knows."

"The street knows, Johnny."

"Did the old men tell you about the island?"

"I never heard of it until an hour ago."

"What did you hear?"

"Just that. An island somewhere. Bolan hiring himself a fast boat. He's propping an assault of some kind. Buying weapons. Big ones. You better get set, bub. Or else tell me and let me. The men sent me out here for one damn reason. Protect the investment. We know what this boy can do. They sent me because I know how. Now I can't go back there and tell them I stood here and watched you piss it all away."

"You'll tell them nothing!" Franciscus snarled.

Turrin rocked on the balls of his feet and turned a deliberate gaze onto his tagman. "Tell the boys we go," he ordered.

The little guy nodded uncertainly and hurried out.

Turrin told the quivering Captain, "I don't work for you, bub. It's the other way around. You keep your ass in your hand and remember who pays your goddam bills. Either you got a firm grip or you ain't. If you have, then you guide that ass out of here and you by Jesus get something to moving. I mean now!"

It was obvious that Captain Franciscus was not accustomed to this kind of talking-to.

The muscles of his jaw were twitching and the eyes were blazing mad.

Harve Mathews loped into the room, defusing that confrontation with a breathless report.

"Got it! Had a hunch, Cap — that helicopter. Found it right there!" He was holding out a small box that could have been a cigarette case with a tiny antenna projecting from the top.

Either it was the final straw, or it served as an excellent face-saver for the Captain.

"Sound the alert, condition red!" he snapped. "Call the bosun, get the boats fired up! Reveille those new men, send some cars! I want a full formation at the pier within thirty minutes! Alert the armorer, get a truck to the pier, full combat weapons and rounds for two hundred men! Call the island! Talk to Presley personally. Tell him to double the patrols on the beaches! Get a weather report! Okay, move it!"