The middle-aged guard Bolan had seen occupying the gatehouse at Edwards's Giorgimpopoli villa a couple of hours earlier had gone off duty. His replacement was a younger man, a swarthy Berber in the same immaculate livery. The Berber listened to the name Bolan gave him, picked up a phone, repeated the name into it, then after a pause nodded Bolan on up the curving driveway.

Like he'd figured, the gateman was more for show than anything else. The hard security began at the front door.

Bolan pulled the Jag up to the villa. A couple of other cars were already there, two sleek black limos. Edwards was giving his guests the red-carpet treatment.

Bolan had another treatment in mind for Edwards.

The doorman wore a neatly pressed green jump suit without insignia of any kind, and a Colt .45 automatic in a web-belt supported holster on his left hip. He was an American. According to Toby, there were three or four other hardmen besides him at the villa, also from the U.S. It could have been a glimmer of chauvinism on Edwards's part, or more likely just the practical knowledge that he could find no better trained personnel anywhere. In this case, the four were all one-time Special Forces, recruited by T.W.Hansen, the one-time master sergeant whose brain fluids were now watering the grassy plain near Wheelus Air Base. They were tough, competent hardmen, combat-experienced, who had sold their deadly skills to the renegade agent.

"Sid Bryant," Bolan announced to the guy as he got out of the Jaguar.

"May I have your card please, Mr. Bryant."

Bolan got out the wallet he had appropriated from Bryant. The slip he extracted was the size of a business card, with a series of random symbols ( a dollar sign, an ampersand, a star ( printed across it. The doorman tore off one corner; the card was made of three plies of different colored paper, like a tote ticket at a pari-mutuel horse-racing track.

Like most of the more simple applications of tradecraft, it was effective. To counterfeit the card that identified the bearer, you not only had to know the order of the symbols, but the order and color of the card's plies and Edwards could change either at will.

The doorman examined the torn corner, looked satisfied. Then he gave Bolan the once-over, his gaze pointedly lingering on the area of Bolan's left armpit.

"Are you carrying a gun, Mr. Bryant?" the guard said neutrally.

"That's right," Bolan said pleasantly. He had donned a light jacket over the khaki safari shirt. Beneath it gun-leather held a compact Beretta 92So autoloading pistol.

"May I have it please?"

"Nope," Bolan said, just as pleasantly. "I feel naked without it."

The guard frowned.

"Look," Bolan went on seriously, "I'm walking into a place I've never been before. You get me to Edwards, and him and me will talk about my gun. I won't shoot anyone before that."

The guard didn't like that, but Bryant was a guest. He opened the lid of a recessed box set into the door jamb and spoke. Footsteps sounded inside, and the doorman opened up. Two other men, dressed and armed like the guy on the door, were coming down the hall. One was dark-haired, slim, and very tall six-eight or nine, Bolan guessed. The other was red-headed and burly.

"He's heeled," the doorman told them.

The redhead nodded blankly, "This way, Bryant." He took the lead, followed by Bolan, the very tall guy bringing up the rear, Indian-file style. The villa was cool, dim, elegant, and decorated in a vaguely European style. The furniture Bolan could see soft and plush, leather-covered cushions on solid hardwood chassis. They went down a long hall, as Bolan called into mind the detailed sketches of the place Toby had worked up, etching the layout into his consciousness. They passed sliding oak double doors on the left, which would open into a chandeliered dining room. On either side were oil paintings that looked like originals, framed in gilded hand-carved mountings. The hall ended in a carpeted double-wide staircase; at the top they turned and went back toward the front of the house, passing almost a dozen closed doors on either side of the second-story passageway.

At its end the redheaded bodycock knocked on the last door. Above it was a motor-mounted video camera. The door swung open.

Bolan's mind registered more leather-covered furniture; a monitor for the video camera set in the wall above the door; a small conference table with chairs; the two side walls covered with floor— to-ceiling shelves lined with mostly leather-bound volumes. The opposite wall was almost all window, shaded by semi-opaque draperies through which some of the early-morning sunshine filtered. In front of the draperies was a hardwood desk, its flat top as big as a bench, as baroquely styled as the rest of the house's furnishings.

Frank Edwards sat behind the desk.

He nodded, said, "Hello, Bryant," and stood up.

Physically, he was not especially impressive.

He was two or three inches shorter than Bolan's six feet, and had a pleasant open face and conservatively cut dark hair that was beginning to thin in front. He had the kind of compact stocky build that, when dressed in well-cut clothing, could have been either muscled or gone slightly to fat. Bolan could not be sure, because the clothes he wore were extremely well cut: a charcoal-gray summer-weight suit, a pale shirt, a plainly striped rep tie. A watch with a gold expansion bracelet circled his wrist.

The result was quiet wealth without ostentation.

Edwards could have been an executive of a multinational corporation, or even a statesman.

In a way he was a corporate president. His product was a full line of accessories for the well-equipped terrorist everywhere. And he didn't need either of his hardboys to pass on the doorkeeper's observation.

"Would you mind giving up your side arm to one of my men for the time being, Bryant?"

"Yeah," Bolan said, "I'd mind."

"Look, Bryant, this is supposed to be a get acquainted visit. We're both pros. You know how this has to go." Nothing had changed in the guy's stance, expression, or tone, but somehow he was suddenly projecting a chill. It was the eyes, Bolan realized. They were dark, steady, cold as gunmetal. In contrast to the persona the man's clothing presented, his eyes gave off nothing at all.

If eyes were the mirror of the soul, Frank Edwards was soulless. Bolan shrugged and fished out the Beretta with two fingers. He laid it on Edwards's desk, and watched the man frown at the ugly snout of the automatic's silencer.

"I don't like loud noises," Bolan said.

The whole role camouflage was carefully contrived to present a specific image.

Bolan's version of Sir Bryant was of a tough, self-assured agent ( but one a little too glib, a little too pushy. He wanted Edwards to feel superior to Bryant, and to lose a few shavings of alertness for that reason.

As for the Beretta, it had already played its primary role, which was not unlike the florid gestures a stage magician uses to misdirect his audience. The wrangle over its surrender had forestalled a full body-search ( and had in point of fact not left Bolan unarmed.

The guard who had been inside the office when they arrived watched Bolan narrowly. His name, according to Toby, was Kenneth Briggs, and he was Edwards's personal bodycock, on him always, like a secret service man on the president. That made him Edwards's choice as the best man. Bolan returned the gaze. He would accept Edwards's opinion and treat the guy with appropriate caution.

"I have some people downstairs," Edwards said. "A breakfast meeting I'd already planned before we got in contact. It will take an hour or so. I'd like you to wait up here." His tone left no room for argument. But then Bolan hadn't intended any. "Boyd and Whiston will stay with you." Edwards smiled very slightly. "For company." He came around the desk, headed for the office door. "I'll have breakfast sent up."