“Yeah, this is Augie up in Boston. Hear you got Bolan down there.”

“Right, Augie.”

“I sent a man down early this morning. Want him to watch how you handle the Bolan thing, case he ever comes my way. Guy’s name Lonnie Giardello. Can handle himself. Sent him down and then forgot to call. Should be there in an hour or two. Let him see what’s going on, Carlo.”

“Sure, Augie, no problem. I hope he brought a card.”

“He’s got one of mine. Good talking, Carlo. I got to get moving.”

They said goodbye and Bolan hung up. He grinned. He was not sure how close Augie and Carlo were, but there had been no hesitation about accepting the voice as genuine.

Now for the rest of his outfit.

Bolan went back to his small hotel and changed clothes. He wore a brown pin-striped suit, a red tie and a brown snap-brim hat that he’d bought in a men’s store. He looked like your average hoodlum soldier. Or maybe a little conservative. He could pass.

Back at the print shop the old man was blow-drying the ink with a hair dryer. He showed Bolan three cards. The Executioner picked out one and cut the other two up into strips with a small paper cutter and put them in his pocket. He thanked the printer and left. In his car, he signed the card boldly: Augie Bonestra.

There was no problem finding the fortified mansion where the boss of Baltimore lived. Bolan brought from the hotel a small bag packed with a few clothes to hide six charges of C-4 plastique with radio timer-detonators. He caught a cab to the big house, headquarters of the Mafia empire in Baltimore.

The cab stopped at the massive iron gate. A soldier ambled out and looked inside.

“Giardello?” he asked.

“Yeah, from Brooklyn. How did you know I was comin’?”

“Hey, this is Baltimore. We know everything. Crawl out and pay off the hack. It ain’t a far walk from here.”

The guard pointed Bolan to the side entrance and said someone would meet him there. A small man with sharp features and a sniffling nose opened the door, showed him to a bedroom and said Don Nazarione would like to see him when he was settled.

Bolan grinned, playing the part.

“Hell, how about now?” He adjusted a .45 automatic in his shoulder leather and walked behind the small man along the hall. The mansion was what he expected — overdecorated, plush, expensive, ostentatious.

They went up a small elevator to a huge office forty feet long on the third floor. On that level there was a putting green — a golf-green carpet with four holes and miniature flags. Across the green sat Carlo Nazarione behind a large, old-fashioned cherrywood desk with massive carved feet. An IBM computer sat on the edge of the desk with a daisy-wheel printer beside it.

The don was not what Bolan expected. He stood six-four, had the classic Italian dark good looks, a full head of black wavy hair and was not more than forty years old.

“So you’re the hotshot from Augie?”

“Yes, sir.”

The capo came from behind the desk and Bolan walked up to him, went down on one knee and kissed the offered ring. He stood and stepped back, waiting as he knew he should for Nazarione to lead the conversation.

“Did Augie send me anything?”

“Oh, yes, sir!” Bolan reached in his pocket and took out the card. He handed it to the Mafia chief who looked at it casually and pushed it into his pocket.

“You’ve done some research into this problem?”

“Yes, sir. I’m the Boston expert on the bastard.”

“Good. You can tag along. You want something special, talk to Vinny here.” He pointed to the thin-faced man who had met Bolan at the door. “Outside of that, don’t get in the way, and if we get a Bolan alert, you’ll go along. You got a piece?”

Bolan opened his jacket, showing the butt of the .45.

“Yeah. We got some better hardware. Have Vinny show it to you.” The godfather nodded. The interview was over.

For the next half hour Vinny piloted “Lonnie Giardello” around the layout. He introduced Lonnie to everyone and left him with a six-man crew on alert in the basement recreation room. A door led to a driveway where a crew wagon waited, ready to roll.

“We’re on alert for Bolan,” one of the soldiers said. “That asshole surfaces anywhere in town, we get a call and we’re rolling in two minutes.”

“I’d like to come along,” Bolan said.

The soldier shrugged. “If Don Carlo says show you, we show you.”

“Good, I’ll be around. Don Carlo told me to get acquainted with the layout. What’s outside?”

“Six-car garage, tennis court, swimming pool and lots of lawn.”

Bolan nodded and wandered outdoors. In the garage he looked over the cars — two Cadillacs and one Lincoln. From his pocket he slipped out two packages of C-4 and pasted one under the front fender well on each of the two Caddy crew wagons. The detonators were set for channel one on his radio-controlled signal box.

He walked around, went back inside, found the kitchen and bummed a roast-beef sandwich and coffee, pleading that he had not eaten on the plane.

The Executioner met Nino Tattaglia in the hall and the turned-around hoodlum’s mouth dropped open in surprise.

Bolan came up quickly. “Hi, I’m Lonnie Giardello. Just down from Boston to watch the Bolan fight.”

“Yeah. I’m Nino Tattaglia,” he said, his face still showing surprise.

“Didn’t I used to know some of your people in Brooklyn? Bunch of Tattaglias up there. There was a Joe and Frank, as I remember. Any of your people?”

“Not that I know of. Need a guide around this place?”

“I could use one.”

They talked quietly then.

“What the fuck are you doing? Half the town is looking for you and you charge in here!”

“I was invited. Best way. I see you got away from that motel room before the cops arrived.”

“Yeah, barely. Somebody saw me. At least nobody in the family suspects me. Thanks for that.”

“Who killed the girl?”

“Big Jake, the guy you wasted first. He enjoyed it, the bastard!”

“Any way I can look in the weapons room? You have one here?”

“Sure. No one man runs it. Usually it’s locked. Let’s go check it out.”

It was in the basement next to the recreation room. Several of the pool players looked up and waved when Nino came in. He talked to a couple of them for a minute.

“The weapons room open? Wanted to show our loaner around.”

The men laughed, and the one Bolan had talked to first unlocked it. “We got in a special order this morning,” he said. “Look at these beauties!”

Spaced out on a workbench on clean wipe towels lay three Uzi submachine guns.

“Damn!” Bolan said. “They full-auto?”

“As full as you can get. They forgot to send us any ammo, but it should be here tomorrow.”

Bolan picked up one of the stubby little submachine guns that had been developed by the Israelis from the Czech models 23 and 25 chatter-guns years ago. It was still one of the most effective in the world.

He slipped out the 32-round magazine that would hold the 9 mm parabellums and whistled.

“What we could do with these in Boston!”

“Get your own,” Nino said.

The other Mafia soldier laughed and returned to the pool game. It was his shot.

Bolan picked up a tool off the bench and went to work on one of the Uzis. In two minutes he had stripped off enough parts so he could remove the firing pin. He reassembled it and did the same thing to the next one. Just as he finished that one, two more soldiers came in to look at the new weapons.

As they fawned over the Israeli burp guns, Bolan planted another cube of C-4 plastique under a case of ammunition. This one had been set for detonation by a transmission on the second radio channel. The triggering device in Bolan’s suitcase looked like a radio the size of a pack of cigarettes.

Nino and Bolan eased out of the room, watched the pool game and then wandered outside.