"Well, talk it over between yourselves," Bolan said. "Politician will cash you out if you decide to leave. I'm going down to the beach. I'm recessing this briefing for half an hour. When I get back, well plan the grand slammer around what's left of the squad. Thanks and good luck to all of you, leaving or staying." Bolan spun about and walked quickly toward the water.

"Well kiss my ass!" Fontenelli exclaimed quietly.

"It looks like at least three positive makes and two more possibles," Lieutenant Andy Foster reported to Captain Braddock. "The Indian, we're pretty certain, is Thomas Loudelk, a full-blooded Blackfoot from a reservation up in Montana. He knew Bolan in Vietnam. Disposed of his possessions last week and left the reservation. Tried to cash a thousand-dollar telegraphic money order there. Finally had to go into Butte to cash it. That money order was filed from the Western Union main office here in L.A. The sender was a B. Mackay."

Braddock grunted. "I'd say that's positive. Any line on him at this end?"

Foster shook his head. "Not a thing, but we're still working it. Here's another, a real colorful character they called Gunsmoke in Vietnam. He wore old-Western-style six-shooters, one on each hip. Just a kid, but they say the Viet cong were in real awe of the guy. He's been working out at the wild-West park since his discharge, one of those quick-draw artists. Walked off the job one day last week without notice." The lieutenant raised a meaningful gaze to his superior. "Told his boss he'd fired his last blank. Nice kid, they say. Easygoing, likable, good-looking—always had a bunch of girls clustered around him. Name's James Harrington. Father owns a sheep ranch up in Idaho. Hasn't shown up there, and the old man doesn't seem to care if he never does."

"Friend of Bolan's?"

Foster nodded. "Practically a disciple. He was living down in Anaheim. Moved out of his apartment the same day he quit his job. No forwarding address."

"Call it a positive," Braddock said. '"Who's next?"

"Well ... that's Zitka. The telex from Saigon confirms the make. He was Bolan's right-hand man—sniping team, you know—for more than a year. They worked like a hand in a glove. Zitka was a forward member, the advance recon man. The Viets had a name for him that translates into English as Whispering Death. He's got almost as many decorations as Bolan."

"Let's look at those two possibles."

This one here is Rosario Blancanales. Special-services sergeant, knew the country over there like" a native. Doubles as a medic and an all-around handyman. Does a little bit of everything— mechanic, gunsmith, plays a couple of musical instruments. Organized schools for the village kids and even had a baseball little league going over there in unpacified territory. Say he has a genius for organization and administration. Twice he was recommended for OCS and twice he flunked the entrance exams. Just not enough formal education, it seems."

"How would he tie in with Bolan?"

He left special services after his second OCS failure, went into an elite combat unit. Worked with Bolan several times as a guide in enemy territory."

"And where is he now?" Braddock asked.

Foster sighed. "He's just a possible, remember. He was working at the VA hospital down in Long Beach. Gave notice that he was leaving long before Bolan came on the scene—about a month ago. His supervisor down there told our man that Blancanales was planning on reenlisting in the army. He left his job on schedule, right to the day of his notice, and he left no tracks at all. None. He didn't reenlist anywhere In Southern California, I can tell you that."

"Doesn't seem to fit the pattern," Braddock mused.

"No, but he has disappeared, and he did disappear just after the gunfight out at Zitka's."

"All right. Keep checking. Who's the other possible?"

"Angelo Fontenelli, also known as Chopper. Heavy-weapons man over in Vietnam, another Bolan sidekick. He's married, has a wife and two kids in New Jersey. The wife claims she hasn't seen or heard of him for two years, and furthermore she's had no child support from him since his government checks stopped coming. That's how she knew he'd been discharged. Or so she says."

"What do you have to tie him to Bolan?"

"Nothing except the past association. In Vietnam. He's on the suspect list simply because we can't locate him."

"Okay. Keep on him. How're you doing with those vehicles?"

"Hell, that's damn near impossible, Tim, without some more info to go on."

"Yeah. Well ... we got one lucky break. Lyons' detail turned up an electronics wholesaler who sold a sizable order of UHF radio equipment this morning. The buyer claimed to be from some technical school. Bought the stuff in loose lots. You know—chassis, components, crystals, odds and ends. Claimed the stuff would be used by students learning to build radio sets."

"Sounds reasonable," Lieutenant Foster commented.

"Sure, except the name he gave for the school doesn't check out, and he paid cash for the stuff. Several thousand dollars. What kind of school sends out a buyer with cash money in his jeans?"

"Smells like a hot buy, doesn't it?"

"Sure does. Lyons is down there now getting an itemized list of the sale.

Foster shifted awkwardly in his chair and asked, "What... uh, what's the latest on Rickert?"

"Stop, you're making me sick at my stomach," Braddock growled.

"You figure he got tipped?"

"Yeah, and I'd give a month's salary to learn how. Betty said he got a call while he was in the bullroom. Said he turned white as a ghost. He went back into the bullroom, told Menkes he had to personally investigate a hot tip, and he walked out. Five minutes before we went after him. That's the last anybody's seen of him. I don't..."

The ringing of the telephone on Braddock"s desk interrupted his spiel. He scooped up the instrument and said, "Braddock." His eyes widened and focused owlishly on Foster. "Okay. Yeah. Keep on it and keep me informed. Yeah."

Braddock slowly cradled the phone. "It's starting to crack wide open," he told the lieutenant. "That was Granger. A car buyer down on Figeuroa made a lot purchase from an individual today. The deal involved a red 1968 Corvette Stingray, and blue 1967 Ford Custom, a gray 1967 Mustang, and a 1963 Mercury station wagon."

"Bingo!" Foster exclaimed.

"Yeah, and listen, how lucky can you get? The name of the seller?"

"Yeah?"

"Rosario Blancanales! Except for the Corvette, the pink slips were all in his name, never reregistered. He'd only had the cars one week from the previous owners. Told the buyer he'd bought the cars for resale but his plans had gone sour and now he had to have his money back out of them.

The Corvette has Nevada registration and a bill of sale made out to one Bill Mackay."

"Now where does this leave us?" Foster asked, eyes narrowing speculatively.

"Leaves us a bit smarter," Braddock replied. "We can stop looking for those particular vehicles. We can move Blancanales into the positive-make column. And maybe . . . well, I wonder of Bolan is getting ready to blow town."

"Doesn't add up," Foster said. "Not if he's the one who bought the radio stuff."

"Let's assume that he is. So ... he is not blowing town. He's shifting gears. He's dumped the hot vehicles, and he'll be picking up some more. Assume that he won't steal, he'll buy. Okay, let's..."

Carl Lyons stepped through the open doorway. The excitement in his manner stopped Braddock in midsentence. "What've you got, Carl?" Braddock inquired.

"It scares me, what I've got," Lyons declared. He advanced to Braddock's desk and placed a wrinkled sheet of onion-skin paper in front of the captain. "The list of radio parts. Look at those crystals, about halfway down the page."