Kline settled back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head, a pose he often adopted when he was in a lecturing mood. "Let me just run down what has happened so far. A young agent, Jake Sharp, infiltrated the operation of one Cameron McIntyre, a major arms manufacturer. We've had our suspicions about McIntyre for a while now, and Sharp was gathering evidence to nail him. Suddenly, ate-out a month ago, Sharp disappeared. A couple of vagrants found the body about two weeks later. It wasn't a pretty sight."

Kline forced away the image of the mangled, half-decayed body he'd had to identify at the county morgue. He'd been battling with the recurring nightmare vision every day since Sharp's body had been found hanging like a rejected haunch of beef.

"McIntyre denies everything." Kline nodded repeatedly for emphasis. "He has a pack of unimpeachable witnesses who swear that he had nothing to do with Sharp's death. There's no evidence to link Sharp and McIntyre together that night. End of case, so far. But we'll keep digging."

Bolan brooded momentarily, hands clasping the wooden arms of the well-padded executive chair.

It was a shame about Sharp, but that wasn't his concern.

If McIntyre was really dealing arms illegally, he was guilty of a lot worse than murder.

"Fill me in about McIntyre."

Kline had no trouble with that request. He made it a point to be on top of the facts of a case, a trait that impressed his superiors. "Cameron's grandfather founded the firm during World War 1. His father expanded it enormously and made a fair-size fortune during World War II. Business has been pretty steady since then. Cameron took over about five years ago and has been pushing the export side of arms dealing. All very legitimate, of course. He's made sure to get the proper end-use certificates from foreign governments. Without these as an assurance that the arms are going to U.S.-approved states, he isn't allowed to export a Bowie knife."

Without being told, Bolan knew that this was only part of the story. A terrorist group could often find a way around the export restrictions. Sometimes an end-use certificate could be forged. More often, a few properly placed bribes in some Third World nation assured that once the arms that had been purchased through normal channels arrived, they went out on the next boat to some clandestine destination. A third common trick was simply to playact a hijacking to divert some of the arms, with a little hard cash spread around to soothe guilty consciences.

"Why did you land on McIntyre's back? There must be dozens of equally likely suspects."

"More like hundreds, Blanski. But a little over a year ago McIntyre came to our attention when some Indian troops discovered an arms shipment en route to the Tamils in Sri Lanka. They were part of an order destined for Kenya that had never arrived. Another cargo was found when Spanish troops uncovered an arms cache belonging to Basque terrorists. That was a bit more than six months ago and prompted the current investigation. We've been following paper trails that end in brick walls ever since. Sharp thought that he was on to something, but..."

Bolan understood the problem. Following every trail, finding the necessary clues that would stand up in court was a difficult job, one that might require years of sorting, shuffling and examining boxcars of paper.

In the meantime, McIntyre and others like him would be free to conduct their arms-for-millions deals, profiting from the sorrow and suffering of victims in every corner of the globe.

"As for McIntyre himself, there's no doubt that he could use the money. He owns a lot of the stock, but he has a board of directors to make sure that he doesn't do anything too funny. Certainly he has a lot of expenses, with three greedy ex-wives and a string of girlfriends. Also, he likes to play high-stakes poker. Unfortunately he doesn't play very well."

If McIntyre was having money problems, the arms black market would be an easy solution.

Third World gangsters paid top dollar for reliable weapons, especially some of the more exotic ones suitable against military targets. And every dollar that McIntyre received would be tax free.

"That's it? That's all you've got?" Bolan figured that there was plenty more, but it suited him to play along.

Kline was more relaxed now, feeling that he was in control of the situation once again. "There are a lot of little details, of course." Kline rose and proceeded to a corner filing cabinet. Smiling to himself, he pulled a thick envelope from the third drawer. "These are transcripts of McIntyre's office phone calls for this month. This should keep you busy for a while."

Bolan understood that he was being diverted. Let Kline think that he had taken the bait.

Kline turned from the cabinet to find Bolan at his elbow. He hadn't even heard the chair creak.

"Then I'll just take that and be on my way."

As the door closed softly behind Blanski, Kline began to wonder if he had made a mistake. The man was either a lot smarter than the agent gave him credit for, or else not very bright at all. Kline wouldn't want to bet on the latter.

"Elwell! Get over here!" he shouted over his shoulder.

The junior agent rushed forward.

"See that chair? I want it dusted for prints. Any that aren't ours I want routed back for identification, pronto." Kline held up his hand to check a half-formed question. "I want an answer in an hour. Get to it."

Kline decided to take a hike to the corner coffee shop. Bad as it was, it was better than the motor oil that Elwell brewed. In an hour, he would have a handle on Blanski. Whoever he was.

Bolan steered away from the curb, uncertain as to what his next move should be. He did know that he wasn't about to waste precious hours skimming through phone logs. He doubted McIntyre would be foolish enough to say anything in the clear over the phone. However, there might be something of value buried in that filing cabinet back at the Bureau office.

The warrior had always had a difficult time when forced to work with the FBI. If he had to work with the law, it was easier dealing with the local police rather than the touchy Feds. The Bureau meant well, but they had such a snooty, elitist attitude that they tended to rub other lawmen the wrong way.

Kline was typical. Probably a lawyer or a chartered accountant, he adopted a paternalistic attitude at the drop of a pin. The agent equated the good of the FBI with the good of the country.

Kline liked to leave the dirty work to the street cops so that he wouldn't get his freshly pressed suit mussed.

Back in his hotel room, Bolan was fieldstripping his weapons when the telephone rang.

"Hello."

"Striker, I'm glad to hear you've been getting along so well with the FBI."

"Hal. What's up?" Bolan knew that Brognola wasn't calling just to shoot the breeze.

"For openers, I've got a note on my desk from none other than the director of the FBI himself. If it was any hotter, this office would be cinders by now."

Bolan smiled. Brognola was able to make any memopushing pea brain sorry that writing had ever been invented. Especially since he had the heavy artillery behind him. "Calm down, Hal. I know how you love to play fireman."

Brognola was exasperated. "Easy for you to say, Striker. The second thing is that Kline has been trying to put the make on Michael Blanski. Your fingerprints came in for identification. I was informed by a friend in that section."

Kline would get a surprise, but it didn't make Bolan think any better of him. "The standard package is going back?"

"No worries. What Kline gets will make you look like apple pie personified. I just thought you might like to know who your friends are. Or aren't, as the case may be."