And he knew where he had to start. He reached the Lincoln, transferred the Uzifrom the floorboards to the seat, and set off for the Museum de Sade.

The Battle for Britain was on.

Bolan was in combat uniform: midnight skinsuit, black sneakers, the little Uzidangling from a neck strap, Beretta harnessed to his side. He was making his final approach on foot. The night was quiet, cold, and smotheringly black; Bolan was hardly more than a moving extension of the darkness, a silent shadow gliding across the London nightscape. He had stripped off his outer clothing and left the car inconspicuously parked, several streets back.

He entered the square from the side opposite the museum and paused there. It was dark, all dark. He waited, taking a patient audio recon. Several minutes later his patience paid off. He heard sounds of human presence: a shoe scraping cement somewhere in the blackness ahead, a brief and muffled sound of voices, a subdued cough.

The enemy was here. This time they were showing real respect for the man they hoped would show up. They had done something to the street lamps; all were extinguished, as though the London blackouts had returned. Only the most diligent listening could disclose any sounds. At the museum, across the way, a faint suggestion of light showed on the ground floor. Bolan remembered the heavy draperies at all the windows, and guessed that the museum might not be as deserted as it seemed.

He went on, more slowly now, stepping with extreme care and staying close to the line of buildings. Someone sniffled, just ahead. Bolan halted. A foot scraped, and Bolan saw a barely discernible movement in the blackness, hardly more than a hint of bulk outlined in the Stygian background. When, he wondered, would they ever learn to use dark clothing on a nighttime stakeout? He moved forward again, barely breathing, until he was close enough to reach out and touch the man, who was leaning against the building, his hands in the pockets of his overcoat, his snapbrim hat pulled low over his forehead.

Bolan knew how difficult it was to remain alert and ready during these long quiet waits in the night. With all sense perceptions deprived of stimuli, often a mild form of vertigo resulted. Some men would literally go to sleep on their feet. This one was obviously in some lethargic state: he sniffed halfheartedly, trying to clear his nostrils of a troublesome mucus, and turned his head to look directly at Bolan.

The blackclad figure sprang forward then, in one swift movement pinning the man's head to the building and cramping a hand over the mouth, the other hand striking simultaneously in a stunning chop to the throat, his knee following through with a paralyzing smash to the diaphragm. The sentry stiffened in a momentary spasm, an involuntary squawk of pain and alarm dying unexpressed in the clamped-off mouth, and then he became a soft mass flowing toward the ground. Bolan helped him down in a quiet descent and quickly checked for a sign of continued breathing. There was none. The respiratory system was totally overcome by the shock of the attack. The wild black cat moved on through the jungle of night to the next target and repeated the process, with identical results. Then he reversed his ground and went to the other side of the square, seeking a man with a cough. He found him, and quietly cured the cough. Next stop was the porno bookshop and the entrance off the alleyway.

He had taken note of the store's lock on his previous visits. It was an ancient mechanism of dubious value. The blade of a knife applied at the proper spot, and then the insistent pressure of a shoulder, silently overcame the resistance. Bolan went inside.

He went down through the basement and along the passageway, coming up in Edwin Charles' security cellar beneath the museum. On his first time through, Bolan had paid only passing attention to this area of the building. He had simply wanted to get out, and he had very little curiosity regarding the location and operation of the security monitors. Now they were a prime consideration.

The night before, Charles had led him from the ground level down the stairs and along a rather narrow cellar passageway to the manhole of the tunnel. Bolan had noted the two heavy doors at each side of that passageway and had assumed, without further interest, that the old man conducted his spying from behind those doors. Now, both stood slightly ajar. This time Bolan went exploring. Behind one door, he found himself in a spacious and elaborately furnished basement apartment. It was a single room affair but apparently held every conceivable convenience, including even a wet bar with tap beer and a handsomely outfitted electronics workshop.

No one, however, was at home.

Behind the door on the opposite side of the basement Bolan found the "security station." It was far more elaborate than he had expected. An impressive electronics console and a battery of closed-circuit television monitors dominated the scene. Various other gadgets, including a film editing table and a projector, were present. Edwin Charles was not.

First to draw Bolan's interest were the TV monitors. All were activated, and the conglomerate seemed to be providing a complete surveillance of the first two levels of the building. One screen showed the entry hall, another a wide-angle shot of the clubroom in which Bolan had found himself imprisoned the previous night, still another the erotically decorated harem room—in several camera angles—and each of the small cells on the upper level had its own monitor.

Those cells had been feebly lighted and deserted during Bolan's earlier visit. Now they were lit well enough to allow televised surveillance, and none of them were deserted. Young men and women appeared to languish there in attitudes of suffering and submission, all naked and cowed and bound into the various types of imprisoning devices.

The monitors showing the harem room were something else. Here men and women lay about in a variety of luxurious accommodations, and in a scene combining the best of Arabian Nightsand the wildest in Roman Orgy. Aparty was most emphatically in progress, and just as emphatically it was geared to the most offbeat varieties of erotic delight. Most of the men, it seemed, were middle-aged or beyond—except for an occasional consortium of aged lechery with pretty lad. The women were without exception young and beautiful, and there were many. Everywhere Roman togas mixed and contrasted with colorful harem pajamas, slave girl costumes, and the inevitable devices of "bondage."

On a small revolving stage at the center of all this, a huge black man was spread-eagled upon a simple upright cross, bound hand and foot. He was nude, and he was obviously in a state of wild sexual agitation. A tall blond girl, also nude, was tantalizing him with a lewdly suggestive dance in which she frequently wriggled against him then swayed back to avoid his wild lunging after her. Following each of these sallies, the big fellow was punished for his impertinence by another girl, an Amazonian figure, with a wicked looking black whip. It was theatre in the round, a la Sade, and it made Bolan's guts creak. He had to wonder how many other acts had preceded this one across that small stage, and he began to understand what Ann Franklin had meant by "a paid staff." These people were performers, actorsand damned convincing ones in their own peculiar specialty. Even the cell-sufferers were undoubtedly acting out a role with all the stage vigor of any thespian anywhere. TV monitors were banked about the revolving stage, allowing the audience to also keep track of the activities in the cells.

The console in the security station apparently was geared more to the entertainment angle than to items of security. Bolan wondered if they had video-taping capability—and he also wondered if the revellers upstairs realized that they themselves were on candid camera. Talk about blackmail mills—this one was a natural goldmine for anyone with such ambitions.