Bolan's inner conflict was resolved much quicker than the telling of it, however. He ejected a bullet from the Bererta and tossed it across the street to land at Turrin's feet. The little guy bent over and picked it up, hefted it casually in his palm, glanced up the driveway toward the house, then unhurriedly crossed the street.

Bolan stepped out of the shadows, smiling faintly, and said, "Why didn't you just light up a neon sign?"

They solemnly shook hands. Turrin gave Bolan his cigarette and told him, "I figured you'd be somewhere close by—just a hunch. What'd you do to poor Danno? He looks like he's been to hell and back."

"He has. What brings you to London?"

"You."

Bolan chuckled. "It figures. They calling in the reserves now?"

Turrin nodded. "And more. Don't laugh when I tell you this. I'm supposed to be bringing you a pardon."

Bolan did laugh. "A what?"

"You heard me. They want to bury the hatchet."

"Yeah, right in my head," Bolan said.

"They're serious about it. I think. I believe Staccio has his doubts, secretly though."

"JoeStaccio, upper New York?"

"Right. He's heading up the peace delegation. He's a little worried that the other bosses are setting him up for something. You know how that crap goes, none of them really trust each other."

Bolan said, "Yeah. Well, so what's your role in all this?"

Turrin grinned. "They haven't forgotten that you used to be one of my boys. They figured I could make the contact. By the way, have you heard? I'm running Pittsfield now."

Bolan chuckled and said, "Congratulations, that's some territory. No more girls, eh?"

Turrin laughed softly and stiffened his hand into a flat plane and tipped it from side to side. "I still keep my hand in," he said. "They'll never let me forget it anyway. I've got a new name, you know."

"No, I didn't know."

"They call me Leo Pussy."

"It's a name that should stick," Bolan commented, grinning.

"Yeah," Turrin said drily. "Well, so what are you up to? I mean, other than terrorizing the continent and bringing the blitz back to Britain?"

"I've just been trying to get home," Bolan soberly told him. "But I'm starting to smell something very rotten here in jolly old England. I think I might look around some."

"By look, you mean blast."

"Maybe that, too."

"Look, you better cool it a bit. These London cops are something else. You remember Hal Brognola?"

"The Justice Department guy, yeah."

"Right. Listen, Brognola packs a lot of weight. He takes no shit off of anybody, not even the boys up in Senate Judiciary. He's been trying to make some intercessions on your behalf with the local fuzz. No dice, buddy. They told him in plain text to jolly well butt the hell out."

"So what's Brognola's interest?"

"You know how he feels about you. He figures you're performing a national service, and I hear there's considerable unofficial sympathy with his view. But that's Fed level, understand. There's not much he can do at the local levels, especially with you blitzing around. More to the point, though, Brognola's been trying to engineer a line on this London arm for months now. Zero, buddy, not a damn thing. And I couldn't help. I mean, I've got no right to know what's going on over here, right? So this trip was a blessing, in Hal's view. This is the first time we've gotten inside underground London."

"Have you caught the smell yet?"

"What smell?"

"The rotten smell I was taking about. If this thing does bust, I've been told that this whole country might shake from the explosion."

"Local corruption?"

"No, worse than that, from a public point of view. It could be the Profumo thing all over again, times ten and in spades."

Turrin said, "Shit."

"Yeah. That could be why Scotland Yard is so hard-nosed. Maybe they know that smell already, and they're afraid it's going to bust wide open."

"I doubt that," Turrin replied worriedly. "The CID has a hell of a lot of pride. They're just not going to let you run wild over here, that's all."

Bolan said, "Well, we'd better cut this short. What can I do to help your operation?"

Turrin produced a small notebook, jotted a phone number, and tore out the sheet and handed it to Bolan. "Contact me here, sometime today if you can. We'll work out a meet."

"Okay. Where were all the cars headed?"

"Airport. Arnie Farmer Castiglione is bringing in a big head party, due to land at six. Staccio insisted that we come on ahead and try to get a jump on them. But nobody's been home here all night and hell, we've just been sitting around waiting for someone to show."

"What do you mean, get a jump?"

Turrin grinned. "It's the big squeeze, buddy. Peace in one hand and war in the other. If we make contact first, meaning the peace delegation, the Farmer is supposed to lay off and give us a chance to work something out."

"But you think he won't."

"Right, that's the feeling. But we're supposed to give it the old college try. For what it's worth, Staccio brought with him the full authority of the Commissioneto make a deal with you."

"Castiglione's on that Commissione."

"Right. But you know how these things go. The old warrior hates your guts, Sarge."

Bolan shrugged. "So, old warriors die too, you know."

Turrin said, "Yeah, you could look at it that way, I guess. Listen, I don't really know all the details… Staccio's playing this thing pretty close to the chest. Fin just supposed to make the contact and set up the meet. Maybe you should listen to what he has to say. It might be your out."

"Who says I want an out?"

Turrin smiled faintly. "You can't keep this going forever, Sarge."

Bolan grinned and said, "I can try."

"Well… okay. It's your decision. Hell don't look to me for advice, of all people. Uh, you need anything from me that doesn't come under that heading?"

"I could use some intelligence."

"I'll do what I can. What do you need?"

"I need a make on an old man named Edwin Charles, age about seventy or seventy-five. I think he was a biggie in OSS liaison during World War Two. Maybe someone can get a line from that angle. He died tonight."

Turrin said, "Friend or foe?"

"That's what I'm hoping you can tell me."

"Okay. I have a line to Brognola. I'll put him on it."

"While you're at it, look into a Major Mervyn Stone. The major part is a carryover, he's not active military anymore. The name's all I have, but there a connection with Charles."

"Pretty important stuff, Sarge?"

"Yeah, pretty important. My head might be attached to it."

"Okay, well shake the tree. You watch it, huh?"

Turrin moved casually back across the street, pulled the gate shut, and walked up the drive whistling a pop tune. Bolan watched him out of sight, then faded away into the night.

That was a good cop back there, a damn good cop. Bolan wished him long life. But he feared a short one for him. Perhaps as short as Bolan's own.