Bolan added a fresh clip of Parabellums to the pistol and told the girl, "I'm grateful, but… that was a dumb stunt."

She threw him a quick look, hardly more than a twitch of her eyes, and gasped, "Don't speak of dumb stunts. Your odds back there were about thirty against one."

"I was doing all right," Bolan said quietly.

He recognized her suddenly, and also the car, a Jaguar sports model. He had noticed both aboard the ferry from Calais. He had even lit a cigarette for her on deck while they small-talked about the value of radar navigation through channel fog. Now he was hanging on grimly as the powerful vehicle swerved through the foggy streets, navigating without radar.

"You shall never get out of Dover unless you do exactly as I say," she said in a voice thin with tension. "The hatbox, behind you… it's yours, put it on quickly."

"It" was a wig of fiery red hair and matching beard, also a seaman's jacket in Bolan's size. He stared at the contents of the box while his mind clicked through the various implications of this latest development. Obviously the rescue had been a planned, not a spontaneous, action.

Quickly the girl confirmed this. "We'll exchange cars just ahead," she told him. "Get into your hair and be ready for the jump."

An uneasy feeling was crowding into Bolan's gut. Who the hell was the beautiful lady with the expensive car, and why was she interested in Mack Bolan's welfare? Where did she plan to take him, and for what purpose? From the noise of the sirens screaming through the night, it seemed that the police also had prepared some sort of reception for him. How had everyone tumbled so quickly to his movements? The idea of manipulationwas churning in Bolan's mind, and he wondered just how prominently this lovely young woman had figured in those maneuvers.

At the moment, though, idle speculation was too great a luxury. His instinct told him to run with the play, and he was already reacting to the decision. The wig and false beard went on easily and snugly, and he was changing jackets when they braked to a squealing halt beside a waiting VW bus. A shadowy figure moved forward immediately to take over the Jaguar; another was crouched over the steering wheel of the VW and impatiently gunning the motor. Bolan and the girl climbed quickly aboard the bus as the Jaguar disappeared into a small garage. A fast moving police vehicle with siren at full wail blasted out of the darkness to their rear and screamed past them.

The man in the driver's seat of the VW chuckled and moved the vehicle into the wake of the police car. The girl sat in a rear seat with Bolan. She breathed in quivering little gasps. She cuddled against him and, burying her face in his throat, she trembled with a hard case of the shakes.

Well, Bolan silently told himself, here we go again.

His chief interest in England had been as a link in his route back to the U.S., with possibly a quick hit on a couple of names in his notebook. But he had been required to fight his way into the country. Now, it appeared, he would have to fight his way out. No quick hits tonight. The jungle had closed in on him again, and he would have to hack his way through it.

His life had long ago become fixed in an unalterable groove, and Bolan had learned to accept the grim fact that everywhere he went became a battlefield. He had never, however, thought too highly of a purely defensive mode of warfare. Particularly not against a massively superior enemy.

The girl was beginning to cry. He sighed and pulled her closer in a comforting embrace. He owed her a lot, whatever her motives. She'd pulled him out of a tough defensive position and now perhaps she was providing him with a temporary platform from which to launch a counter-offensive to carry him on through and out of England.

And not a bad platform, at that, he was thinking as the supple body molded against his. Down through history, he knew, lesser bodies had launched entire armadas and armies. What he did not know was that this one was fated to launch the Executioner's shattering assault upon Britain.

The girl's nerves were in good shape. After a brief letdown, she dried her tears and regained her composure and was staring solemnly at Bolan's hands when the VW pulled into the lineup at the police blockade, just west of Dover. She pulled his arms around her, lay her head on his shoulder, and said "Calmly, now. Just let us do the talking. Don't give away your American accent."

A uniformed officer stepped up to the driver's window and said something in a pleasant tone. The thick man at the wheel passed a paper through. The officer inspected it and handed it back, then held up something for the driver to look at. They conversed in low tones for a brief moment, then the policeman stepped down to the girl's window and lightly rapped his knuckles against it. She came out of the embrace slowly, reluctantly, her eyes going to the officer in a convincing display of confusion, as though she had just that moment become aware of the world outside.

The policeman touched his hat and passed in a large glossy photo of Bolan. "Have you seen this chap?" he asked her.

She nodded her head immediately and replied, "Many times, on the telly. It's that American adventurer."

"Have you seen him tonight?"

She shook her head, confusion still very evident. Bolan shook his red-maned head also, growling something unintelligible in a gutteral negative.

"Did you see a Jaguar sports roadster?"

The driver called back, "You're wastin' yer time, Bob. Them two ain't seen nothin' this night but their-selves, I'll wager that."

The young officer touched his hat, smiled faintly, and waved them through.

As they cleared the roadblock, the driver swiveled about to flash a grin at Bolan. "And 'ow was that for 'andling the bloody situation, eh? We'll 'ave you in Londontown in no time now, mate. Just keep your pecker up."

Slightly embarrassed by that last bit of advice, Bolan glanced at the girl.

She smiled and explained, "He means that you should keep up your courage."

Bolan grunted, let the girl go, and relaxed into the seat. He was going to have a language problem in England, perhaps more so than in France, this much was certain. But not immediately.

The balance of the trip was conducted in virtual silence, the girl withdrawing to her corner to gaze broodingly out the window, Bolan silently scanning the road ahead and behind, and watching the movements of the driver. Explanations, he figured, would come in due course; he would play it step by step.

It was just past midnight when they entered London. They crossed the Thames at Westminster Bridge and swung up past Pall Mall to edge into the Soho district Here the town was still very much awake, bustling with the after-theatre crowd and the people who swarmed the thousand and one restaurants, niteries, and discotheques which had established Soho as one of the mod capitals of the world.

Bolan was driven to a nineteenth century townhouse at the western edge of Soho, a handsome building with cut glass windows and a red carpeted entranceway. There was a simple metal plaque on the massive door:

Museum de Sade Members Only

The VW dropped its passengers and drove away. Bolan followed the woman inside the building, seeing crystal chandeliers and dark wood. They went into a mahogany-paneled clubroom. The place was deserted, musty, oppressive. Boland had a feeling of entombment.

He asked the girl, "What kind of museum is this?"

She flicked him a sidewise glance and murmured, "It's private. No worry, I'm the curator. My name is Ann Franklin."

"Why did you bring me here?"

She replied, "It isn't my place to tell you that. Please be comfortable while I ring up the directors."