"Kiss me," she whispered.

He did so, and found the inner man of him rising to mingle with the heady sensuality of the moment. Yeah, yeah—it could be love.

"Oh I love you, Mack," she whispered, voicing the thing he could not.

He touched her again and she squirmed under the sensation, catching her breath in a sharp intake and rising toward him for another soulful mingling of lips and teeth and tongue and all of it.

He got away from it, smiled, and asked her a hell of a question, all considered. "You're sure this is what you want?"

She held his face with both hands and gave him a shivery confirmation. "Oh I'm sure."

"You already have the proof you wanted," Bolan pointed out.

She gave her head an emphatic shake and whispered, "Well not quite."

Bolan showed her a solemn smile and said, "Everybody turns off at the same switch, Ann. It's what turns us on that makes the difference." He waved a hand over her head in a mock ceremonial gesture. "I now pronounce you a natural woman."

"Mack for God's sake make love to me," she pleaded in a half-strangled little voice.

He whispered a very ragged, "Okay," and pushed himself clear and began coming away from his clothing.

She watched him through heavy-lidded eyes, lying still as death except for the rapid rise and fall of her breath, the pink tip of a delicate tongue curled into the corner of parted lips.

He snapped off the gunleather and dropped it to the floor, very close to the bed, attacked the skinsuit then halted suddenly, aware of her intent gaze.

She giggled and said, "Carry on. I've seen it before. I put you to bed yesterday, remember?"

"You haven't seen it like this before," he growled, and peeled off the suit and threw it at her.

She squealed and flipped over onto all fours, and Bolan scooped her up and dragged her off the bed. She clung to him and their lips merged again, after which he told her, "I'll have a bath first, m'lady. Want to come in with me?"

She nodded starry-eyed approval of the suggestion and Bolan carried her down from the stage of a bed and deposited her at the edge of the bubbling-fountain pool. She slipped out of the bra and clung to Bolan's shoulder with one hand as she stepped out of the silken bikini.

Then she froze in that position, her fingers digging into Bolan's shoulder, and she let out a scream that shivered him clear to his feet. He overreacted, snatching her away from the pool with a violence that sent her sprawling across the floor. Then he saw what she had seen, and he was shivered all over again.

The dead eyes of Harry Parks were staring up at him from beneath the water. The naked body was arched back with the head drawn between the knees in ahnost the same position in which Edwin Charles had died, and he was bound into that position with a thick tapestry cord. A heavy metal figurine was holding the body submerged.

Bolan went into the water and pulled him out while Ann Franklin had a mild case of hysterics on the sidelines. Except for bruises made by the bindings, no marks of violence showed on the body. Harry Parks had undoubtedly died down there with his lungs full of water, his nose barely beneath the surface and straining to break clear—it all showed in those horribly staring dead eyes. Rigor mortis had arrived, and Bolan did not even attempt to straighten the body. He covered the crouching figure with an oval throw rug and led Ann Franklin back to the bed, rounded up her clothes, and tossed them to her.

"You'd better get dressed," he said listlessly.

She did so mechanically. Bolan got into his and went directly to the bar. He found the brandy and poured two stiff doses and carried them to the bed. Ann took hers without looking at him, and held the glass with both hands, peering down into the liquid as though hoping to find something written there.

Bolan tossed his down, then whirled about and heaved the glass against the far wall. It hit with a crash, and Ann flinched.

Bolan muttered, "Hell, I am sickof this!"

The girl woodenly murmured, "Poor Harry," and delicately tasted her brandy.

"Poor Harry's been dead a long time," Bolan informed her. "When was the last time you were up here?"

"Last night," she whispered. "For a moment."

"What time last night?"

"Directly after you left here. Or a short time after. The police had a few questions. We answered them. Then I came up to change my clothes. I went straight back out. Harry and the Major were in the bar. I had a word of goodnight with them. Then I went straightaway to Queen's House. That was the last time I saw Harry." Her eyes strayed to the lump at the bottom of the platform. She shivered and added, "Alive."

"So about what time was that?" Bolan persisted.

"I suppose… shortly past twelve. I had thought that you would come to Queen's House. I waited until two o'clock. Then I went to the museum. The police were there and we had quite a fuss. You know about all that."

Bolan said, "Yeah." He paced the platform for a moment, then told her, "Okay, get your stuff, we're getting out of here."

"It's dangerous for you out there," she argued quietly. "And we shouldn't be trying for Brighton until—"

"It's liable to get a hell of a lot more dangerous for both of us right here," he told her. "And to hell with Brighton. I've got things to do. Come on."

He turned away and went quickly down to the main level. She scrambled after him, pausing for a moment beside the remains of Harry Parks to gaze frozenly at the tragic lump, then she snatched up her coat and hurried on through.

Bolan was waiting for her at the door, and he was looking at the apartment as though he would never see it again and wanted to remember it.

Ann caught the look and joined him in it. "Well," she said with a soft sigh, "I'm sure it's dreadfully callous of me to feel so selfishly at such a time, but…" She sighed again. "I suppose it simply shall never happen."

He knew what she meant. He told her, "This place is a fantasy, Ann."

"Yes, quite," she agreed. "It's rather like pornography, isn't it?"

"You don't need it," he said.

"You haven't proved that to me yet."

He said, "You proved it to yourself. Now come on, let's get out of here."

"Poor Harry," she murmured as they went out the door. "What a revolting way to die."

He led her down the stairway and replied, "It's an even more revolting way to live."

"Yes, I see what you mean."

They moved on thru the lobby and Bolan said,

"Charles told me that all of this is a symbol of our times. I mean this Sadian bit. What do you suppose he meant by that, Ann?"

"I suppose he meant that we live in a pornographic age."

He steered her through the lobby and onto Frith Street. "No, I think he meant something more than that."

They hurried around the corner and along the side street to Ann's vehicle. She had been thinking about Bolan's last statement. "Well, I doubt that you'll ever know one way or another," she told him.

"Don't be so sure about that," he said. "We just might be on our way to an answer right now."

"Where are we going, Mack?"

"We're going to the Tower of London, m'lady."

"Oh Mack! In broad daylight and with bobbies scouring the city for you? Whatever for?"

"Maybe," he replied, "for a glimpse at this symbol of our times."

What Bolan did not realize then was that he had been walking in the shadow of that symbol since his arrival in England. It was a symbol of death.