"What's their interest in me?"

"Permit them to tell you that."

"No. You tell me. Right now, or I'm walking."

"They want to help you."

"Why?"

She moved her shoulders delicately and replied, "They want you to help them, also. But I shouldn't be discussing this, really. You must wait and let them tell you."

"Tell me what?"

Her hip swung into contact with his thigh. She quickly jerked it back and laughed nervously, resting a hand on his shoulder. "You Americans can look so fierce and frightening," she said.

"Do I frighten you?"

"Of course." Her other arm went up and she pressed full against him with a soft little sigh, then pushed herself regretfully away and turned her back to him. "All right," she said. "Go on. Start walking. I couldn't blame you for that."

Bolan watched her for a moment, trying to read her. Such a lovely thing… what part did she play in the nutty goings-on at this house of kinks? He sighed, deciding there would be too much involvement there for a guy bent on blitzing through.

"Thanks for Dover," he muttered, and moved quickly toward the door.

A man stood there, blocking the way out, a Hollywood casting director's idea of a retired British military officer, complete to tidy little moustache and stiff tweed suit. The hair was combed straight back, thin and streaked with gray, and the stiffly erect posture made him appear much taller than his five seven or eight.

Bolan's hand moved inside his jacket and he said, "Well, here's Charlie."

"Wrong," the man snapped. "Charles is busy replacing a very expensive camera which you destroyed for no reason. Really, Bolan, that was a beastly reaction to an offer of friendship."

Bolan replied, "Friends don't lock me up." The Beretta was in his hand and he was moving toward the doorway again.

The little man stood his ground, blocking the exit.

"There's no time to explain all that now. The point is, Bolan, that you cannot possibly leave here now. You'll walk onto that street to certain death. Our mutual enemy is out there in force, waiting for you to show."

"How do you know that?"

"I saw them as I was coming here. The entire square is sealed off."

Uneasily, Bolan asked, "Just who are you talking about? The police?"

"Of course not, though I imagine they're not too far off either."

Bolan sighed. "You said 'mutual enemy.' Explain."

"The same people who want you are trying to destroy usin quite a different fashion. We helped you get into England, you know. We thought—"

"Okay, that explains one small mystery," Bolan interrupted. "But Dover was also swarming with Mafiosi. How did they know?"

"Yes, well, that bothers us also, you know. Security leak somewhere, no doubt. Never worry we shall find it."

"I'll buy that for now," Bolan told him. "So what does my presence here mean to you? An executioner for your side?"

The man shrugged his shoulders. "That's putting it rather bluntly but… yes, I suppose that's it. You're dedicated to the extinction of certain elements. We have them here, you know, right here in London. We decided •. . well, we took the vote, Bolan."

"What vote?"

"We decided to sponsor you for a stay in London."

"I'm not for hire," Bolan quietly replied.

"Of course not," the man said quickly. "I did not mean to suggest… we offer you only cooperation."

"What sort of cooperation?"

"We'll provide you with intelligence, and protect you in every possible way."

Bolan was thinking it over.

"And," the man continued, "when you've finished here, we will help you safely out of the country."

Bolan had reached his decision.

"No deal," he reported, in a tone which left no hope for negotiation. "Now stand aside. I'm leaving."

A strained smiled pulled at the man's lips. "Kipling's cat," he said musingly.

"What?"

"I was thinking of one of Rudyard Kipling's stories, about a jungle cat. 'He went back through the wet wild woods, waving his wild tail, and walking by his wild lone.' That's you, Bolan, a wild jungle beast that walks by himself. Quite admirable, really. I'll see that it's carved onto your burial stone."

Bolan said, "Thanks." He jostled the man aside and passed on to the stairway.

The girl cried out, "Wait!" and hurried after him. She overtook him at the bottom step and pressed a key into his hand. "Queen's House," she whispered, "front flat, upper. Across from the park on Russell Square. You'll find it easily. It's safe there, and you're welcome any time."

Bolan kissed her forehead, murmured "Okay," and went on. The key went into his pocket, though a flat on Russell Square seemed the remotest of all possibilities for him at the moment. If the stiff little man had not been trying to con him, a street full of Mafiosiawaited him just outside. He took a deep breath and checked the load in the Beretta.

The cat that walked by himself, eh? Bolan grinned faintly to himself and fingered his spare clips: he liked that. He was going out there to wave his wild tail through those wet wild Mafia woods, and that was okay. Bolan had learned jungle law and how to live by it. All jungles were alike; the same law operated through them all. Kill quick and hard, then fade to return and do it again. Bolan knew the law. It was older than mankind, older than men's laws. And Bolan himself could quote a bit of Kipling.

"Now this is the Law of the Jungle—as old and as true as the sky."

Or how about, "Through the Jungle very softly flits a shadow and a sigh—He is Fear, O Little Hunter, he is Fear!"

Yeah, Bolan decided, Kipling had been there too.

He went back through the grim little cells of the second floor and down through the carved labia and spreading buttocks into the harem room. This trip through he noticed the phallic statuary, vases shaped like leather hipboots, lampshades made to look like corsets, and various other items of erotic decor. He shook his head sadly, thinking of the girl upstairs, and passed quickly on through to the clubroom.

Then he found an elderly man kneeling beside an open panel of the wall. The man looked up with a frown at Bolan's entry, then averted his eyes from the fierce encounter.

Bolan commanded, "Show me a quiet way out."

Charles heaved to his feet and said, "Down through the cellar is the best way, but it'll only deposit you just across the square. I'd call it a very tiny advantage."

"Fine," Bolan said. It was all he needed, one tiny advantage. He'd make it stretch all the way through the wet wild woods.

Charles, it developed, was his family name. The given name was Edwin but he preferred to be called Charles. Per Bolan's earlier voice judgement, he was indeed a former army officer—twiceretired he was quick to point out. During World War Two, Charles had been a high-ranking staff officer in liason with the American cloak and dagger outfit, OSS. He'd grown to know the Americans quite well, admired them, and jolly well understood and admired Bolan's quick reaction to "the security watch" at de Sade.

Bolan would have had a tough time judging the old man's age; he hung it in at about seventy-five, realizing that he could be five years off in either direction. Judging purely by mental spryness, Bolan would have scaled down the years considerably. Charles was alert and quick, with plenty of fire remaining behind the old eyes. Only the physical gave away his age, and even here only in his movements, for he was tall and straight, slim without appearing bony. He had once been a very powerful man, Bolan guessed. His jaw was long and hard, he was clean-shaven, his hair was thick and wavy, though snowy white. Bolan decided he would have liked to know Charles thirty or forty years before.