The escape route from de Sadehad been a sewer at some time in ages past. Charles accompanied Bolan out, proudly pointing out places where they had "restructured" around WW2 bomb damage to keep the old tunnel passable. Not too many years earlier, he added, a secret route of escape from the townhouse had been a must; now the tunnel was regarded as just another museum piece to be carefully preserved, as a link to the past.

"Anything goes in London these days," the old man told Bolan, his eyes twinkling. "Rather takes the fun out of sin, what?"

When they arrived at the other end, Bolan thanked him, delivered an offhand apology for the shattered television camera, then he climbed an iron ladder and lifted himself to the surface.

Charles, his face dimly illumined in the side glow of a pocket flashlight, was peering up at him with considerable anxiety. "Remember to look before you leap, Yank," he called up.

Grinning, Bolan replied, "Okay, I'll remember that, Brigadier."

"This crackling museum of ours. You should realize that it has a deeper meaning, quite aside from its obvious purpose. It's a symbol of ourtimes, Bolan. Remember that. Ourtimes."

Bolan's grin faded. He gave a curt wave and lowered the door on the concerned face. What, he wondered, prompted a grand old man like this into such questionable activities? He should be sitting out his days in a quiet clubroom somewhere, recounting the glories of days gone by. Instead, he played Secret Agent at a house of kinks.

Bolan shook Charles out of his mind and took up the problem at hand. He was in the basement of another building situated directly opposite the Museum de Sade. The Sades operated this establishment, too. It was a book store and sexprop shop. A dim yellow bulb revealed the basement was a storeroom, with cartons of merchandise stacked about rather haphazardly. Bolan went up the flight of rickety stairs, found a key where Charles had assured him he would, and let himself into the shop. Here was utter darkness, except for a limited penetration of street light through the windows up front.

Bolan moved quietly to the edge of darkness and took up a patient surveillance of activities outside. The fog was gone, except as a faintly visible pall hanging just above the rooftops. A half-dozen regularly spaced street lamps broke the darkness here and there about the square without actually relieving it. After several minutes of watchful waiting, someone just outside the shop but out of Bolan's range of vision lit a cigarette. Bolan saw the glow from the match and seconds later a puff of smoke drifting past the window. The guy was close.

Some minutes later a large car cruised past, moving slowly. It was an American make, quickly identified by Bolan as a Lincoln. Four, perhaps five persons were inside. Bolan's attention was drawn to a large spotlight mounted on the driver's side. These boys were a hunting party.

Shortly after the vehicle moved out of view, a man sauntered into the light of a street lamp across the way, seemed to consult a wrist watch, then he too faded into the darkness.

Yeah, it was a hard set.

The Lincoln returned some moments later and halted on Bolan's side of the square, out of his field of vision. A large man with thick shoulders immediately strolled past the shop, barely ten feet from Bolan's position, and disappeared in the direction of the vehicle. Almost at the same moment, the door opened at the Museum de Sadeand Ann Franklin came out. Bolan watched her tensely, wondering about her reception by those waiting in the street. She crossed the traffic circle and halted in the small park at the center, standing beneath a street lamp. She seemed to be looking toward the bookshop; Charles had told her, no doubt, of Bolan's mode of exit.

Bolan fidgeted and watched the girl. What the hell was she trying to do? As he watched, a man came out of the darkness walking directly toward the girl. He made a close pass and went on by, Ann swiveling to watch him out of sight. Had they spoken? Bolan could not tell; it had appeared not.

Seconds later a taxicab eased into the circle and halted alongside the girl. She entered and the cab went on. A moment later another vehicle which Bolan had not seen earlier swung into view and circled around to fall in behind the taxi.

No, she had not spoken. They'd made an identity pass, pulled the make, and were now following her. They were missing no bets.

Nor was Bolan. His quiet surveillance had gained him a rather valid impression of the terrain out there, and of the forces arrayed against him. It was a mighty hard set, too hard for any ideas of a frontal assault. So, once again, Bolan's time had come.

He went back through the shop and let himself out through the rear entrance. The alleyway was narrow, smelly, and densely dark, running along the side of the shop and dead-ending a few feet to the rear. Bolan took the only way out, moving cautiously toward the square, and rounded the corner in a casual stroll. The big man he had noted earlier outside the shop was now standing just downrange, leaning against a building about halfway between the shop and the Lincoln, arms folded across his chest in a stance of tired boredom. He did not see Bolan until they were in an almost direct confrontation, then he started visibly and whispered, "Shit, don't come up like that. You scared the—"

Bolan told him, "Relax. I don't think the guy's over there. I think it's a bum stand." He edged in close to the man, keeping a distant street lamp behind him.

"Is that what Danno thinks?"

"Yeh," Bolan replied. His mind was clicking out the name. Danno Giliamo? Could be. A lieutenant in a New Jersey mob. Bolan probed. "Jersey was never like this, eh," he said disgustedly.

"Any place is like this at two in th' morning," the man replied. He was showing an interest in Bolan's face and having a bad time at identification in the London blackness.

Probably, Bolan guessed, wondering about rank. People in the mob were very rank conscious. Bolan pushed his advantage. "Go on over and get some coffee," he commanded gruffly.

"They got coffee over there?"

"I saidcoffee, didn't I?"

The man sighed, mumbled something disparaging about "English coffee," and dug in his pocket for a cigarette. Bolan slapped the pack out of his hand, snarling, "Whatta you, nuts? You don't go lighting no fires out here!"

"You said it was a bum stand," the man replied quietly. He retrieved the cigarettes and dropped them into a pocket. "Look," he added, "I didn't come all the way over here for a cup of lousy coffee. I want a shot at that hundred thou. Now if the guy ain't here, then I say let's go find out where he's at."

A contract man, Bolan thought. Bounty hunter, twentieth century style. Not even in the mob, but a freelancer. This intelligence opened interesting possibilities. Bolan pushed a step further.

"What's your name again?" he growled.

"Dunlap," the big man replied defiantly. "Jack Dunlap. You want me to spell it?"

"Just don't forget, Jack Dunlap," Bolan said, playing for all the marbles now, "that Danno and me are standing your expenses." He chuckled drily. "I like a hot-trotter. You get over there and have yourself some coffee. And you tell Danno that Frankie says you get a spot up front. Understand? Where the action is. Eh?"

The man was grinning. He said, "Sure, Frankie. You won't be sorry. What I hit stays hit, you'll see."

"Just save enough to identify, eh?"

"Sure." Dunlap chuckled. "I go for the gut, so I hope you don't identify by belly buttons." He made one last futile attempt to get a good look at Bolan's face, then moved on out and started across the street.

Bolan immediately glided down to the Lincoln which was idling at the curb just downrange, lights out, engine running. A stir of interest inside the vehicle greeted his approach. He bent down to speak through the driver's window and snapped, "You boys get out there and cover Dunlap. He's spotted something."