That was Glinkov's plan. The Israelis, obviously, had to defend themselves against the rising Soviet influence in the Middle East. That explained Eli Cohen's presence. It might even, Bolan thought, explain Rachel's. Former Mossad indeed. No wonder she was good. This mission was top priority. World wars had started with less provocation. And Mack Bolan was in the middle. He even had the advantage of knowing what was going to happen. What he didn't know was when.

Brognola waited patiently while Bolan considered what he'd just been told. When Bolan looked up, the big Fed said, "So that's the story." He chomped on a new cigar, glanced angrily at it, then threw it into the large glass ashtray on the desk.

"Do I get any help on this?" Bolan already knew the answer, but he had to ask.

"This is as far off the record as it can get, Mack. Anything happens to you, as far as the rest of the world is concerned, you were in on it. You were one of them. You don't exist, pal."

Bolan nodded. It had been that way for a long time. Why should he expect it to be any different this time? He stood up and turned to go.

"Mack." Brognola was looking out the window, his back to Bolan. "Good luck."

Bolan nodded to the big Fed's broad shoulders.

Luck was such an inadequate word to describe what he was going to need to pull this one off.

Outside it was getting cold again. The sky was dark, the stars hard points of light, twinkling nervously. They seemed so small that it was difficult to imagine their hellish fire threatening anything so placid and serene as the Hudson River Valley. And yet a tiny spark, kin to the huge and distant stars, was already lit just fifty miles away.

Ready, willing and, worst of all, able to bore its way through to the bottom of the world. Mack Bolan didn't even try to imagine how many innocent people it would take with it.

Not having an exact timetable posed problems.

Knowing that Glinkov and his followers were planning something big meant they had to be watched. But watching someone closely, looking for something, anything, to fit in with what you knew, was hard on the nerves.

Mack Bolan didn't like doing nothing. This time, though, he had no choice. His choice would have been to go in hard, tear the place apart and turn his back on the smoking wreckage. It might make him feel better, but it wouldn't help Rachel. And it wouldn't get him Glinkov. The Russian hadn't been seen, and no one even knew what he looked like. Brognola's people had a few intelligence photos, but they were six years old. And grainy.

Glinkov was supposed to be shown in two of them, but no two men looked alike, and there was so little to go on that even computer enhancement hadn't helped. What galled Bolan the most was the possibility that Glinkov might walk in right under his nose and walk right out again. There was so much activity around the place that it was difficult to keep track of the comings and goings.

16

After thirty hours of close surveillance, he felt like a traffic cop on a day off.

He was watching because he couldn't afford not to. It was his instinct. It was natural. And it was frustrating as hell. Bolan had to sit tight because doing anything else might blow the whole operation sky-high.

Parsons was very visible, orchestrating things in the overblown style and with the exaggerated gestures that marked his public addresses. Also prominent was the balding man who had been Bert's companion. Bolan knew that he must be Peter Achison. The guy seemed inoffensive enough, but the few moments he had spent in the outbuilding with the man had convinced Bolan that there was more to Achison than met the eye. His eyes were the giveaway. Even in the dim light, Bolan had seen the flat, deadly glitter. They were killer's eyes. And Bolan was convinced he had seen the man before.

The trees around Parsons's hideaway offered some cover but little shelter from the biting wind. It had been a few days since the last snow, and the sky seemed uncertain about its next move. An occasional burst of sunlight warmed Bolan slightly. At night it was below freezing. By the evening of the second day, Bolan was losing his patience. The big guy wanted, needed, action.

Sitting around just gave him time to think.

Too much time. The longer he waited, the more helpless he felt. But he knew that waiting was the only thing to do.

After dark he planned to move in closer, check the place out again and see if he could pick up any conversation. If they were getting ready to make their move, they had to be talking about it. If he knew when, he could make his own plans.

As the sun started to slip behind the trees, the sky began to cloud over. It had picked up a deep red color at the horizon, then, as suddenly as if someone had thrown a switch, it was dark. Overhead the clouds pressed toward him. What little light there was came from the house, but by eleven even the houselights were gone. The place looked almost deserted. A single lamp burned in the kitchen, throwing a dull rectangle onto the snowy lawn. Bolan knew that it was time for a closer look.

Inching through the trees, the snow crunching under his feet, Bolan kept his eyes on the house. So far there had been no sign of movement. Everyone must have gone to bed. Tonight obviously wasn't the night.

As he reached the outbuildings, the kitchen grew brighter when someone turned on the overhead light.

Using the rough stone wall of the outbuilding to his advantage, Bolan boosted himself onto the roof so that he could see into the kitchen.

Parsons moved nervously back and forth across Bolan's line of sight. Pacing with his hands behind his back, he was talking with someone Bolan couldn't see. Shifting his position on the roof, the warrior could just make out the back of the other person's head and one shoulder. Parsons seemed to be arguing, but his voice didn't carry across the broad lawn.

Bolan had to get closer.

Sliding off the roof, he landed in a frozen drift behind the outbuilding. Keeping well away from the kitchen window, he moved in. At the house wall, he edged his way to a position directly beneath the partially opened window. A telephone rang.

Parsons picked up the receiver after one ring. Bolan was able to hear every word of the conversation.

"It's for you, Peter."

The second man began to talk. "Yes, Andrey... Of course... No, no... Of course we will... Right away." The receiver was replaced with a click. The scrape of a chair obscured the man's next sentence.

Parsons responded with some irritation. "Why? I don't see why we have to go out in the middle of the night. I don't mind telling you I'm getting fed up with these childish games."

"You can tell that to Andrey the next time you see him, Malcolm."

"Perhaps I will."

"We'd better get moving."

The voices moved off. They were going to be coming out, but Bolan wasn't sure which door they would use.

He couldn't take the chance of being discovered. Sprinting through the snow to the safety of the outbuildings, he pressed himself flat against the wall and waited. A few moments later lights flooded the lawn. The front door opened, and both men walked out into the cold. Parsons was still arguing, but Bolan was too far away to hear what was being said. He had to follow them. The caller's name had been Andrey. It could only be one man. This might be his best chance to get a look at Glinkov. The two men headed down the path leading to the parking area. There was only one thing for Bolan to do. He couldn't follow them; his car was too far up the road. The only answer was to get back to his car by the most direct route and then wait for them to pull out. Even tailing them would be risky. At this time of night there would be little traffic on the country roads. He'd have to give them plenty of room.