17

Malcolm Parsons sat in the car, watching Peter Achison drive away in the Blazer. Just as Achison had predicted, a second car, a Camaro, drifted past the end of the driveway.

Clearly it had been waiting, planning to follow them. He didn't like Achison, but he had to give the man credit. He certainly knew his job.

Parsons had grown increasingly cynical in recent years. Ideas that had attracted him out of a sincere desire to make a difference in the world, to change it for the better, had lost their meaning. They had become the means rather than the ends. Notoriety had been good to him. He felt warm in the glow of the spotlight; it was an easy way to make a living, and it gave him ready access to young women.

He couldn't say with a degree of certainty when he'd stopped caring, when he'd stopped trying to make things change. He knew that he had become exactly the sort of hypocrite he had once deplored. He had been seduced by the trappings of success.

But lately he felt that things were slipping out of his control. Achison scared him. Without making any overt threats, Achison made it clear that Parsons had better do as he "suggested" if he wanted to continue his activities. In more reflective moments, Parsons wondered just what might happen if he were to balk. But Parsons knew that such a move would put his life on the line.

It had been bad enough, realizing that Achison controlled him. But learning that someone else controlled Achison had come as a shock. The master of duplicity had himself been tricked, not once but twice. He hated the fact that the Arab money he had been spending so freely was not Arab money at all. Glinkov was Russian, which meant he was probably KGB. Parsons quickly dismissed the thought. The Camaro was long gone. It was time to keep his appointment with Andrey Glinkov. He didn't like the man; his eyes were pools of emptiness. The antinuke leader had encountered that look only once before. It was during a hiking trip in Arizona when he'd stared into the eyes of a rattlesnake that had just bitten him. Starting his car, Parsons pulled out into the road and headed in the opposite direction. His appointment was for three o'clock, and he had been advised not to be late. He wouldn't dare. If he played his cards right, he might regain control of his organization.

As much as Achison and, Glinkov frightened him, he was unwilling to give up the easy life. He had been comfortable for too long to go back to square one. He had fought the good fight, and no one had given a damn where his next meal had come from.

Sleeping on the floor of cold-water flats was not for him. No more. He had paid his dues. And if the price of comfort was his soul, what the hell. He'd pay.

Glinkov's eyes watched the door of the secluded farmhouse as it opened. The Russian was clearly annoyed.

"You're late, Mr. Parsons. I don't appreciate that. I won't tolerate it," he said before Parsons was, barely through the doorway.

"Who the hell are you to talk to me like that?"

"That doesn't matter, Mr. Parsons. What matters is that I can, and do, expect you to be on time. I'm a busy man."

"Yeah, sure. We're all busy. I have things to do, too. Why am I here?"

Glinkov didn't answer. He watched Parsons closely, waiting for the telltale signs. If he knew Parsons as well as he thought he did, the man would begin to squirm.

Until then, he would hold his silence.

"I thought you had something you wanted to talk to me about," Parsons said, shifting his feet nervously. "Let's get down to business. I want to go home to get some sleep."

Glinkov leaned back in his chair, still keeping silent. It shouldn't be long. He knew why Parsons was being so antagonistic. Camouflage.

Parsons was obviously feeling the strain.

"Look, are you going to talk, or aren't you?" Parsons made a show of walking deliberately back to the door he had just closed. With his hand on the knob, he turned to Glinkov, arching an eyebrow as if giving the Russian one last opportunity to speak.

And Glinkov smiled.

Parsons stood with his hand on the knob. He turned the knob, pulling the inner door toward him.

Still watching Glinkov, he reached for the outer door.

Glinkov was still smiling. His eyes had that same flat, empty glitter. Parsons threw in the towel. He knew that he had lost. The Russian owned him.

"All right, look, I'm sorry. I guess I'm a little edgy."

"Sit down, Mr. Parsons."

Parsons did as he was told. He returned to the sofa across from the Russian's easy chair. When he was seated, Glinkov stopped smiling. Finally the Russian spoke.

"Our little diversion was successful, wasn't it?"

"Yes. You were right. There was someone watching the house. Who was it?"

"It doesn't matter, yet. For the moment, as long as we know where he is, it doesn't matter who he is. It is always the enemy you can't see who poses the greatest threat, Mr. Parsons."

"Always?"

"Yes, always."

"Why did you want me to come here?"

"To inform you of a few things."

"Such as?"

"And to request a favor of you."

"A favor?"

"We shall get to that later. First, the information." Glinkov glanced at his watch. "As of this very minute, our little adventure at Thunder Mountain is under way."

"What? But how? I mean, I didn't give that order."

"Mr. Parsons, it's time you realized that you are no longer in a position to give orders. It is no longer your prerogative. From now on you will follow them."

"But the plans were for..."

Glinkov cut in. "The plans have been changed. Mr. Achison is in charge of the operation."

"You bastard. You had this all worked out. You didn't want Peter to lose anyone. You wanted me out of the way."

"Not at all. When we are finished here, we will go directly to Thunder Mountain. But Mr. Achison, you will have to admit, is more... military minded, let us say. And this is, after all, a military operation, is it not?"

"But we're not ready. We still need some information on the layout of the plant."

"I have that already. I've passed it on to Mr. Achison. I'm sure he'll make good use of it. Your Mr. Reynolds was an invaluable source of information. I congratulate you on finding him."

Parsons was momentarily speechless. Things were totally beyond his control. "I seem to be expendable," he said.

"Not at all. We need you very much, Mr. Parsons. That should be apparent. You will give us the media exposure we want. Your presence will ensure that people pay attention to what we say rather than to what we do."

"What do you mean? What's the difference?"

"All in good time. We have to hurry. We have things to do. We are to meet Peter in two hours. Inside Thunder Mountain."

"But..."

"First, come with me."

Glinkov walked toward the back of the house. Parsons meekly followed. There was nothing else he could do. Entering the kitchen, Glinkov opened a wooden door that hid behind a flight of stairs. Glinkov motioned for Parsons to follow him downstairs. The basement was illuminated by a single overhead bulb. In one corner, two figures lay huddled against the wall.

Alan Reynolds moaned as the two men approached. The other figure, a woman, was lying facedown.

"What happened? What's going on here?" Parsons demanded.

"Mr. Reynolds has served his purpose, Malcolm. It wouldn't do for anyone to learn just how helpful he's been, would it?"

"But what..."

"That favor I mentioned? It's time to deliver. I want you to dispose of Mr. Reynolds. Now." Glinkov reached into his pocket and withdrew a small automatic pistol. The blue steel of the .22 caliber Walther PPK glittered in his palm. "I trust you know how to use this?"

"I won't do it. I'm not a murderer. I can't shoot a man in cold blood like this. What the hell do you think I am?"