"That's right, I am," Parsons said.

"Don't bother."

"Oh, but I must. Nuclear energy is one of the greatest social issues of our time. I have a duty to speak out."

"Finish it when we come back then."

"Oh, are we going somewhere?"

"Yup, we are. Let's go."

The guard stood up impatiently. Parsons continued to scribble. "I'll be with you in a moment. I never like to leave a thought in the middle. Sometimes you can't pick it up again."

"I never had that problem," the guard said.

Parsons finished with a flourish and placed his pen down on the paper. He smiled up at the guard.

"I shouldn't wonder," he said. "Now, where are we going in such a hurry?"

"Andrey has something he wants you to look at."

The two men left the office and stepped out into the corridor. "Just a minute," Parsons said. "I forgot to turn off the light." He stepped back into the office. At the desk he reached over and pressed the Off button on the fluorescent desk lamp. The room was coal black.

"Hurry up, Parsons, Andrey's in a hurry."

A moment later, Parsons stepped back into the hallway. He closed the door tightly and nodded to the guard. "Be back in a half hour, Thomas. Please don't let anyone in while I'm gone."

The guard smiled at Thomas behind Parsons's back. "You heard what the man said. Take care of those valuable papers."

If Parsons noticed the sarcasm, he gave no sign. The guard moved on to the end of the corridor and turned right. It was the only direction he could take. The corner was at the outside edge of the largest rectangle on which the plant was built.

Ahead of the two men, another corridor, lit even more dimly, stretched as far as they could see.

"What exactly does Andrey wish me to see?" Parsons asked.

"Be patient, old man."

"Old man, is it? I'm not as old as you think."

Maybe not, the guard thought, but you're as old as you're gonna get. He walked behind Parsons and slightly to one side of the older man's left shoulder. All that remained was to find a suitable place to knock off the old windbag, and he could get back upstairs where the action was. Steel doors, identical to those on the previous corridor, were set into the right-hand wall of the passage. They were spaced farther apart. That meant the rooms were larger.

Probably for storage, the guard thought. A good place to take care of business.

"Is it much farther?" Parsons asked.

"The next door," the guard answered. Why in hell not, he thought. He had a master key. He could open any goddamn door in the place.

Parsons stopped in front of the door. He turned the knob. The door was open. He stepped on through into the darkness.

"Get the light, would you, Malcolm?" the guard asked as he followed the antinuke leader into the room.

Parsons did nothing. Cursing under his breath, the guard reached for the wall switch. He flipped it on, and the fluorescent lights overhead flickered once and then bathed the room with sickly white light. The room was filled, ceiling to floor, with cartons and old office furniture. But where the hell was Parsons?

"Malcolm? Come on, quit playing games. We have work to do."

The old man was nowhere to be seen.

"Malcolm, I'm getting pissed off. Come on, where are you?" The guard stepped forward, working his way into the passage between two tall stacks of cartons. This was a pain in the ass. "Malcolm?"

Shoes scraped on the concrete floor behind him. The guard turned to see Malcolm Parsons standing at the mouth of the cardboard canyon.

"What the hell are you doing?" The guard stepped toward Parsons.

The antinuke leader raised the Walther automatic Glinkov had given him at the farmhouse and shot him in the face. Twice. One bullet smashed into the guard's left eye, then bored its way on through the back of the skull, scattering sticky gray tissue the length of the short passage. The second bullet pierced the forehead, struck the occipital bone and rattled uncertainly around the interior of the cranium, scattering bone fragments before coming to rest not far from its point of entry. Malcolm Parsons had been pushed too far. The guard, of course, was dead.

25

Bolan trained his Ingram on Louis and Edmunds while Cohen unlocked the bathroom and freed the hostages. Eli noticed the body of the dead guard in the corner, but said nothing. One by one, the five captives emerged, rubbing their wrists to restore circulation. As each man came out, Bolan waved him to one side. The men were too stunned to ask what was happening. When the fifth man had been freed, Cohen returned to the front office.

Finally, angry and puzzled, Matt Stevens, the chief of the guardhouse detachment, spoke. "Who are you guys? Are you with them? Or with us?"

"There is a third possibility," Bolan said.

"Like hell there is," Stevens snapped. "Look, I'm pretty damned tired of being herded around by assholes with guns. They killed a good man, a good friend, for no reason. I have a right to ask who you are. Who are those guys? Why are you all here?"

Bolan gestured to Glinkov's men. "This scum ought to be tied up first, don't you think?"

"I'd like that fine," Stevens said.

Bolan liked the guy immediately. He obviously had guts. His temper might be getting the better of him at the moment, but he sure didn't hide what was on his mind. And he and Cohen were going to need him.

Matt Stevens just might be it.

Stevens went back to the bathroom, returning with several lengths of rope. Quickly he bound Edmunds and Louis. The process was swift, and none too gentle.

"Take these bastards into the back and watch 'em," he said to his men. "And while you're at it, dig up some spare uniforms. It's too damn cold to stand around in skivvies."

Cohen interrupted. "Mack, I wasn't kidding. Glinkov wants to see me. I'd better get a move on. You'll handle things on this end?" Cohen smiled. "Sorry, I guess that was a stupid question, wasn't it?" He looked at Bolan and then added, "Yeah, it was."

"Eli, I'm going with you."

"So am I," Stevens said. "These pricks have a lot to answer for. No way I'm going to miss it."

"I guess I should have expected that, was Cohen said."

"Let's figure out what we're going to do then." The guards were busy slipping into ill-fitting uniforms and grease-stained jeans. Anything that came to hand was better than trying to fight in their underwear.

When they finished, Stevens sat down at the table and gestured for Bolan to join him.

"Look, I don't know who you are, but it's seems clear you're on our side. What can we do to help?"

"Are there weapons here?" Bolan asked.

"Some. Not many. A couple of pistols and an M-16. That's about it. We got ammo, but nothing much to use it in."

"The first thing we have to do is get you some guns. You heard what Eli said. We don't have much time. And we don't know exactly what they plan to do with the reactor. But we can't wait. There are fifteen to twenty more terrorists inside the plant. Most of them are in the main building. They've got hostages, but we don't know how many."

"About thirty, I would guess," Stevens said. "That's the usual night crew. Not much goes on here at night. I better call out for help." He walked to the phone console and punched an outside line. Angrily he punched another, then a third. In disgust, he slammed the phone back to its receiver. "There are no lines to the outside. The one thing working is the intercom."

"We don't have time to wait for help. We'll have to do this ourselves," Bolan said. "We can get you some weapons. Eli, take one of these guys in the Jeep and get the Kalashnikovs we stashed. Grab everything that shoots." When Cohen left, Bolan turned back to Stevens. "You know the inside of that place. I don't. Educate me."