"I gather you have someone pretty high up in D.C., somebody in a position to feed you information."

"Naturally. But our source can't get a fix on Harding from that end, and we never managed to pull it off on this end, either."

"Tell me something," Bolan said. "If Harding always managed to get away from his tail, and the corpse showed up days later, with no fanfare, why would his own people try to take me out in such a public way? Why call attention to themselves? It doesn't make sense."

"That's true, and I don't have an explanation for it. Or, rather, I should say I don't have anything but conjecture."

"And that is?"

"You, Mr. Belasko. It has something to do with you. If the situation is not different, then the tail must be. It's just simple logic, after all."

Bolan shook his head but said nothing.

Colgan did not amplify, and Bolan finally stood up.

"Marisa will show you to your quarters. Get cleaned up. I'll see you in an hour or so," Colgan said. "I know you don't believe me. But after you see what I have to show you, you will. I think you'll want to join the team. And we have a lot to do. The mushrooms are waiting, Mr. Belasko. They're waiting for us."

"Teas twice you let him slip through your fingers." Charles Harding leaned back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head. "I'm beginning to wonder if you can cut it anymore." The man across from him said nothing. There was nothing he could say, and he knew it. "Cordero is doing his part. We're so close I can almost smell the cordite. I don't want any more screw-ups. Do you understand?"

The man nodded. "I still don't see what the big deal is about this guy."

"No, I don't suppose you do. But then, I'm not surprised. You let some two-bit sawbones with a messiah complex run you like a damn rabbit. How the hell can I expect you to understand what this man is?"

"Maybe if you weren't so damn secretive..."

Harding tilted forward. The legs of his chair slammed into the wooden floor. "The man is not one of those ordinary baboons they've been sending that's the first thing you have to get through that dense skull of yours. He's different. You know what happened at the airport. For crying out loud, man, you were there. You saw what he did. You think that's an ordinary jerk from some desk at the State Department?"

"No, of course not."

"Well then? What in the hell do you think?"

"I think it'd be a lot easier taking him out if you gave us more information."

"I don't have anything more than I gave you. I'm working on it, but every well I drill is dry. That ought to tell you something. It sure tells me something. This guy is poison. Somebody knows we've got a pipeline, and they flushed this guy down the chute to smoke us out. He doesn't have to nail me to be useful to them, and that's the whole point. Whatever happens to him and I don't think they worry a hell of a lot about it they learn something. Something they don't know now. Get it?"

"I guess so..."

Harding exploded. "Damn it, man, there is no room for guessing. Not now, not this late. The clock is ticking, and we an't stop it. Too much has been set in motion. I can't call Cordero off now."

"We'll get him, don't you worry."

"I do worry. That's why I'm here and you're on that side of the desk. You don't have brains enough to worry. You don't realize this man could bring us down."

"I'm telling you, he won't. I'll take care of it. Whatever it takes, it'll get done. You can bank on that."

"Banks fail. I don't believe in banks. I believe in graveyards and tombstones. That's what granite is for. That's what carved in stone means. Finished. Final. I want a tombstone over that son of a bitch. And I want it now!"

11

"It's not far," Colgan said, climbing into the front seat and nodding to the driver.

"What is it you want to show me?" Bolan asked.

"You know what they say about the picture and the thousand words?" Bolan acknowledged he knew the cliche, and Colgan went on. "Well, if that's what a picture's worth, I'd need a thousand pictures. It's easier if you just see for yourself." The driver sensed that the conversation had ended for the moment, and kicked the clutch. The jeep jolted, then the gears engaged and it settled into a steady roll.

The sun had burned through the mist, and Bolan was stunned by the beauty of the valley. Far to the east, the rugged Sierra Madre range looked like a silver ripsaw standing an the top edge of its blade. Beyond it, Bolan knew, the Pacific stretched for thousands of miles, its rolling swells barely disturbed by the occasional island.

To the west, the even more majestic Cordillera Central ran through the middle of the Luzon, as hard and unyielding as I spine in the back of a trout. In the lowlands the jungle was bigger than a universe. Mile after mile of green, broken by spectacular sprays of red and yellow, blue and orange, and purple so brilliant it seared the retina.

Everything in the vest seemed to move in a hurry.

Birds and butterflies, each trying to outdo the other with the extravagance of its colors, milled among the thick green leaves, flashing past and vanishing in an instant.

It was on this very island that a generation of young men, now slow, grey grandfathers, had fought the Japanese. It was on this same island that a younger generation of Filipinos fought against the remnants of colonial oppression with the passion and naivete so typical of young men. The first generation had won and the second had lost. And of the survivors, very few of either generation knew for certain what had been gained and how much it had cost.

That history was all around. Helmets rusted on the jungle floor, little more useful than the broken shells of coconuts. Ruined rifles lay buried in leaves, their wooden stocks long since crumbled away. The tangled growth even swallowed the ruins of Mustangs and Zeros, hardly more now than rusting skeletons.

Bolan stared into the trees as if looking for ghosts. If he looked hard enough and long enough, he knew they'd be there. Glancing at Colgan, he tried to read the man's mind, but the body language was confusing, contradictory. On the one hand, he looked as relaxed and confident as any man Bolan had ever seen. He seemed to be perfectly at home in his surroundings. But deep inside Colgan something was ticking away, second by second, some unknown number was approaching zero. Bolan didn't want to think what might happen then.

"Hang on," the driver said, derailing Bolan's train of thought. He spun the wheel and nudged the jeep into a narrow lane. The trees grew so close to either side of the passage that Bolan could have spread his arms and touched one with the fingers of each hand. The grass was yellowed ire twin stripes, the ground beneath it rutted, showing free quent, though not recent, passage.

Colgan turned to him, moved his lips twice, then shoot his head. He had wanted to say something, but couldn't find the words. Finally he settled for a pointing finger. "Up ahead, not far." The trees began to recede from the lane. Their branches still interlaced overhead, but the driver was able to relax a little with the added leeway. The lane widened farther, then vanished altogether as they broke into a wide, grassy meadow. Twin tracks of grassless clay ran straight as an arrow across the open field. The driver shifted down as the land began to climb at a steeper angle.

Colgan started to fidget. His shoulders kept squirming, and his head swiveled from side to side.

Over Colgan's shoulder, Bolan could see one knee jumping as Colgan tapped his foot restlessly on the floor of the jeep. They reached the top of the rise, and the jeep tilted forward as they began a shallow descent.