Her eyes flipped wide. "Are you serious?"

"I guess it's now or never," he told her. He looked her over and added, "You're dressed fit to travel. Leave everything else behind. Do you know where you're going?"

"A bee-line to Italy," she said. "I'll visit Momma for a while."

"And you don't care what becomes of your father?"

Andrea stared curiously at Bolan for a moment, then: "Poppa didn't consult me when he went into this business."

Bolan took it as a reply. He said, "Okay, come on, I'll get you out of here. Then I have to . . ."

He had Andrea by the arm and was helping her out of the chair. Phil Marasco appeared in a doorway across the court and yelled at him. Bolan looked up and waved a greeting. "Deej is waiting for you," Marasco called out. "Come on, he's getting impatient."

Bolan released the girl. "Sit tight," he told her. "I'll be back."

"I wonder," she murmured, and fell back into the chair with an unhappy sigh.

Bolan walked briskly across the patio and joined Marasco in the doorway. "What's up?" he asked.

"I dunno," Marasco replied nervously. "Th' old man is sitting on needles, though, and he wants to see you in the worst way."

They walked elbow-to-elbow along the corridor toward DiGeorge's study. "I told him the order was filled," Bolan growled. "What's he worrying about?"

"He would have cancelled that hit if we could of got to you, Franky," Marasco confided. "Don't mention it, though, it'll just make him nervouser."

"You don't cancel, hits, Philip Honey," Bolan snapped.

Marasco grunted and said, "Now you're talking like a family man."

"I like you, Phil," Bolan said, slowing his pace. Marasco slowed to match him.

"That's great, I like you too," he said without embarrassment.

"You know, in the old days of Egypt and places, when a king died they buried all his household with him. Servants, slaves, and everything."

"Yeah?"

"Sure. Those Egyptians figured when the king stopped living, all his cadre had a right to stop living too. Stupid, huh?"

Marasco halted completely. "What're you getting at, Franky?"

Bolan swung about to face him squarely. "Pat and Mike say a king has got to go, Philip Honey," he said soberly.

The blood drained from Marasco's face. He said, "Oh my God. I knew it was something like that."

"I been hoping you ain't no Egyptian, Philip Honey," Bolan said.

Marasco snatched a cigarette from his pocket and thoughtfully placed it between his lips. Bolan lit it. He took a deep drag and puffed the smoke out in tight grunts. Presently he said, "I'm not no Egyptian, Franky Lucky."

"I'm glad to hear that." Bolan began moving slowly toward DiGeorge's door. Marasco reached out and placed a restraining hand on his arm.

"Wait a minute," Marasco said. "Before you go in there. They got a turkey in there waiting for you."

"What kind of turkey?" Bolan asked casually.

"A guy says he knew you back when. But he says also you died in Vietnam, in the army. Is this guy part of your cover, Franky?"

"Maybe. What's his name?"

"Tony Avina, He says you grew up on his block in Jersey City. Says you got drafted and got killed. Is this gonna embarrass you in front of Deej?"

"Is this guy in the organization?" Bolan asked.

"Naw. A nobody. Prison gray sunk in all over him."

"Look, Phil," Bolan said conspiratorially, "my name ain't Frank Lambretta."

"Yeah, I figured that about a minute ago," Marasco replied. "So what're you gonna do about this turkey?"

''I'm gonna scare the turkey-shit outta him, that's what," growled Franky Lucky Bolan. "Come on. Let's go see what color he drops."

Carl Lyons paced the floor excitedly, glaring at Howard Brognola. "But this could be dynamite, Hal, if we could just get it into Bolan's hands!" he cried. "Somebody bought himself a coroner on this deal, and you know it as well as I. That inquest should have come out with murder written all over it."

"I know, I know," Brognola said gently. "But you have to remember, Carl, the name Lou Pena wasn't half the flag two years ago that it is now. There was never any suggestion that this Louis Pena who was driving the motorboat was the same infamous Lou Pena of the roaring thirties, no suggestion at all The coroner could have quite logically arrived at a valid decision when he ruled in favor of accidental death. The damages were settled out of court, no trial, no charges, no nothing, and everybody appeared satisfied all around."

"But for God's sakes," Lyons argued, "a sailing boat always has the right of way over a powered launch. The D.A. should have brought charges, if nobody else. Pena simply sliced through that little sailboat, hung around long enough to make sure the job was thorough, pleaded an unfortunate accident, and walked away with everybody happy. Now that's not justice, no matter how you slice it. We can even prove motive. You take a . . ."

"In aftersight," Brognola said, trying to calm the angry policeman. "There was no access to these records two years ago. Not even now, for ordinary circumstances. If I hadn't had a bell ring over that name D'Agosta, you still wouldn't have any lead on the motive."

"Well, I have to get hold of Bolan," Lyons said. "I have a boney feeling about this. Bolan is out there in a den of vipers, and he needs all the ammo we can feed him. Do you realize that we've never been able to get an informer inside the Malta?"

"Do I realize?" Brognola replied, laughing.

"So okay," Lyons snapped. "Let's not mince around, with our man's neck on the block. Bolan gave us the number. I say we use it."

Brognola put on a pained expression. "That will have to be your decision," he said. "Call him there if you think you must. But don't ask me to second the motion."

Lyons unfolded a scrap of paper and stared at a telephone number written there. It had been included in the last package of information which had been passed to them by the man they had then known as Pointer.

The words "For Red Alert Only" were above the number, then the name "Lambretta," followed by a Palm Springs telephone number.

"I wonder where this telephone is located," Lyons muttered.

"I guess you'll never know until you call it," Brognola said.

"I could give it to the phone company. They'd run it down for me."

"By that time, perhaps the time for action will have passed," Brognola sighed.

"Yeah," Lyons said. He stared hesitantly at the telephone. Then he pulled the instrument toward him, acquired an outside line, began dialing, then abruptly re-cradled the transmitter. "Dammit," he muttered under his breath. "I wasn't cut out for this cloak-and-dagger stuff."

Bolan and Marasco strolled into the Capo's inner sanctum in controlled good humor. Marasco remained near the door. Bolan proceeded on, flipped a high-sign to DiGeorge, and dropped into a leather chair.

"A rest is a rest, Franky," DiGeorge groused, "but I didn't tell you to take all day."

Two other men were present. One of them was familiar to Bolan; he assumed that this was Victor Poppy. He recognized the other from Andrea's crisp description. Bolan looked the man over thoroughly during a hushed silence, playing the moment for its most, then said, "Hi-ya, Tony. When did you decide to retire from institutional life?"

DiGeorge began breathing again. Victor Poppy smiled nervously and flicked a glance at his boss. The little man in the hot seat was staring at Bolan with a frightened gaze. "Hi, Fr . . ." His voice cracked. He choked, coughed, cleared his throat, and dabbed at eyes suddenly brimming with tears. He pounded weakly on his chest, smiled self-consciously, and settled back into the chair.

"You boys know each other?" DiGeorge asked in feigned surprise.

"People change a lot," Bolan said quietly. "Tony there used to be a real terror. Had half the guys in the neighborhood scared to death of him. Yeah . . . people change."