Firebase Seattle

He punched a button on the front panel and swung out a miniature console.

'Hell, would you look at that!' Turrin enthused.

Bolan explained, 'I gathered this poop from the Franciscus penthouse. Covers the period from the moment of strike to about forty minutes thereafter. The primary voices you'll hear will be Franciscus and a guy called Helmann. I get this Helmann as a poor man's version of Ari Onassis — considering that anything below that is poor by comparison — a Rebozo, maybe or an Abplanalp. He came here directly from Rome — just arrived tonight — though you'll get the idea from the tape that he's actually based in Zurich.'

'I have the picture,' Brognola said.

'Run it,' said Turrin. 'I'm dying from curiosity.'

Bolan operated a small electronic keyboard on the console and turned grim concentration to the task of driving the vehicle.

An overhead speaker came alive with the confused sounds of thudding feet, cursing men, doors or something slamming shut.

A loud voice yelled, 'That was Bolan, dammit!

The son of a bitch, look what he left here for God's sake!'

A fainter voice yelled, 'He took the chick, Captain!'

'Forget it, forget it! They're not going far! Hey, you people! Help Mr. Helmann there. God I'm sorry about this, Max. What a hell of a way to start! How's that shoulder? Hey! You people round up a heat lamp and get that muscle-mover in here! Mr. Helmann has a very badly bruised shoulder here. God I'm sorry about that, Max. The rotten son of a bitch kicked me right back into you.'

'It's all right, Captain,' a thickly accented voice assured. 'I have survived worse. I shall survive this.'

More slamming, shuffling, excited voices overcoming all else. Then a tense announcement, strained, embarrassed: 'We lost 'im, Captain.'

'You what?'

'He had a helicopter on the roof. Got away clean.'

A long period of silence preceded the next words, heavily accented speech: 'This was one man? He does all this? He kicks Max Helmann downstairs? He shoots up your place and kidnaps a young lady? He drops in by helicopter and as quickly departs, leaving an army of men waving impotently at his departure? This is a safe place for my treasures, Captain?'

Bolan depressed an idler button to explain further. 'From here on it jumps back and forth pretty quick, so keep ears alert. My mixer automatically edits time gaps and unintelligible impulses. Thirty recording minutes are compressed into less than ten. Get set, it's heavy stuff.'

Leo Turrin actually lit his cigar. Brognola clamped his jaw and leaned forward, tensely expectant.

Bolan released the idler and the sounds returned. He sent the warwagon on a slow cruise along the lakefront, his own shoulders tensed, eyes brooding as he listened for the second time to the clues for the conspiracy of the century.

Ten minutes later, Leo Turrin slumped into his seat with a grim smile. 'Well well,' he commented drily. 'So they're bringing the bucks back home.'

Brognola clenched his hands together and growled, 'As well as the francs, the marks, the lira, and the pounds. But why here? Why move Switzerland to Seattle?'

'Safer, maybe,' Bolan guessed. 'It sounds like these guys are preparing for economic doomsday. Maybe they're even manipulating one into existence. A worldwide depression is bound to benefit somebody, isn't it? I'm not much on economics — but in my book, for every loss there's somewhere a gain.'

Brognola was frowning, deep in thought. 'Me either. Economics, I mean, I don't get. I don't believe the economists understand it, even. But I don't see how the mere location of paper money could mean that much. Do you, Leo?'

'We have a saying in the mob,' Turrin replied soberly. 'Don't go for the pocket, go for the throat.'

'So?'

'They're not talking about paper.'

'Langley Island!' Bolan said with a sigh, the light finally dawning.

'Huh?' from Turrin.

Sure. Langley Island. Vaults, not bunkers. Underground vaults in solid rock. Hard storage, sure. A military guard, with heavy firepower and Nazi-like discipline. Bombproof, fireproof, burglar proof. Like Fort Knox.

'Gold,' Turrin was saying. 'Or silver, maybe. Why not both? I heard just the other day that an old silver quarter is actually worth about two bucks in today's paper. They haven't been minting pure silver for a long time.'

Bolan said, 'How much of a share would it take, I wonder, to swing the whole world's economy wherever you damn well wanted it?'

'That's a thought,' Brognola grimly replied. 'I would think, possibly, a very modest share. It works that way with some corporate stocks. You can control with ten to twenty percent.'

'What's the latest estimate on worldwide mob worth?' Bolan asked.

'Outta sight!' Brognola replied with a flourish toward the ceiling.

Turrin punctuated that with a quiet, 'You know it.'

'You guys want to take time for a little jaunt with me?' Bolan asked tautly.

'Where to?'

'Up near Everett, few miles up the coast. A warehouse whose time has come.'

'Let me get some marshals on the line,' Brognola urged.

'Not yet, Hal. You'd just get your tail kinked. They're strictly legit, so far. I doubt that you could even get a warrant without a lot of hassle through Washington. And, unless I miss my guess, it would be blocked there. I need to expose it first. Then you can move in, and to hell with the warrants. Right?'

'I need to at least get them on standby.'

Bolan passed him the mobile phone, and explained, 'Big metal warehouse on the Sound. Has PNA decals on it. That's on, uh, state route 525, south of Paine Air Force Base. You might have them assemble at the base.'

'That would work fine,' the official replied. 'How do you use this thing?'

Bolan showed him how, then he showed the battle cruiser her heading and began making tracks northward.

It was time once again for her to earn her keep.

This time, with her claws.

17 Tactics

Sure — corner the money market and rape the world. The guys had been looking for a handle for years, and maybe now they'd found it. The Thing of all the Things— the big hit — the clout to end all clouts — financial domination of the entire civilized world!

It could be done. Bolan knew it could. He didn't know how, but he knew that it could. In this country alone it required an entire department of government just to keep the legitimate giants from taking over and gobbling all the little people, destroying competition, rigging markets, gouging the consumer for all he could stand.

Take that same type of super-businessmen and give them the Mafia mentality, spread them across the globe in a multinational network of financial manipulations that could reach into every monetary system, every national and international market — give them the absolute, raw power that comes from the control of economic life or death for entire industries and whole nations — and what do you have? — sure, you have Cosa di tutti Cosi.

They'd been dreaming of it ever since Capone — nibbling at it with guys like Cohen and Lansky — now, somehow, by some handle, by some freakish turn of world circumstances, they'd managed to actually start putting it together. Apparently they had the kicker. But what was it? The worldwide energy crisis? The international crunch