was Lemon, and his nominal assignment was as bodyguard to Sir Philip, as it had been for the past six months. Sir Philip's treason was known to only a handful of people, for obvious security reasons, so as far as Lemon was outwardly concerned, his boss was just what he seemed.
As Sir Philip passed fluidly out of the room, Bolan nodded in the direction of the American agent, Voorhis. He and McMahon moved away from the bar. They were pros for sure. At the corner table, Voorhis said something in a soft voice to Charon. Charon went white, but did not reply. Voorhis spoke again. Charon stood and walked across the room, Voorhis and McMahon flanking him closely. Charon's gait was unsteady. One down, one to go as soon as Bolan saw to a further little piece of business.
The Russians were anticipating a package, and they were going to get one except the contents would not be quite what they expected. Bolan stood, picked up the attach more case.
Yeah, treason was a risky business. It had a way of blowing up in your face.
Bolan followed the parade through the door.
There was nothing fancy about the hangar that housed the offices, maintenance shop, and warehouse of Transworld Import/export, the MI5 front through which Sir Philip, was transshipping the missile guidance system prototype. It was a corrugated tin building that stood off by itself beyond Terminal One, the Heathrow facility reserved for domestic and European flights operated by U.K. airlines.
Facing away from the terminal were double loading-bay doors on rollers; opposite was the entrance.
Bolan watched from the shadow of the terminal as Sir Philip Drummond crossed to the entrance, trailed by Lemon. The Russian mole produced a key-ring and unlocked the pitted metal entry.
Electric light flared inside the windowless building, then the door swung shut. Bolan gave them twenty beats before following. The key he had been provided by MI5 turned noiselessly in the lock. He also came equipped with a neat little .45 Detonics, the cut-down gun so good for concealability.
The inside of the hangar was a single cavernous room, except for a line of offices along one wall. Light showed there behind a frosted glass door. Close up, Bolan could hear the soft murmur of Sir Philip's voice. Bolan soundlessly eased the Detonics free of leather, raised it head-high and slammed the barrel into the frosted glass.
Sir Philip was seated behind a chipped scarred desk, holding a telephone receiver. He recradled it, looked up at the gun-toting stranger framed by the jagged shards still clinging to the window frame, and murmured fatuously.
The MI5 bodyguard was to Bolan's left, his back to the wall, hands loose at his side, unmoving. He stared at Bolan expressionlessly.
Bolan turned the inside doorknob and came into the office. Glass crunched underfoot.
Without looking in the bodyguard's direction, Bolan said, 'All right, Lemon, you know what to do.' From the corner of his eye, Bolan caught the flash of gunmetal. He whirled, but Lemon had already dropped to a crouch. Bolan started a defensive roll.
Lemon shot him in the left shoulder.
Bolan felt the shock of the bullet furrow into his flesh, but seconds would pass before pain followed.
Only a fraction of the first second was gone when Bolan roared up and struck the young-blood bodyguard.
Lemon fired again, but Bolan's shoulder shoved into Lemon's arm, and the slug buried itself in the ceiling as Bolan's full weight pinned the man in a sprawl against the wall. Lemon tried to get a knee between Bolan's legs. Bolan twisted clear. This time pain lanced savagely through his shoulder.
Then his right hand was free. He smashed the barrel of the little Detonics against the British agent's temple, and the man went down. Bolan rolled clear. Sir Philip was halfway out of his desk chair. 'Don't.' Bolan waved the .45. Sir Philip sat down again. The body on the floor lay motionless.
Lemon's gun, an Enfield .38 revolver with a two-inch barrel, was still in his outflung hand.
Bolan plucked it away, stood, tucked it into his belt.
Because of Lemon's crouch and Bolan's roll, the slug that had hit The Executioner had entered at an upward angle. The exit wound was almost at the shoulder. There was not too much blood. Bolan transferred the Detonics to his left hand, pressed a scrap of the ragged turtleneck over the rear bullet hole with his right.
Even if a guy planned every number down the line, one glitch could throw those numbers straight to hell. Maybe Lemon was a Russian double too. Maybe someone just screwed up, never informed him. But those answers would have to wait.
Sir Philip regarded Bolan dispassionately. Moving slowly and deliberately, he got out his cigarette case and lit up.
Bolan knew the guy had spent a lifetime walking the edge of the knife. The aristocratic polish was simply a superficial shell over a hard and dangerous man.
With the play now on a blood-soaked heartbeat, Bolan had to show him what hard and dangerous really meant.
'When do the Russians pick up the prototype?' Bolan asked, his voice flat, icy. His left arm refused to cooperate in the simplest action. He applied all his will to ignoring what already felt like it was no longer there. The Britisher was good all right. The traitor did not bother with any 'I-don't-know-what-you-are-talking-about' routine.
He just shook his head and gave Bolan the merest smile.
Bolan leaned across the desk and leveled the Detonics into Drummond's face, six inches away. 'You broke the rules, Drummond,' the Man from Ice said. 'But I'll go you one better.' Bolan laid the muzzle of the Detonics on the bridge of the British traitor's nose. 'I'm not playing by any rules at all,' he said.
The smile washed out of Drummond's expression, and what took its place said the guy had become a believer. Every word Bolan had said was truth and Drummond knew it.
'You're turned up, Drummond,' Bolan went on relentlessly. 'You are blown. I know, and MI5 knows. Pretty soon your pals in the Kremlin will know. Think they'll like that?' Bolan knew that Drummond had been around long enough to understand what this meant. Now he was worthless as a Russian agent. If his KGB masters got their hands on him, they would begin by interrogating him, and their methods would be the methods of the Beast. In short order Drummond would have told them everything of any conceivable value he had learned during his career with British Intelligence.
But that would not stop the torture. The agony would continue, and so would Drummond, babbling out anything that came to mind, making up stories from whole cloth, beyond response or understanding, wanting only that the torment be over.
It would be over only when Drummond was dead.
But before that event, a hellish forever would pass.
Bolan could see the knowledge of Drummond's fate pass across the treasonous bastard's features.
'You are going to answer my questions,' Bolan told him, 'and after that your friends-the friends you tried to betray, they take over. They promise not to turn you over. You get to spend the rest of your life in some cozy military prison, which is a hell of a lot more than you deserve.'
'How civilized,' Drummond murmured.
Bolan pushed the barrel of the Detonics into Drummond's high forehead, forcing his head back.
'At 11:35, an American-made Beechcraft C-12A Super King Air turboprop will land,' the Englishman began tonelessly. 'It has been converted for light cargo and bears Transworld Import/export markings, although it is not one of MI5's. The pilot is Captain L. Rouballin of the KGB, and he will file a return flight plan for Leningrad.'
'The prototype is here?'
Drummond nodded.
'Give me the envelope.'
Drummond hesitated a moment, then pulled it out of his inside coat pocket. Reaching for it cost Bolan a serious spasm of pain in his left shoulder. He felt fresh stickiness on the wad of turtleneck that he was holding against the wound.
The envelope contained a single piece of 4-by-6-inch microfiche film. Bolan slipped it in the back pocket of his slacks, grimacing slightly as he did so.
Excellent. So far, so good. All that remained was to deal with the guidance-system prototype that the Russians were so hot for. As a piece of hardware it was not especially valuable; it was one of several which had
