been bread-boarded. It was the revealed technology that the Soviets wanted. The prototype sang openly of the secret history that had gone into its making. He would prevent this hemorrhage of data by keeping the thing out of their hands.
He would do this by giving it to them.
Of course, Bolan planned to make it a little bit too hot for them to handle.
Drummond was making it clear to the Russian that he did not appreciate being pressed into service as a stevedore. He had helped the KGBer load the prototype into the C-12A, but he was expressing his displeasure in no uncertain terms.
In the hangar office, Mack Bolan looked on grimly. The guy was good, all right, but then he had to be. He was playing for his life. Bolan had showed him the face of his potential Executioner.
4
Agent Lemon still lay against the wall, unconscious but breathing regularly.
From the receiver on the desk in front of Bolan, Rouballin said, 'Where is specifications manual?' The Russian pilot's voice was guttural and thick with a Slavic accent. There was a pause, and then Rouballin demanded, 'What is meaning of this?' From the anger in his tone, Bolan knew Drummond had handed over the attache case — the case that Bolan had been carrying.
'The manual is inside,' Drummond's voice said suavely. 'I will be most pleased to give you the combination to that lock as soon as I am able to verify that the agreed upon funds have been transferred to the account, in restitution for the advance I was compelled to make to the American, Mr. Charon.'
'You not get away with...'
'Of course, if you like you are free to break the case open,' Drummond interrupted smoothly.
'However, you should do so with a great deal of care. Do I make myself clear, old chap?' The radio-another product of Gadgets Schwarz's fertile imagination and electronic wizardry went silent for a moment; it was tuned to the frequency of a transmitting body-mike installed on Drummond.
'If I were you, Captain Rouballin,' the Brit went on, 'I would consider my mission here accomplished. I suggest you get back in your craft and fly away home.'
The KGB pilot muttered something in Russian that quickly faded to silent as he moved out of the microphone's range. Time passed, and then Bolan heard the sound of a PT6 engine turning over.
The bullet wound in his shoulder was a pulsing dull ache now. When Bolan peered under the improvised bandage, he found the redness looking angrier. But at least the bleeding was almost stopped. As he was recovering it, Drummond came into the office.
There was a thin sheen of sweat across the double agent's forehead, but he had lost none of his composure. In a way, it was easier to deal with a professional like Drummond, who had enough years of tradecraft behind him to realize that his fate was dictated by his obedience now. From outside they heard the Beechcraft taxi by the hangar, the sound drifting into the distance, then coming back again, passing more quickly this time as the plane accelerated into takeoff.
Drummond listened to Bolan's instructions wordlessly.
Five minutes later Bolan had shed his bloody coat and the remnants of his turtleneck for the shirt and jacket of Lemon. It was a tight fit, but it would pass. The MI5 agent had regained consciousness, but some electrical wire and a rag from the hangar's maintenance shop insured his immobility and silence for now.
What was less sure, at least to the man who was engineering the play, was if he would last until the finale. The wound was a pounding presence now, and Bolan knew that without treatment he would descend into shock within minutes.
But there was still one more loose end to clean up before the mission would be history.
Shock would have to wait until then.
The control tower chief was a brisk efficient man in starched uniform shirtsleeves and forest-green slacks. He wore a mustache and full beard, both neatly trimmed, and a nameplate that identified him as 'V. Vaughn.' The tower rose from the midpoint of the three terminals, and through the panoramic windows Bolan could see 270 degrees worth of aprons and runways. The tower chief glared at the camera case slung over Bolan's good shoulder and said, 'No pictures,' rather sharply. Then he frowned at the identification card in his hand for longer than necessary before handing it back to Sir Philip Drummond.
'What do you want?' Vaughn said, his tone barely civil.
'About twelve minutes ago,' Drummond told the chief, 'a Beechcraft manifested as belonging to Transworld I/E took off, bound for Leningrad. The aircraft ID number is SKBLEDHGD. I would like to know that aircraft's present position.'
Vaughn's frown deepened. 'By regulation, Sir Philip, such a request must come through channels, as you know.'
'Mr. Vaughn.' Drummond raised his voice enough to turn the heads of a few of the air-traffic controllers working nearby. 'This is an urgent matter, directly affecting national defense.' He lowered his voice again.
The guy had a flair for the dramatic, Bolan had to admit. But then, a man would have to become an accomplished actor if he expected to survive the double life.
'As tower chief,' Drummond went on, 'I believe you are aware of the functions of Transworld I/E?' It was plain that Vaughn detested having rank pulled on him. But he spun on his heel and went to one of the vacant control terminals. He flicked a selector knob and a series of green-tinted images flashed onto the screen, each showing a different radar array. He studied one, then straightened.
'Approximate latitude 55 degrees, 50 minutes north,' he announced. 'Longitude 18 degrees, 32 minutes east. Heading roughly east-northeast.'
Bolan was at the chart on the wall near the entry staircase. The KGB plane and its cargo of top-secret U.S. Navy defense equipment was over the Baltic Sea, and would be for about ten more minutes.
'If there is nothing else you require...' Vaughn began, in a tone that made it clear it hoped that were the case.
'A phone,' Bolan said.
Vaughn looked at him for the first time. 'Now, who might you...'
'Your office, Mr. Vaughn, if you please,' Drummond broke in. 'I assure you we will not be long.'
The tower chief's office was a cubicle above the main control room, reached by a spiral staircase. To one side was a control terminal with a radio set to the control frequencies-for monitoring employee performance, Bolan guessed. Vaughn gave both men a suspicious glance, as if he were afraid they were going to steal something as soon as they were alone. When he had gone, Bolan motioned Drummond into the chair. He unslung the camera case, lay it on Vaughn's desk, and let himself gingerly down beside it.
Keeping his eye on his prisoner, Bolan allowed himself a moment of rest. The pain in his shoulder was becoming a presence, an increasing reminder that the beat had to be on double time now.
A panel on the camera case slid open to reveal a false bottom. Inside was an electric cord on a spring- loaded reel.
Bolan pulled it out and plugged it in. Unclasping and lifting the lid revealed a simple control panel consisting of two toggle switches, a zero-center meter, a red indicator light, and a recessed button with a plastic safety cap. This was another Gadgets Schwarz special, a radio transmitter designed to emit a low-power but extremely narrow beam of UHF impulse. It was adaptable to point-to-point communication, or as a remote control. It was now in the latter configuration.
Bolan flicked up the first toggle and a whip antenna extended from the case's top. He pointed it roughly east-northeast. When he worked the second toggle the meter's needle activated, veering to the left. Bolan corrected, and the needle trued toward center. The indicator light began to blink.
A few beats later it was a steady bright red, and the needle rode the zero-center mark.
In the attache case aboard the KGB plane, which the pilot Rouballin believed contained the guidance systems spec manual, there was a homing device.
The homing device was ganged to a remote detonator, which was in turn wired to about ten pounds of C4
