'Right.'
'We're set, then?'
'Set.' The old man nodded confirmation.
'Okay, get on it.'
Abe Bernstein let himself out of the private office, and Spinoza was left alone. At once the mafioso put him out of mind, already moving on to other more important things. The old man would do what he was told — or he would rue the consequences of his failure.
In the coming hours Frank Spinoza would command an army, finally get his chance to move against the common enemy. A tardy move, no question there, but not too late.
Not yet.
The troops had been reluctantly provided subsequent to his last conversation with The Man.
New York was still opposed to open warfare in the city, but as long as it was unavoidable, as long as someone else had started it, at least they meant to win.
His own accounting of the sniper raid and Julio DePalma's grisly end had turned the trick.
Spinoza was convinced of it. The old oratorical gift coming through for him again as it always had in the past.
He had sensed that many different ears were listening to him as he laid it out — the whole Five Families — and he had spared them nothing on the scrambled line. He let them see poor Julio — the bastard, coming at Spinoza that way — splattered on the walls and leaking out his life into the deep-shag carpet. And the others, flopping, dying.... When he had finished, New York asked him what he needed. No more waiting, no more arguments, no stalling. Just a blank check with a single string attached.
He had to make it good and make it fast.
If he should fumble somehow No.
Spinoza put the thought out of his mind. Defeat was out of the question. He had a chance to show the powers that be another side of Frank Spinoza here tonight. And let them see that he could hold his own in battle, not just in the peace negotiations afterward.
If — no — when he pulled it off, he would be in a position to dictate some rather different terms. Perhaps to cut himself a hefty slice of the pie. Spinoza eased the Browning from his belt and set it on the desk in front of him, its muzzle pointed at the office door. He was looking forward to the opportunity of using it. Tonight, perhaps. Tomorrow for certain. If the campaign lasted any longer.
Spinoza smiled to himself, his mind at ease now.
Seiji Kuwahara had already missed his chance.
Pearl Harbor, hell. It would be frigging Hiroshima and Nagasaki all rolled into one before he finished with the little yellow bastard.
And he meant to plant him personally.
The future capo of Las Vegas owed it to himself.
12
The white phone caught Brognola halfway out the office door. He thought about ignoring it but habit and a sense of duty drew him back. He did not bother turning on the lights. The big Fed knew his office like he knew the inside of his home, and he navigated around the lurking obstacles to reach the desk, lifting the receiver on the fifth ring.
It was a private line reserved for use by agents in the field. The SOG line, every bit as vital to Bolan as the other one that terminated in the Oval Office. Each line without the other formed a broken circuit. Brognola was the link between them, joining them into a working whole — and that meant he was constantly on call.
'I ran into a friend of ours out here tonight,' the caller told him. He recognized the voice of Tommy Anders instantly. 'Out here' was Vegas, naturally. 'As for the rest of it...'
'We don't have any friends out there,' he answered gruffly.
'Well, maybe one,' the comic amended.
'I don't follow you, Joker.' The big Fed felt a familiar sour burning in his stomach. Hell, he thought he had that cured. He was lying to the operative, sure... and to himself. He had been getting bulletins from Vegas through the day, and now Brognola knew exactly who the 'friend out there' must be.
Mack Bolan, right.
The hellfire guy was out there, living on the edge as always, cutting through the bureaucratic bull in his search for essence. And Brognola could envy him that, his dramatic successes, even as he mourned a sense of loss inside himself.
The comic's voice demanded his attention, small and far away.
'Maybe you can follow this, then.' Anders sounded irritated, shifting into flat-out anger. 'Our boy's between a hammer and the anvil here. Could be two hammers, if his latest hunch pans out.' A moment's hesitation, and the angry voice was somewhat softer when it spoke again. 'He could use some help, man.'
'Sorry, he's not our boy anymore.'
There was something in Brognola's throat all of a sudden, threatening to choke him, and he put a hand across the mouthpiece, coughing hard to clear it.
'Dammit, Hal!'
'Dammit, nothing,' Brognola snapped back. 'Striker... made his choice. He'll have to live with it.'
'Or die with it?'
'He knows the risks, Joker. Hell, he wrote the book.'
'It could be someone's tacking on a whole new chapter while he isn't looking.'
Brognola frowned. He did not want to hear this, but he could not shut the comic off without allowing him to finish his report. He would just have to take the information for whatever it was worth, divorce himself from Bolan's side of it entirely.
If he could.
If not.
'So, let me have it, Joker.'
'The name of Bernstein ring a bell?
'You don't mean Leonard?'
'Let's try Abe, for starters.'
'That's old business.'
'Maybe... maybe not.'
Brognola did not like the feeling that was creeping up his spine and sliding icy tendrils out along his scalp.
'What's the rumble?'
Anders cleared his throat and started fresh.
'Striker thinks the old-boy network may be working out some kind of end run on the families out here.'
'Where does Tokyo come into it?' Brognola asked him.
'Could be a wild card, a diversion — take your pick. Whatever hassles Frank Spinoza and the rest of them is good for business, right? Our guy's not sure on that point yet.'
'He's not...'
'Our guy,' the comic finished for him. 'Sure. All right, already. You can't blame a guy for trying.'
'No, I can't at that.'
'So how about it?'
'What?' Brognola knew what Anders wanted from him, but he stubbornly refused to openly acknowledge it.
'You know what. When can we expect the cavalry?'
'No cavalry on this one, Joker. I had too much explaining to do the last time I helped him. Not to mention
