The neighborhood was quiet, stately, home to senators, diplomats and cabinet members. Turrin's safe house, purchased in the early days of the protected witness program, was a condo overlooking the Potomac, with a striking view of Arlington across the water. Bolan found a parking space and locked the Ford, secure in the knowledge that police patrols would keep the average car thief off those cloistered streets. Avoiding the flamboyance found in certain areas of Southern California, for example, the neighborhood still exuded affluence and style. His car, big enough and new enough to pass a rough inspection, would no doubt remind the neighbors of a poor relation visiting from out of town.
He crossed the sidewalk and climbed a flight of steps with decorative hedges on either side. Another moment and he would be swallowed up, invisible to neighbors on the north and south. Behind him, at a distance of some fifty yards, the dark Potomac swept along its timeless course, conveying passengers and cargo toward the sea.
The townhouse was defensible, he saw at once, its proximity to the adjoining structures limiting the opposition's angle of attack. Determined shock troops, striking with the full advantage of surprise, could storm the place, but they would pay a price in blood before they cleared the windows. Aside from that, the first barrage would send the neighbors into shock and have them reaching for their telephones to call the police.
The uniformed response to any shooting call in Georgetown would be swift, decisive. Washington had heard enough of senators attacked while walking to and from the parking lots around the Capitol. Determined to survive with dignity, despite the proximity of reeking ghettos and a violent crime rate equal to some cities twice her size, the seat of government was going hard. The soldier wondered if it might be too late. He knocked and waited for a moment, hearing footsteps from within and standing tall before the unobtrusive spy hole mounted in the center of the door. Leo fumbled with the double lock then stood before him, grinning weakly. "Hey, long time."
They shook hands warmly, then the soldier followed him inside.
"Looks cozy."
"It'll do." He hesitated, finally beckoning the Executioner to follow him. "I'm glad you could make it."
"I'll pretend I didn't hear that, guy." The sunken living room was on their left as Bolan followed Leo down a narrow hallway. Hal Brognola rose to greet them, setting down his whiskey glass. Bolan shook his hand then sat down beside him on a sofa facing picture windows, which were curtained now against the threat of prying eyes.
"You made good time," Brognola said. "I caught a charter."
Bolan cleared his throat, aware that there was no time to be wasted on preliminary small talk. "So, let's have it."
And Brognola gave it to him, everything that had happened in the hours since he signed off work on Friday evening. Bolan took it in, refraining from the vacuous commiseration that does nothing to relieve the suffering of the bereaved. He understood Hal's pain, had been there — and beyond — on more than one occasion, and he knew that what Brognola needed at the moment was decisive action to retrieve his loved ones. Platitudes and sympathy were useless in the present situation. If he couldn't get the big Fed's family back, his most sincere condolences wouldn't be worth a damn.
"No progress on the name?"
It was a long shot, almost laughable, and when Brognola shook his head, the Executioner felt no surprise.
"It's hopeless. I've got seven different guys who might be 'Gino' in the local Family alone. That's seven guys we know about, and never mind the other Families from coast to coast."
"You have some reason to believe it's national?"
"I haven't got the faintest fucking notion what it is," Brognola said, disgusted with himself. He downed his whiskey and started for a refill, then thought better of it and pushed back the empty glass.
The Executioner relaxed a bit. Despite his pain Brognola was maintaining self-control. A lesser man, with booze at hand, might have been verging on unconsciousness by now.
"Let's call it local for the moment," Bolan said. "What's going on that might provoke this kind of action?"
Leo glanced at Hal and answered for his boss.
"I'm running down a drug connection that involves some congressmen. It's youngbloods, mostly, but we've locked in on a heavy name or two along the way."
"How strong is the connection?"
"That's the problem. We can prove possession based on what we have right now. I've got a junior senator set up to fall for dealing. As for the supplier..."
"Is there any doubt?"
He shook his head.
"No doubt at all, except we haven't got a thing to hang indictments on. This time next month we might be ready for arrests."
It was a tantalizing lead, but years of jungle warfare had conditioned Bolan to search for hidden traps before he forged ahead.
"I understand that Gianelli's still in charge."
"You called it."
"And he has some difficulties at the moment?"
Turrin smiled.
"What Nicky has right now are multiple indictments charging tax evasion, a subpoena for the President's commission and the makings of a shooting war with Cuba's finest."
"Plus your own investigation."
Leo nodded.
"Right."
"So there's a motivation. With your witness list, he has the chance to plug some leaks and maybe win some points with other Families."
"I know a dozen capos who would kiss his ass on Pennsylvania Avenue to get those names," Brognola growled.
"And with the names of undercover officers..."
"He cripples out continuing investigations," Leo finished for him.
"So."
"It fits."
"All right, it fits," Brognola snapped. "But what about this other bullshit at the office?"
Bolan spread his hands. "Somebody wants that information," he reiterated. "Call it Gianelli for the moment. But he also wants you out, discredited before you have a chance to blow the whistle. As it is, you'll be suspected of delivering the information for a price. Two birds with one stone, Hal. Case closed."
"Okay, so what's the answer?"
Bolan's smile was thin, devoid of warmth. "The shortest route is still a straight line," he replied. "Remember Boston?"
Something dark and fearful flickered in Brognola's eyes. "It's not the kind of thing you're likely to forget."
"I'm turning on the heat, beginning now. Let Gianelli simmer for a while and see what comes up to the top."
"I may not have a while," Brognola told him earnestly. "They're calling me at six, remember?"
Bolan checked his watch. "Go home and wait. Hang tough. No matter what they say, you need more time. If the snatch and frame-up are connected, then they have to know you're working with a handicap."
"My family..."
"Is safe until you make delivery."
And even as he spoke, the soldier wondered if his words were true. There was no guarantee that someone on the firing line would not get hinky, blow it in an angry moment. Hal Brognola knew it too, but in the absence of alternatives he would be forced to follow Bolan's lead.