The time was two o'clock in the afternoon; the place, just outside the small suburban office building that housed the headquarters of Pacific Northwest Associates — Nyeburg's outfit.
Bolan had been on station since noon, positioned for surveillance of both entrances to the building. PNA was the only occupant. Dianna Webb had sketched the interior layout for him; he knew the building as well, probably, as anyone who'd ever been in there. It was a small, squarish structure — single story. Built originally to serve as a branch bank, it sat off to the side of the parking lot for a large shopping center. A drive-up window remained in service — Dianna explaining that Nyeburg conducted "quite a bit" of business via that handy device.
No "business" had been conducted there during the past two hours. Bolan had abandoned his vehicle — a rented Fairlane — ten minutes into the stakeout, electing to take the weather in exchange for a reliable surveillance.
But nothing had moved in or out of that building for two hours, and Bolan was beginning to wonder. He stepped into a phone booth, fed in a dime, and called the cops.
He got a switchboard operator. He asked her, "Do you have a public information officer on duty?"
She asked him, "Who's calling, please?" "Peterson, United News." "One minute, sir."
Bolan lit a soggy cigarette and marked twenty seconds by his watch before the operator returned. "Thank you for waiting, sir. The press liaison Captain Parris, will take the call. One moment, please." Two clicks later, Bolan was talking to his man. He said, "Afternoon, Captain. Just got off the plane from L.A. What's your principal resource up here? Water?"
The guy chuckled. "You came in with the rains, Mr. Peterson. Sure you didn't bring it up with you?" "No way," Bolan replied cordially. "We need it all down there, to strain the smog. I brought a lot of excitement, though. We heard about your Executioner war. I drew the stick for combat correspondent."
"You should have called ahead," the Captain said, still amiable. "Maybe I could have saved you a trip. Uh, uh, dammit — I realize I should know your whole name, but I talk to a lot of — "
"Harry — Harry Peterson, United News Service."
"Oh sure, sure — heard that name a lot, of course. All to your credit."
That was nice. Bolan hadn't. He told the PLO, "I'll be coming right into town but thought I'd check into a hotel first if nothing really electrifying is happening at the moment."
"Electrifying, no. Like I said, I could probably have saved you the trip. You and about a hundred more of your fellows who are presently pacing the corridors outside here right now."
"You're saying there's no war?"
"Well... it's not definite either way. That's what we're saying for quotes."
"Why are you saying that? Word came out of here this morning early that — "
"First and foremost, uh Harry, there has been but a single strike. That isn't like Bolan. I mean, it's been — what? Almost twelve hours? Usually by this time the guy would have the whole town reeling. Right? Well, nothing's reeling, Harry. Then, too — Seattle's a pretty clean town."
Bolan laughed into the transmitter.
"No, really. We've cleaned up the little embarrassments we had in the past. It was all penny-ante stuff, anyway. There's no substantial organized crime activity in the area. Not the sort of stuff to bring Bolan onto the scene."
Bolan/Peterson chuckled and said, "You're sure of that, eh?"
"As sure as anyone can ever be."
"Well I'm interested in the Expo 74 angle."
The guy sighed. "So's everybody else. Look, Harry, we'd appreciate it if you boys would play down that angle. They're having enough trouble getting this thing launched without having to combat an avalanche of rumors that — "
"Sure, I understand. But there does seem to be a connection. If the mob isn't into it, who is? Who's smuggling the guns?"
"We're investigating, uh — the federal boys, of course, that's their prime jurisdiction. We're more interested in — "
"What about Nyeburg?"
"Unfortunate, very unfortunate."
"What is?" Bolan really wanted to know.
"Nyeburg is a respected businessman in this state. We got our tit in a ringer over that damn press release this morning. Nyeburg is not involved in any way. Evidently someone knew that he was an Expo official, authorized to receive foreign exhibits. It made a good cover — but very unfortunate for Nyeburg. We're issuing a statement clearing him of any suspicion in the matter."
"Sure you're not being premature again?"
"Sure we're sure."
"I'd wait if I were you."
"Uh, look, Harry — I'm going overboard with all you people in the interests of, uh, factual reporting. My office is prepared to cooperate with the media in every way possible. But you can't do our work for us, you know."
"I can try," Bolan replied. "I do think — "
"Come on in, we'll split a gallon of coffee. You'll have plenty of company. I've got media people out the ass around here. Come on in."
The voice went icy as Bolan told the genial captain, "Can't. I've got to go hit Nyeburg."
"What?"
"Well if you guys aren't, that leaves only me."
"What? What are you — say! What the hell is this!"
"This is Bolan. Sorry for the little masquerade, but I needed the poop. Don't release that statement on Nyeburg, it will bounce. The guy's guilty as sin. I'm going to take him. Stay loose, Captain."
Bolan hung up to a dead silence, studied his fingertips thoughtfully for a brief moment, then stepped outside to rejoin the downpour.
Even if the PLO should take it serious and alert the hard cops, he figured it would take a while to get a response going.
He moved directly across the rainwashed parking lot, pausing halfway across to take note of the fact that it was largely deserted — due, perhaps, to the bad weather — formulating a quick plan to be played by ear with both fingers crossed all the way. He went on to the PNA office and stepped inside. It no longer looked like a banking substation in there. Interior modifications had resulted in a small reception room separated from an outer office by a low, wrought-iron railing. A leather couch and a couple of chairs were the chief decor; beyond the railing, two desks and a couple of file cabinets; beyond there, closed doors to a pair of inner offices; at the far end of the reception area, a rear exit.
Two attractive young women, a blonde and a brunette — punching bags, probably, for a lecherous boss — were in a coffee klatch at the desks, snickering over something and obviously having a good time. Both looked up at Bolan's entrance but neither made a move toward greeting him. The blonde glared distastefully at the moisture dripping from his cape, then turned away.
He locked the door and turned the "closed" sign into position, then sloshed on to the railing and told the girls, "Okay, you're closed. Hurry!"
Both women merely stared at him, faces blank.
He opened the gate and held it for them. "Go on. Hurry. Didn't you get the flash? You got about thirty seconds to evacuate this joint."
The blonde leapt to her feet and gasped, 'What?"
"Methane gas escaping," Bolan explained. "Come on, we're clearing the whole area. Anybody else in here?"
The blonde staggered bug-eyed toward her purse, stuttering and pointing toward the closed door behind her. The other girl was already moving toward that door. Bolan intercepted her and pulled her back. "Go on," he commanded. "I'll get them. Go out the back. Get in your cars and get moving. Head south."