"Well, it's your White House," Turrin commented with a droll smile. "Hell, I live with that stuff forever. It's about time you boys in Washington took some of the heat."
The official chuckled drily. "It's getting so you can't tell the players without a scorecard, Leo. Seriously. I'm worried sick. This country could topple."
"It's that serious?"
"It is. I wish I could tell you — no I don't. I wouldn't burden anyone with that. Besides you have problems enough of your own. Now, dammit, what's so urgent?"
"I just came out of a meeting with the old men in New York. Ducked out to La Guardia and hopped the commuter right down, zip zip. Marvelous age, isn't it."
"Full council?"
"Yeah. In spades."
"Since when do they let you into the councils?"
"Since today. Special invitation. I'm the Bolan expert, you know."
"Ah hell, not that again. Seattle, eh?"
"Yeah. Hal, they're fielding a special killer force to go get that guy."
Brognola grimaced. "I quit worrying about Mack Bolan a long time ago. They've sent forces out before. Anyway — our Seattle office says there's some question that Bolan is even there. Have you heard from the guy?"
"Not since New Orleans," Turrin said. "But he's there, all right."
"Why? Nothing else is there, not that I've been able to ascertain. Except for a few small nickel and dime operations that Bolan wouldn't wipe his feet on."
"That's what I thought, too," Turrin replied. "But ..."
"But what?"
"Well, hell. You know how the mob feels about Mack Bolan. They'd rather have him than Canada. I mean, they fantasize fucking his bleeding head instead of hot twats. They'd spend anything and do anything to get a good shot at the guy. And, like you say, they've sent forces before. But, Hal ... these old men are pole-vaulting all over the offices up there right now, have been all day. I kept expecting Augie to go into relapse, he's so nuts over this thing. I mean they're frothing at their collective mouths. They're scared to death, I'll tell you. This isn't just a usual hate-Bolan week. They're really shook up."
"Over what?"
"Hell, that's what I couldn't learn. All I know is that something big — something superfragile big is about to happen out there in Seattle. And they're losing their minds over the Bolan presence."
"That's why you came down?"
"That's why. I've been ordered out there."
Brognola sighed. "How many guns you taking?"
"Just my usual crew. The killer force is being put together from St. Louis, Denver, Phoenix, and Frisco. Two hundred — now get this — T-W-O hundred guns. The meanest boys in the west. I don't have any command. I'm just there, as an advisor, strategist. Guy by the name of Franciscus will be the top gun. Heard of him?"
Brognola worriedly shook his head. "Me either. He's not a made man, either. Independent contractor. Ex-soldier, with combat credentials. The old men were heh-hehing all over the joint, rubbing their hands in anticipation and congratulating each other over the pickup on this guy. They seem to think he'll be a match for Bolan's combat M.O. But there's something else about this guy that ..."
"Yeah, what? Don't stop there." "The guy's already in Seattle."
"So he's been there, since before Bolan showed. That's too much for mere coincidence. Isn't it? I think ... Hal, I believe Franciscus was already there — for the other thing, the big thing whatever it is. And somehow it all ties in to ..."
"To what?"
"Hell, I don't know. How do you express gut hunches? This Franciscus is a military type. He was a captain of infantry, brushfire forces. And he's not made. So what the hell were they setting up for that guy in Seattle? Of all damned places, Seattle!"
Brognola's usually impassive face had settled into grim lines. "Treasury is looking into the Seattle thing, of course," he said quietly. "There were two hundred automatic weapons discovered in that warehouse out there this morning. So far it's being handled as a routine case of illegal trafficking in restricted weapons. But... now you say they're fielding two hundred gunners."
"Could that be a coincidence?" "I'd hate to bet on it," the official replied with a worried smile. "What the hell do you think they're doing?"
"I've thought of a million things, all too crazy. I don't know, Hal. I do know how hard it is to scrape up two hundred good gunners on a moment's notice. If the weapons were already there, and if the two hundred boys were already stashed around waiting for the call — then by God I'd punch the umpire before I'd settle for a coincidence call."
"You're right. And they couldn't have been primed and waiting for Bolan to show. That's too ridiculous."
"Aw no," the undercover man said quickly. "I told you, the old men are half out of their minds because the guy did show."
"Do you think those wiseguys were already putting together a paramilitary force? Are you saying that Bolan tumbled to it, and that's why he's there?"
Turrin gave a heavy sigh and cracked his knuckles through a long silence. Presently he replied, "Like I said, I haven't talked to the Sarge since New Orleans. I don't know what the hell he's onto. But I'd bet my life on this much. He's onto something, or he wouldn't be romping. And the old men wouldn't be stomping."
"Hell, I guess I'd getter get out there, too," Brognola decided.
"My plane leaves in an hour."
"So will mine," the official said. "Ill take fifty marshals. Maybe I can scrounge up another fifty when I get out there. Where will you be?"
"I'll be at the best hotel they have. Leave messages for Joseph Petrillo."
"Fine. You'll know where to reach me."
Turrin chuckled without humor. "Sure you can afford to leave Washington behind for a few days?"
"Hell, I'm traveling from one to the other, the city to the state."
"Yeah," Turrin said, "but what a contrast in smells, eh?"
"Well see," said the Justice Department official.
"Sure," Turrin replied. "I guess we'll see plenty."
They would.
Already, the war drums were throbbing throughout the Pacific Northwest.
10
The brew
Bolan moved his base camp to a commercial campground on the eastern approaches to the city. There he changed clothes and snacked while going through the stuff from Nyeburg's vault. The only thing of any immediate interest there was a ledger with some rather cryptic notations, and the lockbox — which contained twenty thousand dollars in crisp new $100 bills.
He dropped half of the money into his warchest and deposited the rest in his coat pocket, stowed the other stuff, and drove the Fairlane into Seattle.
It was six o'clock when he hit town. The rain had stopped but the skies continued to threaten and were bringing on a premature nightfall.
He scored on his first stop, which had been carefully selected from the list of possibilities. It was a small "models and escorts" agency located in the hotel district. Bolan could smell a guy like Nyeburg all over that joint.
The guy at the desk was about fifty, fat, balding, with a perpetual smile — and he looked as though he had perhaps grown into the chair.
Bolan placed a shiny new hundred in front of the guy and said, "Hi."
"Hi," grinning boy replied. "What's that for?"
"That's for you," Bolan said, matching the smile.
"Yeah?"
"Sure. I got nine more just like it to say that you're the man for me."