Bolan smiled thinly. "No. But maybe the logistics for it."
"Oh hell, now he's a logistician," Brognola growled.
Bolan chuckled. "I've been holding out on you guys. I do have some rather heady stuff to tell you. But first I want a look inside that warehouse."
Turrin said, "This is where the contraband has been going. Right?"
Bolan nodded. "Martialing area, anyway, I think. It has been moving on, I'd say quite steadily. But I want a look-see. I believe those shipping manifests were generally correct. I think it's been mostly machinery. The kind of machinery nobody wants traced to its ultimate use. Most of that stuff I'd think they could have picked up here in this country — maybe even locally. Take those weapons, now. It's a special case, sure, but the same logic applies. Hell, they were made in this country. But look at the route they took to Puget Sound. Legally exported to Europe. Exchanged through three different legitimate brokers before finally disappearing from view. Then they pop up here, in a marine crate marked for Expo 74."
"For most stuff," Turrin said, "there'd be no tracks, no tracks at all."
"Yeah. Super secret. These guys are sparing no effort, in that sense. You'll see why, if I can tie it all together."
"But don't call him Thinker" Brognola said, smiling.
"What's the big mystery, Sarge?" asked Turrin. "A new gold mine in Alaska?"
Bolan chuckled and said, "That may not be far wrong, either. If our people ever start hauling that oil from the new fields up there, anyone sitting here on Puget Sound is going to be in a hell of a good position to cash in on all sorts of trade. That's what built Seattle in the first place."
"Commerce, huh?" Brognola said.
"Yeah, sure," said Turrin. "Or harassment."
"Why would anybody want to harass that?" Brognola asked disgustedly.
"Are you crazy?" Turrin shot back. "That's the favorite occupation of the nickel and dime boys."
"We're not talking about nickels and dimes."
"How do you think they got to the Cosa?" Turrin argued. "Numbers, bimboes, protection, smack, alcohol, vending machines, pinballs, jukes, bandits — you name a nickel or a dime, I'll give you the name of the guy that rolled it into a million dollar territory."
"Sure, sure — but I'm saying that none of that anywhere approaches the magnitude of potential commerce from millions of barrels of crude a day."
It was a pointless argument, and both seemed to realize it — but on it went.
"Ah hell, they play both sides of the street, Hal — you know that. One guy's territory is commerce, the other guy's is knockdowns. As an example, look what Luciano did with the — "
"Hell, forget Luciano. That's old history. It's the now that counts."
"It's the now I'm talking about. Luciano's empire didn't die with the man. Just look at..."
Bolan turned off the banter from the friendly antagonists, recognizing it as sheer nervous release.
Both these men spent their lives balanced precariously on the edge of a knifeblade. This was probably the first chance in months for either to let the hair down a bit, to unwind just a turn.
Bolan ordinarily translated his own tensions into action.
These guys had to sit and fester with it.
Which was another reason why Bolan would accept no concept of "secret portfolio" — undercover sanction and amnesty for past "crimes." He'd play his game his way, thanks, for as long as the game could last. And he would die the way he'd lived — with blood on his hands and unpardoned scars on the soul.
The American writer Elbert Hubbard had once observed: "God will not look you over for medals, degrees or diplomas, but for scars."
Bolan would carry his own scars to his own judgment.
Right now he was simply trying to carry them to the next zone of combat. And the going was getting rough, with the interstate route now behind him and the atmosphere out there getting thicker with every turn of the wheels.
Brognola and Turrin suddenly became aware of Bolan's intense concentration into the problems of navigation. They fell silent; Turrin chewing on his cigar, the man from "paradise" bent forward and massaging his knuckles as he peered into the misty shrouds of that night in "that other" Washington.
It was to be one which none of them would ever forget.
18
Firetrack
The impressive vehicle was totally darkened, engine idling quietly, sitting just in off the road at about dead center, maybe fifty yards from the building.
As warehouses go, it seemed small. Floodlights marked the corners at roof level but were barely visible in the choking mists. "
"I can't see a damned thing," Leo Turrin complained.
"Relax," Brognola suggested.
"It's two thirty. He's been out there about ten minutes."
"He knows what he's doing."
"Sure."
Both men were peering tensely through the wet windshield. Brognola's .38 lay on the seat beside him. Turrin was not armed. He said, "He's right, you know. This ishis element. Me, I have two left feet. And I even get dizzy in my own bedroom if all the lights are out."
"Relax, Leo. That's a hell of a man out there. He knows what he's doing."
"Hell, I know that. I just wish I knew what he's doing."
"I'd settle for knowing why," Brognola said. "What d'you suppose he's really stumbled onto, Leo?"
"It could be anything. The guy has an uncanny sense of things. All he needs to get started is a smell."
"I'm just afraid he got quite a nose full, this time."
"Looks that way, doesn't it. Do you really think ...?"
Brognola sighed heavily and turned away from the glass. "Hell, I don't know, Leo. I'm getting so I don't trust my own guts anymore. They're tied up so often, over so much — sometimes I wonder if I've just gone full paranoid and the rest of the world is really sane and beautiful."
"Well, sure, a guy gets to that. But I don't think you're paranoid, Hal.
"From one suspect to another, eh? Thanks for nothing."
Turrin chuckled.
A misty draft swirled into the vehicle. Brognola scooped up the .38 and whirled smoothly toward the midsection then relaxed with a relieved sigh as a black-clad figure materialized there and the door slid shut.
"Home is the scout," Turrin greeted him. "What's the lie out there?"
The federal official holstered his pistol and stepped back to make room for Bolan's entry into the cockpit.
The "scout" dropped into the command chair and immediately began doing things at the mini-console. "Very close out there," he reported. "Visibility's about five feet, and I'm giving that the benefit of some doubt. Here's the setup. It's a hard house. No windows. No personnel doors. Just a big cargo door at the center, roll type, big enough to admit a semi-trailer. Similar door on the water side. Short pier over there for smallcraft. Very quiet, all around."
Brognola asked, "Did you get inside?"
"Not yet."
Bolan was flipping switches, operating levers. A viewplate about the size of a small portable television screen swung into position, glowing reddishly. "Guard shack just outside the rolldoor," he continued. "There was a sentry in there, a Franciscus type."
"Was?" Turrin asked absently, gazing with interest at the glowing screen.
"Yeah, was. And there's still a vehicle at the end of the building, north side. People inside but I didn't try for a headcount. It's a crew, though."
Brognola tapped the viewplate and asked, "What's this thing?"