Bolan could dip into the Swiss account from anywhere in the world to furnish himself with weapons, transport or whatever was needed to continue his ongoing war against the grip of the Black Hand and the KGB'-sponsored terror mongers.
Bolan's campaigns, too, had changed over the years. Now the whole world was his battlefield and the odds against him were longer. But freed from financial constraints, Mack Bolan had redoubled his efforts.
He still thwarted the dark designs of the Mafia — he always would consider that a special crusade, for that was how it had all started — but there was an even more sinister hydra on the loose: a voracious many-tentacled monster that Bolan was sworn to oppose.
He would trade terror for terror, blood for blood, slashing ever deeper into the guts of the beast, determined to cripple this cancerous network of international outlaws, torturers and political hitmen: the kind of fanatical bullies who would kidnap a young boy who had more brains than common sense.
He turned south on 19, then hung a right on Bay Drive, cruising toward Belleair. The Bakers had a small but exclusive estate on the oceanfront opposite Sand Key. It was getting dark as he pulled up outside their gates. It was likely the police would still be there, reassuring the parents that a ransom call would soon come, even though they were treating Kevin's disappearance as a probable homicide. Bolan had scanned the reports of the wide-scale search in the papers handed out on the plane. He checked inside his wallet; he was ready for them.
He half turned to watch a flight of pelicans swoop overhead as he crunched up the gravel path. There were no uniformed men in sight. But Bolan was not expecting the young man who opened the door. This fresh-faced kid must have come straight from the academy; it confirmed that the inspector in charge of the Baker case was not seriously thinking that the kidnappers would make contact.
"Yes?" The young man was hesitant. His eyes darted past Bolan's shoulder, sweeping the approach to see if the visitor was alone.
"Logan." Bolan flashed an ID card, one of the many from the stock he had accumulated. "I'm from Washington."
"Yessir." The novice stood a little straighter. "Come on in. My name's Chapman. I'm pulling this watch on my own."
Bolan started to scribble a number on a small notebook. "Here, this will put you straight through to the White House — the duty officer will vouch for me — use it and forget it!"
"Why, yes sir, I'm sure they can." Chapman waived the proffered reference. He was not about to start checking out a troubleshooter from D.C., not on his first assignment. "The Bakers are out back by the Pool."
"Thanks," Bolan said, nodding, giving the beginner an encouraging pat on the shoulder as he eased past.
"No, that's all right, I'll show myself through. You've got an important job right here." Bolan sincerely hoped that Chapman was not going to get into too much trouble.
The house was furnished with more money than taste.
Bolan glanced into the lounge, where a cluster of tape-recording equipment was heaped around the phone in anticipation of a ransom call. There was also a red phone that was probably installed to provide a direct link with police headquarters. The wall at the far end was taken up with expensive stereo equipment and a full media center.
Wendell Baker was nursing a highball glass on his redwood recliner. His wife was unpicking some needlepoint stitches that displeased her. They both looked up expectantly as Bolan walked around the pool.
The outdoor floodlights were already switched on; they made the water look unnaturally blue and the grass unnaturally green. And Bolan noticed that June Baker was unnaturally tanned even by Florida's excessive standards.
Wendell, at least ten or twelve years older than his wife, had a boardroom pallor. He rose to his feet with a slightly unsteady shuffle.
Bolan flashed his ID card again and when the Bakers seemed satisfied at its authenticity, he apologized for not being the bearer of hopeful news.
He stated that there were some questions he'd like to ask them.
Washington needed a more detailed profile on Kevin.
"I don't know what more we can tell you, Mr. Logan, that we haven't already told the other policemen," said the father, launching into the same abbreviated biography he had recounted to all the other investigators and the press.
In the absence of any more positive action, cooperation with the authorities was the only contribution Wendell Baker could make toward the recovery of his son.
"He's such a bright boy. Very bright." Mrs. Baker echoed the one fact that had never been in doubt.
"Anything he needed to get ahead — I bought it for him," Wendell Baker assured the visitor from Washington. "I made sure he had it." There was something in the man's insistence on how generous he had been with his son that sounded as if he wanted to quash any suspicion that Kevin had somehow arranged his own escape in order to flee his parents. It was an option Bolan had briefly considered but discarded. "He had a private tutor by the time he was eight. Coached him in math on the weekends. Kev took tests at a special summer school and passed straight into ninth grade by the time he was eleven. He was the first boy in his school to have his own home computer."
Baker was the kind of guy who bought stereo equipment, not for the music he could hear on it, but for the maximum array of woofers, tweeters and graphic equalizers; just as he would buy a new lens for the extra f-stop it gave him, without thinking if it would make the slightest difference to his snapshot photography. Evidently he treated Kevin as another piece of expensive equipment, to be fine-tuned for a head start down those corporate corridors of power.
"We gave him every opportunity, Mr. Logan. No one can deny that."
All except one, thought Bolan, the opportunity to simply enjoy being a kid. He tried to imagine what it had been like for Kevin at school, where he had been streamlined into a class that probably teased him constantly for being too young, too small and much too brainy.
"Oh, there is one more thing. We gave all the recent pictures of Kevin to the local police and they are making copies for circulation. But June remembered she has a fairly new photo of him in a locket. It's upstairs. I'll get it for you."
"Thank you, it would be a great help."
Wendell Baker went across to the sliding doors and vanished inside. It was still warm but quite gloomy behind the perimeter of the lights. An insect trap zapped at the unwary pests it attracted. June Baker had set her embroidery in her lap and was staring vacantly at the pool.
"You do think Chip's still alive, don't you, Mr. Logan?" she asked in a quiet voice.
"Somehow I feel that he is, Mrs. Baker," replied Bolan. "Is that what you call him — Chip?"
"Yes... sometimes. He, well, he didn't have too many friends. A couple of his classmates called him Chip. I did, too... just trying to... It's odd, isn't it, that a mother has to work at being friends with her own son." She continued to stare down at the unruffled surface of the cobalt water, slightly embarrassed to be making this confession to a stranger. "It takes a tragedy like this to make one reassess one's feelings," she continued. "I do love him, Mr. Logan, don't get me wrong; I love him but I don't think I've ever really liked him. Perhaps that doesn't make sense to you. But I couldn't talk with him. I didn't understand a thing he said — it was always about chemical equations or computer programs. I don't think we ever just talked about..." June Baker dried up as her husband reappeared with the locket in his hand.