The hulk returned to his place with a second parting of his lips.
"What do you want?" Hanley asked. "Why are you here? What is this all about?"
"I want to know who your visitor was. I also want to know why he wanted the papers he returned to you."
"It was nothing. Just a routine investigation." Hanley sounded desperate, and he knew it. But he also knew these men wanted information they shouldn't have.
He'd be damned if he'd give it to them.
"No, Mr. Hanley, it was not routine. Your files are very sensitive. They never leave your office. Never. At least not until two days ago. I find that very interesting. So do my associates."
"Your associates?"
"Mr. Hanley, I am losing my patience with you. You are a bureaucrat, Mr. Hanley. No match for Otto's persuasive skills, I assure you. Give Mr. Hanley a demonstration of your technique, Otto."
This time Otto laughed. He walked swiftly to the front of Hanley's desk and hauled the man to his feet. Without bothering to move around the desk, Otto grabbed Hanley's left arm and gave it a sudden yank, dislocating the shoulder. Hanley screamed, and Otto shoved him back into his chair.
Hanley moaned. His shoulder felt as if it were on fire. He reached up to rub it with his right hand, but the pain was too great. He wiped cold sweat from his forehead. He knew that they were going to kill him if he didn't cooperate with them. It struck home for the first time. They would kill him unless they got what they had come for. And they would most certainly get it. If he stopped resisting, maybe they would let him live. What was the point of suffering if he was going to tell them what they wanted to know?
"Are you prepared to answer my questions now?"
"Yes," Hanley said, his voice cracking under the strain of the situation.
"Good. Otto, get Mr. Hanley some water, please. His throat seems a little dry."
The big goon lumbered out into the hallway. Hanley could hear him searching for the bathroom. A dim light flashed on, and soon Otto was back, carrying the blue glass tumbler from the upstairs bathroom sink. The huge man held the tumbler out, and Hanley reached for it gingerly with his good arm. When he held it securely, Otto caught the hand in his own. And squeezed. Glass cracked, and so did bone. Hanley fainted and collapsed back into his chair. Otto smiled at the bright, wet puddle on the desktop.
"A nice touch, Otto. But can you revive Mr. Hanley?" the intruder inquired.
Otto grunted. He lifted the unconscious man easily. Carrying Hanley as if he weighed no more than a rag doll, Otto went down the hall to the bathroom again. Inside, he dumped his burden into the tub. He turned on the cold water tap, then sat on the edge of the tub.
The water revived Hanley, who moaned and tried to sit up. He shook his head groggily. He started as he realized where he was.
Otto reached down and caught Hanley by his left shoulder. Hauling the injured man roughly to his feet, he lifted him free of the tub, holding him at arm's length to avoid the water streaming from Hanley's clothing. Otto dropped the smaller man to the floor, nudging him with one foot.
Hanley got to his feet slowly. He stumbled when Otto shoved him toward the door, hitting his dislocated shoulder on the doorframe as he passed through.
Hanley knew he was going to die, no matter what he told his captors. As they reached the head of the staircase to the ground floor, the NRC man leaped. He landed halfway down the stairs, his feet flying out from under him. He grabbed the handrail with his left hand, but the pain in his shoulder was too intense. He let go with a groan, falling the rest of the way to the hallway below. Otto bounded down the steps behind him as Hanley crawled toward the front door. Before he could get the door open, Otto was on him. The big man stepped on Hanley's back, pressing the fallen man into the carpet.
Hanley twisted to one side far enough to see the figure of the other man descending the stairs. He was almost casual in his descent; there was something delicate, almost feminine in the graceful walk.
"I am disappointed, Mr. Hanley. I had hoped you would be more cooperative. This is very unfortunate."
"Go to hell," Hanley said. His teeth were clenched against the pain, but his captors had no trouble understanding him. Otto pressed harder with his foot.
"This could have been so much easier for you, Mr. Hanley. But now..." He shook his head. "Otto, Mr. Hanley's papers are in a mess upstairs. Perhaps you should gather them up. There is a briefcase beside the desk. Put them in it and bring it down." Otto nodded, but didn't remove his foot from the small of Hanley's back. "Now, Otto. We have to hurry." Reluctantly Otto climbed the stairs.
Hanley could hear the rustle of the papers as Otto swept them together. He looked at the intruder, trying to decide whether he had seen the man before. It might not make any difference now.
Still, for some reason he now looked familiar.
Otto was back, a briefcase in his hand. He stood to one side, docile as a dog at heel.
"Otto, take the papers out to the car and wait for me. I won't be long," the intruder said as he looked directly into the terror-glazed eyes of Robert Hanley.
4
Mack Bolan hated flying into Dulles. The convenience never made up for the noise. But when a man was in a hurry, Bolan knew he couldn't always have it his way. And Mack Bolan was in a hurry.
He had some questions for Robert Hanley. Hard questions. The incident at Dunford made it obvious that something was very wrong with American nuclear security.
And the files Brognola had shown him were frightening; their implications were even more frightening.
When Brognola had flown back to Washington, Bolan had spent the night in Idaho. There had been a great deal he wanted to know, and Rachel Peres was the only one who could tell him.
Rachel Peres had said nothing to reassure him.
For the past several months, she had been working her way into the heart of one of the more radical antinuke groups. Like most fringe movements, it was loosely allied with several others, to the point of having a few members in common. But there had been more. If Rachel Peres was right, somebody was orchestrating a nightmare, and the incident at Dunford was just the overture. The curtain was about to go up on the deadliest grandstand play Bolan had yet encountered.
And when that somebody phoned home, they were picked up in Moscow.
Peres had gotten involved because of the interest shown by Arab terrorist organizations in U.S. protest groups. There was no doubt that some of the support money was coming from the more rabid OPEC countries. And still more from a couple of countries that thought OPEC policy was too tame. Mossad no longer pulled her strings, she said, but she was still a patriot. Brognola believed her, but Mack Bolan didn't buy it.
He'd go along, for reasons of his own, but the Executioner was calling the shots on this one. Starting now.
As the big 747 circled for its approach into Dulles, Bolan considered his options. The first stop had to be at Robert Hanley's. His files were extensive, but some of the material was too technical. Bolan wanted to ask some straight questions, and he needed simple answers. Too much was riding on this one. He couldn't go off half-cocked.
And time was tight; the enemy was obviously ready to strike. He couldn't afford a wild-goose chase. One mistake might be all he'd have the chance to make. Once the plane had landed, Bolan made his way to the car rental counter, where he picked up the keys to a Camaro. He wanted wheels with a little muscle. Something told him he was going to need it. It was already seven-thirty, and he wanted to get to Hanley's before the scientist went to bed. The hour drive would take him to Chantilly, in the northwest corner of Fairfax county, where Hanley lived.
Once behind the wheel, Bolan felt better.
At least he was moving. He drove as fast as he dared, keeping to a solid seventy. Twice he had to slow to avoid attracting the attention of a state police patrol car that he'd spotted hiding on the far side of two underpasses. Dusk soon changed to darkness as he drove farther into the countryside. The open fields were broken by stands of trees, and the Camaro's throaty rumble echoed off the woods as he barreled through. At 8:25 he entered Chantilly. Hanley's place was two miles on the far side of the small town. Bolan gassed up to make sure he'd have a full tank for the drive back, asked the way to Morgan's Turnpike and pulled out in a hurry.