"That's cold comfort, Hal."
Brognola spoke quietly for nearly an hour. He had chewed the better part of four cigars before he'd finished. He yanked the fourth out of his mouth, shook his head and tossed it into a wastebasket. What he said had scared Bolan.
It was obvious now that Glinkov, and not Parsons, was pulling the strings. Parsons might dance better than most, but he was still a puppet. Glinkov's puppet. And there was no longer a mystery as to why Mossad was in on the hunt. The stability of the Middle East hung in the balance. It had been that way for so long that no one, not even Bolan, could imagine it getting any worse. Until now.
Glinkov's plan was brilliant. And economical. Its outlines were simple.
Terrorists would seize Thunder Mountain, a large nuclear reactor in the Hudson River Valley about fifty miles north of New York City.
An ultimatum would be issued, demanding that the United States deactivate all of its nuclear power plants.
Public outcry would be deafening. Those who were already opposed to nuclear power would join the chorus. Even those who weren't would be stunned by the boldness and the ease of the seizure. If the power plants couldn't be defended, then every one of them was a potential powder keg. No one wanted a source of energy, no matter how useful, that had to be defended by military troops.
The kicker was even worse. Unknown to Parsons, another of Glinkov's stooges was going to engineer an "accident" during the seizure that would irreversibly damage the reactor. The result would be a nuclear nightmare that would make the disaster at the Chernobyl nuclear power plant in Russia seem like a high school picnic. Millions of gallons of radioactive waste would pour into the Hudson River, killing everything in its path downstream.
Clouds of radioactive steam would billow into the sky and contaminate hundreds of square miles for decades. The immediate vicinity would be uninhabitable for centuries.
The reactor meltdown that would result when the coolant was siphoned off had consequences that would far exceed the Soviet nuclear accident. The reactor's fuel would get hotter and hotter until it passed the melting point, a temperature high enough to melt through the steel and concrete that usually contained the radiation in a safe area. It had a name, China Syndrome, taken from the ultimate destination of the ball of hellfire an uncooled reactor would become. It would take scientists years to determine the extent of damage caused by the incident at Chernobyl. But scientists might not have the same luxury of time if the KGB plot in the U.s. succeeded.
That was Glinkov's plan. The Israelis, obviously, had to defend themselves against the rising Soviet influence in the Middle East. That explained Eli Cohen's presence. It might even, Bolan thought, explain Rachel's. Former Mossad indeed. No wonder she was good. This mission was top priority. World wars had started with less provocation. And Mack Bolan was in the middle. He even had the advantage of knowing what was going to happen. What he didn't know was when.
Brognola waited patiently while Bolan considered what he'd just been told. When Bolan looked up, the big Fed said, "So that's the story." He chomped on a new cigar, glanced angrily at it, then threw it into the large glass ashtray on the desk.
"Do I get any help on this?" Bolan already knew the answer, but he had to ask.
"This is as far off the record as it can get, Mack. Anything happens to you, as far as the rest of the world is concerned, you were in on it. You were one of them. You don't exist, pal."
Bolan nodded. It had been that way for a long time. Why should he expect it to be any different this time? He stood up and turned to go.
"Mack." Brognola was looking out the window, his back to Bolan. "Good luck."
Bolan nodded to the big Fed's broad shoulders.
Luck was such an inadequate word to describe what he was going to need to pull this one off.
Outside it was getting cold again. The sky was dark, the stars hard points of light, twinkling nervously. They seemed so small that it was difficult to imagine their hellish fire threatening anything so placid and serene as the Hudson River Valley. And yet a tiny spark, kin to the huge and distant stars, was already lit just fifty miles away.
Ready, willing and, worst of all, able to bore its way through to the bottom of the world. Mack Bolan didn't even try to imagine how many innocent people it would take with it.
Not having an exact timetable posed problems.
Knowing that Glinkov and his followers were planning something big meant they had to be watched. But watching someone closely, looking for something, anything, to fit in with what you knew, was hard on the nerves.
Mack Bolan didn't like doing nothing. This time, though, he had no choice. His choice would have been to go in hard, tear the place apart and turn his back on the smoking wreckage. It might make him feel better, but it wouldn't help Rachel. And it wouldn't get him Glinkov. The Russian hadn't been seen, and no one even knew what he looked like. Brognola's people had a few intelligence photos, but they were six years old. And grainy.
Glinkov was supposed to be shown in two of them, but no two men looked alike, and there was so little to go on that even computer enhancement hadn't helped. What galled Bolan the most was the possibility that Glinkov might walk in right under his nose and walk right out again. There was so much activity around the place that it was difficult to keep track of the comings and goings.
16
After thirty hours of close surveillance, he felt like a traffic cop on a day off.
He was watching because he couldn't afford not to. It was his instinct. It was natural. And it was frustrating as hell. Bolan had to sit tight because doing anything else might blow the whole operation sky-high.
Parsons was very visible, orchestrating things in the overblown style and with the exaggerated gestures that marked his public addresses. Also prominent was the balding man who had been Bert's companion. Bolan knew that he must be Peter Achison. The guy seemed inoffensive enough, but the few moments he had spent in the outbuilding with the man had convinced Bolan that there was more to Achison than met the eye. His eyes were the giveaway. Even in the dim light, Bolan had seen the flat, deadly glitter. They were killer's eyes. And Bolan was convinced he had seen the man before.
The trees around Parsons's hideaway offered some cover but little shelter from the biting wind. It had been a few days since the last snow, and the sky seemed uncertain about its next move. An occasional burst of sunlight warmed Bolan slightly. At night it was below freezing. By the evening of the second day, Bolan was losing his patience. The big guy wanted, needed, action.
Sitting around just gave him time to think.
Too much time. The longer he waited, the more helpless he felt. But he knew that waiting was the only thing to do.
After dark he planned to move in closer, check the place out again and see if he could pick up any conversation. If they were getting ready to make their move, they had to be talking about it. If he knew when, he could make his own plans.
As the sun started to slip behind the trees, the sky began to cloud over. It had picked up a deep red color at the horizon, then, as suddenly as if someone had thrown a switch, it was dark. Overhead the clouds pressed toward him. What little light there was came from the house, but by eleven even the houselights were gone. The place looked almost deserted. A single lamp burned in the kitchen, throwing a dull rectangle onto the snowy lawn. Bolan knew that it was time for a closer look.
Inching through the trees, the snow crunching under his feet, Bolan kept his eyes on the house. So far there had been no sign of movement. Everyone must have gone to bed. Tonight obviously wasn't the night.