None but the ghost of her present situation, which haunted her brother. Bolan knew the Israeli felt as helpless as he did. The odds confronting them were enormous.
And the pain of that helplessness was as old as mankind.
Bolan knew that. He knew that the Spartans at Thermopylae had felt it, and the Jews at Masada, too. It must have robbed Roland of sleep at Roncesvalles and lain down beside the farmers' sons at Valley Forge. Hell, for all he knew, the same sense of powerlessness had haunted the Vietcong in the tunnels at Cu Chi. Sure, he knew all that. And it didn't help one damn bit.
"One more and we're golden, Mack." Cohen tried to joke, but his voice betrayed his feelings.
Both men knew that the next Jeep didn't mean the ball game. It was just the end of the first quarter. And Glinkov was no rookie.
Cohen revved his engine, and the Jeep lurched forward. Once again, he threaded his way through the trees. "I think I know the best place for our next play."
Bolan looked at Cohen, waiting for more.
"It's risky, but it will save us some time."
"Are you going to tell me more?" Bolan asked. "Or do I have to guess?"
"What's the matter, Mack, don't you like guessing games?"
"Not tonight I don't."
"All right, you just watch. If you don't know by the time we get there, I'll fill you in. Fair enough?"
"Nothing's fair about any of this, Eli. You know that as well as I do."
Cohen didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
22
Malcolm Parsons was in way over his head. It was a truth he had been trying to ignore for too long. One by one, his illusions had crumbled. His control was less than he had thought. His money didn't come from the source he had imagined. He was less a mover and shaker than he wanted to believe.
Instead of using people, he had been used. He had fought against the truth, fought long and hard. Now, pacing back and forth in the heart of a concrete fortress, he could no longer deny it.
Being forced to take the life of Allan Reynolds meant little in comparison to this realization.
For as long as he could remember, he'd thought he was more important than he really was. Now reality had risen up and slapped him in the face. Now reality answered to the name Glinkov. It was, he knew, too late to save Alan Reynolds. It was too late to rescue whatever shreds of dignity he had left. It was even too late to preserve his reputation as a man who got things done. And he was afraid it might be too late to save his own life.
Whatever Glinkov was planning, it was clear there was no longer a need for Malcolm Parsons. He had been used by the Russian, skillfully and ruthlessly. Parsons was enough of a tactician to admire the Russian's work. He had used Parsons just as Parsons had used so many others.
There was only the slimmest of chances that Parsons could yet pull this one out.
Glinkov stood in the doorway, watching Parsons pace. "Malcolm, you seem upset," Glinkov said, finally betraying his presence.
"You bastard. You scheming, bloody bastard," Parsons roared. He charged the smaller man angrily.
Glinkov smiled, waiting until Parsons was within reach, then smacked the taller man across the face as one would smack an unruly child.
Parsons fell back. He was stunned, less by the blow than by the manner of its delivery. He rubbed his cheek, muttering under his breath. Glinkov continued to stand in the doorway as if nothing had happened. It wouldn't be long before this insufferable egomaniac could be dispensed with once and for all, he thought.
"Get control of yourself, Malcolm. You're behaving like a child. That won't get either of us anywhere now, will it?"
"I ought to kill you, Andrey. I really ought to."
"And why is that?"
"Because you used me. You used me, and you used people who believed in me."
"And I suppose you never used anyone, Mr. Parsons. Is that what you're trying to tell me?"
"Maybe I did, but it was for some purpose. I wanted to make a difference in the world."
"Don't think for one minute that I have no purpose, Malcolm. And don't believe that I won't make a difference. I daresay, before the night is over, I will have made more of a difference than you could ever dream of."
"Not if I can help it, you won't."
"But my dear Malcolm, don't you see? That is precisely why you're so upset. You can't help it, and you know it. I understand it must come as something of a shock to you, but you are far too simple a man. Events have been set in motion that are far bigger than anything you could ever imagine. Now why don't you just learn to accept that painful fact? Come along. There is someone I want you to see."
"No. I don't want to see anyone."
"Come along like a good little boy."
"You son of a bitch..."
"Follow me." Glinkov turned abruptly and left the room.
His pace, more than his words, told Parsons how sure of himself he was. The Russian knew that he would follow and that he would put up no further argument. Still rubbing his burning cheek, he rushed after Glinkov.
"Where are we going?"
"You'll sec."
Glinkov led the way to an elevator. He pressed the call button and stood with his hands folded behind his back. He paid Parsons no attention. For all the Russian cared, he might have been alone. When the elevator arrived, it opened with a soft hiss. Glinkov stepped to the rear of the car.
Turning to face forward, he indicated the panel of buttons and said, "Press Level 4, if you will, Malcolm."
Parsons did as he was told. Perhaps he had found his true calling. It seemed as if he were fit for nothing more lofty than operating an elevator. The door closed quietly, and a low hum filled the large car. It moved quickly down, marking each level it passed with an electronic beep. Level 4 was the lowest level, buried deeply beneath the ground's surface. When the door opened, Glinkov stepped into the dimly lit bowels of Thunder Mountain. Parsons followed meekly behind him.
Both men instinctively looked up at the ceiling. It was as if they could somehow feel the massive weight of the mountain, and its deadly burden, pressing down on them. The hallway stretched off into near darkness in both directions.
Glinkov turned to the right and moved swiftly ahead.
The size of the tunnel heightened the gloom.
Twenty feet overhead, the fluorescent lamps seemed as far away as stars. The wall on the right was marked by an occasional door.
The left wall was a blank expanse of gray concrete. Glinkov moved briskly, his heels tapping on the concrete floor. Parsons, wearing crepe-soled shoes, made no sound. It was almost as if he wasn't there. When they had traveled nearly two hundred yards, Parsons could make out the figures of two men in the gloom ahead. They stood casually, one on either side of a large steel door. Thirty feet beyond them, the hall ended in a blank wall. A smaller passage met it at right angles. Neither man was familiar to Parsons.
He wondered why it galled him so much that Glinkov had so neatly finessed him. The Russian had been able to pull this off without even bothering to get someone to betray him. How long had he been there in the wings, waiting? Long enough to recruit his own team obviously. And Peter Achison, where did he fit in? Had he been Glinkov's man all along, or had he too been fooled?
Glinkov gestured to one of the guards, and the man fished in his fatigue pockets for a key. The man bent forward in the dim light to fit the key in the lock, then opened the door. Glinkov waved Parsons in before him. Stepping in behind Parsons, Glinkov turned on the overhead light.
"You know Miss Peres, I believe, Malcolm?"