Harding made his way forward, stopping beside Bolan's seat for a second when the plane hit a spot of turbulence. When the Boeing settled down again, Harding knelt in the aisle to retie a shoelace. He glanced at Bolan for a moment as if trying to make eye contact or to find an opening for conversation, but the big guy kept his eyes glued to the paper.
Harding straightened, then moved on, tucking his shirttail snugly in place under a gleaming leather belt. Bolan watched him take his seat again, half expecting the man to turn and wave, but Harding simply sank into the seat and settled earphones in place to listen to the canned music piped through the plane from a multideck tape player somewhere behind the galley.
The attendants started working their way down the aisles, pushing stainless-steel carts and taking orders for drinks and cardboard food. Harding took a light meal, a Scotch on the rocks and a ginger ale. Bolan settled for some imitation pot roast and wilted vegetables with a carbonated drink.
By the time the attendants had finished cleaning up, the pilot came on the cabin PA system to announce the weather at Manila and to inform the passengers that they were about to begin their descent from thirty one thousand feet. Bolan stood with his back to Harding, took his carryon from the overhead rack and dropped it into the empty seat beside him. After moving to the rear of the cabin, Bolan took a paper cone full of water from the galley, then turned to watch the passengers as he sipped it.
The Fasten Seat Belts sign came on, and the stewardess warned Bolan to return to his seat.
Walking down the narrow aisle, he realised that Harding had changed places and was seated much nearer to the front of the plane. Bolan cursed under his breath. He didn't want to risk calling attention to himself by following suit, but Harding had ended up being so close to the front exit that he had a real jump.
Like Bolan himself, Harding had checked no luggage. If he got out of the plane and through the terminal quickly, Bolan might lose him altogether. And he didn't want to think about how difficult it would be to find a single gray-haired needle in the haystack of Manila. Bolan dropped into his seat and cradled his carryon in his lap.
The big Boeing's tires screeched as they made contact, and the plane seemed to collapse in on itself as it lurched along the runway. Bolan unbuckled his seat belt while the light was still on, but didn't stand. If one of the attendants called attention to him, Harding was almost certain to turn around.
The plane taxied toward the terminal, its engines surging as the pilot maneuvered into the accordion dock. Bolan was on his feet a split second before the warning light went out for the final time. Harding was already moving toward the door as the flight crew worked the complicated wheel-and-dog arrangement that kept it closed. Three or four people stepped into the aisle to reach up for their hand luggage, temporarily blocking Bolan's path.
He cursed inwardly as the door swung back and Harding disappeared.
Bolan wriggled through the human obstacle course as quickly as he could, provoking more than one irate shove, but he ignored the comments on his rudeness.
At the door he stepped into the collapsible rubber tube, his feet ringing hollowly on the metal floor. Harding was already out the other end. Bolan began to run. The tunnel rose and fell under his weight, and he could hear the creaking of its metal joints. It took a sharp left, and began a sharper descent. Bolan plunged into the last leg just as Harding pushed into the main terminal. For a moment he could see the tall man's grey hair bobbing above a sea of people waiting to greet the passengers.
Bolan ran still faster. One arm out like a charging fullback, he plowed through the milling crowd.
Harding had reached the outer fringe of the mob now, and his path was relatively unobstructed. Bolan juked to the left to avoid a woman pushing a stroller. For a second he lost sight of Harding again.
Suddenly the terminal exploded into chaos.
Bolan heard the chatter of automatic weapons.
The gunfire was drowned almost immediately in a sea of screams. All around him, people were falling to the floor, covering their heads with folded arms. Bolan turned to his right to see where the gunmen were. A huge plate-glass window collapsed in shards. The sharp crack of autofire somewhere behind him had blown out the window. Colored paper and a landslide of toys gushed out through the broken glass.
Bolan hit the deck, his Desert Eagle in hand. He spotted one man in combat fatigues, the mottled brown and olive so out of place in the bustling terminal. He drew a bead as the man struggled to ram a new clip into an AK.
Bolan fired once, catching him in the shoulder, and again as he pitched forward. A second Kalashnikov opened up from behind a marble pillar to the dead man's left.
The pounding of feet came from somewhere behind, and Bolan glanced back to see a handful of airport police charging toward him. The AK opened up again, and the policemen fell to the hard marble floor like bowling pins in the wake of a solid hit.
The cop to his left lay still, a trickle of blood oozing from his slack jaw. Bolan grabbed the M-16 half-hidden by the man's prostrate body and tugged it free. Scrambling to his feet, Bolan charged the pillar, daring the hidden gunman to step clear. He could see the gunman's crouching back reflected in another plate-glass pane beyond the pillar.
Angling to the left, he cut in a broad circle until enough of his target was showing. Dropping to one knee, Bolan brought the M-16 up just as the shooter spotted him. Bolan tugged the fire control onto full-auto and cut loose. Chunks of marble flew off the pillar, and the ricochets ripped out the glass behind it. The gunman pitched forward, and Bolan swung his muzzle downward, slashing at the extended form with a short burst. The body twitched for a moment, then lay still.
It was suddenly very quiet, except for a couple of shards of glass that tinkled to the floor one by one, but that was all. The screaming had stopped as if at a director's command. It seemed almost like it had been that quiet forever. Then the wounded began to moan, as if they now felt safe to do so. Panting, Bolan got to his feet, the M-16 dangling from one hand. He let it drop, and it hit the marble with a dull thud.
Several of the wounded policemen were sitting up.
Others, unharmed themselves, tended to their comrades. Sirens howled in the distance. Outside, a squeal of brakes announced the belated arrival of reinforcements. There was no chance of finding Harding now, Bolan thought. Slowly he walked back to his small suitcase, standing on end where he had dropped it. As he bent to pick it up, two policemen rushed toward him. They were shouting, but Bolan ignored them. Something else had captured his attention, something a lot more important.
Fifty feet away he saw Charles Harding, as neat as ever, vanish through a doorway. Bolan dropped his suitcase and started to run. He didn't feel the first hand to grab his arms.
Or the second.
4
Bolan sat in the chair quietly. So far he hadn't been asked to say anything. Roman Collazo, who was, as he stopped frequently to point out, a captain of the Military Police, had been content to do all the talking. Once, during an exceptionally long pause, Bolan leaned forward, but Collazo stopped him with a raised hand.
"Not yet, Mr..." he glanced at the papers in front of him for a second, "...Belasko. I'll tell you when."