Bolan resecured the weapons in the trunk and sent the car along to his next point of reference, the intersection of Marylebone Road and Baker Street, then along Baker to Oxford and over to the broad Park Lane at the eastern edge of Hyde Park. He pa.s.sed the London Hilton and circled to Knightsbridge, then began angling toward Cromwell Road and London Airport.

His first port o' call would be the air express terminal to pick up the bag he had sent ahead from Paris. It contained items he could use immediately-such as a change of suits and a pair of shoes with both heels intact. There were also some special cosmetics he'd picked up in a shop at Ma.r.s.eilles which might prove beneficial.

As for the weapons now in the trunk of the Lincoln, Bolan had already written them off. If things worked out right he would not and could not make any use of them-Bolan was fading, not charging. There was a twinge of regret over the Weatherby. As for the other stuff, general weapons could be picked up anywhere, when and as the need arose. For the moment, the Beretta was weapon enough.

London Airport presented itself as a confusing sprawl. Overseas flights used one terminal, intra-European flights another. To complicate matters, the road signs directing traffic into the complex could have meant as much to Bolan if printed in Singhalese, and the fog was much worse in this area. After some twenty minutes of trial and error, he found his way to the freight terminal. Then he devoted another ten minutes to a soft recon of that part of the airpark. When finally he went inside to claim the bag, Bolan knew all the ways in and out and the Lincoln was ready for an un.o.bstructed departure.

His business at the express office was conducted quickly and without difficulty. The customs formalities had been taken care of at the shipping point, and Bolan identified himself with a fake American pa.s.sport he had purchased in Paris. He returned to the car and deposited the bag on the rear seat, then set off for the overseas pa.s.senger area. Here he parked in a zone reserved for buses from the BOAC Air Terminal in London, grabbed the bag, and walked briskly toward the flight facility.

When he was within a few yards of his goal, hurrying footsteps sounded at his side and a strained emotional voice advised him, "You musn't go in there, Mr. Bolan."

Ann Franklin, it seemed, was not yet entirely out of his life.

She was compellingly appealing in a London Fog minicoat, a jaunty little hat, and a very worried face. Bolan's hand slipped inside his jacket, and he growled, "Why not?"

"Charles thought you'd wish to know," she reported breathlessly. "The CID is out in force, searching for you. Here too. Charles says there will be an undercover man at each booking stall."

"At each what?"

"The ticketing windows-the places where you purchase... never mind, you simply cannot get out this way."

Bolan's decision was typically quick. He took the girl by the arm and returned to the parked car, put her and the bag inside, then slid in behind the wheel and quietly departed.

When they were clear of the airport proper he said, "Thanks again. But just how clean are you?"

"What?"

"You left the museum with a Mafia tail."

"Oh, that." She gave the lovely head a disdainful toss. "I left them chasing their own tails around Piccadilly."

Bolan turned her a warm grin. "You're something else," he said in a quietly respectful tone.

"In American, I hope that's good," she replied, smiling.

"Yeah, it is." He sighed and added, "How long have you been standing out in the cold waiting for me?"

"Not long," she a.s.sured him. "We weren't all that certain that you hadn't slipped out before. Charles rung me at just past four. I came straight out. Major Stone took the BOAC Terminal. Harry Parks, that's the large one who chauffeured us into London-Harry went to intercept you at the West London Terminal." She laughed nervously. "I think it perfectly fitting that I I drew the lucky spot." drew the lucky spot."

Drily, Bolan said, "Yeah. Lucky you."

She ignored the sarcasm. "By the by, that was a smashing escape from Soho. Charles described it for me. We're all so very proud of you, you know."

Bolan was feeling more the heel with every pa.s.sing moment. Very solemnly, he asked the girl, "What do you people want from me, Ann?"

"Just now," she told him, "all we want is that you remain alive. And we want you to allow us to help you accomplish just that."

Bolan could not argue a jungle logic into the situation. He smiled faintly, a barely visible twisting of the lips, and said, "Okay, we'll play it that way. For now. But keep one thing in mind. As long as you are friendly to me, you have inherited all my enemies-and those people play very rough games. On the other hand, if you turn out to be my my enemy... well, I have my rough moments also." enemy... well, I have my rough moments also."

"We understand all that," she replied in a small voice. "And we accept all risks."

Bolan had no ready response, and they drove in silence for several minutes, heading back toward London via Cromwell Road. Then Ann told him, "Gloucester Road is just ahead. Take a left there. We'll go up Paddington and cross to the north."

"Where's our destination?" Bolan muttered.

"Queen's House," she replied. "You have the key in your pocket, I believe."

"That's your place," he said.

"Yes, it's my place. My secret secret place, count on that. It's safe there." place, count on that. It's safe there."

"Okay, I'll count on it," Bolan told her, staring stonily forward.

She leaned against him, resting her face on his arm. "Don't seem so grim, Mr. Bolan. It will be just you and me. And we will... get to know one another far better."

Bolan greeted the prospect with mixed emotions. A vision of the torture cells at Museum de Sade Museum de Sade flashed through his mind. He glanced down upon the lovely head at his shoulder and experienced a trickling little tightness in his guts. flashed through his mind. He glanced down upon the lovely head at his shoulder and experienced a trickling little tightness in his guts.

"Let's hope," he murmured, "that our familiarity does not breed contempt."

"I have no worry about that," she whispered. But Bolan did. Which way, he wondered, was the tide running now?

Chapter Six.

CRISIS.

Bolan dropped off to scout the area on foot while Ann Franklin circled about to put the car away in a garage at the rear of the building. Russell Square turned out to be an attractive little park in London's northeast section, close by the University of London and the British Museum. Queen's House headed a row of neat Georgian town houses which angled away to the south of the square, in what appeared to be a neighborhood of family hotels, pleasant rooming houses, and old but probably expensive apartment buildings. Bolan's recon was thorough but swift, and revealed no evidence of enemy presence. He met Ann at the garage, picked up his bag, and they went into the house through the rear entrance.

To Bolan's surprise, the girl's apartment was very plain. Somehow he had expected a continuation of the erotic motif at Museum de Sade Museum de Sade. Instead he found minimal furnishings, an almost masculine austerity of decor, and a library atmosphere.

"Welcome to Ann's Retreat," the girl said quietly, then explained, "I don't live here, actually. It's my run-away-to place when I feel the need of privacy."

Bolan carried his bag on through the living room and paused at the windows to peer through a crack in the draperies. It was still dark out, thin fog haloing the street lamps in the park directly opposite.

"Bedroom is to the left, kitchen to the right," Ann announced. "Which are you most interested in, bed or board?"

Bolan turned to her with a sigh and said, "I'm suddenly running out of steam. Guess I'm pretty beat."

"The loo is off the bedroom," she told him.

"The what?"

She laughed. "Sorry, the bath. You look as though you'd love to have one."

"Thanks, I would." He went into the bedroom and placed his bag on a chair and opened it. The girl was watching him-rather nervously, he thought-from the doorway. He removed his jacket and asked her, "Okay if I put these things on some hangers?"

Her eyes were lingering on the gun harness at his chest. "Yes, of course," she replied in a near whisper. She pointed out the closet. "Over there."

The closet was totally bare except for a half-dozen wire hangers. Bolan put his jacket and his spare suit in there and said, "Ann's Retreat, eh?"

"Yes," she replied from the doorway. "I told you that I don't live here. I live with Major Stone."

"I see."

She came on into the room then and stood tensely by as Bolan continued unpacking. "I suppose I've given you a false impression," she told him. "Earlier, I mean. When I told you that we would... get to know each other. I did not mean... in bed."

Bolan showed her a tired smile. "Of course not," he said.

"But it's nothing personally against you," she hastened to add. "Actually I... well it's simply... that... I-I'm terrified of men, you see. All men, not just you."

Bolan stared at her through a moment of silence, then he nodded his head and said, "Okay."

He opened the false bottom of the suitcase and took out what remained of his "war chest." It had shrunk to a few thousand dollars, in bills of large denomination, and made a rather thin stack. He placed the money on a bedside table and lay the Beretta atop it, then came out of the harness and began removing his shirt.

Ann Franklin was fingering a nylon nightsuit he'd placed on the bed. "You wear black underwear?" she asked solemnly.

Bolan chuckled. "That's my combat uniform," he told her. "Some soldados soldados I met in Miami told me that it strikes fear into the hearts of my enemy. But that's not why I wear it. The color gives me a nighttime invisibility, and the skintight fit helps me in and out of tight places." I met in Miami told me that it strikes fear into the hearts of my enemy. But that's not why I wear it. The color gives me a nighttime invisibility, and the skintight fit helps me in and out of tight places."

"Like the commandos," she commented.

"I guess so. That was before my time, though."

She nodded. "Mine also." Their conversation was becoming less strained, more comradely. The girl had unfolded the suit and was holding it to her body. "Does it keep you warm?"

"Pretty well," Bolan replied. He was seated on the edge of the bed, removing shoes and socks. "It's a thermal suit."

"I see."

"Did, uh, you really mean that... about men?"

She colored visibly and dropped the suit to the bed. "Yes I-it's silly, I know. I suppose it's... the men I've known."

"Like Major Stone, eh," Bolan said quietly.

"Don't misunderstand that," she quickly replied. "Major Stone is the only father I've known. He's raised me from the age of 12."

"Uh-huh." Bolan pawed through the bag for his electric shaver.

She seemed to have a need to explain. "Major Stone has never mistreated me, never. He's protected me from... all that. And he's always given me the best of everything."

"Good for him," Bolan murmured. He was suddenly very tired. "I don't suppose you'd have any coffee around here."

"Oh, yes," she said, moving toward the doorway. "You get your bath, and I'll be doing things in the kitchen."

Bolan watched her out of sight, troubling thoughts nagging at him. None of this, he was thinking, made any sense at all. He was becoming too fatigued to care, however. He finished undressing and removed his watch, noting the time at close to seven o'clock. It had been a long night. It was cold in the bedroom, but Bolan was too tired to shiver. He picked up the Beretta and the shaving case and went into the bathroom.

Ten minutes later, Ann Franklin rapped lightly on the bathroom door and walked in. She carried a tray and was humming softly under her breath. Bolan was lying back in a tub of steaming water, seemingly utterly relaxed and half asleep in a sea of suds, but half-closed eyes were watching the girl's every movement.

She maneuvered a low stool alongside the tub and set the tray on it. Her eyes found the Beretta, jammed into a towel rack within Bolan's easy reach. Whimsically, she said, "I've heard of sleeping sleeping with one's pistol, Mr. Bolan, but isn't this a bit ridiculous?" The comradely tone was gone, Bolan noted, replaced by the earlier tense nervousness. with one's pistol, Mr. Bolan, but isn't this a bit ridiculous?" The comradely tone was gone, Bolan noted, replaced by the earlier tense nervousness.

"Survival," he replied, his speech slurring a bit, "is never ridiculous."

Her eyes fell and she said, "Of course you would know more about that than I. Well," she added, with a forced perkiness, "I have here coffee and m.u.f.fins, which are also a matter of survival. Shall we break bread over the tub?"

Bolan grinned and reached for the coffee. She placed the cup in his hand and asked him, "How long since you've slept?"

He carefully sipped the coffee, then replied, "I forget."

"Then it's been much too long." She knelt on the floor beside the tub, broke a m.u.f.fin, and held it to his lips. He ate, realizing that it had also been some time since that event. She told him, "You are an unusual person, Mr. Bolan."

"Not really," he murmured. "I'm an ordinary person in unusual circ.u.mstances. Are you still afraid of me?"

She hesitated, then whispered, "As a person, no, I suppose not."

"I'm afraid of you," he told her.

Another pause, then: "I don't find that particularly flattering."

Bolan sighed. "It's the survival instinct," he explained, grinning tiredly. "I have to suspect the very worst in everybody."

"Then why survive?" she asked dully. "I mean..."

After a brief and almost embarra.s.sed silence, Bolan said, "I know what you mean." He had asked himself the same question, many times. Though Ann Franklin apparently could not, some thinker had long ago expressed her idea rather well: when love and trust are dead, then the man himself is dead and awaiting only official notification of the fact. Yeah, Bolan had considered the idea. And rejected it. He told the girl, "I have a job to do. I live to do that job. That's what survival means to me."

Small-voiced, she replied, "You're speaking of your job as executioner."

He sighed. "Yes. That's the job."

"You live only to Mil."

"That's about it." He finished the coffee and returned the cup to her hand.

"I simply cannot believe that," she told him.

He shrugged. "Then don't."

"If you came to believe that I were your enemy, you would kill me?"

He smiled faintly. "Are you my enemy?"

"No."

He said, "I've never killed a friend."