Renegade Agent

"I guess I've got a long walk coming up," Bryant said expressionlessly.

12

Understanding the enemy, in everything from motivation to method, was an invaluable aid, Bolan had learned ( it was the edge that kept a man living. So from the moment he had received in London from Aaron Kurtzman at Stony Man Farm the telexed precise of Frank Edwards's dossier, he had budgeted a significant portion of his available waking time while in transit to studying, analyzing, and extrapolating strengths, weaknesses, causality, technique. By applying his vast storehouse of experiential knowledge of the human animal, Bolan was able to virtually open the lid of the man and examine the works inside.

Frank Edwards, age 38. Born Manchester, New Hampshire, to Earl Edwards, grocery wholesaler, and Bernice Edwards, high-school teacher. Educated in public grammar and high schools; two-year letterman in football and track, vice-president of the student council, honor roll academically. B.A. degree from Yale University; dual major in history and political science, upper-level courses in psychology, sociology, Spanish, German. Four years army ROTC. Grade level of 73rd percentile, i.e. academically above average but not extraordinary.

The bare-bones outline of Edwards's post-graduate career went like this: Commissioned a 2nd Lieutenant, U.S. Army, assigned to military intelligence. Stationed in Saigon for twenty months during the height of the Vietnam War. Usual citations, honorable discharge six months before scheduled expiration of enlistment at administrative request, discharge rank of captain.

Joined the Central Intelligence Agency on discharge, posted to Langley for training. Subsequent postings to Caracas, Malaysia, Belgrade, Bo

And yet, for the last five years of his service, this model agent had been exploiting his position and contacts to lay the foundation for his ultimate act of betrayal of his colleagues and country.

CIA psychologists had developed a theory to explain Edwards's actions. The world of espionage was incredibly complex, they pointed out.

Double-cross, betrayal, and deception were everyday components of it, so that the line between ally and antagonist could change position almost daily. In addition, the individual agent was only one small cog in the great intelligence machine; often it became difficult for the agent to relate the purpose of his operations to the greater scheme of his nation's interest.

As a psychological defense, even a competent and loyal agent perceived his work as an exercise in logic tics and intellect. Accepting as a given fact that he was working on the right side, he would then bring nothing but a cold precision to his operations.

There was nothing wrong with this, the psychologists pointed out. It was mentally healthy and stable, and served the agency's best interests. It became dangerous only when it was carried one step further, as Frank Edwards had done.

Edwards had rejected completely the link between his intelligence activities and the greater good.

Sure, he understood that as an agent of the CIA he was promoting the interests of the United States; it was just that he had decided that those interests no longer had anything to do with him. The operation ( the game ( became an end in itself. From there, the decision to operate solely in one's own behalf was not a large step.

"It would be erroneous," one CIA psychologist wrote, "to diagnose Edwards as mentally unhealthy. On the contrary, from a purely logical point of view, Edwards's behavior is entirely rational." Rational, maybe. But Bolan knew that the world does not revolve upon an axis of rationality. To coexist, people had to accept and embrace emotion as well-emotions like loyalty, commitment to something of worth, moral vision.

Instead, Frank Edwards had chosen a life of ethical vacancy, a commitment only to power and wealth with no thought whatsoever to those at whose expense he would prosper.

It was a hollow world that Frank Edwards had created for himself. And Mack Bolan meant to pop it open.

The chronometer on Bolan's left wrist read 0730:00, Tripoli time. Twisting the arm far enough to see it sent a faint ripple of hurt across the left side of his chest. It was another reminder that he would have to compensate for the less-than-full use of that arm. Everything had to go down exactly on the numbers, and there were no numbers to spare. This hit had to take out Edwards, but it would still have to be as soft as possible. Call it semisoft.

Call it the end of a traitor's megalomaniacal master plan.