Firebase Seattle

"We can tell you plenty about that guy," Turrin said. "But it'll keep. Go on, this is getting fascinating."

"Well — the guy is not a made man, I know that. But he's been bringing made VIPs out here for the past three or four months, wining and dining them, taking them on guided tours of some special facility here. And it's not the Expo."

"Fair isn't even open yet, is it?" Turrin wondered aloud.

"Soon," Brognola said. "Couldn't there be a co

"It's possible," Bolan allowed. "It's been a nice cover so far, for contraband. Could be just as nice a cover for people. But I've found no evidence of direct involvement with the legitimate Expo people."

"Ants at the goddam picnic — to borrow your phrase," Turrin commented. "So where is the picnic? What's big enough in this place to warrant all the panic?"

"Cosa di tutti Cosi," Bolan said quietly.

"Sure," Brognola agreed. "That's been a possibility for a long time. But where's the corpus delicti?"

"All around you," Bolan muttered. "I'm going to play you a tape that I collected not half an hour ago."

He punched a button on the front panel and swung out a miniature console.

"Hell, would you look at that!" Turrin enthused.

Bolan explained, "I gathered this poop from the Franciscus penthouse. Covers the period from the moment of strike to about forty minutes thereafter. The primary voices you'll hear will be Franciscus and a guy called Helma

"I have the picture," Brognola said.

"Run it," said Turrin. "I'm dying from curiosity."

Bolan operated a small electronic keyboard on the console and turned grim concentration to the task of driving the vehicle.

An overhead speaker came alive with the confused sounds of thudding feet, cursing men, doors or something slamming shut.

A loud voice yelled, "That was Bolan, dammit!

The son of a bitch, look what he left here for God's sake!"

A fainter voice yelled, "He took the chick, Captain!"

"Forget it, forget it! They're not going far! Hey, you people! Help Mr. Helma

"It's all right, Captain," a thickly accented voice assured. "I have survived worse. I shall survive this."

More slamming, shuffling, excited voices overcoming all else. Then a tense a

"You what?"

"He had a helicopter on the roof. Got away clean."

A long period of silence preceded the next words, heavily accented speech: "This was one man? He does all this? He kicks Max Helma

Bolan depressed an idler button to explain further. "From here on it jumps back and forth pretty quick, so keep ears alert. My mixer automatically edits time gaps and unintelligible impulses. Thirty recording minutes are compressed into less than ten. Get set, it's heavy stuff."

Leo Turrin actually lit his cigar. Brognola clamped his jaw and leaned forward, tensely expectant.

Bolan released the idler and the sounds returned. He sent the warwagon on a slow cruise along the lakefront, his own shoulders tensed, eyes brooding as he listened for the second time to the clues for the conspiracy of the century.

Ten minutes later, Leo Turrin slumped into his seat with a grim smile. "Well well," he commented drily. "So they're bringing the bucks back home."

Brognola clenched his hands together and growled, "As well as the francs, the marks, the lira, and the pounds. But why here? Why move Switzerland to Seattle?"

"Safer, maybe," Bolan guessed. "It sounds like these guys are preparing for economic doomsday. Maybe they're even manipulating one into existence. A worldwide depression is bound to benefit somebody, isn't it? I'm not much on economics — but in my book, for every loss there's somewhere a gain."

Brognola was frowning, deep in thought. "Me either. Economics, I mean, I don't get. I don't believe the economists understand it, even. But I don't see how the mere location of paper money could mean that much. Do you, Leo?"

"We have a saying in the mob," Turrin replied soberly. "Don't go for the pocket, go for the throat."

"So?"

"They're not talking about paper."

"Langley Island!" Bolan said with a sigh, the light finally dawning.

"Huh?" from Turrin.

Sure. Langley Island. Vaults, not bunkers. Underground vaults in solid rock. Hard storage, sure. A military guard, with heavy firepower and Nazi-like discipline. Bombproof, fireproof, burglar proof. Like Fort Knox.

"Gold," Turrin was saying. "Or silver, maybe. Why not both? I heard just the other day that an old silver quarter is actually worth about two bucks in today's paper. They haven't been minting pure silver for a long time."

Bolan said, "How much of a share would it take, I wonder, to swing the whole world's economy wherever you damn well wanted it?"

"That's a thought," Brognola grimly replied. "I would think, possibly, a very modest share. It works that way with some corporate stocks. You can control with ten to twenty percent."

"What's the latest estimate on worldwide mob worth?" Bolan asked.

"Outta sight!" Brognola replied with a flourish toward the ceiling.

Turrin punctuated that with a quiet, "You know it."

"You guys want to take time for a little jaunt with me?" Bolan asked tautly.

"Where to?"

"Up near Everett, few miles up the coast. A warehouse whose time has come."

"Let me get some marshals on the line," Brognola urged.

"Not yet, Hal. You'd just get your tail kinked. They're strictly legit, so far. I doubt that you could even get a warrant without a lot of hassle through Washington. And, unless I miss my guess, it would be blocked there. I need to expose it first. Then you can move in, and to hell with the warrants. Right?"

"I need to at least get them on standby."

Bolan passed him the mobile phone, and explained, "Big metal warehouse on the Sound. Has PNA decals on it. That's on, uh, state route 525, south of Paine Air Force Base. You might have them assemble at the base."

"That would work fine," the official replied. "How do you use this thing?"

Bolan showed him how, then he showed the battle cruiser her heading and began making tracks northward.

It was time once again for her to earn her keep.

This time, with her claws.