Part 13 (1/2)

”Well, I'd like to talk to you, kid. How 'bout meeting me somewheres?”

”You name it,” Bolan replied.

”You know the Tower of London?”

”I can find it.”

”It's down by the Thames, down past London Bridge and, uh, let's see, like going down to th' docks. You got a picture?”

”Yeah, I'll find it. When?”

”Listen, meet me on Execution Row in about an hour.”

Bolan almost laughed into the telephone. He controlled himself and said, ”What's that Execution Row?”

”Aw, it's part of the sightseeing kick down there, it's where Ann Boleyn got hers, you know, a historical spot. Just ask a guide when you get there. Uh, kind of mix in with the tourists, you know, don't look obvious. I gotta talk to you about something important. It'll be worth something to you, don't worry.”

”Okay, in about an hour.”

”Uh, wait a minute. Somebody just told me it don't open 'til ten. Tell you what, meet me there at ten thirty.”

”Ten thirty it is,” Bolan agreed.

”Okay, and remember I said to don't look obvious. Nothing personal, kid, I mean I'm not ashamed of meeting you in the open, nothing like that. I just don't want no London cops busting me, you understand that.”

Bolan understood perfectly. ”Okay, and here's one for you, Leo. You come alone, n.o.body but you. I get nervous in a crowd.”

Turrin chuckled and said something in an aside to a third person, then he told Bolan, ”Don't worry, I'll be alone. You just watch your end.”

Bolan growled a goodbye and hung up. It had been obvious that Turrin had been speaking in a crowd, probably from a table-top conference. Now he would be explaining to those listening that the call had come from a guy who could put him next to Bolan.

Okay, fine. So what happened if someone else at that table decided to get next to Bolan first? Bolan sighed. He would simply have to trust Turrin to handle that possibility.

It seemed that all of a sudden he was having to trust an awful h.e.l.l of a lot of people to keep his head on.

And Bolan didn't like it, not a bit. The jungle never saw after its own; in the jungle, survival was always an individual proposition.

A sound from across the room brought him out of his thoughts, and he looked up to see Ann Franklin quietly regarding him. He waved to her from the bed-stage-whatever and called down, ”It's a swinging pad. What's a nice girl like you doing with all this schmazz schmazz?”

She ascended the steps with a hesitant smile and said, ”Schmazz, is that good or bad?”

He shrugged and grinned at her. ”Depends on what ticks you,” he replied in the same light tone. ”Did you get your labor problem settled?”

She jerked her head in a curt nod and did something behind her to make her dress fall off.

Bolan's eyes flared at the spectacular view. She wore little bikini panties which were a mere technicality, and a no-bra bra that wasn't even that. His earlier recollection of the flawless skin proved valid, and even somewhat unfair. He had viewed it then through wearied and bloodshot eyes. Now they were neither weary nor bloodshot and the beauty of this woman was almost appalling. He said, ”Dammit, Ann!”

”I told you,” she murmured. ”I'm in your hands.”

He pulled her down beside him and she fell onto her back, curving around in a graceful sprawl with one knee slightly raised and both arms yoked up above her head. He touched her here and there, almost reverently, and she responded with a purring little sigh.

”Kiss me,” she whispered.

He did so, and found the inner man of him rising to mingle with the heady sensuality of the moment. Yeah, yeah-it could be love.

”Oh I love you, Mack,” she whispered, voicing the thing he could not.

He touched her again and she squirmed under the sensation, catching her breath in a sharp intake and rising toward him for another soulful mingling of lips and teeth and tongue and all of it.

He got away from it, smiled, and asked her a h.e.l.l of a question, all considered. ”You're sure this is what you want?”

She held his face with both hands and gave him a s.h.i.+very confirmation. ”Oh I'm sure.”

”You already have the proof you wanted,” Bolan pointed out.

She gave her head an emphatic shake and whispered, ”Well not quite.”

Bolan showed her a solemn smile and said, ”Everybody turns off at the same switch, Ann. It's what turns us on that makes the difference.” He waved a hand over her head in a mock ceremonial gesture. ”I now p.r.o.nounce you a natural woman.”

”Mack for G.o.d's sake make love to me,” she pleaded in a half-strangled little voice.

He whispered a very ragged, ”Okay,” and pushed himself clear and began coming away from his clothing.

She watched him through heavy-lidded eyes, lying still as death except for the rapid rise and fall of her breath, the pink tip of a delicate tongue curled into the corner of parted lips.

He snapped off the gunleather and dropped it to the floor, very close to the bed, attacked the skinsuit then halted suddenly, aware of her intent gaze.

She giggled and said, ”Carry on. I've seen it before. I put you to bed yesterday, remember?”

”You haven't seen it like this before,” he growled, and peeled off the suit and threw it at her.

She squealed and flipped over onto all fours, and Bolan scooped her up and dragged her off the bed. She clung to him and their lips merged again, after which he told her, ”I'll have a bath first, m'lady. Want to come in with me?”

She nodded starry-eyed approval of the suggestion and Bolan carried her down from the stage of a bed and deposited her at the edge of the bubbling-fountain pool. She slipped out of the bra and clung to Bolan's shoulder with one hand as she stepped out of the silken bikini.

Then she froze in that position, her fingers digging into Bolan's shoulder, and she let out a scream that s.h.i.+vered him clear to his feet. He overreacted, s.n.a.t.c.hing her away from the pool with a violence that sent her sprawling across the floor. Then he saw what she had seen, and he was s.h.i.+vered all over again.

The dead eyes of Harry Parks were staring up at him from beneath the water. The naked body was arched back with the head drawn between the knees in almost the same position in which Edwin Charles had died, and he was bound into that position with a thick tapestry cord. A heavy metal figurine was holding the body submerged.

Bolan went into the water and pulled him out while Ann Franklin had a mild case of hysterics on the sidelines. Except for bruises made by the bindings, no marks of violence showed on the body. Harry Parks had undoubtedly died down there with his lungs full of water, his nose barely beneath the surface and straining to break clear-it all showed in those horribly staring dead eyes. Rigor mortis had arrived, and Bolan did not even attempt to straighten the body. He covered the crouching figure with an oval throw rug and led Ann Franklin back to the bed, rounded up her clothes, and tossed them to her.

”You'd better get dressed,” he said listlessly.

She did so mechanically. Bolan got into his and went directly to the bar. He found the brandy and poured two stiff doses and carried them to the bed. Ann took hers without looking at him, and held the gla.s.s with both hands, peering down into the liquid as though hoping to find something written there.

Bolan tossed his down, then whirled about and heaved the gla.s.s against the far wall. It hit with a crash, and Ann flinched.