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place said the guy had become a believer. Every word Bolan had said was truth and Drummond knew it.
    "You're turned up, Drummond," Bolan went on relentlessly. "You are blown. I know, and MI5 knows. Pretty soon your pals in the Kremlin will know. Think they'll like that?" Bolan knew that Drummond had been around long enough to understand what this meant. Now he was worthless as a Russian agent. If his KGB masters got their hands on him, they would begin by interrogating him, and their methods would be the methods of the Beast. In short order Drummond would have told them everything of any conceivable value he had learned during his career with British Intelligence.
    But that would not stop the torture. The agony would continue, and so would Drummond, babbling out anything that came to mind, making up stories from whole cloth, beyond response or understanding, wanting only that the torment be over.
    It would be over only when Drummond was dead.
    But before that event, a hellish forever would pass.
    Bolan could see the knowledge of Drummond's fate pass across the treasonous bastard's features.
    "You are going to answer my questions," Bolan told him, "and after that your friends-the friends you tried to betray, they take over. They promise not to turn you over. You get to spend the rest of your life in some cozy military prison, which is a hell of a lot more than you deserve."
    "How civilized," Drummond murmured.
    Bolan pushed the barrel of the Detonics into Drummond's high forehead, forcing his head back.
    "At 11:35, an American-made Beechcraft C-12A Super King Air turboprop will land," the Englishman began tonelessly. "It has been converted for light cargo and bears Transworld Import/export markings, although it is not one of MI5's. The pilot is Captain L. Rouballin of the KGB, and he will file a return flight plan for Leningrad."
    "The prototype is here?"
    Drummond nodded.
    "Give me the envelope."
    Drummond hesitated a moment, then pulled it out of his inside coat pocket. Reaching for it cost Bolan a serious spasm of pain in his left shoulder. He felt fresh stickiness on the wad of turtleneck that he was holding against the wound.
    The envelope contained a single piece of 4-by-6-inch microfiche film. Bolan slipped it in the back pocket of his slacks, grimacing slightly as he did so.
    Excellent. So far, so good. All that remained was to deal with the guidance-system prototype that the Russians were so hot for. As a piece of hardware it was not especially valuable; it was one of several which had been bread-boarded. It was the revealed technology that the Soviets wanted. The prototype sang openly of the secret history that had gone into its making. He would prevent this hemorrhage of data by keeping the thing out of their hands.
    He would do this by giving it to them.
    Of course, Bolan planned to make it a little bit too hot for them to handle.
    Drummond was making it clear to the Russian that he did not appreciate being pressed into service as a stevedore. He had helped the KGBer load the prototype into the C-12A, but he was expressing his displeasure in no uncertain terms.
    In the hangar office, Mack Bolan looked on grimly. The guy was good, all right, but then he had to be. He was playing for his life. Bolan had showed him the face of his potential Executioner.

4
    Agent Lemon still lay against the wall, unconscious but breathing regularly.
    From the receiver on the desk in front of Bolan, Rouballin said, "Where is specifications manual?" The Russian pilot's voice was guttural and thick with a Slavic accent. There was a pause, and then Rouballin demanded, "What is meaning of this?" From the anger in his tone, Bolan knew Drummond had handed over the attache case — the case that Bolan had been carrying.
    "The manual is inside," Drummond's voice said suavely. "I will be most pleased to give you the combination to that lock as soon as I am able to verify that the agreed upon funds have been transferred to the account, in