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restitution for the advance I was compelled to make to the American, Mr. Charon."
    "You not get away with..."
    "Of course, if you like you are free to break the case open," Drummond interrupted smoothly.
    "However, you should do so with a great deal of care. Do I make myself clear, old chap?" The radio-another product of Gadgets Schwarz's fertile imagination and electronic wizardry went silent for a moment; it was tuned to the frequency of a transmitting body-mike installed on Drummond.
    "If I were you, Captain Rouballin," the Brit went on, "I would consider my mission here accomplished. I suggest you get back in your craft and fly away home."
    The KGB pilot muttered something in Russian that quickly faded to silent as he moved out of the microphone's range. Time passed, and then Bolan heard the sound of a PT6 engine turning over.
    The bullet wound in his shoulder was a pulsing dull ache now. When Bolan peered under the improvised bandage, he found the redness looking angrier. But at least the bleeding was almost stopped. As he was recovering it, Drummond came into the office.
    There was a thin sheen of sweat across the double agent's forehead, but he had lost none of his composure. In a way, it was easier to deal with a professional like Drummond, who had enough years of tradecraft behind him to realize that his fate was dictated by his obedience now. From outside they heard the Beechcraft taxi by the hangar, the sound drifting into the distance, then coming back again, passing more quickly this time as the plane accelerated into takeoff.
    Drummond listened to Bolan's instructions wordlessly.
    Five minutes later Bolan had shed his bloody coat and the remnants of his turtleneck for the shirt and jacket of Lemon. It was a tight fit, but it would pass. The MI5 agent had regained consciousness, but some electrical wire and a rag from the hangar's maintenance shop insured his immobility and silence for now.
    What was less sure, at least to the man who was engineering the play, was if he would last until the finale. The wound was a pounding presence now, and Bolan knew that without treatment he would descend into shock within minutes.
    But there was still one more loose end to clean up before the mission would be history.
    Shock would have to wait until then.
    The control tower chief was a brisk efficient man in starched uniform shirtsleeves and forest-green slacks. He wore a mustache and full beard, both neatly trimmed, and a nameplate that identified him as "V. Vaughn." The tower rose from the midpoint of the three terminals, and through the panoramic windows Bolan could see 270 degrees worth of aprons and runways. The tower chief glared at the camera case slung over Bolan's good shoulder and said, "No pictures," rather sharply. Then he frowned at the identification card in his hand for longer than necessary before handing it back to Sir Philip Drummond.
    "What do you want?" Vaughn said, his tone barely civil.
    "About twelve minutes ago," Drummond told the chief, "a Beechcraft manifested as belonging to Transworld I/E took off, bound for Leningrad. The aircraft ID number is SKBLEDHGD. I would like to know that aircraft's present position."
    Vaughn's frown deepened. "By regulation, Sir Philip, such a request must come through channels, as you know."
    "Mr. Vaughn." Drummond raised his voice enough to turn the heads of a few of the air-traffic controllers working nearby. "This is an urgent matter, directly affecting national defense." He lowered his voice again.
    The guy had a flair for the dramatic, Bolan had to admit. But then, a man would have to become an accomplished actor if he expected to survive the double life.
    "As tower chief," Drummond went on, "I believe you are aware of the functions of Transworld I/E?" It was plain that Vaughn detested having rank pulled on him. But he spun on his heel and went to one of the vacant control terminals. He flicked a selector knob and a series of green-tinted images flashed onto the