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back to the big man. Blanski, a strong-jawed and solid-looking man who stood well over six feet, was dressed in a sport coat and casual trousers. Kline felt that there was something odd about the way his visitor was dressed. Not that there was anything wrong with the clothes themselves. It was more a sense that they were inappropriate to Blanski's whole being.
    Sort of like a gorilla in a suit.
    No, that was all wrong, Kline corrected himself.
    This man looked capable of dining with the President and being perfectly at home. It was more like seeing John Wayne in a tuxedo, he decided. No matter how Blanski dressed, he gave off an aura that didn't square with offices and ties. A sense of danger clung to the man like a second skin.
    Kline had an uncanny intuition about people that he relied on heavily. Its accuracy was one of the things that had propelled him this far up the ladder in his eleven-year career with the Bureau. He would guess this man as former military, maybe an ex-commando, probably a fairly high-ranking officer from his self-possessed air of command. The agent meant to find out what he was up against.
    He would start by betting his pension that this guy's real name wasn't Michael Blanski.
    The problem, as Kline saw it, was to use Blanski or whoever he was to advance the case. And at the same time, Kline's career.
    The best way, he decided, was to appear to capitulate, but to still pull the strings. The special agent had had plenty of practice in being the puppet master. He'd have Blanski dancing his tune in no time.
    "Well, getting an urgent message from the Justice Department telling me to cooperate with someone from outside the Bureau isn't something that happens every day. Especially when the case involves the murder of an FBI agent. But I'll be happy to keep you fully informed."
    In a pig's eye, Bolan thought. This guy was suddenly a shade too affable to be believable.
    Kline settled back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head, a pose he often adopted when he was in a lecturing mood. "Let me just run down what has happened so far. A young agent, Jake Sharp, infiltrated the operation of one Cameron McIntyre, a major arms manufacturer. We've had our suspicions about McIntyre for a while now, and Sharp was gathering evidence to nail him. Suddenly, ate-out a month ago, Sharp disappeared. A couple of vagrants found the body about two weeks later. It wasn't a pretty sight."
    Kline forced away the image of the mangled, half-decayed body he'd had to identify at the county morgue. He'd been battling with the recurring nightmare vision every day since Sharp's body had been found hanging like a rejected haunch of beef.
    "McIntyre denies everything." Kline nodded repeatedly for emphasis. "He has a pack of unimpeachable witnesses who swear that he had nothing to do with Sharp's death. There's no evidence to link Sharp and McIntyre together that night. End of case, so far. But we'll keep digging."
    Bolan brooded momentarily, hands clasping the wooden arms of the well-padded executive chair.
    It was a shame about Sharp, but that wasn't his concern.
    If McIntyre was really dealing arms illegally, he was guilty of a lot worse than murder.
    "Fill me in about McIntyre."
    Kline had no trouble with that request. He made it a point to be on top of the facts of a case, a trait that impressed his superiors. "Cameron's grandfather founded the firm during World War 1. His father expanded it enormously and made a fair-size fortune during World War II. Business has been pretty steady since then. Cameron took over about five years ago and has been pushing the export side of arms dealing. All very legitimate, of course. He's made sure to get the proper end-use certificates from foreign governments. Without these as an assurance that the arms are going to U.S.-approved states, he isn't allowed to export a Bowie knife."
    Without being told, Bolan knew that this was only part of the story. A terrorist group could often find a way