Free Blood Testament by Don Pendleton Page B

contact point. Before he flew, a call from Kennedy had netted him the address of a townhouse in Georgetown, and he stopped again in Hyattsville to phone ahead, confirm that he was on the ground and homing in. The traffic worsened mile by mile, became a snarl as Bolan crossed the line from Maryland to D.C. proper. The final run to Georgetown was a short six miles, but it took the soldier forty minutes, hitting every red light on the way.
    The neighborhood was quiet, stately, home to senators, diplomats and cabinet members. Turrin's safe house, purchased in the early days of the protected witness program, was a condo overlooking the Potomac, with a striking view of Arlington across the water. Bolan found a parking space and locked the Ford, secure in the knowledge that police patrols would keep the average car thief off those cloistered streets. Avoiding the flamboyance found in certain areas of Southern California, for example, the neighborhood still exuded affluence and style. His car, big enough and new enough to pass a rough inspection, would no doubt remind the neighbors of a poor relation visiting from out of town.
    He crossed the sidewalk and climbed a flight of steps with decorative hedges on either side. Another moment and he would be swallowed up, invisible to neighbors on the north and south. Behind him, at a distance of some fifty yards, the dark Potomac swept along its timeless course, conveying passengers and cargo toward the sea.
    The townhouse was defensible, he saw at once, its proximity to the adjoining structures limiting the opposition's angle of attack. Determined shock troops, striking with the full advantage of surprise, could storm the place, but they would pay a price in blood before they cleared the windows. Aside from that, the first barrage would send the neighbors into shock and have them reaching for their telephones to call the police.
    The uniformed response to any shooting call in Georgetown would be swift, decisive. Washington had heard enough of senators attacked while walking to and from the parking lots around the Capitol. Determined to survive with dignity, despite the proximity of reeking ghettos and a violent crime rate equal to some cities twice her size, the seat of government was going hard. The soldier wondered if it might be too late. He knocked and waited for a moment, hearing footsteps from within and standing tall before the unobtrusive spy hole mounted in the center of the door. Leo fumbled with the double lock then stood before him, grinning weakly. "Hey, long time."
    They shook hands warmly, then the soldier followed him inside.
    "Looks cozy."
    "It'll do." He hesitated, finally beckoning the Executioner to follow him. "I'm glad you could make it."
    "I'll pretend I didn't hear that, guy." The sunken living room was on their left as Bolan followed Leo down a narrow hallway. Hal Brognola rose to greet them, setting down his whiskey glass. Bolan shook his hand then sat down beside him on a sofa facing picture windows, which were curtained now against the threat of prying eyes.
    "You made good time," Brognola said. "I caught a charter."
    Bolan cleared his throat, aware that there was no time to be wasted on preliminary small talk. "So, let's have it."
    And Brognola gave it to him, everything that had happened in the hours since he signed off work on Friday evening. Bolan took it in, refraining from the vacuous commiseration that does nothing to relieve the suffering of the bereaved. He understood Hal's pain, had been there — and beyond — on more than one occasion, and he knew that what Brognola needed at the moment was decisive action to retrieve his loved ones. Platitudes and sympathy were useless in the present situation. If he couldn't get the big Fed's family back, his most sincere condolences wouldn't be worth a damn.
    "No progress on the name?"
    It was a long shot, almost laughable, and when Brognola shook his head, the Executioner felt no surprise.
    "It's hopeless. I've