The Killing Rule. Don Pendleton

Bolan knew the name from the files Kurtzman had given him. “The chairman of the board.”

      “Indeed.” Lord William made a face as though he had just tasted something vaguely unpleasant. “Rich boy. Went to Eton. He spent a couple of years in the TerritorialArmyVolunteers. He made lieutenant but never served anywhere. Something of an ‘intense’ personality. Loved shooting guns, rolling around on the judo mat and hearing everyone else’s war stories. A real ‘weekend warrior,’ as you Yanks would say.”

      McCarter had met the type before. “Sounds like a right proper Charlie.”

      “A right proper head for business, though,” Lord William countered. “Bought stock when we went public. Then he bought more. Infused some needed cash when I was between fortunes and ended up with controlling interest in the company. A real murderer in the boardroom. Trust me, I have the scars to prove it.”

      “Lord William, the situation is this,” Bolan said. “The CIA heard chatter that the IRA was somehow mixed up with weapons of mass destruction. MI-5 discounted them.”

      “Bloody right they did. What’s the IRA going to do with a nuke or some ugly bloody bug? They’re smart enough to know if they ever did such a damn fool thing all it would get them is a second Norman invasion. England would turn the entire island into a medieval fife again. I’m sure a few of the buggers have dreamy dreams of Parliament going up in a mushroom cloud, but that’s all it is, a pipe dream.”

      “I agree. However, two CIA agents were killed investigating that rumor, and when I looked into the matter and stirred things up with the IRA, Ruud Heitinga and the other three in the pictures I showed you showed up unannounced at my hotel room. During interrogation, the woman claimed she was under contract with Aegis Global Security.”

      Lord William was appalled. “What’s a woman doing working for Aegis?”

      “Computer hacker.”

      The baron considered this strange turn of events. “Really.”

      “These days, breaking into enemy computer bases is almost more necessary than infiltrating their firebases,” Bolan told him.

      “Computer hacker. Well, that is forward thinking,” Lord William admitted. “Must be one of Jennings’s innovations.”

      McCarter saw his opening. “Bill?”

      “Yes, David?”

      “Not that I’m complaining, but that was an unusual welcome this morning.”

      “Well, there’s been some trouble about.”

      “What kind of trouble, Bill?”

      Lord William stared into the crackling fire. “Oh, you know. The usual thing. An attempt or two on my life. One was a sniper’s bullet through the terrace window. Took my nightcap clean off my head.” He shook his head ruefully. “Never found the bastard.”

      “And the other?”

      “Lunk found him by the compost pile. Starkers was busy burying the poor bastard.”

      Bolan and McCarter stared at the mutant Great Dane.

      Lord William shrugged. “Well, they always say leave the dogs outside during the day but bring them in to defend you at night. But after the sniper attack, I started leaving the dogs out after hours. Felt bad for Starkers. I had to buy him some canine Wellies to keep him warm. Poor hairless bastard. You know, I almost had him put down when he was born. Bloody runt of the litter. But my lady friend at the time thought he was cute, so I kept him. Well, then, anyway, apparently Starkers and this son of a bitch had a difference of opinion in the wee hours a fortnight ago. Needless to say, Starkers earned his kibble.” Lord William leaned down and scratched the immense animal between the ears. “Who’s a good lad? Who’s a good lad, then? It’s bloody you, Starkers, isn’t it!”

      Starkers thumped his tail on the polar bear carcass in agreement.

      “You know, all the bastard had was knife?” Lord William turned to Bolan. “One of your Yank Bowie knives. I swear it was a foot long. You could skin an elephant with the bloody thing. Guess he wanted to get up close and personal with me.” Lord William gave his dog another rub behind the ears. “Should have brought a bloody elephant gun for you, Starkers, shouldn’t he have?”

      Starkers rolled onto his back and shuddered like a squid.

      “So then I get a call from an old comrade whom I never really knew that well from the old days in SAS. You, David, and you’ll forgive me if I was a bit suspicious.”

      Bolan finished his beer. A bottle cracked open behind Bolan and the giant Welshman stalked forward and refilled his glass. “No harm, no foul, your lordship. May I ask you a personal question?”

      “Everyone does, and I find myself far more fond of you than the average Yank.”

      “I assume you still have stock in Aegis?”

      “Oh, a sizable chunk. Jennings wanted to buy me out outright, but that’s where I put my foot down. I still get my dividends quarterly and occasionally vote in the stockholder’s meetings.”

      “Do you still have the legal right to look into the company’s doings?”

      “Might be a bit touch and go.” Lord William leaned back and contemplated his whiskey. “Though I suppose I could call an emergency stockholders’ meeting and raise a stench. There aren’t that many of us, but then again, we’re scattered about the globe a bit. It would take time.”

      “What if you pulled a surprise visit to corporate headquarters?” Bolan suggested.

      “You mean, just show up in Amsterdam, unannounced?” A devilish grin suddenly passed across Lord William’s face. “Brass balls and all that.”

      “Something like that.”

      “Well, it’s the last thing they’d expect, but I doubt I can get more than one guest through the door.” Lord William raised an eyebrow at Bolan. “I assume you would like to come along?”

      “If you don’t mind.”

      “Not at all.”

      McCarter frowned. “You sure you don’t want some backup?”

      Bolan had already given that some thought. “Actually, I’d like you to go back to London. My name is mud with MI-5 right about now, but last I heard you’re still a golden boy with British Intelligence. You’re our best shot at getting real cooperation.”

      He took out Assistant Director Finch’s business card. “Look her up. Deal with her and only her. I still have the feeling there’s someone higher up trying to smother this whole situation.”

      McCarter scanned the card and memorized it. “Right, then.” He tapped his copy of the mission file. “I don’t like it, though. The more I hear, the less I trust this Jennings git.”

      “Oh, well!” Lord William grinned. “If you’ve a git problem, then Lunk’s your solution.” He turned to the massive Welshman. “Lunk! How’s about a little jaunt to Holland?”

      Lunk considered this for several long moments. “The smoked eel is delicious.”

      Amsterdam

      LUNK WOLFED SMOKED EEL from a roll of newspaper. Bolan had learned on the flight from Guernsey that “Lunk” was short for Lynnock ap Nock, and the Cymric superman had been a Coxswain in the Royal Marines 539 Assault Squadron. The mission was rolling too fast for the Farm to arrange a full war load of weapons to await him in Amsterdam, but Bolan had gone to the American Embassy and the CIA station chief had acquired a Beretta 92 for him from the Marine Guard armory and a snub-nosed .38 from his own personal cache. Lord William was currently making a pit stop of his own, and Bolan and Lunk stood outside the Central Bank of the Netherlands. Lord William came out ten minutes later and tossed Lunk an old-fashioned canvas courier’s pouch. “Hold on to that,