Don Pendleton - Meltdown

As much as Achison and, Glinkov frightened him, he was unwilling to give up the easy life. He had been comfortable for too long to go back to square one. He had fought the good fight, and no one had given a damn where his next meal had come from.

Sleeping on the floor of cold-water flats was not for him. No more. He had paid his dues. And if the price of comfort was his soul, what the hell. He'd pay.

Glinkov's eyes watched the door of the secluded farmhouse as it opened. The Russian was clearly annoyed.

"You're late, Mr. Parsons. I don't appreciate that. I won't tolerate it," he said before Parsons was, barely through the doorway.

"Who the hell are you to talk to me like that?"

"That doesn't matter, Mr. Parsons. What matters is that I can, and do, expect you to be on time. I'm a busy man."

"Yeah, sure. We're all busy. I have things to do, too. Why am I here?"

Glinkov didn't answer. He watched Parsons closely, waiting for the telltale signs. If he knew Parsons as well as he thought he did, the man would begin to squirm.

Until then, he would hold his silence.

"I thought you had something you wanted to talk to me about," Parsons said, shifting his feet nervously. "Let's get down to business. I want to go home to get some sleep."

Glinkov leaned back in his chair, still keeping silent. It shouldn't be long. He knew why Parsons was being so antagonistic. Camouflage.

Parsons was obviously feeling the strain.

"Look, are you going to talk, or aren't you?" Parsons made a show of walking deliberately back to the door he had just closed. With his hand on the knob, he turned to Glinkov, arching an eyebrow as if giving the Russian one last opportunity to speak.

And Glinkov smiled.

Parsons stood with his hand on the knob. He turned the knob, pulling the inner door toward him.

Still watching Glinkov, he reached for the outer door.

Glinkov was still smiling. His eyes had that same flat, empty glitter. Parsons threw in the towel. He knew that he had lost. The Russian owned him.

"All right, look, I'm sorry. I guess I'm a little edgy."

"Sit down, Mr. Parsons."

Parsons did as he was told. He returned to the sofa across from the Russian's easy chair. When he was seated, Glinkov stopped smiling. Finally the Russian spoke.

"Our little diversion was successful, wasn't it?"

"Yes. You were right. There was someone watching the house. Who was it?"

"It doesn't matter, yet. For the moment, as long as we know where he is, it doesn't matter who he is. It is always the enemy you can't see who poses the greatest threat, Mr. Parsons."

"Always?"

"Yes, always."

"Why did you want me to come here?"

"To inform you of a few things."

"Such as?"

"And to request a favor of you."

"A favor?"

"We shall get to that later. First, the information." Glinkov glanced at his watch. "As of this very minute, our little adventure at Thunder Mountain is under way."

"What? But how? I mean, I didn't give that order."

"Mr. Parsons, it's time you realized that you are no longer in a position to give orders. It is no longer your prerogative. From now on you will follow them."

"But the plans were for..."

Glinkov cut in. "The plans have been changed. Mr. Achison is in charge of the operation."

"You bastard. You had this all worked out. You didn't want Peter to lose anyone. You wanted me out of the way."

"Not at all. When we are finished here, we will go directly to Thunder Mountain. But Mr. Achison, you will have to admit, is more... military minded, let us say. And this is, after all, a military operation, is it not?"

"But we're not ready. We still need some information on the layout of the plant."

"I have that already. I've passed it on to Mr. Achison. I'm sure he'll make good use of it. Your Mr. Reynolds was an invaluable source of information. I congratulate you on finding him."

Parsons was momentarily speechless. Things were totally beyond his control. "I seem to be expendable," he said.

"Not at all. We need you very much, Mr. Parsons. That should be apparent. You will give us the media exposure we want. Your presence will ensure that people pay attention to what we say rather than to what we do."

"What do you mean? What's the difference?"

"All in good time. We have to hurry. We have things to do. We are to meet Peter in two hours. Inside Thunder Mountain."

"But..."

"First, come with me."

Glinkov walked toward the back of the house. Parsons meekly followed. There was nothing else he could do. Entering the kitchen, Glinkov opened a wooden door that hid behind a flight of stairs. Glinkov motioned for Parsons to follow him downstairs. The basement was illuminated by a single overhead bulb. In one corner, two figures lay huddled against the wall.

Alan Reynolds moaned as the two men approached. The other figure, a woman, was lying facedown.

"What happened? What's going on here?" Parsons demanded.

"Mr. Reynolds has served his purpose, Malcolm. It wouldn't do for anyone to learn just how helpful he's been, would it?"

"But what..."

"That favor I mentioned? It's time to deliver. I want you to dispose of Mr. Reynolds. Now." Glinkov reached into his pocket and withdrew a small automatic pistol. The blue steel of the .22 caliber Walther PPK glittered in his palm. "I trust you know how to use this?"

"I won't do it. I'm not a murderer. I can't shoot a man in cold blood like this. What the hell do you think I am?"

"That's a question you might more appropriately ask yourself, Mr. Parsons. What the hell do you think you are? It will only require one shot." Glinkov extended the gun.

"No, I won't. I can't," he argued even as he snatched the gun from Glinkov's hand. He was beginning to sweat. "Don't ask me to do it. There's no point, no reason."

"Of course there is. He's seen me. He can identify me. We can't have that, can we?"

Parsons slowly raised the gun, pointing it at Reynolds and then at Glinkov. "I could shoot you, you know. I could do that!"

Glinkov said nothing.

He stared unwaveringly at Parsons. He had seen the man squirm earlier. He would do it again now.

He was broken. Parsons's last vestiges of self-respect had been stripped away. He would do what he was told.

Slowly, the gun was shifted away from Glinkov toward the whimpering man. Reynolds wouldn't feel anything; he was too far gone. Parsons knew that if he didn't shoot him, Glinkov would. And then the Russian would shoot the antinuke leader.

Parsons closed his eyes and squeezed the trigger. The report bounced off the basement walls. Parsons opened his eyes and looked at Reynolds. The bullet had hit him in the left temple. Blood pooled on the canvas beneath the dead man's head. The wound was raw and ugly. A thin trickle of blood oozed from Reynolds's open mouth.

Parsons turned away. Throwing the gun across the cellar, he bent over at the waist and threw up.

A series of dry, racking heaves twisted his gut into knots.

"Well done, Mr. Parsons. You have more backbone than I thought. Perhaps we shall enjoy working together, eh? Who would have thought it?"

"You cold, murdering bastard," Parsons whispered. "There was no need for that."

"No? Then why did you do it? It was you, after all, who pulled the trigger."

"You made me do it."

"Did I?" Glinkov retrieved the pistol and handed it back to Parsons. "Keep it. You'll need it before the night is over."

"What do we do with the woman?" Parsons didn't want to know the answer, but he had to ask.

"We'll take her with us. We will have use for her at Thunder Mountain. Give me a hand." Glinkov rolled the unconscious woman into a second canvas, then pulled her forward. "Take the other end. We'll take her out to the car."