He followed Henry Hudson Parkway North, beside Fort Tryon Park, and took the single access road that carried him beneath a grassy overpass and north again, inside Central Park now, circling around the Cloisters.
Bolan found a parking place close by the entrance, dropped a dollar "voluntary" entrance fee in the collection box as he passed through the turnstile. The building was arranged around a square central tower, with most of the ground floor devoted to an open courtyard. On Bolan's left as he entered was the Treasury, with its priceless collection of art, the Glass Gallery, named for its roundels and stained-glass panels dating from the fifteenth century, and the small gothic chapel filled with effigies and slabs from ancient tombs. The main displays were all upstairs, and Bolan found Brognola in the Spanish Room.
"How's everything in Wonderland?"
"Ass backward. You know how it goes. So how's with you?"
"I'm keeping busy."
"So I hear. They're howling all the way to Albany."
"So soon?"
"Somebody's got a lot at stake on this one. They can't afford to see it fall apart."
"Minelli."
"At the very least. He's got a lot of friends."
"Some enemies, too, I'll bet."
"Safe money. You can't please all the people."
"Have you heard from Rafferty?"
"First thing. I want to thank you for the lady."
"Half a job. I'm working on the rest of it."
"Go easy, huh? We want him, but there's more at stake."
"Like Flasher?"
Brognola turned to face him squarely for the first lime, lifting a quizzical eyebrow. "There anything you don't know?"
"Plenty. What's her job with Jules Patriarcca?"
"The usual. Preventive intelligence."
"Is he that big?"
"Could be. Seattle's done its share of growing since you busted Al Nyeburg's balloon."
"Might be worth looking into."
Hal frowned, a mixture of uneasiness and pure concern.
"Right now, Jules represents a major voice of opposition to Minelli. Throw him in with half a dozen others, and they've got the weight to block him, maybe tilt the axis westward."
It was Bolan's turn to frown. A realignment of the Mafia, a new and stronger coalition, was the last thing he had in mind.
"I don't think it will get that far," he said.
"You planning an appearance at the sit-down?"
"I need Eritrea first, if I can get him. After that..." He let the sentence trail away, unfinished, and Brognola didn't push.
"I hate this goddamned job," said Brognola.
"That's bull."
"You think so."
Bolan smiled.
"There any way of getting Flasher clear?"
"I don't see how."
"Forget it. She's all right."
A hollow feeling in the pit of Bolan's stomach mocked his words.
"You know," Brognola said, "this time next year, I'm looking at retirement."
Bolan smiled.
"What's funny?"
"You, retiring."
"Yeah, I know. But I've been thinking maybe I should go for it."
Bolan shook his head. "You're too damned good at what you do."
"Old Mr. Indispensable, that's me."
"So, give it time. You've got a year. Things may look different."
"They may look worse. It's never finished, guy. You know that much as well as I do."
"I gave up looking for the finish, Hal. It's strictly day to day."
"So tell me something, will you? How in holy hell do you keep going? I mean how can you keep pushing it?"
The soldier's smile was almost wistful as he answered. "No one ever said I had a choice."
"Goddamn, I hate this job."
"I'm late. I've got some other stops to make before the main festivities."
"Be careful, huh?"
The big Fed knew it sounded lame and shook his head disgustedly. "Hey, scratch that shit. You never learned what careful means."
"I'll see you."
"Yeah."
He left Brognola standing there, among the trappings of another age, and started back in the direction of his modern war. The enemy was waiting for him, out there on the streets, and there could be no cloistered hideaways for Bolan, not while one of them survived to prey upon the weak and innocent.
Who ever said I had a choice?
The war was in his blood, and it would be there, burning, driving him to action, every moment of his life until that blood was spilled out on the earth.
Brognola had been right about one thing.
The war was everlasting, stretching out beyond the barriers of time and space. It had been going on for countless centuries before Mack Bolan's birth, and it would certainly survive him.
But for now, this moment, one determined man could make a difference.