Lord William sighed. “Clive, despite all you’ve done, this isn’t personal between us. You took my company from me, but as far as I can tell you did it fair and square. Easy come, easy go, the better man won. All that jolly rot. However, to quote your earlier remark, I believe you’re up to something. There’s something rotten afoot, and I think you are at least aiding and abetting it if not actively involved. I dislike torture, so, let me state for the record you will not be tortured. What will happen is this—Mr. Cooper and I will leave the room for a moment, and in our absence you are going to have a fight with Lunk.”
Jennings flinched and involuntarily brought a hand up to his ear.
“Keep your bloody hand down,” Lunk rumbled.
Jennings’s hand fell into his lap like a dead bird.
“It will be a fair fight,” Lord William continued. “Barehanded, man-to-man, as God intended. After a minute or two, Mr. Cooper and I will return to this office and ask you once more for your passwords and codes. Should you persist in your obstinate ways, you will have another fight with Lunk, and then another, and another. This process will continue until you come to see reason. Do you understand?”
Veins began pulsing in Jennings’s temples. Lord William sighed impatiently. “Lunk, keep him conscious, don’t break his fingers or his jaw. We’ll be needing him typing and talking I should think.”
Jennings snarled through clenched teeth. “What do you want first?”
Bolan considered going file by file, gleaning out the relevant information, but that would take time and despite the fear in Jennings’s eyes he didn’t trust the man. There could be data deletion programs infesting the computer. However good Jennings’s defenses were, Bolan was willing to bet they were not up to the Akira Tokaido’s standard. He connected his PDA to an open port on the computer. “Download your entire hard drive.”
Jennings blinked. “Into that?”
Bolan’s PDA probably had ten times the computing capability of Jennings’s entire computer suite but he didn’t bother explaining. “Do it.”
Lunk slid Jennings’s chair around the desk, rammed him in front of the computer. “You heard the Yank.”
Jennings’s hands hovered, trembling over the keyboard. Bolan leaned in and peered into his eyes. “Forget Lunk. Do it or deal with me.”
Jennings flinched. What he suddenly saw in Bolan’s burning blue eyes was far more frightening than a beating at the big Welshman’s hands. He typed in letters and numbers, and files began to transfer into Bolan’s PDA. Jennings jumped in his seat as Lord William punched him in the shoulder in a comradely fashion. “Good lad! I knew you’d see reason.”
Grietje’s voice spoke across the intercom. “Mr. Jennings? Mr. Van der Beers has called to confirm lunch this afternoon.”
Lunk’s huge hand covered the speaker. He and Lord William both looked to Bolan, who nodded to Jennings. “Tell her you’ll be a few minutes late, but lunch is on.”
Jennings spoke as Lunk uncovered the intercom. “Lord William has brought some unexpected business to my attention. Tell Van der Beers I’ll be a little late, but we’re a green light for lunch.”
“A green light. Yes, Mr. Jennings.”
The intercom clicked off. Bolan screwed the muzzle of his PPK into Jennings’s temple. “Green light. That’s the signal for what? Intruders? Lockdown?”
Jennings stared up at Bolan with renewed purpose. “The police have been alerted. I suggest you leave while you still can.”
“Blow his brains out,” Lord William suggested.
A phone to one side of the desk rang. Bolan recognized the receiver as a satellite link. Jennings jerked and stared at the sat link in horror. “No,” Bolan said. “He’s going to answer that phone.”
“No, I’m—”
“Do it or I’ll kill you.”
Jennings stared once more into Bolan’s eyes and whatever recidivist bravery he had summoned wavered. He and Bolan both knew he was one pound away on a cocked, two-pound trigger toward death.
“I—”
The phone chimed.
“Do it,” Bolan ordered.
“But—”
“You’re out of time.” Bolan pulled the pistol away from Jennings’s temple and pointed it at the Englishman’s face.
“No!” Jennings lunged for the satellite phone.
Lunk’s paws slammed down on his shoulders. “Compose yourself.”
Jennings took a shuddering breath.
“Better.” Bolan nodded. “Put it on speakerphone.”
Jennings pressed a button on the link. A deep, British upper-class voice came across the speaker. “Clive, we need to talk.”
Bolan watched Clive’s face closely. He’d broken into a sweat.
“I agree,” Jennings replied.
“Listen,” the voice continued. “I’ve spoken with our counterparts in the East. We are in agreement. We need to step up the timetable.”
Jennings looked like he might throw up.
Lord William cocked his head. Clearly something about the voice was familiar. Jennings got that staring-into-the-middle-distance, everything-unraveling look on his face again. He opened his mouth and then closed it again.
“I say,” the voice said. “Clive, are you there?”
Bolan silently mouthed the words “keep talking” at Clive.
“I…”
Lord William suddenly beamed and leaned in toward the intercom. “Parky, you old sod! How the bloody hell are you?”
Jennings’s jaw dropped. Lunk shot Bolan a knowing grin. The voice on the other side of the secure link paused in shocked silence. “To whom am I speaking?”
“Why, Ian, it’s Bill! Bill Glen-Patrick! Haven’t seen you since I last voted in Lords! By God, when was that? Aught 2, then?”
The voice on the other end was clearly stunned. “Clive, what is going on?”
“I…” was all Jennings could manage.
Bolan subvocalized to Lunk. “Who?”
Lunk muttered under his breath, “His Lordship Ian Parkhurst, if I’m not mistaken.”
Bolan had never heard of Lord Ian, but then there were close to seven hundred members of the English peerage. “Is this bad?”
Lunk’s craggy brow furrowed. “Bad enough. Lord William is a baron. Parkhurst is an earl.”
“Listen, Parky,” Lord William continued. “Your lad Clive has cocked things up a bit. I’m doing a little spring-cleaning around the old office. I’m putting a stop to whatever he’s up to. I do hope you won’t be inconvenienced.”
“Glen-Patrick,” the voice said, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave my office.”
“Your office?”
“Yes, William. Just who do you think it was who took your wretched little box of tin soldiers away from you? Surely not that pissant Clive?”
“Well, truth be told, yes,” Lord William admitted. “Not quite cricket, Ian.