Precisely one hour after the events taking place at Knightsbridge, Michael
Coldsmith-Briggs III paced the tiled floor of his small cell, single good
eye focused far beyond its antiseptic environs. He chewed his thumbnail
furiously as he paced, his damaged knee and stiffened muscles giving him a
slightly uneven gait. He looked dirty and fatigued and uneasy, but somehow
as authoritative as well, as though it were he who were master of his
situation instead of his captors.
Several yards down a connecting corridor, three people stood in the brightly lit security center watching him on one of the six color monitors on the wall. Silently they regarded the white clad figure for some minutes before the tallest of the trio tapped the camera controls. "Has he done nothing but pace since Hawke was removed from the cell?" he asked a uniformed guard stationed to his rear.
The stocky black man assigned to monitoring duty nodded, then apparently realizing that the gesture was invisible to the impeccably dressed blond man, said aloud, "Yes, sir. His limp is getting worse -- looks like he damaged his knee -- and occasionally he'll scan the ceiling and walls for something -- the camera, I suppose. Beyond that all he does is walk the floor."
Horn nodded, turning a smug look on the room's third occupant, the attractive Dr. Zarkov. "Didn't I tell you, Anastasia? Even the invulnerable Archangel has to be worried about his own skin. Not as imperturbable as you'd estimated, is he?"
Tired dark eyes sparkled with something akin to indulgence. "Perhaps it isn't his own skin he is worried about, my dear John. Working together all these years must have engendered some rapport between Michael and our absent young pilot. I'd say our little bird is as worried about his friend as himself, wouldn't you?"
Horn snorted, a more than adequate opinion on that subject. "You forget, my dear, I've crossed swords with this man in the past, although admittedly it was usually on a Congressional level. I've never met a more worthy opponent, not even in Stringfellow Hawke." He growled quietly, a cruel sound deep in his throat. "Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III is a self-serving bureaucrat who cares about himself and his job, in that order. Right now he's busily plotting how best to cut my throat and protect his own. To him, Hawke is expendable ... and expended."
Zarkov cocked her head, still watching the blond agent on the monitor, her light Russian accent growing more pronounced as she considered. "I can only agree to a point. As to cutting your throat, that is to be taken for granted. But I too was watching them in the cell earlier, and it is my professional opinion that the comfort Mr. Briggs offered the boy did not spring from cruelty or unconcern, although I am willing to admit he manipulates as well as either of us ever have." She chuckled softly. "Between yourself and Archangel, an honest man has very little chance to stand. If I had ever had thoughts of turning into one, you two would have disabused me of that notion quite completely."
"Archangel is a man who knows how to get what he wants." Horn brought his palms together in sardonic applause. "Even as I told Angelica."
That brought Zarkov's dark head around. Of average height, she had to look up several inches to catch his cold blue eyes. "I feel compelled to warn you about your daughter," she began carefully, medical decorum firmly in place. "Judging from her reactions earlier, I believe you shall have problems with her later regarding Stringfellow."
The blue eyes went positively arctic at her remark. "I shall handle Angelica," Horn rapped flatly. "You concentrate on your own responsibilities, Doctor. That means Archangel."
Zarkov bowed her head slightly in submissive acknowledgment and broke the eye contact, returning her attention to the lonely figure on the screen. "Of course," she murmured demurely. "Would you like to hear my initial estimate on his status?"
"I'm not paying you for your considerable charms," the blond snapped back, unmollified. "I contacted you because you had had some success with exploiting Stringfellow Hawke in the past, and I had a hunch your techniques might prove useful when combined with mine." He jerked a thumb toward the blond man on the monitor, reiterating, "He is the subject, now, Anastasia, not Angelica."
She shrugged and began formally, "It is really too bad the East Germans did not use on him the same type of drug that you used on Hawke."
"The one we reactivated on Hawke," Horn recalled with a smile, good humor restored at the thought.
She nodded. "The serum the Germans used to force Archangel into that assassination attempt was short lived and organic in composition. His medical staff long ago flushed it out of his tissues. I cannot reactivate what is not there." She smiled and spread both hands, palms up. "One advantage we had with the independent nature of Stringfellow -- he would never have accepted the complicated medical treatment necessary to clear his system of your peoples' compound. According to the old man...."
"Santini," Horn supplied, turning his head fractionally to watch Michael's progress across the small screen.
"Yes. According to him, Hawke spends most of his time cloistered in his mountain retreat. After my own attempt, he remained up there for some weeks alone. The effectiveness of my original technique on his already unbalanced nature was the reason I decided to amend my approach in that direction this time. I severed remaining family ties by reinforcing the delusion that both Dominic Santini and Saint John Hawke were impostors, which was much assisted by your apparent assassination of Santini three months ago. Combined with your compound in his system, the proper application of pain, the...." She shrugged. "It was only a matter of time before we could break him down."
Horn curled his hand into a fist, his knuckles white. "Break him into pieces," he snarled, momentarily letting the malevolence peek through the urbanity.
Zarkov shrugged again. "There certainly isn't much left of him now except for what I restored to him. He, I fear, is another matter."
"He, meaning Archangel." Both paused, watching as Michael ceased his uneven pacing at the doorway, kneeling with difficulty to run light fingers over the locking mechanism, then up around the invisible crack where it sealed. He stood again and turned, single blue eye visible behind his half- blackened glasses narrowed with unemotional calculation.
"Perhaps I was a bit hasty," Horn admitted. "He doesn't exactly seem to be paralyzed with fear, does he. Hawke wasn't afraid either, but this man is ... different. I get the impression underestimating this one would be a bigger mistake than with Hawke."
Zarkov stepped closer until her slender shoulder just brushed Horn's own. "This is the difference between a pilot and an intelligence agent. Michael's training and experience are indeed different from our young Hawke's, and even more extensive. You remember the illustration of the oak and the willow?"
The blond industrialist lifted his arm, slipping it around the woman's waist, his move casual and familiarly sexual. "A children's example."
Zarkov snuggled closer. "Perhaps, but correct, nonetheless. Hawke is unbending, unwilling to yield to what he does not believe in. He will not falter an inch until he has been broken in two. This man ..." She tapped the screen. "... is more like the willow. While he is every bit as ... stalwart -- that is the correct word? -- as Stringfellow, he is also far more flexible. We push and he bends ... just so far, then whips back as strong as ever, more often than not with exactly what he went out to obtain.
"A dangerous man," Horn murmured, nuzzling her throat while the guard carefully kept his eyes averted. "Isn't there some way we can bend him permanently?"
Lost in his kisses, Zarkov shut her eyes blissfully, murmuring between barely parted lips, "Not in the way you mean. Michael Briggs is not just flexible, he is also far more calloused and pragmatic than the other was, with fewer emotional handles for us to use. Early analysis is revealing deeply implanted mental shields, as though he'd been brainwashed to withstand brainwashing, so to speak. As best as I can judge from the sketchy reports I have read, this is relatively new, perhaps in response to the episodes he's endured in the past."
That brought Horn's head up, eyes narrowing again. "Too deeply ingrained for us to work with him?"
The reply was that tinkling laughter. "Oh, no, not at all. He has been broken for information once; once we make our crack, we can use it to lever ..." She made a prying motion with both hands. "... his will open to us." She sighed. "He is simply a more difficult subject to control. We actually broke Hawke and put the pieces together as we desired. We shall have to convince Archangel into our direction, starting with our little crack. I shall be using much the same technique I did originally on Stringfellow when I convinced him that his brother was returned. A variation shall work on Michael as well, once I find the weakened point in his will." She paused. "Was he not once in love with a woman named Maria?"
That earned her a chuckle. "According to my East German contacts, Maria von Furst might be a very bad place to start, Anastasia."
She shrugged. "No matter. There are other points of persuasion we may use. One of them has one-half hour ago left this building with Bishop Morris."
Horn again held her close, his expression thoughtful. "Do you really believe Archangel is going to care enough about Stringfellow Hawke for us to use the boy against him?"
"I consider Stringfellow a single point of persuasion," she returned smugly, "no more than that. Now that we know they are friends, we can use him to open that crack we need in that lovely emotional armor Mr. Briggs possesses." A dimple appeared in one cheek. "To find that out was, after all, why I suggested keeping them together after the old man's fraudulent death."
"I would have preferred seeing Hawke suffer alone," the other grumbled, shooting the now-interested guard a warning look; the black man averted his eyes back to the monitor. "But for the sake of my returned assets, I was prepared to permit the experiment."
"It was necessary," Zarkov assured him, gesturing at the monitor with the arm not locked around his. "From my own time with the KGB I learned that an agent's loyalties are often elastic -- less strictly defined than most peoples' since they operate in so many gray areas. I needed one positive sentiment to use to get in the door, as you Americans say, that being this friendship with Hawke. When I have my inroad," the psychologist went on, "Stringfellow will be but one of Michael Briggs' many loyalties that we will employ. Country, his honor -- these are often nebulous compared to human relationships. Perhaps later, once his mind is more open to us, we will find family to use if we find reference to any. But never fear, John, this man will be persuaded to give you anything you wish."
"Persuasion takes time, Anastasia," Horn cautioned, loosening his hold on her but not letting go completely. "I've received warning that Archangel's people are getting closer than I find comfortable. And Hawke's brother must be on our trail by now as well. Saint John Hawke and possibly Airwolf."
Zarkov tilted her head, professional curiosity aroused. "I'd love to meet the real Saint John Hawke, even compare him with my facsimile. To have made such an impression on his younger brother -- enough so that Stringfellow was positively obsessed with finding him! He must be a very fascinating man to engender such loyalty."
"His file was interesting, to say the least." Horn closed his eyes, saying by way of recitation, "Saint John Hawke, born Los Angeles, California, four years, seven months older than his brother, Stringfellow. Entered the United States Army during the Tet offensive, rising quickly through field promotions to the rank of Captain, then Major after his capture by the North Vietnamese Army. He remained MIA in Southeast Asia for fifteen years." His lashes rose although his vision was still focussed far away. "It's now obvious he was the one responsible for the disappearance of Stringfellow Hawke from the veterans' hospital. A move, I might add, which precluded my taking any measures against Stringfellow while he was injured."
"It did show remarkable foresight," the psychologist agreed.
Horn shrugged. "He must have still had ties to the intelligence community or he wouldn't have been inducted into the new Airwolf team so quickly. My informant tells me they have a one hundred percent success rate so far, which is why the Committee permits them some measure of autonomy under their official liaison, Jason Locke."
"The whole team sounds interesting," Zarkov said sotto voce.
The industrialist regarded her quizzically. "I hope, Anastasia, that you do not get to meet Saint John Hawke sooner than either of us planned."
"Dominic Santini is his foster father as well," the woman began. "Perhaps we can use--"
Loud voices whipped them toward the doorway in time to see the tall, ebon form of Bishop Morris thunder through it. The big mercenary was dirty and bruised, and bleeding from the nose. He stopped just inside the entrance and staggered dizzily back against the frame. "He ... he...." he stuttered.
Horn released Zarkov abruptly, striding across the room to stare up at the disheveled man. "Where is Hawke?!" he bellowed, dangerous fire in his face.
Morris shook his head then looked like he wished he hadn't. "Punk jumped me a couple miles outside'a the gates," he grated, swiping his streaming nose on his sleeve, then loosing an oath when the material stained scarlet.
Horn took his lapels in both hands, scrunching them up, then hastily released the man and stepped back. "What happened?" he demanded, not one whit cowed by the glare he received. "Report!"
The hum of the monitors was the dominant sound in the small room for several seconds, followed by a loud sniffing that was all the mercenary was capable of for a moment. Finally, Morris shook himself and straightened away from the doorframe, while Horn, Zarkov and the guard held their collective breath.
"Report. Yes, sir." The mercenary probed his nose carefully, then accepted the handkerchief Zarkov offered with an ungracious snatch. "We were less than five miles outside the main gates when Hawke pulled my Lincoln off the road. Said there'd been a change of plan you hadn't told me about."
"And you believed an injured, brainwashed boy?" Horn exclaimed almost involuntarily.
Morris flushed under his dark coloration. "Figured I'd play along and see what he was up to," he muttered defensively, fooling no one. "Punk said something about Saint John depending on him, then hit me when I wasn't looking. Next thing I know, he's driving off in my car and I'm standing there in the middle of the desert with a bloody nose."
John Horn went very still. "Did he say anything about Airwolf?"
Yellow teeth peeked through a cold smile. "Said he'd meet me at the rendezvous once he'd picked up Airwolf, an' we could do some new plannin' on getting his brother back." He laughed, an angry bark. "He even apologized for hitting an old friend. Whatever you put in that joy juice, I could use it on my girlfriends."
"We have a loose cannon out there, Doctor," Horn rapped, ignoring the mercenary's last remark. "We're in jeopardy of losing everything."
A slim fingered hand grasped the industrialist's shoulder. "I underestimated that suspicious, protective streak," Zarkov told him gently, "but I stand by the results of my work. Hawke will do what he's programmed for -- he can do nothing else."
"And if he runs into his real brother?" Horn asked worriedly.
"He'll kill him." The hand tightened briefly before dropping away. "Why do you think I spent so much time reinforcing my original delusion confusing his family relationship? Stringfellow will not believe that this man is truly his brother, he cannot believe anything anyone tells him. He'll recover Airwolf for his own reasons, and he'll kill anyone who gets in his way."
Turquoise blue eyes probed her brown ones, the warmth of the previous few moments gone. "Are you sure, Anastasia? If he turns against us, he'll bring the military down on our heads."
Zarkov hesitated. "Psychology is not an exact science, John. In my professional opinion even if Stringfellow Hawke were to meet his true brother, he would not be able to recognize him, and the drugs should prevent his being capable of questioning his actions clearly for at least the next two days." She fluttered her lashes at Morris, who responded like a dog on the prowl. "Mr. Morris was to run interference against any outside forces acting on our subject; he was our insurance, not the means. We must trust that our means was correct."
Morris dropped the bloody handkerchief on the floor and fixed Horn with a nasty stare. "Don't know what we needed the Golden Boy for anyway. I could'a flown your military helicopter for you. It ain't like Hawke couldn't'a told us where it was."
Horn lifted one shoulder a millimeter. "After Airwolf gets to the rendezvous and the security measures are deactivated, you may get your chance, although I must admit I had a more qualified flight engineer in mind." He jerked his head at the again pacing Briggs. "Once he's restored my Swiss bank accounts, and we're sure we can rely on him."
"We'll be sure," the attractive psychologist purred, also watching the blond agent on the monitor. "Give me another twenty-four hours and we shall be very sure indeed."
Horn tugged pensively on his earlobe, sharp mind shifting into top speed. "You have twelve before we leave the country, Anastasia, although if necessary Archangel can be relocated with us; for the next two days he is of only secondary importance. Morris, I want you to go to Larchmont Field and head up the reception committee personally. Hawke should be bringing Airwolf in, in the next two to four hours. Before you leave, find Rombauer and tell him to put the estate on red alert. All troops at ready stations."
"Do you think that's necessary?" Zarkov asked, lines appearing in her forehead. "Won't your contact within the Firm alert you if they intend to attack?"
"If the Firm means to attack," Horn replied sourly, "not Hawke." He slid his arm back around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder. "That's one of the problems with having a loose cannon, my dear Anastasia. You can never be too careful about in which direction it will fire."
***
It was with extreme caution that Jason hustled his captive through the high security screen that was Knightsbridge to the parking garage in the second sub-basement. Although Donald Newman's expertise lay more in the fields of administration and politics, Locke was far too prudent to underestimate the older man's capabilities. After all, no one reached sub-Committee rank by being incompetent.
It wasn't until the dark brown Buick had turned onto the nearest freeway that Locke heaved an audible sigh of relief. "This isn't going to accomplish anything," Newman remarked casually, obediently turning the car in the direction of Van Nuys. "You have no proof that I'm involved in anything underhanded."
"Nothing but my instincts," the black agent agreed, although not wavering his tightly gripped Smith & Wesson pistol from Newman's direction. "They've served me pretty well first in 'Nam, then deep undercover; I figure I ought to stick with them now."
Lines etched themselves more deeply in the older agent's forehead and around his mouth, familiar to his staff as the prelude to an administrative chewing out. "You realize, Mr. Locke, that this little faux pas could very well mean the end of your career with the DNS." He risked a glance at his captor. "You're gambling it all away, Jason, on a bare suspicion for two men you hardly know."
"You're just mad because you can't match my hand," the black man retorted; he hefted the gun meaningfully. "I've heard a Smith & Wesson beats four aces any day of the week."
Newman returned his eyes to the road just in time to avoid the Mack truck that was swerving into his path. "I've known Archangel for ten years, and he's always been erratic. More than one top echelon executive has confided to me that he's untrustworthy -- as likely to hammer the Committee into going along with his schemes as coerce them with that silver tongue of his. Zeus doesn't like him."
"Zeus doesn't like anyone," Locke pointed out, his demeanor curt but apparently quite willing to chat.
"Zeus is a professional. When I reach Committee level...."
"That doesn't seem overly likely now, does it?" the black agent interjected caustically. "And from what I've heard, Archangel's record is a series of successes right across the board. He was even the one that kept Stringfellow Hawke working with the Company before Saint John was located."
Newman's vehement response was audible even over the blare of a taxi's horn. "Oh, I'm sure that was a real feather in his cap," he retorted, determinedly ignoring the taxi driver's rude visual rebuttal to being cut off. "There is one area I never envied Archangel's authority. Stringfellow Hawke has been a thorn in the entire Committee's side -- and mine once or twice -- for two years now." He cocked an eyebrow in Jason's direction, his southern drawl very pronounced. "That boy is a mercenary, you know, without any shred of patriotism. The only reason he ever worked for the Company was to use our facilities for his own purposes. Even when he was our top test pilot, he spent a great deal of his time haunting our drug enforcement and political bureaus for intelligence on the Far East. Then he stole our prototype gunship...."
"I know the story," Locke interrupted wearily. "And I'm aware of his reasons. Do you honestly think the Company would have continued to look for Saint John Hawke if the brother hadn't retained possession of Airwolf?"
"His reasons are immaterial." Newman, a.k.a., Apollo, removed one hand from the steering wheel, wiping it on the light worsted material of his suit pants. Jason followed the movement carefully with narrowed dark eyes, something the older agent noted with disdainful humor although he made no mention of it. "The fact remains," he went on, "that it's far likely those two have defected as been kidnapped. I wouldn't be surprised if right this minute they're somewhere plotting the best way to take Airwolf out of the country."
Black brows furrowed as Locke actually took a moment to consider this prospect. He was too much of a skeptic not to. "I think you're understating Michael's reputation. He's been known to shake things up a bit but no one has ever questioned his loyalty."
"Wrong." Newman lifted his head triumphantly. "You may not be privy to most of the political power struggles going on at top levels ..."
"Privy is right," Locke muttered.
"... but Archangel is not as universally popular as you seem to believe. There's been more than one allegation that Michael's loyalty is stronger to this Stringfellow Hawke than it is to the Company."
Locke shook his head. "If the Committee honestly questioned Archangel's full loyalty, they would have dispensed with him permanently long before now. When he was a prisoner in Mexico they had already closed down his section; if they'd wanted to be rid of him they simply would have refused to restore his staff and responsibilities, and no one would have contested the action."
Newman made a harumphing sound. "Archangel has some powerful supporters, particularly in the Senate and White House. But he's defied the Committee and the Senate several times to protect that young maverick, when we would have had him arrested and interrogated for Airwolf's location." Newman pounded the steering wheel and his point home. "Considering that degree of support, it could actually have been Hawke's idea to turn rogue, with Michael following him out."
"Hawke's brother would disagree. And before you say it...." Jason held up one dark hand -- the one not holding the S&W. "Although I've only worked with Stringfellow once, I have worked with Saint John closely enough to trust his judgment."
Newman pulled the steering wheel hard to the right, barely missing two boys on bicycles. "You don't think he'd lie to protect his brother?" he asked with pseudo-nonchalance, adding meaningfully, "Again?"
The black agent pursed his lips at that, but replied honestly, nonetheless. "I know what point you're trying to make. We did see Saint John Hawke scam us when he made us believe his younger brother was dead."
"Which he'd do again if his brother was in danger of a Zebra Squad sanction. Therefore, his opinion is suspect in this regard."
Locke shrugged. "Saint John would protect his brother, but not at the cost of his country. And again, I can't fault his reasoning for the first incident. We still don't know who planted the bomb that killed Saint John's foster father, Dominic Santini. And in the condition Stringfellow was in, Saint John considered him too vulnerable to be placed at risk. I'm forced to agree that his plan was the best one for all concerned."
Again Newman glanced at Jason Locke, from determined black eyes to the large-bored weapon expertly trained on his midsection. "You're as bad as Archangel," he said by way of censure. "You're too involved with these men on a personal level. I tend to agree with you about Saint John Hawke. I've worked with him several times since his return, and he's proven himself a reliable agent. I too am inclined to trust him excepting only where his brother is concerned. But Stringfellow is a brazen young upstart with a chip on his shoulder; if not for Michael protecting him, we would have had him eliminated a long time ago."
Jason pricked up his ears at that. "Eliminated him? As in a Zebra Squad hit? That bomb that killed Santini wasn't set by the Company, was it? A murder attempt to retrieve Airwolf?"
Newman sputtered. "National security dictates certain measures ... I mean, for the sake of the United States...."
"I've never seen you choke on a lie before, Donald. This one a little hard even for you to swallow?"
Newman shut his mouth with a click of teeth, maintaining a surly silence for several minutes. When he again spoke, it was through grating teeth. "If we had authorized a hit on your precious Hawke, it would have been for the proper reasons and using the proper procedure."
"I suppose we're going to have to agree to disagree on that point," Locke returned in a hard voice. "Get off at the next exit; that'll take us to Van Nuys airport."
***
Several yards down a connecting corridor, three people stood in the brightly lit security center watching him on one of the six color monitors on the wall. Silently they regarded the white clad figure for some minutes before the tallest of the trio tapped the camera controls. "Has he done nothing but pace since Hawke was removed from the cell?" he asked a uniformed guard stationed to his rear.
The stocky black man assigned to monitoring duty nodded, then apparently realizing that the gesture was invisible to the impeccably dressed blond man, said aloud, "Yes, sir. His limp is getting worse -- looks like he damaged his knee -- and occasionally he'll scan the ceiling and walls for something -- the camera, I suppose. Beyond that all he does is walk the floor."
Horn nodded, turning a smug look on the room's third occupant, the attractive Dr. Zarkov. "Didn't I tell you, Anastasia? Even the invulnerable Archangel has to be worried about his own skin. Not as imperturbable as you'd estimated, is he?"
Tired dark eyes sparkled with something akin to indulgence. "Perhaps it isn't his own skin he is worried about, my dear John. Working together all these years must have engendered some rapport between Michael and our absent young pilot. I'd say our little bird is as worried about his friend as himself, wouldn't you?"
Horn snorted, a more than adequate opinion on that subject. "You forget, my dear, I've crossed swords with this man in the past, although admittedly it was usually on a Congressional level. I've never met a more worthy opponent, not even in Stringfellow Hawke." He growled quietly, a cruel sound deep in his throat. "Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III is a self-serving bureaucrat who cares about himself and his job, in that order. Right now he's busily plotting how best to cut my throat and protect his own. To him, Hawke is expendable ... and expended."
Zarkov cocked her head, still watching the blond agent on the monitor, her light Russian accent growing more pronounced as she considered. "I can only agree to a point. As to cutting your throat, that is to be taken for granted. But I too was watching them in the cell earlier, and it is my professional opinion that the comfort Mr. Briggs offered the boy did not spring from cruelty or unconcern, although I am willing to admit he manipulates as well as either of us ever have." She chuckled softly. "Between yourself and Archangel, an honest man has very little chance to stand. If I had ever had thoughts of turning into one, you two would have disabused me of that notion quite completely."
"Archangel is a man who knows how to get what he wants." Horn brought his palms together in sardonic applause. "Even as I told Angelica."
That brought Zarkov's dark head around. Of average height, she had to look up several inches to catch his cold blue eyes. "I feel compelled to warn you about your daughter," she began carefully, medical decorum firmly in place. "Judging from her reactions earlier, I believe you shall have problems with her later regarding Stringfellow."
The blue eyes went positively arctic at her remark. "I shall handle Angelica," Horn rapped flatly. "You concentrate on your own responsibilities, Doctor. That means Archangel."
Zarkov bowed her head slightly in submissive acknowledgment and broke the eye contact, returning her attention to the lonely figure on the screen. "Of course," she murmured demurely. "Would you like to hear my initial estimate on his status?"
"I'm not paying you for your considerable charms," the blond snapped back, unmollified. "I contacted you because you had had some success with exploiting Stringfellow Hawke in the past, and I had a hunch your techniques might prove useful when combined with mine." He jerked a thumb toward the blond man on the monitor, reiterating, "He is the subject, now, Anastasia, not Angelica."
She shrugged and began formally, "It is really too bad the East Germans did not use on him the same type of drug that you used on Hawke."
"The one we reactivated on Hawke," Horn recalled with a smile, good humor restored at the thought.
She nodded. "The serum the Germans used to force Archangel into that assassination attempt was short lived and organic in composition. His medical staff long ago flushed it out of his tissues. I cannot reactivate what is not there." She smiled and spread both hands, palms up. "One advantage we had with the independent nature of Stringfellow -- he would never have accepted the complicated medical treatment necessary to clear his system of your peoples' compound. According to the old man...."
"Santini," Horn supplied, turning his head fractionally to watch Michael's progress across the small screen.
"Yes. According to him, Hawke spends most of his time cloistered in his mountain retreat. After my own attempt, he remained up there for some weeks alone. The effectiveness of my original technique on his already unbalanced nature was the reason I decided to amend my approach in that direction this time. I severed remaining family ties by reinforcing the delusion that both Dominic Santini and Saint John Hawke were impostors, which was much assisted by your apparent assassination of Santini three months ago. Combined with your compound in his system, the proper application of pain, the...." She shrugged. "It was only a matter of time before we could break him down."
Horn curled his hand into a fist, his knuckles white. "Break him into pieces," he snarled, momentarily letting the malevolence peek through the urbanity.
Zarkov shrugged again. "There certainly isn't much left of him now except for what I restored to him. He, I fear, is another matter."
"He, meaning Archangel." Both paused, watching as Michael ceased his uneven pacing at the doorway, kneeling with difficulty to run light fingers over the locking mechanism, then up around the invisible crack where it sealed. He stood again and turned, single blue eye visible behind his half- blackened glasses narrowed with unemotional calculation.
"Perhaps I was a bit hasty," Horn admitted. "He doesn't exactly seem to be paralyzed with fear, does he. Hawke wasn't afraid either, but this man is ... different. I get the impression underestimating this one would be a bigger mistake than with Hawke."
Zarkov stepped closer until her slender shoulder just brushed Horn's own. "This is the difference between a pilot and an intelligence agent. Michael's training and experience are indeed different from our young Hawke's, and even more extensive. You remember the illustration of the oak and the willow?"
The blond industrialist lifted his arm, slipping it around the woman's waist, his move casual and familiarly sexual. "A children's example."
Zarkov snuggled closer. "Perhaps, but correct, nonetheless. Hawke is unbending, unwilling to yield to what he does not believe in. He will not falter an inch until he has been broken in two. This man ..." She tapped the screen. "... is more like the willow. While he is every bit as ... stalwart -- that is the correct word? -- as Stringfellow, he is also far more flexible. We push and he bends ... just so far, then whips back as strong as ever, more often than not with exactly what he went out to obtain.
"A dangerous man," Horn murmured, nuzzling her throat while the guard carefully kept his eyes averted. "Isn't there some way we can bend him permanently?"
Lost in his kisses, Zarkov shut her eyes blissfully, murmuring between barely parted lips, "Not in the way you mean. Michael Briggs is not just flexible, he is also far more calloused and pragmatic than the other was, with fewer emotional handles for us to use. Early analysis is revealing deeply implanted mental shields, as though he'd been brainwashed to withstand brainwashing, so to speak. As best as I can judge from the sketchy reports I have read, this is relatively new, perhaps in response to the episodes he's endured in the past."
That brought Horn's head up, eyes narrowing again. "Too deeply ingrained for us to work with him?"
The reply was that tinkling laughter. "Oh, no, not at all. He has been broken for information once; once we make our crack, we can use it to lever ..." She made a prying motion with both hands. "... his will open to us." She sighed. "He is simply a more difficult subject to control. We actually broke Hawke and put the pieces together as we desired. We shall have to convince Archangel into our direction, starting with our little crack. I shall be using much the same technique I did originally on Stringfellow when I convinced him that his brother was returned. A variation shall work on Michael as well, once I find the weakened point in his will." She paused. "Was he not once in love with a woman named Maria?"
That earned her a chuckle. "According to my East German contacts, Maria von Furst might be a very bad place to start, Anastasia."
She shrugged. "No matter. There are other points of persuasion we may use. One of them has one-half hour ago left this building with Bishop Morris."
Horn again held her close, his expression thoughtful. "Do you really believe Archangel is going to care enough about Stringfellow Hawke for us to use the boy against him?"
"I consider Stringfellow a single point of persuasion," she returned smugly, "no more than that. Now that we know they are friends, we can use him to open that crack we need in that lovely emotional armor Mr. Briggs possesses." A dimple appeared in one cheek. "To find that out was, after all, why I suggested keeping them together after the old man's fraudulent death."
"I would have preferred seeing Hawke suffer alone," the other grumbled, shooting the now-interested guard a warning look; the black man averted his eyes back to the monitor. "But for the sake of my returned assets, I was prepared to permit the experiment."
"It was necessary," Zarkov assured him, gesturing at the monitor with the arm not locked around his. "From my own time with the KGB I learned that an agent's loyalties are often elastic -- less strictly defined than most peoples' since they operate in so many gray areas. I needed one positive sentiment to use to get in the door, as you Americans say, that being this friendship with Hawke. When I have my inroad," the psychologist went on, "Stringfellow will be but one of Michael Briggs' many loyalties that we will employ. Country, his honor -- these are often nebulous compared to human relationships. Perhaps later, once his mind is more open to us, we will find family to use if we find reference to any. But never fear, John, this man will be persuaded to give you anything you wish."
"Persuasion takes time, Anastasia," Horn cautioned, loosening his hold on her but not letting go completely. "I've received warning that Archangel's people are getting closer than I find comfortable. And Hawke's brother must be on our trail by now as well. Saint John Hawke and possibly Airwolf."
Zarkov tilted her head, professional curiosity aroused. "I'd love to meet the real Saint John Hawke, even compare him with my facsimile. To have made such an impression on his younger brother -- enough so that Stringfellow was positively obsessed with finding him! He must be a very fascinating man to engender such loyalty."
"His file was interesting, to say the least." Horn closed his eyes, saying by way of recitation, "Saint John Hawke, born Los Angeles, California, four years, seven months older than his brother, Stringfellow. Entered the United States Army during the Tet offensive, rising quickly through field promotions to the rank of Captain, then Major after his capture by the North Vietnamese Army. He remained MIA in Southeast Asia for fifteen years." His lashes rose although his vision was still focussed far away. "It's now obvious he was the one responsible for the disappearance of Stringfellow Hawke from the veterans' hospital. A move, I might add, which precluded my taking any measures against Stringfellow while he was injured."
"It did show remarkable foresight," the psychologist agreed.
Horn shrugged. "He must have still had ties to the intelligence community or he wouldn't have been inducted into the new Airwolf team so quickly. My informant tells me they have a one hundred percent success rate so far, which is why the Committee permits them some measure of autonomy under their official liaison, Jason Locke."
"The whole team sounds interesting," Zarkov said sotto voce.
The industrialist regarded her quizzically. "I hope, Anastasia, that you do not get to meet Saint John Hawke sooner than either of us planned."
"Dominic Santini is his foster father as well," the woman began. "Perhaps we can use--"
Loud voices whipped them toward the doorway in time to see the tall, ebon form of Bishop Morris thunder through it. The big mercenary was dirty and bruised, and bleeding from the nose. He stopped just inside the entrance and staggered dizzily back against the frame. "He ... he...." he stuttered.
Horn released Zarkov abruptly, striding across the room to stare up at the disheveled man. "Where is Hawke?!" he bellowed, dangerous fire in his face.
Morris shook his head then looked like he wished he hadn't. "Punk jumped me a couple miles outside'a the gates," he grated, swiping his streaming nose on his sleeve, then loosing an oath when the material stained scarlet.
Horn took his lapels in both hands, scrunching them up, then hastily released the man and stepped back. "What happened?" he demanded, not one whit cowed by the glare he received. "Report!"
The hum of the monitors was the dominant sound in the small room for several seconds, followed by a loud sniffing that was all the mercenary was capable of for a moment. Finally, Morris shook himself and straightened away from the doorframe, while Horn, Zarkov and the guard held their collective breath.
"Report. Yes, sir." The mercenary probed his nose carefully, then accepted the handkerchief Zarkov offered with an ungracious snatch. "We were less than five miles outside the main gates when Hawke pulled my Lincoln off the road. Said there'd been a change of plan you hadn't told me about."
"And you believed an injured, brainwashed boy?" Horn exclaimed almost involuntarily.
Morris flushed under his dark coloration. "Figured I'd play along and see what he was up to," he muttered defensively, fooling no one. "Punk said something about Saint John depending on him, then hit me when I wasn't looking. Next thing I know, he's driving off in my car and I'm standing there in the middle of the desert with a bloody nose."
John Horn went very still. "Did he say anything about Airwolf?"
Yellow teeth peeked through a cold smile. "Said he'd meet me at the rendezvous once he'd picked up Airwolf, an' we could do some new plannin' on getting his brother back." He laughed, an angry bark. "He even apologized for hitting an old friend. Whatever you put in that joy juice, I could use it on my girlfriends."
"We have a loose cannon out there, Doctor," Horn rapped, ignoring the mercenary's last remark. "We're in jeopardy of losing everything."
A slim fingered hand grasped the industrialist's shoulder. "I underestimated that suspicious, protective streak," Zarkov told him gently, "but I stand by the results of my work. Hawke will do what he's programmed for -- he can do nothing else."
"And if he runs into his real brother?" Horn asked worriedly.
"He'll kill him." The hand tightened briefly before dropping away. "Why do you think I spent so much time reinforcing my original delusion confusing his family relationship? Stringfellow will not believe that this man is truly his brother, he cannot believe anything anyone tells him. He'll recover Airwolf for his own reasons, and he'll kill anyone who gets in his way."
Turquoise blue eyes probed her brown ones, the warmth of the previous few moments gone. "Are you sure, Anastasia? If he turns against us, he'll bring the military down on our heads."
Zarkov hesitated. "Psychology is not an exact science, John. In my professional opinion even if Stringfellow Hawke were to meet his true brother, he would not be able to recognize him, and the drugs should prevent his being capable of questioning his actions clearly for at least the next two days." She fluttered her lashes at Morris, who responded like a dog on the prowl. "Mr. Morris was to run interference against any outside forces acting on our subject; he was our insurance, not the means. We must trust that our means was correct."
Morris dropped the bloody handkerchief on the floor and fixed Horn with a nasty stare. "Don't know what we needed the Golden Boy for anyway. I could'a flown your military helicopter for you. It ain't like Hawke couldn't'a told us where it was."
Horn lifted one shoulder a millimeter. "After Airwolf gets to the rendezvous and the security measures are deactivated, you may get your chance, although I must admit I had a more qualified flight engineer in mind." He jerked his head at the again pacing Briggs. "Once he's restored my Swiss bank accounts, and we're sure we can rely on him."
"We'll be sure," the attractive psychologist purred, also watching the blond agent on the monitor. "Give me another twenty-four hours and we shall be very sure indeed."
Horn tugged pensively on his earlobe, sharp mind shifting into top speed. "You have twelve before we leave the country, Anastasia, although if necessary Archangel can be relocated with us; for the next two days he is of only secondary importance. Morris, I want you to go to Larchmont Field and head up the reception committee personally. Hawke should be bringing Airwolf in, in the next two to four hours. Before you leave, find Rombauer and tell him to put the estate on red alert. All troops at ready stations."
"Do you think that's necessary?" Zarkov asked, lines appearing in her forehead. "Won't your contact within the Firm alert you if they intend to attack?"
"If the Firm means to attack," Horn replied sourly, "not Hawke." He slid his arm back around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder. "That's one of the problems with having a loose cannon, my dear Anastasia. You can never be too careful about in which direction it will fire."
***
It was with extreme caution that Jason hustled his captive through the high security screen that was Knightsbridge to the parking garage in the second sub-basement. Although Donald Newman's expertise lay more in the fields of administration and politics, Locke was far too prudent to underestimate the older man's capabilities. After all, no one reached sub-Committee rank by being incompetent.
It wasn't until the dark brown Buick had turned onto the nearest freeway that Locke heaved an audible sigh of relief. "This isn't going to accomplish anything," Newman remarked casually, obediently turning the car in the direction of Van Nuys. "You have no proof that I'm involved in anything underhanded."
"Nothing but my instincts," the black agent agreed, although not wavering his tightly gripped Smith & Wesson pistol from Newman's direction. "They've served me pretty well first in 'Nam, then deep undercover; I figure I ought to stick with them now."
Lines etched themselves more deeply in the older agent's forehead and around his mouth, familiar to his staff as the prelude to an administrative chewing out. "You realize, Mr. Locke, that this little faux pas could very well mean the end of your career with the DNS." He risked a glance at his captor. "You're gambling it all away, Jason, on a bare suspicion for two men you hardly know."
"You're just mad because you can't match my hand," the black man retorted; he hefted the gun meaningfully. "I've heard a Smith & Wesson beats four aces any day of the week."
Newman returned his eyes to the road just in time to avoid the Mack truck that was swerving into his path. "I've known Archangel for ten years, and he's always been erratic. More than one top echelon executive has confided to me that he's untrustworthy -- as likely to hammer the Committee into going along with his schemes as coerce them with that silver tongue of his. Zeus doesn't like him."
"Zeus doesn't like anyone," Locke pointed out, his demeanor curt but apparently quite willing to chat.
"Zeus is a professional. When I reach Committee level...."
"That doesn't seem overly likely now, does it?" the black agent interjected caustically. "And from what I've heard, Archangel's record is a series of successes right across the board. He was even the one that kept Stringfellow Hawke working with the Company before Saint John was located."
Newman's vehement response was audible even over the blare of a taxi's horn. "Oh, I'm sure that was a real feather in his cap," he retorted, determinedly ignoring the taxi driver's rude visual rebuttal to being cut off. "There is one area I never envied Archangel's authority. Stringfellow Hawke has been a thorn in the entire Committee's side -- and mine once or twice -- for two years now." He cocked an eyebrow in Jason's direction, his southern drawl very pronounced. "That boy is a mercenary, you know, without any shred of patriotism. The only reason he ever worked for the Company was to use our facilities for his own purposes. Even when he was our top test pilot, he spent a great deal of his time haunting our drug enforcement and political bureaus for intelligence on the Far East. Then he stole our prototype gunship...."
"I know the story," Locke interrupted wearily. "And I'm aware of his reasons. Do you honestly think the Company would have continued to look for Saint John Hawke if the brother hadn't retained possession of Airwolf?"
"His reasons are immaterial." Newman, a.k.a., Apollo, removed one hand from the steering wheel, wiping it on the light worsted material of his suit pants. Jason followed the movement carefully with narrowed dark eyes, something the older agent noted with disdainful humor although he made no mention of it. "The fact remains," he went on, "that it's far likely those two have defected as been kidnapped. I wouldn't be surprised if right this minute they're somewhere plotting the best way to take Airwolf out of the country."
Black brows furrowed as Locke actually took a moment to consider this prospect. He was too much of a skeptic not to. "I think you're understating Michael's reputation. He's been known to shake things up a bit but no one has ever questioned his loyalty."
"Wrong." Newman lifted his head triumphantly. "You may not be privy to most of the political power struggles going on at top levels ..."
"Privy is right," Locke muttered.
"... but Archangel is not as universally popular as you seem to believe. There's been more than one allegation that Michael's loyalty is stronger to this Stringfellow Hawke than it is to the Company."
Locke shook his head. "If the Committee honestly questioned Archangel's full loyalty, they would have dispensed with him permanently long before now. When he was a prisoner in Mexico they had already closed down his section; if they'd wanted to be rid of him they simply would have refused to restore his staff and responsibilities, and no one would have contested the action."
Newman made a harumphing sound. "Archangel has some powerful supporters, particularly in the Senate and White House. But he's defied the Committee and the Senate several times to protect that young maverick, when we would have had him arrested and interrogated for Airwolf's location." Newman pounded the steering wheel and his point home. "Considering that degree of support, it could actually have been Hawke's idea to turn rogue, with Michael following him out."
"Hawke's brother would disagree. And before you say it...." Jason held up one dark hand -- the one not holding the S&W. "Although I've only worked with Stringfellow once, I have worked with Saint John closely enough to trust his judgment."
Newman pulled the steering wheel hard to the right, barely missing two boys on bicycles. "You don't think he'd lie to protect his brother?" he asked with pseudo-nonchalance, adding meaningfully, "Again?"
The black agent pursed his lips at that, but replied honestly, nonetheless. "I know what point you're trying to make. We did see Saint John Hawke scam us when he made us believe his younger brother was dead."
"Which he'd do again if his brother was in danger of a Zebra Squad sanction. Therefore, his opinion is suspect in this regard."
Locke shrugged. "Saint John would protect his brother, but not at the cost of his country. And again, I can't fault his reasoning for the first incident. We still don't know who planted the bomb that killed Saint John's foster father, Dominic Santini. And in the condition Stringfellow was in, Saint John considered him too vulnerable to be placed at risk. I'm forced to agree that his plan was the best one for all concerned."
Again Newman glanced at Jason Locke, from determined black eyes to the large-bored weapon expertly trained on his midsection. "You're as bad as Archangel," he said by way of censure. "You're too involved with these men on a personal level. I tend to agree with you about Saint John Hawke. I've worked with him several times since his return, and he's proven himself a reliable agent. I too am inclined to trust him excepting only where his brother is concerned. But Stringfellow is a brazen young upstart with a chip on his shoulder; if not for Michael protecting him, we would have had him eliminated a long time ago."
Jason pricked up his ears at that. "Eliminated him? As in a Zebra Squad hit? That bomb that killed Santini wasn't set by the Company, was it? A murder attempt to retrieve Airwolf?"
Newman sputtered. "National security dictates certain measures ... I mean, for the sake of the United States...."
"I've never seen you choke on a lie before, Donald. This one a little hard even for you to swallow?"
Newman shut his mouth with a click of teeth, maintaining a surly silence for several minutes. When he again spoke, it was through grating teeth. "If we had authorized a hit on your precious Hawke, it would have been for the proper reasons and using the proper procedure."
"I suppose we're going to have to agree to disagree on that point," Locke returned in a hard voice. "Get off at the next exit; that'll take us to Van Nuys airport."
***