When the door closed, Wilson dropped into his chair with a sigh. "Poor son of a bitch," he mumbled.

"You say something?" Donny was busy putting his equipment back in the cabinet.

"Yeah, I said what a poor son of a bitch Belasko was."

"Don't worry about it."

"Sometimes I don't like the things I have to do in this job."

"Yes, you do, Rosebud. You love it. If you didn't, you wouldn't be half as good at your job as you are."

"But we're supposed to be on the same side."

"Walt," Donny said, snapping the cabinet door closed. "If cannon fodder didn't exist, you'd have to invent it. Belasko's cannon fodder, plain and simple. He works out, fine. He doesn't, hey, next case... it's just that simple." He shrugged and closed the door softly behind him.

Wilson sat for a long time, staring at the door.

Finally he turned off the light and left the office.

All in a day's work, he told himself. And he believed it.

3

Bolan spotted the man immediately. He was taller than average, and his slicked hair shone dully under the overhead light. The last few passengers took their seats after fumbling with carryons and shifted in the uncomfortable closeness of the plane. A slender blonde closed the door, then stepped back to let a male night attendant seal the hatch tightly.

Bolan watched his quarry out of one eye. The one good thing to be said for a plane was that he didn't have to worry about being shaken off. The blonde went through the mandatory routine, pointing out the various doors, dangling an oxygen mask from one ruby-nailed hand and delivering her spiel with a kind of bored precision just a notch above that of a computer.

When she was finished, she disappeared almost instantly. It was like a magic show. All that was missing was the smoke.