"You tie him to any organisation?" Bolan leaned closer to the screen, waiting for Wilson's answer.

"Nope. The boy seems to be a free-lancer. He goes where the bucks are, I guess, but we don't know where he goes to ground. It's now you see him, now you don't. Kind of like a right-wing Carlos, I guess you'd say. Hell, for all I know, maybe he is Carlos. Change his nose, add sixty pounds, turn his politics inside out and you got a dead ringer." Wilson laughed in his high, lilting voice while Bolan chewed on his lower lip.

The machine clicked again, and another of the trio appeared center screen. The blowup fuzzed a lot of detail. The man was sitting at an angle to the camera, and his profile was as wispy as breath on a cold afternoon. One prominent, dark eye looked like a burn hole in the screen, but the rest of him was hazy and indistinct.

"Sorry about the quality," Wilson said. "Sometimes I think Fotomat does a better job than our lab."

"Got a name for this one?" Bolan asked.

"Not a syllable." Wilson sighed. "He's new in our rogues' gallery. We don't even know what nationality he is."

Next to fill the screen was the image of the distinguished gray-haired gentleman. He was the one Bolan had seen somewhere but couldn't place or come up with a name.

"If you knew anybody up there, it'd be this fella," Wilson said. "Charles James Anthony Harding."

"Harding," Bolan muttered. "Harding I know that name."

"Three Purple Hearts, a Bronze Star, a DSc. Four years in a POW camp, courtesy of Uncle Ho. Worked out of a think tank outside of L.A. for a while. Still there as a consultant, but mostly he stays in the Philipines. Did a stint on the Hill, then ran for a House seat in Mississippi, his stomping grounds, but lost by a hair's breadth, and voila, a thinker was born."