They shook hands warmly, then the soldier followed him inside.

"Looks cozy."

"It'll do." He hesitated, finally beckoning the Executioner to follow him. "I'm glad you could make it."

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that, guy." The sunken living room was on their left as Bolan followed Leo down a narrow hallway. Hal Brognola rose to greet them, setting down his whiskey glass. Bolan shook his hand then sat down beside him on a sofa facing picture windows, which were curtained now against the threat of prying eyes.

"You made good time," Brognola said. "I caught a charter."

Bolan cleared his throat, aware that there was no time to be wasted on preliminary small talk. "So, let's have it."

And Brognola gave it to him, everything that had happened in the hours since he signed off work on Friday evening. Bolan took it in, refraining from the vacuous commiseration that does nothing to relieve the suffering of the bereaved. He understood Hal's pain, had been there — and beyond — on more than one occasion, and he knew that what Brognola needed at the moment was decisive action to retrieve his loved ones. Platitudes and sympathy were useless in the present situation. If he couldn't get the big Fed's family back, his most sincere condolences wouldn't be worth a damn.

"No progress on the name?"

It was a long shot, almost laughable, and when Brognola shook his head, the Executioner felt no surprise.

"It's hopeless. I've got seven different guys who might be 'Gino' in the local Family alone. That's seven guys we know about, and never mind the other Families from coast to coast."

"You have some reason to believe it's national?"

"I haven't got the faintest fucking notion what it is," Brognola said, disgusted with himself. He downed his whiskey and started for a refill, then thought better of it and pushed back the empty glass.