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In his posh office at U.S. Technologies Gregori Carpov glared at the two men standing in front of his desk. They had rented another car and gone back to U.S. Technologies after Weston got away from them.

Carpov was furious and all they could do was stand at attention and take whatever he threw at them. He had a reputation for being as bloodthirsty toward his own men as he was toward the enemy and they were terrified he was going to send them home - or worse. Home was now Cuba and going back wasn't either's idea of fun. They liked the United States.

"Mason and the security boss from Intertech left Mason's house and went straight to Dr. Roach's. They went from there to the Intertech building and left again within fifteen minutes. Right now they're driving east on the 91 freeway through Yorba Linda. Mason's driving very fast and our agent is having trouble following him. What does that tell you two?" Gregori was speaking so softly they had to strain to hear him.

"It tells me that one of them has probably heard from Weston, sir. I think we should check to see if either of them own property to the east of Los Angeles or in Riverside or San Bernardino Counties, sir."

"Why?"

"Sir, because if we lose them now we might never get the plans. We lost Weston and they might be going to him. If one of them or Intertech Electronics own property out that way we'll have another possibility of meeting up with them and of retrieving the file and Weston. There are a number of communities out there and losing Mason and Johnson now would put us far behind."

"Good, good. Perhaps you aren't totally worthless." Gregori, who had already thought of this, leaned forward and picked up the telephone. "Any word yet on the property check?" He scribbled on a note pad on the desk in front of him. Hanging up he handed the top sheet to the man who had been speaking.

"You two get to this address right away. Yesterday would be nice. You'll probably find Weston, Mason and Johnson there. Eliminate Mason and Johnson. Take Weston to Ontario Airport. Use our regular contact. A plane will be waiting to take you and Weston to Cuba. The sooner Weston and Roach reproduce those plans and build the device the happier our leaders will be. That means I will be happy. Then you can be happy."

Gregori stood up and leaned forward with his hands on the desk. His voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. "Make sure Weston isn't hurt. Don't come back here until this assignment is satisfactorily completed. I'm sending two more men to back you up. I hope you won't be needing their help because one of them will be me and the other will be Alexi." He sat down again and began to shuffle papers on his desk, dismissing them with a back-hand wave.

The men looked at each other very briefly then beat a hasty retreat .

"Why does he have to bring Alexi? Why Alexi?" His smaller friend just shook his head, a sick feeling stealing into his stomach.

"This address is in Big Bear. If we take the helicopter we can get a car up there and be at this address about the same time they are."

"Right." Turning to a secretary as he passed her desk he said roughly, "Quickly, get on the phone and have a car waiting for us at the airfield in Big Bear. We'll be there in about thirty minutes."

The two went up to the roof where the company kept a helicopter and its pilot standing by at all times. The lettering on the side of the helicopter read, "U.S. Technologies, Inc."

U.S. Technologies was a domestic corporation with its fingers and its spies in just about every top secret armament project in the country. Three of their industrial spies were a guard and two janitors who reported to them from inside Intertech though none of them were aware of U.S. Technologies connection with former Soviet and now Cuban intelligence.

Receiving his instructions from the agents as they boarded the helicopter the pilot studiously ignored the Uzi submachine guns they were carrying.

"I'm not sure I can get into Big Bear gentlemen. The weather's awfully bad up there. We may have to set down in San Bernardino."

"You'll get us into Big Bear or you won't live long enough to fart again. Don't screw around with me today, pus-brain." The bigger of the two men looked so menacing that chills actually raced up the pilot's spine.

"Right. Big Bear it is then. No-o-o-o sweat." He spun the fast, 4-passenger helicopter 180 degrees as it lifted off the pad into the turbulent sky.

Still in his office Gregori Carpov called a special number.

In an office in another part of the building a phone rang twice then was picked up. Only slight wheezing could be heard at Gregori's end.

"Alexi, I need you in my office right away. Come prepared."

The phone was hung up, still without a word .

Gregori returned his phone to its cradle. From his desk drawer he withdrew a shoulder holster and a handgun. Placing them on the desk blotter he slightly opened the slide on his .380 automatic and a shiny brass cartridge gleamed at him from the chamber. He let go of the slide and it closed with a clack as he holstered the gun. Moments later he heard Alexi turning the door handle. No one else would dare enter his office unannounced.

As the huge man entered Gregori called his secretary and arranged for another helicopter to pick them up on the roof and for yet another car to be waiting in Big Bear. As he looked at Alexi a chilling, mirthless smile played across his bloodless lips.

The big man stood impassively, his bald head gleaming. A jagged purple scar that ran down the side of his face twitched occasionally. Alexi appeared to lack normal emotions. He much preferred to simply follow orders and not have to think -- and occasionally, to get the thrill of killing a worthy adversary. He had no other job within the organization and no loyalties beyond what was convenient at the moment.

Gregori foolishly mistook Alexi's impassive compliance for submission.

Bert interpreted Skipper's look correctly and deciding he'd said enough turned to get a soft drink from the refrigerator while chuckling to himself.

A slight crunching sound outside sent Skipper to the floor with his .45 automatic appearing suddenly in his hand. Bert didn't hear the noise but seeing Skipper drop he ducked down behind the bar also drawing his gun. Phillip Weston, who'd finally begun to relax in an overstuffed chair looked from one to the other in alarm.

"Wha . . . "

"Shh!" Skipper held his finger to his lips, then motioned forcefully for Phillip to get down as well. As though his chair had suddenly caught fire Weston shot to the floor, scooting toward Skipper on his hands and knees. Skipper pushed him down flat before rolling over to the light switch. He and Bert shut off the lights simultaneously and now only the flickering glow from the wood stove lit the room. Another slight rustling sound came from somewhere near the front door.

Skipper signaled for Bert to watch the back door; and, as Bert turned, it crashed open and a burst of automatic gunfire showered the room with wood splinters from the ceiling.

Bert's snub-nosed .44 Special barked twice. As the gunman fell through the back door into the room the front door was kicked open.

Skipper was ready. Even though the action behind him was fast and loud and he'd been hit with splinters and wood chips from the ceiling, his responsibility was the front door and he hadn't taken his eyes off it. He trusted Bert to handle whatever came in the back.

The door in front of him was smashed open and the attacker stepped through. The Uzi in his hands lacing the breakfast bar with holes obviously meant for Bert. Skipper hit the man's wrist with the barrel of his .45, momentarily paralyzing his arm and knocking the Uzi from the his grasp. The Uzi bounced across the floor and hit Phillip who pushed it under a chair as though it were a red hot coal. Skipper used the man's arm as a lever and threw him face first to the floor while twisting the arm into a submission hold. The former Soviet agent finally hollered in pain as he felt the ligaments in his shoulder begin to tear.

Bert jumped quickly from his spot on the floor, kicked the back door closed and dropped the security bar in place. Keeping low and running a zigzag pattern through the room he raced to the front and kicked that door closed and slammed a bar across it, too. The front window had been shattered, probably by pieces and ricochets from the ceiling, so he drew the curtains across it.

Defensive maneuvers done, Bert jammed the muzzle of his .44 between the eyes of Skipper's dancing partner and asked harshly, "Got any more friends outside?"

The agent looked at Bert with wild, defiant eyes and spit as best he could in the direction of Bert's face.

"Who do you work for?"

This time the face turned away. Bert grabbed him by the hair, jerked his face back around and punched the .44 into his face, breaking his nose. Pulling the hammer back he...

"Just a second, Bert. I've got a better idea. He'll tell us."

Bert looked at Skipper. Skipper had undergone a total transformation and had reverted again into the Iceman. All expression had drained from his face. His normally brilliant, gold flecked deep blue eyes had gone gunmetal grey and seemed dead. Bert eased the hammer forward and holstered the gun, then handcuffed "Mr. Defiant" behind his back and tied his feet together with his necktie. Standing up, Skipper yanked him over to the wood stove by the cuffs.

"Grab his feet, Bert." Skipper kicked open the door of the wood stove and lifted the agent off the floor by the handcuffs. "You should recognize this, bub. I've seen your people do it a few times."

With his arms bent backward the man began to scream as his chest came off the floor and the top of his head was pushed into the fire.

"Oh. Oh, No! OOOHHHH! NO! There isn't anyone outside! We were alone! There's two more coming in a few minutes! Oh, mother! Please!" Then he began to scream in Russian as his hair crackled and singed.

Phillip got one whiff of singed human hair, screamed shrilly and fainted.

Skipper pulled the agent back from the fire a little.

"Where is Dr. Roach?"

"God Damn! I don't know. I swear I don't know. Please, put it out, put it out!"

Skipper started to shove him in again. "Where?!"

The tough ex-Soviet agent lost control of his bowels and was on the verge of losing consciousness. "In Cuba! Oh, mother of God! Please! In the hospital at the University of Havana. He's dying, that's why they sent us after Weston." He began sobbing and retching at the same time.

Having discovered the information they needed Skipper and Bert dropped the man to the floor and Skipper rapidly struck two pressure points on his neck, leaving him instantly unconscious.

"Let's go Bert. We're outta here."

They picked up Phillip and dumped him unceremoniously into the back seat of the BMW. Skipper didn't waste time checking the car for a booby trap as there probably hadn't been time for them to rig one anyway. Headlights appeared behind them as they pulled away, then disappeared.

After cinching down tight on his seat belt Skipper drove hard into the dark rain, slicing through the curves leading down the mountainside toward town, his feet dancing on the pedals; smoothly braking, clutching, steering and shifting gears. Often doing them all simultaneously while pressing the gas pedal with his heel, he gently guided the speeding car through the rain slicked corners. He passed the first intersection and slowed a little, then merged with traffic as he entered the town. He hadn't seen anyone following, but it would have taken a professional race driver to keep up.

Reaching Bert's neighborhood Gregori Carpov slowed while checking addresses on the mailboxes. Through the rain-spattered windshield he saw an indistinct image of a dark car back out of a driveway several houses farther up the road. As he approached the driveway to Bert's cabin he slowed and turned in at Bert's mailbox.

What Gregori saw in Bert's cabin wasn't what he wanted to see. One of his agents shot twice in the chest and the other one unconscious with half his scalp burned off.

"Alexi, get back in the car." He ran back out to the car and picked up his walkie-talkie, calling the agent Skipper'd lost on the 91 Freeway. "This is Carpov. I want you to pick up that car again. It'll be coming down the hill soon." Gregori realized too late that Bert's driveway was U-shaped--he'd actually seen Bert, Skipper and probably Weston leaving from the other end.

"Let's go!" They both jumped into the sedan and headed back to the airfield.

* *

"Skipper! Head for the airfield!" Bert almost jumped out of the seat.

Trusting Bert's judgement Skipper first acted on his request. Easing down on the brake pedal Skipper downshifted to first then released the brakes and smoothly swung the steering wheel to the left while pulling on the emergency brake. The rear wheels broke traction, spinning the car 180 degrees to the left. Skipper corrected the wheel, touched the brake pedal and the gas with his right foot, then let out the clutch. The car stopped then accelerated away, now traveling in the other direction and in the proper lane. "Why?"

Bert had latched onto the dashboard with a grip that had probably left his fingerprints permanently imbedded there. "Whoa! Yeeee Haaa! A friend of mine keeps his plane out here. It's an old twin engine Cessna 310. We can get wherever we're going a whole lot faster."

"Good thinking."