"You are Mr. Liebman?"
Stan was sweating. "I'm a friend of his."
"I'm sorry, M'sieur. I was told not to release this to anybody but Mr. Liebman."
The little man wanted to stand and argue while the world went up in flames, Stan thought. He pulled out his wallet and slid a five dollar bill across the counter.
"I don't think Mr. Liebman would want this quite as much as I would."
The little man was not convinced. "Perhaps not but...."
Stan thrust out the flat of his left hand and pushed the clerk back against the shelves. Bolts of cloth rippled down from them and Stan had to dig beneath them to get the one he wanted.
A moment to open the bolt and cut the wires of the package and then he was out in the street once more, the clerk's shrill, indignant screams echoing after him.
He raced to the end of the street, near the mosque, for the dark corner that looked a little too dark and a little too glossy and then....
... out again in a small street a block from the Vatican in Rome. It was early evening. Twelve more hours to go, he thought, for the last one. That wouldn't take long and he could double-check any that Avis' agents might have missed.