Kurtzman swallowed hard. "All right, a.s.suming Baibakov survived and escaped into Mexico, it's not all that far-fetched. All three sides in the conflict in former Yugoslavia are receiving aid and support from the outside. The Croatians are getting a lot of ex-East German materiel from Germany. A number of Muslim states are sending in small arms and volunteers to support the Bosnian Muslims, and it's no secret the Russians support the Bosnian Serbs and have been supplying them with arms and possibly advisers. It's also no secret that all three sides are employing mercenaries. I'm sure there are Bosnian Serb groups operating in the hills outside of Sarajevo that would just love to have an *active adviser' like Baibakov to help them." Kurtzman paused. "My main concern at the moment is for you. Do you think he saw you and recognized you?"

Bolan recalled the flash of light off the scope on the hill. He had been firing the Desert Eagle at Baibakov as fast as he could. The flash could have been from the man dropping to cover, or being hit. Or he could have taken a moment to examine his attacker if he was cool enough. The Executioner frowned. "I can't be sure."

"Well, if he did, do you think he'll come after you?"

Bolan let out a slow breath as he remembered the giant's relentless pursuit across the Sonoran Desert. "I don't think anything on earth will stop him." Bolan smiled with grim irony. "I think that's our one advantage in this situation. He'll come to me."

"That has to be one h.e.l.l of a cold advantage, Striker, knowing that freak of nature is coming for you."

"I have one other one."

"Oh?"

"He's a psychopath. When it comes to dealing with me, he probably won't act rationally."

Kurtzman was silent for a moment. "Oh, well, you're holding all the cards, then."

Bolan grinned. "I've got him right where I want him. But one thing is bothering me."

"What's that?"

"Why kill Kyle Albrecht? It doesn't make a whole lot of sense to kill an American envoy. It's likely to get the United States riled with the Serbs, and the administration isn't fond of them to begin with."

"Hmm. That's a good question. I'll have to give that one some thought."

"What other news have you got?"

"Not much. I'll contact military intelligence and have them dig up anything they can on our boy. I'll try the State Department, too. Maybe they can convince the Russians to give us something. I'll send what you've found through channels. I suspect the President will be happy. You dug up a h.e.l.l of a lot for your first twenty-four hours in town."

"I'm faxing the pictures I took at the listening post to you through Hal at the Justice Department. I'm going to have a meeting in the bar with the leader of the militia platoon I went out with this morning in a few minutes. Maybe he can give me something to work with. Barring any startling developments, I'll contact you again same time tomorrow. Out."

Bolan replaced the earpiece in the satellite link's storage briefcase and snapped it shut. He tucked the Beretta 93-R into its shoulder holster and put three spare magazines into the holster slots under his other arm. He checked the loads in the snub-nosed 9 mm Centennial revolver and slid it snugly into his ankle holster. He tucked his stiletto into the back of his waistband and checked his watch. Sarcev ought to be in the bar by now.

The soldier locked the door behind him and walked toward the elevators. At the end of the hall an old woman in a kerchief pushed a cleaning cart. Loud music and laughter came from behind the door of one of the rooms on his left. Bolan pushed the Down b.u.t.ton, and the elevator pinged almost immediately. The cleaning cart made a sudden rattle as it stopped. Bolan's combat senses flared. A woman had been cleaning the rooms when he had left in the morning to join the militia patrol, and the rooms wouldn't be cleaned twice in the same day.

The Executioner whirled as he ripped the Beretta from its holster. The woman dropped behind her cart as the elevator door opened and a voice like breaking granite boomed out of the elevator car.

"Die!"

As Bolan turned to face his attacker, a heavy black blade whipped down in a terrible arc, its razor-honed edge glittering. He yanked his blocking arm out of the way to keep it from being lopped off and took the blow in the chest. The entrenching tool sheered through the outer layers of the woven Kevlar of his armored vest and came to a violent stop on the ceramic trauma plate. Bolan felt the plate crack as the blow slammed him backward against the opposite wall.

The soldier saw stars as the back of his head bounced off the wall, but he raised the Beretta 93-R on instinct and fired a 3-round burst at the looming shape before him. The man attacked without pause, and Bolan's hand went numb with shock as the flat of the iron shovel blade swatted the pistol from his hand. The Executioner dropped on his haunches as the blade whipped around and whistled past his head. The blade sank into the wall, and he coiled his body to strike. As the giant yanked at his weapon, the Executioner planted his palm on the floor and kicked both feet upward between his attacker's ma.s.sive legs.

The giant raised his knee to block the blow to his groin, and Bolan drove both boot heels into the upraised leg. For a second his adversary was standing on one leg, and the blow sent him tottering off balance into the elevator doorway. The soldier rolled backward on the floor and drew his right knee to his chest as his hand reached for his ankle holster.

The giant ducked around the steel frame of the elevator door as the 9 mm Centennial revolver bucked in Bolan's hands. Someone in a nearby room screamed at the sound of the gunshot. The elevator doors slid shut with a ping, and the lights on the wall showed the elevator car descending. There was no time to worry about the giant Russian.

The Executioner rolled p.r.o.ne and swept the muzzle of the revolver down the hallway.

The cleaning woman had risen from behind her cart. No longer bending over, she was nearly six feet tall. An AK47 rifle with its stock folded had appeared in her hands.

Bolan put the front sight of the Centennial on her chest and fired.

The a.s.sa.s.sin staggered, and Bolan triggered a second round. The automatic rifle ripped into life and sent a long burst st.i.tching high and wide into the wall over Bolan's head. The Executioner's third shot snapped the a.s.sa.s.sin's head back, and the AK47 rifle fell from nerveless hands. The killer swayed, then fell to the floor in a motionless heap.

Bolan snapped around toward the elevator. The lights over the door indicated it had descended without stopping and had reached the lobby. He rose with a single round left in the revolver. He reholstered the little gun and scooped up the Beretta in his left hand. He grimaced as he flexed his right. Pain shot down his arm, and purple swelling was already thickening the fingers of his mashed hand. With an effort he made a fist and grunted to himself satisfactorily. It hurt like h.e.l.l, but nothing appeared to be broken.

He approached the cleaning woman, who turned out to be a man. Bolan could hear whispering behind the doors, and somewhere a woman was crying. The Executioner decided he didn't want to stick around to explain any of this. He reached his room in ten long strides and slid his door open, shutting it behind him silently. Moments later he heard the pounding of feet and shouting in the hallway. Bolan stuck his throbbing hand in the complimentary bucket of ice by the minibar and waited. Two minutes later there was a quiet but insistent knock on his door. Bolan kept the 93-R at his side and slightly behind him as he spoke softly.

"Who is it?"

Bolan recognized the Bosnian militia leader's voice. "Praise to G.o.d, you are alive. It is me, Viado."

The soldier flicked the Beretta's safety back on. "It's not locked."

The door opened slowly, and a moment later Sarcev cautiously stuck his head in. "You are all right?"

Bolan took his hand out of the ice bucket and shook off the water. "I'll live. Come in and close the door."

The little man entered. He had shaved and combed his hair, and wore a worn but presentable wool jacket and pants. He held his Tokarev pistol close to his leg, and he holstered the weapon as he came in. He looked at the Beretta thoughtfully as Bolan replaced the partially spent magazine. "You have many large and impressive guns." The Executioner holstered the Beretta. "Thank you."

"You are welcome."

Bolan drew the Centennial and replaced the four spent rounds from a pocket in his camera bag. "You got here fast."

Sarcev nodded. "I heard there had been shooting on the fourth floor. You had told me your room number when you told me to meet you here. So I make a guess that perhaps you were involved. I came as fast as I could while avoiding security." He peered around at the room admiringly. "You have a nice room."

Bolan shrugged. "It's a Holiday Inn."

"Yes. Holiday Inn is nice. Very expensive for locals, but nice. Good restaurants. My children and I enjoy the pancake breakfast very much."

The soldier suppressed a smile. "Yes, it's very good."

Sarcev pointed at Bolan's purpling hand. "May I ask what happened?"

Bolan stripped off his shirt and examined the ma.s.sive rent in his vest. "Our friend paid me a visit."

"The Giant?"

Bolan nodded as the cracked trauma plate flexed under his probing fingers. Sarcev shook his head wonderingly. "He would have had to circle back around my men's counterattack and have followed us down from the hills almost immediately."

The Executioner nodded thoughtfully. That was true. Despite the falling mortar sh.e.l.ls and more than a platoon of Muslim militiamen sweeping the battlefield, Igor Baibakov had stuck to him and followed him to his hotel and set an ambush. Sarcev jerked his head toward the hall. "And the dead woman?"

Bolan grunted as he shrugged out of the ruined armor. "The dead woman was a man. He was Baibakov's lookout and backup in the ambush. I suspect he was a plant who was already in town."

The militia leader nodded. "Yes. That makes sense." He took a deep breath and looked Bolan in the eye. "My giant, and your gianta"you call him Baibakova"they are the same, yes?"

Bolan grimaced. "We have a common problem."

The lieutenant's brow furrowed. "Baibakov. That is a Russian name."

The soldier put on a fresh undershirt and restrapped his shoulder rig to his frame. "It is. Igor Baibakov is former Russian special forces, Spetsnaz."

"I have heard of them. How do you know of this Baibakov?"

"That's cla.s.sified," Bolan said with a smile.

"Ah." Seeing that nothing more was forthcoming, he changed the subject. "Now what shall you do?"

Bolan shrugged. "He knows I'm here. I can let him try again."

The little Bosnian snorted. "I would not recommend that."

"Neither would I." He turned to Sarcev and looked at him seriously. "I need your help. If I wished to contact Serbian irregulars, as a journalist, where would I go?"

"Sonia's."

Bolan raised a curious eyebrow.

Sarcev smiled and elaborated. "Sonia's Kon-Tiki Restaurant. It is approximately thirteen kilometers outside of Sarajevo to the northeast in Serbian territory. You would find Serbian militiamen and guerrilla fighters there. It is a popular meeting place with the Chetniks." Sarcev's face went hard. "There is much drinking, and there are many women. Many of them are Muslim girls kidnapped out of Sarajevo. Some are kidnapped Croatian women, or so I am told. I have never been there, of course, but you might find the information you seek in this place."

Bolan flexed his hand again and then stuck it back in the ice. He remembered hearing something about Sonia's on CNN. He might indeed find out something useful there, and it beat waiting for Baibakov's next move. His fourth-story window could be reached with a good rifle from the roof of a number of buildings, and Baibakov had a rifle that would kill an elephant at a thousand yards.

"I think I'll visit Sonia's tomorrow."

Sarcev frowned. "I understand, but I cannot go with you, or send any of my men to accompany you. It is over twelve kilometers behind the Chetnik lines and crawling with their soldiers."

"I know, but do you think you can get me to the outskirts of the city without being followed?"

"That I can do. It will be a pleasure."

The Executioner pulled his hand out of the ice and wiped it on a towel. He held the injured hand out to Viado. The little man's face grew serious as they shook hands.

Bolan bowed his head slightly. "I'm in your debt."

Sarcev shook his head dismissingly and intoned an ancient credo. "The enemy of my enemy is my friend." He grinned suddenly. "Besides, I enjoy the field gla.s.ses you gave me very much. They are very excellent for directing mortar fire."

Bolan couldn't help grinning back. "Why don't we go downstairs and see if the kitchen can rustle up some late-night pancakes? I'm on an expense account."

The little man beamed. "Ah!"

4.

"They deserve whatever happens to them!" The big man brought his fist down on the table, rattling the empty bottles of slivovitz. He leaned forward and exposed a missing front tooth through his scowl. His voice dropped. "They betrayed US."

Mack Bolan leaned forward with interest. "When?"

The man's scowl deepened, and he took another pull from the bottle Bolan had bought. "In 1459!" The other men at the table nodded grimly and drank. "Did you say 1459?"

The man wiped his mouth, his eyes blazing. "Yes! They betrayed us to the Ottoman Turks! You understand? They abandoned their G.o.d to become the lap-dogs of the heathens!" The big man peered into the empty bottle and slammed it back down on the table. His eyes grew gla.s.sy as he repeated himself. "They deserve whatever happens to them. G.o.dd.a.m.ned Turks."

Bolan motioned the waitress for another bottle. People in the Balkans certainly knew how to hold on to their hatreds. In the 1400s the Ottoman Turks had invaded the Kingdom of Serbia and Conquered the province of Bosnia-Herzegovina. The majority of the Serbs in the region had converted to Islam under their four-hundred-year rule. The rest of the Orthodox Christian Serbs had never forgiven them for it. The name "Turk" was a racial insult used to describe any Bosnian Muslim, man or woman.

The Executioner glanced around. Sonia's Kon-Tiki Restaurant was full of armed, hard-looking men. Most of them were Bosnian Seth militiamen or irregulars or volunteer soldiers from Greater Serbia. Most of them were drunk. He could hear s.n.a.t.c.hes of a conversation two tables behind him, and he spoke enough Russian to know that at least one of the men was a Russian military adviser.

The big American decided to change the subject. He was surprised at how easy it had been to get into Sonia's and how easy it was to get the Serbs to talk. They were aware of the fact that in the West they were mostly vilified by the press, and they were eager to give their point of view to a journalist who listened sympathetically. Bolan leaned forward again. "I hear the Bosnian Muslims are using foreign mercenaries."

The big man blearily gave the waitress the eye and took the new bottle from her. He unscrewed the cap and nodded sagely. "This is true. Iranians, Pakistanis and pagan zealots from G.o.d knows where to come to fight by the side of the Turks. They wish to make this a holy war. I say kill them all. Let them all be martyrs in h.e.l.l together."

"What about the Croatians?"

The man frowned. "I do not know. I have not heard of them using any mercenaries." He shrugged dismissingly. "But I would not put it past them. The n.a.z.i-loving b.a.s.t.a.r.ds."

Bolan suppressed a grimace. At least the man hated his countrymen equally. "And what of yourselves?"

The man's eyes became slits as he regarded Bolan. "What do you mean?"

The Executioner shrugged. "It is widely rumored that soldiers from Greater Serbia serve in the Bosnian Serb ranks."

The other three men at the table gave Bolan hard looks, then turned to their leader. The big man suddenly smiled. "You are a foreigner, so I will explain something to you. There is no such thing as *Bosnian Serbs,' as you journalists like to call us. Serbians are Serbians. You attack one of us, you attack us all. You understand?"

The men around the table grunted and nodded vigorously in solidarity.

Bolan nodded. "I understand. But what of reports of Russian advisers in your ranks?"

The table grew quiet again. The big man looked at Bolan suspiciously. "You ask many questions."

"I'm a journalist, and I want to hear your side of the story."

The big man blinked. "Hmm, well, yes." He finally shrugged and took another pull from the bottle. "Well, I would not know of these things. Perhaps you should talk to some of the others."

The Executioner decided to press it home. "What about the rumors of a Russian giant committing atrocities around Sarajevo?"

The man's eyes flared wide, and he choked on his drink. He coughed and glared at Bolan as he tried to recompose himself. "I have no idea what you are talking about. Now, I have much to do. Good night." He stood up unsteadily and jerked his head at the other three men around the table. "Come!"

The Executioner poured himself a finger of slivovitz and watched the men leave. His gaze slid to the mirror on the wall. One of the men had split from the group and gone over to the table where Bolan had heard people speaking in Russian. The big American drained his gla.s.s as heads at the other table turned toward him. He grimaced as the liquor blossomed into warmth in his stomach. Plum brandy wasn't his first choice in a drink, but the men in Sonia's drank it like water. He poured himself another and considered his options.

He had asked questions, rattled a cage and gotten himself noticed. The only real option was to see what they would do about it. Bolan decided to go out to get a breath of fresh air. He smiled at the waitress, put money for the brandy on the table, then headed to the men's room to wash his hands and to give some time to whatever reception committee that was being organized. He unsnapped the strap that secured the 93-R in its shoulder holster, then went out into the lobby.

Bolan casually glanced about. His drinking companions had disappeared. So had the men at the other table.