A balding, squat man had his head down on the desk. As the soldier moved to his side, he could see blood oozing from a huge wound in the side of his head.

It was Clay At.w.a.ter.

The top of the desk was clear, except for the remnants of a miniaturized answering machine, which somebody had torn apart.

He was grasping a sc.r.a.p of paper in his fingers.

From the torn edges, it looked as if somebody had tried to free it from his hand. Bolan looked closely and could make out the scrawled name: John Vu.

Bolan searched through the man's clothes and found a wallet made of cheap cloth. It contained several bills and a driver's license made out to At.w.a.ter.

Looking around the room, the Executioner decided that there weren't many places the man could have hidden anything. The only furnishings were the desk, three wooden chairs and a small file cabinet where drawers were empty.

Bolan went behind the desk and pulled open the side drawers, which were just as empty as the file cabinet had been.

The chair in which At.w.a.ter sat was on wheels.

Bolan didn't have much trouble moving it to one side so he could open the center drawer. Except for a sealed six-pack of microca.s.settes, there was nothing in it.

A ball of shredded tan recording tape lay on the floor under the desk.

Somebody had ripped the tapes out of the answering machine and made sure they couldn't be played. What had the dead man recorded that somebody wanted badly enough to kill him for?

He heard a car door slam, then moments later footsteps pounding up the stairs echoed all the way into the inner office. Bolan rested his hand on his belt close to where he could grab the Beretta and walked back into the reception area.

A voice called out. The accent was local.

In accented English, the voice shouted, "I shall be right down. I just want to be sure we didn't leave anything behind." A short, muscular Sri Lankan in a police uniform walked in, saw Bolan standing in the center of the inner doorway and almost dropped the Type 54 pistol he was gripping in his hand.

The policeman stared at him, trying to make out his features in the darkened reception room. "Who the h.e.l.l are you?" Bolan started to reach for the Beretta, then realized that gunshots could bring reinforcements. He decided to try to bluff his way out of the building.

From the way the numerous scars on the man's face were twitching, Bolan suspected the man was edgy.

"Mr. At.w.a.ter and I were supposed to meet here.

I guess he isn't going to show up." "You a friend of his?" "No. He was helping me solve a problem I had." The uniformed man backed away from Bolan toward the inner office door.

He kicked it open, then turned back and studied the American. His eyes narrowed. Bolan moved his hand inside his jacket.

"I guess I'll leave him a note, if I can find my pen." What Bolan was waiting for was some momentary distraction so he could bolt out of the office.

The cop lifted the phone and dialed a number.

"It's Conrad, Commander," he said, in a flat, hard voice. All arrogance vanished from the man and was replaced with respect and fear.

"You can tell the minister we took care of him half an hour ago. I don't care what the man on the wiretap reported. There was no money in the office.

We came back here to look for the money again, and I found some American snooping around the office." He paused, listening to the person on the other end.

"Why not right here? What's one more?" He looked annoyed as something was explained. "Okay.

We'll take him into the forest." He slammed down the phone and waved the gun at the soldier. "We have to take a ride and meet somebody." Bolan knew he'd soon be dead.

There was only one thing to do. Bolan played it straight. "Could I leave you a number to call later and tell them I'm okay?" The local cop smirked. "Sure." The Executioner reached into his jacket and moved his hand as if he were searching for a pen.

The Beretta 93-R appeared, as the warrior threw himself across the desk toward the officer.

The startled policeman pounded his entire clip at where Bolan had been standing, only the man was no longer there.

Rolling to his left, Bolan raised his weapon and fired a triburst at his adversary, the lead chewing gaping wounds in his chest and neck.

Bolan carefully kicked the handgun away from the dead man. Too many times someone supposedly dead had suddenly come to life, ready to continue the battle.

Chandra Sirindikha was waiting outside his door when he returned to the safehouse. She looked worried until she saw him.

"The local news program said there had been a ma.s.sacre in the Pettah district. I was hoping you weren't involved." Bolan was surprised to see her, and even more surprised to hear her concern.

"More important, I found this." She handed him several pages and a map.

"It was hidden in the desk of one of the intelligence officers who'd been transferred." Bolan studied the papers. They were a rough draft of a report the agent had been preparing for Langley on the location of a Tiger camp the terrorist group had abandoned.

The soldier looked at the map. Someone had conveniently circled a small wooded area fifty miles north of Colombo.

Bolan wondered if the information was genuine, or planted to draw him to the place. Either way, he had to check it out.

"Thanks. You better get out of here before someone spots you," he told the emba.s.sy clerk.

"I'm going with you." There was a hard, no-nonsense edge in her voice.

"I know the fastest way to get there. Either I go with you, or I follow you." Bolan quit arguing. Like it or not, he had a companion.

There was no breeze, so the rustling sound could only mean that some bird or animal was moving, or, the big American suspected, somebody was waiting for them.

Gripping the M-16, fitted with an M-203 grenade launcher, Bolan crouched behind the thick stand of teak trees. Glancing at the young woman next to him, he could see the fear and confusion in her eyes.

He didn't think she knew that she was leading him into an ambush. Someone else had set it up.

There were a lot of possibilities, such as the departed CIA men, but this wasn't the time to worry about who was responsible. The immediate problem was escaping the guerrillas who surrounded them.

One thing he knew for sure: the missing diplomat wasn't being kept nearby. This was a place of deatha"his, if the terrorists had their way.

Staring into the dark, Bolan made a decision. It was time to flush out the enemy. Weighing his options, he set down the M-16 and searched the canvas bag he'd brought with him.

"Whatever happens, stay hidden," he ordered.

"If I'm not back in fifteen minutes, run like h.e.l.l for the car and get out of here." While the woman stared at him in confusion, Bolan picked up his weapon, loaded an M-40 grenade and launched the first missile in a high arc to his right. Before it landed, he repeated the action to his left, then straight ahead of him.

The three explosions followed in rapid succession, accompanied by screams of agony from those terrorists riddled with scorching slivers of superheated metal.

The Executioner waited for the a.s.sault he knew was inevitable.

Terrorists, he knew, were essentially cowards who used darkness and hostages to mask their fears and give them false courage. They couldn't afford to look frightened to their peers.

Setting down the M-16, the soldier replaced it with the 9 mm Uzi, fitted with a 35-round clip of steel-jacketed slugs and listened.

Even the soft felt slippers on the terrorists' feet couldn't completely hide their stealthy movements. The soldier waited until he sensed them close, then stood and hosed the area in front of him with a controlled burst of death bringers.

The screams and cries in the dark attested to the deadly accuracy of his aim. But the sound of footfalls tearing into the forest in the opposite direction let him know there was at least one survivor.

"Wait here," he told the woman with him as he rammed a fresh clip into the Uzi and strode forward.

A dozen bodies were sprawled on the ground, their awkward poses a testament to their sudden deaths.

Bolan heard a noise and whirled, preparing to fire his weapon.

It was the woman.

"I told you to wait." "No. I led you into this trap, and I had to see the faces of those you killed." He stepped aside and watched the darkness for any hint of movement, while Sirindikha moved from body to body, studying the faces of each carefully before moving on.

"No, I don't recognize any of them," she said. "They look likea" She hesitated. "Like ordinary people." Suddenly she gasped as she looked closer at one of the corpses.

"She's a woman," she said, looking shocked.

"They are just ordinary people, men and women who've become part of some cause that controls their lives.

What the Tigers believe in isn't bad. It's what they do to achieve their goals that needs to be stopped." Bolan heard a soft sound, like that of someone moaning. He put a finger to his lips, then pushed her aside and moved to the source.

One of the guerrillas held his hands against his stomach, as if he hoped he could stop his entrails and blood from spilling on the ground. Bolan knelt beside him.

"Who sent you?" "We were many. You were one. Why are you alive?" "Where is the American?" the Executioner asked, knowing from the extent of the man's injuries that he was dying, and that little time remained.

The young man's face filled with confusion.

"American? You are the only American here.

"The American who came here to bring peace," Bolan continued.

A faint expression of understanding flashed across the dying terrorist's features.

"The leaders have said that there will never be peace until we are free," he gasped. "They are trying to convince the man from across the water-was The young guerrilla stopped talking. Suddenly his eyes looked past Bolan and became glazed with death.

For all the killing that had taken place, the only thing the Executioner had learned was that John Vu was probably still alive.

The President had asked Hal Brognola to report on the progress of the rescue mission.

"Nothing concrete to report," the head of Stony Man Farm stated bluntly after taking the chair offered by the Chief Executive.

"Obviously somebody knew he was coming. The kidnapping took place within a day of his arrival." "Who? Except for my personal secretary, I made sure n.o.body else knew about my request." He thought for a minute. "Perhaps John mentioned it to someone." Then the Man shook his head.

"No, that's not his style. John's an old poker player. Plays everything close to the vest. Do you think some foreign agents tailed him?" "Maybe we ought to look inside and not outside." "You think that we've got people in our country who could do something like this, for some personal gain, Hal?" "I think every country does, Mr. President." "How do you think I should play the news?" "If it was up to me, Mr. President, I'd keep a lid on it. Only a select few peoplea"and the kidnappersa"know about John Vu's status." "Is Striker still alive?" "Yeah, and not happy that he hasn't been able to get a solid lead on Vu's whereabouts." The President looked somber. "Someone is going to join us who might be of help to Striker. At least I hope he is." Brognola wondered who the person was. One thing he was sure abouta"it wouldn't be anyone from the CIA. They'd prefer the Executioner dead.

"My visitor should be here, Hal. Okay if I bring him in?" "Anything I can give Striker to speed up his search would be greatly appreciated." The Chief Executive reached for the intercom and pushed a b.u.t.ton.

Moments later the door opened and a slim, balding man entered the room.

The President looked at both men. "Do you two know each other?" Brognola recognized the man from prior interagency meetings: Rex Medford, director of State Department Intelligence and Research Services.

Medford crossed to where Brognola was sitting and shook his hand. "Good to see you again," he said.

The Chief Executive pointed to an empty chair. "Sit down, Rex." The State Department official did, and waited for the President to speak.

"Rex's people may be in a position to provide your man with both information and a.s.sistance." The President turned to Medford. "Take over, Rex." "We've been watching the situation in Sri Lanka deteriorate daily.

Because we were afraid that CIA might be playing on both sides, we a.s.signed our own people to build up a file of possible contacts." Brognola immediately liked the balding man for not pulling punches about the CIA'S self-interested meddling.

"One of our sources sent a signal through an intermediary in Madras that he'd heard an American was being held for ransom in a village just outside of Jaffna." Brognola sounded annoyed when he asked, "Why didn't your people contact the government and have them send troops in to rescue him?" "The people in charge of such an operation would have made sure the Americana"especially if it was John Vua"was killed and the blame placed on the Tamils," Medford explained. "Instead we had our mana"in this case our womana"keep in touch with our Tamil source for any news about Vu." "How can she help the man I sent over?" "First of all she's fluent in the various Sri Lanka languages. And even though this is her first field a.s.signment, she's already proved herself resourceful." Something clicked in Brognola's head. Striker had mentioned a woman from the emba.s.sy.

"The emba.s.sy communications clerk?" Medford nodded. "Chandra Sirindikha. And I believe she's already provided your man with a.s.sistance." The President interrupted. "This Tamil contact, will he cooperate with the man Hal Brognola sent over to rescue John?" "I believe he will, Mr. President." The Chief Executive pressed the point.

"Are you certain?" "John Vu was one of ours. I'm positive Father Tomas will do everything he can to help free the former undersecretary of state." "Send your woman a signal to make the contact," Brognola said.

The President looked at the big Fed questioningly.

The Stony Man Farm head nodded. It was risky, but for now it was the only game in town worth playing.

"I only pray that we're not too late," the Chief Executive said, sounding worried. "On behalf of my man in the field," Brognola replied, "I second the prayer." The minister of internal security was venting his rage to the senior commanders of the special task force.

"A simple a.s.signment," he yelled, pacing the length of his large office.

"Find the American mercenary and the missing diplomat. Your men can find neither." General k.u.martanga, operations commander of the elite attack troops, looked uncomfortable.

"Our usual sources have been unablea"or unwilling a"to tell us anything." He hesitated, then added, "Clay At.w.a.ter would have been more helpful had he lived." "Is that an accusation?" Allan Bandaran stared at the uniformed officer.

"At.w.a.ter couldn't find a bag of gold if it were sitting on a table in front of him!" "If we go along with the theory that the Tigers are holding him captive, we could launch surprise a.s.saults on their bases and rescue him," Colonel Senanayake, one of the senior field commanders, suggested.

Bandaran considered the suggestion. The STF knew the location of most of the Tigers' camps, but not all of them. Still, if the Tamil terrorists were attacked, they'd retaliate, probably by killing the American diplomat.

The minister smiled. The Tamils might do what his own forces couldn't.

"Excellent suggestion," he said. "Put it into action immediately." Colonel Chen was met at the airport at Katunayake, twenty miles north of Colombo, by his secretary, May Ling.

The attractive woman grabbed his suitcase and led the way to where she'd parked his Mercedes-Benz.

"Good trip, sir?" If constant threats, accusations and interrogation by the minister of state security and his aides const.i.tuted a good trip, Chen had had one.

"Business trips are always tiring," he replied noncommittally.

She placed his small bag in the trunk of the car, then got in behind the wheel.