"My sources say he is probably being held by the STF," she replied.

Lai knew Kirbal was lying. The Sri Lankan minister of internal security had a large sum deposited to his Swiss account each month in exchange for confidential information. The source of the funds officially was an Indian businessman in Zurich. But the real source was the RAW funds Lai controlled.

He waited until the woman finished giving her report, then handed her a typewritten financial statement.

The young woman studied the page and became pale.

"You have been followed for the past month, my dear Madi," Lai commented softly. "Every visitor to your apartment has been photographed." He handed her infrared photographs of Thamby entering and leaving, then pa.s.sed along another photo. The two of them were naked on her bed.

"These photographs will be forwarded to New Delhi. You will return there within forty-eight hours and keep yourself ready to account for your behavior to our superiors." "We are supposed to be backing the Tamils.

Our own Tamil Nadu State is totally Tamil," she protested.

"Our policies have changed," Lai replied.

"We are no longer taking sides." Kirbal looked at the man sitting across the wide desk. "I suppose you've already reported my indiscretions to New Delhi." He shook his head. "No. I was hoping we could come to some accommodation that would not force me to let our people back home know what you've been doing." The woman smiled. "Perhaps it's not too late.

Who knows about me locally?" "There is no report except for these notes.

Not yet," he replied, smiling discreetly.

"Then only you and I know about what we've been discussing?" The young woman was becoming a bore.

"Naturally," he said, patronizing her.

"Good." She smiled as she opened her purse.

Lai reached for an ornate silver box on his desk and opened it. He was old-fashioned enough to abhor the way modern young women had become addicted to tobacco. He admonished her.

"Must you smoke?" "No," she replied. Surprised at her answer, he looked at the attractive young woman. In her hands was a modified 9 mm SIG-SAUER pistol with a built-in baffle silencer.

Before the banker could utter a word, she pumped three rounds into his forehead. The jacketed slugs tore through tissue and bone, carving into his brain cavity. The white-haired man slumped forward, his blood spattering doc.u.ments on his once-immaculate desk.

Shoving the weapon back into her purse, Kirbal stood and picked up the typewritten sheet of paper. She was certain no one had noticed her entrance.

The staff was used to Lai having a parade of visitors wandering in and out of his office.

When the body was finally discovered, she suspected the blame would fall on government-hired a.s.sa.s.sins or members of the militant Sikh faction, whose gunmen had been traveling the globe and murdering prominent Indians.

"Now only one of us knows," she told the large, still form as she opened the door and walked down the corridor to the same rear door she had used to enter.

She had to make a call as soon as she could get to a telephone and alert the men.

As he peered over the edge of the waterfront warehouse roof, Bolan reflected on his conversation with Hal Brognola prior to embarking on the mission to Sri Lanka.

Their meeting had been brief, and the big Fed had gotten right to the point.

"At the request of the President, John Vu, our former undersecretary of state, had gone to Sri Lanka to attempt to negotiate a truce between the government and the Tamil Tigers.

"It's not just a humanitarian gesture. The United States has been negotiating for years with the Sri Lankan government to lease the former British naval base of Trincomalee as a replacement for our former bases in the Philippines. But the President doesn't want to operate a naval base in a country where the murder of thousands of innocent civilians is a common occurrence. John Vu disappeared three days ago.

"I've found a safehouse for you in Colombo, their main city. An emba.s.sy officer, Alden Kendrick, has been summoned back for a month of conferences.

You'll be using his place." As if he read Bolan's mind, he added, "The place is checked regularly for bombs and bugs, and the phone has a built-in scrambler. Use the red Nissan parked behind the building. It belongs to the emba.s.sy." The big Fed handed the Executioner a ring with four keys. "The first two are the main door to the apartment building and the apartment itself. The third is the car key." Bolan pointed to the fourth key. "What's this open?" "A side door to the American Emba.s.sy in case you need sanctuary in the middle of the night." "Why would I need that?" "Striker, the situation in Sri Lanka makes the Somalian and Bosnian carriages seem like s...o...b..ll fights." "Do I have a mission name?" "As long as you're in Sri Lanka, you're Mike Belasko," Brognola replied.

"You're a private citizen. I don't have to remind you that if you're caughta"by the Sri Lankan government, the Tigers or by the CIAa" we'll have to officially deny knowledge of your existence." The soldier wasn't surprised. Those were the conditions of every mission.

The big Fed handed Bolan a thick envelope.

"Everything we know about the country and the key players is in there. Three men control a large part of northern Sri Lanka. Together they run the terrorist group called the Tamil Tigers. We don't have their real names but everyone calls them Thamby, Neelan and Konamaial. Of the three, Thamby is the most powerful and the most dangerous.

He treats the other two like aides rather than partners, and he has the biggest following of the trio, and the largest financial backing." He stopped, then resumed speaking. "The Chinese have a vested interest in keeping the conflict going." "What's a country like Sri Lanka got that would interest them?" "Conflict means weapons, and the Chinese are selling every type of weapon and munitions they manufacture to the rebel groups. Our Intel suggests a new shipment is supposed to be arriving in two days. The location of the warehouse where the Chinese will store it is in the envelope.

"One more thing, Striker," he said, handing Bolan a sheet of paper that bore a typed message. "The amba.s.sador in Colombo pa.s.sed this message along.

That's when I got called in." Bolan read the note aloud. ""Mr. Vu is still alive. Someone will call you and tell you what is wanted in exchange for his release."" The note wasn't signed.

The Executioner looked across the desk at his friend.

"Think it's legitimate?" "This was enclosed in the envelope." He handed Bolan a color photograph of Vu holding up a recent edition of the Times of London. "I'd say so." Hal Brognola's information was, as usual, infallible, Bolan thought as he watched the cranes lifting the heavy wooden crates high above the freighter, then lowering them onto the dock. The big Fed had said the weapons were coming in tonight. After catching some sleep, Bolan had checked out the vessel earlier in the evening.

The freighter was Chinese, as was the crew.

Based on the name of the vessela"the Mao Tse-tunga"they weren't from Taiwan.

They were pure mainland China. The crates were marked farm implements, and the bill of lading claimed the shipment had originated in Portugal. Bolan knew better. He had opened two of the crates before climbing the metal stairs to the roof.

The dark-haired American, dressed in his blacksuit and with his features masked with combat cosmetics, knew what was being unloaded: automatic weapons, ammunition, grenades, several kinds of missiles and hundreds of barrels of an obsolete version of napalm-like material.

The buyers had probably paid more than ten times what the Vietnam surplus was worth, but Bolan knew that, for the most part, legal channels were closed to them.

He suspected that the buyers were the Tamil Tigers, looking for weapons for new recruits to the constantly growing secret army they were building.

It took somebody with power and connections to acquire that quant.i.ty of arms so fast, then arrange for the cargo to pa.s.s unchecked through the various inspections the government required. Only someone with the money to pay off customs inspectors could have put this together.

Thamby's name came immediately to mind. According to Brognola, the Tamil leader had the funds to convince government officials to look the other way.

There were enough weapons and ammunition on the freighter to kill a lot of innocent people, which, Bolan suspected, was the ultimate goal.

The soldier studied the five men in military fatigues who watched stone-faced as the crates disappeared into one of the large vans lined up on the dock. They were whispering to one another in a dialect that Bolan didn't understand. He mentally reviewed his options.

To attack the ship with missiles would sink it in port and expose its illegal cargo. But innocent Sinbalese dock-workers would be killed. And the crew would probably be able to slip away in the confusion.

He could attempt to eliminate the five Tamils from his current position, then notify the authorities about the cargo. He dismissed the thought.

They were trained killers and wouldn't stand still while he picked them off. He was certain the policea"at least some of thema"were in business with the smugglers.

The cranes began to pull away from the freighter.

Workers swarmed over the deck, securing covers and storing equipment. Bolan saw the captain, a bearded Chinese in his fifties, walk down the gangplank and huddle with the plain-clothes guards.

They were all checking their wrist.w.a.tches.

Bolan began to feel the muscles tense in his neck, a warning signal. He drew a deep breath, closed his eyes and forced himself to relax.

The soldier opened his eyes. He was ready to proceed.

First he'd rig the trucks with C4 and set the timers. The next move would be to eliminate the captain, then the bodyguards. The sound of gunfire would terrify the dock-workers. After they scattered, he could launch a LAW 80 missile at the ship's hull, below the waterline.

Then he'd escape, leaving survivors to explain their armed presence to the police when they arrived.

Quickly he slung the LAW and the M16 over his shoulder and made his way to the exit door, cautiously working his way to the side entrance.

Walking between stacks of cargo destined for other vessels, Bolan hurried to the armament-laden trucks. He sliced a wedge of the plastic explosive and pressed it to the undercarriage of the first truck, then inserted the miniaturized detonator and timer, giving himself fifteen minutes to complete his mission.

Repeating the same procedure at each of the next three vehicles, he hid the LAW and the M16 beside a stack of crates, then rose to his feet and moved to the stern of the freighter. The stench of fish and diesel oil filled his nostrils as he worked his way to the vessel.

As he approached the gangplank, he heard a noise behind him. Whipping out his silenced Beretta as he whirled, he saw the Tamil gunman yank an autopistol from his holster.

"I found him," the guerrilla shouted in clear English. "The intruder we were warned was coming." The gunner squeezed the trigger, but Bolan fired first. Three rounds tore through the Tamil's breastbone and cored into his heart. Without a sound the dead man slid to the wooden flooring of the dock.

"Hey, Yanu," a voice called out in English, "Did you get him? The woman on the phone asked-was Woman? The only person who knew his destination was Madi Kirbal.

Bolan pulled the body behind some crates, then moved closer to where the others stood. He found an observation post and set down his equipment.

The voice called out to the dead man again, "Stop hunting for the American, We need to get out of here." Bolan could see the dock-workers scurrying on the deck, and heard the sound of the four men moving toward him.

He headed away from them, toward the ship.

A uniformed ship officer shouted in alarm. He had found the body and called out for the others.

Bolan saw the frightened Chinese captain running up the gangway. The soldier retrieved his M16 from its hiding place and lowered his eye to the carefully calibrated sight. The captain had reached the doorway. The big American estimated the distance and swept the gangway with a brief burst.

The captain turned his head, looking surprised, then fell from the gangway into the dockside water.

There was shouting from the freighter, then the engines started.

The soldier heard sounds of someone approaching his position. As he grabbed his gear and moved deeper in the shadows, he was confronted by a Tamil guard. A short burst from the M16 tore the man in two.

The Executioner reached for a new clip when he sensed someone behind him.

He threw himself down and rolled behind a stack of crates, the Tamil gunner firing at his retreating form.

Bolan freed a grenade from his combat vest and yanked the pin. He stood, tossed the bomb over the cases, then dropped. Seconds later the explosion blew the Tamil gunner to pieces.

Bits of human flesh and bone rained down from above.

The soldier heard the sound of footfalls coming toward him, then the movement stopped. He unleathered the Desert Eagle and held the heavy handgun with both hands, waiting patiently. The footfalls started again, the stalker moving slowly, carefully.

Bolan turned his head toward the sound. He waited, then abruptly lifted the handgun and squeezed the trigger.

The bulky man who hovered over him, holding a .45 ACP pistol, looked shocked as the bullets tore into him. He stared at Bolan, hate burning in his dying eyes, then fell facedown into a pool of his own blood.

Pulling himself to his feet, Bolan gathered his equipment and hurried to the dock.

The ship was pulling away. He opened the LAW and set the distance.

Aiming carefully, he released the HEAT warhead at the ship, which penetrated the rusting metal below the waterline and created a gaping hole.

A series of explosions from inside the hold shook the rusty vessel, telling the Executioner that the missile had detonated the ammunition left in the holds.

The ship began to take on water, settling slowly. Bolan threw the empty LAW tube as close to the vessel as he could. If investigators found it, they would a.s.sume it had been part of the cargo.

Then he remembered there were five Tamil guards. He glanced at his wrist.w.a.tch. He had only five minutes to find the fifth guard and get away before the dock vanished under the impact of the plastic explosives.

Bolan rammed a fresh clip into the Desert Eagle and moved cautiously through the aisles of crates, realizing, when he heard the sound of police sirens, that time was almost up.

He moved around a low stack of crates and spotted the last gunner.

"Throw the gun away and give yourself up. I won't hurt you," the soldier shouted.

Bolan could see the decision process working as he watched the man's facial muscles twitch. The face became hard. He'd made a decision.

The gunner quickly raised his gun. Bolan set his body to withstand the recoil of his huge weapon and started to squeeze the trigger. Then he stopped. The Tamil gunner had rammed the HandK against the side of his head and fired. Bits of gray-white matter sprayed out of the opened skull. The last hardman had preferred to take his own life rather than risk capture.

Glancing at his wrist.w.a.tch again, Bolan realized only two minutes remained before h.e.l.l unleashed its fury on the dock.

Bolan raced for the vehicle he'd borrowed from Kirbal, jumped behind the wheel and floored the gas pedal. The Land Rover shuddered at the sudden rush of fuel and sped across the dock and onto the road in seconds.

As he headed toward Colombo, the Executioner felt the earth shake, then heard a gargantuan explosion pummel the air. The sky was lit up with flares and rockets crossing one another, while the exploding ammo created a tumultuous cacophony on the collapsing wooden dock.

The Executioner had spoken in a loud, explosive voice. The Tamils now had to know they had a wolf in the fold.

Downtown Colombo resembled a birthday cake. Many buildings had been constructed out of pink sandstone, and victorian arches and white parapets seemed to accent the archaic structures.

The ma.s.sive Regency-style buildings blended with austere statues of Queen Victoria and other relics of nineteenth-century Ceylon.

Stately Gaile Road had served since English rule as a promenade for young people, and tonight was different from no other evening. Slim, smiling women, some wearing traditional saris, others wearing Western clothes, glanced shyly at the young men who waited to ogle them at the street corners.

As he made his way through the streets of Colombo, Bolan reluctantly accepted the reality that Madi Kirbal intended to have him killed.

Bolan had one more place to visit before he confronted the woman: the warehouse where the vans had planned to transport the contraband weapons. He suspected there were more weapons stored there, guns and grenades that would be used to kill many thousands of innocent civilians.

The one-story sandstone structure was located on Old Moor Street, near the Pettah bazaar district.

Bolan pulled the Land Rover to the curb and parked it. Checking his handguns and the Uzi, he ensured the magazines were full, then set the Uzi on selective fire and shouldered it.

The Israeli-made weapon was a reliable tool. Weighing less than seven and a half pounds, the powerful submachine gun was only seventeen inches long from the tip of its stubby barrel to the end of its folded metal stock. Each magazine clipped into its grip held twenty-five rounds of high-velocity ammo.