Attaching the explosive to a long wire, he ran the plastic-covered detonation cord to the front door and wired it to a detonator.

A case of grenades caught his eye, as did a weapon he hadn't expected to find here: an MM-1 multiple grenade launcher. Bolan picked it up and checked it. Someone had loaded the weapon with both fragmentation and incendiary grenades. The next round was a fragmentation grenade.

Resting the c.u.mbersome weapon on a shoulder, Bolan left the armory and searched the area for a discreet way into the large headquarters building.

A window provided him with a possible entrance.

Crouching below it, he raised his head and looked inside. It was a large office, expensively furnished.

Behind the desk was a short, cold-faced man dressed in a colonel's uniform. The Executioner knew that this had to be the man who had given the dead noncom his orders.

Smashing the window with the b.u.t.t of his Beretta, Bolan saw the man turn in his direction then grab for a handgun resting in a belt holster.

Before the colonel could yank it free, Bolan launched the 40 mm frag grenade.

Throwing himself on the ground, the Executioner felt the walls behind him shake as if an earthquake had hit. The window shattered, and bits of flesh and blood showered the broken gla.s.s on the ground.

Racing back to the armory door, Bolan set the timer and raced for the gates. Three shots from his .44-caliber Desert Eagle ruptured the lock that held them closed. As he pushed the gates open and sprinted through them, he heard a barrage of rounds being fired in his direction.

Stopping, he turned and saw a dozen soldiers rushing toward him. He raised the launcher and unleashed a pair of frag grenades at his attackers, then threw himself into a right-handed roll, away from the gates.

Bodies and weapons shattered. The opposition was decimated.the big American checked the launcher.

Nine grenades remained.

Aiming the MM-1 in the air, he emptied five missiles at the roof of the administration building, then turned and released the remaining four at the parked vehicles.

An empty sentry box offered the Executioner temporary sanctuary from the hurtling bits of metal and exploding gas tanks. In the distance the roof of the armory lifted five feet in the air as the explosives detonated the supplies inside.

Waiting for the explosions to ease, Bolan dropped the launcher and retrieved his Beretta from its shoulder rig.

More troops would pursue him. It was time to make a run for Madi Kirbal's Land Rover and head toward Colombo.

The apartment complex where Madi Kirbal lived was in one of the better neighborhoods of Colombo.

Bolan pulled the Land Rover into one of the s.p.a.ces marked Visitor. The building looked too expensive for a government employee's salary. Perhaps the Indian government had given her a housing allowance, or perhaps someone else was helping to finance the rent.

Knocking on the front door did no good. There was no answer. Bolan tried the handle, but the door was locked.

Perhaps she'd spent the night someplace else.

He moved around to the side of the building. The patio sliding door was locked, and the draperies inside were closed. When Bolan reached the far end of the building, he knocked on what he thought were her bedroom windows.

There was no response.

The bathroom and kitchen windows were at the rear of the building. The Executioner examined them, spotting a slight s.p.a.ce between the bathroom window and the groove in which it rested. He worked his fingers into the s.p.a.ce, and finally there was enough s.p.a.ce for him to slide his hand in.

The window rose easily.

Inside there was a strong, unpleasant odor that was familiar. Cautiously he stepped through the doorway and into the living room.

Madi Kirbal lay on her side on the pure white rug, dead. Somebody had stabbed her.

There was a bowl of fresh fruit on the low coffee table and a small pile of napkins. Kirbal had been the perfect hostess to some visitor. A large ashtray on the table had the remains of a sliced custard apple. Someone had used a sharp knife to slice the pear, and to stab her in the chest. It wasn't hard to figure that out. The knife protruded from the small of her back.

It was possible that Kirbal's killer was still in the apartment.

Bolan strode into the bedroom. The bed covers had been dragged onto the floor; drawers were pulled out and thrown on the floor. Someone was looking for something. The soldier wondered if the killer had found it.

There was nothing Bolan could find in the bedroom that gave him any hint of who the visitor had been.

The rest of the apartment had been aggressively searched but was equally barren of anything that remotely resembled a clue.

Whatever had happened here the previous night couldn't have disturbed the neighbors, he decided.

n.o.body had called the police.

Easing the Beretta 93-R from its holster, he moved to the door and glanced inside.

A burly blond man stood in the bathtub, trying to ease the window open.

Bolan noticed the parallel scratches around his necka"Kirbal's nails trying to fight the man off, he suspected, as she struggled for her life.

"Hold it," Bolan ordered.

The man started to turn.

"Slowly. Keep your hands where I can see them." The blond man faced him, and Bolan could see the scratches across his face.

"She tried to defend herself, didn't she?" "No, she always does this when we're in bed," the man replied in a c.o.c.kney accent. "Madi's the violent type. Treats lovemaking like a combat exercise." "Too bad she's dead." The blond man shook his head. "When we were done, I realized she was dead. Then you showed up.

I didn't know if you were another lover or just a burglar." We'll let the police sort this out," Bolan replied.

"I am the police. Archie Macdougall," the blond man told him. "At least, I work for the minister of internal security, and he runs the police." Bolan suspected her murder had less to do with lovemaking and more to do with his mission. But what?

He signaled his prisoner to walk ahead of him into the living room.

"Let's call your boss and tell him what happened." As they moved in the larger room, Macdougall seemed to fall apart at the sight of the dead woman.

With a sudden cry he dropped to the floor next to her body. "I'm sorry, Madi.

We were just playing." Bolan felt no sympathy for the man. Kirbal was dead. It was up to the Sri Lankan authorities to decide if it was accidental or deliberate.

"Come on, let's get the police here and Madi Kirbal shipped back to her family," Bolan said coldly.

Macdougall turned and stared up at Bolan, then swung his right hand in a slashing motion at the soldier's midsection. Clenched in his hand was the knife that had killed the Indian woman.

Bolan jumped back, seeing the edge of the blade miss his stomach by a fraction of an inch.

Instinctively the Executioner squeezed the trigger of the Beretta, firing a pair of slugs into Macdougall's ma.s.sive chest. Neither shot seemed to have any effect on the Englishman. He jumped to his feet and threw himself at Bolan, knife raised to plunge into his adversary's body.

Bolan raised the Beretta slightly and pulled the trigger repeatedly. The slugs tore into the blond man's face and neck. He dropped the knife, collapsing to the floor in a heap.

The big American searched the dead man's pockets, one of which contained some folded pages.

They were handwritten letters to Madi Kirbal from someone called Rajiv.

The soldier scanned them. Love letters. Bolan could only read the ones written in English. They were filled with promises of what their life would be like when the independent nation of Eelam became a reality.

In another pocket Bolan found a formal-looking invitation to Allan Bandaran's upcoming birthday party. He pocketed the card, curious as to why Kirbal would have been on Bandaran's guest list. He decided to let the police sort out the bodies in the living room, then let himself out of the apartment.

He hesitated at the Land Rover, deciding to leave it.

As he walked toward the busy corner ahead to hail a taxicab, he knew there were a lot of questions that would never be answered. Not by the Indian woman.

But if she had been the one who called the Tamil guards at the dock and alerted them, it was the last time she would betray anyone.

Clay At.w.a.ter, former training officer with Keenie Meenie Services, was surprised at the appearance of the minister. People like Allan Bandaran rarely visited his small office, especially unaccompanied.

He pulled up a chair to his small, chipped desk and, in as upper-cla.s.s an English accent as he could muster, asked, "Is something wrong, Mr.

Minister?" The short, balding man lowered his body into the chair.

"Perhaps. Or perhaps an Opportunity for you to add to your personal wealth." At.w.a.ter snapped to attention. He had never known the security official to mouth empty statements.

"What do you know about a missing American diplomat?" At.w.a.ter weighed the value of telling the truth or lying. This was the first time since he'd gone private where he decided it might pay off.

"I've heard that some diplomat came here to try to work Out a truce between your government and the Tigers," the former military trainer admitted.

"Did you know the Americans have sent somebody to find him?" At.w.a.ter wanted to smile, but forced himself to look thoughtful. "I heard words to that effect. A CIA agent, I understand." "We're not sure. His name is Michael Belasko, and he did not come in through the normal customs channels." "Do you have a photograph of him?" "Not a very good one, I'm afraid. It was taken in early evening without a flash." The smuggler who had sold it to one of the STF agents had taken it while crossing the Palk Strait from India without the American's knowledge.

Bandaran handed the snapshot to At.w.a.ter.

The features were difficult to make out. What he saw was a very large, muscular man, with no expression on his face. Belasko was a professional, perhaps an a.s.sa.s.sin. He had that cold look of professionals.

"Any idea what kind of weapons he's carrying?" Bandaran shook his head.

At.w.a.ter saw an opportunity to add to his almost-depleted bank account.

"It may cost a great deal to convince someone to take on so risky an a.s.signment," he commented, testing Bandaran for some clue about how much he was willing to pay.

"How much?" The free-lancer grabbed a convenient figure.

"Forty thousand dollars American." "Thirty," the cabinet minister countered.

"Make it thirty-five, and I'll find the right man." Bandaran pushed himself to his feet.

"Done." "I'll need at least half in advance." The minister walked to the door, then stopped and turned back. "Will you be here around six this evening?" At.w.a.ter nodded. "I'll make it my business." "I will have a large envelope delivered to you. And if you're successful, I may have an even bigger a.s.signment for you." The internal security minister hadn't yet decided who had to be next, the American diplomat or the Sri Lankan president.

Both had to go if he was to continue receiving monetary gifts.

At.w.a.ter sat down in the chair behind his desk and locked his hands behind his head.

Getting rid of the agent would be difficult but not impossible.

He had the perfect man in mind for the job, Fernando Dasilva, and the perfect incentive, money. The mercenary was in desperate need of it.

And he just remembered how he could make more of the funds he needed to keep the Macao casino collectors satisfied.

He lifted the phone and placed a call, then replaced the receiver. Once the caller got the message, At.w.a.ter was certain he would call back.

Bolan placed an overseas call and asked the operator to phone him back when she reached his party.

The number in the U.s. he'd given her was the first of a series of intercepts that would find its way to wherever Hal Brognola was.

Ten minutes later the phone rang. The Executioner lifted the phone and activated the portable scrambler device. "Striker?" He recognized Brognola's voice. "Here." "How's it going?" "Not good yet. The contact turned out to be a triple. She was working for the Tamil Tigers, as well as the Indian government and us. She's dead." "d.a.m.n. Was that the only way?" "The minister of internal security's bodyguard stabbed her. I took him out." There was a moment of silence, then the big Fed asked, "What do you need from me?" "I need replacements for my carryall and some hint of where Vu is being kept." "Okay on the first. Look in the trunk tomorrow morning. Nix on the second request.

We know even less than you do. But I'm hoping to meet with some people who may have information." Bolan wasn't surprised. Whoever was holding Vu wasn't contacting anyone for ransom, and his only possible source was dead.

The soldier was frustrated. Vu was still missing, possibly dead.

He could confront the minister of internal security, but officially Mike Belasko had never entered Sri Lanka.

Bolan remembered the name of the Chinese importer. Chen. Kirbal had mentioned that he imported electronic components and traveled through Sri Lanka to sell them. It was a slim thread, but it was the only one he had at the moment.

Clay At.w.a.ter rested his head in his hands and felt sorry for himself. It had been so easy to make money when he was part of the British Special Air Service, before he got thrown out of the commando unit.

There was always somebody who would pay for informationa"an Arab, a South African, some IRA big shot who wanted to know where and when the SAS was planning to hit Northern Ireland.

Even when the KMS gave him a job training Sri Lankan police officers, the money kept being thrust on him. Someone with one of the Tamil rebel groups needed information on when the special task force teams would try to attack them.

The minister of internal security gave him money each month to keep him personally informed whenever At.w.a.ter was contacted by the Tamils.

Everything had gone to h.e.l.l in the past six months.

The Keenie Meenie Services leader had fired him when he found out about the side income, and almost n.o.body seemed to care about any information he might have.

The money from the minister wasn't enough to cover his monthly expenses and the gambling debts.

But there was another possible source of funds.

The phone rang. At.w.a.ter was sure it was the source calling back. He picked up the receiver.

It was important that he sound calm and confident.

"I heard that your supplies were destroyed last night. I may be able to provide you with replacements. For a price," he told the person on the other end of the line.

He listened for a few minutes, then replied, "I'll be in my office until after midnight." Rajiv Thamby sat back in his chair and stared without expression at the former KMS trainer.