Clay At.w.a.ter found that the thick, damp air made it difficult for him to concentrate on the negotiations.

"We can get you a thousand of the latest M-16 carbines and at least twenty thousand rounds of high-powered 5.56 mm ammo," he repeated. "In addition we can supply you with the Americans" best grenades and newest grenade launchers.

"It cost a lot to get my hands on them.

Smuggling them into Sri Lanka won't be a breeze. The government keeps a careful eye on what comes into the country. Even more so since your people decided to go on a killing rampage," he reminded the Tamil.

"A political necessity, Mr. At.w.a.ter," Thamby replied calmly. "Just so n.o.body would forget we mean to get our own independent country, even if it means killing every Sinhalese to accomplish that goal." The mercenary knew an arms merchant from Macao who'd been trying to unload the stolen shipment of U.s. weapons for weeks. The American sergeant and two privates responsible for the theft in Korea had been arrested by the military police. The arms dealer needed to sell the arms and go into hiding before the American revealed his ident.i.ty and location.

At.w.a.ter had been promised a healthy fee for unloading the arms cargo to the Tamils. He could almost taste the money now.

The Tamil threw cold water on part of his fantasy.

"We might not need your weapons if the American can be made to cooperate." "Don't count on it. The Sinhalese aren't about to budge on their demands that you surrender unconditionally." "The Americans have sent a negotiator to arrange a truce." "Other countries have tried to do the same thing," At.w.a.ter reminded him.

"They never seem to hold water after the press leaves." "This time we are holding private conversations with the American so he knows how far we are willing to go," the Tamil replied, sounding certain of the success of the talks.

"Where are these talks taking place?" "Where n.o.body can find him, until we're ready to send him to the Sinhalese." At.w.a.ter drummed the table with his fingertips.

"What about the arms?" "They will have to wait until we know how the American Government responds." He started to get up from the table.

"You know the Americans have sent a specialist to rescue him?" The Tamil sat down and stared icily at the former KMS staffer. "So I've heard," he replied in a flat tone.

His own love was in a morgue, awaiting shipment back to India, because of the American agent. At least he was partly to blame. Madi wouldn't have had to put herself in danger if this Michael Belasko hadn't come here.

"I think I can get rid of him permanently." "Good." Thamby knew how At.w.a.ter thought.

"How much?" "What is he worth dead to you?" "We are a poor people. I could possibly raise five thousand American dollars to defray your expenses." At.w.a.ter suspected he could only push the Tiger leader a little higher.

"I'll have high expenses. Could you make it ten?" Thamby pushed back the chair and stood. "Done.

I will have the money delivered to you tonight. But I will expect immediate results." At.w.a.ter heard the unspoken threat in the Tiger leader's last statement.

Deliver or die.

"About the cargo," he added casually. "There are others who want to buy it." Thamby sighed. "How soon could you deliver?" At.w.a.ter knew exactly where the merchant's freighter was.

"Four hours after I send my partner the money, we can have the arms waiting on the Jaffna docks." "If only the price was more reasonable," the Tamil commented.

The ex-KMS officer quickly calculated how much less the dealer would take to unload the shipment. He quoted a price.

"Done," Thamby said. "The money for the arms will be delivered with the other money." "I'll contact my partner. Your men can start getting ready to back up their trucks on the Jaffna docks." After Thamby left, the suddenly rich Englishman leaned back in his chair and relished his good fortune, then remembered he needed to get the a.s.signment moving. He didn't need a cadre of terrorists hunting for his scalp.

A quick call to an intermediary in the Thai emba.s.sy started the message going to the merchant to move the freighter into the Jaffna harbor, then At.w.a.ter concentrated on the best way to get rid of the American CIA agent.

He wondered how much he would have to pay the hit man. Knowing how desperate Dasilva was, maybe four or five thousand American, if the man insisted.

Which left more than fifty thousand for him to square his debts in Macao and buy a one-way ticket back to England.

At.w.a.ter lifted the phone and dialed a local number. Waiting until someone answered, he tapped the table nervously.

Fernando Dasilva could trace half his family tree back to the Portuguese adventurers who ran Sri Lanka for many years before the Dutch took control.

The other half was pure Sri Lankan.

He had fallen between the cracks when the Sinhalese and the Tamils started killing each other.

There were no jobs for anyone who wasn't part of either of the two ethnic groups.

Especially someone whose only skills were those he had developed as a mercenary in Vietnam.

n.o.body wanted to hire a professional a.s.sa.s.sin, not when the STF and the Tigers were involved in wholesale carnage. He had made a decision to try peddling his skills in some other country, perhaps to the Sikhs in the Punjab sector of India.

They were always looking to have someone a.s.sa.s.sinated.

There was one problem. It took money to get to that part of India.

At.w.a.ter's call seemed like the miracle he had needed. Three thousand dollars to find and kill some American, An easy job. Some extra hands would make the job easier, and he knew he could hire as many as he wanted from the street for a hundred dollars each.

He should be able to finish the job in a few days, then pack his spa.r.s.e belongings and get out of Sri Lanka.

At.w.a.ter had provided him with a suggestion. "He's probably using a safehouse in Colombo. Find out if any of the Americans have flown back to the United States recently, then check their flat." "I'll get started right away." "Good. Stop by my office. I have a rather fuzzy photograph of the American agent." The phone clicked on the other end.

Dasilva was pleased. Now he had the funds to leave Sri Lanka, or would have in a few days.

Reaching under his bed, he pulled out a shabby leather suitcase and opened it. Inside was a.45 ACP Colt Government Model pistol, a memento from someone he'd had to kill, and five filled clips for the weapon. Next to it was a 9 mm Skorpion submachine gun. Slipping the two weapons into a cheap gym bag, he left the hotel room.

There were men to recruit, weapons and wheels to be rented and an American to be found and killed.

Bolan was in the shower when he heard a dull banging on the front door.

Grabbing a towel and wrapping it around his waist, he walked out of the bathroom, leaned across the bed and eased the Beretta 93-R from its holster.

The banging continued.

Standing to one side of the door, Bolan called out, "Who is it?" A woman's voice replied, "I have an envelope for you." "You must have the wrong apartment." "Not if you're Mr. Michael Belasko." The soldier weighed the possibility that the voice belonged to an emba.s.sy messenger. There was only one way to find out. "Just wait a minute," he told her, then slipped into his pants and shirt. Grabbing the silenced Uzi and tucking it under his left arm, he moved to the door.

Quickly he unlatched the door, then moved to one side. The Beretta 93-R was firmly clenched in his right hand.

"Come in," he said.

The door opened and a young woman stepped inside.

She looked around, then saw the armed American standing behind her. She stepped back in shock.

"Who are you?" For a moment the woman said nothing.

"I was ordered to deliver this to you in person, Mr.

Belasko," she answered nervously.

"By whom?" "I handle confidential faxes at the American Emba.s.sy. The cover message said not to turn over the delivery to any of the intelligence officers on the staff, but to deliver it personally." Bolan was still suspicious. "How did you know where to find me?" "The cover message said you were using Mr.

Kendrick's apartment while he was away," she replied.

Cautiously poking his head out of the door, Bolan could see no one waiting. The Executioner slung the Uzi and held out his left hand. She handed him the envelope.

"Sit there," Bolan said, pointing to a small upholstered chair.

The woman moved backward until she hit the chair with the back of her knees, then lowered herself into it. Her eyes were still focused on the Beretta.

Bolan opened the envelope. The fax was from Brognola, and contained just three sentences: Some good news. You're not on the CIA's. .h.i.t parade for the next thirty days.

And, Striker, stay hard.

The soldier smiled, dropped the envelope and fax on the bed and turned his attention on the messenger.

"What's your name?" "Chandra Sirindikha." "A Sri Lankan national?" "No, I was born in Fresno, California.

My family emigrated from here thirty years ago." "Were they Tamils or Sinhalese?" "Neither," she said. "My ancestors came to this country from Malay with the early Portuguese explorers." "Why are you here?" She misunderstood the question. "I explained that I was ordered to deliver-was Bolan interrupted. "No, why are you stationed in Colombo?" She looked embarra.s.sed. "Sorry. I thought you wanted to knowa" The emba.s.sy employee sensed the man's impatience. "When I graduated from the State Department's training program, I was hoping to be sent to Europe or South America. I'd never been out of the United States. But some a.s.signment officer must have studied my background and decided I would be most useful in Sri Lanka." "What do you know about the current situation?" "I don't think I should talk about that." "I'm asking about John Vu." "I know. The messages to and from the emba.s.sy have been moving in and out at a furious rate." She looked up at Bolan. "Do you think he's still alive?" Bolan shook his head. "I don't know, but I intend to find out." "Perhaps I can help you, Mr. Belasko." He sat on the bed. "How?" "I overhear things. People treat a communications clerk like a piece of furniture. They never seem to notice my presence.

"There are a number of intelligence specialists attached to the emba.s.sy.

Several of them have been talking about a man named Thamby. I think they know how to find him." "Who were the intelligence agents who talked about him?" "I can give you their names, but it won't do you any good. About two hours after they sent an inquiry to Langley about a Michael Belasko, they received orders to leave Sri Lanka immediately and return to the United States. Right now they are on a nonstop jet to Tokyo, where they will change planes for the States.

"But there is a man in Colombo who the intelligence agents employed to get them confidential information." She dug into the shoulder bag and found a small sheet of paper. "His name is Clay At.w.a.ter. He was once with the KMS group when they trained the STF troops. Since then, he has been operating on his own from what I heard. But from what I overheard, he knows where Thamby lives." She handed the paper to Bolan, who glanced at it.

It had At.w.a.ter's home and office addresses.

"Any idea what At.w.a.ter does for a living?" "Apparently he will do anything for money. Even kill somebody. At least that's what I believe the intelligence agents hired him to do in the past."

Chandra Sirindikha had called Bolan, saying she had more information she thought he could use, and suggested they meet at a small, plainly furnished tearoom around the corner from the emba.s.sy.

Several calls had come in, she reported, seeking a Michael Belasko. The caller never left a name or telephone number. The emba.s.sy operator told her the same man had called again and asked for one of the just-transferred intelligence agents.

When she told the caller the man had been transferred to another country, he'd asked to speak to his replacement.

"Somebody seems anxious to find you, Mr.

Belasko." "Call me Mike," Bolan replied.

"Yeah, that's how it sounds." He thought for a moment.

"Tell your operator that the next time the man calls, she should give him Kendrick's address." The young woman looked shocked. "Somebody may come and try to kill you." "Or maybe get killed trying." Sliding out of the booth, he picked up the check and moved toward the cashier. Seconds later a burst of gunfire shattered the large gla.s.s window beside where he had been sitting.

Bolan unleathered the Desert Eagle as he dropped to the floor. Rolling at an angle from the shattered window, he saw two forms spraying steady bursts from their AK-47'S as they charged toward the tearoom.

"Under the table," he shouted to the young woman.

She reacted instantly, dropping to the floor.

The staccato bursts echoed through the tearoom. Bolan heard the sole waitress scream as a ricocheting slug drilled into her neck. There was another scream, this time from the cashier.

There wasn't time to check if either of them was dead.

Bolan raised the Desert Eagle and squeezed off two shots at the nearest gunner. The first round slammed into the man's face, shoving him backward.

The second cored his chest.

Rounding on the second thug, the soldier pulled the trigger three times in rapid succession. The heavyset hardman spun before he could fire the automatic rifle. He fell facedown on the hood of a gray sedan.

Bolan's combat sense flared to life. He threw himself into a shoulder roll and turned as a young man in one of the booths pumped a stream of lead from the 7.62 mm Tokarev pistol in his hand.

The soldier swung the big hand cannon toward the new a.s.sailant and fired toward his chin, the punk's face exploding in a shower of b.l.o.o.d.y tissue.

The second youth had revealed the.45 ACP Colt Government Model pistol he'd hidden under his jacket. He jumped to his feet and stared down at Bolan, fear and hate pouring from his eyes as he began to squeeze the trigger.

"Die, American b.a.s.t.a.r.d," he shouted as he sprayed lead at the warrior.

Antic.i.p.ating the path of the slugs, the Executioner rolled in the opposite direction. The tiles exploded as lead from the powerful handgun drilled into them. There was no time for Bolan to aim.

He angled the Desert Eagle toward the thug's chest and fired two shots in rapid succession.

The expression in the would-be killer's face didn't change as the hollowpoints tore through his breastbone and exploded into searing fragments inside.

Gasping from the thick, acrid cloud of burned gunpowder, Bolan struggled to his feet and looked around the demolished room.

Slowly surveying the damage, he saw the waitress slumped across the counter, a jagged hole in the side of her neck and one in her temple.

Without having to examine her, he knew she was dead.

Moving carefully around the fallen four attackers, he knelt and felt the artery in their necks. They were dead.

Who were they, Bolan wondered, and what were they after?

His musings were interrupted by the wail of police cars. He helped Sirindikha to her feet. It was time for them to leave.

"I guess he knows how to find me," the Executioner commented as he rushed her outside.

"Is there a side entrance to the building?" Bolan asked when they reached the emba.s.sy.

"Yes. Follow me." The young woman led him down an alley, then pulled him across a narrow street.

"It's just ahead," she said, pointing to an ornate, metal door set into the huge sandstone structure.

Bolan saw three teenagers loitering near the door. Street punks or hired guns? He wasn't sure. They could be both, he reminded himself. Hit men weren't difficult to find in a country like Sri Lanka, and they didn't command big money.

The tallest of the trio, a large, muscular twenty-year-old, grinned as he danced around Bolan. In broken English he bragged, "How about a boxing match, to impress lady. Take best shot." Bolan moved closer, then suddenly whirled and faced away from the tall youth. Surprised at the unexpected move, the young man rushed Bolan. As he reached out to grab him, the soldier rammed his foot at the bend behind the youth's knee.