Doomsday Disciples

way to tell about the ambush. From the looks, it could've been an army.'

'No.'

His military mind was circling the problem, probing for solutions.

'I do not think an army. If our enemies were certain...'

He let the statement trail away, unfinished. Leaning back in his swivel chair, Minh made a steeple of his fingers and focused on them. Calling up the monastic training of his youth, he made his mind a blank, the better to concentrate his full attention on the puzzle.

If his enemies were conscious of the plan, if they had evidence to move against him, federal officers would be knocking at the door with arrest warrants. The Americans were formalistic in their dealings with suspicious characters, affording common thugs a battery of rights that often made conviction an impossibility. If police overstepped their bounds, the fact was trumpeted on radio and television, plastered all across the headlines. Frequently, it was the officer who found himself in court.

Minh was thankful for the ignorance of enemies. He could work within their decadent society, use their precious laws and Constitution to protect himself.

A subtle man, he also appreciated irony.

But if the girl had not been rescued by police — which she almost certainly had not — then his problem remained unsolved.

There were agencies, of course, which handled covert operations for the government. Once again, however, the Americans roped themselves with limitations and restrictions: their CIA could only operate outside the country, and the FBI was strictly a domestic agency, under constant scrutiny from critics in the press. Coordination was a problem, and Occidentals seemed to take a masochistic pleasure in reviewing every foible, every failure of their 'secret' agents.

The Soviets, of course, had no such weakness, and Minh thought at once of Mitchell Carter. The man himself would not be capable of such a daring rescue, but he could hire professionals, even as he had recruited Tommy Booth and Minh's troop of 'elders.' It was not beyond the realm of possibility, and yet...

Minh frowned as he wrestled with the question of a motive. On the surface, Carter was an ally, but it never paid to underestimate the KGB's duplicity.

Minh viewed the Russians with particular contempt. If Americans were greedy pigs, the Soviets were little more than traitors, their epic revolution long degenerated into something like a form of leftist fascism. He could tolerate Carter and the KGB, as his country tolerated Soviet 'advice' and 'guidance.' They were necessary evils, and would someday outlive their usefulness.

Mitchell Carter might have outlived his usefulness already.

If he had participated in the girl's escape, for whatever reasons of his own, Minh would see him dead.

He had planned to kill the man, looked forward to it from the first day of their association. Hanoi would not object if he could demonstrate that Carter had betrayed them. Minh would probably receive congratulations for initiative, perhaps promotion.

First, though, he would need proof. And if Carter was not responsible...

He faced Tommy Booth, found the man watching him intently.

'Is it possible to trace the girl?' he asked.

Tommy shrugged.

'We're checking out her friends locally,' he said. 'There aren't many.'

'Good. If she contacts anyone, I want to know about it.'

'Done.'

He considered telephoning Carter, but decided the lines should not be trusted.

'Send a team for Mitchell Carter,' he instructed. 'It's important that I see him.'

The soldier raised an eyebrow.

'He's not gonna like it.'

Minh allowed himself a thin smile.

'Be persuasive.' And he paused, thinking. 'I assume you have mobilized the elders.'

Booth nodded.

'Ready and waiting. Shall I pull 'em in?'

Minh shook his head in a gentle negative.

'Leave them in place. I don't want to concentrate our force until we know the enemy by name.'

Tommy rose to leave, and Minh's voice stopped him at the door.

'The girl's disappearance is a serious mistake,' he said. 'It must be rectified without delay. Any leak would be... unfortunate.'

There was a sudden pallor under Tommy's sun-lamp tan.

'I understand.'

Minh held the soldier with his eyes, letting him sweat.

'You must redeem yourself, at any cost.'

A jerky nod, and Tommy Booth got out of there, leaving Minh alone. The Vietnamese dismissed him, concentrating on solutions to his problem.

There was Carter. If the man was guilty, Minh would know soon enough. And if he wasn't, they would face the common enemy together.

Whoever it turned out to be.

Minh had not believed in God for many years, but he accepted the reality of fate. His people and their revolution were predestined for eventual success. They would prevail.

It was a faith that taught him patience, made him strong.

A man of confidence, he could afford to wait.

6

Any visitor to San Francisco who has ridden a cable car from Powell and Market streets to Fisherman's Wharf has had an unforgettable experience — and the final drop from Russian Hill, down Hyde Street to the bay, is a spectacular finale befitting the adventure.

From atop the hill, most of the north bay is laid out in a panoramic sweep from the Golden Gate to the Embarcadero, with a view of Fort Mason, Aquatic Park, Alcatraz, and, on a clear day, across to the rugged backdrop of Marin County.

Mack Bolan came to Russian Hill in darkness, with the fog, and there was little to be seen — only ghosts, and echoes of another time, another war.

He had visited the neighborhood before, early in his war against the Mafia, and launched his strike from a base on Russian Hill. The mansion once occupied by San Francisco's capo mafioso was just around the corner.

Old Roman DeMarco was the syndicate padrone in those days. Fearing age, traitors in the family, and aggression by the national commissione, DeMarco had looked to the Chinese community — and westward, across the Pacific — for a new alliance to reinforce his shaky regime. The resulting unholy communion teamed mafiosi with the Tongs and Chinese Communists, but DeMarco had reckoned without The Executioner.

And he made all the difference in the world.

Ghosts, yeah — and some of them were friendly spirits. Like Mary Ching, the China doll who had helped Bolan bring his California hit to a successful culmination.

Friends and enemies, the living and the dead, Bolan felt them in the darkness, but they held no terror for him.

He let the specters fade and concentrated on the living. Mitchell Carter lived on Russian Hill, ironically within easy walking distance of the old DeMarco spread, in a spacious house befitting a successful corporate attorney. The man who was once Mihail Karpetyan lived alone.

Bolan left his car on the street and crossed a large lawn. Lights were on despite the hour, and he opted for