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  Then the sensation switched from swimming to falling, and Bolan found himself on a concrete floor against a wall thirty feet from the aperture he'd created only seconds ago. Water continued to cascade into the enclosure, interrupted only by bodies that tumbled through the opening. Most of the men were washed up against the metal wall as he was, though some smashed painfully into the wreckage of the waterwheel to the right of the air lock.

  Thumbing his flashlight to life, Bolan examined their surroundings. A metal wall barred their entrance into the complex.

  The Executioner worked quickly, surveying the metal wall as the water rose to waist-level. He reached into the underwater pack harnessed over his chest as he played the flashlight over the seams of the metal wall. Choosing his point, Bolan put down a line of C-4 and plugged in a detonator.

  "Down!" he yelled to the assembled men, waving in case some of them couldn't hear him. Then he dived into the rising water and triggered the detonator. The milling water, suddenly released from its confines, raced inward, no longer inhibited by the rising air pressure of the air lock.

  Bolan stumbled to his feet and kicked off his flippers. He shrugged out of the air tanks as he crawled over the ruin of the metal wall into the electrically lit corridor that buzzed sporadically in front of his eyes. Evidently the backup generators hadn't fully kicked in yet to compensate for the loss of the water generator.

  Clad in a lightweight blacksuit that fitted as snugly as a second skin, and wearing black combat cosmetics tiger-striped across his face, Bolan knew he wouldn't be easily seen in the gloom. Fisting the Desert Eagle in one hand, he removed a pair of black low-cut tennis shoes with the other and slipped them on his feet. He glanced back to make sure the rest of his team was doing the same.

  As he positioned his combat harness around his shoulders, Bolan saw a wavering figure running toward them. For a moment he held his fire, wanting to make sure in the uncertain light that the guy was one of the men attached to the complex's security team. The bulky outline of the automatic rifle left no doubts at all, and the Executioner fired two brainblasters into the man's forehead.

  Grimly Bolan holstered the .44 in the combat rigging, tying it down on his thigh. He took his lead weapon, an Uzi, from the chest pack, then discarded the bag. Extra clips for the weapons hung from waterproof bags at his waist.

  Three men filled the opposite end of the hallway as Bolan and his men raced for it. Without breaking stride, the Executioner swept them away with a lethal figure eight of 9 mm parabellums.

  Bolan paused at the corner, trying to get his bearings from the description of the complex that Helene had provided. The uncertain light made things a little more difficult because it was hard to judge distances in the long corridors.

  The water had risen to Bolan's calves and showed no signs of slowing. There wouldn't be much time for any of them before the river swallowed the whole underground installation.

  Bolan glanced over his shoulder and located Leo Turrin's grease-painted face, wanting to make sure the little Fed had made it this far. Turrin gave him a thumb's-up gesture and a tight smile.

  "Did everyone make it?" Bolan asked the nearest Israeli.

  "Yes."

  Nodding, Bolan moved out again, motioning for the men to divide up on either side of the corridor as they claimed each foot of territory. At the end of the corridor they ran into a force of black-uniformed men who started shooting immediately.

  Bolan whipped back behind the corner of the hallway as a line of bullets ripped through the dark water swirling around his legs. He heard a man next to him sigh softly as a bullet found its mark. Grabbing the man's belt, Bolan hauled him out of the water and back behind the safety of the hallway corner. A dark stain had spread down the man's left side.

  "How bad is it?" Bolan asked as he helped the soldier to a standing position by the wall.

  "I can walk."

  "Good, because you're going to have to." Bolan reached inside the ammo bags at his waist and freed a grenade. He flipped the toggle and lobbed it toward his adversaries. He heard them yell, but their voices were drowned out by the immediate explosion. Water rushed back at Bolan's group, splashing from the walls and drenching them as the repercussion momentarily robbed them of their hearing. A miniature tidal wave swarmed through the confines of the hallway.

  Bolan whirled around the corner as he lifted the Uzi to his hip. He emptied the magazine, blowing holes through the shadows that were trying to regain their balance on the wet and bloody concrete floor.

  Another gunner raked a burst from around the corner at the intersection of the hallways. Bullets sparked from the concrete walls as they chopped after Bolan.

  The Executioner dived into the murky, swirling water, keeping the Uzi dry as he landed on his elbows. He drew the drenched Desert Eagle from its holster and hammered a salvo of shots toward the exposed parts of the assassin, ripping the man free of the wall and flinging him outward.

  Friendly fire raked over Bolan's head, stabbing into fresh arrivals who were about to open up on the Executioner. Pushing himself up, Bolan reloaded the .44 and the Uzi, dripping water as he surveyed the killzone. The smell of burned cordite stung his nose, and the deafness he was experiencing from the closed-in gunfire made a curious pressure on his eardrums.

  It was slow going, Bolan thought as he led his troops through the concrete arteries leading to the heart of the decades-old Nazi scheme. But there was no turning back for Bolan or his men — they were pushed on by the inexorable rise of the river.

  Bolan led the assault on the stairway leading to the second floor of the underground complex. Water was chest-high on most of the men now and the current that rushed through the corridors had become a life-threatening force. He emptied his last magazine for the Uzi at the three men attempting to hold the second-floor landing. Two of them fell over the railing into the dark waters lapping at the stairs, but the Uzi locked back empty before Bolan could bring it to bear on the third man.

  Pitching himself to one side as he pushed himself up the stairs, Bolan drew the .44 and fired from the hip. The Nazi jerked in response as the 240-grain hollowpoints ripped through his chest cavity, then he slumped to the landing.

  At the top of the stairs, Bolan had men toss grenades down both directions of the hallway, the ensuing explosions shaking the stairway. The warrior moved through the smoke-filled corridor, led by the Desert Eagle. The lighting wasn't any better at this level, but he could still see the two doorways on either side of the corridor and the blank wall at its end.

  As he pressed forward, Bolan spotted the red lights of the security cameras monitoring the floor. He squeezed off single, carefully placed shots from the .44, exploding each camera in turn.

  He had one of the Israelis attach a small charge of plastique to the door on the left, then had it blown off its hinges. Gunfire stabbed out of the room, bright orange flares that scraped sparks from the opposite wall, scattering concrete chips that stung Bolan's face and hands.

  He laid a hand on the arm of an Israeli soldier who was about to lob a grenade inside. "Computer room. I don't want it destroyed unless absolutely necessary."

  The man nodded and stepped back against the corridor wall.

  Bolan moved down the wall, staying within what he assumed were the confines of the computer room. He indicated a portion of the wall to the explosives man. "I want a small hole here. I need the explosive to be inwardly directed so that it'll shove this section into the next room."

  The soldier nodded and set about the task.

  "I also want a charge placed at the doorway that'll go off only a second or two before this one goes."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Leo?"

  "Yeah," Turrin replied, moving through the ranks.

  Bolan noted the blood flowing from a cut over the Fed's right eye, but knew better than to acknowledge it at the moment. As long as Turrin was standing, he could be counted on. "Pick three men and cover that other door. There's no telling what'll happen w
hen we invade this rat's nest. I don't want any surprises coming out of there until we're ready."

  "You got it." Turrin made his selection and moved on.

  "The water's at the top of the landing," one of the Israelis at the rear of the formation called.

  "Doesn't leave us much time to secure the computer files," Bolan observed tersely. He looked at the explosives man. "Are you ready?"

  The man nodded.

  "I need this," Bolan said, indicating a Galil assault rifle one of the commandos was carrying. The soldier relinquished it immediately. After making sure the weapon had a full magazine, Bolan nodded to the demolitionist. Twin explosions, spaced a heartbeat apart, ripped through the corridor.

  Bolan swiveled quickly, inserting the Galil into the hole that had been blown through the computer wall. He was aware of the savage gunfire that raked the corridor through the open doorway, because of the concrete chips that bounced off his back. No noise penetrated the ringing in his ears.

  Five men were spaced behind various computer equipment and furniture in the large room. Evidently the computer room had its own backup generator, because the lights were much brighter in there. The hole was large enough to bring them all within striking range of the Galil.

  Bolan squeezed off short bursts at each man. Only the last two knew exactly where the sniping was coming from, and neither had time to return fire or avoid the 7.62 mm hornets that ripped them into a black void.

  "Goldstein," Bolan called. The computer expert Tsurnick had assigned to the underwater team came forward. "There's a phone in that room. Get that computer system on-line and plug it into the telephone connection. Dial this number. There's a guy waiting at the other end to copy everything we can transmit before the water damages the system."

  Goldstein took the paper Bolan handed him. "I thought all American 555 numbers were false or for information purposes only."

  Bolan grinned. "Not this one. At least not today."

  The man nodded and vanished into the room.

  Tossing the Galil back to the soldier he had borrowed it from, Bolan drew the Desert Eagle and came to a stop by Turrin. The lock on this door was different than the one on the computer room. Two .44 slugs smashed the mechanism, and the door pushed open gently.

  The room was dark inside, but with his combat-enhanced night vision, Bolan could see the old man standing in the center of the room, resting heavily on the aluminum cane at his side.

  Bolan kept his weapon aimed at the man and switched on the lights beside the doorway. He scanned the room and found it empty. There seemed to be other offices in the back, but he got the feeling no one was there.

  "You're Fritz Kettwig?" Bolan asked.

  The old German smiled. "Yes. I see my fame has preceded me. Just as yours has preceded you, Herr Belasko."

  "You ordered the attacks on the people in the Witness Protection Program?" Turrin asked.

  Bolan saw the taut mask of fury that stretched over the little Fed's face, softened somewhat by the false smile that turned up his lips.

  "Yes," Kettwig admitted. "It was a good diversion for our ultimate plan."

  "Those were innocent people, you coldhearted son of a bitch," Turrin grated in an icy voice.

  "There are no innocents in war," Kettwig said simply. "Everyone is the enemy. If you don't believe me, check the history of your own country. Investigate the popular beliefs the Americans held about Germans in both World Wars, about the way they viewed the Vietnamese in that war. And ultimately, the view most of your country shares about the Russians that will eventually cause your downfall."

  "You're wrong about that," Bolan said.

  The German smiled. "Am I? Perhaps we'll all have a chance to find out before long."

  "Where's Fenris Thomas?"

  "Gone," Kettwig responded with a grim smile. "On a course with destiny. Just as we all are." He suddenly raised his right hand.

  Bolan caught sight of the Luger and triggered the .44. Beside him, he heard the full-throated scream of Turrin's Uzi. The 9 mm parabellums turned Kettwig into a violently twisting mannequin before the body hit the floor.

  Bolan stepped over the corpse and made his way to the offices in the back, investigating each in turn. The first was stark, barren. On the wall was a picture of two young men — one von Thoma? — wearing an Afrika Korps uniform and standing beside Rommel. Bolan recognized the famous general from books he'd read.

  "Mack," Turrin called.

  Bolan stepped away from the picture, aware of the spattering his shoes made on the floor. The water was still rising.

  He found Turrin in another office, one where mustiness and the odor of age still clung to the walls. The office was a virtual treasure trove of German history of the Second World War: maps, books, pictures, models. All four walls were covered with memorabilia from that time period.

  "What is it, Leo?" Bolan asked.

  Wordlessly the little Fed handed over a framed picture.

  Bolan accepted it, staring at the two children standing beside a seated Wolfgang von Thoma. A boy and a girl. Twins. His blood ran cold in his veins when he thought of the abuse Helene had suffered at the hand of Fenris Thomas.

  "Koltzer was right," Turrin said. "There were two children."

  "Yeah," Bolan said. "Were. Like Kettwig said, there were no innocents in the war they were planning. Not even the children of their own damn house."

  "Sir?"

  Bolan turned to face the Israeli soldier.

  "Goldstein said to tell you the computer is burned out and that your friend was able to receive as much of the information as was possible."

  "Good," Bolan said as he tried to clear the dark thoughts from his head, tried to forget the sixteen-year-old boy who had been forced to take his own father's life. Tried to forget the nightmare that had become the twin sister's life. He took the photograph from the glass frame and started to take it with him, then decided against it and left it on the desk. He knew the true story. That was enough. Let it die here and now with the history that had created it.

  He followed Turrin and the Israeli soldier out of the office, moving across the flooded corridor to the small elevator that was conveying the team to the third floor. He stared through the closed doors at the carnage of von Thoma's mad dream. And this was only the start. The roots of the plot spread across the globe. Hopefully Kurtzman had pulled enough information from the files that would enable the different international agencies to trace the other people involved.

  Tsurnick met him at the third floor. "We've got to hustle," he said as he jogged up the flight of stairs beside Bolan. "The Egyptians have already surrounded the base of the building and are battering down the barricades we erected."

  "Did you lose anyone?" Bolan asked as they pushed through the emergency door.

  Tsurnick nodded. "Two, but we brought them with us. And you?"

  "Three, at last count, but we all came out together."

  Tsurnick nodded grimly.

  "Where's the girl?"

  "In the helicopter with your pilot, Grimaldi."

  "Is everything set up with the cars?"

  "Yes."

  Bolan nodded and climbed aboard the helicopter. Turrin was already inside and had assumed the shotgun seat beside Grimaldi. The seats had been torn out of the helicopters to make more room inside. Helene was sitting against the opposite wall of the open bay, hugging her knees to her chin as she cried silently.

  She looked up as Bolan approached. "Is it over?" she asked in a broken voice.

  Bolan sat beside her, not touching her, but wanting to offer solace and warmth just the same. "No," he replied. "Ris wasn't there."

  Helene looked away, her shoulders shaking.

  "Look," Bolan said gently, wishing he could make it easier for the girl. "I found a picture of both of you. I know. I also know that Ris told you a lot of things while he held you captive. I think he told you about what was going to happen in Washington, too."

  The rotor overhead throbbed into
quicker life.

  "Helene, I need to know where Ris is."

  The girl raised her head, the tears falling freely now. "Damn you! He's my brother! Don't you understand? For years I had been told he was dead. He was told I had died, murdered in one of the schools I attended. These lies were fabricated by our own father. If I hadn't gotten suspicious of the 'inheritance' I kept receiving and followed it back to Cairo, I would never have seen him again. None of this would have happened."

  "I know, Helene, and I wish I didn't have to ask you. But so many lives hang in the balance now. He's not just your brother. He's also what your father made him become."

  The helicopter lurched into the air suddenly, spilling the girl into Bolan. She yelled in anger and beat at him with both fists, almost toppling them through the open bay of the helicopter.

  Bolan held her tightly, aware that every face was on them. He let her hit him, holding her firmly but not restraining her. Then, just as suddenly as the anger started, it quit and she was sobbing against his shoulder, holding on for comfort and security.

  15

  Ris slumped against the back wall of the pressroom, trying to appear as bored as the reporters surrounding him. The news conference with the American and Soviet leaders was already thirty minutes late. Was it because the two men wanted to keep their audience tense and eager, or did they suspect something?

  The reporter standing next to him asked him for a cigarette. Ris looked at her as he rummaged in his jacket pocket for the pack of Marlboros he'd bought earlier.

  "Thanks," the woman said gratefully. She had short blond hair that was cut straight across her forehead almost above her eyebrows. Her face was narrow, pinched, and she squinted often when she looked at the podium where the two leaders were to sit while answering the reporters' questions.

  Ris put the pack away and turned his gaze, too, toward the podium with its myriad microphones. Memories of his father's words washed over him. What would the man say now, after seeing him this close to achieving the goal that had been set so long ago? Would there be pride in the wintery smile Ris remembered, or would it be nothing more than self-satisfaction?