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  He memorized an address, the description of his contact and repeated them on order.

  "If you are arrested," Chamoun informed him, "we will make the normal efforts to secure your release. However, you must not allow this message to be captured by the enemy. If there is trouble, it must be destroyed at once."

  "I understand, sir."

  "Good. You leave at dusk."

  He was elated as he left the tent, the enveloped tucked safely in an inside pocket of his tunic. It occurred to him, in passing, that the mission might be a test to see if he might break the seal or pass the envelope to hostile hands. No matter now. There would be ample time en route to Baalbek for Rashad to plan his disposition of the letter. More importantly he would be free to reach his contacts in the city and report his news of the American.

  Perhaps before it was too late.

  * * *

  "Of course, I understand. I'll assume responsibility for any difficulties that arise. The risk is mine. That's right."

  Halaby had been easy, with his nose for profit, but predictable objections had been raised by Bakhtiar. It cost Moheden thirty minutes to ease the Shiite's mind, assuring him that every effort would be made to verify Belasko's story and absolve him in the murder of Hussein Razmara. If the facts bore out Belasko's version of events, it would be possible to overlook the deaths of Bakhtiar's two soldiers in New York.

  It would take time to check the story out, however, and Moheden was concerned with handling first things first — a cool half-million dollars, for example. The peculiar offer had entirely slipped his mind when he was talking to his partners on the telephone, and it would be discourteous to ring them back, annoying them with minor details.

  Never mind, he thought. With thirty million split three ways over the next two years, it wouldn't matter if the others learned about his finder's fee. He must be careful, though, to guarantee that neither learned about it prematurely.

  Bashir Moheden had saved the day, and his associates would recognize that fact in time. From setbacks and potential chaos, he'd brought them to the threshold of a brand-new deal, with profits nearly double their intended take. He was, in fact, a hero.

  Smiling as he joined Belasko in the recreation room, the Lebanese wondered if he could manipulate this man and his sponsors to produce an even greater profit for himself. It would require finesse, but that had always been his speciality.

  "So, what's the word?" Bolan asked, his tone deliberately offhand.

  "Good news," Moheden answered. "As your friends in the United States might say, we're in business."

  Chapter Eighteen

  Bashir Moheden's private jet took off from Beirut airport shortly after five o'clock and made the short hop to an airstrip outside Baalbek in a little under twenty minutes. They were greeted by a twelve-man escort. Bolan and his host relaxed in the comfort of a flashy limousine while gunners took positions fore and aft in black sedans.

  Moheden had returned his pistol, with apologies, and Bolan took advantage of the washroom on the plane to check its load, confirming that the piece hadn't been tampered with. A shoot-out didn't figure in his short-range plans, but the warrior recognized the value of preparing for emergencies. It was comforting to know that he could take Moheden down at any time, if he had to.

  They drove through Baalbek, past the Sheikh Abdullah barracks, Moheden keeping up a steady stream of small talk as they left the town behind. The driver chose an unfamiliar highway, following the east rim of the valley, and they didn't pass the turnout where Chamoun's commandos and the Syrians had clashed two days before. They met patrols along the way, but Bolan had no way of knowing if their frequency had been increased as a result of the engagement.

  "There are many growers in the Bekaa," his companion said, "but my associates and I control the largest crop. The Syrians aren't concerned with private enterprise, and they've been well paid to look the other way in any case."

  "Sounds like the States. I guess payola makes the world go 'round."

  Moheden smiled. "Of course, we do have minor opposition in the form of hostile paramilitary groups, but they are small and generally disorganized. I cultivate informers in their ranks, and they'll be eradicated soon."

  "That's your department," Bolan said. "My sponsors don't care how you handle any of the native action, just as long as the deliveries come through on time."

  "Of course. I've been doing business in the Bekaa now for many years. Our export schedule has been altered only once, by the eruption of a civil war."

  "Things happen, right? But when you're pulling fifteen mill a year, it would be nice if you could get a preview on that kind of thing. Make some arrangements in advance, you follow?"

  If Moheden was annoyed, it didn't show. "My contacts with the government and opposition parties have improved with time," he said. "I feel safe to say our operation is immune to critical surprises."

  "Glad to hear it." Bolan scanned the cultivated fields that rippled past outside his window. "Could you fill me in on where we're going?"

  "Not much farther," the Lebanese replied.

  As if upon command, the scout car turned into a narrow side road, and the limo followed suit, their tail car bringing up the rear. A group of sentries armed with automatic weapons waved them past, and Bolan noted that fifty yards or so beyond the highway the rows of grain gave way to fields of poppies, standing waist-high to an average man, their yellow blossoms open to the sun. It was impossible for him to estimate the total acreage, but opium would be extracted from the poppies in sufficient quantity to keep the poison flowing. And he was prepared to bet his life that there would be other fields, as large or larger, scattered up and down the valley.

  "Mass production," Moheden was saying. "Opium is harvested from late December and early March, after the poppies lose their flowers. A series of small cuts are made around the pod that remains on the stem, and the sap — raw opium — is left to seep out overnight. It's collected in the morning and transported to refineries where it's transformed into morphine and, eventually, into heroin."

  "You handle all of that yourself?"

  "Of course. By covering the different levels of production and supply, we minimize and eliminate contention at the grass-roots level. We're thus immune to pressure from the independent operators who supply our various competitors. Our overhead is constant and predictable, within established limits. We can fairly guarantee our price per season, and protect our foreign customers from so-called 'hidden costs.»

  "That's good to know." He made a point of hesitating, putting on a mask of reticence. "I hate to pry, okay? But with this kind of money riding on the line…"

  The dealer wore a tolerant expression. "Please, feel free to ask me anything."

  "All right, here goes. I heard — that is, my people heard — that there were certain strings attached to your arrangement with Silvestri."

  "Strings?"

  "Outside the trade, you follow? Something like, he was supposed to help your people run down hits in the United States. That sound familiar?"

  "Ah. May I be frank?"

  "I'm listening."

  "One of my close associates — the owner of this field, as luck would have it — is a member of the Shiite revolutionary guard from Teheran. His goals are different from my own in some respects. The concept of jihad, for instance…"

  "Come again?"

  "Jihad, Islamic holy war against the world of infidels. As you must know, despite the outward indications of a recent thaw, some tensions still remain between Iran and the United States."

  "Go on."

  "The revolutionary guard is charged with tracking down defectors — runaways, what have you — and exacting punishment for any crimes they have perpetrated in Iran."

  "You mean, like thinking for themselves?"

  Moheden smiled and spread his hands. "My interest in the field of politics is limited to issues that affect my income. In the interest of continuing supply, I have agreed to work with the Iranians in cert
ain minor ways. Silvestri, I believe, was acting on a similar instruction from his sponsors."

  "I was afraid of that." He let Moheden sweat a moment, staring out the window with a pinched expression on his face. "My people like to call themselves a bunch of patriots, you know? I mean, I understand your point of view, and God knows that my backers have done business with some yo-yos — no offense — but if we're talking terrorism, here… I just don't know."

  The dealer looked as if he were about to bust a gut. He wriggled forward in his seat and placed a confidential hand on Bolan's arm.

  "There need be no participation by your sponsors in the act itself — some travel documents, a weapon now and then, strategic shelter for a fugitive on rare occasions. Members of the revolutionary guard are trained to kill themselves on capture rather than submit to forcible interrogation by their enemies. If care is taken in providing certain raw materials, your risk is minimized."

  "I follow that. And frankly, I don't give a shit who ices who, as long as they leave me and mine alone. Just be aware I still may have a problem selling this at home."

  Reluctantly Moheden said, "We may be able to accommodate your sponsors with a minor price reduction."

  "Oh? How minor?"

  "Well…"

  "Hold on a sec'. Let's table that for now and keep it just between the two of us, all right? If I can close this deal for thirty mill, as planned, your discount margin might be handy for a two-way split. Assuming you don't mind a little extra profit on the side."

  Bashir Moheden's smile was hungry now. "My instinct tells me our relationship is destined to make history."

  "You got that right," the Executioner said.

  * * *

  Amir Rashad left camp at dusk, by motorcycle. He carried money in a belt around his waist, a pistol tucked inside his tunic and a dagger in his boot. The envelope from Joseph Chamoun was hidden in a secret pocket where it wouldn't be revealed without a thorough search… unless he gave it up by choice.

  The trip to Baalbeck covered close to ninety miles, one way, and he'd have to travel slowly, watching out for bandits and the Syrian patrols. Where possible, he'd proceed by moonlight, switching off his headlight to reduce the risk of being spotted by his enemies. He couldn't mask the little engine's waspish sound, but he'd stop from time to time and be prepared to swerve off-road at any hint of danger.

  If he didn't sleep along the way, if he wasn't detained or ambushed, midnight ought to see him safe inside the city limits. He wouldn't approach his contact on arrival, as the handoff had been scheduled for next morning, but Rashad was certain he could find some other way to pass the time. There was a cabaret he knew of where the women were accommodating and the wine was satisfactory. He might check out the action, spend a little of his hard-earned cash and find himself a place to spend the night with company.

  He thought about the tall American, Belasko, and it crossed Rashad's mind that he might be too late. If damage had been done, the culprit recognized, his information would be worthless. Even worse, he might be punished for his failure to relay the news in time.

  A sudden flash of panic almost made him twist the throttle open, but he calmed himself with hollow reassurances. It would take time for the American to do his work. The first phase of Belasko's penetration was a scouting mission, if Rashad could trust his sources. Only when the targets had been singled out, identified and marked, would more aggressive action be initiated. One man couldn't crush the network on his own. Belasko was relying on assistance from Chamoun.

  Rashad hoped he'd be allowed to watch the American die, as he'd watched Belasko making love to Mara in the bathing pool. The spectacle had tantalized him and enraged him all at once. He marveled at the woman's choice of lovers, always leaning toward the class of peasants and adventurers. She had no eyes for someone who would love her every day throughout his life, surrendering his pride and honor in an effort to secure her future.

  Still, it made no difference. When the time was right, Rashad would make her understand precisely what she'd been missing. He would wipe the smug, contemptuous expression from her face and teach her what it truly meant to be a woman.

  Soon.

  When he had dealt with the American and earned his just reward.

  * * *

  The military airstrip outside Kefar Blum, in Israel, was on permanent alert for enemy attacks. While no location in the country was truly secure, this installation was among the worst, positioned as it was on Israel's northernmost frontier, inside the pincer formed by southern Lebanon and the southeastern flank of Syria. At one time or another, the position had been hit with rockets and artillery, attacked by terrorists and regulars who slipped across the borders after nightfall. Twice it had been overrun, but paratroopers had reclaimed the outpost at a fearful price.

  Grimaldi was acquainted with the local history, and when he left his quarters he was armed against the possibility of terrorist attack by night. The sentries recognized him, and he wasn't challenged as he moved toward the perimeter and stood, eyes narrowed in the darkness, staring off across the border into Lebanon.

  The homer's maximum effective range was something like a hundred miles on paper, but it varied slightly, day by day, like any other disembodied signal beaming through the open air. Grimaldi had been forced to move from Haifa to the base at Kefar Blum when it became apparent that his man was out of range. They had him now, most times, although the signal flickered, fading now and then. But it was close enough.

  Grimaldi had been watching, in his fashion, as Mack Bolan made his guided tour of the Bekaa Valley with Chamoun. The westward drive to visit Bashir Moheden had been recorded, spanning several hours, and the short hop back to Baalbek told them Bolan had been traveling by air on his return. Another run down-country — visiting the poppy fields, perhaps — and then right back to town, where he had registered no action for the past two hours.

  Plotting Bolan's progress on a chart had certain built-in limitations. They could follow him along a major highway, for example, but Grimaldi had no way of knowing when he was alone or traveling in company with those he meant to kill. In urban areas, the homer lost all semblance of precision, pinning down a sector of the city, possibly a neighborhood, if they were lucky, but it would require an overflight, perhaps an agent on the ground, to single out his actual location.

  Worse, the damned thing couldn't even tell Grimaldi if the man he most admired was alive.

  He'd been fine, of course, until the trip to meet Moheden in his lair. They didn't have to speculate about the visit to the dealer's villa. Agents of Mossad had monitored the Lebanese's operation for a period of years, but he didn't sell drugs in Israel, and there were more pressing problems for the crack Israeli secret service than disruption of organized crime in Lebanon. The gathered information had been passed to the DEA, and on from there to Stony Man Farm, but Bashir Moheden had posed no threat to Israel prior to his alliance with Ahmad Halaby and the Shiite revolutionary guard.

  The way Grimaldi pieced it all together, Bolan had secured his contact in the Bekaa, then moved on from there to make his pitch with Moheden. The dealer's gut reaction might go either way, but Bolan had been flown to Baalbek, and Grimaldi took that as a sign that he was still alive and well. Moheden didn't need to fly a corpse around the country, or conduct it on a driving tour of his opium plantations. If the Executioner had run into any problems, it would be within the past few hours, after his return to Baalbek.

  Was his cover solid? How long would it take before Moheden or his contacts in New York got wise? It made Grimaidi furious to realize that Bolan could be fingered, tortured, killed, and he'd never even know about it if the homer's beacon kept on sounding loud and clear. Of course, if Bolan's enemies discovered the device…

  Grimaidi cursed the darkness, almost wishing there would be a raid, some outlet for his simmering aggression and anxiety. It didn't matter who or why; he simply needed to lash out, allow himself the luxury of action in the midst of all this waiting.<
br />
  The pilot had been raised a Catholic, but he hadn't been to church — much less confession — for years. He knew some dusty prayers, but none of them were quite appropriate for the occasion, and he let it slide. The Executioner had been in rugged spots before, and he was still alive.

  So far.

  Grimaidi had a helicopter gunship and a Phantom standing by, each armed and ready for a swift response in different situations. If it came to lifting Bolan out, the chopper could run north as far as Baalbek, westward to the outskirts of Beirut. If Bolan was confirmed as KIA, Grimaidi had a list of targets for retaliation — starting with Moheden's desert villa — and he was prepared to take the whole damned air force on if necessary.

  Whichever way it played, he'd be there for Bolan at the finish.

  One way or another. Jack Grimaidi still had dues to pay.

  * * *

  The hotel room wasn't luxurious, but it was comfortable. Bolan had a view of downtown Baalbek, mostly dark and shuttered after nightfall, and he didn't mind the extra bit of privacy, the chance to spend some time away from Bashir Moheden.

  The dealer had his own apartment in the city, where he stayed infrequently, and he'd rented Bolan one of the best rooms in town. They were supposed to meet bright and early for breakfast, followed by a visit to Moheden's drug refinery that would complete the guided tour. If Bolan couldn't force a meeting with the other partners, he was ready to eliminate Moheden and proceed from there as best he could.

  Communicating with Chamoun would be the problem. Once he secured a fix on the refinery, he'd be needing men to launch a swift, precisely timed attack. There were too many targets now, too many enemies for him to try it on his own.

  But if he couldn't make contact with the rebels, Bolan knew that he'd have no choice. He hadn't come this far to let a breakdown in communications trash the mission. Nicosia had been practice, a rehearsal for the main event in Lebanon, and if it came to flying solo, he'd do his best with what he had.