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He didn't dwell upon Plan B, which would involve a squeeze play on Makarios and Sarkis. If they bought his cover, Bolan would be satisfied to take the next step on his journey, homing on the dragon's lair. When he was finished with his work in Lebanon, there'd be time enough to stop in Nicosia overnight and tidy up loose ends.

  The young man sipped his wine and poked the appetizer with a fork. His face was solemn, almost brooding.

  "You must understand," he said at last, "that I'm not a coward."

  "Never crossed my mind," the Executioner replied. "You sign on for a job, it just makes sense to know the terms. I wouldn't hire a deep-sea diver for a guide if I was set on mountain climbing."

  Nikos was about to answer when a small commotion near the entrance stole his train of thought. "Makarios!" he hissed.

  In life, the dealer had a softer visage than his mug shots indicated. Years of living well and eating better had provided padding on his five-foot-two-inch frame, and he was working on another chin to match the two he had. The hairline was receding, but he grew it longer in the back and combed it forward, in a style preferred by balding men around the world. Designed to make him look more youthful, the coiffure failed miserably, giving him the aspect of a burned-out, aging rock star. The impression was accentuated by his open shirt and hairy chest, with several golden pendants dangling from his neck.

  A stunning redhead clung to Makarios as he moved across the room, escorted to his private table by the maître d'. The dealer didn't seem imposing in the flesh. He might have been a used car salesman or accountant posing as a playboy on his annual vacation, spending money it had taken twelve long months to save. If there was danger here, deceptive first impressions might have said, it lay in being bored to tears by conversation with a dull, insipid man.

  The Executioner reviewed his knowledge of Makarios provided by the files at Stony Man, and weighed the facts against the image. He was looking at a killer credited with half a dozen single-handed executions, listed as the moving force behind a score of others. Multiply deliberate homicides by several hundred — even thousands — to accommodate the lives Makarios had stolen by exporting heroin to Europe and America. How many children had he killed? How many families had he destroyed without a backward glance?

  The waiter brought their food and lingered long enough for both of them to voice approval of the fare. Across the room, an easy pistol shot away, Makarios was busy with the redhead, chuckling to himself, his dark hands moving underneath the table as she whispered something in his ear. A slender man approached the dealer's table, standing at a simulation of parade rest while he waited for permission to be seated.

  Nikos Kiprianou leaned across his steaming plate of seafood, nodding toward the new arrival. "Constantine Pappas," he said. "My friend. I will be speaking to him later. He'll fix the meeting with Makarios."

  "We hope."

  "Have confidence. There is no problem."

  Bolan forced a smile he didn't feel. "I hope you're right."

  "Of course."

  The young man's confidence was catching, but he took the optimism with a grain of salt. A hundred different things could still go wrong, he knew, and any one of them could be a killer. For the moment it would be enough if Nikos could deliver on his promise of an introduction. Failing that, the Executioner would have to try another angle of attack.

  A more direct approach, perhaps, with fire and thunder standing in for invitations and the small talk of polite society. If necessary, he was ready, but he hoped it would not come to that just yet. It would be so much easier for all concerned if he could get the necessary information short of launching all-out war.

  But he would have it either way, regardless of the cost. And if the killing started here, so be it.

  Staring at his enemy across an empty dance floor, waiting for the band. Mack Bolan knew the cleansing fire was overdue.

  Chapter Eight

  The call from Nikos came at half-past seven, catching Bolan as he stepped out of the shower, and it verified a luncheon meeting with Makarios at one o'clock. The car would be downstairs at half-past twelve precisely.

  Bolan dressed and armed himself, his mind a cool, deliberate blank as he ordered breakfast from room service. There was no point in rehearsing hypothetical dialogue, and he'd long since given up on practicing expressions in the mirror. He was either ready for the meeting or he wasn't, and it wouldn't make a bit of difference either way.

  When he had finished breakfast, Bolan broke down the Beretta and scrutinized its action, killing time. He emptied out the several magazines, reloading them himself to guarantee a proper feed. Last up, although he wouldn't take it with him to the sit-down, Bolan tried the silencer for size and weighed the automatic in his palm, becoming comfortable with its balance.

  The Beretta in his hand wasn't designed to handle 3-round bursts, but it was fast and accurate enough without them, having recently edged out the venerable Colt.45 as America's official military side arm. Bolan preferred the Beretta, with its graceful contours and superior firepower. Fifteen rounds, versus the Colt's seven or eight, could make all the difference in the world, and Bolan thought the 9 mm parabellum compared favorably to the big.45's in stopping power. Granted, he'd be using factory loads this time out, but placement of rounds was at least half the battle, and Bolan was confident that the Beretta would serve him well.

  He caught himself borrowing trouble and frowned. The meeting with Makarios was meant to be exactly that: a meeting, not a battle in the streets. If Nikos Kiprianou knew his business, there should be no problem. As he holstered the Beretta, Bolan knew that he'd have to play it that way, trusting Nikos, hoping for the best until he spotted evidence of things unraveling around him. Gambling with his life was a familiar game for Bolan, and he knew the rules by heart.

  With four hours remaining before he kept his date with Kiprianou, he stowed the silencer and spare Beretta magazines inside his luggage, locked the bag and left it in the closet. He wasn't especially concerned about a search, and if the articles were found — by someone other than police — they would be useful in providing confirmation for his cover.

  Bolan locked the door behind him, rode the elevator down and left the building. The narrow streets were teeming with pedestrians and traffic, drivers changing lanes and leaning on their horns in classic European style. The shops were opening, and Bolan dawdled past their windows, scrutinizing jewelry, clothing, tacky souvenirs and baked goods. Noting landmarks as he traveled, the warrior started putting flesh upon the bones provided by his hasty tour with Nikos yesterday. Accustomed to the tourist trade, the natives passing by appeared to take no notice of the tall American.

  It crossed his mind to see if he was being followed, but a glance behind yielded no surprises. No one suddenly bent down to tie his shoe, no one veered across the street through traffic. It was possible, of course, that he had missed the tail — God knows the crowd was thick enough to cover a professional surveillance team — but Bolan let himself relax a bit, suspecting that Makarios wouldn't have had him followed. Trailing Bolan through the streets of Nicosia would have been a futile exercise, all things considered, and he thought the dealer would be looking for another angle of attack.

  Makarios was said to have connections stateside, and a well-placed phone call would provide him with the basic information laid for Bolan's cover. If he wanted further data on the life and crimes of "Mike Belasko," he'd have to wait until they met, and supply his own assessment of the stranger from America.

  Near ten o'clock he stopped for Turkish coffee at a sidewalk restaurant and spent the best part of an hour watching tourists jostle natives on the sidewalk. There was something in the attitude of foreigners on holiday that made them pushy and rude, as if their manners had been left at home. Bolan marveled at the fact that wars didn't erupt in tourist areas. It was a testament to human stamina and greed that such behavior could be borne in silence, even with a smile.

  He chose a different route on his return to the hotel, compl
eting a circuit of downtown Nicosia. Greek and Turkish cultures had been clashing here for generations, but he saw no signs of animosity around him as he strolled the winding avenues, intent on savoring the morning while it lasted.

  A man in constant motion, forced to travel widely in pursuit of enemies, the Executioner regretted that he seldom had the time to linger and appreciate exotic cities, scouting out their secrets for himself. He saw the world as soldiers saw it during wartime, broken down in terms of battlefields and theaters of operations, base camps and objectives. Did the troops who liberated France from Nazism cherish memories of Paris in the spring? Would veterans of Vietnam recall Saigon as anything other than a maze of bars and strip joints, whorehouses and opium dens? And in the long run, did it really matter?

  Bolan found his tour guide waiting for him when he made it back to the hotel. Nikos was perched on the hood of his car, watching the hotel entrance, when Bolan stepped up beside him and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. The young man jumped, then did a rapid double take and smiled.

  "All ready?" Bolan asked.

  "When you are."

  "Great. Let's do it."

  * * *

  As a child, before the British soldiers shot his father in Kirinia, Spyros Makarios believed in magic. It had been a natural mistake, a symptom of his youth, but violent death and the attendant curse of poverty had stripped him of illusions almost overnight. At nine years old, he learned to steal from market stalls to feed his family, and when the older, stronger boys had robbed him once or twice, he learned to fight. There was no magic after all, unless he made some for himself.

  Makarios had prospered as a smuggler, moving drugs and other contraband, because he was a ruthless man and a perceptive judge of character. The ruthless aspect of his nature served him when competitors encroached upon his territory and he had to drive them out. Perception helped Makarios to choose his friends and allies in a world where treachery was an accepted part of doing business.

  Thus far he had managed to survive without a major setback, serving time for minor violations of the smuggling laws, emerging as a wiser, more determined businessman. He cultivated contacts in the outside world, but he was cautious in selecting those to whom he gave his trust. Such men, the worthy ones, were few and far between.

  Was it coincidence, perhaps, that the American should make his overture precisely at this time, when he was under orders from Moheden to recruit new customers in the United States? Makarios didn't believe in fate, and accidents of timing sparked a natural suspicion in his mind. Pappas had carried word from one of his associates, a Nikos Kiprianou, that the spokesman for a new and powerful American concern was spending time in Nicosia, searching for a dealer to supply his needs.

  Like magic.

  It was only common courtesy to meet the stranger, take his measure, and Makarios had opted for a luncheon gathering at one of several restaurants he owned in town. Security was guaranteed in a controlled environment, and healthy bribes ensured that they wouldn't be interrupted by police. With any luck, the meeting might pay off for all concerned.

  Pappas appeared and whispered something to the maître d', two strangers trailing in their wake as they approached Makarios. The younger man had a familiar face, perhaps observed in passing on the street, or in a nightclub. His American companion was tall and dark with somber eyes, a killer's eyes. Makarios decided he would be a man to reckon with, perhaps a steadfast friend, most certainly a lethal enemy.

  The dealer rose as they approached, a gesture of respect. Pappas performed the introductions, leading Nikos Kiprianou toward the bar while the American, who called himself Michael Belasko, sat across from Spyros in the private booth. A waiter hovered over them as they perused the menus.

  "I can recommend the lobster."

  "Fine. I'll have a beer to start, and white wine with the meal."

  Makarios approved and made it lobster, twice. He ordered ouzo for himself, in place of beer.

  "Have you enjoyed your trip?" he asked.

  "So far so good."

  "What brings you into Nicosia?"

  "I've been hired to represent a group of businessmen in the United States," Bolan said. "They're kicking off an import operation, and they need reliable suppliers. Men of substance who can spare them the necessity of dealing with the East."

  The drinks arrived, and Makarios sipped his ouzo, waiting for the waiter to withdraw.

  "You mention imports. Is there any special product they desire?"

  "Right now they're concentrating in the field of pharmaceuticals. I understand that you're the man to see."

  "You flatter me."

  "I do my homework," the American replied. "For instance, I'm aware that you were doing business with a gentleman named Anthony Silvestri. He can't use your product anymore. I can."

  "Silvestri, I believe, has had an accident?"

  "Things happen. Some guys try to move more weight than they can handle, if you get my drift."

  "And your associates are men of proven strength?"

  "Together, they've got all the muscle they can use."

  "There are inquiries to be made."

  "That goes both ways. If we do business, I'm instructed to review the source and meet the man in charge."

  Makarios felt angry color rising in his cheeks. He flashed a smile to cover his immediate reaction. "That is much to ask on short acquaintance."

  "Not so much, considering my people have allotted thirty million dollars in their budget for the first two years of operation. When they lay out cash like that, they like to know who's pocketing the change."

  Makarios was busy multiplying and dividing in his head. "Of course," he said, "I can relay your message to my own suppliers. Sadly I'm not in a position to predict their answer."

  "How much time?"

  "A day or two. No more."

  Bolan appeared to think it over, finally nodded. "Fair enough. I'm out of here on Wednesday, either way."

  "Perhaps this evening you will be my guest for dinner? This is only one of various establishments I own in Nicosia. Others, I believe you will agree, provide more stimulating entertainment."

  "Sounds okay to me. No harm in mixing business with a little pleasure."

  "As you say."

  Their food arrived on steaming platters, and Makarios dismissed the waiter with a nod. He filled their wineglasses to the brim, raising his own in a toast.

  "To friendship."

  Makarios made small talk as they started on the lobster, but his thoughts were elsewhere, flitting back and forth between a three-million-dollar payoff — his prescribed percentage of the figure mentioned by his guest — and the problems that could still arise to rob him of his fortune. He would pass the offer on without delay, of course, but there were still inquiries to be made. Makarios wasn't prepared to risk his life and liberty on dealings with a total stranger, and his partners would demand a briefing on Belasko's background, his associates in the United States, before they voted on the deal.

  Had this man, or a member of his group, eliminated Anthony Silvestri and the two Iranians? If so, the Shiite delegation might reject his bid on principal, demanding vengeance. It would be Moheden's task to calm them down in that event, persuading them that business must take precedence over personality.

  Makarios had trouble reading the American, as if his heart and mind were veiled to outside scrutiny, but on occasion he had found the same with others in his trade. He hoped the background check would tell him more, but there was little time to spare. With thirty million dollars in his pocket, the American would have no trouble finding other friends to welcome him with open arms.

  Makarios didn't intend for that to happen. One way or another he would have to deal with Mike Belasko quickly. In the world he occupied, a loser got no consolation prize, and there was always someone waiting in the wings to take his place. The first mistake was normally your last, and even if you managed to survive it, you were never quite the same.

  A born s
urvivor, Spyros smiled across the table at the tall American and started making plans.

  * * *

  "Were you successful?" Nikos asked.

  "I've got a dinner date," the Executioner replied. "No verdict, yet."

  "Still, that's something. If Makarios mistrusted you, he'd have found some pressing reason why the two of you couldn't do business."

  "Maybe."

  Bolan scanned the crowded sidewalks as they motored back to his hotel. His mind replayed the conversation with Makarios from start to finish, searching for a turn of phrase or an expression that would tell him whether he had sold himself. The dealer's words came back to him: "There are inquiries to be made."

  Okay. The cover story prepped by Stony Man would hold up under normal scrutiny. Makarios wouldn't have time to put "Belasko's" whole life story through the wringer, and he doubted that the dealer had sufficient stateside contacts for a truly thorough scan in any case. Silvestri's death had closed the door on any informational exchange with the Grisanti Family, and if the dealer's people had a line to Justice, it would only help his case.

  Beyond those preparations, there was nothing he could do but watch and wait. Could Spyros rake the necessary information in by dinnertime? It seemed improbable, but Bolan would be on his guard against an ambush, just in case.

  "When shall I pick you up?" the young man asked.

  With genuine relief, the Executioner replied, "Not this time, Nikos. It's supposed to be some kind of one-on-one experience. I'll rent a car through the hotel."

  The new arrangement wasn't sitting well with Nikos. "I was instructed to assist you with your mission."

  "And you have," the Executioner assured him. "Take the evening off and call me in the morning."

  Nikos drove for half a mile in silence, finally working up the nerve to ask a question. "You're leaving me behind because you think I'm a coward?"

  Bolan frowned. It hadn't crossed his mind since their discussion of the night before in his hotel room, but the question brought it back.