Amy Culp, working on her third cup of coffee, moved restlessly around the small apartment. Physically exhausted, she was afraid to sleep in the strange place, never knowing when danger might arise. A shower might have helped, but it would also prevent her from hearing the telephone, or someone at the door.
The old apartment house was full of sounds. The muffled ringing of a telephone, doors opening and closing, a toilet flushing somewhere overhead. Each noise spoke to her of secret enemies coming to recapture her, or worse.
It was good to be away from Minh, away from the dark atmosphere of the Universal Devotees. Amy felt relief, freedom, but her feelings were tempered with fear. She was not beyond the church's reach, nor was she certain of her safety in the new surroundings. Her rescuer — God, she didn't even know his name — seemed to be a decent man, but he was one hell of a dangerous man, and that left Amy with a host of unanswered questions.
Who was the man in black? How did he know her?
What was he doing at the Devotees' retreat? Who was he working for, and what was that business about a phoenix nest?
Amy dropped into a chair. Wearing out the carpet wouldn't bring answers to her questions.
What she needed was a way out, an escape hatch away from Minh's army and the stranger with his guns. They could play war games, but she didn't plan to be the prize.
Amy started weighing her options.
She knew where she was. She had checked street signs along the way, working out directions from her spotty knowledge of the city. Amy knew she was in Haight-Ashbury, and she knew the name of the street and the number of the house.
So far, so good. But transportation was a problem.
Under the circumstances, walking was risky so she saved it as a last resort. She had left Minh's estate without a dime, thus eliminating taxis and public transportation. If she had access to a car...
Amy stiffened in her chair, suddenly alert. Someone was moving in the corridor outside, footsteps approaching from the direction of the stairs. In a moment they were at her hiding place, hesitating.
She held her breath, afraid to make a sound. Her eyes never left the doorknob; she would scream if it moved.
Keys jingled across the hall. A door opened then gently closed. Amy slowly released her breath, letting go of her grip on the chair. Her hands were trembling and she clenched them into angry fists, her knuckles whitening. A single tear marked her cheek.
It was ages since she cared enough or felt enough to weep.
The moment passed. Amy's mind returned to thoughts of freedom, of escape. If she couldn't reach transportation, it would have to come to her. She had a telephone, but whom could she call?
Home was out, of course. Even if her father answered, if he still cared enough to help her, she guessed there was nothing he could do from Washington now that things had gone this far. She would have to seek assistance in her own vicinity. She had no reason to have faith in a city of politicians a continent away. It had to be local help, and now.
Police? Amy made a sour face. There was nothing to be gained from questions, accusations. She was getting out, and that did not include appearances as a witness in protracted court proceedings. Maybe later, when she had put some space and time between herself and the Devotees.
The man in black had left a number, but she didn't plan to use it. If her rescuer was the law, he could get along without her help. If he wasn't...
At last she thought of Sarah.
One of Amy's oldest friends was in her senior year at Berkeley, just across the bay. She mentally kicked herself for not thinking of Sarah sooner.
It was too easy to forget friends and family in the Devotees.
Sarah never trusted Minh and had never liked Amy's involvement with the church. At the same time, she never belittled Amy or verbally disapproved of her the way other friends and family had. Sarah had expressed her feelings, then left Amy free to make her own decision, right or wrong.
They had lost touch. Minh discouraged contacts outside the church, and Amy hadn't seen or spoken to Sarah in seven months. If she was still at Berkeley... if she didn't make excuses or hang up at the sound of Amy's voice...
Stop that, she chided herself, cutting off the negative train of thought. Sarah was her friend, she would help.
What was the number?
Amy racked her brain, angered by all she had forgotten in the space of a year. Ten minutes later she consulted Berkeley information and received the number she requested.
Amy felt relieved. That number, seven digits, was the key to her escape. Without it, she was lost.
Nervous, trembling, she lifted the receiver and started dialing.
Mack Bolan had parked his car in an alley off Sixth and walked to the front of Carter's high-rise office building. He stationed himself across the street, sheltered by the foggy darkness and a recessed doorway.
Carter's suite of offices was halfway up on the twelfth floor, front. The floor plan was tucked away in the Bolan mental file.
Bolan watched the counselor nose the battered Continental down a ramp leading to the underground garage. As the taillights disappeared, he moved from cover to a corner telephone booth, slipped inside and lifted the receiver.
Able Team's Herman "Gadgets" Schwarz had visited the subject's office earlier that day, posing as a telephone repairman. In the course of his "inspection," he installed some sophisticated "extras" of his own design, improving the system in ways that would have startled Ma Bell.
Bolan punched the first six digits of Carter's office number, then removed a small pitch pipe from a pocket of his overcoat and blew a long E-flat into the mouthpiece. He then tapped the final digit.
The telephone in Carter's office didn't ring. Instead, the tone from Bolan's pitch pipe tripped a tiny relay mechanism; Carter's phones were "sensitized" and instantly converted into listening devices with an effective radius of half a mile. Bolan could hear everything in the office through a small transistorized receiver in his pocket.
Bolan kept the telephone receiver in his hand, feigning urgent conversation, but his full attention focused on the signal out of Carter's office. He waited, giving Carter time to park his car and take the elevator, clicking off the numbers in his mind. Any moment now...
A door opened, closed again. Footsteps crossed the large reception room and hesitated at the door to Carter's inner office. Inside, he tracked the counselor by following his sounds, picturing the office layout. He marked the sound of file drawers opening, papers being shuffled, stacked and briefcase latches snapping in the stillness.
Carter was cleaning house, preparing to desert the sinking ship. All he needed was a lifeboat.
Bolan pictured him, standing in the office and saying goodbye to all of it. He could feel for the guy, watching his life disintegrate around him, but it didn't change a thing.
The counselor picked his game, and it was too late to change the rules. He had to live with his decision, or die with it.
Bolan heard his target lift the telephone receiver and start to dial. The distant ringing was as clear as if the Executioner placed the call himself.
Carter got his answer on the third ring.
"Yeah?"
Bolan didn't recognize the man's gruff voice.
"Is he in? "Carter asked.
"Who's calling?"
The lawyer was impatient, angry.
"Carter, dammit. Put him on."
If his anger phased the other guy, it didn't show.
"Hang on a second."
It was more like a minute before another voice came on the line.
"Mitchell... I've been expecting you."
There was no mistaking that voice.
Nguyen Van Minh.
The counselor was burning his bridges, but cautiously.
"What's the idea of sending men to pick me up?" he asked.
"A security precaution," Minh explained. "We have encountered some, ah, difficulties here."
Bolan smiled. Minh was playing it close to the vest.
"You should call me if you have a problem," Carter said.
"We have a problem." Minh corrected him. "The telephone was considered... unreliable."
"Well, your crew isn't taking any prizes for reliability," Carter snarled.
Minh was curious, but cautious.
"Has there been a problem?"
"You could say that. They're all dead."
The Vietnamese was startled into momentary silence. When he spoke, his voice was tight but in control.
"What happened. Mitchell?"
"I had another visitor," he said. "Listen, this will have to wait. I've been here too long already."
''Very well. When should we expect you?''
It was Carter's turn to hesitate. Bolan heard the wheels turning as the counselor thought it through, weighing risks against advantages.
"I don't know about that," he said at last.
Minh played it cagey, the hunter certain of his prey.
"Do you have a choice?"
Carter's voice betrayed his fear.
"I want it understood that I'm coming voluntarily, as an ally."
"Of course, Mitchell. There was never any doubt."
Minh severed the connection, and Carter cradled his receiver slowly, almost reluctantly. Bolan listened as he moved about the office, finalizing preparations for departure. When he let himself out, the Executioner was already moving toward his car.
The problem was defined now, his course of action set.
The phases of his strategy were falling into place.
The enemy had been identified, their purpose recognized.
By congregating at Minh's estate, they would achieve the goal of isolation on their own, without his help.
Then, only the final step remained.
Doomsday Disciples
Annihilation.
If the terrorists were gathering at the Universal Devotees' "retreat," the Executioner would join them. He owed it to his war, and to the gentle civilians. To the Universe.
Hell, the warrior owed it to himself.