"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.

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 a confrontation, brisk and bold.

He had dressed the part in an expensive business suit, Beretta snug beneath his arm. With any luck, he wouldn't have to use it. Not just yet.

The plan was basic. Bolan would have to milk information out of Carter, planting his own seeds along the way.

Stage one of the Bolan strategy was complete. The enemy had been identified.

Stage two — isolation — was commencing.

Bolan hit the doorbell and held it through a five count, listening to rhythmic chimes inside the house. Another moment and footsteps were audible.

The door swung open and Bolan had his first view of Mitchell Carter. He looked younger than he did in his photograph, but there was a sort of world-weariness around his eyes.

The guy was looking Bolan over with empty eyes, missing nothing, and the warrior gave him time. When Carter spoke at last, his voice was flat, noncommittal.

"Yes?"

"Good evening, comrade."

Something fell into place in his eyes. A screen of caution.

"Can I help you?"

"You can ask me in, Karpetyan."

That registered, but he recovered quickly like a pro, his reaction barely noticeable.

"There must be some mistake."

"Of course."

Bolan brushed past him. Carter frowned, but merely closed and locked the door.

Taking the lead, Bolan moved into a living room furnished with subdued elegance. Carter followed, keeping his distance, eyes never leaving the intruder.

Bolan made a show of checking out the room. The smile he turned on Carter was a mixture of appreciation and contempt.

"Excellent, Karpetyan. You've captured the perfect bourgeois decadence."

The lawyer stiffened, frown deepening, and Bolan saw he had touched a tender nerve.

"Who are you?" Carter demanded.

But there was something in the attitude that said he knew the answer.

"Names aren't important," Bolan replied. "All that matters is the mission."

This time, Carter didn't speak. He stood silent, watching Bolan, waiting.

Bolan took his time lighting a cigarette, letting Carter's imagination work. When he spoke, his tone was conversational.

"You've done well for yourself," he said. "What have you done for the Party?"

Carter smelled a trap. His eyes narrowed as he answered.

"Everything is happening on schedule."

Bolan dropped the plastic smile and let his voice go frosty.

"Too much is happening," he said. "You're losing it."

The lawyer tried to be casual, but missed by a mile.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"That's the trouble," Bolan told him. "You've been out of touch."

"You think so?"

Carter didn't try to veil the sarcasm in his voice.

"I hope so," Bolan said. "Otherwise..." And he left the bait dangling there.

Carter snapped it up.

"Otherwise what!"

Bolan jerked the line, securing his hook.

"Well... careless is one thing. Disloyal is something else."

Carter's jaw dropped, the color drained out of his face. It took a moment for his voice to surface.

"Am I accused of something?"

Bolan shrugged.

''That depends on you."

"I see."

But he plainly didn't, which was fine with Bolan. He let the guy sweat as he crossed to a bar in the corner of the room and poured himself a drink. Carter moved toward a chair, thought better of it, and remained standing in the middle of the room.

"The problem... is it Minh?"

Bolan kept the answer vague, his voice impassive.

"Be careful of adventurism, comrade," he said. "Asians are... notoriously unreliable."

Carter's frown deepened.

"I believe Minh's committed to the project," he said.

"Granted. But on whose behalf?" The Executioner continued patiently, "Goals change. A survivor learns to read the signs."

He pinned Carter with his eyes and watched him squirm.

"Are you a survivor, Mihailovich?"

The lawyer found his backbone and met Bolan's eyes, unflinching.

"I'm listening," he said.

Bolan gave the fish some line.

"You've got friends," he said. "They don't want to see you damaged."

Carter gave a jerky nod.

"I appreciate that."

Bolan smiled without warmth.

"They feel you need a helping hand."

Carter saw what was coming now, and he stiffened.

"I organized this project," he said. "Who knows more about it?"

Bolan raised an eyebrow, kept his voice distant.

"The Party knows."

Carter sounded peeved.

"I should have been consulted."

"You've been told," Bolan snapped at him. "If you have some objection..."

That did it, and the guy's response was hasty.

"No, uh, no." Carter shook his head. "You have to understand..."

Bolan cut him off.

"There isn't any time to waste," he said. "Frankly, I'm surprised to find you here."

The counselor looked confused.

"Where should I be?" he asked.

"Watching your back, Karpetyan."

"The name's Carter."

Bolan spread his hands.

"Will it matter on a headstone?"

"Now, listen..."

"You're marked," Bolan told him.