On the last radio check Nark told him he had found out from a prisoner that Liu had a hideaway in Burma. Nark was looking for maps in the administration building that would give the coordinates.

Hopefully, Nark would find them. Hopefully, too, when he did not hear from Bolan on the next radio check he would put two and two together. And hopefully he would pay the plantation a visit.

An outside rescue was about the only way Bolan could see of getting out. After the caper he pulled the night he was tortured, he doubted Liu would leave much to chance. The chains he had on were a good example.

He was bound solid: cuffs around his wrists, cuffs around his ankles, a chain linking the two with the pole, everything joined by a padlock. No way out of that.

He stretched himself out on the ground, figuring he should rest while he had the chance. Through the cracks in the roof he watched night fall. Bolan began imagining food; he had not eaten since noon of the previous day. Bit by bit his eyelids grew heavy. What was his fate going to reveal to him?

The sting of a whip on his cheek brought him out of a dream. The light was on, he could feel blood oozing down the side of his face, and he could see a pair of highly polished riding boots. Before he could remember where he was, the whip lashed out a second time, catching him in the neck.

"Get up!" a voice barked.

It was Liu, dressed in a golf shirt and breeches, standing with his feet apart and a long whip in his hand in the pose of a circus animal trainer. And his eyes glared with anger.

But so did Bolan's. He sprang to his feet and charged his tormentor. The other stepped deftly aside, and Bolan was pulled back cruelly by the chain.

The whip flew at Bolan, catching him in the mouth and filling it with blood. "Get up!"

Once more Bolan went for him, and once more Liu stepped aside. But this time the whip moved constantly, forming red welts on Bolan's body, tearing strips from his shirt and trousers, the cracks of the whip mixing with the rattling of the chain as Bolan rolled on the ground to avoid the painful blows.

Finally the whipping stopped. "Better get it into your head, Colonel Phoenix, that here it is I who command. You might be commander at Stony Man Farm, but here you're just another white dog. A white dog, do you understand? Get up!"

Spitting blood, Bolan rose to his feet.

"That's better," said Liu. He wound the whip and went to take a seat on a rubber block. He leaned back in a relaxed manner against the blocks as if on a couch. "And so finally we meet, Stony Man One," he said, crossing his legs. "Don't look so surprised. You're not the only one with an intelligence service, though I must admit mine leaves a lot to be desired of late. You'll be pleased to hear that the man who interrogated you has had his head cut off. So has the man who interrogated Nark. They actually fell for that cock-and-bull story you fed them about a Russian-sponsored Montagnard uprising." He recrossed his legs. "I need some answers. What happened to my directors?"

"They're dead," said Bolan.

"You killed them?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"It is part of the war against the drug rings," said Bolan. "The ringleaders will be executed."

"Is that why you were following me? To kill me as well?"

"Yes."

"You're a real St. George, aren't you?"

Bolan said nothing, observing his enemy in silence. Close up Liu looked even more the prince of darkness than when Bolan saw him the first time through field glasses, the day he and Nark reconnoitered the Tiger hardsite. Now, in addition to the handsome, satanic face and the muscular build, Bolan was conscious of Liu's charisma. He was also conscious of Liu's superior intelligence. A formidable enemy.

"When you killed my directors did you just bump them off or did you give them a speech first?" asked Liu.

"I read them the charge," Bolan lied.

"Which was?"

"Crimes against humanity."

"How American," Liu mused. "You people are so moral... when it suits you. Did you know that in 1900 during the Boxer Rebellion when China was fighting to rid itself of the opium trade imposed on it by the Europeans, the U.S. sided with the Europeans? Righteous Americans like yourself went around slaughtering Chinese in the name of free trade. Today they are equally righteous about preventing free trade. How do you square that, Colonel Phoenix?"

Bolan said nothing. History was full of whores.

"The question is too profound for you, is it?" asked Liu, contempt in his voice. He stared at Bolan for a while as if studying him. "I understand you are an adept of kenjutsu."

"I have studied kenjutsu, yes," Bolan replied.

"The reason I ask is that tomorrow we are holding our annual tameshigiri. I will be trying out swords on the necks of some criminals, and I propose to add yours to them. Since you are a swordsman, I will give the opportunity to die sword in hand. Unless you would prefer the block."

"Sword in hand will be fine," said Bolan.

Again Liu stared at Bolan as if studying him. Abruptly, he rose. "Very well, my adjutant will come for you in the morning so you can wash and dress. Sleep well."

Bolan watched him walk out.

A little later the door opened and two soldiers entered. One carried a bucket, the other a tray of food. They undid Bolan's hands and left him to eat.

The gladiator submits, thought Bolan. Not that he had any complaints; he was starving and the food was excellent. There was noodle soup, a shrimp dish, vegetables and rice, ngapi sauce — a Burmese specialty — mangoes, and Mandalay beer.

When he finished he called to the guards for a light for a cigarette. He pondered the passivity that commanded his actions, that cast a pall over his soul so deep that the flash of fate's vision would soon be inescapable in the darkness. What was he about to endure, about to see?

When he finished his cigarette, Bolan sat in the dark, his mind on the fight to come.

He must not be afraid, he told himself.

Fear was the greatest obstacle to concentration.

Then, too, it was selfish to worry about losing your life. He had been put on this earth to promote the good of man, not his own welfare.

Get beyond love and grief: exist for the good of man.

One of the Four Oaths of Bushido, the way of the warrior.

From some recess of his memory Bolan recalled the words of Sensei Matsubara, his kenjutsu master, on the side of a mountain in Virginia: The way of the warrior is the resolute acceptance of death.

This means choosing death whenever there is a choice between life and death.

If you can accustom yourself to the idea of death you become one with the way of the warrior.

You can pass through life with no possibility of failure and perform your off ice properly.

The way is not technique.

The way is the right spirit.

God, give me the right spirit, Bolan prayed.

The sword was a blur, and the Yao bandit toppled, brains spilling from his severed skull.

Bolan, a spectator, bowed his head and the crowd applauded.

It was the fourteenth death of the morning and they had all been grisly, the main object of the executions being not so much to kill the man as to test the sword.

For this purpose various cutting techniques were used. They ranged from the simple across-the-waist-in-two, to the more sophisticated shoulder-to-opposite-nipple. The last one had been horizontally-above-the eyes.

Every technique required a special pose. The victims were made to lie sideways on blocks, hung from bars, were spread-eagled between bamboo poles or simply held by guards in a particular position.