"I didn't come as a prisoner," said Bolan. "I came to free you."

"They told me you'd been captured," said Nark. "I knew they'd be on the drop zone. I was in the radio shack when Stony Man Farm radioed your time of arrival. How come your people fell for it? I specifically left out the true check to let you know I was transmitting under duress."

"The operator must have missed it," said Bolan, picking the lock on Nark's chains.

"How can anyone miss a check?"

"Routine, boredom, people get careless. It happens."

"Not in the NSA," said Nark.

"In the NSA too," Bolan assured him. "A few years back — this was before your time — the NSA agent in Tangier left out the true check to tell control he had been captured. Guess what control replied? 'Next time, please remember to include your true check.'"

They heard the sound of feet descending the stone steps, and the headman appeared. "Fight finished," he announced. "Hello, Mr. Nark."

"Hi, Major," said the tall, rail-thin American.

The headman held out a ball-shaped rocket attached to a small launcher. "You know this?" he asked. "Never see before."

"A RAW," Bolan replied. "Like an RPG but makes a bigger hole, and you fire it from a rifle."

"You want?" said the headman.

"Sure, I'll take it," said Bolan. It was of no use to him — the launcher only fitted an M-16 — but to refuse a gift would be rude.

"Major," said Nark, "could you send someone to the shack to pick up my radio? Also, the ge-gene." That was what the Montagnards called the hand-pedaled generator used to provide current for the set. When pedaled it made a ge-ge sound. "And a flashlight, too."

"I go myself," said the headman.

"While you're there, put a few bullets through the Tiger radio. The big set on the table."

"Yes, sir," said the headman and ran up.

Bolan continued to pick the lock. It was a complicated mechanism. He signaled to the Meo who had replaced the bonze as torch holder to come nearer so he could see better.

"What did you tell Tiger?" Bolan asked Nark.

"I told them what I was supposed to tell them," said Nark, his pale features showing some amusement.

"They bought the cover?"

"They even suggested it. From the start they kept saying, 'You're Russian, aren't you?' Well, it was obvious, wasn't it? Russian weapon, Russian radio, Russian clothes. I must say, John, your tailors are tops. Even the stitching on my buttonholes was Russian. You know, crossed instead of parallel? I saw them check."

"I'll pass on the compliment," said Bolan. After a while he added, "But if they bought the cover, how come you were tortured?"

"In the beginning I refused to talk. I figured if I talked too early, they'd get suspicious." He grinned. "After all, a hardened KGB agent is a tough nut to crack, no?"

The cover for Galloping Horse was that it was a Russian operation. Nark was a pathfinder for a KGB team coming to stir up a rebellion among Montagnards in Burma and Thailand. Objective: to destabilize the two countries in preparation for a pro-Moscow Communist takeover. The Soviet Union wanted Burma and Thailand as satellites to complete its cordon sanitaire of China. It already had Vietnam and Laos.

The lock finally snapped open. "There," said Bolan. He removed the chains and helped Nark to his feet. The man swayed, hand going to his head. "What's wrong?" asked Bolan.

"They were very fond of the sock," said Nark, massaging his head. "I never realized such a simple technique could be so painful."

"Yeah," said Bolan. "It can really knock you around."

"I'll be all right," Nark replied, his long legs becoming more steady as he crossed the room.

They went up to the pagoda. The torches flickered in silence; the monks had gone. They crossed the floor and came out. The square milled with black-clad figures, some loading booty on captured Tiger horses. Occasionally a shot rang out as some Montagnard finished off a wounded Tiger soldier. The Montagnards did not take prisoners.

Nark sniffed the air. "Tobacco?"

"They used bundles of tobacco to smoke out the troops," Bolan explained. "With our muskets and crossbows, Tiger could have held us off forever."

Three horses were tied by the bodhi tree, obviously for them. Two had saddles, while one carried Nark's radio and generator. From one of the saddles hung an M-16 with a canvas bandolier containing ammunition magazines, a weapon for Nark.

The headman came up. He glanced from the man with the mustache to the man with the ice-blue eyes. "Tiger know?"

"No, they don't know," said Bolan. "We can still surprise them."

"When come money and arms?" asked the headman.

"In two nights' time," said Bolan.

The headman's tiny eyes held Bolan's. "How you know?"

Bolan glanced at his watch. "In two and a half hours, which is when our next radio transmission is, we will ask for an air drop." He turned to Nark. "Where should that drop be?"

"Valley of the Spirits," replied Nark.

"We will tell our planes," Bolan continued, "to drop arms and money in the Valley of the Spirits the night after tomorrow. This is the earliest they can come. We will ask for the drop to be at midnight. You must send messengers to the villages to tell people that. They must be there to collect the drop."

The headman grunted. "We ride to village now?"

"You do," said Bolan. "Nark and I ride to reconnoiter the Tiger camp. I want to make a final check before we attack. Okay?"

"Okay." The headman turned to the milling figures in the square and blew a whistle. "Paj, paj," he called out.

Watched by bonzes leaning from windows, the Montagnards headed for home. The Tiger War had begun.

Mack Bolan knew this would be a strange one. Drugs were a blatant form of terrorism, he understood that to the depths of his being, and the enemy was as clearly defined as ever. But to Bolan there were even more serious concerns in his recent life that seriously slewed the picture.

Increasingly he was aware of the potential for betrayal. At every turn, politics and nationalism muddied the clarity of the essential task: the clean versus the unclean. More and more he realized the dangers implicit in his hastily organized missions.

So it felt good to be a soldier in fatigues again. A soldier's kind of action was the best way to find out which of a guy's allies were for real. Bolan needed that.

He felt he was edging toward some terrible revelation now. He needed a soldier's faith to see it through. Yeah, this would be a strange one.

The trio of horses wound its way through the cold, wet night. First came Nark, then Bolan, then the pack-horse. They moved slowly; rain had turned the trail slippery.

Bolan hissed for Nark to stop.

Nark reined his horse as Bolan drew alongside.

"I think we're being followed," Bolan whispered. "I'm sure I heard hoofbeats."

They sat motionless, listening. The still jungle dripped with water. Far away a barking deer called.

"You're imagining things," scoffed Nark.

"And was I imagining things when I parachuted into the DZ?" said Bolan. He twisted in his saddle and cocked an ear.

The horses tugged at the reins, trying to nibble the ferns bordering the trail. "We'll miss the cast," said Nark.

A gust of wind swayed the treetops, showering them with water. "Okay, let's go," said Bolan, and they resumed their journey.

A little later the trees thinned out, and they came to shacks and wheelbarrows. They dismounted and tied the horses to a wheelbarrow.

"I'll get the keys from the watchman," said Nark.

"What is this place?" asked Bolan.

"A tin mine that went bust," said Nark. "The owners are in Bangkok looking for a buyer." He went off, swallowed by the night.