Bolan gained the far side of the headquarters building. He hurried along the back wall to a row of windows, all dark at this hour. He found one left open against the heat of the day, forgotten when the workday ended.

He used both hands to lift the window and it slid up soundlessly. Bolan moved over the sill.

He had been lucky so far not to be spotted by any of the two-man sentry patrols he had seen walking the base. Though what kind of luck was it was to be inside an enemy camp, about to lose cover of night was debatable.

He found himself in a deserted office. He unleathered the Beretta and padded stealthily between the inky forms of furniture to the door of the room. He turned the door handle and it emitted a soft squeak that sounded deafening to Bolan. He paused, motionless, but detected no response from the other side. The headquarters building reminded him of a massive tomb.

He hoped it wouldn't be his.

The hour: 0410 hours.

Tomorrow would be a big day for the battalions quartered here, if Bolan's gut instincts about this thing were right. The base would be coming to life within the next twenty minutes.

He cracked the office door inward and peered into an unlighted hallway.

He heard activity, the sounds of voices in Arabic down at the far end of the building: probably an officer giving orders to the night-duty staff.

Then footsteps headed upstairs to the second level of the building, leaving security tight on what they thought to be the only entrance in.

Bolan glanced in the other direction of the corridor and saw another unlighted stairway closer to his position. He moved swiftly, gaining those stairs and starting up without notice of the soldiers in their Orderly Room at the other end of the long corridor. He raced upstairs, the Beretta 93-R on 3-shot mode, ready to spit death. He reached the top landing and looked down this hallway just in time to see a door slam shut. The rest of this level felt more tomblike than downstairs.

The Syrian CO'S office would be up here.

That's where they took Masudi.

Bolan expected to find Strakhov here, too.

The target.

The execution.

And the job would be done.

He poised, ready, to make sure no one from below followed the party up here, then he eased around the corner, five quick paces to the door next to the one where they had taken the Iranian.

This door was locked and Bolan extracted a tiny tool from his penetration gear. He was almost through picking the lock when he heard footfalls on the stairs behind him. He finished his illegal entry, then slipped into the room, leaving the door slightly ajar.

A lone Syrian sentry made it to the landing where silent death waited ready for him. The guy didn't hear or see his executioner until this dark apparition confronted him. Before the man had time to react or scream, combat-hardened fingers were slicing the air toward his throat. The punishing thrust ruptured the guy's windpipe, and the man uttered only a muted gurgle before he stopped breathing forever.

Bolan grabbed the sentry before his dead fall could alert those downstairs or beyond the door through which they had taken Masudi.

The Executioner hauled the body and rifle over the threshold.

Bolan placed the dead man and his rifle on the floor and relocked the door.

Then he looked around.

An office.

Chances were good that no one would find this corpse until after it was too late.

Bolan moved to the window.

This side of the HQ building faced away from the barracks.

The first gray smudge of false dawn etched the mountains in the east in stark silhouette.

Bolan moved fast. He unlatched the office window and opened it. A narrow ledge ran beneath the window, around the building. He climbed out onto the lip.

A bloodcurdling scream emanated from behind a lighted window a few feet from Bolan.

He inched forward, pressing himself against the building, never relaxing his sense-probing of the night. He almost reached the window when two sentries strolled shoulder to shoulder around the far corner of the building and approached on a course directly below him.

Standing motionless on the ledge, Bolan did not even breathe, his heart thumping against his rib cage.

One of the sentries glanced up almost casually at the lighted square, the only illumination along the second level of the building. He saw nothing but shadows around the window. He and his companion continued on their rounds.

Bolan heard harsh voices coming from behind the glass. He inched the final distance along the parapet for a glimpse inside the room.

It made sense for Strakhov to bring Masudi here, Bolan mused. The Soviet embassy in Beirut would be buzzing, and for the most part the Soviet terror machine kept a low profile in the Middle East, according to Bolan's considerable intel gained from documents captured during The Executioner's hit in Russia.

The situation in Lebanon was far too fluid, changing minute by minute, for anyone's intel to be very accurate, but the KGB habitually avoided direct active presence here, letting their Syrian clients front for them.

Bolan had a suspicion that even the KGB'S Beirut control knew nothing of the events at Biskinta tonight, or even of Strakhov's mission to Lebanon.

Strakhov's activities since arriving had clandestine written all over them.

Bolan eyeballed the scene through the window.

They had Masudi in the office, sure enough.

Bolan pegged it as the Syrian CO'S office.

Masudi sat in a wooden chair, nursing his right hand, rocking back and forth. His handcuffs had been removed.

The Syrian general towered over Masudi, scornfully glaring at the Iranian prisoner.

The bulky, horse-faced guy in cheap East European threads — who Bolan had guessed to be the Syrians' GRU control — stood with his back to the door, observing what the Syrian had done to make Masudi scream. The GRU man idly worked crud from under his fingernails with a penknife and flipped the dirt onto the Syrian general's carpet.

The words they spoke sounded a bit clearer to Bolan this close to the window. They spoke English. Not unusual with so many nationalities warring throughout the region. Most of the participants in Lebanon's war spoke French or English, common languages often used for communication.

No sign of Strakhov.

"You have nine more fingers, General Masudi," the GRU man at the door growled without looking up from his nails. "Then I will have General Abdel begin on... more sensitive areas." Abdel did not budge from crowding Masudi.

"It would be my pleasure, Major Kleb. It has always been my opinion that Iranians are the issue of diseased camels mating with lepers." Abdel appraised Masudi like a butcher sizing up a slab of meat. "I would take my time with this one. He would scream so much..." The Iranian gulped and Bolan could see the terrified man's Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

"But, Major," Masudi pleaded to the Russian around Abdel's bulk, "are we not allies? I beg of you."

"Beg all you want," snarled the Syrian. "The Iranian Revolutionary Guards fight beside the Druse, yes, but you have never been asked into this by either our government or..." and Abdel shot a quick glance to the GRU advisor "com'th of our friends. And so you will die. You will pay for your unwarranted intervention."

"We fight for the glory of Islam!" protested Masudi. "And who has asked Syria or the Soviet Union into this?"

"Impudent swine," Abdel snarled, backhanding Masudi hard enough to send the smaller man and the chair sprawling to the floor.

Abdel pulled a booted foot back for a kick at Masudi.

The Russian officer continued to work on his nails, but spoke.

"General Abdel, one moment, please." Kleb folded and pocketed the penknife and gazed coolly at Masudi. The Iranian wiped blood from his face. "The Disciples of Allah," Kleb said in a monotone. "Tell me what you know of them, General, and perhaps we will let you live."