He rounded the corner from the others, and no one tried to stop him as he strolled down the stairs at the opposite end of the building from the Orderly Room. He touched the bottom landing and found what he remembered from his penetration of the place that morning; a side door leading out, flanked by a stairwell that led to the basement level.

Bolan continued down the stairs until he came around a turn into the well-lighted basement corridor. His brisk authoritative step only fooled the two Syrian soldiers at a desk long enough for them to see this was no officer of any of the factions upstairs but a mere Druse peasant who had somehow gotten lost.

They watched the "militiaman" approach as if he wanted to ask a question.

Then lightning-fast chops descended toward the unsuspecting troopers' necks. Both men died without a sound before they had even risen from their chairs. They sat back down with broken necks.

The absence of any other soldiers posted there told Bolan what to expect and he found it.

Nothing.

He raced from door to door of the basement, stopping to pick two of the four locks, but each room was unoccupied.

No Zoraya.

Bolan did not know whether to be encouraged or depressed, so he just kept looking, hustling back up those same stairs before anyone from above found the two dead men. That would happen before long, he knew, but so would the Israeli air strike. All that mattered now was getting to the office annex across from HQ, then hitting that meeting upstairs.

He came up the stairs and out of the building from the wing opposite the Orderly Room.

The atmosphere on the main floor hummed with activity, orderlies moving in and out of offices, Syrian field officers elbowing their way through clerks to deliver and receive vital intel on the heavy righting that could be heard like distant thunder echoing through the valleys of the Shouf.

No one paid attention to the blue-eyed "Druse" who topped those stairs and briskly left the building, walking toward the HQ annex that had all the signs of having been cleared.

Bolan had to find out what that meant.

He burst through a side entrance of the squat annex structure and knew instantly that he had stepped into the trap he'd been striving to avoid since this mission began.

The annex had been cleared, sure, and there could have been more than one reason but the main reason had to be: Bolan.

Every exit out of the hallway Bolan found himself in had been plugged up with at least two Syrian soldiers.

There were about eleven men in all and every one of them was pointing an AK-47 right at the man in Druse militia garb.

Bolan sensed movement behind and felt himself being covered from outside, too.

The only man in civilian attire in the scene also held a gun, a pistol, pointed like all the others at the figure in the doorway.

Major Kleb, GRU, wore a satisfied cat's grin that did not make it to cannibal-hungry eyes.

"And now, Mr. Mack Bolan," Kleb purred, "I think we have you exactly where we want you."

Strakhov tried to keep his attention on the petty bickering between the factions, but without success.

The KGB chief sat at one end of the oblong table.

The representatives from the Palestine Liberation Organization, newly reorganized under Soviet sponsorship, and a representative of the Shiite militia sat to his right.

To the KGB man's left were the ranking Syrian general of this sector and the liaison officer from another Iranian Revolutionary Guard contingent.

Fouad Zakir sat at the opposite end of the table from Strakhov. The Druse VIP wore an oily smile that said nothing.

The squabbling continued over a minor point that had temporarily slipped Strakhov's mind, he noted with annoyance.

His stubby fingers pinched up the lemon slice from the saucer of his teacup. He found the sour taste of the citrus fruit to be exquisite — a relaxant of sorts that invariably allowed him the objectivity with which to appraise situations more accurately.

He sipped the tea but still could not get his mind back on whatever these accursed Arab desert rats thought to be so important they would die over their foolish religions.. and of course to bid for power over others, such as Strakhov possessed.

He could not follow the conversation even though they had been ordered to speak in English, that damnable all-purpose language even Strakhov had to employ on occasion, a common tongue they all understood.

He could not stop thinking about Mack Bolan.

The thought of killing Bolan always brought a peculiar druglike warmth over the usually coolheaded Strakhov. He had wanted Bolan dead for a long time now and had utilized all the resources of his KGB unit and others, all without success.

The desire for Bolan's head had consumed Strakhov since the American had gone on that mission to steal a new Russian helicopter from Afghanistan and had killed the test pilot of the prototype helicopter.

The pilot's name: Kyril Strakhov.

Beloved son of Greb.

Kyril's mother had died giving birth to the boy, and Kyril's death severed something inside Strakhov that he felt might have been his last tenuous fink to anything loving or kind or caring in this hostile world.

After Kyril was taken from him, all Greb Strakhov could think of, all he ever thought of, was Bolan and revenge.

Killing Bolan, yes... and of course holding tight the reins of control over this wretched, barren corner of the world while these camel-dung eaters fought among themselves.

The security of Strakhov's whole organization was at stake and he knew it, all because Bolan had in his possession a masteries like of all KGB agents, operations and activities throughout the world.

The Executioner had to be stopped but until now, until this pit called Lebanon, the war of wits between Strakhov and Bolan had been cat-and-mouse ploys of strategic brilliance.

Now, Strakhov knew he would be confronting his enemy.

Thirty minutes ago, just prior to calling to order this disparate collection of cretins, Strakhov had received word of intercepted CIA transmissions, not yet fully decoded but indicating that Bolan was operating in a wholly vigilante capacity with no affiliation to other factions in this area. With this news several things suddenly became clear to Strakhov. The notion of one lone commando penetrating this base before dawn today, of visiting such death and carnage, had to be considered anew in light of Bolan's presence.

The American could accomplish such a strike, Strakhov knew from experience. And so he had ordered that GRU moron, Kleb, to plant a trap in the annex building of the Syrian headquarters.

Strakhov had versed himself well in the Executioner's methods dating to before, during and after Bolan's Phoenix period.

The KGB boss half suspected Bolan would use camouflage to get himself onto this base. A man like Bolan could not ignore the obviously deserted annex. And when the Executioner stepped into that building the trap would spring tight and Strakhov would have Bolan. Greb Strakhov would avenge Kyril... very, very slowly. Strakhov expected revenge to taste most sweet.

He blinked such thoughts away and forced his attention to what had become a shouting match across the table between four of the five representatives concerning the division of Beirut once the fighting had stopped and the city was secured under Muslim control.

Strakhov stood abruptly and smashed down on the table a powerful fist that cut through all their camel dung and focused attention right where Strakhov demanded it: on himself.

"Enough! This meeting has been called to do away with bickering such as this."

The Iranian cleared his throat, the only one daring to speak back to the real power here.