The last of the hunting crew turned and fled, racing diagonally up from the beach in a heart-pounding effort to reach the car. Bolan fired again, the third bullet gouging a jagged chunk of palm trunk as the man twisted past it. The last shot smacked into the back of his skull, blew out his forehead and splattered a streak of mushy gore across the hood of the Audi.

Bolan ran the last few steps up the slope.

He scooped up the Uzi and shoved the body with his foot. The corpse tumbled loosely down under the bushes. He moved quickly to the left to check the other goon. The hapless gunman was twisted uncomfortably to the side, propped on one elbow, shuddering with each shallow, rasping breath. His weapon, a Walther PPK, was lying where he'd dropped it; Bolan tossed it into the bay.

He glanced over at the other man, who was sprawled facedown with his shattered head nestled in the crook of his arm. There was no need to see if he still had a pulse. The guy at his feet was not going to live too much longer, either; the soft-nosed slug had mangled his intestines. The guy uttered a soft curse in Arabic, then he said, "Not good."

"Nope," agreed Bolan. "So why the hell did you do it?"

"Hanzal gave the orders." He jerked his head in the direction of the bushes where the first man lay. The gesture cost him an agonizing stab through the gut. His elbow gave way and he sagged back on the sand. "Hanzal said you were not an official... he was sure of it. Thought you were a private investigator."

"Something like that," Bolan said. "And you thought you would scare me off?"

"Yes. And now..." He winced as he caught his breath. "I'm going to die."

"Yes," Bolan told him. It was not a time for lies. It was not a time for useless hatred, either. Bolan bunched up his topcoat and tucked it behind his adversary's head.

The pale wash of a passing car's headlights swept over them. The man's forehead was beaded in sweat. Bolan recognized his face. The police composite was not exact, but close enough.

"You were the driver, weren't you?"

"I drive for Hanzal. He demanded we catch you..."

"Where did you lake the boy? Who do you work for?"

"My home is far away. A small country — you will not have heard of it."

"Try me."

"But this will change. Khurabi will be the center of the Crescent Revolution. Hassan Zayoud — may Allah watch over him — will give new meaning to militant Islam."

"Where have you taken Kevin?"

"He is beyond your reach."

Bolan bent lower. Looming over him in the darkness, it must have seemed that the big American was about to make a final threat to wring out the truth.

"Just as I am beyond your reach. You can't kill us all." He gasped one feeble cough and died, staring sightlessly up at the ghostly palm fronds.

"You were right," Bolan told the Bear. He was calling from the airport. "Call it a hunch or whatever."

"Let's settle for a well-informed guess," said Kurtzman. "The input I was getting made me suspect a connection. So the boy is in Khurabi?"

Bolan quickly debriefed. "I figured the Mob would simply pay off somebody on the inside; they wouldn't have to stand watch. These guys were running a big risk to stay on top of things for their boss. He's playing a dangerous game."

"Yeah, but surely your action tonight is going to warn Hassan Zayoud."

"It'll put him on notice, sure, but Zayoud won't know who is on his case." It was a plain statement of fact but it carried an undertone of menace. "There's something else I want you to check out: can you trace anything on the Crescent Revolution movement?"

"Right." The Bear made a note. "Sounds like another self-appointed savior is in the wings — just what the world needs! Did you find out what Harrison is doing in Khurabi?"

"Jeff Clayton told me he was recruited by Dan Ruark. My guess is that they're training Zayoud's men for a palace coup. Ruark has some experience at stabbing people in the back," replied Bolan. "Have you found me an expert on Khurabi?"

"There aren't too many. Bill Patterson spent quite a while out there, running a survey for Allied Oil. Trouble is, he's been promoted to senior VP and is now enjoying his yacht somewhere off Nassau."

"Who else did you come up with?"

"Professor Brunton at Westfield University. He conducted a couple of extended digs there quite recently. I called him at the university but he was just leaving for a conference in Heidelberg and he wasn't in any mood for small talk about the Middle East. He said if there was anything we wanted to know about the Khurabi project we should get in touch with his assistant, Danny Jones."

"And have you spoken to him?"

"Not yet, but I can give you his number at Westfield."

"I'll switch tickets," said Bolan. "Think I'll talk to this Danny Jones in person."

Bolan was glad to be back in a more temperate climate after the mugginess of the Gulf Coast. He had rested up in a motel near the airport. Over a black coffee he had scanned the morning newspapers: there was nothing on the causeway killings.

The police would do their best to keep a lid on the story until they had checked out the diplomatic ramifications of the triple slaying. And if they did recognize the dead driver, they would be probing any connection to the Baker affair. Kurtzman was right, though, it would not be long before Hassan Zayoud found out what had happened to his hired guns.

The university at Westfield did its utmost to look like one of England's ancient seats of learning and, for the most part, it succeeded quite well. The walls of McCormack Hall were covered with ivy; the new library annex was faced with gray stone to merge with the older buildings; and the tree-lined paths provided a pleasantly sheltered network of walkways across the campus.

Bolan avoided the main inquiry desk and followed the signs to the Department of Archaeology.

It occupied a small wing off the back of the main arts building.

He held the door open for a vivacious redhead with an armload of audiovisual equipment.

Bolan returned her smile and wondered if, after all, he might not have missed something by not going to college. The receptionist stared up over her horn-rimmed glasses and asked, "Yes, can I help you?"

"Dr. Jones?"

"Room 17B. Down the corridor and to your left."

The walls were papered with notices for scholarship applications, student club meetings and smaller ads for a ride to the West Coast and sublet apartments. Bolan turned the corner. The door to 17But was slightly ajar. He tapped and pushed it open.

The dark wood-paneled office would have been gloomy but for a large lattice window overlooking the carefully tended lawns. A woman was standing by a tall bookcase, stretching to return a well-worn volume to the top shelf. Bolan assumed the trim blonde was a graduate student.

"Here, let me help you."

"Thanks."

"I'm looking for Dr. Danny Jones."

"What can I do for you? I'm Danica Jones."

"You are Professor Brunton's assistant?"

"Yes," she said, moving back to stand at the corner of her desk. She knew he was mildly surprised to find that an associate professor of archaeology was a young and attractive woman, but she said nothing. As Bolan turned to take the seat she indicated with a brief wave, he saw a large map of the Middle East tacked on the wall by the door.

"I've come to talk to you about Khurabi."

"You're a historian?"

"No. No, I'm not — my name is Bolan. Mack Bolan." He decided to be as truthful with her as he could; after all, he expected no less from her. "Carl Brunton recommended that I speak to you."

She tilted back in her padded swivel chair, appearing to weigh his introduction carefully; indeed, it seemed as if Dr. Jones was trying to recall ever meeting Mack Bolan before, perhaps in a different context.