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.
"It is only that my people have fought and died for what is about to come to pass," the Iranian purred hollowly. "Is it not reasonable to expect some recompensation in the form of "Brigand" snapped the Syrian.
"You were never asked to help, you fanatic. We..."
"Gentlemen, gentlemen," soothed Fouad Zakir silkily, without taking his eyes from Strakhov. "The Major General is quite correct. To bicker among ourselves...."
The slimiest snake of them all, thought Strakhov.
"I would not think it necessary," Strakhov told them curtly, "to remind everyone here that I speak not as an individual but as a representative of the Soviet Union, and as such I do not offer you suggestions or options but orders."
That got their attention and Strakhov started to continue when an orderly knocked discreetly, stuck his head inside, then walked over to Strakhov's side. The man whispered the words Strakhov had been so eagerly waiting to hear. Now they fanned the warmth in him to a fire hot enough to burn a man to death.
"Major Kleb asks that you come immediately to the annex building," the orderly whispered in Strakhov's ear. "They have captured the man Bolan. Alive."
Bolan noticed how cocky Kleb had become in the hours since Bolan had seen him last, since this morning when Kleb had not known he was being spied upon. Bolan attributed it to the guy's abrasive mentality generally and the success of having shot Masudi to death despite the chewing out it got him from Strakhov.
Bolan still gripped the AK-47 by its strap over his shoulder.
With twelve weapons trained on him, he would have to wait for a break.
To move now would be suicide. If they had wanted him dead, he'd have been fired on already by these anxious soldiers who hung on the GRU man's every suggestion.
Kleb kept his pistol steady on the man who had stepped into the trap.
Kleb's moist smile said he savored this moment.
"Major General Strakhov will be with us directly."
Kleb had dispatched an orderly to interrupt Strakhov in his meeting.
"And now, Mr. Bolan, you will kindly drop your weapons and if you try anything untoward, I shall be forced to shoot off your kneecaps."
Kleb started to say something else.
An ear-piercing sound signaled the approach of jet fighter planes.
The first in a line of explosions started eating up the perimeter with bellowing chomps.
Bolan seized the instant. He crouched, reversing the AK-47 in the flash that every eye in that room, including those of Major Kleb, were wrenched fearfully from the American. Bolan opened fire on the nearest four men, pulping them to sprawled carcasses before the line of explosions quit.
It ended only a few hundred yards from the annex building, the echoes swallowed up by shouts, then another high-keening fighter plane hurtled in low to blast two of the barracks to hell.
Some of the survivors in the annex turned and fled, preferring Israeli jets to the hell-bringer with the AK-47.
Two of the soldiers who stayed tried to bring up rifles, but the AK yammered some more on automatic and the pair were hurled back into a wall as if punched by an invisible fist. When their bodies finally came to rest, parts of them stuck to the wall, glistening red.
Some of the same heavy-caliber projectiles blasted Major Kleb's kneecaps in bloody splats of gore.
Kleb cried out and fell to the floor, his pistol flying from fingers numb with the pain ripping through his every nerve end. He cried out again when Bolan knelt beside this terror merchant and pressed Kleb's throat to the floor with the AK.
As more jets flew low overhead and more shouts and antiaircraft gunfire and explosions rumbled from outside, Bolan spoke very calmly.
"The woman. Zoraya. Where is she?"
"Z-Zoraya?" the GRU man gasped. "Please... I cannot stand the pain!" Kleb screamed hysterically.
"The woman," Bolan repeated. "Where is she, Kleb?"
"This... there is no woman!" Kleb shrieked. "The pain! Please... kill me!" Kleb lapsed into a quick word or two of Russian.
The Executioner twisted the rifle with a harsh yank across Kleb's throat.
The Russian died instantly with a broken neck and no more pain.
Well, he did ask for it, Bolan thought as he moved on.
The soldiers had scattered from the buildings that they all rightfully considered the main targets of the air strike.
Bolan exited the annex building in a dash toward the nearest entrance to the Syrian headquarters.
His instinct told him to believe Kleb's dying statement.
No woman, Kleb had said.
Zoraya was not on the base.
And that left the Executioner's main objectives: a summit meeting of terrorist cannibals on the top floor of the Syrian headquarters. And Major General Greb Strakhov.
Antiterrorist guns pounded vainly at the expertly piloted attack jets that swooped in from unexpected angles. Their strafing runs turned the Syrian base into a shrieking feast of burning death.
Bolan knew the chance he took by entering this building. But the stakes were too high for the Executioner to turn back when he could accomplish what he would when he hit this bunch upstairs.
Bolan had committed himself totally to establishing a crack in the wall of violence that had kept this country destabilized for so long.
This hit would accomplish a lot and no way could a man like Bolan walk away from such a responsibility.
He gained entrance to the headquarters building easily enough in all the excitement. Those staring and crouching every time a jet whistled by or an explosion burst saw a Druse militiaman hurrying back to his post to protect Mr. Zakir.