Annotation

The well-aimed 7.65 mm slug delivered more than one message. It signaled an end to the daily pilgrimage to St. Peter's Square, and it sparked an international incident that shocked the world's religious and political communities.

The Vatican is being held hostage, and the terrorists intend to succeed even in defeat. It's a no-win situation for the men of Phoenix Force, and the enemy is more than willing to give the American commandos their last rites.

- Gar Wilson

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Gar Wilson

Hostaged Vatican

Special thanks and acknowledgment to William Fieldhouse for his contribution to this work.

1

The pigeons scurried away from the gathering crowd. Cooing softly, the birds continued their rapid head-bobbing gait until they sensed that the approaching danger was very real. Then, in a well-timed exodus, the pigeons burst into flight, their gray and white wings flapping effortlessly as they flew to the rooftops and window ledges bordering St. Peter's Square.

Monsignor Giovanni Cellini's eyes followed a pair of the birds as they settled not more than twenty feet from him on the railing that lined the Bernini Corridor. The walkway, which topped the great horseshoe-shaped colonnade that defined the square, was the monsignor's favorite spot in Vatican City. From there he could view the gathering crowd of tourists and pilgrims that visited the spiritual center of the Roman Catholic Church everyday.

As the sosituto under the cardinal secretary of state, Cellini held the number three position in the secretariat of the Vatican Council. His post carried a great deal of responsibility and, although it had been a controversial position in the past, Cellini himself kept a low profile, attracting neither praise nor criticism. He did not believe that drawing attention to oneself was proper conduct for a servant of God and a representative of the Vatican. Cellini was not an ambitious man. Though he had once had great dreams of power, he had discovered that the burden of responsibility was often greater than the advantages of authority. He accepted his duties and quietly served God and His Holiness, the pope.

Cellini liked to watch the crowds in St. Peter's Square. It was reassuring to see that Catholicism still had so many loyal followers at a time when so few young men were choosing to enter the clergy and when the work of Satan seemed more powerful than ever.

The crowd was not large that day. The largest assemblies were usually during Easter services or when the pope either blessed the congregation or held High Mass. Indeed, the pope was probably the greatest attraction the Vatican offered. His Holiness was currently on tour outside of Europe, which accounted for the smaller turnout in the square.

Cellini estimated that the group of tourists and pilgrims numbered two hundred. Most were not Italian. The monsignor had learned to recognize different nationalities by their behavior; he seldom guessed incorrectly. The British entered the Vatican as if they were attending a funeral. The Germans examined St. Peter's Basilica as if they were planning to buy it. The Japanese took photographs of everything, often using two or more cameras to snap pictures of the same object. The French kept to themselves; they refused to mingle with other tourists. And the Americans seemed to think the Vatican was the Catholic answer to Disneyland.

But something troubled Monsignor Cellini as he looked down from the colonnade. Mental tentacles reached out from some secret chamber of his subconscious and invaded his usual serenity. Something was different about this crowd. He noticed a number of shepherds among the congregation. They were anachronisms from the past, products of remote villages and hamlets that had largely ignored the twentieth century. They were a colorful group, dressed in their sheepskin vests and boots and carrying the long crooked staffs associated with their ancient occupation.

Shepherds were a rare breed, but they were hardly cause for alarm. Monsignor Cellini's eyes moved from them to a large group of tourists dressed in black. The men wore suits with white shirts and narrow black ties. The women wore long black dresses and had veils draped across their faces.

The practice of veiling a woman's face was an Arab tradition. It was not part of the teachings of Islam or of the Koran. Yet the custom had been adopted by many Muslims in many non-Arab countries such as Iran and Turkey. The monsignor and many of his colleagues were now wary of Turks; after all, it had been a Turkish citizen who had attempted to assassinate the pope.

Cellini was relieved to see three Swiss Guards approach the group. Seventy-five of the guards were stationed at the Vatican to act as the traditional security force. Noted for their colorful seventeenth-century uniforms, similar to the British beefeater costume, the Swiss Guards were actually well-trained professional soldiers.

For centuries the Vatican had been regarded as a place of absolute sanctuary. Mussolini had been confident that the Allies would not bomb Rome for fear of damaging the Vatican. The pope was considered to be such an honored and revered figure that no assassin would dare to make him a target. Both notions had proved to be incorrect. The Swiss Guards took their job seriously. Although they still wore the traditional costumes, the officers carried side arms and were capable of using modern weapons.

Cellini waved at the guards and gestured for them to join him in the corridor. The soldiers obeyed. A young lieutenant, the only officer of the trio, snapped to attention and saluted. His men followed their lieutenant's example.

"Buon giorno, Monsignor," the officer greeted. "Come sta?"

"Bene, grazie," Cellini replied. Although Latin was the official language of the Vatican, the majority of residents and employees spoke Italian. Like most high-ranking priests, Cellini spoke several languages fluently. "But I am concerned about the group of visitors in the square. The group dressed in black."

"Si," the lieutenant said, nodding as he peered down at the tourists below. "I know the group. What is wrong, Monsignor?"

"They appear to be Arabs or possibly Muslims," Cellini stated. "I trust you checked on them?"

"Do not be concerned," the officer urged. "The group is comprised of Christian Lebanese who have made a pilgrimage to the Vatican. I was told the cardinal secretary had been informed of this matter."

"Si," Cellini confirmed. "Our office was told about this visit, but the Lebanese group was not expected until next week when the pope returns from his tour."

"We'll watch them if you like," the lieutenant offered. "Discreetly, of course."

"That won't be necessary," the monsignor assured him. "We don't want to do anything that might make our visitors from the Middle East uncomfortable."

"As you wish, Monsignor," the officer agreed.

"Grazie, Lieutenant," Cellini replied. "And I'm sorry to trouble you over this..."

Something hit the monsignor's left forearm. The projectile was small, yet it had moved with the speed of sound and had hit with a terrible force. Cellini felt hot metal tear through flesh and muscle. He cried out, but his voice was lost amid the roar of automatic weapon fire.

The gunfire had erupted from St. Peter's Square. Cellini fell to one knee, clutching his bullet-torn arm with his right hand. Blood seeped between his fingers. The monsignor's astonishment was greater than the pain of the punctured limb. He looked up at the three Swiss Guards. Their bodies convulsed wildly from the impact of high-velocity slugs.

Blood splashed their uniforms. One soldier stumbled backward. A crimson liquid jetted from a bullet hole in the side of his neck. The man collapsed against the stone railing as the last remnants of life spewed from his body. The lieutenant and the other Swiss Guardsman fell to the paved walkway. Both men were seriously wounded, yet neither was unconscious.

Monsignor Cellini heard the pandemonium that had erupted in the crowd. The square had become a battlefield. The members of the alleged Christian-Lebanese group had suddenly drawn weapons. The men took pistols from shoulder holsters that had been hidden under their jackets.. The women stripped off the skirts from their black dresses. They wore trousers and boots beneath the long garments. Each carried a Skorpion or Ingram M-11 machine pistol strapped to a thigh.

The women unleashed their weapons with a vengeance. Two deadly females continued to fire at the Swiss Guards on the top of the colonnade. Monsignor Cellini did not present a threat so no one aimed directly at the priest. They did not care if a bullet claimed Cellini; his life meant nothing to them.

The other Swiss Guards were on duty in the square itself. The pair was immediately cut down by pistol rounds from the male gunmen. A burst of Ingram slugs chewed into the fallen soldiers to make certain neither would rise again.

Terrified tourists screamed. Many raised their hands in surrender. A French woman in a white linen suit panicked and desperately ran toward St. Peter's Basilica as if seeking sanctuary within the church. One of the shepherds calmly stepped forward and swung his staff in a low arch. The hooked end caught the woman's ankle. A quick twist yanked her off-balance. The woman was thrown forcibly to. the pavement. She tumbled across the hard surface. The white suit was torn at the knee and elbow. Blood dripped from her face where a large layer of skin had been scraped from her right cheek.

"Cochon!" the lady's husband exclaimed as he charged forward.

Another shepherd swung his staff and dropped the crook over the Frenchman's head. It snared his neck, bringing the French tourist to an abrupt halt. The shepherd's shoulders turned sharply, and the Frenchman felt a terrible pressure against his throat and shoulders. Vertebrae cracked. The shepherd removed the hook, and the tourist fell limply to the ground. The man's neck had been broken.

"Attenzione!" a swarthy man snapped as he waved a Russian Makarov pistol in the crowd. "We will shoot anyone who resists!"

His message was repeated in four other languages to make certain everyone understood. Voicing the threat had been unnecessary; the deadly Makarov had made the killer's intentions very clear. Monsignor Cellini listened to the gunmen's angry voices. He tried to concentrate on their words instead of the throbbing pain in his arm. He understood everything until a voice shouted something in a language Cellini guessed to be Japanese. Yet the sentences became jumbled in his skull, transformed into gibberish by the pain.

The Swiss lieutenant was curled in a fetal position, with both arms held tightly to his bullet-torn belly. The other surviving soldier slowly rose to his hands and knees. He dragged his bloodied body toward his lieutenant. With trembling fingers, he reached for the holstered pistol in the officer's hip.

Suddenly the soldier opened his mouth as if to scream. He did not cry out, although his features contorted with pain. The guardsman fell forward. Cellini gasped as the soldier's face hit the walkway. A star-shaped metal object protruded from the base of his skull.

Monsignor Cellini stared at the dead man. His mind swam in a black mist. Perhaps this was all a terrible dream. Why would anyone do these dreadful things? Only a madman would slaughter innocent people in the Vatican. But do madmen organize and coordinate their insane schemes?

Then Cellini was certain it was a nightmare. The figure that materialized before him could not be real. It was a product from the subconscious fears and imagined terror of his childhood. The shape was completely dark from head to toe. The form resembled a man, yet it had no face. Its feet were split in the center like the cloven hoof of the devil. A long steel blade extended from the creature's fist as it drew closer.

The thing advanced quickly. It raised the sword in a two-handed grip. With a fierce bestial shout, it swung the sword. The blade struck the wounded lieutenant at the nape of the neck. Cellini saw the Swiss officer's head roll from his body. A crimson fountain gushed from the stump of the lieutenant's neck like red wine from a ruptured goatskin.

Then the thing turned toward Cellini.

It had a face. Gray cloth covered the top of its head and its nose and mouth. Dark almond-shaped eyes peered through the gap in the mask. The killer snapped his wrist, flicking blood from the blade of his sword.

"Get up, priest," the masked figure ordered. He spoke broken Italian with a thick accent. "I hate priest. I kill you if you not get up."

"Perche?" Cellini asked. "Why are you doing this?"

"Quiet," the Oriental warned, pointing the sword at the monsignor's face. "Get up."

Cellini slowly rose to his feet. The masked figure gestured with his sword, indicating that Cellini was to walk toward the basilica. The monsignor nodded and cradled his wounded arm against his chest. Cellini's knees felt weak and his vision blurred. He feared he might pass out. The man with the sword would kill him if he fainted.

I must reach the basilica, Cellini thought. I will be safe there...

The grim reality of the situation suddenly struck the monsignor. He would find no sanctuary in St. Peter's Basilica. There was no place of safety.

Sanctuary was a dream, and reality had become a nightmare.

2

"Gentlemen," Hal Brognola began as he leaned back in his chair at the head of the conference table in the Stony Man war room. "The shit has hit the fan. And I mean a bucketful of it."

Brognola was the head of operations for Stony Man, an ultrasecret organization created to combat the growing threat of international terrorism. Stony Man had originally been developed to utilize the uncanny skills and remarkable strategies of Mack Bolan, better known to the world as the one-man army called the Executioner. Bolan's insight was as impressive as his talent for battle. He had selected the best men in the world for the job. The primary mission for Stony Man operations was simple — find the enemy and stop him cold.

No one was better at stopping terrorists than the five men seated at the conference table with Brognola. They were the men of Phoenix Force. Each was an expert in combat, tactics and survival. Their backgrounds and national origin varied greatly, yet all the men of Phoenix Force were veteran warriors. They were experts in the arts of infiltration, covert operations and seek-and-destroy missions. They were the best trained, the most experienced and highly skilled elite fighting unit ever assembled.

"So the shit hit the fan," Rafael Encizo remarked with a smile. "Glad to see nothing has changed while I was away."

Encizo had spent the last six months in a U.S. Army hospital in Nuremberg. He had been wounded during a mission in France. A bullet had creased Encizo's skull. If the 9 mm round had struck a centimeter to the left, that mission would have been the Cuban warrior's last.

Rafael Encizo was not an easy man to kill. Many had tried in the past and most had paid for their failure with their lives. Encizo had learned the code of the jungle at a very early age. The rules were kill or be killed. Encizo was not dead yet.

Young Rafael's education had started in Cuba when Fidel Castro had seized the reins of power. Like most young Cubans in the early sixties, Rafael had known little about communism or politics in general. He had known only that he was disgusted with the Batista regime and he had assumed that things would not be any worse under Castro.

Encizo's opinion changed drastically when Castro's troops arrested and executed thousands of alleged dissidents. The Encizo family had never been involved in politics, yet Rafael's parents and older brother were victims of this slaughter. His two sisters and younger brother were taken to "reeducation centers" to be instructed in Marxism and the socialist revolution.

Rafael Encizo joined the counterrevolution. He became part of a small band of guerrilla fighters who conducted hit-and-run raids on Castro's storm troopers. Their attempt was doomed from the beginning. Inexperienced and poorly armed, the counterrevolutionaries were no match for Castro's professional soldiers, many of whom were veteran guerrillas. The rebels were hunted down and slaughtered. Only Encizo and a handful of others survived to flee the country. The survivors were no longer inexperienced, but they realized the odds against them were too great.

During the early years of Castro's reign, almost one-tenth of the entire Cuban population fled the tiny country. Many others were expelled as " undesirables." Thousands of exiles found their way to the United States.

More than forty thousand young Cubans participated in the abortive Bay of Pigs Invasion in 1961. Rafael Encizo was among them. The assault on the shores of Cuba was a terrible disaster. Communist troops easily overpowered the invaders, killing many and capturing the survivors. Encizo was taken to El Principe, Castro's notorious political prison.

Starved, beaten and tortured, Encizo still did not break, although he certainly appeared to surrender to the physical and mental abuse. Encizo told his jailers he had been wrong. He told them he now believed Fidel Castro was a great liberator and that Marxist-Leninism was the wave of the future. The Communists thought they had a new convert. Encizo was soon given medical treatment and better food and allowed to sleep eight hours a day.

The jailers decided that Encizo was no longer dangerous. It was a fatal mistake for one careless guard. Encizo seized the man from behind, twisted his head with savage force and broke his neck. The Cuban warrior successfully escaped from El Principe and returned to the United States.

Encizo became a naturalized U.S. citizen. He worked in many unusual occupations. The Cuban was a scuba instructor, a professional bodyguard and an insurance investigator, specializing in maritime claims. He participated in diving operations off the coast of Jamaica and Puerto Rico in search of underwater treasure from the doomed Spanish and British ships which, according to legend, now lay on the ocean floor.

On more than one occasion, Encizo was recruited by the CIA in Central America, although he distrusted the Company after the Bay of Pigs fiasco. He was more willing to assist the Drug Enforcement Agency in its war against cocaine smuggling. But Encizo refused to join either government agency.

Phoenix Force was different. It was an opportunity to strike at the enemies of freedom throughout the world without being shackled by a group of meaningless bureaucrats who might sell you out if it seemed politically advantageous to do so.

A physical fitness buff, Encizo appeared at least ten years younger than his true age. Only a few strands of gray in his jet-black hair hinted that he might be over forty. Women found him very attractive and charming, although he was careful never to get too involved with any one lady. Love, he had learned, was often the gateway to hell.

"We're all glad to have you back, Rafael," Brognola stated. Every man in the room knew the Fed meant what he said. Brognola had immediately flown to Europe to personally make certain Encizo had received the best medical care possible. The Stony Man boss had made several other trips to check on the Cuban's progress after the operation. Hal Brognola was more than just the guy who gave them orders and cut through the red tape on each mission. He had dedicated his life to Stony Man and all that it stood for, and he would back his people to the bitter end.

"Good to be back," Encizo replied. "I'm only sorry I missed some missions while I was having my head put back together. But I understand Karl Hahn proved to be a pretty good substitute. Now, tell us what our new assignment is, Hal. I'm eager to get back in the field."

"Would it concern the incident at the Vatican?" Yakov Katzenelenbogen inquired as he took a pack of Camel cigarettes from his shirt pocket.

The soft-spoken, middle-aged Israeli with the gentle blue eyes and slightly paunchy middle did not look like a commando. Katz was also an amputee; he had lost his right arm on a battlefield of the Six Day War.

Katz held the Camels in his left hand and tapped the pack against the steel hooks of the prosthesis attached to the stump of his right arm. A cigarette slid from the pack. Katz deftly caught it between the hooks and raised the cigarette to his lips. He reached in another pocket for his battered old Ronson lighter.

"You've heard about the Vatican already?" Brognola inquired, his eyebrows raised slightly.

Katzenelenbogen had his own sources of information that included certain connections even Stony Man did not have access to. The Israeli's background in intelligence and espionage had begun when he was a teenager fighting the Nazis in Europe. Hitler's minions had wiped out most of young Yakov's family. The youth had joined the resistance movement in France and had been later recruited by the American OSS to infiltrate enemy lines. His ability to speak four languages fluently had made this incredibly easy.

After the war, Katz had moved to Palestine and had fought for the independence of the Jewish State of Israel. More wars had followed. Katz had joined Mossad, Israel's primary intelligence network. When the governments of the West had begun to lose ground to the Soviet spy machine during the cold war, Mossad had agreed to loan out Katz. Colonel Katzenelenbogen had worked with the American CIA, the British SIS, the West German BND and the French Sûreté. He was probably the most experienced and most professional intel operative in the free world.

Katz had been the perfect choice to serve as unit commander of Phoenix Force. He was a superb fighting man, a master strategist and a highly skilled linguist.

"We heard a news bulletin on the radio," Katz said with a smile, well aware of what Brognola was thinking. "Honest."

"That's the truth, Hal," Gary Manning assured Brognola.

The muscular Canadian was a quiet man. Manning was a doer, not a talker. He tackled every task with bulldog determination. Manning was a perfectionist and a workaholic. The Canadian was also one of the best explosives and demolitions experts in the world. He had used these skills for construction companies, mining operations and in the most ruthless forms of combat.

He had been a "special observer" during the Vietnam war. Manning had been attached to the American Fifth Special Forces and had participated in numerous missions behind enemy lines. He had always been an excellent rifle marksman and hunter in the Canadian woods, and he had found practical application for these abilities in the jungles of Southeast Asia. Manning had survived his baptism of fire in Nam and had emerged as a first-class fighting man.

The Royal Canadian Mounted Police had become concerned about the rise of terrorism in the early seventies, especially with the Front de Liberation du Quebec, the FLQ. When Manning had returned from Vietnam, the RCMP had recruited him to help form a new Canadian antiterrorist unit. To be certain that Manning was fully trained for the task, he had been "loaned" to West Germany's newly formed GSG-9. Manning had worked with the elite unit in the Federal Republic of Germany and had received firsthand experience in combating urban terrorism during the height of Baader-Meinhof and Second June Movement activities.

Manning's skills and experience had made him an ideal choice for Phoenix Force. His fierce dedication and phenomenal endurance were superbly balanced by his disciplined and orderly mind. The Canadian was a professional's professional.

"So the media has already gotten hold of the story," Brognola sighed. "Well, the situation at the Vatican is red-hot, and there's no way to keep a lid on it."

The Fed believed in the freedom of the press, but newshounds presented serious problems for any Stony Man operation. Whether carrying out covert infiltration or a bold and ruthless raid, the commandos' job would be jeopardized by the presence of reporters and TV cameras.

"All we heard was that gunshots had been reported at the Vatican and the place had been closed off to the public," David McCarter commented with a shrug. "Didn't have any other details, but the reporter speculated that it might involve terrorists."

McCarter was a tall fox-faced Briton, a product of the tough East End of London. He was a veteran of the famous Special Air Service and had participated in SAS operations in Oman, Northern Ireland and England. McCarter had been among the SAS commandos at the stunning raid on the Iranian embassy in London in 1980. Like Manning, McCarter had been an "observer" in Vietnam. He had even participated in a covert "police action" in Hong Kong.

The British warrior was an ace pilot, qualified to fly just about anything from a glider to a commercial airliner. He was experienced in every form of urban, jungle and mountain warfare. McCarter was an Olympic-level pistol shooter and an expert in small arms. He had been made for Phoenix Force and had eagerly accepted the opportunity to join the greatest fighting unit ever assembled.

"Terrorists is right," Brognola confirmed. "Fact is, a large pack of well-organized, well-armed professional assholes have seized control of the Vatican. Apparently they've got the place sealed up tight as a drum."

"The Vatican?" Calvin James whistled softly. "Now that's what I call ambitious."

James was the most recent recruit to the ranks of Phoenix Force. A tall athletic black man, James was the only native-born American, although both Encizo and Katz were now naturalized U.S. citizens. He had been born and raised on Chicago's south side, where survival training begins in the cradle. He had learned about a different kind of jungle combat when he had joined the navy and become a member of the SEALs. James was trained for sea, air and land combat, and he had received plenty of firsthand experience in all three in Vietnam.

After Nam, James had returned to the States and had moved to California to pursue his studies in medicine and chemistry. He had been a medic in the navy and had planned to use the GI bill to finance his education at UCLA. But tragedy had altered the young man's path. His mother and sister had both become victims of the growing American crime wave, fatalities of a brutal world that seemed determined to become steadily worse.

James had decided the only way to fight this deadly tide was to join the forces opposed to it. He had become a cop in San Francisco and had eventually joined the Special Weapons and Tactics team. His skills and personality had been better suited for SWAT than standard police operations, yet the job had failed to satisfy his need to strike out at the savages who threatened to turn civilization into a pile of smoldering rubble.

Then Phoenix Force had recruited him to help take on the deadly terrorist network known as the Black Alchemists. Keio Ohara, one of the original five members of Phoenix Force, was killed in action during the mission. James had remained with the elite fighting unit ever since. He had finally found a home.

"The terrorists are very ambitious," Brognola agreed. "The Vatican is a sovereign nation. It's the smallest country on the face of the earth — less than 110 acres — but a separate nation, nonetheless. I'd say that if a gang of terrorists take over an entire country it's pretty serious. Not just to the Vatican or to Catholics, but to the entire civilized world."

"The terrorists will regard this as a major victory," Katz said with a solemn nod. "If they get away with it."

"That's why we have to make sure they don't," Brognola declared, taking a thick black cigar from his shirt pocket. "If they succeed, it'll be a green light to every group of fanatics and crackpot extremists to try for bigger and better targets."

"What have you got so far?" Manning inquired.

"Not much," the Fed answered. He gathered up a computer printout sheet and consulted it as he licked down his cigar. "Apparently the terrorists were disguised as tourists. They entered through St. Peter's Square and through various Vatican museums. They smuggled in plenty of guns and probably explosives. There's a pretty good chance that they've had somebody inside the Vatican working for them for some time. They sure seem to know the layout, and they didn't have much trouble taking out the Swiss Guards and the security police."

"Don't tell me you think a bishop or a cardinal helped a bunch of terrorists take over the Vatican," McCarter commented. "Why would he do it? Unless he hoped to be made head chaplain of the revolution?"

"The insider probably wasn't a clergyman," Brognola explained. "A lot of people are employed by the Vatican. Carpenters, plumbers, cooks, cleaning personnel, shop-workers and every other profession you'd expect to find in a small city. Maybe even a few more. The Vatican has its own radio station, prints its own newspaper and has its own postal service and telephone company."

"The Swiss Guards have a pretty good reputation," Encizo commented. "They've been protecting the Vatican for centuries, and nothing like this ever happened before."

"Maybe that's why it succeeded," Manning suggested. "If a security force guards something for a long time and it never seems to be the target of any genuine threat, the guards are going to take their job lightly."

"Well," Brognola began, "in the past terrorist incidents at or near the Vatican have always been aimed at the pope. After the attempted assassination on his Holiness, the Vatican beefed up the pope's personal security. Apparently, while the pope was away on tour, everybody figured the Vatican was safe. They were wrong."

"Obviously," Katz commented as he tapped the ash from the end of his cigarette. "Have the terrorists made any demands or identified themselves yet?"

"No group has taken credit for the... what do we call this?" the Fed wondered aloud. "Nation-napping? Anyway, the terrorists seem to be an assortment of Arab and European fanatics. A large number of so-called Lebanese Christians made a pilgrimage to the Vatican. The group was expected, so nobody was too suspicious. Of course the real Lebanese Christians never left their country. The impostors are probably Shiite Muslims of the Islamic Jihad school of terrorism."

"They've graduated from hijacking planes and attacking embassies to the terrorist version of a coup d'etat," Gary Manning mused as he poured himself a cup of black coffee.

"I hope the President doesn't want us to contact Amal and ask them to help negotiate terms," McCarter said with disgust.

"Yeah," James agreed, his voice containing a trace of bitterness. "A bunch of Shiite creeps skyjack a 747, beat up the hostages, take the plane to Beirut and murder an American seaman. Then they hand the hostages over to Amal, which tries to use them to pressure the U.S. to convince Israel to release some Shiite prisoners. Then Amal expects us to thank them for the 'moderate' treatment of the hostages."

"The President realizes you guys aren't diplomats or negotiators," Brognola assured the men of Phoenix Force. "If you go into the Vatican, it'll be to handle business in your usual style."

"If we go in?" Encizo frowned. "You mean we might have to sit on our hands while a bunch of bureaucrats play word games with these bastards. How many people will be killed in the meantime? How many have been killed so far?"

"We don't have a definite body count," Brognola answered. "But it doesn't matter if it's one or one thousand. There will still be attempts to create a line of communication with the terrorists and negotiations will be discussed. That's standard procedure in a hostage situation, Rafael. You know that as well as I do."

"It can be useful to establish communications with the kidnappers," Manning added. "One can learn who one is dealing with, get some idea how rational the enemy is and how great the threat to the hostages might be. Often it allows you to get a better idea of how many terrorists you're up against."

"It can also help stall for time while you're planning strategy," Katz declared.

"Yeah," Encizo said with a sigh. "It can work that way, but all too often terrorists have gotten away with murder because governments yap back and forth instead of taking action. Teheran, Beirut, London, it happens again and again. Politicians say the outrage of terrorism can't be tolerated, but they've usually been better at rhetoric than action."

"Sometimes a raid isn't practical," Katz reminded the Cuban warrior. "It can put the lives of hostages at an unnecessary risk. The Achille Lauro incident is a good example of when it's best to let terrorists think they've won. When the hijackers flew from the Italian cruise ship, F-14 fighters cut them off at the pass."

"There really isn't much we can do about the negotiations between governments in this matter," Brognola stated.

"The hostages are a combination of tourists, clergy and Vatican employees. The tourists are Americans, British, Japanese, German, French and Italian. The clergy and Vatican workers are either Italian or they have Vatican citizenship."

"Vatican citizenship?" McCarter raised his eyebrows with surprise. "Seems a bit strange to me. What sort of government does the Vatican have?"

"They call it an ecclesiastical state," Encizo replied. "Actually, the Vatican has officially been an independent nation since 1929, but people don't think of the Vatican in those terms. Actually, it's a monarchical state with the pope as top authority. There's no separation of church and state at the Vatican."

"Then the decision on what action will be taken will be up to the pope, since he isn't among the hostages," Manning commented. "Hal, you mentioned that there are some European terrorists involved. Any idea what group? Italian Red Brigade? German Red Army Faction?"

"We don't have enough details to be sure," the Fed answered. "But several of the European terrorists were disguised as shepherds. According to some of the wounded who have been already released, the shepherds aren't Italians. There's a pretty good chance they're Basques."

"The Basque separatist movement has a number of militant Marxist cells," Katz commented. "The movement used to have a good reputation when it was devoted to fighting fascism, but some factions have become steadily more violent since Franco died."

"Aren't the Basques basically concerned with getting an independent homeland in the Pyrenees, somewhere between France and Spain?" Calvin James inquired.

"The Spanish granted them limited autonomy four or five years ago in that region," Encizo recalled. "But a lot of Basque fanatics have become involved in international terrorism in Spain, France and other parts of Western Europe. They've been known to cooperate with the Baader-Meinhof Gang, the IRA and the Italian Red Brigade and its French counterpart. And by the way, don't underestimate the shepherd's staffs they're supposedly carrying. They aren't just props. Those staffs were traditionally used as weapons to protect their flocks from wolves and bandits. The sticks can be lethal in the hands of a Basque who knows how to use one."

"We never underestimate the other side," Katz remarked as he crushed out his cigarette in an onyx ashtray. "Shiite Moslems and Basque Marxists make strange bedfellows. Of course, some odd combinations have occurred in the past."

"One thing I can't stand is a dull opponent," McCarter said cheerfully. "Ought to be an interesting mission."

"If you feel that way, David, you're going to love this," Brognola began as he opened a file folder and leafed through a number of black-and-white photographs. "These photos are computer reproductions transmitted by an NSA team stationed in Rome. Most of the Vatican is surrounded by walls. Naturally the terrorists have sentries posted along the top and at each of the entrances. Take a look at them. Photo number four is particularly interesting."

"Although the Vatican is a separate nation, it's still located in Rome," Katz began, passing the photos to James. There would be time to examine them later, and the Israeli was more interested in getting further information from Brognola at the moment. "Does that mean we'll be working with the Italian authorities?"

"Yes," the Fed confirmed. "They'll be expecting you. A military flight will be arranged so you'll be able to transport weapons and equipment without having to go through customs. The Italians will handle things for your arrival."

"Holy shit!" Calvin James exclaimed as he stared at the fourth photograph. "Is this for real?"

"What is it?" McCarter asked eagerly, hurrying to James's side to see what had caused his colleague's reaction.

A white circle had been drawn around a figure in the right-hand corner of the photo. The gray spiderlike shape clung to the wall of a building. It blended into the dark marble, but it was obvious that a hood and mask covered most of the thing's face. A sword with a black hilt was sheathed in a gray scabbard strapped to its back. "Bloody hell," McCarter whispered, "it's a ninja."

"What?" Encizo asked, a trace of alarm in his voice.

"A ninja," the Briton repeated. "You remember the Tigers of Justice? They were ninja or at least they were trained in ninja methods of infiltration, martial arts and assassination."

"Of course I remember the Tigers of Justice," Encizo snorted. "I still have nightmares about them from time to time. How the hell did a group of Islamic Jihad and Basque terrorists get a ninja to help on a job like this?"

"I'm sure we'll find out," Katz commented, suddenly taking a great interest in the photograph. "What matters is they obviously have at least one ninja, and we'd better assume they've got more. I don't have to tell any of you how dangerous ninja can be."

"They're like shadows that strike from anywhere and can kill in a hundred different ways," Manning recalled. "I sure wish we had Keio for a job like this."

The late Keio Ohara had been an expert in Japanese martial arts, including karate and kendo sword fighting. He had studied the history of the ninja and had known a great deal about their methods, weaponry and fighting styles.

"Maybe we can get somebody who knows even more about ninjutsu," James suggested. "We've worked with him before."

"John Trent," Katz said with a nod. "He assisted us in that mission in San Francisco last year. Very good man. Highly skilled, intelligent and very brave. He's an honorable man. Almost too honorable. And he's a ninja."

"If you can get him, that's fine with me," Brognola said. "But do it quickly. The Vatican situation is already red-hot. It could go from bad to disastrous at any moment. If the terrorists win this round, we'll have to tell every country this side of the Iron Curtain to stock up on body bags."

3

John Trent faced his class. They were young; most were teenagers between the ages of thirteen and sixteen. Trent's martial arts school was located in Little Tokyo, the Japanese district of San Francisco, yet his students were from various ethnic groups.

Trent believed that the study of martial arts encompassed more than learning fighting techniques. Combat skills were destructive unless tempered by self-control, a sense of responsibility and patience. They were traits that would serve the practitioner well in every aspect of his life. They would teach him to respect the right of others to be individuals and to treat his fellow man with consideration and dignity.

Trent had been a martial artist since childhood. Despite his Anglo-Saxon name, he was half Japanese. His father, Victor Trent, had been an American serviceman stationed in Tokyo during the reconstruction period following World War II. Unlike most Occidentals, Sergeant Trent had taken the time to learn more about the Japanese. He had studied their language, history and culture and had realized that it was governments and not people that made wars.

Victor Trent had appreciated the ingenuity and drive of the Japanese. It had not been surprising that the American had chosen to marry a Japanese woman named Nakezuri Reko. The couple had remained in Japan, and in 1955 they had named their first child John Inoshiro Trent.

His middle name was in honor of Nakezuri Inoshiro, Reko's brother and her closest relative to survive the ravages of war. Inoshiro had been an officer in the Imperial Navy, specializing in covert operations. He had been very good at his job. Well-developed espionage and survival skills were very important to the Nakezuri family.

Inoshiro had taken a great interest in his nephew. He had personally instructed John in the mental, physical and spiritual training of ninjutsu. The youth had been an excellent student. Inoshiro could not have been more proud of John had the boy been his own son.

John Trent had continued to develop his martial arts skills after his family had moved to the United States. Trent's principles, his code of honor and philosophy of life, were based on the arts. It had seemed only natural that he had chosen to make his living as an instructor. He hoped to teach the morality and spiritual aspects, as well as the combat skills, to his students.

The class formally bowed to Trent. He returned the gesture. Trent and his students wore white cotton gi uniforms. They were barefoot and wore no jewelry. Their fingernails and toenails were neatly clipped. The floor was polished wood, although tatamai mats covered an area that was used when they practiced their throwing and grappling techniques. Numerous martial arts weapons were mounted on the walls.

"Please be seated," Trent told his class. He waited for the students to sit cross-legged on the floor before he continued. "Today we'll begin freestyle sparring. You've all developed enough control to stop a punch two inches from the target. Don't get carried away. Punches and blocks will be done slowly. Learn the techniques properly and then gradually we'll move on to doing them quickly and with variations."

"Sensei?" a young black student began, referring to Trent by the Japanese word for teacher. "Will we be using kicks as well?"

"Not today," Trent answered. "It takes a great deal of time to learn to control a kick. They are also more difficult to block. Be patient. Fighting skills take time to develop. Steel forged too quickly often becomes brittle."

"Speaking of steel, sensei" a blond youth began, "my brother is a student in one of your advanced classes. You're teaching him sword and stick techniques."

"Your brother Sean has been my student for several years," Trent replied. "He's ready to learn weapon skills. Training in weaponry should not begin until one has developed self-control, discipline and a certain level of skill in unarmed combat. You see, a weapon is an extension of the martial artist. This is true whether the weapon is a fist, a sword or a gun."

"But, sensei, firearms are not part of the martial arts," a Chinese-American boy countered.

"The word martial means combative," Trent said with a smile. "Guns are excellent weapons and no more evil than any other tools of combat. However, as with any other martial art, one must practice and train to handle guns properly. The greatest mistake gunowners make is not learning how to handle the weapon properly. They shouldn't rely on the gun. It's merely a tool, no better or worse than the person who uses it. However, before one learns to use a club or a gun, one should first master unarmed fighting skills. This helps to avoid too much dependence on the weapon. After all, the only weapon that one should really count on is the human body."

Three men entered the dojo. They wore black gi uniforms and yellow sneakers. Red Japanese ideographs on their black belts indicated their rank. Trent recognized the muscular tawny-haired man in the middle. Tony McCoy had operated another martial arts school in San Francisco for many years. In the late sixties, McCoy had claimed to teach "Korean karate." During the early seventies, McCoy had taught "Chinese kung fu." By 1978, McCoy had become an instructor of "full-contact killer karate." Trent was not sure what style McCoy was claiming to teach now.

"Good afternoon, sensei McCoy," Trent greeted, bowing politely. "We are honored to have such noteworthy guests."

The students turned to McCoy and his companions. They bowed to the visitors. McCoy and his friends did not respond. Trent's dark almond-shaped eyes narrowed slightly, but he did not express his annoyance. His Japanese upbringing made him abhor rudeness as much as he detested violence.

"I want to talk to you, Trent," McCoy announced as he stepped forward. Anger filled his sea-green eyes as he glared at Trent.

Trent raised his eyebrows. "I've got a class right now, and it wouldn't be fair to my students to interrupt their instruction. After all, they pay to take this course and they deserve their money's worth. Perhaps we can talk later..."

"Chickenshit bastard, ain't he?" one of the men with McCoy snorted. He was a big man, built like a pro football player.

"Take it easy, Hank," McCoy urged. "We don't really know that Trent's a coward. We just kind of suspect it. By the way, Trent, I didn't introduce my two star pupils. This is Hank Banner and Lenny Pallon. They're both third dan black belts."

"A pleasure to meet you," Trent replied.

Trent was not impressed by their rank. Banner and Pallon had obviously received their black belts from McCoy. Trent regarded McCoy as a sorry excuse for a sensei, so it was unlikely that his students really merited such a high rank in the martial arts. Their attitude certainly suggested they had not learned any of the values and principles of the arts.

"We don't always act real nice," Pallon commented.

He thumped the end of a bo staff against the floor to emphasize his remark. Pallon was a short well-muscled black man. He teased his hair into a high Afro, probably hoping it would make him seem taller. Trent thought the guy looked like a blowfish.

Pallon twirled the six-foot-long staff as if it were an oversized baton. Trent's students sensed that a confrontation was inevitable. They quietly rose and moved to the walls, clearing the dojo in case Trent and the three unwelcome visitors clashed.

McCoy and his companions approached slowly. Trent folded his arms across his chest and watched the trio. He appeared perfectly calm, although his heart was racing. Trent knew he had a very good reason to be worried.

"You've been stealing students from me, Trent," McCoy complained. "My school is in trouble because of you and the other snotty instructors who've been ripping me off. My business is going down the shitter, and I don't like it."

"Our students are not indentured, Mr. McCoy," Trent told him. "They have a right to join any dojo they choose and to leave it if they're unsatisfied. I've never kidnapped anyone and forced them to attend this school, and I doubt that any of the other instructors have done that. Perhaps the problem with your dojo doesn't stem from an external source."

"Well, I Figure anybody who teaches karate ought to be skilled in the arts," McCoy said with a smile. "And the guy who is best at karate ought to have the most students. So let's see if you're any good, Trent."

"Do you want to have a contest?" Trent said with a shrug. "That's something we can arrange in a civilized manner. May I suggest we contact the Japanese Karate Association and try to come to terms that will be agreeable..."

"Fuck that, you slant-eyed half-breed!" Hank Banner snapped. "Let's get it on right here and now."

"Three against one?" Trent inquired. "What do you call this martial art style, McCoy? Mug-fu?"

"I brought my students along because I don't think you're good enough to fight me, Trent," McCoy declared.

"You really should stop watching those cheap movies on TV," Trent suggested. "I think it's affecting your brain."

"If one of my boys can take you," McCoy continued, "it will prove that my school must be better than yours."

"This is irrational, McCoy," Trent sighed.

"Hank goes first," McCoy announced. "If he doesn't kick your ass, Lenny will take you on."

"Relax, Lenny," Banner laughed. "Reckon all you'll get to do is watch me mop up the place with this piece of shit."

Banner unknotted his black belt and tossed it aside. He pulled off his jacket to reveal bulging biceps and a thickly muscled chest and abdomen. Banner was obviously a weight lifter and bodybuilder. He clearly enjoyed showing off his handiwork.

"You sure you want to do this, yellow boy?" Banner asked Trent. "Not too late to beg for mercy."

"Does that mean you're having second thoughts?" Trent asked innocently.

Hank Banner growled an obscenity and lunged forward. He raised his arms and flashed his hands in a quick flurry that was intended to distract his opponent. Trent was familiar with the tactic. He took a giant step forward, then to the side. Banner launched a vicious snap kick. His foot lashed through the air, missing Trent by more than six inches.

A palm shoved Banner's shoulder, easily knocking him off-balance. The big man fell to the floor with a surprised grunt. Banner stared up at Trent, uncertain of what had happened. Trent waited for his opponent to get up.

"Sneaky fuck," Banner snarled as he scrambled to his feet.

He feinted with his right hand, waved his left and swiftly pumped his right fist at Trent's solar plexus. The heel of a palm stroke deflected the attack as Trent shuffled to the side. Trent drove a short uppercut under the big man's ribs. Then he bent his elbow and rammed it into the same target.

Banner groaned and slashed a wild backhanded fist at his tormentor. Trent weaved away from the attack and swung a high kick toward Banner's face. The heel of his bare foot slammed into Banner's jawbone. The big man's head snapped back as he staggered under the impact of the powerful blow.

Trent stiffened his fingers into a nukite spear hand and prepared to deliver a deadly "poison hand" thrust, barely stopping himself from completing the stroke. Banner did not present a mortal danger; it was not necessary to kill him. Trent suddenly pivoted and pumped a side kick into Banner's midsection. The big man doubled up in agony. Trent slashed a karate chop to Banner's facial nerve. The man was unconscious before his naked chest slapped the hardwood floor.

"Sensei!" several students cried urgently.

Trent saw a blur of motion out of the corner of his eye. Lenny Pallon was swinging his bo staff at Trent's skull. Trent ducked as the long oak shaft whistled above his head. Pallon immediately altered the stroke to a backhand sweep. The staff slammed into Trent's upper arm and propelled him across the room.

Pallon lunged, thrusting the bo as if it were a lance. Trent sidestepped. The staff cut through air less than an inch from Trent's left hip. His hands streaked out, and he seized the wooden shaft. Banner tried to wrench the weapon free, but Trent shifted his feet into a horse stance to keep his balance.

He shot a high side kick into Pallon's face. The bare foot caught the black man in the mouth. Pallon's head recoiled as blood bubbled from his split lip, but he held on to the staff.

Trent pulled the bo forcibly, hauling Pallon forward. He whipped a backhanded fist into his opponent's face. The big middle knuckle rapped Pallon right between the eyes. The fist opened, and Trent slashed a knifelike hand chop to Pallon's wrist, breaking the punk's grip on the staff. He immediately rammed his elbow into the black man's breastbone. The blow propelled Pallon four feet.

Pallon tumbled to the floor. He started to rise as Trent closed in. A bare foot stamped the floor, startling and distracting Pallon. He did not see Trent swing a punch, but he felt the knuckles crash into the side of his face. Pallon slumped to the floor. He started to get up, moaned softly and passed out.

"Well, McCoy, this was your idea, wasn't it?" Trent questioned. He was hardly breathing any heavier than normal after defeating both opponents.

"It... it was a mistake, Trent," McCoy said in a quivering voice. He bowed deeply. "I'm sorry, sensei."

"Apologize to your students," Trent replied. "You wronged them by wasting their time and stealing their money. You didn't teach them karate, McCoy. You simply succeeded in making these bullies worse than they already were."

Trent turned his back to McCoy and walked slowly away. This was the ultimate insult. McCoy had presented himself as an enemy, and Trent had turned his back to him. This implied that McCoy was such an inferior opponent that he did not present a threat even if he attacked from behind.

McCoy had lost face, and his chances of reviving his dojo were now hopelessly crushed. When others heard about this incident, McCoy's reputation would be ruined. There seemed to be only one chance to salvage his dignity and to turn defeat into victory. He rushed forward and launched a treacherous side kick at the small of Trent's back. The kick could cripple Trent for life, but McCoy did not care if he snapped his opponent's spine in two.

Trent whirled and swept a forearm against McCoy's ankle. The attacker was nearly thrown off-balance. Trent's left foot swung a short roundhouse kick just above McCoy's kidney. McCoy's body jackknifed from the blow, yet he was able to slash a shuto chop at Trent. Forearm struck forearm as Trent blocked the attack. His left fist tagged McCoy at the corner of the jaw.

McCoy staggered backward. Trent did not give him time to recover. His right leg executed a fast snap kick to McCoy's stomach. The man started to double up. His head moved into the path of Trent's left foot. The roundhouse kick split the skin on McCoy's right cheek and knocked him to the floor. He rolled with the fall and sprang to his feet.

"I'm going kill you for that!" McCoy snarled.

"I've heard that before," Trent replied with a mock yawn.

McCoy's hands whirled deceptively as he threw a short kick for Trent's groin. The foot swung away sharply as McCoy suddenly altered the move to a high roundhouse kick aimed at Trent's head. A forearm executed a rising block to stop the kick. Trent jabbed a fist into his opponent's sternum and followed with a circular heel-of-the-palm stroke to the side of McCoy's face.

His arms whirled like a windmill in a hurricane. Trent stepped forward and drove both fists into McCoy's torso. The double punch lifted Tony McCoy off his feet and pitched him two yards. He crash-landed to the floor. McCoy did not attempt to rise. Only the slight movement of his diaphragm indicated that he was still alive.

"Your demonstrations are getting a little rough, aren't they, John?" a familiar voice inquired.

Trent turned toward the sound of the voice. Calvin James stood at the dojo's entrance. Trent had first met James when the black hardass had been a member of San Francisco's SWAT team. Trent had taught an advanced self-defense course to the police officers. James had been an exceptional student. He had come to Trent with a second dan black belt in tae kwon do, so that the sensei had probably learned as much from James as the student had from his teacher.

The last time they had met, James had been part of a five-man commando unit. Trent had joined the ace strike force in a mission to stop an Asian crime syndicate called TRIO. For the first time, Trent had actually needed his ninja skills for a dangerous covert operation — just as his ancestors had hundreds of years ago.

Trent had often thought about that mission. The experience had been terrifying, yet exciting and satisfying because the enemy had been evil and had needed to be stopped. It had been the sort of mission that a ninja was supposed to carry out. Now James had returned. Trent wondered if the mysterious strike force needed him again.

4

"So that's the situation, John," Yakov Katzenelenbogen said as he finished explaining the Vatican incident to Trent.

Trent and Calvin James had joined Katz at the Bacardo Lounge on Taraval Street. The quiet bar was almost deserted at two o'clock in the afternoon. They sat at a small table in a corner of the room. There was no waitress on duty, and the bartender seemed to be more interested in his regular customers. They drank considerably more than the three strangers.

"So the Vatican has been seized by terrorists," Trent mused, a slight smile playing at his lips.

"I fail to see the humor in this situation," Katz said, raising a glass of white wine to his lips. It was the only drink the Israeli had ordered since entering the Bacardo.

"Not humorous," Trent explained. "But it is ironic. After all, the Holy Inquisition was carried out by order of the Vatican. Numerous popes supported it for almost three hundred years. No one is quite sure how many thousands of people were accused of heresy and witchcraft. They were tortured and maimed, subjected to unspeakable torments. Of course, most confessed. The lucky ones were hanged or decapitated. Others were burned at the stake..."

"Does this history lesson have a point?" James asked, clearly annoyed.

"Just that the Vatican has been involved in some of the worst acts of international terrorism in history," Trent stated. "And now the tables have turned."

"None of the people who are now being held hostage at the Vatican were involved in the atrocities of the Inquisition," Katz declared. "The terrorists are holding more than a thousand innocent people captive, and they've already killed a number of them. Now, do you really consider that poetic justice for something others did in the past?"

"I didn't say that, Yakov," Trent assured him. "As you've pointed out, the terrorists have seized control of an entire nation. That's something that can't be condoned. God knows what might happen next."

"There's another reason to protect the Vatican," Katz stated. "Whatever else can be said about it, the Vatican is a stronghold of art, knowledge and culture. Its museums contain priceless pieces of our past. Fanatics destroyed the great library of Alexandria, and hundreds of works of science, literature and history were lost forever. We can't let that happen again."

"No, we can't," Trent agreed. "Of course, I'll join you for this assignment. However, I hope you realize I'm not really experienced in this sort of thing."

"You survived one mission with us already," James replied. "That makes you a professional, man. Besides, you're a ninja. This is the sort of thing you dudes are suppose to do."

"I've often wondered what I'd do if you wanted me for another mission," Trent admitted. "I would have guessed that I'd agree immediately. But now, faced with the request, I find myself wondering if I can measure up to what you need."

"Shit," James scoffed. "I saw you back at the dojo. You beat the hell out of three black belt karate experts."

"Wait a minute," Trent urged. "I beat up three guys who knew some karate, but I wouldn't call any of them experts. Tony McCoy probably got his black belt from a mail-order house, and he taught the other two. That's not the same as taking on professional terrorists or other ninja. The ninja at the Vatican might be better trained and more experienced than I am."

"You proved your courage and skill when we fought TRIO last year," Katz commented. "I don't think you're afraid of getting killed in combat. Is there any reason you don't want to take on the ninja at the Vatican?"

"Oh, I want to take them on," Trent said in a firm voice. "Whoever they are, they represent the dark side of ninjutsu, the side that most people associate the ninja with. They're obviously mercenaries and murderers without honor. They spit on the traditions of ninjutsu that my mother's family hold sacred. My doubts are largely because I could become careless without realizing it. That could jeopardize your mission and the lives of everyone involved."

"The fact you're willing to consider that possibility assures me you won't make that mistake," Katz said with a smile. "We really could use your help, John."

Katz was impressed by Trent's honesty and his insight. He realized that his martial arts skill did not make him a superman and that he still had much to learn. Katz believed that this was the foundation of wisdom. John Trent was similar to the late Keio Ohara in many ways. There was even a physical resemblance.

But Ohara was dead, and Trent could not replace him; he could not reunite Phoenix Force with their slain comrade. Katz realized it would be a mistake to think of Trent as Keio, the sort of mistake that could be hazardous to both Phoenix Force and Trent.

"I'll have to close up the dojo and get some equipment for the mission," Trent announced. "I have the weapons I'll need, but my pistol and shotgun are registered with the state of California and the city of San Francisco."

"We can supply the firearms," James assured him. "As I recall, you prefer the same piece I do — a .45 caliber Colt automatic. Right?"

"Yes," Trent confirmed. "Unlike the rest of you, I'm not accustomed to full-auto weapons. I'd better stick with the weapons I'm familiar with. My shotgun is a twelve-gauge Winchester pump. Anything similar would be fine."

"That won't be a problem," Katz promised. "Now, we'd better get out of here. There's a lot to do and not much time to do it in."

* * *

Phoenix Force and John Trent arrived in Rome less than twelve hours later. As Brognola promised, a reception committee was waiting for them on the runway. Three men standing by a blue-and-gold tour bus watched the plane roll to a stop. When the Phoenix Force warriors stepped down from the plane, they saw that two of the "welcome wagon" members were dressed in camouflage uniforms and that the third wore a gray suit and striped tie, which usually spelled "bureaucrat."

"Welcome to Italy," the man in the suit said as the six new arrivals approached. He had a marked New England accent. "My name is Gerald Gardener. I'm with the American embassy in Rome."

Gardener was indeed a bureaucrat, probably CIA or NSA. He certainly did not resemble the secret agents found in movies. The embassy official had a pear-shaped body and a double chin that was working on a third fold. The guy was a desk jockey who had not been in the field for a long time — if ever. The men of Phoenix Force knew that most intelligence personnel are office workers who shuffle papers and operate computers.

"This is Captain Bianco," Gardener said, introducing one of the soldiers. "I'm afraid I don't remember the sergeant's name."

"His name is Como," Bianco supplied. "The sergeant doesn't speak English. We're with the Carabinieri Parachute Battalion. Pleased to meet you, gentlemen. We can certainly use all the help we can get."

The Carabinieri had the reputation of being one of the finest elite forces of Western Europe. Italy's counterterrorist unit — with the somewhat confusing title of Squadron Anticommando — was usually recruited from the Carabinieri.

Captain Bianco was a tall slender man with broad shoulders and a muscular chest. His features were pleasant enough, although nondescript. He had the sort of face that would blend into a crowd.

Sergeant Como was almost a head shorter than Bianco. The NCO's compact frame was thickly muscled. His wide face was not a work of beauty. Como's nose resembled a doorknob, and his small dark eyes were too far apart and were capped by bushy black brows. A Hollywood casting director would have certainly selected him to play a villain, probably a Mafia henchman.

"I'm sure that none of you fellows are using your real names," Gardener commented. "We can wait to find out what we're suppose to call you. Right now we'd better get out of the public eye."

"I suggest we head directly to the Vatican," Captain Bianco announced. "There is a temporary base of operations set up outside the enemy position."

"Good idea," Katz agreed. "We'll do our sightseeing later."

"At least we'll get a good look at the Vatican," Rafael Encizo remarked as he watched the porters lift two crates from the belly of the plane to the bus.

"Do they belong to you?" Gardener demanded. The embassy man suddenly started sweating beads of ice. "Hey, you can't just charge in there like John Wayne..."

"How about Audie Murphy?" Calvin James inquired with a straight face.

"This is an international crisis situation," Gardener stated, desperately mopping his brow. "Certainly we're all outraged by this terrorist act, but the United States can't afford to be associated with some sort of rash cowboy shoot-em-up nonsense."

"That's not how we operate," Katz assured him. "However, what America really can't afford is to appear to be powerless against the threat of terrorism. But let's discuss this in a less public atmosphere, as you suggested, Mr. Gardener."

Katz recognized the value of tact. He did not want Gardener to feel they regarded him as a total idiot. Offending people does not make them more willing to cooperate, and Phoenix Force preferred to cooperate with the U.S. Embassy. Still, their mission came first. Phoenix Force had successfully carried out previous missions without the assistance of any government agency. They would do it again if necessary.

Phoenix Force and John Trent followed Gardener and the two Carabinieri paratroopers to the bus. The crates had already been loaded into the vehicle. Captain Bianco spoke briefly to the driver. The man nodded. When everyone was inside, the bus rolled forward.

"We're heading straight for the Vatican." the captain assured the others. "Perhaps now is a good time to bring you gentlemen up to date on the situation."

"We've established communications with the terrorists," Gardener told Phoenix Force as he wiped his neck and face with a soiled handkerchief. "We'd like to talk our way out of this mess without resorting to bloodshed."

"There's already been bloodshed," Manning reminded him. "How many people have the terrorists killed? Fifteen?"

"Twenty-two that we know of," Bianco answered. "That's how many bodies the terrorists have tossed over the walls of the Vatican. Most of the dead were Swiss Guards and Vatican security policemen. A few were tourists and employees. The terrorists also released over thirty seriously wounded."

"We're not going to let those bastards walk," Calvin James said. He was not asking a question. The badass from Chicago was stating a fact.

"This isn't Colombia," Gardener stated. "You can't just crash a tank into the Vatican and start shelling the place."

"I knew we forgot something," David McCarter said, rolling his eyes in mock despair. "We didn't pack our bloody tank. Maybe we can get one from the rent-a-tank dealers. What sort of irresponsible morons do you think we are, Gardener?"

"Calm down, Mr. Black," Katz urged, referring to McCarter by his cover name. The Briton had kept his mouth shut up until now as he tried to keep his short temper and sharp tongue under control. Katz realized this was not an easy task for McCarter. "I'm certain Mr. Gardener didn't mean to offend us."

"Look," Gardener began, "the terrorists claim that they're in a position to trigger total destruction if any aggressive action is taken. They might kill thousands of people and cause incredible destruction within the Vatican and the entire city of Rome."

"Do they claim to have a nuclear device?" Manning inquired. He did not ask the question lightly. Phoenix Force had encountered terrorist plots that had involved nuclear weapons in the past.

"They're threatening to do something that would be just as bad," the embassy man answered. "They could be bluffing, but we can't be sure..."

"What the hell is it?" McCarter snapped angrily.

"The Vatican is located along a major fault line that extends throughout Rome," Captain Bianco explained. "The terrorists claim to have set up some sort of impact explosive that could drive a blast into the fault line and create a major earthquake."

"Sounds like bullshit," James snorted. "Would something like that work?"

"Mr. Green," Katz began, using Manning's cover name, "you're our explosives expert. What's your opinion?"

"It's possible," the Canadian demolitions pro answered. "Any large explosion can make the ground tremble. The greater the explosion, the greater the shock waves. A fault line is essentially a crack in the bedding of the earth. A lot of things affect them, including the natural vibrations of the earth, erosion and lunar tides. Naturally, when a crack is jarred violently or continuously, it will expand. When the fault expands, the force causes violent vibrations through the bedding planes. It can result in a pretty nasty earthquake."

"Is this all theory or have people caused earthquakes before?" Encizo asked.

"Minor quakes have been caused by accident," Manning confirmed. "Usually by blasting operations at a mining site or when drilling for oil. None of these quakes have been serious, but then none involved detonating explosives in a major fault line. Now that's what the terrorists would have to do. The explosives would have to be underground, either at the fault or at e large fissure connected to it. If the terrorists knew where to set the explosives, and if they have the equipment to drill deep enough, then they could precipitate a quake."

"We'd better assume the threat is genuine," Katz declared. He turned to Gardener and Bianco. "Who is involved in the communications with the terrorists?"

"The Italian government of course," Gardener explained. "And the U.S. State Department. The British, French, Germans, Japanese and Swiss have all sent officials to participate, but the Italians and Americans are handling most of it."

"But the real authority who will decide what action to take is the pope," Bianco added.

"The pope?" Encizo said, raising his eyebrows. "Is the pope in Italy?"

"He canceled the rest of his tour and returned when he learned what had happened," Bianco explained. "His Holiness called together all the members of the Curia who are not being held hostage at the Vatican. They're discussing the matter even as we speak. They may have come to a decision by now."

"I'm sure the pope will want to handle this in a peaceful manner," Gardener stated. "After all, the Vatican is his country. It's a sovereign nation and a holy city."

"Dozens of battles have been fought in Jerusalem," Katz commented. "Holy cities are not immune to violence."

"Back in 1979 hundreds of terrorists seized the Grand Mosque in Mecca," Encizo recounted. "Saudi soldiers laid siege to the mosque. It took about two weeks, and more than two hundred people were killed in the process, but they took out the terrorists."

"That's right," McCarter added. "The terrorists who survived were tried and found guilty. The Saudis executed sixty-three of them in 1980. They were beheaded in a public execution."

"Barbaric," Gardener said with disgust.

"Decapitation isn't any worse than any other form of capital punishment," Katz said with a shrug. "Probably more humane than some. If capital punishment is to be a deterrent, it probably serves that function better if the executions are public."

"We don't execute criminals in Italy," Captain Bianco stated. "And the government won't deport criminals to countries that practice capital punishment unless the death penalty is waived."

"My point isn't whether capital punishment is right or wrong," Encizo explained. "The Saudis dealt with a situation similar to this Vatican mess. They were hard-line all the way, taking direct and ruthless action and executing survivors. Say what you want, the fact remains that nobody has tried to take over the Grand Mosque again."

"Somehow I doubt the pope will appreciate that pearl of wisdom," Gardener sighed. "And the American government isn't going to be involved in a bloodthirsty raid. My God, don't you realize there are television crews and newspaper reporters from a dozen countries outside the Vatican. The whole world is watching."

"It's better that they see us kick ass than kowtow to the demands of terrorists," James replied.

"We'll figure out strategy later," Katz announced. "But I want to be certain you understand something, Mr. Gardener. We don't work for you, your embassy or whatever government agency you belong to. I trust you were told that you are to assist us, not supervise us."

"I was told that your authority comes directly from the White House," Gardener replied, unable to conceal his resentment. "I'm suppose to take orders from you. By the way, I was told to expect five of you, not six."

'Tm not a regular," John Trent explained. He had remained silent until now. "They're in charge, not me. "I'm not giving anyone orders, but I'm not following any either unless one of these five gives them to me."

"Is that a fact?" Gardener said, glaring at Trent.

"Those are the rules," Trent said with a smile. "I didn't make them up."

"Do we have any new information about the terrorists?" Manning inquired.

"Their spokesman calls himself Mohammed Radmeni," Captain Bianco answered. "He doesn't speak Italian, so conversations have been conducted in English. Thanks to a rifle microphone, we've tape-recorded Radmeni speaking with some of his men. The language they spoke was Farsi, not Arabic."

"Farsi," Encizo said thoughtfully. "That means he's probably an Iranian. What about the European terrorists? We were told they might be Basque separatists."

"We're almost certain that's correct," Bianco nodded.

"And the ninja?" Trent inquired.

"Ninja?" Gardener frowned. "You mean that joker in the Halloween costume who thinks he's Spider-man? That's probably just a trick the terrorists pulled to try to unnerve us. I've been assured that ninja no longer exist."

"That's a relief," Trent said, unable to repress a smile.

"We'll need to study maps and blueprints of the Vatican," Manning declared. "Of course, we'll need to see the setup for ourselves in order to plan a strategy."

"Hopefully your services won't be needed," Gardener returned.

"Wish for whatever you want," Encizo said with a shrug. "But taking action tends to get more accomplished."

"And don't set your hopes too high, mate," McCarter told Gardener. "We've never been sent on a mission that ended up with us sitting on the bench, and I don't think it's going to happen this time."

Gerald Gardener found no comfort in the Briton's remark.

5

Ali Hussan Kamal held the flame of a wooden match over the ceramic bowl of his hookah. He drew softly on the stem of the hose attached to the water pipe, and water gurgled inside the hookah as the sweet stench of hashish rose from the bowl. Kamal sucked the smoke into his lungs and smiled with pleasure.

"That's a disgusting habit," Mohammed Radmeni complained as he stomped across the ornate floor of the Room of the Evangelists. "Hashish is as bad as the alcohol that's used by the infidels."

"Of course," Kamal agreed with a shrug. "I plan to give it up. Until then, I'm sure you'll ask Allah to forgive my human weakness."

Radmeni glared at Kamal, but did not bother to respond. The young Iranian was a devout Shiite Muslim, fanatically dedicated to the Islamic Jihad and the Ayatollah Khomeini. He considered Kamal to be a nonbeliever and a mercenary. This evaluation of Kamal was, indeed, quite accurate.

Ali Hussan Kamal understood the Iranian zealot. Kamal was fourteen years older than Radmeni. He had once been a dedicated follower of a simplistic cause, blindly loyal to the fiery leaders who promised change through violence. Physical aggression and the desire to belong to a group were common traits among young men regardless of their nationality. Kamal was a Syrian. He had been raised to hate both Jewish infidels of the State of Israel and their capitalist allies from the West.

Kamal had been an ideal recruit for the Black September terrorist faction. He had participated in numerous hit-and-run attacks against Israelis and Americans in the Middle East and Western Europe. None of these assaults had had any real effect on Israel. They did not help unite Arab nations or benefit Islam. The leaders of Black September had seemed to quote Karl Marx as often as the Koran.

Gradually Kamal had become disenchanted with the terrorist organization he had belonged to. He had abandoned all belief in politics and religion. Now he questioned the importance of religion. If Islam was the true faith, why did Allah permit so many of his children to suffer in poverty and ignorance? If the Jews were the Chosen People of God, why had millions of them been murdered by the Nazis? Why was Israel constantly besieged by enemies and why was the country on the verge of economic ruin? And Christians, Buddhists and Hindus had not fared any better.

Each religion promised an eternity of paradise as a reward for living according to the laws of one's faith. Of course, Kamal knew that no one could prove or disprove such a claim. They could claim that the Koran or the Bible was the Word of God, but those books were written by men. Kamal had decided it was all lies and superstitious nonsense used to keep the masses under control.

Kamal felt that the Vatican supported his theory. It was splendid, full of magnificent art and architectural beauty, yet it had been built on the backs of the poor. It was supported by Catholics, often poor Catholics, who donated money because they were afraid of fiery damnation and shadowy purgatory.

Kamal enjoyed sitting on the great throne between the ancient sculptures of Saints Peter and Paul. His Russian-made Kalashnikov rifle was propped against the statue of Peter. The faces surprised Kamal. The features of Peter and Paul had eroded over the centuries. Their marble noses were worn and distorted. The faces of the saints looked as though they belonged to veteran prizefighters.

"The Europeans and Americans want to interview some hostages," Radmeni told Kamal as he paced the decorative marble floor.

"Did the diplomats or the news reporters make this request?" Kamal inquired.

"Both," Radmeni replied with a smile.

The Iranian enjoyed meeting with the officials and the media. He liked the attention, and he played the role of angry young revolutionary to the hilt. Radmeni wore his fatigue uniform with combat boots, a pistol on his hip and three daggers in belt sheaths.

Radmeni did not worry about being photographed, recorded or videotaped. He was not concerned about having his description and voice print on file in every major Western intelligence network.

Kamal was more careful. He allowed Radmeni to have the limelight, but Kamal was the brains behind the operation. He had conceived the idea, planned the mission and organized the people needed for the job. Kamal used others just as he had once been used by the leaders of Black September. He knew that terrorists were cannon fodder, human pawns to be used to achieve the goals of one clever enough to manipulate them.

"Let the press interview some hostages," Kamal decided, gently tapping the stem of the hookah hose against his teeth. "Especially the American television people. They're not controlled by their government. They like filming dramatic scenes that get emotional responses from the public. American news prides itself on never taking sides on issues. That means we can present views to them that won't be censored."

"I've seen American news coverage of events similar to this," Radmeni said, laughing. "The commentaries made by the anchormen always urge for a peaceful solution and insist that retaliation would only cause more incidents and more retaliation. Their cowardice is amazing."

"That's why we'll let them interview hostages," Kamal stated. "Be certain to select captives who have no visible bruises or wounds. Make certain they understand what we want. They're to tell the press that they haven't been harmed and that we're treating our hostages well."

"I thought we were supposed to strike terror in the hearts of the infidels," Radmeni complained. "Why comfort them with such games?"

"Because we need time to accomplish all our objectives," Kamal insisted. "If the infidels think we're mistreating prisoners, they might decide to launch an assault."

"They have no stomach for fighting," the Iranian replied with contempt. He glanced up at the elegant carvings and paintings on the ceiling. Saints and cherubim gazed down at him. "Look at the symbols of their religion! Pacifists and weaklings. Martyrs who died like sheep because they didn't have the courage to live like men."

"Don't underestimate the opposition," Kamal warned. "Push them hard enough and they'll push back. Even a rabbit will bite if it's cornered."

"If you were a true believer in Allah and the Ayatollah, you wouldn't fear death," Radmeni sneered.

"I'm not in a hurry to die," the Syrian answered. "Seizing the Vatican is only part of our mission. We have to survive to accomplish the rest."

"You're only concerned about the treasures of the Vatican," Radmeni stated. "Your interest is purely mercenary."

"Every revolution needs to be financed," Kamal told him. "Your country has been at war with Iraq for several years..."

"Iraq and Iran have been enemies for centuries," Radmeni corrected.

"But you've only been shooting at each other recently," the Syrian explained. "Thus far the war has been more or less a stalemate. Iran has a much larger population, and Iranians are no less courageous in battle than the Iraqis..."

"The Iraqis are cowards," Radmeni snapped. "Allah will give us victory over them."

"He hasn't done it so far," Kamal said with a shrug. "The fact is, Iran doesn't have the finances or weaponry to equal that of Iraq. If your country acquires enough wealth to purchase better weapons, technology, medical supplies and rations for its troops, then your victory over Iraq would come swiftly. If the Islamic Jihad is to succeed, it will need more than a righteous cause and human sacrifice. It will need money and influence. Ironic, isn't it? In order to defeat Western capitalists, you will need capital."

"We're also opposed to the Soviet Union," Radmeni reminded him. "Unlike you Syrians, my people won't crawl into bed with the Russian scum. Those Communist atheists must be crushed by the followers of the true faith."

"Naturally," Kamal said, a slight smile pulling at his lips. "But currently Iran has only four real allies: the PLO, Syria, Libya and North Korea. The first three have been on friendly terms with the Soviets for a number of years. Of course, North Korea is a Communist country with a puppet government manipulated by Moscow. Obviously the top priority for the Islamic Jihad is to defeat the Western democracies."

Radmeni stiffened with anger. His black eyes narrowed. Like all zealots, he did not appreciate remarks that suggested his cause might not be as pure as he liked to believe. It did not matter that Kamal's statement was based on fact. A fanatic believes he has already found the ultimate truth. His faith is immune to fact.

"Did the infidels request any other terms?" Kamal inquired.

The Syrian was eager to change the subject. He realized he had come close to pushing Radmeni too far. The Iranian was dangerous. A careless remark could trigger the fanatic and cause him to do something violent. Perhaps the hashish had relaxed Kamal's mental guard. The Syrian made a note to be more careful with Radmeni and the others.

"The government negotiators want us to release the women and children," Radmeni said with a shrug. "I told them that their women are whores and their offspring are vermin that would simply become adult infidels."

"We discussed this before," Kamal said sharply. "I thought we agreed that the women and children should be released when the enemy started negotiations."

"Why surrender hostages?" Radmeni complained. "Women and children can be our insurance against attack."

"There is no insurance," Kamal insisted. "We can't be certain what our opponents will do, but past incidents suggest they won't take aggressive action as long as they believe negotiations will work. We need time, Mohammed." "We already gave them many of the wounded," Radmeni said bitterly. "Why surrender more?"

"We're keeping the women and children separate from the men," Kamal stated. "That means we have two groups of hostages to watch instead of one. It requires too many of our people, and they can be put to better use protecting the walls and collecting the Vatican's art, gold, jewels and other treasures that we can use to raise money for the Jihad. It's to our advantage to get rid of the women and children. Keeping them will only make us appear to be unnecessarily cruel and callous. The infidels make war on women and children. Not the Jihad."

"But we keep the male hostages?1' Radmeni asked.

"Absolutely," Kamal agreed. "Especially the priests."

"All right," the Iranian said at last. "But I think the infidels are trying to stall us anyway. They say they need more time to contact Israel in order to negotiate the release of Shiite prisoners and to raise the ransom money."

"They have to say that," Kamal assured him. "That is standard procedure. We can't expect them to give in to all our demands immediately."

Actually, the Syrian did not expect that the negotiations involving ransom money or the release of prisoners would accomplish anything. There was little likelihood that Israel would agree to release any of the Shiite terrorists from their prisons unless it was in Israel's interest to do so. If the Western nations agreed to pay the fifty-million-dollar ransom, the money would probably be in counterfeit bills or marked with some sort of infrared substance. Kamal knew that only governments could successfully blackmail other governments.

The hostage exchange and ransom demands were a blind. Kamal hoped they would focus everyone's attention on the hostages instead of on the treasures of the Vatican. The blind was also meant to distract Radmeni and his followers. The real prize was the cache of priceless artifacts. Kamal wanted these for himself, and he wanted as much as he could get.

"We might have trouble with the Basque guerrillas," Radmeni warned. "They're Westerners themselves. They were raised as Catholics, and most still consider themselves Christians even if they also claim to be Marxists."

"We might have trouble with them," Kamal agreed. "Those Basques are a strange lot. The Marxist separatists are similar to some of the Italian Communists who still regard themselves to be good Catholics. We must watch them carefully. They only agreed to join us after I promised they'd get a large share of the profit to aid in their struggle against the French and the Spanish. I also assured them that no harm would come to the pope or to any of his Curia."

"They're very unhappy about that cardinal or bishop or whatever that priest is," Radmeni added. "The one who was wounded by a stray bullet."

"That was an accident," Kamal said with a shrug. "I thought the Basques understood that."

"I don't trust them," Radmeni insisted, pacing the floor faster as he spoke.

His gestures were short and jerky, and he was speaking faster, excited by his own apprehension. Kamal was worried about Radmeni. He knew that terrorists were all paranoid, psychotic and mentally unstable. The Iranian seemed determined to talk himself into a panic. If Radmeni came apart at the seams, so would Kamal's plans for the Vatican.

"We'll keep them in line, Mohammed," Kamal assured him, his voice soothing as if trying to calm a skiddish horse.

"I don't trust those damn Japanese either," Radmeni continued. "How can you trust men who constantly hide their faces with masks?"

"You do not need to see our faces, Radmeni-san," a voice whispered softly in rather choppy Arabic.

Both Radmeni and Kamal were startled by the voice. Neither had heard the dark shape enter the room. They turned to face the shadowy gray figure that stood at the threshold of the Room of the Evangelists.

He called himself Fukuda, but Kamal doubted that it was the ninja's real name. However, Fukuda was a highly trained warrior and an expert in infiltration, camouflage and, most of all, assassination. He was a chunin, a ninja subchief of the Komo Clan. Fukuda was the unit commander of a team of the most deadly killers in the world.

The Komo Clan, unlike most ninja, were absolute mercenaries. Anyone with the proper connections and enough money could hire these uniquely trained and highly professional assassins. Kamal had hired the ninja killers for the Vatican mission. It had seemed a brilliant strategy at the time, but Kamal was having second thoughts about that now.

Kamal had assumed the ninja would simply follow orders and sit on the floor and meditate until instructed to do otherwise. He had been very wrong. Fukuda and his men were hard-nosed realists, not brainwashed fanatics like the Iranian and Basque terrorists. The ninja were champions at acquiring intelligence, and Kamal was beginning to fear that Fukuda suspected the Syrian's true goal was to claim the Vatican treasures, not to achieve some absurd political coup.

"I didn't know you spoke Arabic, Fukuda-san," Kamal remarked.

"Perhaps I neglected to mention that fact," the ninja replied. The cloth mask across his lower face concealed his mouth, but Kamal was certain Fukuda was smiling with smug satisfaction.

The cunning Japanese hit man had probably been eavesdropping on conversations for sometime. Kamal was certain Fukuda had not revealed his linguistic knowledge by mere chance. The ninja had subtly informed them that he knew more about the operation than Kamal and Radmeni had thought.

Killing Fukuda would not be easy. Unlike the masked acrobats in the movies, a modern ninja is familiar with modern weapons. Fukuda carried a Beretta 9 mm pistol in shoulder leather and an Uzi submachine gun. He was also armed with the traditional ninja weaponry. A sword was strapped to his back, and the black hilt of a knife jutted from the obi sash around his narrow waist. Kamal knew Fukuda also carried an assortment of other ninjutsu weapons hidden in his clothing. The Syrian could only guess as to the sort of arsenal the ninja might have.

"My genin know their job," Fukuda declared. "I saw no need to supervise them at this time. So I have come to speak with you."

"Of course, Fukuda-san," Kamal replied quickly. "We've been very pleased with your work and the work of your ninja agents. I hope the feeling is mutual."

"If we have reason to feel dismay, I shall discuss the matter with you, Kamal-san," Fukuda promised.

"I'm sure you will," Kamal said with a nod. He noticed that the ninja seemed to be talking directly to him and not to Radmeni. "May I ask if you have some other matter to discuss at this time?"

"I apologize for this intrusion," Fukuda said humbly. "However, I thought you might like to know that at present there are eight Italian army tanks outside the Vatican. The cannons are pointed in our direction."

"May Allah protect us," Radmeni whispered.

"I have never known of any god that protects people from artillery," Fukuda remarked. "There are also about a hundred soldiers outside the gates."

"We may have to use your earthquake device, Ali Hussan," Radmeni told the Syrian. "I hope it will work."

"It will work," Kamal said grimly. "If the Italians fire a single tank round, they will find out just how well the earthquake device operates. And, unfortunately, so will we."

6

Phoenix Force traveled across Rome in the bus, but they saw little of the city. They passed the great Arch of Constantine and the fabulous Colosseum. Large portions of the arch were shrouded by canvas tarpaulins to protect the marble from the elements. The ornate carvings that decorated the ancient monument had begun to crumble from centuries of erosion due to pollution from man's machines and the weather. Efforts to preserve the arch had been less than successful, but at least the erosion process had been slowed down.

The marble pillars of the Colosseum — the most famous arena in the world — were barely visible from the speeding bus. Once gladiators and wild beasts had fought bloody battles for the enjoyment of spectators. Christian martyrs had perished in the arena, and vicious executions by torture had been conducted to the delight of bloodthirsty crowds.

The Colosseum, despite its bloody history, is an enormous symbol of the glory that had once been Rome's. Used as a quarry for a thousand years and partly destroyed by Christian zealots in the sixth century and earthquakes in the Middle Ages, the amphitheater has survived the passage of time. A popular legend claims that when the Colosseum falls Rome too will fall, and so will the rest of the world.

The bus also passed the Forum and Trajan's Column, but the men of Phoenix Force would have to enjoy these sights later — if they survived. Within minutes, they were on one of the city's main avenues, the Corso Vittorio Emanuele, heading for the Vatican at a frantic speed.

As they reached their destination, they saw tanks and soldiers lined up in front of the walls surrounding the Vatican. The heavy artillery was meant to intimidate the terrorists inside the papal city. No one wanted to start lobbing shells into the Vatican. No one was prepared to take responsibility for a full-scale raid.

"Looks like we've got a Mexican standoff," Calvin James remarked as he peered through a window at the tanks.

"Can we have a Mexican standoff in Rome?" McCarter inquired as he inserted a thirty-two-round magazine in the well of his M-10 Ingram machine pistol.

"Hell, yes," James confirmed. "We had them all the time in Vietnam. One side is bottled up so they can't move. The other side has them surrounded, but can't move either."

"The situation favors the terrorists at the moment," Katz remarked as the bus came to a halt. "It gives them time to make their demands, use the media as a platform to promote their political views and to even try to influence the attitudes of the hostages."

"You mean the Stockholm syndrome?" John Trent inquired, taking a black duffel bag from one of the crates. The hilt of a sword protruded from one end of the bag. The grip was wrapped in sharkskin and twisted black silk, and the guard was black and square.

"That's rarely successful," Katz answered. "The captors have to hold their hostages long enough to make them feel totally dependent on the kidnappers. Some hostages will begin to sympathize with the captors because they're going through a similar experience. They're all cooped up together, waiting for fate to determine how the drama will unfold. I don't think that's likely to happen in this case."

"Gentlemen," Captain Bianco announced. "I just received a message on the two-way radio. The pope has apparently decided to meet with the terrorists in an effort to exchange himself for the hostages."

"Shit!" McCarter groaned, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling of the bus. "If he tries that, they'll probably just grab him and hold him hostage as well."

"Let's get to work," Katz declared as he slipped his prosthetic arm through the strap of a duffel bag. He pulled it onto his shoulder and headed toward the exit.

Phoenix Force and John Trent emerged from the bus. The atmosphere was bizarre. It was as if a military exercise were being held in the middle of a political convention. Soldiers squatted by tanks, puffing cigarettes and discussing the situation. They frequently shrugged, aware they could do nothing but wait. Diplomats and embassy officials dressed in three-piece suits congregated along sidewalks, debating in five languages as interpreters desperately tried to keep pace. Newspaper reporters and cameramen were scurrying everywhere. Television crews from several nations argued about where lights and microphones should be placed. Soldiers and police struggled to keep the press from getting too close to the Vatican entrances.

"We've got a major story here," a BBC reporter complained, waving a cordless microphone as if it were a magic wand. "Don't you blokes believe in freedom of the press?"

"Yeah," an American counterpart agreed. "What is this fascist shit? I thought Mussolini was dead."

Phoenix Force tried to avoid attracting attention as they followed Captain Bianco through the crowd. Trent, Gerald Gardener and Sergeant Como brought up the rear. A French reporter rushed toward the group and began asking questions in stammering Italian.

"Per carità!" Gardener moaned. "Ho premura!"

"Un momento!" the Frenchman insisted.

"Mi si ievi dai piedi!" Sergeant Como snarled, shoving a hand against the reporter's chest. The French journalist staggered backward, bumping against some American television newsmen.

"Hey, watch it asshole!" a voice complained.

"Yankee go home," the Frenchman replied with indignation.

"This Yankee's going to knock you on your ass if you don't fuck off," a burly cameraman warned.

"Isn't it nice that everyone tries to cooperate during a crisis," Rafael Encizo snickered.

"It's inspirational," Gary Manning said dryly.

More reporters were gathered in front of a small library. The entrance was guarded by soldiers, but the press waited outside with microphones and cameras held ready. Captain Bianco told Phoenix Force to stay put. He approached the library alone. The reporters assaulted Bianco with questions, but the captain verbally cut them off with a rapid-fire announcement in Italian.

"Due to national security," Bianco said, repeating the information in English, "I must insist that no cameras or microphones be present. You may take notes, but no mechanical devices may be used."

"Does that mean we can interview the pope?" a reporter inquired. "Has he made a decision to meet with the terrorists?"

"I'm just a soldier," the captain replied. "I have no special connections with His Holiness or the Curia. We're going to meet with the Holy Father, and if he agrees to an interview, that's fine. However, I must insist that you back away from this building and keep your cameras and tape machines to yourselves."

"Why?" an American photographer inquired as he raised his camera and aimed it at Phoenix Force. "Are these men important?"

Captain Bianco suddenly seized the camera and yanked it from the photographer's hand. The neck strap pulled the man off-balance, and he nearly fell before managing to duck his head. The strap slipped free.

"I told you — no photographs," Bianco said sternly.

"Give me that camera!" the American demanded. "You have no right..."

"You have no right to jeopardize Italian national security and possibly the lives of the hostages," Bianco replied. "You don't really give a damn about anything except trying to beat somebody else to a story. That is not as important as human lives."

"My camera..."

"Will be returned to you later," Bianco stated. "If anyone else refuses to obey the rules I've outlined, they shall be arrested and their equipment confiscated."

"On what grounds?" another newsman demanded.

"Obstruction of justice," Bianco said with a shrug. "We'll find a charge that will hold up in court, especially in an Italian court of law."

The reporters mumbled sourly, but they stepped aside as Bianco gestured Phoenix Force forward. The five-man army and John Trent approached. A German photographer suddenly pulled a small pocket camera from his jacket and swung it at the mysterious group. The flash popped brightly two feet from the face of Colonel Yakov Katzenelenbogen.

The Israeli reacted instantly. His right arm lashed out. Steel hooks crashed into the camera, knocking it from the photographer's hands. Splinters of plastic spewed from the camera when it smashed to the ground. The film burst from the rear of the camera.

"Donnerwetter!" the German cameraman exclaimed.

"Clumsy me," Katz said with a shrug.

The photographer began to complain, but Sergeant Como seized the man and ordered two soldiers to place him under arrest. The other reporters watched with dismay as the German was hauled away by the troopers. No one else tried to disobey Bianco's instructions.

Phoenix Force followed Bianco into the library. The main room was illuminated by candles mounted in silver holders. Seated around a long table were eight men dressed in black robes with scarlet capes and red skullcaps. Each man wore a gold crucifix around his neck. None were young men and some were very old, but their eyes were intelligent and alert.

They were cardinals of the Roman Catholic Church and members of the Curia, the governing branch of the Vatican. They were among the most powerful and influential men of the largest Christian denomination in the world. Yet the cardinals did not seem to be men of power. Their garments were regal, but their faces were lined and tired. The responsibility of the office wore heavily on these men. They were good men, devoted to their faith and the duties of their position. Those duties had become a crushing load since their beloved holy city had fallen to the barbarians.

"Please excuse this intrusion," Captain Bianco said humbly, "but we must speak with His Holiness. I'm afraid circumstances do not permit the usual formalities of an audience with the Holy Father..."

"Va bene," a voice spoke softly from the opposite side of the room. "It is all right. This is not the time for formalities, my son."

All eyes turned toward the figure in white robes who shuffled in from an adjacent room. He possessed a quiet majesty that was more awesome than his title as supreme head of the Roman Catholic Church and ruler ot the Vatican state. The pope was a man of humble origin who had served the church for decades. He had been persecuted by the Nazis and the Communists, yet his faith had remained unshaken.

He had become a bishop and later a cardinal because of his dedication and courage. Then the world had been stunned by the death of a pope who had been in office for only a few months. A papal election had been held eighteen days later. The ballots had been cast within the Vatican. Columns of dark smoke had risen from the chimney until a decision had been made. White smoke had announced that a new pope had been chosen. The decision had surprised most "pontiff predictors." For the first time since Pope Adrian VI in the sixteenth century, a non-Italian had become the leader of the Catholic church. The choice had been the noble, gutsy priest from Wadowice.

"I'm glad we can agree on that, sir," Yakov Katzenelenbogen declared as he stepped forward. 'This is not the time for formalities."

The Phoenix Force commander only understood a smattering of Italian, so he addressed the pope in English. It was rare for Katz to encounter a linguist with greater ability than his own, but he realized the pope spoke and read nine languages fluently.

"May I remind you, sir, that the Vatican is not your country," an older cardinal said sharply. "It happens to be our sovereign territory..."

"The Vatican is not our personal property, Enrico," the pope corrected the cardinal. "It belongs to the church, and the church belongs to her people and to God."

"No one is questioning the pope's authority in this matter," Katz assured them. "But there are many lives at stake, perhaps the lives of people beyond the Vatican."

"I am aware of that, Mr?..." The pope raised his eyebrows slightly.

"Call me Gray," Katz replied.

"All right," the pope said, smiling slightly. The Vatican had always been a center of one form of intrigue or another. The pope was certain that this one-armed stranger and his companions were involved in some sort of covert business. "Actually, Mr. Gray, I have had to make a number of decisions over the last eight years that affect the lives of millions of people throughout the world. I assure you, I do not make such decisions lightly."

"No disrespect intended, Father," Rafael Encizo said, "but this isn't the same sort of situation. We've heard that you intend to try to exchange yourself for the hostages."

"If these invaders feel they have an argument with the Vatican, then they have an argument with me," the pope replied. "I would rather they put my life in danger than the lives of innocent Christians who are not responsible for the policies of the Vatican."

"But you won't accomplish anything," Gary Manning explained. "Oh, the terrorists might release some of the hostages, but they won't let them all go. I'm certain they'd be delighted to have you for a hostage, too. But they aren't likely to give up the rest. Why weaken their position?"

"I'm certainly willing to listen to suggestions," the pope assured the men of Phoenix Force. "I assume you have a plan of action?"

"Well, not exactly," the Canadian admitted.

"Does that mean no?" the pope asked.

"I have a plan," McCarter announced cheerfully.

"No you don't," Manning replied.

"You haven't heard it yet," the Briton complained.

"I don't have to," Manning grunted. "I know what your plans are like. Last time we followed one of your ideas, we almost got killed."

"But other than that it was a bloody good plan," McCarter insisted, stabbing a finger in the air to emphasize his remarks.

"We'll come up with a plan," Katz told the pope. The Phoenix Force commander was eager to draw attention away from the bickering pair. "We've still got to examine maps and blueprints and see more of the enemy defenses."

"And then you will start to kill the invaders," the pope said, shaking his head. "And they will start to kill hostages. If I go to them, perhaps I can stop that from happening."

"Suicide is a mortal sin, Holy Father," Encizo said. "That's exactly what you're proposing."

The pope had noticed that Encizo was the only one of the group to refer to him as Father. The others spoke to him with respect, but only the Hispanic warrior was Catholic. None of the men seemed intimidated by the pontiff's authority. They were not hypocrites or bootlickers, and the pope suspected they only lied when it served a necessary purpose. He liked them.

"The Lord sacrificed His life for our sake," the pope declared. "At times we are called upon to make sacrifices for the sake of others. God gave us freedom of choice. We can refuse to make sacrifices or accept the responsibility, as Christ accepted His. I suspect you gentlemen have made many sacrifices. You must understand that I too have a duty to live my life as I believe and as I teach."

"I believe we do understand each other, sir," John Trent began. "However, the issue is not sacrifice, but the lives of the hostages, the preservation of the Vatican and the lives and properties of those outside the Vatican who may also be victimized by the terrorists."

"And the simple moral issue of whether we should reward evil or try to stop it," Katz added.

"If you surrender yourself to the terrorists, the situation will probably be worse, Holy Father," Encizo explained. "If we handle it, we can probably end this mess with a minimum risk to the innocent."

"Minimum?" the pope frowned.

"There's no way we can promise any more than that," Katz answered. "But I can promise you that if we can get inside the Vatican we have a better chance of taking out the terrorists without unnecessary risk to the hostages and the Vatican's treasures than those tanks and soldiers outside have."

"And when we speak of the value of the Vatican property, we don't mean its value financially, but its value to all mankind," John Trent added. "You can't put a price on that."

"You gentlemen have made a very strong case," the pope stated. "Very well. You can try to handle this your way. If you fail, then I will meet with the terrorists."

"Fair enough, sir," Katz confirmed. "Thank you."

"May God be with you," the pope said.

7

"Well, this is the first mission we've ever had that was officially blessed by the pope," Gary Manning commented as he opened a thermos of black coffee.

"Yeah," Calvin James said, shaking dice in a small plastic cup. "I wonder if it'll help."

"Can't hurt," Katzenelenbogen replied as he watched James toss the dice onto the backgammon board. The black warrior moved one stone three spaces, then another two. Katz shook the dice cup and made his toss.

"You know it's dark outside," McCarter complained, taking a pack of Players from his pocket. "How much bloody longer do we have to wait?"

"Heel, David." Encizo grinned as he stroked the blade of his Cold Steel Tanto knife on a whet stone. "It'll be time to move soon enough."

"I've heard that patience is suppose to be its own reward," John Trent said with a shrug.

"It's a valuable character trait," Katz replied as he moved his last two stones to the inner table of the backgammon board. "Keeps you from having a nervous breakdown while you're waiting."

"Right," Manning chuckled. "Otherwise we'd all wind up like McCarter."

"Piss off, mate," the Briton growled.

The warriors of Phoenix Force and John Trent were inside an eight-meter-long trailer rig at the northwest wall of the Vatican. Several soldiers were stationed in the area, and the trailer appeared to be a sort of temporary office for Italian officers. The troops had received their instructions. They also had to wait impatiently for the fireworks to begin.

The ace strike team was ready for action. They were dressed in black camouflage fatigues and were armed to the teeth. Yakov Katzenelenbogen carried a SIG Sauer P-226, a 9 mm double-action autoloader in shoulder leather under his right arm. A compact .380 Beretta pistol was in a pancake holster at the small of his back, and a large Ballistic knife was in a belt sheath at his left hip. The steel hooks of his prosthesis were mat black to be certain they would not reflect light. Katz also carried his favorite assault weapon — a 9 mm Uzi submachine gun.

Gary Manning had selected an FN FAL assault rifle. The Belgium-made 7.62 mm weapon was thought to be outdated by some, but the Canadian marksman still favored it for its accuracy, reliability and knockdown power. Manning preferred weapons that would bring a man down with one round. The pistol in his shoulder holster was no exception. It was an Israeli-made Desert Eagle, a .357 Magnum autoloader. Of course, the Canadian demolitions expert also carried a backpack with a good supply of plastic explosives. Blasting caps, fuses and detonators were carried separately in his pockets.

Calvin James had also chosen his favorite weapons, the same tools of the trade he had mastered as a SEAL in Nam. His M-16A1 rifle had a folding stock and an M-203 grenade launcher attached to the forearm. The black commando wore a Jackass Leather shoulder rig with a .45 caliber Colt Commander in a holster under his left arm and a Jet-Aer G-96 fighting dagger under his right. A well-stocked but compact medical kit was also carried at the small of his back.

David McCarter had never gone into combat without his pet M-10 Ingram machine pistol. The box-shaped Ingram, with its stubby barrel and short wire stock, was designed for close-quarters combat — McCarter's specialty. The British pistol champion carried a Browning Hi-Power autoloader in shoulder leather and a compact, snub-nosed .38 Special Charter Arms for backup. McCarter had also armed himself with a Barnett Commando crossbow. A twentieth century innovation of an historic weapon, the Commando featured a skeletal stock and a cocking lever to increase the speed of reloading the crossbow.

Rafael Encizo was eager to plunge into action for the first time since he had been wounded in France. The Cuban warrior was armed with a Heckler & Koch 9 mm MP-5 machine pistol and a Smith & Wesson Model 59 in shoulder leather. The S&W autoloader used the same parabellum cartridge as the MP-5. Like Katz and McCarter, the Cuban liked to use 9 mm assault weapons and side arms because the same caliber ammo could be used in either or obtained from one of his teammates in an emergency. The parabellum was an international cartridge, available in almost every country in the world.

Encizo also carried a Walther PPK for backup and two fighting knives. The big Tanto was a modern version of a samurai fighting knife. It had a rubberized handle for a firm grip, and the heavy Cold Steel blade was as thick as three-quarters of an inch at the spine and razor sharp. His other knife was a double-edged Gerber Mark 1, carried in a sheath clipped to his boot.

Along with the knives, the Cuban carried a less conventional weapon. The star-shaped shaken had six sharp points. Encizo had learned to use these shurikenjutsu weapons from the late Keio Ohara. The Cuban's expertise with knives made him an exceptional student of the art. In fact, his skill with the shaken had surpassed that of his deceased teacher.

John Trent's arsenal was even more unusual. He wore a traditional black ninja uniform and hood with split-toe tabi shoes. A .45 Colt Commander was in a black shoulder holster rig under Trent's left arm. He had also been supplied with a Remington twelve-gauge shotgun with a SWAT-style folding stock. The rest of his weaponry was ninjutsu-oriented.

His primary weapon was the ninja-do, the sword of a ninja. Unlike a samurai katana, the ninja sword was slightly shorter and had a straight blade. The large square hand-guard provided extra protection and could be used to trap the blade of an opponent. The black scabbard was hard enough to serve as a club in an emergency. The scabbard could be used for an air tube or a crude blowpipe because it was hollow and had a hole at the tip. Even the long silk cord of the ninja-do could be improvised as a weapon or tool.

Around his waist, Trent wore a shoge, a twelve-foot-long sturdy cord that had a large knife at one end and a steel ring at the other. Like all ninjutsu gear, the shoge had many uses. The knife had two blades — a long double-edged main blade and a cresent-shaped blade that could be used to hook objects or opponents. Inside his gi jacket, Trent carried several shaken, similar to those used by Rafael Encizo. He also had four metsubushi, simple miniature flash grenades consisting of hollowed-out eggshells, filled with pepper and flash powder.

Trent wore a belt with a number of pouches. Several of these contained ammo for his shotgun and pistol. One held a manrikigusari, a fighting chain with weights at each end. Another concealed three small smoke bombs. Trent also carried a black knapsack.

Of course, all the men of Phoenix Force carried plenty of ammunition for their weapons. Every man, except for Trent, carried several M-26 fragmentation grenades and SAS flash-bang concussion grenades.

McCarter impatiently consulted his Le Grand wristwatch. James sighed as he watched Katz take two stones off the backgammon board. That's what happens when you play against a master strategist, James thought.

"What's taking so bloody long?" McCarter muttered.

"It is about that time," Encizo admitted, checking his diver's watch.

The roar of an explosion confirmed the Cuban's remark. This was the signal for Phoenix Force to go into action. At their request, the Italian army had reluctantly agreed to provide a dramatic distraction for the commando team. An explosion had been engineered near a tank. Gasoline had been carefully and surreptitiously applied to the tank. The armored vehicle had not been occupied, and all of the explosive shells and ammunition had been removed to prevent the distraction from becoming a genuine tragedy.

The burning tank appeared to be far more dangerous than it really was. Naturally the explosion had attracted the attention of virtually all of the members of the press and of the soldiers and diplomats who had not been aware it had been staged. Phoenix Force also hoped it would distract the terrorists on sentry duty along the walls of the Vatican.

Phoenix Force had to act swiftly. Fire extinguishers would soon be used to put out the blaze, and the distraction would not last long. If it did, the terrorists would certainly become suspicious. The five commandos and John Trent burst from the trailer. The soldiers who had been stationed there had already rushed toward the explosion. They were not careless. The troops had been ordered to abandon the post when the fireworks began. It was a small but vital part of Phoenix Force's strategy.

The six warriors dashed for the wall. Manning and McCarter both dropped to their knees, the Canadian aiming his FAL rifle and the Briton his Barnett crossbow at the top of the wall, while the others continued forward. Two sentries were stationed at the foot of the wall, but both were preoccupied with the fiery tank and the excited crowd that had assembled around it. They did not see the Phoenix Force assault team approach.

Manning and McCarter made certain they never would.

The Canadian marksman peered through the Starlite viewer that was mounted on his rifle. The light-intensity scanner turned black night into twilight. He clearly saw the back of a sentry's head. Long black hair was knotted into a thick bun at the collar. Manning's finger began to squeeze the trigger of his FAL as the terrorist's head moved.

Soft features appeared in Manning's view. The sentry was a young woman. Her lips were sensuous and full, her cheekbones high. The woman's large dark eyes stared into Manning's own. She brought her weapon up to bear on the Phoenix Force commando.

He squeezed the trigger. A harsh cough was emitted from the muzzle of a foot-long sound suppressor attached to the barrel of his FAL. The high-velocity 7.62 mm projectile smashed into the terrorist's skull. It entered her right temple, drilled through her brain and blasted a gory exit at the opposite side of her head. The woman's lifeless body crumbled to the walkway.

Manning wished he had not seen her face.

David McCarter watched the other sentry through the infrared scope mounted on his crossbow. The terrorist had heard something strike his comrade and had turned to see her fall. He opened his mouth as McCarter triggered the Barnett. The fiberglass bolt shot through the air. A steel tip entered the sentry's gaping mouth and traveled downward to strike bone. The bolt severed the man's spinal cord. The point protruded from the base of his skull, and the shaft jutted from between his teeth. The terrorist tumbled forward to join his fallen comrade.

Rafael Encizo barely glanced ai the broken forms of the dead terrorists. Encizo and James carried two coils of nylon rope with grappling hooks attached. Both men looked up at the top of the wall, judging the distance as they swung the hooks.

James hurled his hook first. The grappler sailed over the top and landed against stone. The black commando pulled the rope hard. The line tightened, and the hook held. James seized the rope with both fists and braced his feet against the wall. He climbed hand over hand as he easily walked up the stone surface.

Encizo's hook snared the top of the wall as James reached the summit. The black warrior grabbed the rim and hauled himself over the top to the walkway. James unslung the M-16 from his shoulder.

Suddenly a long ribbon of steel slashed out from the shadows. James hastily raised his rifle. Metal sang against metal as the sword struck the barrel of the M-16. Two dark eyes glared at James from the narrow gap between hood and mask.

James tried to butt-stroke his attacker with the M-16, but he had not extended the weapon's stock. The ninja straightened his wrists and elbows. The sword's hilt struck the frame of James's M-16. The force of the blow sent the rifle flying from the black man's fingers and over the top of the wall.

The Phoenix Force crusader's lightning-quick reflexes saved him from being cut in half by the masked assailant. James grabbed the ninja's wrists before the killer could deliver an overhead sword stroke. He pumped a knee toward the ninja's groin. It struck a thigh muscle as the Japanese assassin moved a leg to guard his privates.

James pivoted and rammed the ninja's forearms into the stone ridge of the wall. The masked figure hissed like a cornered serpent, but the blow forced him to release the sword. However, the ninja was far from helpless. He slammed a knee into James's ribs. The black man grunted in pain as the ninja yanked his wrists free.

A heel of the palm-stroke tagged James on the jaw. He staggered backward along the walkway, nearly losing his balance. Metal flashed from the killer's left fist. The ninja advanced. He held his knife poised for attack.

James's right hand streaked to the Colt Commander under his left arm. The black man swung the pistol in a fast backhand sweep. The barrel struck his opponent's fist, slamming the knife from the ninja's hand. James simultaneously snap-kicked the killer in the lower abdomen.

The ninja doubled up in response to the kick. James swung the pistol toward the assassin's hooded skull. The killer's arms rose in defense. James's wrist struck the ninja's crossed forearms, but his left fist delivered a hard jab to the man's masked face.

The punch bounced off the ninja's head as if it were a beachball. James quickly followed with a high roundhouse kick to his opponent's skull. The ninja fell against the stone ridge of the wall. James did not take any chances with the guy. He swiftly closed in and hammered the butt of his Colt against the ninja's skull. He hit the assassin three times before he was certain the hooded killer was either unconscious or dead.

Rafael Encizo climbed over the top and hurried toward James. The Cuban's Cold Steel Tanto was in his fist as he grabbed the ninja from behind with his free hand. He plunged the knife into the enemy's kidney. Encizo yanked the blade free.

"Jesus, Rafael," James rasped, stunned by the Cuban's ruthless overkill.

'This is a ninja," Encizo stated in a harsh whisper. "You can't afford to take any chances with him. We came up against ninja with the Tigers of Justice. Don't even think about taking one of them alive. Kill the son of a bitch and kill him again to make certain he stays dead. They're the most dangerous opponents you'll ever come up against."

"The dude came out of nowhere," James admitted. "I didn't even see him until he was right on top of me."

"You dropped this," a voice whispered.

James turned to stare into a pair of almond-shaped eyes above a black scarf mask. Calvin James nearly aimed his pistol at the figure before he realized the ninja was John Trent.

"Your rifle," Trent explained, handing James the M-16. "I managed to catch it before it hit the ground. The gun wasn't damaged."

"Thanks, man," James replied, taking the rifle.

"Are you okay?" Trent inquired.

"I nearly had a heart attack," the black warrior confessed. "But other than that I'm fine. How'd this ninja creep up on me that way?"

"I didn't see him," Trent said with a shrug. "But he probably crept along the overhang of the wall and hid among the shadows. Standard ninja camouflage technique."

"What was he doing here?" Encizo asked.

"He probably suspected that the fire was a distraction," Trent answered. "He's a ninja, remember. The guy must have figured this was a weak spot in the defenses. We're lucky he came alone instead of alerting all of his comrades."

"If one of them can figure it out, others are likely to show up pretty soon," Katzenelenbogen remarked. The Israeli had climbed over the top in time to hear the tail end of the discussion. "We'd better move before they burn us off this wall."

McCarter and Manning climbed up the ropes to the top and joined the others. Encizo put a boot to the dead ninja and kicked the corpse over the edge.

"How's everything going so far?" the Briton inquired.

"Could be better," James replied dryly.

8

Phoenix Force descended from the wall at a point near the Vatican's railroad station. Under normal circumstances trains arrived and departed regularly, but the entrance had been barricaded by the terrorists.

The enemy was no longer paying much attention to the tank because the fire had been extinguished. Sentries along the walls were watching soldiers outside the Vatican with suspicion. Phoenix Force heard the voices of terrorists shouting in the distance. They spoke in Farsi and Arabic. A strange cry, resembling a combined Swiss yodel and American Indian war whoop, echoed within the city. Another call responded.

"What the hell was that?" McCarter wondered aloud. "Is this place haunted or something?"

"It's an ancient method of Basque communication over distance," Encizo explained. "Their howls and yips may sound like coyote imitations to us, but they're actually a sort of verbal shorthand. It means they can relay information, signal one another and deliver instructions over a distance."

"And nobody else has any idea what they're saying," Manning added. "I bet the Iranians are thrilled about that. It's pretty unlikely that any of them speak Basque."

"A lot of Basques don't speak Basque," Katz commented as he checked the silencer attached to the barrel of his Uzi subgun. "The dialects spoken by French Basques are very different from those used by their Spanish cousins. Linguists have never been able to agree on the origins of Basque, which seems to defy..."

"Maybe we should chat about this stuff later," James urged, staring at the train station. "I think we've got a problem."

Two figures stood on the platform of the station. Both were staring at Phoenix Force. The pair had apparently noticed the six black shapes among the shadows. It appeared that they were not certain if the group was friend of foe. It was possible that they thought Phoenix Force and Trent were ninja mercenaries on their side.

"What should we do?" Trent whispered.

"If we hit them, we'll be announcing our presence to the enemy," Manning stated.

"They're going to know that pretty soon anyway," McCarter said with a shrug. The Briton reached for a bolt and fitted it into the groove of his crossbow.

"They wouldn't keep any hostages in that little railroad station," James commented. "It's too close to the walls. Seems like a good chance to start whittling down the opposition."

"You can bet they've got a radio in there," Encizo whispered, taking the silencer-equipped MP-5 from his shoulder. "We can hurt their ability to communicate at this end of the Vatican if we take them out."

One of the terrorists gathered up an AK-47 assault rifle while the other moved toward the entrance of the station. If the enemy radioed a report to their comrades, the commandos' presence would be known to the others anyway. Katz turned to his companions and nodded.

McCarter aimed his Barnett crossbow at the enemy rifleman. He peered through the infrared scope. The cross hairs found the center of the terrorist's chest. The gunman was raising the stock of his Russian-made autorifle to his shoulder when McCarter triggered the crossbow.

The bolt sang briefly as it sliced across the shadows and slammed into the terrorist's chest. The steel-tipped quarrel pierced his sternum and buried itself in the man's chest cavity. The split fiberglass shaft contained a lethal dose of cyanide. The powerful poison killed the man almost instantly.

The second terrorist turned sharply when he heard his comrade groan. Gary Manning saw the guy's face clearly through the Starlite viewer. He was young, probably not yet twenty. Manning wished he had not seen this person's face either, but that did not prevent him from putting a bullet in it. The FAL rasped through its silencer, and a 7.62 mm round caught the Iranian youth on the bridge of the nose. The slug punched through his skull and turned his brains into lifeless red-and-gray mush.

A window to the station shattered as two gun barrels burst through the glass. Encizo, who had been advancing toward the building, immediately dropped to one knee and triggered his H&K music box. Nine-millimeter messengers bombarded the window before either terrorist could fire a single shot. The Cuban's MP-5 sputtered another salvo of the parabellums, and the barrels of the enemy weapons fell away.

Yakov Katzenelenbogen's battle-honed sixth sense for danger alerted him to yet another threat. Most fighting men agree that people have a built-in warning system. The more one uses it, the better it works.

Katz whirled and raised his Uzi.

Three startled terrorists along the top of the wall tried to swing their weapons toward the Israeli, but they were too late. The silenced Uzi coughed a merciless stream of 9 mm slugs. One terrorist caught three rounds in the chest. His body tumbled from the wall, lifeless as a coffin nail.

The second terrorist, a female savage from Teheran, aimed a Czech-made Skorpion machine pistol at Katz. The Israeli's subgun stitched a column of bullet holes between her breasts. The impact kicked the woman backward. She raised her Skorpion as she fell and triggered a long volley of 7.65 mm slugs into the night sky. Then she toppled off the wall and dropped from view.

The third terrorist had decided that dying for the Jihad was not as appealing as the Ayatollah's representatives had described it. He bolted from the confrontation, awkwardly firing his Kalashnikov as he ran. None of the bullets came close to the men of Phoenix Force. Katz tracked the Iranian's progress through the sights of his Uzi and triggered a three-round burst.

Parabellums crashed into the terrorist's legs. The man screamed as his feet left the walkway and he plunged over the top of the wall. A cry of terror echoed from outside the Vatican as his body hurtled to the ground below. His screams ceased abruptly when he crashed to earth.

More gun barrels emerged from the windows of the railroad station. Automatic fire erupted. Bullets sizzled toward Phoenix Force. The commandos hit the ground as the projectiles burned air all around them. Calvin James aimed his M-16 at the station and rolled on his side.

He reached for the trigger of the M-203 attachment. The grenade launcher kicked the rifle back into James's right thigh muscle as if it were a pissed-off mule. A 40 mm projectile rocketed into the train station. The explosive missile blasted the building. Windows shattered, an entire wall collapsed and half the roof fell in.

Encizo and McCarter scrambled to their feet and charged toward what was left of the train station. Five dazed and disoriented terrorists staggered from the wreckage, thankful to still be alive. Their gratitude vanished when Encizo and McCarter opened fire. The H&K and Ingram machine pistols snarled, 9 mm slugs slicing into the terrorists. Their bodies dropped like bloodied bowling pins.

As John Trent began to rise from the ground, he saw a sudden movement from the corner of an eye. Three terrorists were approaching from the tracks. Two appeared to be Iranian killers armed with North Korean assault rifles. The third was a Basque, easily identified by his sheepskin vest, shepherd's staff and the red boina or beret on his head. The Basque terrorist was also armed with an M-11 Ingram, the .380 caliber "little brother" of the M-10.

Trent swung his Remington shotgun at the trio and pulled the trigger. The weapon did not respond. For a split second, Trent feared the weapon had jammed until he realized the safety catch was still on. Pressing the latch, Trent triggered the shotgun again.

The Remington roared. Trent had not unfolded the stock, so the recoil was harsh against his unsupported wrist. A burst of Number Four buckshot slammed into one of the Iranians and lifted the terrorist off his feet. It hurled him five feet backward to land in a pulverized heap on the ground. The terrorists had not known the ninja had been among the shadows. Now aware of the threat, the surviving Iranian and the Basque killer swung their firearms toward the muzzle flash of the Remington.

Trent fired the shotgun again. Buckshot hammered through the Iranian's chest and sent his butchered body hurtling backward. A few pellets ripped into the biceps of the Basque gunman's right arm. He groaned as the impact spun him around. The Ingram machine pistol fell from his grasp as blood streamed down the man's sleeve.

John Trent stepped closer. He hesitated, unwilling to gun down a wounded and unarmed opponent. Suddenly the Basque whirled and lashed out with his shepherd's staff. The hardwood shaft struck Trent's shotgun and ripped the Remington from his grasp.

The Basque jabbed the butt of his fighting stick into Trent's midsection. The American ninja doubled up with a groan as the terrorist raised his staff and prepared to deliver a skull-cracking final blow.

The great crook of the staff descended swiftly. Trent's reflexes, developed by a lifetime of martial arts training, responded immediately. He dived to the ground, landed in a shoulder roll and drew his ninja-do as he jumped to his feet. The Basque cursed in his native language and swung the staff at Trent's sword in an effort to break the blade.

Trent adroitly swung his sword out of the path of the whirling stick. He stepped forward and thrust the ninja-do in a smooth, quick stroke. The slanted point of the blade sliced into the hollow of the terrorist's throat. The man's mouth fell open, and crimson vomit spewed onto his shirt. Trent yanked the sword free and snapped his arm to flick the blood from the blade. The Basque melted to the ground and died.

"Looks like you got your point across, John," Calvin James commented as he approached Trent.

"I think I'll pretend I didn't hear that," the ninja replied as he slid his ninja-do into its scabbard.

"Hey, Calvin," Manning called to James. "Be careful about launching grenades. This is the Vatican, remember."

"Shit," James sighed. "It was a train station, not St. Peter's Basilica. How many great works of art were in there?"

"There sure aren't any now," the Canadian said with a shrug. "But there are probably going to be plenty of terrorists heading in this direction."

"How long you been telling fortunes, man?" James inquired as he noticed two sets of headlights coming their way from the Ethiopian Seminary.

"Looks like we're going to have company," David McCarter announced as he and Manning joined the others.

"We noticed," Katzenelenbogen assured him as he inserted a fresh magazine in the well of his Uzi. "We're not in the best position to take on a large force of opponents. We've got to move to better cover. Besides, a major battle will endanger the lives of the hostages."

"I have a feeling that might have already happened," Manning admitted. "I sure hope your theory about this raid is accurate, Yakov."

"No strategy is perfect," Katz confessed. "I just hope Bianco or one of the negotiators has managed to communicate with the terrorist leaders."

"Well," Rafael Encizo began, "I think we should be more concerned about personal survival right now."

"Our top priority is to move to a new position and avoid direct confrontation for now," Katz declared. "Take out anybody who gets too close, but no offensives just yet."

"You guys go on," Manning urged, taking the backpack containing the demolitions equipment from his shoulders. "I'm going to slow them down."

"I'll help," Encizo announced. "I need the practice."

"Well, I don't intend to be left out," McCarter said with a wiry grin.

"Come on, David," Katz ordered. "There'll be plenty of action to go around."

The Briton reluctantly agreed. James and Trent jogged toward the Mosaic School Building. McCarter followed. Katz turned to Manning and Encizo. He did not like leaving them, but he realized the tactic was sound. A good commander does not submit his men to unnecessary risk, but he must also accept the fact that he cannot constantly protect them.

"We'll cover you when you withdraw," Katz promised. "Good luck."

Katz followed the other three men as Manning and Encizo prepared to face the approaching group of terrorists. The Canadian explosives expert removed a small brick-shaped object from his pack. He shoved it into a jacket pocket and rummaged inside the bag for another item.

"They're getting warm, Gary," Encizo warned as the headlights came closer. Several figures walked beside the vehicles. The Cuban did not take a head count, but he was certain there were at least a dozen armed opponents moving toward them.

"Just a minute," Manning replied as he knelt by the corpse of the Basque terrorist. He unwrapped the brown waxed paper from the bricklike object.

"We don't have a minute," the Cuban muttered, "but I'll see if I can't buy us a few extra seconds."

Encizo suddenly broke into a run and dashed across to the smoldering remnants of the railroad station. Manning opened his mouth, nearly calling for him to come back. He held his tongue. Encizo knew what he was doing, so Manning turned his attention back to his own task.

He placed the block of C-4 plastic explosives between the neck and shoulder of the slain Basque. The Canadian demo pro tore off most of the block of Composition Four, an explosive that resembled white taffy but was ten times more powerful than TNT. If Manning used too much, he would blast the hell out of everything within two blocks of the explosion — including himself and his Cuban friend.

Manning hastily inserted a pencil detonator and special blasting cap, but he did not set the timing mechanism. He placed a concave plastic plank over the C-4. The Phoenix Force warrior ripped the heavy paper wrapping to reveal the needles that jutted from the plank. These were the points of 232 .177 caliber darts, the type used in many air rifles. Manning wiped the back of his hand across his brow. His sweat was cold and clammy.

Encizo had ducked inside the wrecked remains of the train station. He stepped around rubble, but nearly tripped over a corpse. The Cuban moved to the wall facing the headlights of the approaching enemy forces. He peered through a window that no longer had any glass panes.

The terrorists came to a halt less than a hundred yards from the station. Encizo realized that his original estimate of numbers had been way off. There were at least twenty of the barbarians. Most were on foot, armed with assault rifles or subguns. The lead vehicle was a Jeep, probably the confiscated property of the Swiss Guards or the Vatican Security Police. The car behind it was a Volkswagen that had probably belonged to a Vatican employee or perhaps a priest. Encizo hoped the owner had it insured.

Apparently the terrorists had stopped to observe the damage to the station. An Iranian zealot in the Jeep spoke into a two-way radio, no doubt reporting their discovery. Another Islamic Jihad follower stood in the back of the Jeep, leaning against an American-made M-60 light machine gun mounted on a tripod. The Iranians still used the U.S. weaponry left over from the reign of the Shah.

America had supported Shah Mohammad Reza Pahlavi since the Truman administration. The U.S. had wanted to be on good terms with an OPEC leader and a country located on the Persian Gulf. But the Shah's popularity had decreased in his own country. He had established a one-party dictatorship, and his SAVAK secret police had tortured and murdered hundreds of Iranians. The Shah had commanded the third largest army in the world, and he had been confident that no internal forces could overthrow him.

The Shah had been wrong.

The revolution had been successful, and the Islamic Jihad had gained power. Because the United States had been an ally of the Shah, America had become a target of Iranian rage. The leaders of the Jihad had felt that the hostage situation at the American embassy in Teheran had only proven that the United States was weak as well as corrupt. Americans had been the Jihad's most popular target ever since.

None of this concerned Rafael Encizo as he hid within the shattered hull of the train station. The terrorists outside were the enemy. Why they had joined the Islamic Jihad or had participated in the takeover of the Vatican hardly mattered to Encizo. The terrorists were involved in a savage act against innocent people, and nothing justified that. They were also a threat to the life of Rafael Encizo and the other members of Phoenix Force.

He followed a fundamental tactic — take out the opponent who presents the greatest threat. Encizo aimed his H&K blaster and squeezed the trigger. Three 9 mm rounds coughed from the silencer-equipped muzzle. The parabellum trio tore into the chest of the Iranian posted by the M-60. He uttered a brief cry and tumbled backward out of the vehicle.

Encizo immediately fired a quick volley at the windshield of the Jeep. Glass exploded. So did the faces of the driver and the radioman next to him as 115-grain lead projectiles chopped their faces into pulp and smashed open the backs of their skulls.

The terrorists were caught off guard. They were startled and uncertain as to where the shots were coming from until someone noticed the subdued muzzle flash of Encizo's silenced weapon. Shouts erupted, and several automatic weapons opened fire. Bullets chewed at the windowsill and hissed through the gap to plow into the walls within the station.

But Encizo had already moved from that position. He rushed to an exit and plucked an M-26 grenade from his belt. The Cuban pulled the pin and hurled the M-26 around the corner of the building, throwing it in the general direction of the terrorists. The grenade exploded with a vengeful roar.

Encizo dashed from the station. He did not know if the grenade had claimed any lives. He did not really care as long as the explosion convinced them to keep their heads down long enough for him to reach Manning.

"About time," the Canadian remarked as he turned the timing dial of the detonator to five seconds.

The Cuban kept running toward the Mosaic School. Manning followed. He pointed his FAL at the terrorists as he jogged backward, firing a quick salvo to discourage them from giving chase immediately. The pair retreated to the cover of the school. Only a few poorly aimed enemy shots were fired at them.

When it became clear that their opponents were retreating, the terrorists gave chase. Battle cries sang out from the group as they charged after Manning and Encizo. The headlights of the Volkswagen cast a beam among the running figures that pursued the commandos.

Then the C-4 charge exploded.

The force of the blast killed four terrorists instantly. The darts were like deadly pieces of shrapnel. The tiny projectiles pelted the terrorists in a sharp metal hailstorm. Bodies were impaled by dozens of needlelike projectiles. Skin was punctured, eyeballs pierced and veins and arteries severed. Wounded and dead terrorists fell to the ground. Those fortunate enough to receive minor injuries hastily retreated from the scene.

"I guess we slowed them down," Encizo remarked, gasping as he tried to catch his breath.

"Yeah," Manning agreed. "A lot of them have been slowed down forever."

9

"I warned you about what would happen if you attacked us," Mohammed Radmeni snarled into the telephone receiver. "Do you think we won't kill these Christian infidels and their damned priests? Their blood shall be on your hands! And the blood of hundreds more when we create an earthquake to crush you like the Judgment of Allah..."

"We didn't send them, Mr. Radmeni," the voice of Captain Bianco spoke from the earpiece of the phone. Since Radmeni understood English, and not Italian, the captain had been given the job of contacting the terrorist leader. "We called you before a single shot had been fired to warn you that someone had managed to break through to the Vatican. They're not Italian soldiers or police. They're not acting on order from our government or, as far as I know, any other government involved at this time."

"You expect me to believe this?" the Iranian spat into the phone. "How did they get through your soldiers?"

"The same way they got past your men on the wall," Bianco answered. "They sabotaged one of our tanks. Surely you saw the flames. We were busy putting out the blaze. This had to receive top priority because the explosive shells and ammunition in the tank made the fire very dangerous. Apparently your men were distracted as well. That's when the invaders scaled the wall."

"How do you know?" Radmeni demanded.

"Some soldiers saw them climb over the top," the captain answered. "They're very clever and very quick. And there's probably only six or seven of them. Eight at the most. No more than that could have gotten over the wall in such a short time."

"Eight men?" the Iranian was stunned. "You claim only eight men have dared to attack us? Who are they? CIA assassins sent by the Americans?"

"I think you flatter the CIA with such a suspicion," Bianco remarked dryly.

"You infidel Italians cooperate with the Americans," Radmeni snapped. "You've done it before when our fedyreen seized that rich man's cruise ship."

"If the men who challenge you are CIA, the American embassy has been lying to us," Bianco stated. "Would you like to talk to their ambassador?"

"Americans are all liars," Radmeni replied. "But the murdering pigs could be Israelis or even British. It doesn't matter. You let them in, and now you will regret it."

"Mohammed," Ali Hussan Kamal said sharply, concerned by the Iranian's sharp temper. "Don't act rashly. The infidels might be telling the truth."

"Don't be a fool," Radmeni hissed. "Prepare the earthquake device. We shall all go to the arms of Allah together..."

"And die before we complete our mission?" Kamal asked, trying to keep the edge of desperation from his voice. "Think, Mohammed. Would the Italians or the Americans or any other Western power send only eight men to defy us? Let's not sacrifice everything because a few lunatics have managed to slip over the wall."

"A handful of men?" Radmeni scoffed. "Mossavei radioed a report to us. He said all the sentries and troops posted at the railroad station appeared to have been eliminated. And now it seems Mossavei and most of his patrol have also been killed. Does that sound like the work of only eight men?"

"Eight professionals," Kamal stated. "Possibly mercenaries sent in by some right-wing fanatic. Members of a paramilitary outfit, probably with genuine combat experience."

"That's absurd," Radmeni replied.

"But it is possible," Kamal insisted.

"Mr. Radmeni?" Bianco's voice spoke from the earpiece. "I don't understand the language you and your men are speaking..."

"We're sealing your doom!" Radmeni snarled angrily. "The lives of the hostages, the lives of you and your family, the eight butchers you sent to kill us and your precious Vatican are all going to be destroyed!"

"Because of eight lunatics?" Bianco demanded. "We're trying to negotiate the terms you gave us. We're trying to raise the ransom money and convince the Israelis to release their political prisoners. Believe me, we're as upset about those invaders as you are."

"Really?" Radmeni laughed. "They aren't killing Italians, are they?"

"So find the bastards and kill them," Bianco invited. "Call us back when you succeed, so we can all sigh with relief together."

Silence followed the captain's remark. Bianco's fist tightened around the telephone receiver; his knuckles were white from strain. He gazed up into the worried face of Gerald Gardener, who hovered over the desk. Seated in an armchair across from Bianco was Cardinal Francisco Galleo, a representative of the Curia.

"All right," Radmeni's voice declared at last. "We'll take care of these invaders. But I warn you, if any more commandos breach the walls, or any of your soldiers even appear to be preparing for aggressive action, then we shall retaliate without mercy."

"Agreed," Bianco said, nodding his head as if the terrorist could see the gesture.

"One other thing," the Iranian added. "We need a gesture of good faith to assure us you're telling the truth. Withdraw those tanks from the area. They make me nervous."

"I'm only a captain, Mr. Radmeni," Bianco explained. "I don't have the authority to promise that will be done."

"You'd better be convincing when you talk to your superiors, Captain," Radmeni warned. "Because I'm going to wait twenty minutes for those tanks to get out of my sight. If they are still there after that, you can expect to feel the earth open under your feet."

"I'll do my best," Bianco promised.

"I hope your best is good enough," the Iranian replied. He hung up without further comment.

"Maniac," Bianco muttered as he placed the phone receiver in its cradle.

"What did they want that you couldn't promise?" Gardener asked.

"They want the tanks withdrawn," Bianco explained. "I think that can be arranged. We don't want to charge into the Vatican with armored vehicles anyway. If a full-scale attack proves to be the only choice, we can use a bazooka and a mortar to do just about everything we could do with the tanks anyway."

"The damage to the Vatican would be too costly. Captain Bianco," Cardinal Galleo said in horror. "We can't allow this to happen..."

"I appreciate the value of the Vatican's art and history, Cardinal," the captain assured him. "But it must take second place to protecting human lives."

"I'm not sure it was wise to send those adventurers in," Galleo remarked. "Why did you tell Radmeni there are eight of them when there are only six?"

"I didn't give him a definite number," Bianco replied. "I'm not suppose to know about them. He seemed pretty sure there had to be at least eight, and I didn't see any reason to tell him otherwise. From the sound of the battle at the northwest wall, Radmeni probably thought an entire company of soldiers had gotten in. Whoever those fellows are, they're very good at their job."

"You don't know who they are?" the cardinal asked in astonishment. "I thought that was just another lie you told Radmeni."

"That's about the only truth I told him," Bianco said, smiling. "It's a very mysterious group. Isn't it, Mr. Gardener?"

"They're impossible," Gardener replied gruffly. "I find it hard to believe that the President trusts them. They don't work within the system. They have no respect for the chain of command, established procedures or public relations within the international community."

"That isn't exactly a vote of confidence," Galleo sighed.

"Mr. Gardener isn't a soldier," Bianco stated. "The best fighting men are always a bit maverick in their behavior. I think those six men are probably the best choices for the job."

"And yet you told the Iranian to kill them," the cardinal remarked.

"He'd try to do that anyway," Bianco said with a shrug. "We can only pray he doesn't succeed."

10

Mohammed Radmeni paced across the ornate designs on the floor of the Sala Regia. The great hall was magnificent. Its walls were lined with priceless paintings, tapestries and sculptures. The Sala Regia was the location of some of the most sacred services of the Roman Catholic Church, including the inauguration of a new pope.

The terrorists had turned the hall into their military headquarters. A field desk with a radiotelephone had been set up near the throne at the end of the hall. Racks of weapons lined the walls. A large picture of the Ayatollah hung above the throne between breathtaking tapestries of archangels.

Ali Hussan Kamal was worried about the Iranians, and about Radmeni in particular. Some of the men had wanted to vandalize every piece of Christian art in the Vatican. They wanted to burn and smash the priceless paintings, tapestries and sculptures. Kamal had reminded the fanatics that they needed the artwork. It could be ransomed back to the Catholics or sold to private dealers. Trying to sell stolen works of art was difficult, but Kamal had connections with black market syndicates that could handle it.

Kamal had insisted that they needed those sales to earn money for the Islamic revolution. Besides, many of the works of art had religious significance to Muslims as well as Christians.

Kamal had planned the Vatican operation for a number of years. It was potentially the single richest target on earth next to the national treasuries of the major world powers. Kamal had been certain he could manipulate Radmeni and the other Iranian zealots, but he had not counted on Radmeni panicking. As Kamal watched the Iranian ringleader march up and down the hall of the Sala Regia, he realized how very unstable Radmeni was.

"Mohammed, the situation isn't desperate," the Syrian began, trying to calm his Iranian partner. "We still have the hostages. We still have the earthquake device..."

"And a team of commandos have managed to break through our defenses," Radmeni declared.

"Six or eight men," Kamal sighed. "Not six or eight hundred."

"Do you remember reading about the Mardarajian embassy in London?" Radmeni inquired. "Mardaraja was a small African nation that had just built an embassy in England."

"I remember," Kamal sighed. "Somebody inside the embassy shot a couple of British police officers and a member of Parliament. Apparently they thought they could claim diplomatic immunity and just stroll out of the embassy and return home the way the Libyans had after a similar incident. In fact, wasn't Khaddafi involved with that Mardarajian mess, too?"

"But don't you remember what happened?" Radmeni demanded. "Five men launched a raid on the embassy. Just five men took the building and killed almost everyone inside. The place was full of Mardarajian troops and hired mercenaries, but those five devils went through them like a knife through goat cheese."

"And you think this is the same commando team?" Kamal sighed. "That's absurd. Even if it is, the circumstances are entirely different. We've got far more trained men and women than those Mardarajians had. Besides, they just stepped out of the jungle."

"We've got to find them and kill those butchers," Radmeni said, shaking his head in dispair.

"We will," the Syrian assured him. "There are patrols stalking the invaders at this very moment. Better yet, Fukuda and his ninja are hunting them as well. Those Japanese are the best shadow warriors in the world. No one can hide from them."

"You'd better be right," Radmeni replied glumly.

Kamal decided there was no point in continuing the conversation. Radmeni was going to fret about the mystery strike team until the dead bodies of the invaders were shown to him.

The Syrian left the Sala Regia and stepped into a long corridor. A dark shape suddenly appeared beside him. Kamal gasped and nearly cried with surprise. The hard dark eyes of the man who called himself Fukuda stared at him.

"Good evening, Kamal-san," Fukuda announced softly.

"It's not necessary to creep up behind me," the Syrian said, his heart racing. "You don't have to impress me. Why aren't you looking for the men who infiltrated the Vatican? I'm sure they'd enjoy your sneaky tricks."

"I sent out most of my men to take care of that," the ninja replied. "That's not a problem, even if Radmeni thinks it is."

"So you were in the room and heard our conversation," Kamal said, glaring at Fukuda. "Then you know Radmeni is upset about this band of commandos. He'd probably be more upset if I told him that you had sent out six of your ninja armed only with swords."

"They aren't really ninja yet," Fukuda explained. "They're trainees. Young recruits who are still learning the fundamental martial arts of ninjutsu. I don't teach my men to handle firearms until they master certain other skills. They only know a little karate and some basic kenjutsu. If you gave them guns, they'd probably just shoot one another."

"Why did you bring them in the first place?" Kamal asked in disgust. He liked the ninja less every time he spoke with him.

"Oh," Fukuda chuckled. "I thought some cannon fodder might be useful for this mission. Since we're going to gather up the wealth of the Vatican, we don't want to split the profits with too many individuals. That would not be a wise business move, would it?"

"I should have expected this from you," Kamal muttered. "How large a percentage do you want, Fukuda-san?"

"I promise not to be greedy," the ninja replied. "As long as you remain generous."

"I think we understand each other," the Syrian said reluctantly. "What about Radmeni and the Iranians?"

"They're your cannon fodder, not mine," Fukuda replied. "I'm sure you already plan to let them take the credit for this adventure while you claim the bulk of the financial gain. That satisfies me. But may I give you some advice, Kamal-san? Do not double-cross me."

11

Crouching in the rosebushes in one of the Vatican's many gardens, Phoenix Force saw the patrol approach. The terrorist hunting party was more cautious than the first group had been. They did not cluster together, but moved in a wide pattern to cover more area and to provide less of a target. A Jeep crept along the street. The headlights were not on. No one wanted to be a shining advertisement in the sights of an unseen opponent's weapon.

"We need to take a couple of them alive," Yakov Katzenelenbogen whispered to his teammates.

"They might not be very obliging," Garry Manning said softly, gazing at the terrorists through the Starlite scope. "These guys are armed to the teeth."

"So are we," David McCarter said with a shrug.

"We only need a couple, right?" Encizo inquired. "Remember, they're going to be trying to kill us, too."

"If we catch some of these guys, it won't be easy to get them to talk," Calvin James remarked. "I didn't pack any scopolamine, and I don't see how we could use it effectively anyway. Truth serum takes time to use properly."

"Torture is also time-consuming," John Trent added.

"Victims tend to be a bit loud... At least that's what I've read in books."

"We don't use those methods, John," Katz told him.

"I realize that," Trent assured him. "And I wouldn't agree to it anyway. Torture is contrary to the principles of ninjutsu."

"I wonder if the enemy ninja feel the same way," Encizo wondered aloud. Torture was not an abstract fear to the Cuban. He had been the victim of hours of painful persecution.

"They're obviously mercenaries," Trent replied. "It's difficult to say what sort of principles they have, if any."

"The Iranians are probably religious and political fanatics," Katz mused. "I doubt that we can get one of them to talk. The Basques might be more obliging. After all, this isn't directly connected with any cause of interest to them."

"Wonderful," Manning muttered. "Does anyone happen to speak Basque fluently?"

"Most of them probably understand either Spanish or French," Encizo stated. "Do you think the ninja would talk, John?"

"I thought you said we shouldn't take any chances with the ninja, Rafael," James reminded the Cuban. "'Don't even think about taking them alive,' you said."

"Wise suggestion," Trent said with a nod. "Traditionally ninja were seldom taken alive. Capture meant death by slow torture in the days of the samurai and the daimyo."

"Traditionally they didn't run about with terrorists, either," McCarter commented. "You figure one of these corrupt ninja might talk if we offer him a chance to live and possibly a reduced sentence for cooperating with us?"

"That's possible," Trent answered. "But I doubt it."

"We might not have much choice," James remarked. "We'll probably have to grab whoever we can get..."

James's sentence was cut off abruptly by the muffled report of Katzenelenbogen's Uzi. Bullets coughed rapidly from the silenced weapon as the Israeli opened fire on a trio of terrorists who had entered the garden behind Phoenix Force. Fortunately Katz had been watching the entrance while the others had concentrated on the enemy in the street.

Three 9 mm rounds punched into one terrorist's solar plexus and traveled upward to obliterate his heart. Katz shifted the aim of his Uzi and sliced another trio of parabellums into the chest of another Iranian. The third man had heard the subdued chatter of the silenced subgun and saw his comrades convulse as the bullets crashed into their bodies. He cried out with alarm and swung his M-3 grease-gun toward the muzzle flash of Katz's weapon.

Encizo's silenced H&K machine pistol slammed a volley of 9 mm lead into the terrorist's torso. The impact hurtled him backward. Manning's FAL coughed once through its sound suppressor and drilled a 7.62 mm round into the man's throat. He was very, very dead by the time he hit the ground. "So much for camouflage," James rasped sourly.

The main patrol of terrorists had heard their comrade scream. Excited voices exploded in at least three languages, although the terrorists approached the garden slowly. They had not seen or heard enough to be certain where the enemy was lurking.

The terrorists fanned out. Three men took the most dangerous position as point for the group. The others followed. Sixteen terrorists advanced while eight men remained with the Jeep on the street.

Booted feet trampled flower beds. The terrorists peered among the shadows of the garden. They held their weapons ready to open fire on anything that moved. Every rosebush and lilac tree was examined carefully. They even regarded a bed of buttercups with suspicion. But nothing moved in the garden except some tall tulips swaying in the breeze.

One of the point men gasped and aimed his AK-47 at a figure that stood motionless on a stone pedestal. He held his fire when he realized that two intricately carved marble wings extended from the figure's back. He sighed with relief and lowered his weapon.

"It is bad luck to shoot an angel, Ahmed," another Iranian gunman whispered, amused that his comrade had nearly opened fire on the statue.

"The infidels must have fled," Ahmed replied, glancing toward a pair of apple trees. He half expected to see someone lurking by the trunk.

"How could they have gotten away so quickly?" the other man wondered aloud. "They couldn't... Ahmed, look!"

He pointed at the bullet-torn corpses of the three terrorists who had been slain in the garden only a few minutes earlier. Both men stiffened with anger. The dead men had been their comrades, their brothers. The Iranians believed their Islamic Jihad was a just and holy war. They believed they alone followed the righteous cause of Allah and that the rest of the world was wrong. This belief made the bond among the terrorists very strong.

"We shall avenge them," Ahmed vowed.

"We must find their killers," his comrade replied. "Where are the scum? Why don't they show themselves and fight like men?"

Three terrorists approached one of the apple trees. One man stepped closer and stared up into the branches. Rafael Encizo stared back at him. The terrorist's lower jaw dropped as he raised his M-16 assault rifle.

Encizo triggered his MP-5. A three-round burst smashed into the Iranian's face, punched his brain into oblivion and shattered the back of his skull. Encizo leaped from the branches and dropped to one knee beside the trunk of the apple tree. He immediately aimed his H&K machine pistol at the other two terrorists and opened fire.

Parabellums ripped into the chests and abdomens of the startled pair. Their bodies hopped and contorted in a hideous dance of death. Other terrorists swung their weapons toward Encizo's position and fired a murderous salvo at the Cuban warrior. Bullets splintered bark from the trunk of the apple tree and chewed into the branches overhead. Encizo ducked and used the thick trunk for cover.

The flame from a rifle barrel streaked from a lilac tree. Calvin James blasted two terrorists with M-16 rounds before the patrol knew where the shots were coming from. Another man spun to face James and received a chestful of 5.56 mm missiles.

Ahmed and his companion aimed their Kalashnikov rifles at James's position. They did not see Yakov Katzenelenbogen move behind the statue of Archangel Michael. The Israeli commando aimed his Uzi and sprayed the pair with parabellum destruction. High velocity slugs tore into their backs and severed their spinal cords. The terrorists collapsed. They were dead before they could realize they had been shot.

Gary Manning's FAL erupted from the tulip bed. The Canadian marksman lay in a prone position as he expertly fired controlled bursts into the enemy patrol. The projectiles chopped into a terrorist's chest. Another trio of copper-jacketed hornets split a man's forehead.

David McCarter was stationed in the branches of the second apple tree. He held his Barnett Commando crossbow in one fist and the Ingram M-10 in the other. The SAS veteran thrived on action, and he was eager to plunge into the battle. He prepared to fire the crossbow bolt into the terrorist who stood less than a yard from the tree.

McCarter's finger froze before he could trigger the Barnett. The man below carried a shepherd's staff and wore a red beret. The British war machine realized the terrorist was a Basque. There would not be many opportunities to capture one of them. The chance might not come again.

He aimed the crossbow at a different target and launched the bolt. The deadly missile struck a terrorist in the side of the neck. The point pierced muscle and burst vertebrae. The guy tumbled forward with the shaft of the quarrel jutting from his neck.

McCarter promptly pounced from the branches and swung the hard metal stock of the Barnett at the Basque terrorist's head. The Basque turned sharply before McCarter could strike. The crossbow hit the frame of the Beretta machine pistol in the Basque gunman's fist. The blow knocked the chopper from his grasp. McCarter whipped the M-10 at his opponent's face in an effort to knock the Basque out cold.

The shepherd's staff blocked the M-10. The Basque yanked the staff and caught McCarter's forearm with the crook. The Briton pulled away, but the hook ripped the Ingram from his fingers. The Basque shouted something, probably a battle cry, and whipped the shaft of his weapon at McCarter's skull. The British ace raised the Barnett to block the blow. The impact of the staff sent the crossbow sailing from his hand.

"Oh, hell," McCarter growled, barely dodging the Basque fighting stick as his opponent thrust the butt like a lance.

The Basque was good. He suddenly altered the stroke to a low sweep. The staff clipped McCarter across the ankles and knocked him to the ground. The breath rushed from McCarter's lungs. The Basque swung his staff at the fallen Briton to complete the job.

McCarter dodged his head to one side. The crook of the staff struck earth near the Phoenix pro's left ear. The Briton quickly seized the shaft and pulled forcibly. The Basque terrorist stumbled forward. McCarter thrust both feet into his opponent's abdomen. The kick hurled the man backward. His fingers slipped from the shaft, and he tumbled to the ground.

Unfamiliar with the staff, McCarter discarded the stick and quickly rose. The Basque climbed to one knee, his right hand reaching for the hilt of a knife sheathed in his boot. McCarter rushed forward as the knife cleared leather. He kicked the Basque as hard as he could in the face. The man's head snapped back from the blow, then his body slumped to the ground.

Two terrorists stumbled backward, firing weapons at Katz and Encizo. Bullets slammed into the tree and statue that the Phoenix warriors were using for cover, but none of the projectiles struck flesh. Neither terrorist realized that they had turned their backs on the buttercup bed, so neither man saw the tall black shape rise from the flowers.

John Trent drew his sword as he attacked. He raised the ninja-do high and stamped the butt of the pommel between the shoulder blades of the closest opponent. The terrorist groaned and fell on his face as the other man turned. He saw a flash of steel and then felt something strike the crown of his head. They were the last sensations the terrorist would ever experience on earth. Trent's sword had split open the man's skull.

Another terrorist was busy spraying the lilac bushes with 9 mm rounds in an effort to blow Calvin James away. Trent unwound the shoge from his waist and returned the sword to its scabbard. He held the twelve-foot cord of the shoge in his left hand and the knife in his right. The ninja darted closer to his target and raised his arm.

The terrorist saw movement and turned toward Trent, but he held his fire to avoid shooting one of his comrades. Trent hurled the shoge. The knife pierced a pectoral muscle in the terrorist's chest. He screamed in agony, but still attempted to aim his Beretta M-12 at the ninja.

Trent yanked the shoge cord. The knife was suddenly ripped from the man's chest. The hook at the base of the center blade caught the terrorist's wrist. Trent pulled the shoge cord again. The hook tore flesh, and the terrorist's machine pistol fell from his trembling grasp.

Trent quickly whirled the shoge overhead and then suddenly stepped forward and dropped to one knee. The blade whistled in a fast, low arch. The shoge caught his opponent around the ankles. The cord curled around his legs, and the hook stabbed the calf muscle. A hard tug yanked the man's feet out from under him, and the terrorist crashed on his back.

The remaining members of the terrorist patrol opened fire from the cover of their Jeep. Gary Manning had already turned his attention on the group and was blasting volleys at the terrorists to keep them pinned down. Calvin James came to the Canadian's assistance. The black warrior ended the battle with his M-203 grenade launcher. He triggered the mighty weapon and lobbed a 40 mm shell into the figurative laps of the terrorist team. The explosion blew apart both the Jeep and the terrorists stationed there.

"Is everyone all right?" Katz shouted as he shoved a fresh magazine into the well of his Uzi.

"I think everybody on our team is okay," Encizo replied.

"Any prisoners?" the Israeli inquired.

"Calvin sure didn't take any," Manning commented, gazing at the burning wreckage of what had once been a Jeep and about a half-dozen terrorists.

"Didn't seem prudent at the time," the black commando said with a shrug.

"I hit one of them," Trent announced. "I don't think he's dead. The fellow at the end of my shoge is still alive, too."

"I caught us a Basque," McCarter announced proudly. "Hope I didn't break the bloke's jaw..."

Suddenly the terrorist Trent had taken out with the shoge sat up. He had taken a hand grenade from his belt and was about to pull the pin. The Iranian fanatic's face glowed as he prepared to take the infidels with him to the afterlife.

McCarter's Browning Hi-Power roared at the same split second as James's M-16. One 9 mm flat-nosed projectile and two 5.56 mm rounds blasted the Iranian's skull to pieces before he could yank the pin. Encizo grabbed the hands of the grisly, almost decapitated corpse to be certain a muscle spasm did not complete the terrorist's last wish. However, the body hardly twitched. Encizo plucked the grenade from the dead man's hands.

"Maybe we'd better search the other two," the Cuban suggested with a deep sigh of relief.

"Yeah," James agreed. "And let's take them somewhere else. This garden party got a little out of hand."

12

"I tell you, I hear shooting and what sounds like bombs exploding," Fulvio Salvia rasped as he pressed his ear against a wall. "What's going on out there?"

Salvia worked as a printer for l'Osservatore Romano, the official Vatican newspaper. He was tired, middle-aged and cynical about life because his hopes and ambitions had failed to materialize. Salvia had found comfort only in his religion. He had often wished he had become a priest. His job with the Vatican newspaper was as close as he would ever get to realizing that dream. Salvia did not want much out of life except to live without turmoil or hardships. His current hopes and ambitions were that God would look upon him with favor and allow him into heaven.

Yet, like all men who fear life, Salvia also feared death. Monsignor Giovanni Cellini felt sorry for the printer. Poor Fulvio had never done much with his life. Even his faith was without substance. Fulvio Salvia went to Mass and made confessions. He had learned to say prayers in fluent Latin like a gifted parrot. Yet Salvia did not have the heart of a Christian. He did not become involved in the world or with people. Instead, he hid in the Vatican printing press.

But the terrorists had dragged Salvia from his little sanctuary and had added him to the other hostages. They had been herded to the Museo Pio-Clementino and placed in the Vestibolo Rotondo. The beautiful artwork, which included some of the finest sculptures, busts and reliefs of ancient Rome, did little to make their confinement more pleasant.

Iranian terrorists stood guard at the exits. The ringleaders had made certain that none of the Basque members of the terror army spent more than a few minutes with the hostages. Most of the Basques called themselves Christians, and they had expressed concern about the welfare of the priests among the captives. The Basques were especially upset that Monsignor Cellini had been injured by a stray bullet during the terrorist takeover.

There were four doctors among the 507 hostages. Cellini's wound had been treated, and all four medical men had assured him that the bullet had done no serious damage. There had been no internal bleeding, and the bullet had passed cleanly through his arm. At least the terrorists had allowed the doctors adequate supplies with which to treat their patients. Cellini was not the only injured party among the hostages.

Captain Helmut Jacobi, an officer of the Swiss Guards, had been beaten about the head and shoulders by an assailant armed with a wooden flail — a chain that connected two sticks. Jacobi said it was some sort of oriental weapon. His attacker had worn a gray costume with a hood and mask, identical to the man who had killed two of the Swiss Guards in front of Cellini when the terrorists had first seized control.

Although Jacobi's head was wrapped in bandages, his mind seemed clear. The Swiss officer had helped calm the frightened hostages. Most of the tourists, Vatican employees and some of the clergy were close to panic. The captain reminded them that their captors wanted them alive in order to bargain with whatever government for whatever reason. They had been given food and medical supplies. The terrorists had not threatened to torture them, and the women and children had already been released.

"Monsignor," Salvia insisted. "I'm certain that I heard gunshots. Perhaps the terrorists lied about releasing some of our people. Perhaps they are shooting them..."

"That's not very likely," Captain Jacobi assured him. "What point would it serve? It's possible a rescue attempt was launched. The terrorists might be battling with police and soldiers at this very moment."

"Rescue team?" Cellini looked hopeful. "I want to see these kidnappers arrested and not rewarded or paid off for what they've done."

"Don't get too excited just yet, Father," Jacobi warned. "Those gunshots and explosions don't sound very close. That probably means the terrorists are fighting the rescue crew. Since we haven't been rescued, we have to assume the enemy has them at bay."

"Those idiots are going to get us all killed!" Salvia cried, wringing his hands in despair.

"Keep your voice down," Jacobi said sharply. "They haven't killed us, and that means we've still got a chance."

"The captain is correct," Cellini agreed. "The best thing we can do is wait here and pray for the safety of our rescuers and ask God to allow them to liberate us before any more harm befalls us."

"By all means," Jacobi began. "I believe we should all pray for the best, but God's will seems to work better if one takes a direct hand in changing the nature of current events."

"That sounded like something a diplomat might say," Cellini said with a faint smile.

"We Swiss are a nation of diplomats," Jacobi replied. "What I'm suggesting, Father, is that we shouldn't rely on someone else to rescue us. We might have to take matters into our own hands."

"You're mad!" Salvia declared, glaring at the captain as if he had grown two satanic horns.

"I don't think survival is insane, my friend/' the Swiss officer stated. "If you want to die a martyr, fine. Do it sometime when over five hundred other people don't have to die with you."

"Captain," Cellini began, glancing about at the tourists, clergy and shopworkers in the hall. "We don't exactly have a collection of great warriors here."

"Neither are they," Jacobi replied, pointing at two terrorists stationed near one of the exits. The Iranians held Beretta machine pistols and carried pistols in hip holsters as well.

"They're armed and accustomed to violence," Cellini replied. "The same can't be said about any of us, Captain. Including you."

"They're hoodlums with few brains," Jacobi insisted. "They're not supermen, and they're not as eager to die for Allah as they claim. If they were, they would have already set off that earthquake bomb, provided they've even got the damn thing."

"If you thought they would be so easy to overpower, why didn't you suggest we fight them before?" Salvia questioned the captain.

"I don't mean to suggest it would be easy," Jacobi explained. "But it might be necessary. I didn't say anything before because I thought it best for us to stay calm and to try not to incite the anger of the terrorists. I had hoped the situation would resolve itself."

"Why have you changed your mind?" Cellini inquired.

"Unless the terrorists have started fighting with one another, the bastards are either trading shots with a rescue team or they're using the troops beyond the wall for target practice," Jacobi explained. "Either way, the situation is going to get very hot, very soon. And we're in the middle of this mess. That means we'll get burned."

"You know more about these things than I do, Captain," Cellini admitted. His wounded arm itched. The monsignor rubbed the sling that cradled the damaged limb. "Then again, almost anyone knows more about these things than I."

"Father," Salvia said gently. "You are a man of God. You know the scriptures. That is more important than knowing how to fight and kill. You're a holy man. Everyone here looks to you for strength in this hour of peril."

"I'm afraid they might be looking to the wrong source," Cellini confessed. "I'm a priest. Not God, not a great sage or a prophet with unlimited wisdom. I'm just a priest. Until now, I would have said violence is never an answer to anything. If you had asked me why God allows war, I would have quoted some Biblical passage about 'war among nations' in response." Cellini shook his head and continued, "I can't participate in violence, Captain Jacobi."

"I wouldn't ask you to," the Swiss officer assured him.

"Then I'd be a hypocrite if I told you to do so," Cellini declared. "I just don't know what should or shouldn't be done."

"It might be a matter of what can be done," Jacobi mused. "I'm going to try to talk to some of the hostages. Perhaps I can find some men with a bit of experience in this sort of thing. We could use a couple of combat veterans, some police officers on vacation, a judo instructor or two."

"Just be careful," Cellini urged.

"Careful might not be enough," the Swiss captain replied.

13

Gary Manning poured water from his canteen into the cap and then tossed it into the face of the Basque terrorist. The prisoner had already moaned as consciousness began to return. His eyes opened to see the wicked blade of Rafael Encizo's Tanto knife inches from his face.

"Buenos noches," the Cuban greeted.

"Bonjour," Manning said. "Pariez-vous français? How about English?"

The Basque did not reply.

"If you don't understand us, my friend will have to cut your throat," Manning said with a shrug.

The Canadian began to repeat the threat in French. Encizo then translated it into Spanish. Of course, they did not intend to murder the Basque because they could not communicate, but the threat was a good way to learn his linguistic skills.

"Je parte français!" the Basque announced. "English little."

"Très bien, monsieur," Yakov Katzenelenbogen told him. "Qui êtes-vous?"

"My name is Benot Le Larunbat," the Basque replied.

"Monsieur Le Larunbat," Katz began, "we need some information. If you're wise, you'll give it to us."

"You fuck yourself. Oui?" Le Larunbat growled.

"We don't have much time to spare, Le Larunbat," Gary Manning warned. "If you don't cooperate, we'll cut the tendons in both your arms and legs. Maybe we'll cut out your tongue, too. Then you can crawl around on your belly like a big worm until your friends find you. Of course, you might bleed to death before then."

"We're in a desperate situation, and we're prepared to take drastic action," Katz added. "Of course, we're also willing to make a deal if you cooperate."

"What sort of deal?" the Basque asked, frowning.

"You tell us where the hostages are being held, where we can find your leader and where they've got the earthquake explosives set up," Manning answered. "In return, we'll see about getting the courts to go easy on you and your Basque comrades."

"I'm certain this Vatican business doesn't appeal to you," Katz added. "You Basques want your own sovereign nation. I'm Jewish. I fought for the independence of Israel. I understand what your people want, but this won't help you achieve that goal. You're working with a gang of Shiite Muslim fanatics. How much respect do you think they'll show for a Christian institution like the Vatican? Do you want to help destroy the Roman Catholic Church, Le Larunbat?"

"Radmeni and the Syrian promised us that wouldn't happen," Le Larunbat declared, but the tone of his voice suggested that he was beginning to lose confidence in their claim.

"Syrian?" Katz raised his eyebrows. "What Syrian?"

"I don't know what his name is," the Basque replied. "But I know he's a Syrian. He's suppose to be Radmeni's lieutenant, but I think he's really Radmeni's silent partner or perhaps even the real leader. The Syrian is very clever, very intelligent. He speaks several languages, including French and Italian. We Basques get most of our orders directly from the Syrian."

"Interesting," Katz mused. "This Syrian speaks Italian, yet Radmeni has been handling all negotiations in English, The Italians have had to use bilingual personnel to communicate with him. The Syrian could have communicated with them directly in Italian."

"But he doesn't want the Italian government or anyone else to know about him," Manning deduced. "This Syrian might indeed be the real leader. I bet he's pulling the Iranians' strings. Okay, Le Larunbat. Where do we find this mysterious Arab and Radmeni?"

"Their headquarters is in the Sala Regia," the Basque answered. "Past the Vatican Library near the Borgia Rooms."

"And the hostages?" Katz asked.

"You promise amnesty if I cooperate?" Le Larunbat inquired.

"I can only promise we'll do what we can to help you in court," Katz replied honestly. "We don't often make promises, but when we do we never break them."

"So you say," the Basque said dryly.

"If we were going to lie, we would offer you more than amnesty," Manning declared. "We could promise to let you go after this business is finished, but that wouldn't serve justice. Legally or morally."

"After all," Katz stated. "You and your Basque friends aren't robots. You agreed to join the other terrorists on this insane mission against the Vatican. And — make no mistake about this — we still consider you to be a terrorist."

"I'm not in a position to bargain," Le Larunbat admitted with a sigh of defeat. "The hostages are being kept in a single room. A great hall, actually. They're holding more than five hundred people in the Museo Pio-Clementino."

"And the earthquake device?" Manning inquired. "Is that real, or did they make it up?"

"Radmeni and the Syrian claim it's real," the Basque answered with a shrug. "I don't think that they really know if it will work, but they still drilled at least forty meters into the ground."

"Where did they drill?" Katz asked, taking a pack of Camels from his pocket. He offered a cigarette to the Basque.

"Merci," Le Larunbat said, accepting the offer. "They drilled near the radio station. Supposedly, when the building was constructed back in the late 1920s, a minor quake occurred there. The Syrian is convinced there's a large fissure under the Vatican radio station, and that it's directly connected to the main fault line."

"What sort of explosives are in the tunnel?" Manning asked.

"I have no idea," the Basque answered with a shrug. "The drilling and demolitions were handled by Iranians who once worked for the Shah's oil company. They're supposed to be very good, very professional. They certainly accomplished the task much faster than I thought possible."

"What do you think, Mr. Green?" Katz asked Manning, using the Canadian's current cover name.

"I think we'd better assume the Syrian has guessed correctly," Manning replied. "Although I'm not convinced the guy is terribly bright."

"He's managed to pull this off so far," Katz reminded his friend and fellow Phoenix warrior.

"Yeah," the Canadian said, nodding. "But has he got a logical plan about getting out of here? Vatican City is in the heart of Rome. The terrorists can't just stroll out of the place. There's no way anybody could land a plane big enough to take all the terrorists in one trip. What can he do?"

"The Syrian plans to use trucks," the Basque explained. "He wants the Italian government to give him more than a hundred large vehicles. Then he plans to load up the trucks with hostages. Only one or two in each truck. Dozens of the most valuable sculptures and paintings will also be loaded into the vehicles. Naturally all of the revolutionaries will be in the trucks. Then we go to the airport where a pair of large cargo planes will be waiting to fly us to Teheran."

"Would they release the hostages at the airport?" Manning asked. He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "Of course, they could release the hostages. They'd still have the artwork. Nobody would want to force down a plane loaded with billions of dollars worth of famous artwork."

"The art from the Vatican is irreplaceable," Katz agreed. "La Pieta, Michelangelo's sculpture of Mary holding the slain body of Christ in her arms, would be worth millions to any collector willing to buy on the black market. But no price tag can be placed on the loss to the world if such a historical masterpiece is hidden from the public or destroyed by rash action."

"Excuse me, but can somebody translate?" Encizo requested. "Does this guy know something?"

"Quite a bit," Katz answered. "We've got our main targets. We'd better put Le Larunbat under wraps and get to work."

Phoenix Force had taken their Basque prisoner to the printing house of l'Osservatore Romano. They had correctly guessed that the newspaper shop would not be occupied by the terrorists. Encizo had picked the lock, and the team had moved into their temporary command post.

McCarter, James and Trent had guarded the windows and doors while the other three had questioned the prisoner in the main printing room. Now Encizo used riot cuffs to bind Le Larunbat's wrists together at the small of his back. He gagged the Basque and led him to the open door of a broom closet.

"We'll let you out after we finish our mission," the Cuban assured him. "You'd better hope we don't all get killed."

He locked the door and put the key in his pocket. Encizo turned to Katz and Manning. "So where do we hit these bastards?"

A shadow moved across the glass panes of a window above the primary printing presses. Glass and framework shattered as the dark shape burst through the window. The figure dropped behind the presses as automatic fire erupted from the window. Phoenix Force dropped to the floor and took cover behind the presses and desks.

The door smashed open, and two Iranian terrorists charged across the threshold. A tall bearded figure, probably a Basque, remained in the doorway holding a Largo submachine gun in his fists. The man who had crashed through the window knelt by the press with a Beretta M-12 held in combat readiness. His face was all but concealed by a gray hood and scarf mask.

"Shit," Calvin James rasped. "We're surrounded, and we've got a ninja in here with us."

The black commando was sprawled behind a desk. Bullets splintered the thick oak furniture and chipped plaster from the wall above. James pointed the barrel of his M-16 around the corner of the desk and fired a three-round burst at the gunmen in the window. What glass remained was blasted away by the 5.56 mm hail.

One of the Iranians who had entered the building fired his M-3 greasegun in James's direction. The .45 caliber subgun had never had a great reputation for accuracy, and the Iranian was not very experienced with the weapon and its fierce recoil. He fired most of his shots into the ceiling because he was unable to prevent the sudden climb of the M-3.

The other Iranian leaned around a pillar and aimed a Kalashnikov toward the desk. He only exposed his head and shoulders, but that was enough for Garry Manning. The Canadian had jumped behind a small printer for cover without attracting the attention of the enemy. He snap-aimed his FAL rifle and blasted three full-auto rounds into the Iranian's face. The terrorist dropped his AK-47 and fell lifeless to the floor. He died too quickly to even utter a scream.

The Basque terrorist at the doorway fired his Largo. Nine-millimeter bullets sprayed the room. Several pelted the printer, but none struck Manning. The Canadian laid low and gritted his teeth. He was unable to strike back for the moment. The enemy ninja rose up to aim his Beretta blaster at Manning, but McCarter fired a quick volley of Ingram rounds at the Japanese killer. Parabellums sparked against metal near the ninja. The masked assassin hastily ducked before any of the Briton's 9 mm slugs got lucky.

Yakov Katzenelenbogen was stationed on the opposite side of the same press the ninja was using for cover. The Phoenix Force commander fired a quick volley of Uzi destruction at the Basque gunman. Two rounds pierced the terrorist's chest and sent him tumbling out of the doorway. The Iranian triggerman swung his Skorpion machine pistol toward Katz's position.

Rafael Encizo, positioned behind the end of a case of shelves containing paper and printing ink, saw the fanatic and quickly hosed him down with the H&K chopper. Four 9 mm messengers hammered through the Iranian's sternum and rib cage. The bullets wrecked several vital organs, including the guy's heart and both lungs. The force of the multiple gunshots hurled him into a wall. He slid to the floor and sank into death.

The automatic fire from the window increased in an effort to keep the Phoenix Force unit pinned down long enough for the terrorists' reinforcements to arrive. James and Manning returned fire. Bullets chewed at the ragged window frame and burned air above the heads of the terrorists as they ducked to avoid receiving high-velocity lobotomies.

David McCarter took advantage of the lull in enemy fire. He took an M-26 grenade from his belt, pulled the pin and popped the spoon. The Briton waited two seconds and then hurled the grenade through the window. The M-26 exploded outside. The building trembled from the blast. The grenade also had a negative effect on the terrorists.

John Trent fired his Remington shotgun at the enemy ninja. Buckshot blasted the wall behind the press. Trent had not expected to hit the Japanese killer, but he had hoped to get a reaction from the ninja. Trent had little combat experience, but he knew ninjutsu. If he could force the enemy into action, he might be able to turn the tables.

However, Trent did not see any movement at the press. Suddenly another Iranian terrorist darted through the doorway. Trent immediately swung his shotgun toward the new threat and squeezed the trigger. A twelve-gauge burst of Number Four pellets slammed into the Iranian and pounded his torso into tenderized meat. His body was thrown back through the doorway and into two more terrorists who were about to charge into the room.

"More company outside!" Encizo shouted to his teammates.

The terrorists were fanatics, and most were unfamiliar with combat, but it would not take long for them to realize that the easiest and safest way to deal with their opponents was to simply blow up the printing shop or lob in grenades. If the Phoenix Force commandos did not act quickly, the newspaper building would be their tomb.

Calvin James and David McCarter both acted on the same bright idea. The men pulled pins from grenades and threw the miniblasters through the windows at the enemy lurking outside. Explosions roared in response.

Katz took an SAS flash-bang grenade from his belt and pulled the pin as he prepared to throw the concussion blaster through the open doorway. Without warning, a powerful grip seized the Israeli's left arm and pulled it onto the frame of the press. The grenade fell from his hand and rolled into the middle of the room.

McCarter quickly broke cover and dashed toward the grenade. He kicked the SAS blaster and sent it flying through the open doorway. The Briton dropped to the floor and covered his head. A split second later, the concussion grenade exploded. The screams of agony coming from the outside proved that his effort had not been in vain.

Katzenelenbogen was engaged in his own personal struggle for survival. The enemy ninja had seized the Israeli from behind. He slashed a tanto knife at Katz's throat, but the Phoenix Force commander raised his prosthesis to protect his neck. The knife blade struck the steel hooks instead of flesh.

Katz rammed an elbow back at his opponent. The blow struck the ninja's masked face. Katz whirled to face his attacker. The ninja held the knife in his right hand and the Beretta chatterbox in his left. Katz's boot lashed out and kicked the machine pistol from his opponent's hand.

The ninja feinted a stab at Katz's face. The Israeli weaved away from the knife blade, but he realized the move was an attempt to set him up for the next stroke. Japanese knife fighters and fencers favor cuts over thrusts. The ninja raised the tanto and slashed at Katz's neck. The Israeli war-horse dodged the cut and swiftly chopped the side of his hand across his opponent's wrist. The knife fell from the killer's hand.

The ninja lashed a foot-sword kick at Katz's abdomen. The Phoenix commander doubled up with a groan as his opponent drew a manrikigusari from his gi. The Japanese assassin held the chain by its weighted ends and swung it in a loop at Katz's head. He obviously planned to use the weapon as a garrote to throttle the Israeli.

Katz raised his right arm. The prosthesis blocked the chain. The ninja pulled the ends of the manrikigusari and wrapped the chain around Katz's artificial limb. He hooked an elbow stroke at the Israeli's temple, but Katz had already drawn his SIG Sauer P-226 from shoulder leather and jammed the muzzle into the ninja's solar plexus. Katz triggered the pistol as the elbow slammed into the side of his head. White pain filled the Israeli's skull as the roar of the pistol resounded in the room.

The chain dragged Katz with it as it was pulled forward and down. The dazed Israeli fired another 9 mm slug before he landed on the ninja's chest. Almond-shaped eyes stared up at him. The orbs were glazed and lifeless. Katz's prosthesis was still trapped in the chain. The ninja held the ends of the manrikigusari in a frozen death grip.

"Yakov," Encizo called as he hurried to Katz. "Are you okay?"

"I could use an aspirin," the Israeli replied, untangling the chain from his right arm. "I'm lucky he didn't just shoot me in the back of the head. Guess he thought he could take me quietly with a knife."

"You've got a nasty bruise, Yakov," James remarked. "Lucky the temple is surrounded by lots of solid bone. Better let me see to it."

"It'll have to wait," Katz replied, returning his P-226 to the shoulder holster under his right arm. "We've got to get out of here before the terrorists hit this place with a full force and blow it all to hell."

The Israeli gathered up his Uzi. McCarter removed a spent magazine from his Ingram and fed a fresh thirty-two-round mag into the well. Encizo glanced at the closet door. He did not see any bullet holes. The Cuban wondered if Le Larunbat had been killed or injured during the battle. Poor bastard might have had a heart attack, locked in a tiny dark room with his hands bound behind his back while forced to listen to the roar of guns and explosions all around him. Encizo was tempted to check on the Basque prisoner, but there was no time to spare.

Phoenix Force headed for the door. The ground beyond the printing house was littered with dead terrorists. Their bodies had been torn to pieces by the grenades the commandos had lobbed at the unseen attackers. The scene was grisly.

"Jesus," James muttered. "I pity the poor dudes who have to clean this mess up/'

"If we don't get out of here, we'll be part of it," Encizo added grimly as he adjusted the shoulder strap of his MP-5.

14

"Those infidel butchers are still alive!" Mohammed Radmeni declared as he slammed the receiver of the field telephone into its cradle. "This time they hit the newspaper printing house! They managed to get from the northwest wall to the southeast corner without any of our people spotting them!"

"And that means they're not far from our position," Ali Hussan Kamal remarked as he studied a large colored map of the Vatican. "We've got about thirty followers stationed at the headquarters of the Vatican Security Services in that area. Order them to find these invaders and destroy them."

"They already tried that," Radmeni hissed through clenched teeth. "That's who the infidels just had a fight with. As far as Kollassi can tell, the swine slaughtered the lot of them."

"We'll reinforce our defenses then and double our efforts to find the enemy..." the Syrian began.

"No!" Radmeni declared. "We use the earthquake! These infidel scum knew what the consequences would be if they dared to attack us. I say it is time for us to strike back, swiftly and without mercy!"

"And commit mass suicide in the process?" Kamal scoffed. "The earthquake device is the last resort, Mohammed. We have not reached so desperate a state. True, we... I underestimated the threat of the enemy. They're far more dangerous than I thought. But let's not panic. This is a test, sent to us by Allah..."

"You only speak of Allah to try to gain my cooperation," Radmeni snapped. "You are an atheist, no better than those Russian Communists who supplied us with most of our weapons. They don't care about our cause, only that we conduct our revolution against the Western nations. You don't care either. Your only interest is in making a profit from this affair."

"Perhaps that was how I felt when we first began this mission, Mohammed," Kamal replied, trying to sound humble and repentant. "But I'm beginning to wonder if you and the others aren't right. The goal of the Jihad is to serve the god of our fathers. Our people have survived because of our faith. I'm not callous enough to dismiss that, Mohammed."

The Syrian shook his head sadly. "But I'm not going to allow you to ruin an opportunity to claim a great fortune that can be used to finance the holy war. The money will enable Iranian soldiers to continue the war against Iraq, and it will finance Syrian attacks against the Jews in Israel. We can feed our hungry children and educate the illiterate so they may read the Koran and come to know the words of the great prophet for which you were named."

"Your tongue is like a sleeping serpent," Radmeni told him. "I trust it only when it remains still."

"Trust me a little while longer, my brother," Kamal urged. "I have a plan that will certainly neutralize the band of hired killers who have disrupted our plans of glory. Hear me out before you judge me."

"I'm listening," the Iranian replied simply.

"The infidels are trying to weaken us from within by sending this squad of murderers," Kamal began. "Let's show them that we too can use the tactics of terror. Contact the Italians and the Americans. Contact the damned pope. Tell them we demand that they call off their butchers or the hostages will pay with their blood."

"Your plan may be worth listening to," Radmeni said with a smile. "Tell me more."

"We'll take ten hostages," Kamal continued. "We'll march them to the courtyard of the library and shoot them unless the invaders surrender within the next half hour. If they fail to do so, ten more hostages will be executed. And ten more and ten more until the assassins surrender."

"What if they don't?" Radmeni demanded.

"Then we'll keep killing hostages until none are left," the Syrian answered. "And then we'll create the earthquake so more of the infidels may die with us."

"It's a good plan," Radmeni decided. "It puts the responsibility of the lives of the hostages in the hands of our enemies. If they fail to act, the death of the prisoners will be their fault, not ours. There is justice and honor in your plan, my friend."

"I'm glad you approve," Kamal said as he bowed slightly. "Shall I select our first group for execution?"

"No," Radmeni replied with a cruel smile. His fingers stroked the haft of one of the knives sheathed on his belt. "I'll do that personally."

Terrorists swarmed over the southeast wing, searching for the mysterious commando team that had struck at the l'Osservatore Romano printing house. Iranian and Basque troops probed the Palazzo del Belvedere and the workshops where the restoration of tapestries was done. They searched the streets and spaces between buildings, but they failed to find the men of Phoenix Force.

The terrorists were unaware that their quarry had already moved to a new position and that the commandos now watched them from behind the great Doric pillars of the Bernini colonnade in St. Peter's Square. The bodies of two terrorist sentries lay in the shadows. Their throats had been slit from ear to ear.

"We'd better split up," Katz whispered. "We've got three main targets and not much time to neutralize them. Gary, you're our explosives expert. I'll need you to help me take out the earthquake device."

"You got me," Manning assured him.

"Rafael, you're our best man for breaking into any building," the Israeli continued. "Calvin, you're the unit medic. You two concentrate on the hostages. It's likely that some of them will need medical assistance. How are your supplies, Calvin?"

"I've got a full kit," James replied. "If it isn't enough, I'll have to improvise. Working conditions can't be any worse than they were in Nam."

"So John and I go after the terrorist headquarters?" McCarter asked with a wolfish grin.

"I thought you'd like that," Katz told him. "But don't get carried away. You'll be badly outnumbered."

"That's all right," the Briton said with a shrug. "That makes it a fair fight."

"Keep in mind that the terrorists are fanatics," the Phoenix Force commander said. "If the leaders think they're cornered, they might radio their people to kill the hostages or detonate the earthquake device. Give us time to get to those objectives so we can defuse a tragedy before it can happen."

"All right," McCarter sighed. "How if John and I cause a little trouble for the enemy and give you chaps a little elbow room? We'll draw their attention while you move out. How's that sound?"

"Could we talk about that plan?" John Trent inquired, a trace of apprehension in his voice.

"Come on, mate," the Briton urged. "It'll be fun."

"Sure," Trent muttered. "Okay. Let's do it."

"Hey, David," James told McCarter. "Try not to get John killed. After all, he'd probably like to return to San Francisco in one piece instead of inside a pine box."

"I knew the job was dangerous when I took it," Trent said dryly. "Don't worry about me, Calvin."

"All right," Katz announced. "Let's do it. After we take out the earthquake threat and free the hostages, everybody head for the Borgia section to help David and John. Try not to shoot each other."

Katzenelenbogen and Gary Manning moved along the colonnade, heading toward St. Peter's Basilica. The others faced an immediately greater threat because their objectives were closer to the enemy patrols that were still stalking Phoenix force. This did not seem to bother David McCarter. The Briton hummed softly as he attached a foot-long sound suppressor to the threaded barrel of his Ingram M-10 machine pistol.

"John and I will see if we can't keep these blokes busy for a while," McCarter declared. "You fellows will know what to do then."

"Yeah," Encizo assured him. "Good luck."

McCarter and Trent moved along the Bernini colonnade as far as the section known as the Patrimony of the Holy Father. Trent unslung the black bag from his shoulder as he gazed up a stone wall that extended between the Patrimony and another building. McCarter quickly consulted a small Vatican map with the assistance of his infrared goggles.

"Right," the Briton whispered. "The Courtyard of the Swiss Guards should be on the other side."

"Yeah," Trent rasped as he opened the bag. "I wonder who we'll find there tonight."

The American ninja removed two pairs of metal bands with spikes and straps. He attached the shuko to his feet, placing the spikes at the ball of each foot and binding the straps to his ankles. The ashiko were strapped to his wrists. The curved steel spikes jutted from his palms like the claws of a big cat. Trent slipped the bag over his shoulder and handed his shotgun to McCarter.

The Phoenix ninja slapped a palm to the wall and clawed at the stone with his ashiko. His other hand struck higher, and he stabbed the spiked shuko of his right foot against the hard surface. He pushed with his legs and pulled with his arms, continuing the process steadily until he scaled the wall.

He lay across the summit and looked down into the compound. It appeared deserted at first glance, but the sound of footfalls announced that at least two Iranian terrorists were patrolling the area near the wall. Trent stifled a gasp of surprise. He was amazed that the pair had not heard the scrape of metal on stone when he had scaled the wall. Neither Iranian gazed up as they passed under Trent's position.

The Colt .45 would alert other terrorists, and Trent could not wield his sword properly with the ashiko strapped to his hands. There was no time to plan tactics, no time to consider the risk involved or to weigh what could go wrong. Trent leaped from the wall and pounced on the unsuspecting terrorists like a leopard attacking its prey.

Both feet struck one Iranian in the upper back. The spikes pierced the nape of his neck and severed the man's spinal cord. The force of the fatal blow drove the man to the ground as Trent lunged toward the second terrorist. The sentry turned. Trent crashed into him, and both men fell to the ground. The Iranian's AK-47 was pinned under Trent's body. He desperately reached for the handle of a knife on his belt.

Trent slammed a palm into the Iranian's face. Ashiko talons punctured orbital bone. The claw pierced an eyeball and sunk deep into the socket. The terrorist experienced a split second of unbelievable pain and then fell into oblivion. The man was almost certainly dead, but Trent was not about to take any chances. He ripped the guy's throat with his steel claws.

John Trent's stomach began to churn. His training and discipline were the only things that kept him from running from the grisly corpse to puke his guts out. Instead, Trent moved to his first opponent and buried his ashiko spikes in the hollow of the man's throat to be certain that both sentries were dead. He unstrapped the bloodied claws from his right hand and took the bag from his shoulder.

The Phoenix ninja opened the container and removed a twenty-foot nylon mountaineer's rope. He tied one end to the thigh of a corpse and hurled the line over the top of the wall. Trent knelt on the dead man's chest to anchor the body while David McCarter hauled himself up the rope from the other side of the wall.

"God," Trent whispered as he pulled down the scarf mask to draw air deeply into his lungs. He smelled blood. The copper-salt taste of death lingered in his mouth.

The corpse moved under Trent. Its leg jerked upward as the rope pulled taut. The ninja tried to concentrate on the courtyard where more terrorists were likely to arrive at any moment. He unstrapped the other ashiko from his left hand and tossed it aside. Trent could not put the claws on again. Not right away.

McCarter jumped down from the wall. He folded his legs and rolled to break his fall. The Briton noticed the paleness of Trent's face as he knelt on the hideous lump of meat that had formerly been a human being.

"You had to do it, John," McCarter whispered, well aware of what Trent felt at the moment.

"I know," Trent replied softly as he rose from the body of his victim.

McCarter prepared to return the Remington shotgun to Trent. He suddenly dropped the weapon and turned toward the group of figures that had marched into the courtyard. Half a dozen terrorists, five dressed in gray ninja uniforms, stared back at the Briton. McCarter seized the M-10 that hung from a shoulder strap and fired from the hip. Flame spat from the muzzle of the silencer along with the muffled report of the suppressed weapon. Three 9 mm rounds ripped into the chest and face of the closest terrorist. An Iranian armed with an American CAR-15 carbine, pitched backward into the Japanese hoodlums.

Three more parabellums slammed into the nearest enemy ninja. The man clawed at his chest and belly, staggered forward and fell dead. The other four Asian terrorists froze in their tracks. Two of them raised their hands in surrender. The other two hesitantly reached for the hilts of their swords. None of them carried firearms.

"Chotto mate kudasai!" Trent snapped as he stepped forward, his right hand resting on the hilt of his own sword.

"What's going on?" McCarter asked. "These blokes aren't real ninja, are they?"

"I'll talk to them," Trent replied as he continued to approach the group.

"Haaii!" a gray-clad figure cried as he drew his sword, raised it overhead and attacked.

Trent's ninja-do streaked from its scabbard in a cross-draw as he stepped forward. The blade sliced into the enemy ninja's chest before the man could complete his sword stroke. The mortally wounded Japanese was on his way to the ground as Trent raised his sword in a two-hand grip.

Another enemy ninja struck at Trent with his sword. The blade missed as Trent weaved aside and slashed a quick diagonal stroke. The American's blade cut the attacker on the side of the neck, severing his carotid and jugular. Blood splurted from the lethal wound as the Asian fanatic tumbled backward, barely missing one of his comrades.

A third ninja terrorist swung his sword at Trent's head. The American's ninja-do blocked his opponent's weapon. Trent's left hand suddenly slapped the unsharpened edge of his sword. He pivoted with the movement. The blade cut from an unexpected direction, and the Japanese goon did not have time to counter or dodge. Sharp steel struck the enemy ninja under the chin. He dropped his sword and staggered backward, clamping both hands to the bloody fountain that flowed from his slit throat.

The fourth and last Asian terrorist tried to attack Trent from behind as he swung his sword at the American's neck. Trent's right arm rose so that the blade of his knife guarded the back of his neck. Steel sang against steel when the enemy's sword struck. He raised his weapon for another stroke, but Trent spun about in a low sweep. His sword cut the terrorist across the abdomen. The man doubled up in agony as Trent raised his ninja-do. The blade sliced into the wounded man's neck, severing his head, which bounced across the pavement as blood gushed from the gap between the shoulders of the decapitated corpse.

"You were going to talk to them, eh?" McCarter mused. "They tell you anything?"

"Yes," Trent replied as he flicked blood from the blade of his sword and returned it to its scabbard. "They weren't real ninja."

"Well," the Briton said with a shrug. "That's certainly useful information."

"The real ninja sent these mere students as guinea pigs," Trent explained as he picked up his shotgun. "That means they're totally unprincipled and ruthless."

"We sort of figured that out already," McCarter remarked. "This has been fun, but we'd better get back to work."

The Briton and the American moved into the shadows along the wall of the Patrimony and headed for the opening of the courtyard. Terrorists were darting from one building to another. The enemy had heard the sounds of a muffled battle, but they had not been able to pinpoint the exact area because no shots had been fired.

However, several armed figures had decided to check the Courtyard of the Swiss Guards while the others tried to find out if the fight had occurred in one of the neighboring buildings. McCarter turned to Trent and nodded. The ninja returned the gesture.

They waited for the patrol to draw closer. Then McCarter stepped forward, the M-10 in his right fist and an SAS concussion grenade in his left. The Briton opened fire on the group. One-handed firing of a machine pistol was not terribly accurate, but McCarter was an expert with the M-10, and the range was close enough to compensate for any lack of accuracy. Nine-millimeter slugs sprayed the terrorists. Three enemies collapsed with crimson-soaked shirts. Two others screamed as parabellums tore burning tunnels through arms and shoulders.

McCarter allowed the Ingram to dangle from its shoulder strap as he yanked the pin from his flash-bang grenade. Trent opened fire on the surviving members of the terrorist scout team. The Remington bellowed as twelve-gauge loads of buckshot pounded the remaining fanatics into bloodied slabs of lifeless flesh and shattered bone. A Basque terrorist managed to charge past a volley of shotgun pellets, although several buckshot rounds ripped into his arm.

The Basque zealot used his staff to try to knock Trent's shotgun from his grasp. Trent raised the Remington and blocked the wooden pole with the shotgun barrel. He held the gun with his left hand as the right drew the ninja-do. The blade slashed upward in a smooth, fast cut. The Basque terrorist screamed and fell backward as the sword sliced open his armpit. He dropped the staff and dropped to the ground as blood flowed from the terrible gash under his arm.

McCarter hurled the grenade at the terrorists beyond the courtyard. The concussion blast sent several opponents onto the cobblestones. Several others dropped to their knees, clutching their heads in agony as blood oozed from their nostrils and ears.

Headlights suddenly cast a harsh beam across the battle zone. A Fiat bolted from a passage near the Tower of Nicholas V and headed straight toward McCarter and Trent. As if in a scene from a movie, a terrorist leaned out of the passenger window and fired a Skorpion MP at the pair. The bullets did not even come close to McCarter and Trent.

The Briton raised his Ingram and triggered a volley. High-velocity slugs punched through the windshield. The driver released the steering wheel and clamped both hands to his face. It had been shredded by shards of glass and punctured by a 9 mm projectile. The car swung out of control, and the machine gunner hurtled out of the window of the Fiat. He crashed headfirst to the ground and tumbled across the pavement.

The Fiat skidded past McCarter and Trent to crash into the side of the Tipografia Poliglotta Vaticana. The sturdy brick walls held; the front end of the car was crunched into a metal accordion. McCarter and Trent dashed to the cover of the tower as shouts announced the arrival of more terrorists.

"Have one," the Briton invited, tossing an M-26 fragmentation grenade to Trent.

"Gee, thanks," Trent replied dryly. The ninja had a fundamental knowledge of explosives, but he did not like them. "What should I do with it?"

"Throw it in that direction," the Briton replied. "You'll know when."

McCarter tilted his head to the south, but his eyes looked north as he pulled the pin from another frag grenade. Three seconds later several terrorists appeared from around the corner of the main post office. The Briton lobbed his M-26 at the group.

Trent forced himself not to watch McCarter or the enemies lo the north. He kept his eyes focused south and his finger hooked in the ring of the grenade pin. Suddenly four or five enemy warriors darted from the Tipografia Poliglotta and made for the remains of the Fiat. Trent yanked out the pin and threw the grenade at them. The M-26 hit the ground and rolled under the car before it exploded. Chunks of mutilated terrorists accompanied the metallic debris as flaming gasoline splashed across the cobblestones.

"You knew what they'd do," Trent told McCarter, impressed by the Briton's prediction.

"Standard fork attack," McCarter replied, loading a fresh magazine into his M-10. "Any good chess player could have figured it out. Frontal attack fails so you try to hit your opponent from two directions simultaneously."

"What do you think they'll do next?" Trent inquired.

"Let's not hang around to find out," McCarter answered. "We promised to provide a distraction, and I think we've succeeded. Time to retreat to the courtyard and over the wall before they hit us with grenades, rocket launchers and anything else that goes 'boom.'"

The pair jogged to the Courtyard of the Swiss Guards. They moved along the wall of the Patrimony. Suddenly four armed terrorists leaped from the courtyard. McCarter and Trent dived to the pavement as the enemy opened fire. Bullets sliced air above them. Trent hastily plucked a metsubushi from a pocket and hurled it at the group. The eggshell burst, igniting flash powder, black pepper and metal filings. It was the type of grenade Trent was accustomed to.

The terrorists screamed. They had been blinded by the unexpected burst of light and cloud of stinging fragments. McCarter's Ingram unleashed a merciless salvo into the group. Three tumbled backward when their torsos were ripped open by 9 mm fury. The fourth shuffled clear as he pawed at his eyes with one hand and held an assault rifle in the other. He cleared his vision in time to see Trent's sword descend like a guillotine. The sharp edge struck the crown of his skull and split his forehead to the bridge of his nose. Trent yanked the blade free and allowed his opponent's lifeless body to fall to the ground.

"Well," McCarter began, breathing hard more from stress than exertion. "That was a surprise."

"Can we get out of here before we get any more?" Trent asked urgently.

"Bloody right," the Briton agreed.

15

Four Iranian terrorists stood by the stairs to the Museo Chiaramonti. They had been ordered to stay at their post, although dozens of others were rushing in the direction of the gunshots and explosions that had been heard coming from the south wing. The flickering light of a fire was visible in the distance.

The four men were not happy about standing by while others plunged into battle. They were soldiers of the Islamic Jihad, the war against the infidels. Even in death they would find glory if they died fighting the enemies of Allah and the Ayatollah. They could not understand why they should be denied the opportunity to confront the Western heretics on the field of battle. What glory was to be found in observing rather than in acting?

"Excuse me, man," a voice called softly in English.

None of the four Iranians understood the language, but rhey turned sharply and stared at Calvin James. The tall black man stood at the foot of the stairs with an open map of the Vatican in his left hand. The unfolded paper covered his chest as he peered over the top of the map and grinned at the terrorists.

"I can't find any rest rooms on this thing," he announced. "Where do I go to take a leak?"

The terrorists were too startled to respond immediately. A split second passed before the first Iranian raised his rifle. A hole suddenly appeared in the center of James's map. The terrorist was pitched backward by the force of a 185-grain projectile that crashed into the man's chest. The Iranians had barely heard the muted report of the silenced pistol. The throbbing of the pulse behind each man's ear rose above any other sound.

James discarded the map to reveal that he held the Colt Combat Commander, with its nine-inch sound suppressor, in his right fist. He gripped the pistol in the two-hand Weaver position and aimed it at another terrorist. The terrorists barely glanced at their slain comrade as they desperately tried to raise their weapons.

A spasm of metallic coughs erupted from behind the terrorists. Nine-millimeter slugs smashed into the backs of two men. They dropped their weapons and fell forward to tumble down the marble stairs, which did little extra damage since their backbones and spinal cords had already been severed. The fourth and last terrorist turned to see Rafael Encizo with the silencer-equipped H&K MP-5 in his fists.

The Iranian did not know what to do. Should he try to shoot the black man or the one with the machine pistol? Should he try to surrender or pray to Allah for salvation in the next life? Dying for the Jihad no longer seemed glorious, and the reality of facing death lacked any of the romance of his leaders' propaganda slogans. However, his decision was made for him. He died. Calvin James blasted a well-placed .45 caliber round through the Iranian's forehead.

"These dudes ain't doing shit for the tourist trade," James remarked as he ran up the stairs.

"Neither is the security department at the Athens airport," Encizo replied with a shrug.

Suddenly one of the doors opened. A curious terrorist poked his head outside. Encizo quickly bashed the steel frame of his H&K into the man's face. The blow propelled the hapless terrorist backward into the room, where he spread-eagled on his back. Encizo lashed a boot between the man's splayed legs. The terrorist shrieked in agony and fainted.

Another terrorist, seated behind a desk that had formerly been part of an information center for visitors to the museum, gasped something in Farsi or Arabic. Encizo did not know either language well enough to differentiate between them. However, he did not need a translation to understand what the terrorist intended to do as he reached for the M-3 submachine gun on his desk.

Encizo swung his MP-5 at the terrorist and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. The machine pistol had jammed. The terrorist at the desk picked up his M-3 and swung the barrel toward Encizo.

The Cuban's hand streaked to the shoulder straps of his holster rig where he plucked a star-shaped shaken from a rivet. His arm whipped across his body and released the shaken in a throw not unlike a Frisbee toss. The star whirled across the room and struck the gunman's right forearm. He howled with pain as the sharp tines stabbed flesh.

The terrorist pried the shaken from his wounded limb. Blood trickled from the punctures in his arm. Encizo did not give the guy time to recover. He charged forward and slapped his hand on the desk. Encizo used it for a brace as he launched himself over the top. He sailed feet first into the terrorist's chest. Both men went to the floor, although the Cuban landed on top of his stunned opponent. Encizo chopped the side of his hand across the bridge of the terrorist's nose, then punched the man in the head to be certain he was out cold.

James closed the door and watched the hallways while Encizo bound the unconscious terrorist with riot cuffs. The Cuban considered gagging the man but hesitated. He had broken the guy's nose. If he gagged the terrorist while he was unconscious and unable to breathe through his nose, the man might suffocate.

The guy was a terrorist and a fanatic. If the situation were reversed, he probably would not have cared if Encizo suffocated. That is, if he did not simply cut the Cuban's throat. However, the situation was not reversed and Rafael Encizo was not a murderer. He stuffed the gag in his pocket and stepped from behind the desk.

"Well, the hostages are supposed to be at the Museo Pio-Clementino," James remarked, consulting his map. "That means we head east... I think."

"That sounds encouraging," Encizo muttered as he inspected his H&K machine pistol. "You know, this damn thing jammed on me a minute ago and almost got me killed. Before we go any farther I'd like to know what's wrong with it."

"Maybe you'd better take a weapon from one of the dead terrorists," James suggested. "They don't need them, and the way we're burning up ammo on this mission it might not be a bad idea to do a bit of borrowing."

"Yeah," Encizo said. "Only problem is they're using all sorts of guns. American, Russian, Czech, Italian and who knows what else. And they have different calibers too. Everything from seven-point-six..."

The Cuban stopped in midsentence. He stared at his H&K and smiled, shaking his head at the same time. James had never found anything amusing about a weapon jamming before. He wondered if they had released Encizo a little early from the hospital.

"The safety catch was on," Encizo explained with a chuckle that combined amusement, irony and relief. "Must have happened when I slugged that clown in the face with the gun. The catch was pushed over when the frame hit him."

'Then there was no malfunction," the black warrior sighed. "Good. We can get back to hunting for the hostages."

Neither man had much opportunity to admire the reception hall of the Museo Chiaramonti. Intricate cherubim had been carved into the walls. Enormous oil paintings of the Sermon on the Mount, the Crucifixion and Mary with the Christ Child hung on the walls. A display case contained a solid gold crucifix adorned with diamonds and rubies. A tapestry depicted the ordeal of St. Lawrence, the Christian martyr who had been tortured and executed on a grill.

The two Phoenix fighters moved through the hall toward the adjacent museums. Three figures appeared from the mouth of a corridor. Encizo immediately sprayed the trio with two bursts of three-round messages of death. Parabellums stitched the upper torsos of two terrorists. Only one man managed to utter a cry of alarm before he collapsed onto the marble floor.

Calvin James triggered his Commander twice. Both .45 slugs plowed into the chest of the third terrorist. The impact picked the man up, hurled him three feet and slammed his body against a pedestal supporting a bust of Pope Gregory V. The dead man rocked the foundations. Gregory tipped over and crashed to the floor. The stone head split in two, sending pieces of marble in every direction.

Two shapes suddenly charged from a doorway near the Phoenix pair. James swung his pistol toward the attackers as a long pole with a curved head lashed out at him. Wood struck metal, deflecting the aim of the Commander. James fired the weapon a split instant before it slipped from his fingers. The bullet ricocheted against marble as the Basque terrorist lunged with his shepherd's staff.

The other attacker was also a Basque zealot armed with a staff. The crook of his weapon snared Encizo's MP-5 and pulled the barrel toward James. Encizo dropped his H&K out of fear that he would accidentally shoot his friend. The Basque executed a low sweep with his staff and hooked Encizo behind the left knee.

The Cuban's leg buckled, and he fell backward into the display case. The Basque terrorist swung his staff like an axe. The hard wood shaft whistled past Encizo's head as the Phoenix commando pushed away from the case. Glass shattered, and the display case burst. The terrorist held his staff in combat readiness as he turned to face Encizo.

Encizo's left hand suddenly seized the shaft between the terrorist's fists. The Cuban's right hand drew the Cold Steel Tanto from its sheath. He lunged with the big steel knife. The point pierced the Basque's solar plexus. Encizo shoved hard, driving the sharp blade upward. Skin and muscle were severed as the Tanto cut deep into the chest cavity. The heart and major arteries were destroyed by the deadly thrust. The terrorist opened his mouth to scream, but the only sound he uttered was a faint, liquid death rattle.

Calvin James ducked beneath the lashing staff of the other Basque assailant. The terrorist altered the stroke and swooped the crook of the staff toward James's neck. The black warrior raised a shoulder to block the hook before it could secure a bone-crushing hold. He quickly grabbed the staff with both hands and shoved it upward.

The Basque struggled to hold on to his weapon. James promptly snapped a kick to his opponent's groin. The terrorist gasped and folded at the middle. The Phoenix fighter's left hand slashed a karate chop to the guy's wrist and jerked the staff from his opponent's grasp.

The furious Basque lunged and wrapped both arms around James's midsection. He locked his hands together at the small of the warrior's back and squeezed, exerting fierce pressure under the ribs. The Basque was a strong son of a bitch. He lifted James easily and squeezed harder, trying to crush the breath out of the black crusader.

James gasped for air, inhaling as much as possible. Then he clapped his open palms against his opponent's ears. The Basque groaned, but refused to release the bear hug. James swatted the goon's ears again. A howl of agony announced that one of the Basque's eardrums had been ruptured. The terrorist flung James aside and grabbed his head with both hands.

Calvin James scrambled up from the floor and whirled into a tae kwon do wheel kick. The back of his heel slammed into the Basque's lower abdomen. The guy doubled up, and James whipped a backhanded fist at his face. The blow snapped the Basque's head back. James immediately slashed the side of his hand across his opponent's exposed throat.

The terrorist's windpipe was crushed by the stroke. He staggered backward, choking on his own blood. James did not take any chances with the formidable Basque. He leaped forward and kicked his opponent's skull. His boot caught the terrorist in the left temple. The Basque fell to the floor and completed the final stages of dying.

"Jesus," Calvin James rasped, gasping for breath. "These guys are as bad as the ninja. Where the hell did they come from?"

"That doesn't really matter now," Encizo replied as he retrieved his H&K machine pistol.

"I guess not," James admitted with a shrug. "I just hope it doesn't happen again."

The Phoenix pair moved through the halls of the Museo Chiaramonti toward the building where the hostages were held prisoner. The sound of an amplified voice stopped the warriors.

"What's going on?" James whispered to his partner.

"I don't know," Encizo admitted as he moved toward the sound. "I only know a handful of words in Italian. Just enough to order the right kind of pasta."

The pair approached the west wall and listened as a voice translated the previous announcement into English.

"To the invading gangsters of the imperialist forces of the West," Radmeni's amplified voice began. "If you do not surrender within fifteen minutes, ten hostages will be executed. If you fail to heed this warning, we will be forced to execute ten more hostages every half hour until you surrender to us."

"Son of a bitch," James rasped, shaking his head. "Should have guessed these bastards would pull a stunt like this."

"We did," Encizo reminded him. "But we thought we could take out the enemy before they could get around it."

"The governments of Italy, the United States and Britain deny that they sent you on this mission against the Islamic Jihad," Radmeni's voice continued. "They have abandoned you to your fate, just as they abandoned the citizens of their own nations whom we hold hostage. We have contacted them, and they still claim they are unable to order you to surrender. That is how little they care about your lives or the lives of the hostages. Surrender to us and we shall be merciful."

"Don't you love a guy who ends a speech with a joke?" James muttered. "What are we going to do?"

"Pretty stupid for us to surrender," Encizo replied. "But we can't stand by and let them kill innocent people."

"Think we can reach the Museo Pio-Clementino and find the hostages before the terrorists march them out to a firing squad?"

"I doubt it," Encizo answered. "Even if we could, we'd probably walk right into a trap."

"So what do we do?" James wondered aloud. "Try to find the firing squad?"

"Makes sense," the Cuban said with a nod. "They'll probably have the firing squad outside, but they'll want to maintain security."

"That means they'll shoot the hostages in one of the courtyards," James remarked, checking the map. "Either the Pigna or the Belvedere Courtyard."

"The Pigna or Pinecone Courtyard is the closest," Encizo noted as he leaned over James's shoulder to observe the map. "If we can get to the roof, we should be able to check the courtyard. If they don't have the hostages there, we can climb from the museum roof to the top of the Vatican Library and look down into the Belvedere Courtyard."

"Yeah," James agreed, folding the map. "But you know, the terrorists might figure we'll try to hit the firing squad. They might have an ambush waiting for us."

"That's a fact," Encizo admitted. "I think we should do it anyway."

"Hell," James said with a wiry grin. "We wouldn't be doing this sort of thing if we wanted to play it safe. Let's do it."

16

"Yakov," Gary Manning whispered to the Phoenix Force commander as the two men crept among the orchards beyond the world-famous Pontifical Academy of Services. "These terrorists aren't bluffing. They'll kill the hostages."

"Unfortunately that is a distant possibility," Katzenelenbogen replied softly as he peered through a pair of infrared goggles. "But we can't do anything about that right now."

"Damn it, Yakov," the Canadian hissed through clenched teeth. "This goes against my grain..."

"The others are in a better position to help the hostages," Katz insisted. "They understand English. They heard the message the same as we did, and if they can save the hostages, they'll do so. Right now we have to take care of the earthquake device. It poses a threat not only to the hostages but to the entire Vatican and the people of Rome. That makes it top priority, Gary."

"You're right," Manning reluctantly admitted. "But I wish we could help those poor devils."

"We'll pull the plug on the earthquake contraption and then join the others to rescue the hostages and put the terrorists out of business for good," the Israeli commando promised.

Katz understood Manning's frustration. Ten people in front of a firing squad was an immediate and obvious threat. An alleged tunnel loaded with explosives that mightsuccessfully trigger an earthquake seemed a bit vague. Yet Manning himself had supported the feasibility of such a device. They could not afford to ignore the threat.

The sound of footfalls drew their attention to a pathway that snaked through the orchard. Four terrorists were moving toward the Phoenix Force warriors. None of them seemed to be paying much attention to their surroundings. Two were Iranians and two were Basques. Each pair conversed in their native language.

Careless, Katz thought. People in a dangerous profession can not afford to be careless. One might call it a mortal sin. Katz scanned the area to be certain the four terrorists were alone. He turned to Manning and tilted his head toward the enemy. The Canadian warrior nodded.

The Phoenix pair stalked their quarry, silently and swiftly. They stepped lightly across the grassy turf, avoiding fallen twigs and leaves. The commandos used the natural cover of trees and bushes to conceal their presence as they drew closer to the unsuspecting terrorists.

Katz bounded forward with the SIG Sauer autoloader in his left fist. The Israeli hammered the butt of the pistol into the base of a Basque's neck. The terrorist uttered a slight groan. His eyes rolled up into his skull, and he collapsed. Katz caught the Basque before the unconscious man could hit the ground.

He shoved the senseless figure into the startled Iranian who had turned when he had heard the Basque moan. Katz used the unconscious man for a battering ram and knocked the Iranian to the ground. The stunned and disoriented terrorist fumbled with the shoulder strap of his AK-47 as he tried to unsling the weapon. Katz stepped forward and kicked the Iranian in the face before he could use the rifle.

Manning seized the other Basque terrorist from behind and slammed his fist into the mastoid bone behind the guy's right ear. The Canadian wrenched the shepherd's staff from the Basque's grasp and quickly lashed the pole at the remaining Iranian flunky.

The hardwood shaft chopped the Teheran-bred terrorist between shoulder and neck. His collarbone snapped from the force of the blow. The terrorist fell to one knee as his face contorted in pain. Manning delivered an abrupt sedative. He clubbed the guy across the skull with the staff.

The Basque had recovered sufficiently from the punch to his mastoid to launch himself at the burly Canadian commando. He grabbed Manning from behind and snaked an arm around the Phoenix fighter's throat. Manning immediately swung the staff over his own head and flogged the shaft across his opponent's back. The Basque groaned. Manning hit him again.

The arm moved from his throat as the Basque tried to ward off further blows from the staff. However, Manning discarded the weapon and rammed an elbow into the Basque's ribs. The Canadian quickly seized his opponent's arm and yanked him forward. Manning jammed his shoulder into the terrorist's armpit and raised him off the ground. The Canadian bent his waist and pulled hard. The terrorist was hurled over Manning's shoulder, and he crashed on his back. Manning kicked him in the side of the head to make certain the Basque would be resting for a while.

Katz unslung his Uzi and braced the weapon across his prosthesis. The Israeli stood guard, watching for enemy troops, while Manning bound the unconscious terrorists' wrists with plastic riot cuffs. He gagged the four vanquished opponents and used their own belts to bind their ankles.

"Think we should drag these guys into the bushes to hide them?" Manning inquired.

"No need really," Katz replied. "I don't think anyone else is heading in this direction right now. If they do, they'll probably hear these fellows rustling about anyway."

"I wonder why these clowns were trotting around this area by themselves," the Canadian remarked. "They didn't seem to be searching for us, so they weren't on patrol. Unless they were on a double date and decided to take a moonlight stroll, I figure they must have been heading toward some destination."

"They might have been on their way to the Vatican Radio Station," Katz said with a nod. "Possibly to relieve guards there and take the next shift. A logical theory, but we can't be sure it's accurate. Better not plan our strategy based on that notion."

"Guess we'll just have to see the setup at the station and decide how to handle it then," Manning commented. "Well," Katz began, gazing at the metal steeple of the radio tower above the trees. "We won't have far to go."

The Vatican Radio Station was located in a clearing. The building was three stories high with numerous windows and a roof wide enough for a helipad. The station had originally been built in 1929, but alterations had been made to keep up with the changes and advancements in technology. Vatican Radio was a modern establishment, yet the building still vaguely resembled a church. It seemed that every effort was taken to keep all forms of communication on a spiritual level.

There was nothing inspirational about the armed Iranians posted by the station. Men with assault rifles patrolled the area. Other figures were visible behind the windows of the well-lit building. The Phoenix Force pair saw at least ten men, and the building was probably large enough to hold at least fifty more.

Katz and Manning crept along the tree line surrounding the station. They looked for security devices such as motion detectors, surveillance cameras and laser scans. The terrorists had not used such contraptions elsewhere, and it seemed unlikely they would use extra precautions at the radio station, but the commandos did not take anything for granted.

Neither man found any evidence of electronic surveillance equipment or detectors. Of course, they knew that some of the more sophisticated devices were all but invisible. Manning and Katz could not be certain that the terrorists were unaware of their presence. But nothing would be accomplished by worrying about it, and Katz and Manning had no intention of retreating from their objective.

They circled the site to the rear of the radio station. Two sentries stood guard by a crude metal tower that was about three meters high. The frame had been constructed for a single practical purpose. Pipes and metal tubing sprawled near the rig. A huge drilling bit was among the equipment. Cables and pulleys were still attached to the tower, and a diesel engine was connected to the contraption.

"Drilling rig," Manning whispered as he unslung his FAL rifle from his shoulder. "From the amount of pipes used, I'd say they tunneled down at least fifty meters beneath the surface."

"Where's the tunnel?" Katz inquired softly, crouching behind the trunk of a cypress tree.

"I'm looking for it," the Canadian replied. He peered through the Starlite viewer mounted on his FAL rifle. A radio antenna extended from a metal plate at the base of the drilling rig. "Jackpot."

"You found it?" the Israeli asked eagerly.

"Right where I figured it would be," Manning confirmed. "It has a radio-operated detonator. The explosives are probably buried pretty deep underground to make certain the blast would affect the beddings of the earth enough to cause a violent tremor in the fissures connected to the main fault."

"Think you can deactivate it?" Katz asked.

"The top plate is probably booby-trapped," the Canadian answered. "A pressure spring could trigger the explosion if someone tried to raise the lid. I could deactivate it if I could get under the plate. We could dig a hole near the plate and then reach inside with a pair of wire cutters to clip the connections to the explosives. It would be easy if we had a few minutes to spare."

"We don't have any extra time," Katz stated. "But maybe we can buy a few minutes after we take care of the terrorists. Do you think someone in there has a transmitter to activate the radio detonator?"

"I'm sure of that," Manning confirmed. "Probably just a small radio transmitter about the size of a walkie-talkie. In fact, several people could have transmitters and could detonate the explosion from anywhere within a three-kilometer range of the station."

"We'll just have to take care of the enemies at the station," Katz declared. "If we can do that and deactivate the bomb, it won't matter if they have a hundred transmitters."

"No matter how we do this, it's going to be risky, Yakov," Manning said tensely.

"But we have to do it and we have to do it fast," Katz insisted, checking the silencer attached to the muzzle of his Uzi. "We'll take out the sentries first. With a bit of luck we can hit the bastards before they can get organized."

"Or before they can cause an earthquake," Manning muttered.

"I doubt they'll do that unless they feel they've run out of options," Katz replied. "At least, I hope not."

"Hope springs eternal," Manning sighed as he braced the stock of the FAL against his shoulder and put his eye to the Starlite scope.

He aimed the Belgium assault rifle at the two guards stationed by the drilling rig. The features of a young Iranian appeared clearly through the lenses of the light-intensity device. The sentry did not fit Hollywood's perception of a terrorist. His face was round and his mouth turned up at the corners. The man's eyes were large and soft.

Manning squeezed the trigger. The familiar recoil of the FAL rode against his shoulder as he watched the Iranian's head snap backward from the force of a 7.62 mm slug through the forehead. Manning swiftly swung the FAL toward the second sentry. The guard stared at the body of his slain companion; he was dumbfounded by the unexpected assault. Manning triggered his rifle once more. A bullet struck the sentry between the tip of an ear and the edge of an eyesocket. The guy went down in a lifeless lump.

The Canadian and Colonel Katzenelenbogen broke cover and dashed toward the radio station. They glanced up at the windows, fearful that they would see a dozen terrorists staring down at them. Luckily no one saw the commandos approach. However, the remaining sentries had probably heard the muted report of Manning's weapon and the groans of the dying terrorists.

One guard cautiously moved toward the rear of the building, his M-16 assault rifle held in combat readiness. He saw an unfamiliar shape near the frame of the drilling rig. A figure dressed in black held a submachine gun in an awkward position. The stock was under the man's armpit, and the frame was braced across his right arm. The limb seemed oddly rigid like the arm of a cripple. The man held a large knife in his left fist.

"La!" the figure called softly to the guard. "Minfadluk, la!"

The terrorist held his fire when he heard the other man speak to him in Arabic. He did not know the man was an infidel invader.

"Nisina elmafa-teh," Katzenelenbogen stated, claiming he had lost his keys. "Te'dar tisa-edni?"

He casually pointed the tip of the Ballistic knife at the terrorist as he spoke. Katz aimed carefully and pressed the trigger. The powerful springs launched the blade from the handle. Sharp steel shot into the terrorist's chest. The blade stabbed flesh and like a bolt of metal lightning pierced the man's heart. The terrorist dropped his M-16 and fell to the ground. Katz approached the mortally wounded sentry. He kicked the man in the temple with the steel tip of his boot to make certain the man did not cry out or attempt to shoot Katz in the back. The kick either rendered the man unconscious or killed him outright. Either was more merciful than leaving him to die with the knife buried in his chest.

The Israeli moved to the front of the building. Two sentries were still posted at the entrance. Katz's left hand seized the pistol grip of his Uzi as he stepped around the corner to face the pair. He squeezed the trigger.

The sound suppressor at the end of the Uzi spat flame as the weapon studdered with a muffled snarl. Nine-millimeter projectiles sprayed the terrorists. Bullets bashed through their torsos and ravaged vital organs. One man screamed before he died. The other fumbled with his AK-47, but failed to trigger the weapon before life was stamped out of his body.

Gary Manning used his wire cutters to snip the antenna under the tower of the drilling rig. This would not prevent a transmitted signal from reaching the radio detonator at close range, but it might scramble the signal if it was transmitted from the opposite side of the Vatican. The Canadian heard voices shout within the radio station.

"Shit," he rasped. "They suspect something's gone wrong. Might as well let them know they're right."

The Canadian fighting machine yanked the pin from a concussion grenade and hurled it at a third-story window. Glass shattered, and the grenade landed inside the building. Manning ran to the wall and placed his back flat against it as the grenade roared overhead.

Shards of broken glass and the framework from smashed windows showered the surrounding area as the blast sent a shock wave through the structure. A man's body plunged from the third story. He screamed until he hit the ground with bone-breaking force. Manning pulled the pin from a second grenade and lobbed it through a window on the first floor.

Another explosion rocketed the building before Manning could brace himself. Katzenelenbogen had already tossed a grenade through a second-story window, and the explosion caught Manning off guard. The Canadian fell to one knee and covered his head with his arms.

A moment later the grenade in the first story exploded. The third blast sent an aluminum swivel chair hurtling through a window and forced open the back door to the radio station. Sheets of paper, magazines and clipboards flew across the threshold. Manning uncovered his head. His ears were ringing, but he ignored the discomfort as he got to his feet and charged through the doorway.

He entered a small lunchroom with several overturned tables and hard plastic chairs. Two dazed terrorists were sprawled on the floor. One man was unconscious. The other dragged himself to his knees, slowly shaking his head as blood dripped from his nostrils.

Manning approached the stunned terrorist and stamped the stock of his FAL rifle against the back of the guy's skull. The man fell on his face in a superb imitation of a bearskin rug. The Canadian slowly moved to the doorway of the lunchroom and carefully peered around the corner into the corridor beyond.

Two terrorists armed with Ingram machine pistols opened fire on Manning. The warrior ducked back as a sheet of 9 mm slugs sliced air where his head had been. Bullets chewed splinters from the doorway. Manning's computer-quick mind developed a strategy.

He plucked a pencil detonator from his pocket and set the timer for two seconds. Manning held the detonator and whispered "one" before he tossed it around the corner at the two terrorists. The blasting cap exploded with a bright flash and a firecracker pop. It was harmless, but the two terrorists were still unnerved by the tiny explosion that had followed so quickly on the heels of the stun grenades. The pair instinctively ducked when the detonator exploded.

Manning hoped he had guessed how the enemy would react as he thrust the barrel of his FAL around the corner. The Canadian sprayed the corridor with 7.62 mm rounds. The terrorists screamed as copper-jacketed destructions slammed into their flesh. The multiple bullets kicked the pair backward. Manning hit them with another volley and watched the bloodied corpses roll to a stop.

A figure appeared at the end of the corridor. Manning raised his assault rifle to the ceiling when he recognized the one-armed Israeli. Smoke curled from the muzzle of Katz's Uzi subgun. They nodded to one another, relieved to discover that so far both had survived the raid.

"Downstairs will be quiet for a while," the Phoenix Force commander remarked. "Ready to go upstairs?"

"Yeah," Manning replied. "I'll go first. You cover me." The Canadian still felt a degree of responsibility for the nearly fatal injury Rafael Encizo had suffered during their mission in France several months before. The Cuban had mounted a flight of stairs, assuming the dangerous role of point man while Manning had supplied backup. Gary Manning did not intend to let one of his teammates take that risk again.

The stairs were located between the corridor and the front lobby. Manning did not hesitate. He bolted up the stairs, taking three steps with each stride. Katz followed, climbing the stairs at a slightly slower, more cautious pace. The Israeli watched the stairs and glanced over his shoulder to be certain that no one was sneaking up from behind.

An arm extended from a post at the head of the stairs. A pistol that resembled a Luger was in its fist. The unseen gunman fired at Manning, but the terrorist had not aimed. A 9 mm slug punched plaster from a wall above Manning's head. The Canadian snap-aimed his FAL and fired a three-round burst.

Two 7.62 mm missiles smashed into the terrorist's arm. The fist opened and dropped the Luger. A voice cried out in Farsi as the terrorist staggered away from the post. Manning saw his opponent and immediately blasted another three-round volley into the man's chest. The terrorist fell forward and tumbled headlong down the stairs.

Manning sidestepped the corpse and allowed it to roll down the stairs. He continued up the stairs and sprayed another salvo of FAL rounds into the second-story hall. Three figures dived to the floor to avoid the high-velocity hailstorm.

The Canadian ducked behind the post and yanked the pin from a concussion grenade. He fired the last rounds from the FAL magazine to encourage the terrorists to stay down before he tossed the grenade, then braced himself for the blast, covering his ears and opening his mouth to equalize the pressure.

The grenade exploded. Manning drew his Eagle .357 Magnum autoloader from shoulder leather and jogged down the corridor. The terrorists in the hall were sprawled across the floor and were either unconscious or dead. Katz mounted the stairs to join his partner.

"Well," Katz mused, glancing at the next flight of stairs leading to the third floor. "We've got some more terrorists up there and probably a few behind closed doors on this level."

"And any one of them could have a transmitter to the earthquake device," Manning added. "If you want to take the upstairs, I'll see if I can arrange a distraction."

"Try not to make it too drastic," the Israeli replied. "I'd just as soon you didn't blast the floor out from under me while I'm up there."

"I'll place the charge over there," Manning stated, pointing to the west corner of the building with the barrel of his empty FAL rifle. "It might take me a while to arrange it."

"I'll try to keep everyone entertained until then," Katz assured him.

A round object bounced down the stairs from the third floor. Both men recognized the Russian-made F-1 fragmentation grenade. Manning hastily kicked the grenade and sent it hurtling down the flight of stairs to the bottom story. The Phoenix pair dived to the floor, but Katz kept his Uzi pointed at the stairwell.

The grenade exploded below. The shock wave shook the floor under Katz and Manning, but neither man was struck by shrapnel. Katz continued to watch the third-story stairwell. Two gunmen ventured onto the stairs and peered down at the Phoenix duo.

Katz opened fire. Uzi slugs raked the terrorists. The gunmen jerked and staggered from the impact of the multiple bullets. One man grabbed his comrade and tried to prop himself up long enough to aim and fire a Beretta machine pistol. However, his partner fell forward, and the gunsel was thrown off-balance as well. Both men toppled down the stairs in an awkward bundle with arms and legs swinging.

Katz blasted the pair with another volley. A door opened, and a female terrorist emerged with an AK-47 in her fists. Manning's Eagle roared, and a 148-grain flat-nosed bullet punched through the woman's chest. Her body slammed into a wall as she triggered her assault rifle. A burst of automatic fire ripped into another door, peppering the panels with ragged holes.

The woman's corpse slid to the floor as the door she had fired on suddenly burst open. The barrel of an assault rifle appeared near the doorknob. Manning snap-aimed his Magnum and blasted a .357 messenger through the middle panel of the door. A shriek of agony announced that the tactic had successfully found its intended target. An Iranian gunman tumbled into the corridor with his Soviet-made weapon still clenched in his fist. Blood washed his neck and shirtsleeve. Manning's Magnum round had blown away most of the man's left shoulder.

Manning's Eagle pistol bellowed once more as he pumped another .357 slug through the heart of the wounded Iranian. The Canadian pulled an SAS flash-bang grenade from his belt and dashed forward. He yanked the pin and hurled the miniblaster into the room that the terrorist had stepped from. Manning kicked the door shut and fired a Magnum slug to convince anyone inside that it would be unhealthy to get near the door.

The Canadian jumped clear of the door and dropped to a crouching position with his arms shielding his head. The grenade exploded, smashing the door off its hinges. Confident that any opponents inside the room had been neutralized — temporarily if not permanently — Manning moved to the next door.

The Phoenix warrior put down the empty FAL rifle and reached for his backpack of explosives, planning to blast the lock with some CV-38 low velocity plastique. But the door swung open before Manning could touch it. He pressed his back flush against the wall and pointed the Eagle Magnum at the open door.

"No kill!" a voice shouted from within the room. "No kill, please!"

Manning slowly approached. He did not trust the terrorists. He had yet to meet one who scored high marks for courage. They were all fanatics, and most would never willingly surrender. But if the guy was Basque instead of Iranian, he might be serious about giving up. The Basques had no real stake in the Vatican operation.

"No kill!" the terrorist repeated as he slowly stepped to the doorway. The guy appeared to be an Iranian, but he had interlaced both hands and placed them on top of his head.

"Do you understand English?" Manning asked, watching the terrorist across the sights of his pistol.

"Maf-hem-tish,"the man replied helplessly.

He spoke Arabic, Manning realized. The Canadian had spent some time in Cairo as a youth. He had only retained a few words of Arabic, and he did not know how to tell the guy to face a wall and put his hands behind his back. Manning considered the possible sentences he could construct with his tiny Arabic vocabulary.

"Od-kull!" he ordered, incorrectly using the expression to invite a person to enter a room. "Fehem-tini?"

"Ee-wa," the gunman replied. The guy understood that Manning wanted him to step into the hall.

He emerged from the room, hands still on top of his head. Manning caught an elbow and pushed the Syrian toward the open door. The guy placed his hands against it and assumed a spread-eagle position. Some gestures are universal, Manning thought. Unfortunately there was no time to bind the terrorist's hands with riot cuffs.

"Ana asif," Manning apologized. He slugged the guy behind the ear with the barrel of his Magnum.

The Syrian slumped unconscious at Manning's feet. The Canadian stepped over the senseless terrorist and peered into the room. It was a small office with a simple desk, bookcase and filing cabinets. The room seemed to be unoccupied. Manning carefully entered, watching the desk and cabinet for possible hidden opponents.

Without warning something struck Manning. The shape landed on his back and shoulders. The butt of a knife handle hammered the ulna nerve of his right arm. Manning's hand popped open, and the Magnum fell to the floor. Steel flashed as the assailant swung the knife at Manning's throat.

The Canadian warrior grabbed the wrist that held the knife. The blade stopped an eighth of an inch from Manning's throat. He pulled hard, forcing the knife away from his neck. The assailant seized Manning's hair and pulled his head back. The demolitions expert clenched his teeth and endured the pain as he wrenched the assassin's wrist to force his opponent to drop the knife.

Manning propelled himself backward into the clinging form of his assailant. The killer groaned when his spine connected with the doorjamb. Manning pumped an elbow back at his tormentor. A jolt of sharp pain shot through the Phoenix Force warrior's arm when his elbow struck the doorjamb. The attacker, who had slipped from behind Manning, suddenly slammed a fist into the Canadian's head.

The blow staggered Manning. He turned to face his opponent, but dots of red and yellow blurred his vision. The enemy was dressed entirely in gray, and his face was mostly hidden by a hood and scarf mask. A cold ball of fear knotted inside Manning's stomach. A ninja was a fearsome opponent under any circumstances, but to face one unarmed was a supreme test of survival skills.

At least Manning understood how his opponent had suddenly appeared from nowhere. The ninja must have wedged himself between the walls and hidden above the doorway. It was part of the ninjutsu art known as "ceiling walking."

The ninja's arm streaked out and hurled an object at the Phoenix fighter. Manning dodged the projectile. The shakenstruck the bookcase behind him; the sharp tines pierced the leather spine of a volume of Roman history. The ninja had not intended to kill his opponent with the shaken. The throwing stars were designed to distract or wound rather than kill. His gloved hand drew a snub-nosed revolver from a black holster on his hip.

Manning's boot lashed out and adroitly kicked the pistol from the ninja's hand. He swung a left hook at the Japanese assassin's head. His fist whirled through air as the ninja ducked and rammed a hard seiken punch under the Canadian's ribs. He followed with a roundhouse kick that caught Manning above the left kidney.

Gary Manning fell forward. He grunted when his belly collided with the edge of the desktop. Manning turned in time to receive a hard snap-kick to the abdomen. He doubled up as the ninja raised an arm to deliver a final stroke. The pointed metal tip of a shinbo— a hand-held weapon about a foot long with a finger ring in the center — protruded from his fist.

The Canadian raised his left arm. The ninja's wrist struck his forearm, and the shinbo stabbed air. Manning's right fist drove an uppercut at the assassin's gut. Quickly Manning seized his dazed opponent. His left hand grabbed the ninja's throat as his right slid between the killer's legs. Manning raised the ninja in a crotch lift and shifted his shoulders to turn the man upside down.

He threw his opponent across the desk. The ninja's lower back struck the corner. The lumbar vertebrae cracked, and the ninja uttered a short, shrill scream before falling in his final bow to the floor. Manning had broken the man's back.

The Canadian staggered away from the dead ninja. He panted heavily as he retrieved his Eagle .357 pistol. His head throbbed and his side ached, but nothing seemed to be broken or ruptured. Manning walked unsteadily to the desk and leaned against it before climbing on top of it. He slipped off his backpack and removed a packet of C-4 plastic explosives.

Manning jammed the doughlike substance into a corner of the ceiling. The Canadian demolitions expert inserted a pencil detonator and set the timer for twenty seconds. He stepped down from the desk and hurried from the room, slamming the door shut and dragging the unconscious Syrian down the corridor.

Yakov Katzenelenbogen had mounted the stairs to the third floor. He tossed a concussion grenade into the upstairs hall before advancing to the top step.

The grenade exploded, and Katz charged over the top, his Uzi ready for action. Two terrorists stumbled about the corridor with their hands clamped over their ears. Three others sprawled on the floor, moving slowly like half-crushed beetles. Katz could not afford to take any chances with wounded yet still potentially dangerous opponents. He opened fire, blasting the injured and disabled terrorists.

Phoenix Force was at war with the terrorists. Katz had killed many men in combat. He had killed German soldiers who had been ordered into battle by a government that many of them had never wanted. He had killed Egyptians and Palestinians who believed they were fighting for their homeland. Right and wrong largely depended on which side of the conflict one happened to be on.

The terrorists at the Vatican were not soldiers fighting for their country or land that they felt they had a claim to. They were committed to a cause that they no doubt believed to be righteous and proper. But then most people believe they are generally right, although most people do not kill innocent civilians or resort to blackmail and threaten to slaughter thousands of lives if their demands are not met.

The mentality of a terrorist may not be evil, but it is fanatical and extreme to a level bordering madness. It lacks compassion or sympathy. Katz had no doubt that the war against terrorism was just and moral. Drastic measures were often necessary, but Katz and the other men of Phoenix Force were never ruthless without reason.

At the moment Katz had a reason — his personal survival and the survival of hundreds of others if Phoenix Force failed. He stepped past the bodies of the five slain terrorists and approached the single door at the end of the hall. Glass windows on both sides of the door revealed the radio control center and sound stage within. The latter was clearly unoccupied, but Katz noticed that a rifle barrel jutted from behind a console unit in the control room.

One terrorist was probably lurking behind the machine, and where one terrorist was there were usually others. Katz considered lobbing a grenade through the window, but the glass was thick and probably soundproof. If the grenade failed to break through, it would bounce right back at the Phoenix Force commander. A burst of Uzi slugs would certainly take out the window. Of course, if he shot out the glass the terrorists would open fire, and they had better cover than Katz.

The Israeli had several options, but the most logical was simply to wait. If the terrorists made the next move, they might leave themselves open to counterattack. The enemy obviously did not have a transmitter for the earthquake device or they would have used it or at least threatened to use it by now. Katz could afford to wait.

Besides, Manning had promised to provide a distraction. Unless something had happened to the Canadian, Manning's surprise ought to occur at any second...

The explosion erupted from the ceiling of the office beneath the control room. The blast tore open the floor. The console unit burst apart and sparks flew from severed wires. Three terrorists were annihilated by the explosion. What remained of their bodies was splattered across the walls and windows of the control room.

"Well, Gary," Katz sighed as he lowered his Uzi. 'That was one hell of a distraction."

17

Monsignor Giovanni Cellini gazed up at the cruel smile on the face of Mohammed Radmeni. The Iranian terrorist leader had just selected nine hostages for the execution. He would choose one more. Radmeni's eyes were fixed on the gold cross that hung from Cellini's neck.

"Do you understand English, priest?" Radmeni inquired. "You know what I am doing here?"

"Yes," the monsignor replied. "I understand English and I realize you are planning to take ten of us from this room to be murdered."

"It is not murder when one kills to fulfill the will of Allah," Radmeni declared.

"Are you so sure you represent the will of your god?" Cellini began as he rose to his feet. "Isn't it possible you use the name of Allah to excuse your own wickedness?"

The other hostages within the Vestibolo Rotondo tensely watched the confrontation between the terrorist leader and the monsignor. Fulvio Salvia trembled with fear. He had been terrified since the moment he had first learned the terrorists intended to execute hostages. The Vatican newspaper printer had prayed to God for mercy. He had begged the All Mighty to spare him from being chosen to die at the hands of the butchers.

Salvia had closed his eyes when Radmeni and his escort of a dozen armed terrorists had entered the hall. He had whimpered under his breath and had held his hands interlocked in prayer as he had continued to beg God for protection. He had nearly fainted with relief when he had opened his eyes to discover that all but one choice for the firing squad had been made.

Captain Helmut Jacobi had been unable to organize the other members of the Swiss Guards and tourists with military or police experience to take action against the terrorists. He had found a number of willing recruits, but there had not been time to plan any type of strategy before Radmeni and the others had arrived.

The terrorist leader had selected three Swiss Guards to be executed. Jacobi had vainly protested and had received a rifle butt in the gut for his efforts. The Swiss officer wondered why he had not been selected. Probably because Radmeni assumed he would restrain the younger soldiers from taking any rash form of action.

Five Americans had also been chosen to die, including two Vietnam veterans whom Jacobi had hoped would help fight the terrorists. One Briton had been added to the list, a London bicycle shop owner who had saved money for many years to fulfill his dream to worship at St. Peter's Basilica.

Only one choice remained, and Jacobi feared the terrorists had decided to take Monsignor Cellini. If Radmeni had hoped to see the monsignor cower in fear, he had been very disappointed. Cellini stood erect and looked directly into the face of the terrorist as he spoke.

"Are you so certain Allah regards the slaughter of helpless people as a holy act?" Cellini demanded.

"How dare you talk to me in such a manner, you Christian pig," Radmeni hissed softly. "I would cut off your testicles, priest, but I doubt that you have any. They probably shriveled up from lack of use."

"The lives of these people shouldn't be ended because you're frustrated, Mr. Radmeni," Cellini stated. "Can't you see that murder is not the will of God? Your god or mine?"

"That's what you say now, priest," Radmeni sneered.

But that is because Catholics are about to die, not Muslims. When Christian militia slaughtered more than seven hundred Muslims in Beirut in September of 1982, your Vatican was not outraged. Seven hundred Muslims, many women and children among them. Yet you priests in your private little kingdom here at the Vatican did not object."

"That isn't true," Cellini insisted. "The pope publicly condemned that incident. Murder is not more acceptable when it is committed by Christians. In fact, that probably makes the act even more horrendous because it violates one of God's most important Commandments, 'thou shalt not kill.'"

"Words, priest," Radmeni scoffed. "Only words. You are a priest and you are supposed to represent the Christian god on earth. So I will allow your god or whatever idiot saints you worship to decide a matter of life and death. Since you are their instrument on earth, you shall decide who the tenth hostage shall be."

"I refuse," Cellini replied. "I can't condemn any human being to death. God gives life, and only He should take it away."

"If you do not choose someone, then you shall face the firing squad, priest," the Iranian said with a shrug.

"No!" Captain Jacobi said sharply. "The monsignor is the sosituto, the assistant to the cardinal secretary of the State of the Vatican. He is part of the very heart of the church. To kill such a man would be an international crime that would only turn more people against your Islamic Jihad and all that it stands for!"

"Christians will turn against us," Radmeni laughed. "Christians who are already our sworn enemies. They hate us and plot against us already. But the people of Islam will applaud us for striking down a leader of the infidel faith. It will be a symbol of strength and power if the Jihad executes such an enemy."

"I doubt that, Radmeni," Cellini replied, shaking his head slowly. "Most followers of Islam don't approve of murder any more than most Christians. You no more represent them than you represent Allah. You're just a fanatic, Radmeni. You represent only hatred."

"I will give you one last chance, priest," Radmeni hissed through clenched teeth. "Choose the tenth person for execution, or you will accompany the other nine to the firing squad."

"If nine innocent people are to die," Cellini replied, "then they should have the benefit of last rites and final confession. I shall join them."

"And I thought suicide was against the Catholic religion," Radmeni chuckled.

He suddenly lashed the barrel of his AK-47 across Cellini's wounded arm. The monsignor gasped and cradled the damaged limb in his other arm. Cellini groaned in pain as he dropped to one knee. A scarlet stain appeared on the white cloth of the sling.

"Damn you, you Iranian bastard!" Jacobi snarled, his hands clenched in fists of helpless rage. "I..."

"Go on, toy soldier," Radmeni invited, raising the barrel of his rifle to point its muzzle at Jacobi's face. "What will you do? Were you about to say you intend to kill me? Please try, Captain. I'd be delighted to put a bullet between your eyes. Come, now. You can commit suicide the same as this idiot priest."

"Captain," Cellini urged, his voice weak as he gulped air into his lungs. "Think of the others. They need you. I'll be all right."

"You'll be dead, priest," Radmeni sneered. "Come with me. We have an execution to attend."

Radmeni turned and walked toward the escort and the nine other hostages who had been selected for execution. Several prisoners had reacted in the same manner as Jacobi when they had seen Radmeni strike the monsignor. However, the guns of the terrorists kept the hostages helpless and in their place. At bay.

"Monsignor," Bishop Juan Castillo began as he approached Cellini. Castillo was an assistant to the cardinal of Madrid. He had been sent to represent the cardinal at what had become a poorly timed meeting with the Curia. "Monsignor, do not do this. Por favor. Let me go instead..."

"No, Juan," Cellini insisted. "This responsibility has been placed on my shoulders. I've lived a full life, and I've little reason to complain if it is now to come to an end. Perhaps God has chosen this final path for me. It is similar to the path our Lord Jesus walked. A priest has a duty to live as He did, so it is not inappropriate to die in that manner as well."

"Monsignor..." Castillo said helplessly.

"You stay here and comfort our flock, Juan," Cellini urged with a gentle smile. "They face a difficult ordeal and they need spiritual guidance. That's really what being a priest is all about."

"But you are the sosituto," the Spanish bishop stated. "You should remain with the prisoners and allow a lesser priest, like myself, to go in your place."

"No man is less than another," Cellini told him. "Yes. I am the sosituto. There have been many men with that title before me and there will probably be many more in the future. When a pope dies, the church does not close its doors. The world does not stop on its axis and wail for another to take his place. I am no more important than you or any other man in this room. And I certainly can't have another man die for me. That is something everyone must do for himself"

"I don't know what to say," Castillo admitted.

"May God be with you, Juan," Cellini turned to Captain Jacobi. "And with you, my son."

"Father," Jacobi began. "I can't just stay here and let you go to your death."

"I am doing what I must," Cellini replied. "You must do likewise. Captain."

Two terrorists seized Cellini's arms and escorted him the rest of the way to the group of doomed hostages. Numerous voices shouted in outrage as the ten chosen men were escorted from the Vestibolo Rotondo. The remaining hostages could do little against the well-armed terrorists. Monsignor Cellini looked over his shoulder as the captors marched him through the doorway.

"Captain Jacobi," Fulvio Salvia began. "I don't understand English. Why is Monsignor Cellini leaving with those men?"

"Why do you think, you idiot?" the Swiss officer snapped.

"The monsignor?" Salvia stared at Jacobi. "But they can't kill him. That is madness!"

"What the hell has been sane about any of this?" Jacobi asked sharply. "Those bastards are going to kill Cellini, and they'll kill the rest of us if we don't do something to stop them."

* * *

Rafael Encizo and Calvin James crept along the rooftop of the Vatican Library. They had just checked on the Pigna Courtyard from the roof of the Museo Chiaramonti and had found no evidence that a mass execution was planned for that area. The commando pair had moved to the library to get a clear view of the Belvedere Courtyard.

James and Encizo crawled to the peak of the roof and peered down into the courtyard. Terrorists were lined along the walls, forming a great horseshoe pattern around ten figures who were approximately twenty feet from the enemy gunmen.

Monsignor Cellini stood before the other nine hostages. He recited last rites in Latin as he gestured with his right arm toward each of the nine condemned men. The other hostages knelt before the monsignor and solemnly crossed themselves. Cellini took a small vial of holy water from a pocket and sprinkled a few drops on each man's head.

"Your M-16 has a longer range than my H&K," Encizo whispered to James. "You pick off the members of the firing squad. I'll try to pin down the rest of the terrorists."

"Okay," the black warrior agreed, putting the stock of the M-16 to his shoulder. "But how do I know which of these dudes are in the firing squad?"

There were at least thirty terrorists in the courtyard. All carried automatic weapons, but none pointed their guns at the condemned hostages. They simply watched Cellini conduct final services for the other nine captives. Several of the enemy troop fidgeted; they were either eager to get the task over with or simply eager to spill more blood. Encizo and James knew that the latter was more likely than the former.

"Looks like they're letting the hostages receive their last rites," Encizo commented. "The members of the firing squad will take aim and wait for the order to fire."

Without ceremony the terrorists opened fire on the hostages. A burst of full-auto lead struck Monsignor Cellini in the spine as he was about to make the sign of the cross. His bullet-riddled body fell forward. Other hostages were shot in the chest and lower torso. Several prisoners' heads recoiled as slugs ripped through their faces and blasted exits at the backs of their skulls.

James and Encizo fired down at the terrorists. They realized their mistake the moment they felt the recoil of their weapons. The Phoenix pair had reacted from gut instinct when they had witnessed the cold-blooded murder of the ten unarmed hostages. Yet it was the wrong move. The hostages were already dead. The attempt to rescue them had failed, and the logical tactic would have been to avoid attracting attention. The terrorists probably would not have known the commandos were in the area if James and Encizo had held their fire.

However, a man does not always do what is logical. Encizo and James could not recall the slugs. Eight terrorists were cut down before the enemy knew where the shots were coming from. Bodies dropped among the startled terrorists. Survivors scrambled for cover. A few returned fire in the general direction of the Phoenix pair.

"I think we'd better boogie, man," James commented, taking an M-26 frag grenade from his belt.

"Words to live by," Encizo replied as he ducked his head.

Several enemy bullets chewed at the eaves of the roof near their position. The bastards were getting too close for comfort, although none of them had scored a direct hit. James pulled the pin from his grenade and hurled it into the courtyard. The explosion turned four terrorists into mangled corpses, and the shrapnel wounded half a dozen others. The remaining terrorists hit the dirt and kept their heads down.

Encizo and James retreated to the opposite side of the peak. They crawled along the roof on all fours, scrambling across the tiles like a pair of desperate animals. Another salvo of full-auto rounds pelted the roof and tore chips from the summit. More terrorists appeared at the entrance to the museum, although they were obviously unsure of the battle's location.

Surrounded by enemies, the Phoenix crusaders stopped moving and clung to the roof. They remained perfectly still, their black shapes blending with the night shadows. Terrorists darted about below them. Voices shouted in languages neither James nor Encizo understood.

"I think we fucked up royally," James rasped in a voice barely audible to Encizo. "We sure can't lie around on this roof and expect to get away with playing lizard-on-a-rock all night."

"If we can find a drain extending from a rain gutter, then we could shimmy down to one of the windows below," Encizo suggested.

"I remember seeing a drainpipe," the black warrior announced.

"Great," Encizo replied. "Where is it?"

"On the other side of the roof," James answered.

"That's really useful," Encizo muttered sourly. "Let's just try to move in the same direction we've been heading and see what we find."

The two Phoenix warriors slowly crept forward. They slithered on their bellies across the tiled surface of the roof. The activity below had changed from a frenetic pace to deliberate stalking. The enemy were unprofessional, but they were not stupid. They had stopped running and shouting. Now they were scanning the area in search of their quarry.

Encizo and James gradually moved toward the east wing. The fabled secret archives were located in the rooms beneath them. The rumors and theories concerning the contents of the Vatican's archives had added to the mystique — and the distrust — of the Roman Catholic Church. The two Phoenix commandos were not concerned about the theories. At the moment all that interested the pair was simple self-preservation.

Something struck the building. Suddenly an explosion bellowed near James and Encizo. The blast assaulted them from every direction. The roof crumbled beneath their weight, and both men plunged into a black pit of oblivion.

18

Rafael Encizo experienced a strange gliding sensation. The Cuban war machine thought he was dreaming until consciousness slowly lifted the veils from his senses. His body was numb, and a throbbing pain filled his skull. Encizo stifled a groan. He did not know where he was or whether friend or foe was nearby.

The gliding sensation transformed into the unpleasant realization that someone was dragging him by the armpits. His arms were numb and his hands were at the small of his back. Something was locked around his wrists. Encizo heard footsteps and voices uttering a guttural language he could not identify.

Encizo slowly opened his eyes. He did not like what he saw. He was being dragged through a corridor. Several armed men surrounded him and none of them looked very friendly. The cobwebs disappeared, and recent events returned vividly to him.

What had happened was obvious. The terrorists had hit the library roof with a grenade or rocket launcher. The explosion had blown the roof out from under Encizo and had knocked him unconscious. The enemy had found and easily captured the Cuban. Encizo wondered what had happened to Calvin James. Had the black commando escaped, or had James also been taken prisoner? Or had he been killed in the explosion?

The terrorists dragged Encizo across the threshold of a brick doorway. They entered a drab room filled with stale air. The monotonous churning of engines hammered at the Cuban's ears, contributing to the ache inside his head. Harsh light from naked bulbs glared down from the gray stone ceiling.

Fingers seized Encizo's hair and yanked his head back. A stern face with dark eyes and a hawkish nose leaned toward the Cuban. Ali Hussan Kamal forced Encizo's eyelids to open widely so that he could examine the pupils.

"Parla italiano?" Kamal asked gruffly. "Capisce?"

"Maybe he understands English," Mohammed Radmeni remarked, peering over Kamal's shoulder. "Do you understand me, pig?"

"I hear you, but I'll never understand you," Encizo replied hoarsely. His throat felt as if it had been lined with sandpaper.

Radmeni growled something in Farsi that hardly required translation. His arm snaked out and his fist caught Encizo in the center of the face. Painfully bright lights burst in front of the Cuban's eyes. Sharp pain lanced up from his nose through the sinus. Radmeni tried to throw another punch, but Kamal restrained the hot-tempered Iranian.

Encizo's eyes watered, blurring his vision. Blood trickled from a nostril to his lips. The Cuban heard Kamal and Radmeni argue in Arabic and then saw Radmeni nod and smile at the Syrian. Radmeni turned to Encizo and pointed an index finger at the Cuban's face.

"My comrade just pointed out that beating you unconscious would defeat the purpose of bringing you here for questioning," the Iranian declared. "And we want you to answer our questions."

Radmeni jammed his finger into the bridge of Encizo's nose. The Cuban clenched his teeth to repress a cry of pain as the Iranian exerted more pressure. Radmeni laughed and wiped his finger against Encizo's shirt.

"And you'll answer us," Radmeni stated. "If you don't, your friend surely will."

Encizo raised his eyebrows and lifted his head. Two terrorists dragged Calvin James into the room. The black warrior sighed with relief when he saw that his friend was still alive. Encizo managed a weak smile. He was also relieved that James had survived, although he was disappointed that his partner had not escaped.

"You okay, amigo?" James inquired, his voice little more than a dull croak.

"Nothing broken," Encizo replied. "Hang in there. Whatever happens. Hang in..."

Radmeni swatted the back of his hand across the Cuban's face. Encizo's head barely moved from the blow. He smiled at the Iranian and slowly shook his head.

"No wonder you need to have me chained," the Cuban told Radmeni. "I know girls who can hit harder than that."

The Iranian glared at Encizo and swung a clenched fist under the Cuban's jaw. Encizo's head bounced from the punch. His teeth clashed painfully together and his jaws stung. Kamal grabbed Radmeni and pulled him away from Encizo before the Iranian could continue the assault.

"Hey," James sneered. "Why don't you assholes take the cuffs off us and we'll see who can hit harder?"

"You'll soon beg for mercy. You are no better than a dog," Radmeni snarled. He pulled away from Kamal's grasp. "But I won't soil my hands on either of you. I shall leave that task to the experts among my followers. Experts in the art of inflicting pain and extracting information."

"Does that mean you brought your dentist?" James asked in a mocking tone.

"You will not make jokes when my men start working on you," Radmeni warned. "You may think you are brave, but they will reduce you to quivering cowards. I will enjoy watching you beg for the mercy of death."

"You might welcome death before we are through with you!" an angry voice announced.

The terrorists pushed James and Encizo to the floor. Several gunmen tried to swing their weapons toward the trio of men that appeared at the entrance of the boiler room. Two machine pistols erupted, blasting 9 mm rounds through the chests of three Iranian flunkies. The bullet-torn bodies fell to the floor. Radmeni, Kamal and two surviving Iranian henchmen raised their hands in surrender.

James and Encizo glanced up at the three men at the door. They had expected to see the other members of Phoenix Force, but the trio wore peasant trousers, sheepskin vests and red berets. Although the Basque gunmen had clearly turned against Radmeni and Kamal, they did not seem to have any real interest in rescuing the two commandos. Whatever gripe the Basques had with the Iranian and Syrian terrorists, it seemed to be a personal matter.

"So you speak English, Radmeni?" a Basque gunman carrying a Beretta M-12 remarked as he stepped closer. "So do I. That's good. We don't have to talk in French with that Syrian piece of shit. I don't like to hear French. It makes me angry. But I am already... how you say? Pissed off?"

Calvin James interrupted. "If you dudes will get these cuffs off, we'll help you with whatever your beef is with these jokers, and we'll throw in a lesson on American slang..."

"Shut up, blackie," the Basque snapped. "This does not concern you."

"Let the man talk, Calvin," Rafael Encizo urged. The Basques were aiming their weapons at the other terrorists. For the moment that was enough to be thankful for.

"What is the problem, Gaston?" Radmeni inquired. "I'm certain we can settle this without violence..."

"You Muslim scum lied to us," Gaston declared. "You promised no harm would come to His Holiness the pope or to any members of the Catholic clergy. Yet you had Monsignor Cellini murdered. You bastards shot him in the back while he was giving condemned men their last rites!"

"If this is true, there has been a terrible misunderstanding," Radmeni insisted.

"No!" Gaston shouted. "You ordered the executions. You personally selected the hostages to be killed, Radmeni. You and the rest of your Islamic fanatics don't care if Christian men of God die. But we Basques are Catholic, and we will not stand for the murder of our clergy!"

Without warning a dark gray shape appeared at the doorway. The ninja held a drawn sword in his right fist and a Beretta 9 mm pistol in his left. He raised the sword overhead as the Beretta roared. A parabellum slug crashed into the skull of an unsuspecting Basque. The bullet punched through his brain and blasted the right eyeball from its socket.

The gunman collapsed as his comrade turned toward the ninja. Steel flashed, and the sharp edge of the sword struck the second Basque in the head. The blade cleaved through the man's beret and sliced deep into his skull. The Basque died on his feet before he could trigger his chattergun.

Gaston pivoted and swung his Beretta machine pistol at the ninja. Radmeni swiftly seized the barrel and shoved it toward the ceiling with his left hand while his right drove the blade of a dagger into the Basque's chest. Gaston screamed in a mixture of pain and anger. He pulled the trigger of his machine pistol. A three-round burst shot into the ceiling. One bullet lodged in the stone, but the others ricocheted. Kamal cried out as a deflected slug struck his left shoulder.

Radmeni twisted his wrist, turning the blade in Gaston's chest. The Basque dropped his Beretta and slumped against the Iranian. Radmeni shoved the twitching body to the floor. He kicked the dying man in the ribs and contemptuously spat in Gaston's face.

"Don't move," Fukuda the ninja warned, aiming his pistol at James and Encizo. "I will shoot you if you try to get up."

"So you speak English as well as Arabic," Radmeni commented. "Good work, Fukuda."

"I followed the three Basques," Fukuda explained. "Their manner seemed hostile. I didn't trust them."

"It's fortunate for us that you didn't. Fukuda-san," Radmeni confirmed. "Perhaps you'd care to assist us in questioning these two Americans. Your people are famous for the Death of a Thousand Cuts. Correct?"

"You're thinking of the Chinese," Fukuda answered, an edge of resentment in his voice. "And I am ninja. It is against my code to torture a helpless enemy. I will kill them quickly, but I will not torture them. Such brutality has no honor, and only inhuman scum would indulge in such behavior."

"That's your opinion, Fukuda," Radmeni replied with a shrug. "Luckily I have men who are not as squeamish about such matters."

Kamal clutched his wounded shoulder. Blood oozed between his fingers. The Syrian spoke to Radmeni in curt Arabic. The Iranian nodded in reply and helped Kamal to the door. Radmeni barked an order to the two surviving Iranian goons. They nodded eagerly and turned to aim their weapons at James and Encizo.

"I must make certain my friend receives medical care," Radmeni explained. "However, a team of interrogation experts are already on their way here. Naturally they're bringing all the necessary equipment required to loosen tongues. I'll be back when you have decided to tell us everything we want to know."

Radmeni, Kamal and Fukuda left the boiler room. James glanced up at the two terrorists who stood guard over them. The gunmen seemed nervous because of the unexpected encounter with the turncoat Basques. This did nothing to comfort the Phoenix Force pair. Frightened men are more likely to squeeze a trigger than calm men.

"These dudes are fighting among themselves now," James told Encizo. "Hell, we just saw half a dozen of them kill one another. They're coming apart at the seams, man. All we have to do is hold on for a little while longer."

"Sure," Encizo replied, unable to repress a shiver of fear. He had been tortured before and knew the pure hell men could inflict on other human beings.

Encizo knew that many people believed that once a person endured torture without breaking, he could do it again or that at least it would be more difficult for the torturers to break him. In reality the opposite was true. Victims of torture were often regarded as security risks. They were mentally and emotionally scarred by their experiences.

The Cuban recalled the torture he had suffered in Castro's prison. The thought of experiencing that horror again was bad enough, but an even worse dread filled the Cuban's mind. The Communists at El Principe had been willing to spend weeks breaking down their victims. The use of torture was gradual, and care was taken not to inflict crippling or fatal injuries. The terrorists, however, would be eager for fast results. That meant they would be willing to use extreme methods to force the pair to talk.

Encizo usually carried a handcuff key taped inside his belt at the small of his back. It was an old cop trick — in case a hoodlum used the policeman's own cuffs on him. Most handcuffs could be opened by any key designed for that purpose, and Encizo's hidden key had saved his life on more than one occasion. However, the terrorists had taken his belt when they had stripped him of weapons.

He tried the Houdini trick of tucking the thumb into the palm and attempting to slide the hand through the cuff. The manacles were too tight. He kept trying. He was willing to suffer a certain amount of pain if it would spare him the nightmare of a torture chamber.

His fingertips touched metal. The object moved slightly. Encizo picked up the small cylinder and tried to identify it by touch. He was like a blind man reading braille for the first time. The object was small, round at both ends, but hollow. Encizo had handled such objects many times before. It was the spent cartridge casing of a 9 mm parabellum and had probably been ejected from one of the machine pistols used by the Basque gunmen.

The brass cartridge casing could not cut through steel links, and it could not work the lock of the handcuffs, but Encizo held on to it. He pressed the casing against the stone floor and flattened its hollow tip. The edge of the cylinder was sharp. Encizo thought he might be able to use it as a weapon. The Phoenix commando did not dismiss the possibility of severing the veins in his own wrists if necessary.

"My name is Abdul," a voice announced. It belonged to a short, very fat Iranian with close-cropped curly black hair. He smiled at the Phoenix Force duo. "I speak English. This is good because we must talk. Yes?"

The fat man carried a tripod with an iron dish. He casually set up his equipment. The torturer struck a match and placed it among the coals in the dish. Flames danced from the container.

"I'm supposed to learn certain information from you gentlemen," the man explained. "We need to know where we can find your friends. We must know how many of them are still alive and where we can find the bodies of the dead so that we can confirm that they no longer threaten us. We also want to know who sent you and what plans your superiors have of taking further action against us."

Abdul placed a pair of pliers in the fire and then inserted the tips of two needlelike devices into the coals. He frowned slightly and took a small tube of lighter fluid from a pocket. The torturer squirted the fluid on the coals, and blue flame flared up from the dish.

"That's better," Abdul remarked. "Now this is going to be very unpleasant for you. Very unpleasant. You can spare yourselves a lot of pain and discomfort if you simply answer me now. Confession is good for the soul, yes? So talk to Abdul."

"Go fuck yourself," Calvin James replied.

"That has always seemed a strange expression to me," Abdul sighed. "I don't see how such a thing is possible."

"Eat shit, fatso," James said, glaring up at the torturer. "If you can't figure that one out, I'll be happy to help you with it."

"You have spirit," Abdul chuckled as he took several copper coins from his pocket and carefully tossed them onto the coals. "That's good. It will be more fun for me. Your friend is quiet. Is he too scared to talk?"

"I don't feel much like conversation," Encizo stated. "I think you'll find that I'll scream loudly and curse in two or three languages, but I won't tell you a damn thing."

"Oh, everybody talks to Abdul," the fat man declared as he wrapped his hand with a thick piece of material so that he could pick up the pliers. "They need to heat up a bit. I like pliers. They crush and tear things off people. Fingers, toes, noses, ears..." The Iranian looked pointedly at the crotch of Encizo's pants and laughed cruelly.

James opened his mouth to reply, but he could not think of anything to say. The sheer horror of the situation was beginning to strike home. Two men dragged a pair of heavy armchairs into the boiler room. Abdul gave a few instructions in Farsi, and the other Iranians nodded.

"Now," the torturer began. "One at a time, we will strap you in these chairs. Don't put up a fight. If you do, these men will simply shoot you in an arm or leg to calm you down. They won't kill you, so don't beg for death."

Two terrorists seized Encizo and hauled him up from the floor while a third Iranian aimed a pistol at the Cuban's groin. The fourth gunman kept an AK-47 pointed at Calvin James. Encizo was tempted to kick and butt at his opponents, but he realized that would be foolish. A better opportunity might occur later.

The enemy forced him into a chair and shoved his head between his knees as they removed the handcuffs. His arms were pulled in front of him and braced against the arms of the chair. Leather straps were buckled to his wrists. Encizo felt the sharp edge of the cartridge case hidden in his fist. He squeezed the tiny piece of brass, clinging to it as one might a good luck charm or medallion of a saint.

Another strap was fastened around the Cuban's chest, binding him to the backrest of the chair. There were no ankle straps, probably because the restraining devices had been added to the chairs rather hastily. The straps were simply ordinary belts. Encizo saw it as a glimmer of hope because the belts would be easier to escape from than the handcuffs had been.

The terrorists pulled Calvin James from the floor and herded him to the next chair. The black warrior considered trying some tae kwon do techniques, but dismissed the notion for the same reason Encizo had not tried to struggle. The enemy strapped James to the chair as they had Encizo.

"That's better," Abdul said with a smile. "Now I can work on you in the manner I'm accustomed to."

"Heaven forbid that you should be uncomfortable," Encizo remarked dryly. The quiver in his voice betrayed his nonchalant attitude.

"I'm going to teach you all about discomfort," the fat man warned. He turned to the two guards and spoke to them in Farsi, gesturing at the corpses of the Iranians and Basque renegades that still littered the floor. The guards nodded. They seemed relieved by whatever Abdul had told them.

"I've instructed them to take the bodies out of my work area," Abdul explained. "I hate clutter when I'm trying to concentrate on business. Besides, there may have been weapons on those corpses. Just a precaution. I also told those two that they are to stay out of the room while I'm working. I think they're rather glad of that."

Abdul glanced at the two Iranians who remained. Both were young, muscular and dirty. It was obvious that neither man had bathed recently or used a comb. However, their expressions were quite different. One man brooded. The other man seemed unable to stop grinning. He displayed discolored half-rotted teeth as he smiled at James and Encizo.

"Of course," Abdul announced proudly. "These are my assistants. My students of the art, you might say. Saddam and Reza are accustomed to this sort of work. They enjoy it, although Saddam expresses his pleasure more than Reza."

"Always nice to meet guys who like what they do for a living," Calvin James commented, managing a feeble smile.

"Now that we've all been introduced, it is time to get down to business," Abdul stated as he took the pliers from the hot coals in the dish.

19

"I'm worried about this plan, Captain," Bishop Juan Castillo confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. "If anything goes wrong, dozens of us will be slaughtered."

"The terrorists have already killed ten hostages," Captain Jacobi replied. The Swiss officer glanced over the heads of hundreds of fellow prisoners. The Iranian gunmen were still posted at the exits of the Vestibolo Rotondo, although there were no more than there had been the last time he had counted. "Monsignor Cellini was one of the victims. We've got about fifteen more minutes before they come for ten more of us."

"But we've heard so much shooting and so many explosions," Castillo remarked. "That surely means the terrorists are still fighting the rescue team sent to save us..."

"That rescue team hasn't succeeded yet," Jacobi insisted. "We can't wait for them, Father. Try to look at this the way the strike force has to. First, they have to concentrate on neutralizing the earthquake device. That's the greatest potential threat. It could destroy the whole of the Vatican and thousands of lives. Besides, they've got to find out where we're being held. If it's true that only about eight commandos managed to get over the wall, they're pitted against enormous odds. There are over two hundred terrorists to deal with. We've got to take action, and if we do it before Radmeni comes to pick out the next ten hostages for the firing squad, we'll have only the guards that are already here to deal with."

"Are you forgetting about all the other terrorists beyond the Vestibolo?" Castillo inquired.

"No," Jacobi assured him. "But at least we'll be armed when we go up against them. At least we can fight like men instead of being led to the slaughter like cattle."

"Killing is wrong, my son," the bishop said, frowning.

"Father Cellini told me to do what I must," the captain replied. "It's my duty to protect the lives and property of the Vatican. I haven't done a very good job of that so far. Now it's time I start acting more like a soldier and less like a prisoner. If I have to take the lives of a few wicked men to save the lives of many innocent people, I don't imagine God will be too upset with me."

"My prayers are with you, my son," Castillo said, smiling thinly. "Take care, and may God be with you."

"Grazie, il padre," Jacobi answered. "Everybody should be in position and ready for us to make our move. With a little luck we ought to..."

"Signor Guardia!" Fulvio Salvia exclaimed as he rushed toward a pair of terrorist sentries. "I must speak to you. It is most urgent."

"Non mi secchi!" an Iranian who spoke a smattering of Italian gruffly replied, ordering Salvia to keep his distance.

"Un momento," the portly newspaper printer urged. "I am trying to warn you of danger, signor."

"Calma," the bilingual Iranian replied with a sigh. "Che vuole, il cane?"

"That man, the captain of the Swiss Guards," Salvia said, pointing toward Jacobi, "is trying to convince some of the others to revolt."

"Revolt?" the Iranian frowned. "How? What has he planned?"

"I'm not certain," Salvia answered. "But I'm certain he intends to cause trouble for you. I don't want any trouble. You'll be sure to tell Signor Radmeni how I helped you?"

"Shut up, you fat coward," the terrorist snorted as he shoved Salvia aside with the barrel of his AK-47 and walked toward the captain. "You are Captain Jacobi?"

"I am Jacobi/' the Swiss officer admitted as he approached the guards. "What do you want? What's Salvia been telling you? You know he's just a printer at the Vatican newspaper, don't you?"

"He tells me you intend to cause some trouble for us, Jacobi," the Iranian stated. "He tells me you're trying to form some sort of revolt."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Jacobi demanded. He glared at Salvia. "Damn you, Fulvio! What did you tell them?"

"Nothing, Captain," Salvia replied, shaking his head as he tried to back away from the Swiss officer. "Nothing at all."

"You misbegotten son of a sow!" Jacobi shouted. "You're going to ruin everything!"

He lunged forward and seized Salvia's shirt front. The captain shook Salvia and snarled obscenities in a couple of languages. Two other Swiss Guardsmen rushed forward and pulled their commander away from the printer.

"He isn't worth it, sir!" a young sergeant declared.

"That fool ruined everything," Jacobi said bitterly.

"Very entertaining," the Italian-speaking Iranian chuckled. "But now we have a few questions to ask you. Captain. And if you're wise, you'll answer us before we take you to see Radmeni's interrogation experts and..."

Suddenly groups of hostages attacked guards at each exit to the Vestibolo Rotondo. Three or more prisoners went after each Iranian sentry. Some of them wielded shoes as clubs, others used their fists. A former United States Marine lashed out with the buckle of his belt, which was wrapped around his fist.

The guards who had been amused by the confrontation between Jacobi and Salvia, were no longer laughing. Both men raised their AK-47 rifles. Jacobi and the other two Swiss soldiers rammed into the terrorists. The captain and the sergeant drove their opponent to the floor. Jacobi wrenched the Kalashnikov from the terrorist's grasp while the NCO hammered his fist into the Iranian's face.

The other Swiss Guardsman was not as lucky. His opponent whipped the butt of his AK-47 across the soldier's skull before the Swiss could grapple with the terrorist. The trooper fell with a groan as the Iranian swung the barrel of his weapon toward Jacobi and the printer. Pudgy hands grabbed the rifle and shoved it toward the ceiling. The Iranian cursed as he glared into the round face of Fulvio Salvia.

The printer tried to push the terrorist off-balance, but the Iranian was younger and stronger than the portly Italian. He held on to the rifle and rammed a knee between Salvia's legs. The printer wheezed in agony and collapsed to the floor as both his hands moved to his genitals.

Suddenly two fists hammered the terrorist's forearms, striking the rifle from his grasp. He stared into the face of Bishop Juan Castillo. The priest swung a hard right cross at the Iranian's jaw, followed by a quick left hook. Castillo plowed an uppercut to the terrorist's solar plexus. His left arm snaked around the man's neck into a headlock while his right fist slammed into the Iranian's face.

"God forgive me," the bishop hissed through clenched teeth as he punched the man between the eyes.

Castillo released his opponent. The terrorist dropped senseless to the floor. Captain Jacobi blinked in surprise as his mouth fell open. Castillo shrugged his shoulders in an embarrassed gesture of reluctant acceptance.

"I... I used to do some boxing when I was younger," the bishop admitted. "At one time I trained for the Olympics, middleweight division."

"I believe you," Jacobi assured him. "Don't be upset, Father. I think you broke the terrorist's nose, but he certainly isn't dead. I probably would be if you hadn't stopped him. I owe you my life, Father."

"Fulvio deserves most of the credit," Castillo declared as he helped Salvia rise from the floor. "The gunman would have shot you before I could reach him, but Fulvio risked his life to protect you."

"Are you all right, Fulvio?" Jacobi inquired, placing a hand on the printer's shoulder.

"I have had better days," Salvia croaked. "Did the plan work, Captain?"

"So far," Jacobi confirmed. He glanced across the Vestibolo and saw several men waving weapons they had taken from the subdued terrorists. Many cheered, but others realized that loud voices would carry to the enemies beyond the hall. A few were obviously fearful of retaliation by the terrorists.

"You played your role very well, Fulvio," Castillo told the printer. "You and the captain supplied an excellent diversion that allowed the others to catch the terrorists off guard."

"It wasn't difficult for me to act as a coward," Salvio confessed. "I was terrified."

"So was I," Jacobi said. "Don't tell me you're a coward, Fulvio. It takes a great deal of courage to do something when you are frightened. If you're not afraid, taking action doesn't require any courage. You were very brave, my friend."

"The corporal took a nasty blow on the head," Castillo remarked, referring to the Swiss Guardsman who had been butt-stroked during the fight. "Better have a doctor take a look at him."

"I will," Jacobi assured him. "But we've got some other matters to take care of, too. The confiscated guns must be put in the hands of people who know how to use them. We've also got to..."

Suddenly ten terrorists appeared at the main entrance of the Vestibolo Rotondo. The enemy had sent another squad to pick out the next group of hostages to be executed. Jacobi cursed under his breath for not posting a lookout at each doorway. The hostages were not prepared for a firefight, and resistance would mean that dozens would be slaughtered.

Captain Jacobi was not a combat commander. He hesitated, unsure if they should surrender or fight. The latter was the only logical choice, despite the high probability of a bloodbath in which the hostages would make up the majority of the body count. They had finally organized and fought back. If they quit now, their spirit to fight and to survive would be broken.

Several terrorists at the rear of the group began to convulse in a bizarre, uncoordinated dance. Their bodies jerked and twitched as blood and brain matter splurted from their bullet-shattered skulls. The subdued chatter of a silenced machine pistol was barely noticeable amid the startled cries of the surviving terrorists.

David McCarter and John Trent had attacked the terrorists from the rear. The Briton's M-10 Ingram blasted a volley of parabellums into the necks and skulls of three opponents while Trent hurled the blade of his shoge at the back of another terrorist. The double-edged steel pierced the Iranian's spine between his shoulder blades.

The man screamed as Trent yanked the shoge cord to pull the knife from the terrorist's back. Another Iranian turned toward the American ninja before Trent could prepare the knife for another throw. Trent's left arm snapped toward the second opponent as he swung the steel ring at the other end of the shoge cord. Hard metal struck the terrorist across the face. The terrorist fell back against a wall with blood pouring from his nostrils.

A third opponent charged at Trent, but the ninja had gripped the shoge by its handle again and threw it at the terrorist. The blade's point struck the Iranian in the chest. Sharp steel pierced flesh, although it did not stab deeply enough to inflict a mortal wound.

Trent lunged forward, drawing the ninja-do. He jumped between the three wounded opponents and swung the sword. The ninja pivoted, increasing the force and speed of the sword stroke. The blade slashed the dazed terrorist across the chest. The arch continued and cut the throat of the Iranian who still wore the shoge knife in his chest. The sword completed its revolution and sliced the neck of the terrorist with the punctured spine.

John Trent raised his sword, ready to deliver another stroke if needed. Three dead terrorists collapsed in a semicircle around him.

The remaining terrorists battled David McCarter. The British fighting machine hit the enemy with another salvo of 9 mm fire. Bullets raked the chests of two terrorists, bursting their hearts as the impact drove them backward into another Iranian gunsel. All three men fell to the floor.

The last terrorist aimed a Skorpion machine pistol at McCarter. Trent's right arm flashed as he hurled a shaken throwing star at the gunman's head. Steel points hit the terrorist behind the right ear. The blades pierced the mastoid bone. The terrorist dropped his rifle as he fell forward.

"Get out from under those corpses, you bastard!" McCarter shouted at the man who was buried under the bodies of three of his comrades. "Now, or I'll kill you, too!"

The Iranian may not have understood English, but he did not need a translator to tell him what McCarter wanted. The terrorist crawled away from his slain friends and rose to his knees with both hands clamped on top of his head.

"Guess this bloke isn't ready to meet Allah in person just yet," the Briton commented. He kept his eyes trained on the terrorist as he called to the hostages, "Do any of you speak English?"

"I'm an American, pal," a voice replied.

"Close enough," McCarter said with a shrug. He kept the Ingram pointed at the Iranian as he pulled a set of riot cuffs from his belt. "Come here and bind his wrists and ankles. But no rough stuff. He's surrendered, so there's no need to take out any frustrations on him."

"I'm Captain Jacobi of the Swiss Guards," the officer introduced himself as he approached McCarter. He stared at Trent, surprised to see that one of the rescuers was dressed as a ninja.

"Don't worry," the Briton assured him. "He's a friend. We're bloody lucky he's on our side. Tell your mates not to get trigger-happy when they see him."

"How did you find us?" Jacobi inquired.

"We knew the terrorists planned to execute more hostages," McCarter explained. "When we saw this gang headed for the museum, we figured they'd lead us right to you blokes. We thought we'd have some guards to deal with, but it looks like you've already taken care of that."

"We decided we'd rather die like rams than sheep." the Swiss officer confirmed.

"Couldn't agree with you more," McCarter said with a wolfish grin. "Be careful. This sort of experience can become habit-forming... if you're lucky."

"Don't pay too much attention to anything he says," Trent told Jacobi. "The guy's nuts."

"You use a sword against men armed with submachine guns and you call me nuts?" the Briton scoffed.

"We wanted to take out the enemy with a minimum of noise," Trent said with a shrug. "I don't have a silencer for my pistol."

"Do you gentlemen have a plan for getting us out of here?" Bishop Castillo inquired as he approached the pair.

"Actually a couple of our mates were suppose to rescue you," McCarter explained as he inserted a fresh magazine into the well of his Ingram. "But they must have tried to save the hostages who were executed in the courtyard. From the sounds of gunfire and explosions, I'd say our friends must have run into some solid opposition. We don't know if they're dead or alive. Another team planned to take out the earthquake device by the radio station."

"If they succeed, they should be heading back here to join up with us so we can hit enemy headquarters."

"Some of us will help," Jacobi declared. "Most of these people are civilians and they'd just get in the way, but a few of us have some experience."

"Actually," McCarter explained. "We were supposed to send up a flare to signal the Italian antiterrorist squad to charge the Vatican. After the earthquake threat was neutralized and the hostages freed, we planned to call for reinforcements to mop up what's left of the terrorists. I don't know how many of the bastards are left, but we've killed quite a lot of them. There shouldn't be enough to put up a major fight."

"That's wishful thinking," Trent commented dryly.

"Maybe," the Briton admitted. "But for all of our sakes it had better come true."

20

"I'm afraid we don't have much time/' Abdul the torturer remarked as he clamped the pliers onto the edge of a red-hot coin and raised it from the dish of burning coals. "So I'm going to have to move directly to some of my more unpleasant forms of extracting information."

Rafael Encizo could not repress a tremble of fear when the fat man approached him. Abdul held the pliers high. The coin glowed as if it were an amulet of supernatural evil. Encizo reminded himself that the torturer wanted information. Regardless of his remark, Abdul would not use a technique that might throw a victim into shock or that could possibly cause a heart attack. He would use those only if no other method seemed to work.

The Cuban curled the fingers of his right hand against his palm and awkwardly rubbed the cartridge case against the belt buckle that bound his wrist to the arm of the chair. Abdul and his assistants had not discovered the tiny brass object that Encizo had turned into a crude chisel. But it was small comfort, since the cartridge casing did not seem sharp enough to cut through leather.

Abdul stepped around the chair. He avoided approaching Encizo from the front because he realized the Cuban's legs were not restrained. Abdul was familiar with desperate, frightened men. He did not care to get kicked in the groin by a panicking victim. The torturer moved behind Encizo and leaned toward his ear.

"Pain is fascinating," Abdul whispered. "I never tire of watching the effects of pain on individuals. Everybody reacts differently at first. Some cry, some curse, some don't even groan. Yet, in the end, they all react the same. They betray their friends, denounce their causes, deny their gods. They will do anything to stop the pain."

Abdul thrust the pliers in front of Encizo's face. The heat from the hot coin warmed his skin, although icy perspiration beaded across his forehead. The scent of hot copper resembled the smell of fear. Encizo could taste copper. He did not know if it was the odor of the glowing metal or the taste of his own terror.

"This is a very old and time-honored technique," Abdul explained, moving the pliers closer to Encizo's unprotected face. "Ever since man first minted coins, he has used them in torture. The Greeks, Romans and Spanish have used this technique. When Iran was still Persia, it was a common practice to blind an enemy by placing hot coins on his eyes."

Encizo pressed his neck against the backrest of the chair, hopelessly trying to avoid the hot metal that drew closer to his face. It moved less than an inch from his right eye. The heat seemed to soak moisture from the orb. He closed his eye, but he could still see the terrible glowing coin.

"It will burn right through the eyelid, you know," Abdul declared. "It sears through flesh and scorches the eyeball before burning slowly through to the socket. Once in a while tears cool the coin and I have to replace it with another one. That's no problem. I've got more coins heating in the coals right now."

Abdul snapped an order in Farsi. Reza, the grim-faced apprentice, grabbed Encizo's right hand. The Cuban slid the cartridge casing under his wrist. Reza used both his hands to pry Encizo's fist open. He bent the fingers back with one hand and gripped the thumb with the other.

Encizo was afraid they had noticed the slight movement of his fist as he tried to saw the belt with the tiny brass tool. They were about to rob him of the only hope he had. They were about to take his only chance to escape from hell.

Suddenly a terrible burning pain exploded from the center of his palm. He did not try to repress the scream that rose from his throat. The smell of charred flesh assaulted his nostrils.

Abdul had placed the red-hot coin in the Cuban's hand. Reza released Encizo's fingers. His hand was numb. The coin lay in the center of his palm, embedded in the skin.

"You fuckin' bastard!" Calvin James snarled.

"Shut up, dog," Abdul replied. "Your turn is next."

Saddam, the grinning torture assistant, stood by James's chair. He giggled as he swatted the back of his hand across the black man's mouth. James tasted blood, but he did not utter a sound. The commando glanced up at the sick smile on Saddam's unwashed face.

"If I get out of this, I'll wipe that smile off your face permanently, asshole," James hissed through clenched teeth.

Abdul used the pliers to pluck the coin from Encizo's palm. Skin had fused to metal. The Cuban groaned in agony as the coin was removed. A circle of raw, burned flesh remained in the center of his palm.

"Well," Abdul remarked as he strolled to the side of James's chair. "This coin isn't hot anymore. I could get , another one for you, dog. Would you like that?"

"I'd rather see you with one of those coins stuck up your ass," James replied. The Phoenix Force commando's anger was greater than his fear.

"It's not smart to talk that way to Abdul," the torturer said as he leaned behind James's left shoulder. "I must show you the error of your disrespect toward a person of a superior race. I must do it quickly, or you won't remember why I punished you. Dogs must be punished immediately to understand that what they've done is wrong."

He barked an order to Saddam. The assistant seized James's left hand and pushed it against the chair arm. Saddam pinned the hand and bent back the little finger.

"This will give you something to think about, dog," Abdul remarked as he clamped the pliers around the tip of James's finger.

Calvin James closed his eyes and pressed his lips tightly together. The pliers pinched skin and muscle. The pressure increased, crushing the first knuckle near the tip of his finger. The pain bolted up the nerves in James's arm, but he remained silent. Abdul twisted the pliers. Blood squirted from torn flesh.

James trembled from pain and fear, but he did not scream or even moan. He refused to give his tormentors that satisfaction. Nerves and muscle snapped. James nearly cried out, but he managed to grind his teeth together to repress the scream.

"You hold pain very well," Abdul commented as he held the bloodied pliers near James's face. "You see what I have here, dog? Recognize it?"

A small lump of dark skin protruded from the pliers with a pale fingernail in the center. Abdul had ripped off the tip of James's little finger.

"That's just a tiny bit of your smallest finger," the torturer stated. "Not much really. I can tear off the rest of that finger, or we can pull down your pants and..."

"That's enough, Abdul," Encizo announced, his voice unsteady as he gasped for air. "There's no point in going through this sort of pain. I'll tell you where our friends are."

"You broke so soon?" Abdul said, frowning. "I'm disappointed. Your friend, the dog, isn't ready to talk. Maybe he's stupid, eh?"

"Do you want the information or not?" Encizo demanded.

"I'm listening," Abdul assured him, strolling back to the dish on the tripod. He placed the pliers in the hot coals. Smoke rose as the tip of James's finger burned.

"There were six of us," Encizo began. "Two are dead. You'll find their bodies near the printing house of the Vatican newspaper. We buried them under some rubble. The others are probably at the railroad station. That's where we were suppose to meet after our hit-and-run assignments."

James realized Encizo was lying to try to buy some time. He decided to play along with the Cuban's scheme.

"Goddamn you, Santos!" the black warrior snapped. "Don't tell these sons of bitches another damn thing..."

Saddam slapped James in the mouth to silence him.

"Why would you meet at the railroad station?" Abdul asked, a trace of suspicion in his voice. "That was one of the first places you attacked."

"Which is why you terrorists wouldn't be looking for us there," the Cuban replied. "It's also where our reinforcements are supposed to join us. They'll be coming across the wall any minute now."

"Who are you working for?" the torturer demanded. "American CIA? Italian Secret Service?"

"Interpol," Encizo lied smoothly. "We're part of a special missions branch that is highly confidential. Very little has been leaked to the public about us. There was an article in the Washington Post, or maybe it was a New York paper. I think Pravda printed something about us, too. I don't suppose you've read anything about us."

"I haven't had much time for reading," Abdul replied. The torturer was not certain if the Cuban was telling the truth or not. "Hey, dog. What do you say?"

"I ain't telling you shit, man," James answered. "Santos has a big mouth, but that doesn't mean he's telling you the truth. He's just trying to save his neck."

"Interesting," Abdul mused. He walked to the door and spoke with the sentries in the corridor.

Encizo painfully worked his fingers over the burned palm and found the cartridge casing at his wrist. He rubbed the brass against leather. The sharp end cut a groove in the restraining belt. Encizo repeated the process again and again.

Reza and Saddam did not seem concerned about the two captives. Both were more curious about their master's conversation with the guards. Saddam and Reza carried 9 mm Beretta pistols in their belts. They obviously felt they could draw their weapons before James or Encizo could break out of their bonds.

Encizo tested the strap. The leather began to split at the cut. The Cuban commando concealed a smile of satisfaction. Now, if the enemy made a mistake and gave him the opportunity he needed...

"I sent one of the guards to contact Radmeni," Abdul announced as he returned to the tripod and dish of coals. "He might decide to send a patrol after your friends at the railroad station immediately. However, he'll want me to continue 'questioning' you two to make certain that you're telling the truth."

"I told you the truth," Encizo insisted. "What do you plan to do? Torture me until I start to tell lies just to get the pain to stop?"

"I must get your friend to confirm what you've said,'* Abdul sighed. "I should have questioned you one at a time. The conditions Radmeni forces me to work under are abominable."

"Ain't that a pity," James said weakly. Blood dripped from the ragged tip of his mutilated finger. "Well, come on and do your damnest, you fat slob."

"I intend to," Abdul assured him, taking a long iron needle from the dish of coals. The tip glowed bright crimson.

"No!" Encizo cried, struggling against the bonds that held him to the chair. He took care not to push against the strap over his right wrist.

Reza seized Encizo's hair and pulled him back against the backrest of the chair. The torturer's assistant uttered something in Farsi and stepped to the right of Encizo. He rammed a fist into the Cuban's stomach. Encizo gasped, but he almost welcomed the pain because it gave him the opportunity he had hoped for.

The Cuban yanked his right arm upward. The strap broke at the groove he had cut in the leather. Encizo's hand streaked to Reza's belt, and he pulled the Beretta pistol free. His arm rose swiftly and slammed the steel frame under Reza's jaw.

Abdul dropped the needle and staggered backward. He was horrified to see that one of his victims had a gun in his hand. Saddam drew his Beretta and extended his arm to aim the pistol at Encizo. He failed to notice that he had stretched his arm out in front of Calvin James.

The black warrior's right leg lashed out in a high arch. The toe of his boot struck Saddam in the face. The smiling sadist's teeth were pushed inward. He swallowed two of them as he fell back against a wall. His finger jerked the trigger of the Beretta, and it fired a harmless round at the ceiling.

Encizo swung his pistol toward the dazed Saddam. He squeezed the trigger and pumped a 9 mm slug into Saddam's forehead. The torturer's assistant slumped over, leaving a smear of brains and blood against the wall.

The sentry posted in the corridor charged into the room when he heard the shots. Encizo quickly nailed him in the chest with two parabellums. The guard was hurled back through the doorway and onto the hall floor.

Reza grabbed Encizo's arm as he tried to wrench the pistol from the Cuban's grasp. Encizo allowed his arm to be pulled toward Reza and then he suddenly jammed the muzzle of the Beretta under the guy's chin. He triggered the pistol, and the top of Reza's skull exploded in a volcano of blood.

The noise of gunshots within the confined area echoed in the ears of the three survivors. Abdul stared into the muzzle of the Beretta and fell to his knees. He interlaced his fingers and begged for mercy. Encizo did not listen. The Cuban was trying to use the butt of the Beretta to force open the buckle to the belt confining his left wrist.

"You've got to tell me how you managed this little miracle, Rafael," James remarked as he watched Encizo unbuckle the last strap across his chest.

"Later," the Cuban promised. He rose from the chair and hurried to James.

"Hand me the piece Smiley dropped," the black hardass urged.

"Take this one for now," Encizo replied, inserting the butt of the Beretta into James's right hand. The weapon was smeared with blood from the burn wound in Encizo's palm.

The Cuban hastily unstrapped James from the chair. The black man glared at Abdul and occasionally glanced at the doorway. He kept the Beretta trained on the fat torturer. Abdul was still on his knees and babbling for compassion from the men he had tortured.

"They made me do this terrible work," Abdul said in a trembling voice. "I find no pleasure in it. It sickens me, but Radmeni threatened to kill my family in Iran if I refused to do what he ordered. The man is a monster..."

Calvin James rose from his chair and walked toward Abdul. His expression was as hard as the steel barrel of the Beretta in his fist. Abdul's eyes widened with terror, and he turned to try to crawl away.

"Don't forget this," James growled as he kicked the tripod, tipping it toward the torturer.

The dish fell on Abdul. Hot coals spilled across his back. The torturer screamed and rolled away, driving the burning coals deeper into his flesh. James glanced at the severed end of the little finger of his left hand. He considered the possibilities of using the pliers that now lay at his feet. The same pliers Abdul had used on him.

"Go ahead, Calvin," Encizo remarked, well aware of what the black man was thinking. "If you think you can live with yourself afterward."

"Shit," James rasped as he kicked the pliers across the floor.

He leaned forward and aimed the Beretta at Abdul's face. The torturer still screamed. James fired a single round through the man's open mouth. Abdul was silenced forever.

Encizo picked up the other Beretta pistol. He held it in his left hand. The right was swollen and throbbed with pain. The welt in his palm had split open and blood oozed down his fingers. The Cuban moved to the doorway and cautiously peered into the hall. Two figures headed toward the room. Encizo aimed the pistol at the pair. He held his fire. One man carried an Uzi submachine gun braced across his right arm. The other held an FAL rifle and wore a backpack.

"Madre de Dios," the Cuban sighed with relief. "Thank God. It's Yakov and Gary."

"Oh, man," James laughed in relief rather than amusement. "It's a reunion!"

"Come on in," Encizo invited. "Everyone who's still breathing is friendly."

Katz and Manning hurried to the door. The Israeli glanced at the enemy bodies scattered about the room and nodded.

"We had planned to rescue you," he remarked. "But it seems you managed that on your own."

"How'd you know we were here?" Encizo asked as he jammed the Beretta pistol in the waistband of his pants.

"We caught some terrorists upstairs," Manning answered. "One of them spoke French. He told us they had you two down here in a torture chamber. We were afraid you guys would look like two mounds of raw hamburger by the time we reached you."

"Doesn't look like you had a picnic here," Katz remarked, reaching for the small first aid kit on his belt.

"That's my job," James announced, taking the kit from the Phoenix Force commander. "I'll need a little help wrapping my own hand."

"Quit showing off," Manning said gruffly, plucking the kit from James's grasp. "Give me your hand."

"Wrap the little finger, which is now a littler finger," James instructed. "Cap over the top of the wound with the bandage by..."

"I've been trained in fundamental first aid, Calvin," the Canadian assured him. "Hold still."

"How are we doing against the terrorists?" Encizo asked as Katz helped him wrap a bandage around his wounded hand.

"Not badly," Katz replied. "Gary deactivated the explosives that had been planted to trigger an earthquake, so the main threat has been neutralized. McCarter and Trent are outside. They liberated the hostages. All that's left is to wrap this mission up with as little damage as possible to Vatican property."

"Then let's go kick ass," James declared.

21

David McCarter glanced at his Le Grand wristwatch. The luminous minute hand informed him that ten minutes had passed since Katz and Manning had entered the Apostolic Palace. The Briton had heard gunshots from somewhere deep within the building but he had still waited the full ten minutes.

"Finally," he whispered, taking a tubular flare launcher from a pocket.

He raised the launcher overhead and pressed the trigger. The projectile shot about five hundred feet into the sky and exploded in a bright orange nova of light. McCarter tossed aside the launcher and grabbed his Ingram machine pistol. The Briton turned to John Trent, Captain Jacobi and three other former hostages who had insisted on taking part in the raid against enemy headquarters.

"All right," McCarter announced. "We're going in. You chaps follow me, and remember not to shoot unless you're sure of your bloody target. I've got some friends in there, and I don't want any of them catching a bullet because one of you blokes panicked."

"Hey, fella," an American whispered. "I was on two tours in Nam when I was in the Corps and I never panicked."

"Just don't do it now," the Briton insisted.

Trent finished strapping the steel claws to his hands and feet. He had already given his shotgun to one of the former hostages. The ninja would be armed with only the .45 Colt pistol and the traditional weapons of ninjutsu. McCarter looked at Trent and shook his head.

"Are you sure you don't want to come with us?" he asked.

"I'll stay on the outside," Trent replied. "If there are any ninja left, they'll probably try to escape by climbing out a window or onto the roof. You guys brought me along to deal with enemy ninja, and I haven't encountered a real one yet. Just those amateurs who knew little more about swords than which end to hold on to."

"Sounds bloody risky to me," McCarter said. "But it's your decision, mate. Good luck."

"Same to you," Trent replied. The American ninja headed for the wall and began to climb the stone surface.

"Come along, lads," McCarter told the others. "Let's show these terrorists the worst bloody time they ever thought about giving to somebody else. The survivors are going to have nightmares about tonight for the rest of their bleedin' lives."

The great doors to the entrance of the palace opened, and three terrorists emerged. They scanned the sky, obviously puzzled by the flare. The terrorists did not see McCarter lurking among the shadows until the Briton opened fire with his M-10. Nine-millimeter rounds chopped down the trio like cornstalks under the blade of a machete.

The Briton pulled the pin from a flash-bang grenade and tossed it through the gap between the doors. The explosion blasted the doors wide open. McCarter charged to the entrance, closely followed by the four former hostages. Two terrorists lay unconscious or dead. Three more were severely stunned by the concussion grenade. One Iranian fanatic still held an AK-47 in his fists. McCarter hit him in the chest with a three-round burst from the Ingram. Another man knelt on the floor, clutching his ears with both hands. The British ace slammed a boot under the guy's jaw and knocked him unconscious.

The third terrorist raised his hands in surrender. McCarter jogged past the dazed crackpot and whipped the frame of his Ingram across the back of the man's skull. The terrorist fell forward and into a hard right cross from the ex-Marine in McCarter's group. The punch knocked the guy on his ass. He sprawled unconscious as Jacobi and two other Swiss Guardsmen jumped over him.

McCarter barely noticed the beauty of the spacious hall within the palace. The centuries-old marble carvings, priceless paintings and magnificent tapestries were merely blurred surroundings of a battlefield. The Briton would never have felt comfortable in a palace, but he was right at home on a battlefield anywhere in the world.

Half a dozen men appeared from behind marble pillars. McCarter threw himself to the floor and triggered the M-10. The first salvo of 9 mm slugs caught one terrorist in the stomach and groin. A couple of stray rounds chewed into the right forearm of another gunman. He dropped his American M-16 rifle and clutched his bullet-torn limb as the other terrorists opened fire.

McCarter's body slid across the smooth marble floor. More than a hundred rounds burned the air above his hurtling form. One of the Swiss Guardsmen cried out as several bullets crashed into his torso. The man's agony was brief since the multiple gunshot wounds were almost instantly fatal. Jacobi, the American ally and the Swiss sergeant fired back at the enemy position with weapons they had confiscated from vanquished terrorists.

An enemy gunman fell backward, both hands reaching for what remained of his bullet-shattered face. Another terrorist went down with four slugs buried in the center of his chest. The remaining triggermen from Iran ducked for cover behind the pillars.

McCarter slid into enemy territory. He fired the Ingram upward, blasting a terrorist who thought he had found safety. Parabellums punched through the guy's liver and spleen. A couple of slugs drilled into his chest cavity and popped his heart as if it were a crimson balloon.

The British warrior rolled to the pillar as another gunman poked the muzzle of a Skorpion machine pistol around the edge of his marble cover. A burst of 7.65 rounds sparked against the floor. A ricochet whined past McCarter's ear. The Briton flinched, but he was too experienced in combat to freeze. McCarter thrived on action. A near brush with death only stimulated his sense of survival. When the battle was over — if he survived — McCarter would tremble when he recalled how close a bullet had come to sending him into oblivion. Yet, in the heat of battle, McCarter's reflexes and instincts ruled his actions.

The Ingram was empty. McCarter drew his Browning HiPower from shoulder leather and shoved the M-10 across the floor. It slid to the pillar that the terrorist lurked behind. The fanatic smiled when he saw the Briton's machine pistol. Apparently he had wounded the infidel. The man slowly peeked around the edge of the pillar.

McCarter's Browning roared, and a 9 mm parabellum struck the terrorist under the right eye. His eyeball popped from its cracked socket as the bullet splintered bone and drilled into his brain.

The Iranian with the wounded right arm managed to draw a dagger from its belt sheath. He slipped behind McCarter, raised his blade and charged. Captain Jacobi saw the terrorist lunge and snap-aimed an AK-47 assault rifle. He triggered the Soviet-made blaster and pumped three 7.62 mm projectiles into the chest and throat of the knifeman. The terrorist fell backward, and the dagger slipped from his fingers.

"Jesus," McCarter whispered when he turned to see the twitching body of the man who had almost buried six inches of steel in his back. However, the Briton's voice was cheerful as he called out to the others.

"We're off to a bloody good start," he declared. "Aren't we, mates?"

* * *

Mohammed Radmeni angrily shoved the field radio off the desk. It smashed against the floor, but the Iranian terrorist leader no longer cared about communications with his men. The message he had just received contained all he needed to know.

The orange flare had been a signal to the Italian military to storm the Vatican. Marksmen had picked off terrorist sentries like targets on a firing range. Italian soldiers and antiterrorist paratroopers swarmed into the Vatican. The terrorist forces had been whittled down by the mysterious team of commandos. They were unable to present more than token resistance against the military assault.

"The infidels think they've won," Radmeni snarled, spittle spewing from his lips. "But we shall take them with us to the next world. Allah shall receive his brave soldiers with open arms and the infidels will burn in everlasting hell!"

"You want to detonate the earthquake device," Ali Hussan Kamal said grimly. "Perhaps we can threaten to use it and..."

"Shut up, you Syrian coward!" Radmeni spat. "I've listened to you long enough! We shall all die together! True believer and infidel alike! This frightens you because you will be among the latter, Kamal!"

The Iranian undipped a radio transmitter from his belt. The other followers of the Islamic Jihad fell to their knees and faced Mecca as they began to pray for the last time. Radmeni turned to the east, bowed and pressed the detonation button. Ali Hussan Kamal swallowed hard and hugged his left arm, which had been wounded by the Basque turncoats. The plan had been perfect, and yet somehow everything had gone wrong the moment that damned strike force had entered the Vatican.

"We should have heard the explosion," Radmeni hissed as he threw the transmitter to the floor. "The earth should be trembling at this moment! Your earthquake device didn't work, Kamal!"

"But... I don't understand," Kamal said sincerely. "It was carefully designed and built to..."

"You sabotaged our holy mission, you traitor!" Radmeni declared, drawing a dagger from his belt.

Kamal raised his arms as the Iranian hurled the knife. The blade sailed between Kamal's outstretched arms and lodged in his chest. The sharp tip punctured the flesh just below the sternum. Kamal grabbed the hilt and tried to pull the knife from his tortured torso.

Radmeni stomped forward and drove his boot into Kamal's leg. He kicked the Syrian's feet off the floor. Kamal fell on his back. He gasped and spit blood. Radmeni raised his foot and stomped his heel on the butt of the dagger hilt. The blade sunk into Kamal's heart. His body convulsed for two seconds and ceased moving for eternity.

Suddenly automatic fire bombarded the Sala Regia. Terrorist henchmen were caught off guard. They had been watching Radmeni murder Kamal instead of the entrances to the Vatican's great Royal Hall. Bullets slammed into the followers of Radmeni's Jihad.

Yakov Katzenelenbogen and Gary Manning sprayed the terrorists with Uzi and FAL rounds. Iranians screamed and collapsed. Most died before they could raise their weapons. Men scrambled in all directions, but the Sala Regia had been designed for official ceremonies; it was not meant to be a combat zone. There was nowhere to seek cover. Nowhere to run.

Katz blasted a salvo of 9 mm slugs into three terrorists who dived to the floor. Their bodies tumbled across the hall, spilling blood as if they were leaky bags of red wine. Radmeni dragged a Makarov pistol from a hip holster. Manning fired his Belgium-made assault rifle. Two 7.62 mm slugs ripped into the right side of Radmeni's chest and the third shattered his shoulder joint.

The pistol fell from Radmeni's fingers as he tumbled backward to the floor. He heard more shots as he lay bleeding and helpless. The Iranian tried to sit up, but the pain in his chest drove him back to the floor. A shadow fell across his face. The terrorist leader gazed up at Rafael Encizo. The Cuban hovered over the wounded Iranian and stared down into the man's pain-torn face.

"Guess what, Radmeni?" Encizo remarked. "You lose."

Then Encizo stamped the edge of his boot in the terrorist's throat and watched Mohammed Radmeni die.

* * *

Fukuda and Kato Hatami, the only ninja warrior under Fukuda's command to survive the Vatican ordeal, had come to the realization that the terrorist scheme was a failure. There was nothing left to do but accept this bitter fact and concentrate on survival.

The two ninja had left Kamal and Radmeni in the Sala Regia to face their fate. Since the Italian military had stormed the Vatican, any attempt to fight would be suicide. The samurai had a tradition of seppuku, ritual suicide by disembowelment, but the ninja were more practical. Mistakes of the present are lessons for the future. Failure was often the foundation of victory.

And, Fukuda realized, many mistakes had been made. His clan should never have associated with the terrorists. Radmeni was a fanatic, and Kamal had not been as clever as he had thought himself to be. The treasures of the Vatican were indeed wondrous, but seizing the tiny nation had been too ambitious an undertaking for a gang of extremists and a greedy Syrian who thought he could control Radmeni as one controls an attack dog on a leash. Attack dogs can be very unpredictable.

Perhaps the plan would have worked if the mysterious band of professional fighters had not penetrated their defenses. Whoever those men were, the ninja had to admit they were superb warriors.

However, Fukuda had a plan for survival. He and Hatami had fled to the upstairs of the palace. They used a glass cutter to quietly remove enough panes from a window to climb outside. They crept along the ledge to an ornate gargoyle near the roof. The ninja would simply climb to the top and hide from the Italian soldiers. Then they would wait for the opportunity to flee the Vatican. Perhaps they would even get a chance to steal an item or two in order to salvage some sort of financial gain from this disaster.

Fukuda and Hatami scanned the roof from their position behind the gargoyle. A great dome dominated its center, and the spirals of towers flanked each corner. They would need good hiding places. The military might search the Vatican by helicopter to be certain that none of the terrorists had escaped.

Fukuda climbed onto the roof and unslung his Uzi submachine gun from his shoulder. Hatami followed his leader's example. Without warning a streak of silver rocketed toward them from the edge of the dome. Fukuda dodged the blade of the knife. The sturdy cord behind the knife snared his Uzi. The shoge was pulled taut. The hooked blade of the knife trapped the subgun. The Uzi was yanked from the ninja's grasp and hurled over the edge of the roof.

Hatami fired his Beretta M-12 in the general direction of their unseen attacker. Fukuda threw a metsubushi at the dome. The "sight remover" exploded in a burst of light and smoke. Fukuda bolted toward the dome while Hatami ran through the smoke and moved into position where it might be possible to ambush their opponent.

Trent had expected such tactics. It was typical ninjutsu strategy and usually worked against anyone unfamiliar with metsubushi and the arts of invisibility. He aimed his Colt Commander, guessing where at least one of the ninja would be. An outline of a figure confirmed his suspicion. Trent fired two shots.

Both hollow-point slugs smashed into the enemy's chest. The impact of the big .45 caliber bullets drove Hatami back over the lip of the roof. He did not scream as he plunged to the ground. The ninja was already dead.

Fukuda drew his 9 mm pistol from shoulder leather. He braced his back against the wall of the dome. Whoever had attacked them was familiar with ninjutsu, Fukuda realized. The shoge, and the manner in which the unseen opponent had dealt with the metsubushi, proved that. Fukuda smiled beneath the gray scarf mask that covered his lower face. So, it was to be ninja against ninja.

"Konbanwa," Trent called to the enemy ninja. "Anatawa dona-ta desuka?"

"Hai," Fukuda replied. "I am Fukuda-san. And you are?"

"John Trent," the American replied. "Genin ninja kara Kaiju Uji."

"I didn't know the Kaiju Clan still existed," Fukuda remarked, "I am a subchief of the Komo Uji."

"The Spider Clan?" Trent said with surprise. "Your members are murderers and thieves. You disgrace the traditional values of the ninja."

"A ninja with an Occidental name has no right to criticize a chunin of another clan," Fukuda told him.

"Being ninja is a thing of the spirit," Trent stated as he hurled a small white object in Fukuda's direction. Fukuda saw the metsubushi in time to cover his eyes. The ninja grenade burst with a flash and a cloud of pepper. Fukuda shielded his eyes and prepared for Trent's attack. The American aimed his Colt around the side of the dome.

Fukuda fired his Beretta pistol. A 9 mm round ricocheted against the dome and struck Trent's Commander. The pistol flew from his hand. Trent retreated.

"You tried well," Fukuda remarked, holding the pistol in his left fist and drawing his ninja-do with the right. "But your luck has run out, Trent-san."

The blade of the shoge whistled around the dome. Fukuda dodged the weapon and slashed the cord with his sword. He lunged forward and swung his Beretta toward Trent's position.

But the American ninja was not there.

A shaken star dropped from the top of the dome. Fukuda dodged the hurtling weapon and raised his pistol toward Trent. The American clung to the cupola. Another shaken streaked down at Fukuda. The points of the star struck the base of his left thumb. The Beretta fell from his grasp.

Trent ran along the dome and dropped to the roof in front of Fukuda. The enemy ninja hit the shaken with the butt of his sword to dislodge it from his thumb. He seized the ninja-do hilt with both hands and attacked.

Trent drew his sword in a lightning-quick stroke. The blades clashed. Fukuda shoved the large square hand guard of his weapon against Trent's sword and slashed at the American's face. Trent parried the stroke with the flat of his sword and suddenly thrust the heel of his left palm into Fukuda's face.

Fukuda staggered, and Trent struck out with his ninja-do. The enemy's sword rose in time to block Trent's attack. Fukuda snapped a fast front kick into Trent's fists. The American's sword sailed from his numbed hands. Fukuda slashed at Trent's closest arm in an effort to cripple his opponent.

Trent jumped back to avoid the enemy blade. His hand dived into the jacket of his ninja gi uniform and drew his manrikigusari fighting chain. He grabbed the weighted ends and pulled the chain taut between his fists. Fukuda tried an overhead cut, but the chain blocked his blade. Trent immediately snap-kicked his opponent in the lower abdomen.

Fukuda groaned, bent slightly at the waist and slashed a cross-body stroke at Trent. The American dodged the blade and lashed out with the manrikigusari as if it were a whip. A weighted end struck the enemy ninja across the side of the face. Fukuda spun with the blow, whirled and attacked with a sword sweep.

Trent snapped his wrist and the chain swung against Fukuda's sword. Steel links wrapped around the blade. Trent pulled hard and hooked a kick under his opponent's rib cage. Fukuda gasped as the ninja-do was yanked from his grasp. Trent jumped back and grabbed the manrikigusari by both ends.

Fukuda drew a Tanto knife from his sash. He feinted a stab and swung a kick at Trent's groin. The American ninja hammered the weighted end of the chain in his right fist against Fukuda's shin to stop the kick.

The enemy ninja grunted from the pain that traveled up his leg, but he still slashed the Tanto at Trent's neck. The American raised his manrikigusari. Fukuda's wrist struck the chain. Trent shoved hard, bending his opponent's arm back toward Fukuda and pointing the knife at its owner. Trent's right fist swung a stroke at Fukuda's skull, driving the weight in his hand into the enemy ninja's temple.

Fukuda staggered away from Trent, dazed by the blow. Trent slashed the chain across his opponent's fist and struck the knife from Fukuda's hand. He swung a backhand sweep and slammed a weighted end across Fukuda's jaw. The blow propelled Fukuda back toward the lip of the roof.

Trent stepped forward, turned and launched a powerful side kick at Fukuda's chest. The enemy ninja hurtled off the roof. He shrieked as he fell to the pavement. Trent sighed with relief and tucked the manrikigusari back inside his gi jacket.

The American ninja stepped to the edge of the roof and looked down at the broken body of Fukuda. Several Italian soldiers approached the dead ninja. The military had clearly subdued the remnants of the terrorist forces that had not already been defeated by Phoenix Force.

The mission was over, and Phoenix Force had again emerged victorious.

The soldiers glanced up from the body of Fukuda to the roof of the Vatican Palace. Two troopers noticed a man peering down at them. They raised their BM-59 rifles and opened fire.

Trent stepped back, but he was not quick enough. A 7.62 mm round hit him in the chest, driving him backward and knocking him to the roof. His skull bounced painfully against the hard surface. Blackness descended upon the American ninja...

Table of Contents

Gar Wilson Hostaged Vatican

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