Don Pendleton - Doomsday Disciples

Stop that, she chided herself, cutting off the negative train of thought. Sarah was her friend, she would help.

What was the number?

Amy racked her brain, angered by all she had forgotten in the space of a year. Ten minutes later she consulted Berkeley information and received the number she requested.

Amy felt relieved. That number, seven digits, was the key to her escape. Without it, she was lost.

Nervous, trembling, she lifted the receiver and started dialing.

Mack Bolan had parked his car in an alley off Sixth and walked to the front of Carter's high-rise office building. He stationed himself across the street, sheltered by the foggy darkness and a recessed doorway.

Carter's suite of offices was halfway up on the twelfth floor, front. The floor plan was tucked away in the Bolan mental file.

Bolan watched the counselor nose the battered Continental down a ramp leading to the underground garage. As the taillights disappeared, he moved from cover to a corner telephone booth, slipped inside and lifted the receiver.

Able Team's Herman "Gadgets" Schwarz had visited the subject's office earlier that day, posing as a telephone repairman. In the course of his "inspection," he installed some sophisticated "extras" of his own design, improving the system in ways that would have startled Ma Bell.

Bolan punched the first six digits of Carter's office number, then removed a small pitch pipe from a pocket of his overcoat and blew a long E-flat into the mouthpiece. He then tapped the final digit.

The telephone in Carter's office didn't ring. Instead, the tone from Bolan's pitch pipe tripped a tiny relay mechanism; Carter's phones were "sensitized" and instantly converted into listening devices with an effective radius of half a mile. Bolan could hear everything in the office through a small transistorized receiver in his pocket.

Bolan kept the telephone receiver in his hand, feigning urgent conversation, but his full attention focused on the signal out of Carter's office. He waited, giving Carter time to park his car and take the elevator, clicking off the numbers in his mind. Any moment now...

A door opened, closed again. Footsteps crossed the large reception room and hesitated at the door to Carter's inner office. Inside, he tracked the counselor by following his sounds, picturing the office layout. He marked the sound of file drawers opening, papers being shuffled, stacked and briefcase latches snapping in the stillness.

Carter was cleaning house, preparing to desert the sinking ship. All he needed was a lifeboat.

Bolan pictured him, standing in the office and saying goodbye to all of it. He could feel for the guy, watching his life disintegrate around him, but it didn't change a thing.

The counselor picked his game, and it was too late to change the rules. He had to live with his decision, or die with it.

Bolan heard his target lift the telephone receiver and start to dial. The distant ringing was as clear as if the Executioner placed the call himself.

Carter got his answer on the third ring.

"Yeah?"

Bolan didn't recognize the man's gruff voice.

"Is he in? "Carter asked.

"Who's calling?"

The lawyer was impatient, angry.

"Carter, dammit. Put him on."

If his anger phased the other guy, it didn't show.

"Hang on a second."

It was more like a minute before another voice came on the line.

"Mitchell... I've been expecting you."

There was no mistaking that voice.

Nguyen Van Minh.

The counselor was burning his bridges, but cautiously.

"What's the idea of sending men to pick me up?" he asked.

"A security precaution," Minh explained. "We have encountered some, ah, difficulties here."

Bolan smiled. Minh was playing it close to the vest.

"You should call me if you have a problem," Carter said.

"We have a problem." Minh corrected him. "The telephone was considered... unreliable."

"Well, your crew isn't taking any prizes for reliability," Carter snarled.

Minh was curious, but cautious.

"Has there been a problem?"

"You could say that. They're all dead."

The Vietnamese was startled into momentary silence. When he spoke, his voice was tight but in control.

"What happened. Mitchell?"

"I had another visitor," he said. "Listen, this will have to wait. I've been here too long already."

''Very well. When should we expect you?''

It was Carter's turn to hesitate. Bolan heard the wheels turning as the counselor thought it through, weighing risks against advantages.

"I don't know about that," he said at last.

Minh played it cagey, the hunter certain of his prey.

"Do you have a choice?"

Carter's voice betrayed his fear.

"I want it understood that I'm coming voluntarily, as an ally."

"Of course, Mitchell. There was never any doubt."

Minh severed the connection, and Carter cradled his receiver slowly, almost reluctantly. Bolan listened as he moved about the office, finalizing preparations for departure. When he let himself out, the Executioner was already moving toward his car.

The problem was defined now, his course of action set.

The phases of his strategy were falling into place.

The enemy had been identified, their purpose recognized.

By congregating at Minh's estate, they would achieve the goal of isolation on their own, without his help.

Then, only the final step remained.

Doomsday Disciples

Annihilation.

If the terrorists were gathering at the Universal Devotees' "retreat," the Executioner would join them. He owed it to his war, and to the gentle civilians. To the Universe.

Hell, the warrior owed it to himself.

Amy Culp checked her watch again and sighed impatiently. It was only two minutes later than the last time she looked. She was growing more nervous by the second, trying to project Sarah's ETA at the apartment house.

On the telephone, Sarah hadn't sounded as surprised to hear from her as Amy had expected. It was strange — not as though she was expecting the call, but there was something...

At the time, Amy thought she might have interrupted something — maybe Sarah had a man with her — but her friend stressed she was alone. Still, Sarah's voice sounded distant, distracted.

Amy sketched her situation, leaving out the bloody details, and Sarah agreed to come at once. Amy gave directions then settled down to wait.

That was half an hour earlier, and Amy was worrying, wondering how long it could take to drive in from Berkeley. Sarah would be coming in on Interstate 80, across the Oakland Bay Bridge, but once inside the city, any number of routes could bring her into Haight-Ashbury. What was it — ten or twelve miles at most? There shouldn't be much traffic at that hour, but Amy wasn't sure.

She tried to calm herself, running down a list of things that could slow Sarah down. She was probably asleep when Amy called: she would have to dress, brush her hair. If Sarah had company, there would have to be an explanation. There were toll booths on the bridge. She might have to stop for gas, or some coffee to keep herself awake.

It never occurred to Amy that her friend would let her down, forget about her promise and decide not to come. She would be there, given time.

For the first time, Amy was aware of her hunger. She prowled the tiny kitchenette, coming up with a soda and sandwich filling, then settled down to eat. Twice she paused, listening to footsteps in the corridor outside, and each time they passed, fading in the distance. Each time she sat waiting for her racing pulse to stabilize, willing herself to stop trembling.

Amy was clearing the remains of her frugal meal when another footstep sounded in the hallway — soft and slow, like somebody looking for a landmark in unfamiliar territory. Slowing even more, the footsteps faltered then stopped outside her apartment.