Mitchell Carter might have outlived his usefulness already.

If he had participated in the girl's escape, for whatever reasons of his own, Minh would see him dead.

He had planned to kill the man, looked forward to it from the first day of their association. Hanoi would not object if he could demonstrate that Carter had betrayed them. Minh would probably receive congratulations for initiative, perhaps promotion.

First, though, he would need proof. And if Carter was not responsible...

He faced Tommy Booth, found the man watching him intently.

"Is it possible to trace the girl?" he asked.

Tommy shrugged.

"We're checking out her friends locally," he said. "There aren't many."

"Good. If she contacts anyone, I want to know about it."

"Done."

He considered telephoning Carter, but decided the lines should not be trusted.

"Send a team for Mitchell Carter," he instructed. "It's important that I see him."

The soldier raised an eyebrow.

"He's not gonna like it."

Minh allowed himself a thin smile.

"Be persuasive." And he paused, thinking. "I assume you have mobilized the elders."

Booth nodded.

"Ready and waiting. Shall I pull 'em in?"

Minh shook his head in a gentle negative.

"Leave them in place. I don't want to concentrate our force until we know the enemy by name."

Tommy rose to leave, and Minh's voice stopped him at the door.

"The girl's disappearance is a serious mistake," he said. "It must be rectified without delay. Any leak would be... unfortunate."

There was a sudden pallor under Tommy's sun-lamp tan.

"I understand."

Minh held the soldier with his eyes, letting him sweat.

"You must redeem yourself, at any cost."

A jerky nod, and Tommy Booth got out of there, leaving Minh alone. The Vietnamese dismissed him, concentrating on solutions to his problem.

There was Carter. If the man was guilty, Minh would know soon enough. And if he wasn't, they would face the common enemy together.

Whoever it turned out to be.

Minh had not believed in God for many years, but he accepted the reality of fate. His people and their revolution were predestined for eventual success. They would prevail.

It was a faith that taught him patience, made him strong.

A man of confidence, he could afford to wait.

Any visitor to San Francisco who has ridden a cable car from Powell and Market streets to Fisherman's Wharf has had an unforgettable experience — and the final drop from Russian Hill, down Hyde Street to the bay, is a spectacular finale befitting the adventure.

From atop the hill, most of the north bay is laid out in a panoramic sweep from the Golden Gate to the Embarcadero, with a view of Fort Mason, Aquatic Park, Alcatraz, and, on a clear day, across to the rugged backdrop of Marin County.

Mack Bolan came to Russian Hill in darkness, with the fog, and there was little to be seen — only ghosts, and echoes of another time, another war.

He had visited the neighborhood before, early in his war against the Mafia, and launched his strike from a base on Russian Hill. The mansion once occupied by San Francisco's capo mafioso was just around the corner.

Old Roman DeMarco was the syndicate padrone in those days. Fearing age, traitors in the family, and aggression by the national commissione, DeMarco had looked to the Chinese community — and westward, across the Pacific — for a new alliance to reinforce his shaky regime. The resulting unholy communion teamed mafiosi with the Tongs and Chinese Communists, but DeMarco had reckoned without The Executioner.

And he made all the difference in the world.

Ghosts, yeah — and some of them were friendly spirits. Like Mary Ching, the China doll who had helped Bolan bring his California hit to a successful culmination.

Friends and enemies, the living and the dead, Bolan felt them in the darkness, but they held no terror for him.

He let the specters fade and concentrated on the living. Mitchell Carter lived on Russian Hill, ironically within easy walking distance of the old DeMarco spread, in a spacious house befitting a successful corporate attorney. The man who was once Mihail Karpetyan lived alone.

Bolan left his car on the street and crossed a large lawn. Lights were on despite the hour, and he opted for a confrontation, brisk and bold.

He had dressed the part in an expensive business suit, Beretta snug beneath his arm. With any luck, he wouldn't have to use it. Not just yet.

The plan was basic. Bolan would have to milk information out of Carter, planting his own seeds along the way.

Stage one of the Bolan strategy was complete. The enemy had been identified.

Stage two — isolation — was commencing.

Bolan hit the doorbell and held it through a five count, listening to rhythmic chimes inside the house. Another moment and footsteps were audible.

The door swung open and Bolan had his first view of Mitchell Carter. He looked younger than he did in his photograph, but there was a sort of world-weariness around his eyes.

The guy was looking Bolan over with empty eyes, missing nothing, and the warrior gave him time. When Carter spoke at last, his voice was flat, noncommittal.

"Yes?"

"Good evening, comrade."

Something fell into place in his eyes. A screen of caution.

"Can I help you?"

"You can ask me in, Karpetyan."

That registered, but he recovered quickly like a pro, his reaction barely noticeable.

"There must be some mistake."

"Of course."

Bolan brushed past him. Carter frowned, but merely closed and locked the door.

Taking the lead, Bolan moved into a living room furnished with subdued elegance. Carter followed, keeping his distance, eyes never leaving the intruder.

Bolan made a show of checking out the room. The smile he turned on Carter was a mixture of appreciation and contempt.

"Excellent, Karpetyan. You've captured the perfect bourgeois decadence."

The lawyer stiffened, frown deepening, and Bolan saw he had touched a tender nerve.

"Who are you?" Carter demanded.

But there was something in the attitude that said he knew the answer.

"Names aren't important," Bolan replied. "All that matters is the mission."

This time, Carter didn't speak. He stood silent, watching Bolan, waiting.

Bolan took his time lighting a cigarette, letting Carter's imagination work. When he spoke, his tone was conversational.

"You've done well for yourself," he said. "What have you done for the Party?"

Carter smelled a trap. His eyes narrowed as he answered.

"Everything is happening on schedule."

Bolan dropped the plastic smile and let his voice go frosty.

"Too much is happening," he said. "You're losing it."

The lawyer tried to be casual, but missed by a mile.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"That's the trouble," Bolan told him. "You've been out of touch."

"You think so?"

Carter didn't try to veil the sarcasm in his voice.

"I hope so," Bolan said. "Otherwise..." And he left the bait dangling there.