 
Bloody Green Ink

A David Hart Adventure

By Darryl Matter

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2019 by Darryl Matter

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

Bloody Green Ink

A David Hart Adventure

This is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

* * * * *
Chapter 1

General Wolff scowled as he watched the incriminating surveillance video. "Those two shall die," he snarled.

Switching off the video, he got to his feet and crossed the room to a table holding a human skull flanked by lighted black candles. As the candles flickered, he murmured an incantation. The military officer in the life-sized painting on the wall behind the skull and flickering candles seemed to glow with his approval of the magic ritual and the general's request.

Moments later, the general turned to his associate, Herr Mankin. "Take care of them as soon as possible."

"Yes, sir! Tonight they shall die."

"Yes. Tonight they shall die." The general turned to Mankin. "I thought I could depend on Cornett, but he got greedy."

Herr Mankin shrugged. "Cornett's a dead man. And the Americans? What are your wishes?"

"Kill the bastards."

"Done. Tonight. What do you wish that we do with the currency?"

The general thought a moment. "Let the Americans deliver it as planned. Then kill them." He shrugged his shoulders. "The currency will be secure."

"Yes, sir. I'll issue the orders immediately."

* * * * *

"Blood! Ye-s-s-s!" The demon who'd been summoned by the general's ritual screamed his pleasure. Life was cheap, and the spilling of human blood pleased the evil spirit no end.

The demon was, of course, immortal. He'd spent years with the general's forefathers, fostering their lust for blood. Because of those men--and the demon's constant urging--the earth had been soaked with blood. Mortals called that blood bath "World War II." And General Wolff was carrying on the tradition.

"Kill them! Kill them!" the demon urged. Yes, indeed. Life was good!
Chapter 2

David Hart began his pre-flight inspection of the Huey by pushing the fuel-drain valve on the underside to make sure there was no water in the fuel. Continuing his inspection, he made certain the tail rotor was free, then climbed onto the top of the helicopter and inspected the main rotor, transmission mounts, and the control mechanism.

Given the conscientious mechanics who maintained the Huey and the rest of the aircraft, he didn't expect to find any problems. Still, as pilot, it was his job to be absolutely certain the helicopter was ready to fly before each mission. Only when he was satisfied that the entire rotor mechanism was okay, did he climb down from the top of the chopper and into the pilot's seat.

The Huey he'd be flying that night was a variant of the ones with which he was most familiar. This one had been especially equipted for covert night-operations. Whereas the typical Huey makes a recognizable WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP in-flight sound because of its relataively wide, two-bladed rotor, this helicopter was fitted with a smaller, multi-blade rotor that spins faster than the typical two-bladed rotor and makes the rotor almost silent in operation.

In addition to the rotor change, this Huey was outfitted with a more powerful engine complete with efficient silencers, devices again designed for near-silent covert operations. To further prevent the helicopter from being detected on night missions, it was painted grey-black to make it nearly invisible in the night sky. Oversized fuel tanks gave the Huey extended range. They would need that extra range for tonight's flight.

The helicopter carried no markings. There was no number on the tail or fuselage, nor was there a service designation or insignia. Furthermore, the serial numbers had been removed. No log book or maintenance book was kept in the helicopter. In short, the Huey was practically untraceable. If it crashed or was shot down, nobody could tell with absolute certainty exactly where it came from.

Not only was the Huey untraceable, the men who would be flying in that helicopter were virtually invisible as well. Fingerprint records had been removed from all their files except for one secure file in the Pentagon. Photographs in their files had been altered to make positive identification extremely difficult. They carried no dog tags or papers or personal effects that would readily identify them if they were shot down and killed or captured.

The Huey was equipped with instrumentation that made it capable of flying in total darkness and just above the ground if the mission so required. Tonight's mission would make use of both of these strategic capabilities.

It was almost dusk when Hart settled into the pilot's seat and waited for further instructions before completing his preflight inspection. While he waited, he reviewed the preflight information he'd received, then scanned the area around the secret paramilitary base where he was stationed. Before long, he detected the hint of dust rising in the distance far to the east. A vehicle was approaching on the only road leading into the base.

While he waited, Hart checked the .45 Colt lightweight pistol that he carried in a shoulder holster, checked and double-checked to be sure it was fully loaded, cocked, and locked. He also checked the extra clips to be certain they were secure in their pouch. In his business, you never knew when you'd run into trouble. That Colt had seen him through some risky times in his covert operations career.

Steve Miller, the man in charge of tonight's mission, came out of a tent just then, and strode briskly to the copilot's door of the helicopter. His face was grim. He'd never been known to smile. "Ready, David?" he asked, his voice little above a husky whisper.

"Ready, sir. Just give the word."

Miller was a tall, thin man, probably in his late thirties, with crewcut blonde hair. That night he was wearing Woodland Camouflage fatigues and had streaks of green and brown across his face. He carried a .45 Colt in a belt-holster and a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun with a 30-round magazine slung on his shoulder. He placed the MP5 and a small leather bag on the floor of the copilot's side, then walked away, his eyes focused on the dust rising in the distance. He, too, was waiting.

The vehicle kicking up dust soon emerged to Hart's view. When it hesitated at a checkpoint some distance away, he could see that it appeared to be an old, beat-up, Toyota van. As the vehicle drew closer, however, he saw the oversized tires, and heard the exhaust rumble of a powerful engine.

This wasn't the beat-up Toyota van it appeared to be. No way. The Toyota's beat-up body concealed a high-performance engine and running gear. It was the kind of vehicle some covert-operations people love to drive although Hart wasn't sure anybody who really cared would be fooled into thinking it was the old junker it appeared to be. Then again, mabe someone would be fooled. It wasn't for him to question what the covert-operations people drove.

As the Toyota came closer and slowed, Miller motioned for the driver to back it up to the helicopter's cargo door. When the van came to a halt, two men, one Hart knew by name and one he knew only by his handle, "Tex," came from another tent and joined Miller at the rear of the van.

The first man, the one Hart knew by name, was Kevin Tracy. He was one of the professional soldiers sometimes called "knuckle draggers," a paramilitary covert-action man who looked the part--a rugged no-nonsense kind of guy who'd served with United States Special Forces in half a dozen trouble spots around the world.

Like Miller, Tracy was dressed in Woodland Camouflage fatigues and had streaks of green and brown across his face. He was carrying an M-16 assault rifle with a 30-round magazine and was draped in bandoleers carrying extra clips for his gun. He also was carrying a Sure-Fire Combat Flashlight on his belt.

There were many stories told about Kevin Tracy. One involved a time when he was stationed as an advisor to a military unit in a country that must go unnamed for security reasons. While there he got into an argument with his CIA superiors back in the United States over the number of "confirmed kills" he was reporting. Bottom line was that Tracy's superiors thought he was inflating his unit's "kill reports" in order to enhance his own record.

Not one to take such criticism lying down, Tracy ordered his men to bring back the right ear of every man they killed over the next week. After that week went by, Tracy wrapped those severed ears and sent them in a sealed briefcase by way of courier back to CIA Headquarters in Washington, D.C. Packed in with those ears was the terse note "Count them yourself."

Tracy later learned that the officer who opened that briefcase nearly freaked out, and that was the last time anyone questioned Kevin Tracy's reports. Everybody who knew Tracy had a good laugh over that little episode!

The other man Hart knew only by his handle, "Tex." He'd adopted that nickname years ago when he was in command of a band of foreign mercenaries. It was a part of his shadow-identity, and nobody other than his commanding officer knew him by any other name. That's the way Tex wanted it.

From the looks of things, Tex wouldn't be flying in the helicopter that night. He was wearing khaki fatigues instead of camouflage gear and, unlike Miller and Tracy, didn't appear to be armed except for the ever-present Colt on his hip.

As Hart watched from the pilot's seat, Miller opened the back door of the Toyota van. The van's cargo area was filled to the max with large wooden crates.

Tracy and Tex hoisted the first wooden crate from the van by the handles on each end and carried it directly to the helicopter. To judge from the way the men carried the crate, it didn't appear to be especially heavy. It was large enough to be awkward, however, certainly nothing one man could easily carry by himself.

As soon as the men had shoved that first crate through the helicopter's door, they returned to the rear of the van where three similar crates waited. Minutes later, all four of the crates were loaded into the helicopter. If all went according to plan, they would exchange those crates for a person's freedom later that night and bring that person back to the safety of their home base.

Hart wasn't told who the person was. It wasn't necessary that he know who he or she was or his or her name, and the less he knew about those things, the better. His job was to fly the Huey, take Miller, Tracy, and the crates in, and bring both men and the mystery-person out, nothing more or less. Hart liked it that way.

Once the crates were tied down in the helicopter's cargo area, Miller strode to the driver's door of the van and handed a large manila envelope to the driver. Hart had not yet seen the driver of the Toyota, but when Miller finished his transaction and the van started to pull away, he saw a young woman in the driver's seat.

The woman had long, light brown hair and a fair complexion. As she swung the Toyota around, she turned toward Hart, and he saw her face. Their eyes met, but only for an instant. Hart didn't recognize her, had never to his knowledge seen her before, but his guess was that she was an American. Wow! A very attractive American woman was driving that van! That was especially interesting to him because he hadn't seen many American women involved in covert ops.

There simply weren't many women in David Hart's life. Sometimes he wished he had a girlfriend. He wished he could have met the pretty woman in the van. Maybe he'd see her again. Tonight, his job was to fly the Huey.

Tex gave them a "thumbs-up" and went back to his tent. His work was finished. While Tracy climbed into the back of the helicopter beside the wooden crates, Miller pulled himself into the copilot's seat. Once he was seated and strapped in, Hart handed him a flight helmet. He put it on and then produced his night-vision scope from the bag he'd placed on the floor.

Miller also produced a map and a mini-flashlight with red and green lenses from the bag. He studied the map for a few moments, then handed it to Hart. He'd marked in red ink the route they'd fly that night.

"I'll give you specific directions as we near our landing site," Miller informed Hart.

"Yes, sir."

Hart studied the route marked on the map for a few moments, then handed the map back to Miller. The sun had already set. It was a moonless night, and it already was getting dark, an ideal night for a covert mission.

Hart was strapped into the high-backed, armored pilot's seat, ready to complete his preflight check and start the Huey's engine. He looked over at Miller to get confirmation that the team was ready. Miller nodded. "Let's go."

The pre-flight check over, Hart pressed the starter switch. The starter motor whined, and the turbine began to sing. As the rotors above their heads began to turn, Hart scanned the gauges. Everything checked out. The Huey was ready.

While Hart waited momentarily for the exhaust-gas temperature gauge to settle into the green, Miller gave him flight directions. Seconds later, they were airborne.

Hart followed Miller's verbal directions. He kept the Huey low to avoid radar detection. There were no lights, not even a lighted farmhouse, to be seen below, indicating they were over a remote rural area.

Almost two hours later, Hart saw a faint glow in the far distance to the southeast. It had to be a large city, perhaps eighty or more miles away. It would be Brasilia, the capital city of Brazil.

Miller instructed Hart to take the helicopter down even lower. He did so, and leveled off about three hundred feet above the ground. Miller was looking out the window now, searching the area through his night-vision scope.

"Exactly what are we looking for?" Hart asked.

"It's an ancient stone building, a big one. Used to be a prison of some sort," Miller replied. "We should be right over it in another four or five minutes. Take us on down a little more."

Hart scanned the instruments, eased the helicopter down to two hundred feet, and then turned to look for a big stone building through the side window.

"There it is. Straight ahead and to our right," Miller said.

Hart banked the helicopter to the right, and saw the stone building standing like some monstrous medieval fortress in the dark wilderness plain below. It appeared to be two stories tall and perhaps three hundred feet long by one hundred feet wide, maybe slightly larger. A wing, perhaps one hundred feet in length and one hundred feet in width had been added on one end as an extension to the main structure.

Through the night-vision goggles, Hart could make out massive steel bars on the narrow windows. Prison bars. It appeared that much of the window glass had been broken out. Aside from that, the old building appeared to be in surprisingly good repair.

Beyond the large structure was a smaller, single-story building, perhaps fifty feet long by thirty feet wide. Blocks of stone were strewn about on the ground where one corner of the smaller building had partially collapsed into rubble. In contrast to the major structure, the smaller building appeared to be in general disrepair.

Miller's voice again came over the radio: "There's a large clearing near the northwest corner of the main building where we can land. Get as close to that corner of the building as you can."

"Yes, sir."

Hart scanned the area immediately to the northwest of the old stone building through night-vision goggles. The clearing Miller indicated looked like a perfect landing place, and he eased the helicopter down as close to that corner of the building as he could, all the while checking for any obstacles that might get in the way of landing. There weren't any obstacles, and he set the Huey down gently. The first part of the mission had been successfully completed.

"We'll only be gone a few minutes after we get these crates unloaded. Stay with the chopper, David. Keep the engine running and the rotor blades turning," Miller commanded as he prepared to exit the copilot's seat.

"Yes, sir."
Chapter 3

Miller quickly pulled off his flight helmet. He put it and the night-vision scope on the floor, then eased himself out of the copilot's seat and to the ground, the MP5 submachine gun slung over his shoulder. Tracy climbed out of the back of the helicopter, hauling the first of the crates to the cargo doorway as he did so.

The two men grabbed the first crate by the handles. They carried their weapons in their free hands as they moved out from under the revolving rotor blades and lugged the crate toward the corner of the stone building.

Although there was no moon, the stars had emerged. Aided by the bright starlight and the night-vision goggles, Hart could make out what appeared to be a large steel door at that corner of the building, directly across the clearing from where they had landed.

Miller pulled the door open. The two men disappeared inside the doorway, carrying the first crate between them. Although Tracy carried a powerful flashlight, Hart couldn't detect any signs of illumination from inside the old building at all after the men disappeared into the darkness beyond that door.

Using the infrared illumination feature on his night-vision goggles, Hart studied the wilderness around the helicopter from the pilot's seat. Although Miller hadn't indicated he expected any problems, Hart was naturally wary.

It's a Murphy's law of covert operations that if your mission is going extremely well, then watch out--it's an ambush. Hart had seen his share of covert operations go sour, and certainly hoped this one wouldn't.

Hart continued to scan the area for signs of human activity, paying particular attention to each shadowy spot that might provide a hiding place for an enemy. To his relief, he didn't see any movement at any of the windows in the old stone building, nor did he see any movement in the nearby trees or foliage. So far, so good.

Miller and Tracy soon emerged from the doorway of the old stone building and dashed back to the helicopter for the second crate. Moments later, they again disapeared inside that cavernous doorway, carrying the crate between them.

Hart contineously scanned the area for any activity. When he didn't see anything that appeared out of place, he concentrated on the basement windows of the old stone building. This time, he saw a faint arc of blue-white light through one of the tiny basement windows to the left of the steel door. The men must be in the basement, and Tracy must have used his flashlight momentarily. Or was someone else in the basement?

Once again, the two men emerged from that doorway and dashed back to the helicopter for the third crate. They returned a few minutes later for the fourth crate. Hart kept scanning the area, alert for any signs of trouble. So far, the mission seemed to be going smoothly. Too smoothly? In the next few minutes, he'd find that it was.

Just as Miller and Tracy disappeared through that steel door and into the old prison building with the fourth crate, Hart detected movement in the brush to his left and two hundred yards away.

It wasn't a wild animal. It was human movement. Someone was coming his way!

Hart quickly cut the lights on the Huey's instrument panel and focused his night-vision goggles on the spot where he'd seen movement. There it was again. There were at least two humans out there, both men as nearly as could be determined from their movements, although Hart thought for a moment that one might be a woman. They were moving in his direction. No doubt about that.

A quick glance around the entire area assured Hart there was no one else around, at least no one that he could detect. With that assurance, he refocused his attention on the two men he'd seen coming his way.

The men were keeping a low profile and darting from one scrub tree to another as they cautiously advanced toward the corner of the old stone building where Miller and Tracy had disappeared with those four crates. Hart could detect assault rifles, probably AK-47s, in their hands.

Hart had no way of knowing if these men had prearranged a meeting with Miller and Tracy. He immediately radioed the information about the intruders to Miller, and was relieved when he was told that he and Tracy were expecting to meet two men.

Something told Hart he'd better be wary. He'd seen his share of covert operations go sour. Without really thinking about it, he eased the Colt from its shoulder holster.

The approaching men appeared to be professionals at night maneuvers, suggesting to Hart that neither one was the someone they'd be escorting back to their camp. They both were wearing camouflage, and even with his night-vision goggles, he could barely track their movements as they darted from cover to cover, drawing ever nearer to the old stone building.

As Hart watched, his eyes darting from the men he now considered to be intruders to the doorway where Miller and Tracy had disappeared with the crates, Miller emerged from from that doorway. He stood there in the shadows for a long moment, his eyes searching the darkness, the MP5 submachine gun in his hands at the ready. Waiting. Waiting.

There seemed to be no signal from the intruders. This did not bode well.

Miller kept glancing at his wristwatch. He scanned the dark wilderness around them for several minutes as if he were expecting someone to join him. Finally, with a shrug of his shoulders, he started to walk swiftly toward the helicopter--and that's when the men hidden in the darkness cut loose with their automatic weapons. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

Tracy wasn't in sight yet. He came through that doorway at the corner of the old prison and was pushing the door closed just as the men in the darkness commenced firing. As Miller took the hail of bullets and pitched forward to the ground, Tracy rolled to his left, hit the ground behind a clump of scrub brush, and returned full-auto fire with his M-16. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK CRACK! CRACK!

"iiiieeeeee!" A scream pierced the night as one of the intruding shooters died in Tracy's hail of bullets. Then Tracy was on his feet and lurching toward the Huey, exchanging bursts of automatic rifle fire with the remaining gunman as he came. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

Hart had his pistol aimed in the direction of the second shooter. When he saw him move out from behind a tree to better his aim at Tracy, Hart steadied the Colt, took careful aim, and fired. BAM! BAM! Once! Twice!

"yiieeekk!" The second shooter yelped and swore as he took the slugs in his shoulder. His rifle fell from his grasp, bounced on the ground, then skittered along in front of him. Tracy saw what was happening, struggled to his feet and unleashed another hail of hot lead at the shooter, dropping him instantly.

Hart yelled for Tracy to cover him, then ran to Miller, got his arm around the man, and dragged him to the helicopter. Miller had taken several body hits and was bleeding, but he was still alive.

After Hart lifted Miller into the back of the Huey, he went looking for Tracy. He'd also taken hits but was able to crawl, and was slowly working his way toward where one of the shooters was lying.

"I'll check this one. You go make sure the other one is dead," Tracy directed, his voice raspy.

With Miller's MP5 in one hand, Hart cautiously approached the second shooter. He appeared dead, but Hart put three more rounds into him just to be sure. Assured that he really was dead, Hart checked his pockets for any form of identification--and found absolutely nothing. With a last look at the dead man, Hart retrieved the man's AK-47 and hurried back to help Tracy.

Tracy had taken several body hits, and there was blood all over his shirt, but in the darkness Hart couldn't tell just how badly he was hurt. He had the AK-47 the second shooter had been carrying clutched in his free hand. Hart managed to get Tracy into the Huey alongside Miller. Tracy's breathing didn't sound good. Miller didn't sound good either.

"Let's get out of here," Tracy hissed.

Hart threw himself into the pilot's seat, reaching for the controls as he fastened his safety harness. Moments later, he had the Huey's turbine revved up, and the helicopter was airborne.

As they climbed, Hart scanned the area below, searching to see if he could spot any other human activity. There was nothing moving that he could see. Except for the two dead men, the area around the old stone building appeared exactly as it had before they'd landed.

Keeping the Huey as low as he dared over the treetops to avoid radar detection, Hart brought it up to its maximum speed, and headed for home. Could he get there soon enough for Miller and Tracy? He'd do the best he could.

* * * * *

"Ye-e-s-s-s-s!" The demon screamed his pleasure at the killing spree. At least four men had died that night and others were dying. The general would be pleased. Of course, the demon's thirst for blood would never be satisfied. With his encouragement, there would be more blood spilled tomorrow. And the day after. "Ye-e-s-s-s-s! Life was good!
Chapter 4

As they neared the camp from which they'd left in the Huey earlier that night, Hart radioed their plight, using code to avoid alerting unauthorized listeners. Medics met them as they touched down, as did Colonel Olmos, their commanding officer. Helicopter maintenance personnel were right there as well, ready to service and secure the Huey.

The medics converged on the Huey fast. They slid open the back doors and lifted both Miller and Tracy out of the helicopter. One of the medics noticed that Hart had blood all over his clothes and asked if he'd been shot, but he assured him that the blood was Miller's and Tracy's, that he had gotten it on him when he helped them into the helicopter.

Miller was unconscious and in very bad shape. Hart didn't know just how bad he was, but the medics later told him that Miller was dead on arrival and assured him there was absolutely nothing that he could have done to help him. Tracy was unconscious but still alive, and the medics transported him directly from the helicopter to the medical unit.

While the maintenance personnel checked over the Huey and secured it, Hart told as much as he knew about the ambush to Colonel Olmos and gave him the maps Miller had carried onto the helicopter. Olmos also took the AK-47s the intruders had carried, which he planned to turn over to the military police.

"We'll have those rifles checked for fingerprints," he told Hart. "Maybe we can identify the men who came shooting at you."

It was well into the morning before Hart got back to his tent. Tex came by, and they talked a little about what had happened. Like Hart, he had only a sketchy idea of what the mission was about, what was in those wooden crates, and what Miller and Tracy had intended to do with them. Miller had asked him to help transfer the crates from the van to the Huey, and that was the extent of his involvement.

Tex and Hart were both sorry that Miller had been killed. They'd both liked him, and he had a great record as a soldier and as a CIA advisor. They'd both miss him.

As Tex and Hart were talking, Colonel Olmos came by with more bad news. Tracy had died in the medical unit, having regained consciousness only long enough to confirm Hart's report; but not long enough to shed additional light on what might have gone wrong with that mission.

"Get some sleep," Colonel Olmos told Hart, "and get in touch with me early this afternoon."

"Yes, sir."

Sleep came more easily for Hart than one might expect, given the events of the night's shattered operation. Over the past years, a number of people he'd known and admired, people like Steve Miller and Kevin Tracy, had been killed in front of his eyes. He'd been shot at any number of times, and he'd done his share of shooting back. Nothing he was particularly proud of--just a fact of his life.

Hart's becoming accustomed to violence and death may be a hard fact to accept, but it's a fact of life for many like him who opt for special clandestine assingments. When Colonel Olmos recruited Hart, one of the things he said to him was, "Your eyes are very hard, David, as are mine. We've seen too much." He shook his head almost sadly, and Hart understood exactly what he meant.

* * * * *

Over the next three months, Hart flew a variety of covert missions. Part of that time, he flew helicopters outfitted with sophisticated listening gear along the borders of several South American countries, monitoring the radio and telephone communications of various groups, including major drug lords, gunrunners, and smugglers. With information from those intercepted communications, the drug enforcement people effectively shut down two large drug smuggling operations, and CIA operatives seriously slowed the flow of weapons to several international terrorist groups.

Hart also flew several lengthy night missions, ferrying CIA advisors and their gear deep into the jungles along the Amazon River. Each of those flights brought back memories of that earlier botched mission when both Miller and Tracy had lost their lives. Hart hadn't forgotten that mission.

In fact, ever since that night when he'd flown Miller and Tracy and those crates into the interior of Brazil, he'd been thinking about that particular mission. To aid his memory, Hart recorded every detail he could remember about that flight, including the approximate location of that old abandoned prison building, and the location where the shooters appeared, in his personal journal.

He also quietly inquired about the possible contents of those wooden crates, not directly so as to raise suspicions about his interest, but in a more general way about covert operations in South America at that time. He'd been involved in that particular mission on a need-to-know basis and wasn't fully informed about anything other than than the flight plan and destination.

Nothing was ever said specifically about the contents of those particular crates, but Hart did hear rumors that about the time he'd ferried Miller and Tracy to that old prison, the CIA had discovered a massive counterfeiting operation taking place in Brazil involving United States currency. It wasn't just a group of amateurs operating out of someone's garage. Rather, it appeared that the KGB was involved in the actual printing likely taking place in Brasilia, and the quality of the counterfeiting was first-rate, just as you'd expect it to be if the KGB was involved.

Of course, the KGB had not simply faded away with the end of the so-called Cold War as some people thought. In truth, the KGB continued its many activities, spying on the West and conducting covert activities throughout the world. It is entirely within the KGB's capabilities to counterfeit any world currency, and it's no surprise that the organziation is active throughout South as well as North America.

Rumor further had it that the counterfeiting operations had intentionally not been shut down, not right away, anyway. Instead, several shipments of counterfeit currency had been intercepted by the CIA, and again as rumor had it, the counterfeit currency was being used by the CIA to finance various covert operations.

Whether or not the rumors could be believed, Hart didn't know. Whenever guys get to talking about the CIA and various United States paramilitary groups, the stories often center on illegal or semi-legal operations, and the stories are quiet readily embellished. One guy will tell a story, and the next guy has to top that one, and so it goes--especially if there's whisky around to aid in the storytelling.

Still, after he'd heard stories about a counterfeiting operation financed by the KGB from a number of fairly reliable sources, Hart began to think that there might be at least a grain of truth to it. And those crates Miller and Tracy carried into that old building certainly could have been filled with counterfeit currency.

Maybe those four crates had contained a small part of the counterfeit currency intercepted by the CIA. Or those crates could have been filled with genuine United States currency. The crates certainly hadn't been heavy enough to have been filled with gold or silver or drugs or weapons, the major "currencies" of the world of smuggling and covert operations.

To his knowledge, no one ever went back to that old stone building where Miller and Tracy had deposited the four crates. Someone might have discovered the crates by accident or the person who was supposed to meet Miller and Tracy there might have come and taken the crates; but Hart didn't think anyone from the CIA or the paramilitary unit Miller and Tracy belonged to had been back there. Not that he'd heard of, anyway, and Hart had a pretty good network of friends within the CIA.

At any rate, as he listened to the stories about KGB counterfeiting and related covert activities, Hart was forming a plan of his own. As soon as he finished his present tour of duty and had time coming, he was going to check out that old prison where Miller and Tracy had stashed those crates. He'd have a month of leave-time to see what he could do. With that operation in mind, Hart began working on plans to do just that. He'd need a cover story and personal documentaion that would explain his interest in the old prison. No problem.

After he formulated what he thought would be a workable plan, Hart talked with Colonel Olmos. "Has anyone planned to search out and recover those crates Miller and Tracy stashed?" he asked.

"Officially, no," Olmos replied. "The agency has canceled that project. Simply put, the risks appear to outweigh the benefits."

"Unofficially?" Hart asked.

Colonel Olmos smiled. "I thought that's what you were really asking. What do you have in mind?"

"One more question before I answer yours. Can you tell me what was supposed to happen that night?"

"Officially, no. Even unofficially, I can't tell you much. Miller planned and coordinated the operation, but I'll tell you what I know."

"Okay."

"Someone was defecting from the KGB and bringing with him information of considerable interest to the CIA. Miller and Tracy planned to meet someone who would exchange this defector for whatever was in those crates.

"Now, let me anticipate your next question," Colonel Omose continued, "about what actually was in those crates. We've both heard the rumors about KGB-supported counterfeit United States currency, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"I've done some checking, and I think there was United States currency in those crates. Whether or not it was counterfeit, I can't say. After all, if the KGB was involved in the counterfeiting, it may be almost impossible, if not completely impossible, to distinguish it from genuine United States currency."

"It seemed to me," Hart reflected, "that Miller and Tracy delivered those crates as they planned. Miller looked at his watch several times and seemed to be expecting someone to show up. When that didn't happen, he started back to the Huey. That's when those guys shot him. And Tracy, too. What went wrong?"

"I don't know what went wrong," Olmos answered. "I do have some thoughts, though; but before I share them with you, let me ask what you have in mind."

"I have some leave-time coming, Colonel Olmos," Hart began, "and I'd like to locate those crates and bring them back to our side. I've worked out a plan to do that, and I really have just one very important question for you."

"Okay."

"If I can locate those crates, will you send a helicopter to get me and the crates? Of course, all I can do to repay you is to return whatever is in those crates--which may or may not be of much value."

"Officially, no, I can't help you. If something goes wrong, I never heard of you or your plan." Olmos smiled. "Unofficially, though, my answer is 'yes.' I'll do everything I can for you. Now, let's hear your plan."

Colonel Olmos listened intently as Hart outlined his plan, then offered a few suggestions. "Give it a shot, David," he said, then slapped him on the shoulder. "I'll do some more checking around, and we'll talk again before you take leave--and good luck!"
Chapter 5

In preparation for his unauthorized visit to that abandoned prison, Hart began to read everything he could find on the history of the area, hoping to learn something about the old prison and the reason for its existence. The stone building itself interested him, of course, and while there wasn't much written about it that he could find, he studied all that he could find about it.

The prison was very old, and while it now was only perhaps eighty to one-hundred miles from Brasilia, it once was situated in the vast wilderness of central Brazil, far away from civilization. That was long before Brasilia existed.

What little he could find out about the abandoned prison fascinated Hart no end. The present structure was constructed in the 1800s. Some accounts said it was built using slave labor. It had been built directly over or adjacent to an even earlier stone prison. The site had been home to a prison of one sort or another for hundreds of years, perhaps since the mid-1550s.

Hart eventually discovered that the prison had a name--Elions. Throughout its history, it had chiefly been used as a prison for political dissidents and those accused of witchcraft and other so-called black arts. Because it was so isolated, the prisoners had been forced to walk through the wilderness to the site from the major cities in Brazil. Prisoners from surrounding countries had been held there on many occasions as well.

The prison once housed those accused of witchcraft. Hart noted in one source that many people believed the prison building itself withstood the ravages of time so well because magical rites were performed during its original construction.

Human sacrifices were said to have been performed, and blood from the victims was mixed with the mortar when the earliest foundation was constructed. Interestingly, during the most recent renovation, during the mid-to-late 1800s, a number of human skeletons were said to have been removed from the lowest dungeons, dungeons that were carved from the very bedrock on which the present building stands.

By the time Hart's tour of duty was ending and he was about ready to take a month's leave, his plans for searching out and retrieving those crates were firmly in mind. Furthermore, he'd devised a variety of options depending on what developed.

The day before he was to leave the base, Colonel Olmos called Hart to his tent.

"I like your work," Olmos began, once preliminaries were over, "and I want you back here with me after your leave. I've put the paperwork through already."

"Thank you, sir. I appreciate that."

Colonel Olmos didn't respond for a moment. Hart started to stand, thinking the colonel was finished with him, but Olmos waved him to keep his seat.

"We've already talked about what you're planning to do while you're on leave," Olmos said, "and I wish you well."

"Thank you sir. I . . . ."

"You know where I am and how to get in touch with me," Olmos continued, "and if you get in a jam, I want you to let me know immediately. In fact, it would be best if you didn't wait until you were in a jam." He smiled. "You will have a radio and a locator with you, won't you, David?"

"Yes, sir. I will have a radio and a locator, and some other electronic gadgets. I shall not hesitate to contact you."

"Good. Now, there are some things you should know before you take off on this adventure." Again, Colonel Olmos hesitated, calmly looking at Hart with his intense gray eyes as he thought about what he wanted to say.

Hart waited.

"You remember the two AK-47 rifles you guys brought back from that mission where we lost Steve Miller and Kevin Tracy?"

"Yes, sir."

"The MPs got good fingerprints off one of the guns. Fingerprints on the other gun, however, were smudged too badly for positive identification."

"I see."

"This one gun," Colonel Olmos went on, "was being carried by an ex-United States serviceman by the name of Randall Johnson. He apparently used a lot of aliases, but that's his real name."

"Randall Johnson. A mercenary?"

"Probably."

"Who employed him?"

Colonel Olmos shook his head. "We don't know, not yet anyway, but I thought you should have that little bit of information before you go hunting things on your own."

"Is there any chance that Randall Johnson was working for the KGB?"

"Anything's possible, David, but we really don't know anything for sure about his employment," Colonel Olmos replied. "If you learn something about his employment or the identity of the other shooter, you'll let me know right away, okay? It's important that we find out who we're dealing with."

"Yes, I certainly will, and I appreciate your telling me what you know. Thank you, sir."

"There's more."

"Yes, sir?"

"I've got a feeling that you may find more stashed at that old prison than four crates of paper currency--or whatever is in those crates. Rumor has it that some of the arms shipped to the Nicaraguan Contras a few years ago fell into the hands of a Brazilian drug cartel. The story is that the weapons were stashed somewhere not far from Brasilia--and that old prison looks to me like a likely spot."

"I'll see if I can find them, sir."

"Good. Now, I said these weapons fell into the hands of a Brazilian drug cartel. There's something about that particular drug cartel you should know. A general in the Brasilia military establishment, whose name I don't yet know, is rumored to be deeply involved with that cartel. He not only profits from its activities but he protects it. Some of the Brazilian military troops under his command may even be involved in protecting that cartel."

Hart nodded his understanding.

"Here's something else. This general also is rumored to be a Nazi, a neo-Nazi, that is. He apparently is the grandson of one of the Nazis who escaped from Germany to either Argentina of Brazil when the Third Reich collapsed toward the end of World War II. I'd like to know his name."

"I'll let you know if I learn anything about this drug cartel or this general, sir."

"There's something else you should know about this guy. He's rumored to be uniting some of the drug enforcers and private armies under his command."

"Against his own military?" Hart asked.

"I don't know his long-term intent. So far, what appears to be his private militia has acted like a death squad against several Columbian drug dealers and maybe some of the rival gunrunners, very effectively eliminating a share of the general's major South American competition." Colonel Olmos paused for a moment, then continued, his voice just above a whisper. "Just between you and me, David, there are some who suggest that the general just might be considering a military-style takeover, not just of Brazil, but of the whole of southern South America, once he gets control of the drug and weapons trade."

"So then he's got not only his own military behind him, but a large and powerful private militia under his command?"

"That's the way it looks. We need to know more about this guy."

"What does the CIA know about him?"

"Not much, unfortunately. He's kept a very low profile up to now, but with the rumors of his planning a coup, well . . . ." Colonel Olmos's voice trailed off. "You understand?"

"Yes, sir. I'll keep my eyes and ears open."

"Good. Now, David, here's another question. As you recall your helicopter landing site near that old prison building," Olmos began, "would it be possible to land the Pilatus Porter there?"

The Pilatus Porter is a Swiss STOL (Short Takeoff and Landing) aircraft that the CIA used regularly in Vietnam. It's rugged and reliable, and was used in Vietnam to carry both passengers and heavy cargo to remote locations with extremely limited landing space. In fact, the Pilatus Porter is often referred to as "the Jeep of the air" because of its ability to go, like the original Jeep, almost anywhere.

Hart knew what Colonel Olmos was thinking. There might well be an advantage to flying the one at the base as opposed to a helicopter if he were to pick someone up at that old prison site, especially if the helicopters were assigned to specific missions at that time and unavailable. At the very least, Colonel Olmos would have an option available to him.

Thinking back to that night when he'd landed the Huey at the old prison, Hart couldn't be absolutely sure just how much clearing there was available or what the ground surface was like. "Sorry, Colonel Olmos," he had to say, "I think there's enough open space there to land the Pilatus Porter, but I just can't be absolutely sure. Once I get there, I'll check it out first thing and let you know."

"You do that." Colonel Olmos waved his hand. "See you in a few days if everything goes smoothly. Now, one last thing before you go."

"Yes, sir."

"Remember Murphy's first law of covert ops? Simply put, David, it states that 'You are not Superman'." Colonel Olmos was not smiling. "Always remember that." His voice was crisp, his words precise, reinforcing his point. "You are not Superman."

"Yes, sir. I'll remember that."

Colonel Olmos stood up and extended his hand. "Like I said, I expect to see you in a few days."

Hart shook his hand. "See you in a few days, Colonel Olmos."
Chapter 6

Brasilia, the capital of Brazil and Hart's ultimate destination, via Rio de Janeiro, is a modern, planned city. It was laid out in the shape of an airplane with the wings being the residential and commercial areas and the fuselage containing the government buildings. Brasilia is new as cities go, having been constructed in a rural part of mid-Brazil beginning in 1957. In 1960, the nation's government was moved from Rio de Janeiro to Brasilia.

Brasilia's location was chosen to encourage economic development in the middle section of the country as well as provide a central location for the capital city. As you might assume, Brasilia's airport is of primary importance because of the city's remote, semi-wilderness location. In fact, the Federative Republic of Brazil, as the country is officially know, has one of the major national air networks in the world.

Varig Brazilian Airlines, Brazil's major international airline, brought Hart directly to Rio de Janeiro. From there, he would fly a shuttle to Brasilia.

Having been employed by the CIA and once stationed in Brazil for a short period of time as a paramilitary advisor, Hart knew he might be known to customs officials who would assume he was there once again as an agent or paramilitary advisor. If that were the case, he'd probably be placed under surveillance. For obvious reasons, Hart did not want that to happen.

Although he was traveling under his real name, he'd worked out a cover story for himself. His passport and identification papers identified him as a representative of a United States motion picture company. Brazil has a thriving motion picture industry, and a number of companies from the United States regularly choose locations there for motion picture productions. His presence as a scout for a film production company should be no cause for alarm on the part of customs officials--or so he hoped.

The officials manning the arrival lines at the airport in Rio de Janeiro were dressed in neatly tailored blue and white uniforms. Their demeanor was as professional as their crisp uniforms, and it was clear from the way they looked over each travelor that they were keenly alert to any attempts at deception.

A female officer with styled brown hair and manicured fingernails examined Hart's official passport, studied his inoculation records, and asked to see his airline tickets. "How long will you be staying in Brazil, sir?" she asked in letter-perfect English.

"I'm not absolutely certain," Hart replied. "At least two weeks. Perhaps as long as a month."

Apparently his answer was entirely satisfactory because she stamped his passport and initialed the stamped image with an unreadable flourish.

"Thank you, sir. Enjoy your stay in Brazil." The officer smiled as she handed back Hart's passport, her dark brown eyes already shifted to the person behind him in line.

Hart planned to stay in Rio overnight and then fly the shuttle to Brasilia in the morning. Just a brief taxi ride took him from the airport to his hotel. Once he'd checked into the hotel and desposited his carry-on bag and suitcase in his room, he walked through the lobby and outside, where he did what might be called a surveillance-detection walk around the block to determine if anyone was following him. If anyone was, he or she was extremely professional at surveillance because Hart didn't detect him or her. So far, so good.

After eating in the hotel dining room, Hart returned to his room and carefully examined it for surveillance devices. If there were any there, he didn't find them. Again, so far, so good.

Maybe he was paranoid. Maybe he had reason to be. At any rate, he'd always taken extra precautions whenever he traveled, and that night was no exception. In addition to carefully checking the window and door to his room to be sure both were locked, he propped a heavy chair against the door knob and hung two bottles strung together with string against the window so they would rattle if anyone tried to force the window. Once those low-tech security devices were in place. Hart dropped off to a sound sleep.

The following morning, Hart boarded a shuttle flight from Rio de Janeiro to Brasilia, blending in nicely with a number of businessmen from the United States and Europe who were on business trips to Brazil's capital city. Upon arrival in Brasilia, he once again checked into the hotel where he had reserved a room and then did another around-the-block surveillance-detection walk. Once again, Hart didn't detect anyone tailing him.

There are several newspapers printed and distributed in Brasilia. Hart had no idea which newspaper might provide the information he wanted, so he selected the one he considered to be the largest, located the address in the phone book, and took a taxi to that address.

The receptionist, a young woman with short dark hair and wearing blue slacks and a white blouse, assured him that it indeed was possible for him to see back issues of the newspaper. She asked if he'd like to do that, and when he said he would, said she'd call Maria, the person in charge of archives, who could help him.

While he waited, the receptionist called someone on her phone and, a few minutes later, another young, dark-haired woman, this one wearing brown slacks and a white blouse, escorted Hart down a long hallway to a room where back issues of the newspaper were made available to the public.

"What issues of the paper are you intersted in reading, sir?" she asked, speaking very precise English.

Hart gave her the dates of the papers he wanted. She suggested that he have a seat at a small wooden table, then disappeared through a door to the side of the room. She returned a little later with a huge bound-volume of newspapers that encompassed the issues of interest to him.

"I'm sorry that these are not available for you on our computer network," the young woman apologized. She sighed and rolled her eyes. "Our computer system is down right now. I fear it may be down for several days."

"It's okay," Hart assured her.

"Let me know if you need anything else, or if I can help you, sir," the young woman invited, again using perfect English. "I'll be right over here." She smiled and motioned to a desk in one corner of the room.

Hart thanked her and then turned his attention to the newspapers. Thinking back, he wasn't sure exactly what he expected to find in those newspapers, but he thought he might find some reference to the events of that night when the shoot-out took place some hundred miles northwest of the city.

After all, two men had been killed and/or left for dead at the scene of that shoot-out. At best, Hart hoped to find some mention of who these men were, or who they officially were said to be. Someone almost had to have heard the automatic weapons fire that night, and such gunfire usually catches the interest of the press as well as the police and military personnel. Still, depending on exactly who those men were, their deaths might have been covered up by their own government agency--if they were government employees--or by their bosses if they were part of a private militia, of which there are rumored to be many in Brazil. Well, he was there at the newspaper building to see what he could find!
Chapter 7

A careful, column by column scan of the newspaper dated the day following that shoot-out found absolutely no mention at all of the shoot-out or of the dead men. There was no mention in the two following papers, either. Then, in the next issue, Hart found all he was sure he'd ever find: A brief item buried on page 23 gave mention of two men who'd been reported as having been killed about thirty miles northwest of Brasilia. They were not identified by name or occupation or branch of service, and absolutely nothing was said about the circumstances surrounding their deaths.

Nice try, David! he told himself.

All in all, though, Hart wasn't surprised. After all, there must be hundreds of private armies in South America as well as paramilitary units from a number of other nations serving as advisors to the Brazilian military establishment. Any one of those groups could have been involved, and it would not surprise him to learn that the CIA agents he'd flown into that clandestine encounter were involved with any given group, private or paramilitary.

The mention of thirty miles northwest of Brasilia in the news item was incorrect, of course. Those men who attacked Miller and Tracy had been killed closer to one hundred miles northwest of Brasilia.

The printed item was likely intensionally misleading. Or, Hart asked himself, could it be that two men really did die thirty miles northwest of Brasilia on the same night that two others died farther north, up by that old prison? Were those men who were reported to have died thirty miles northwest of Brasilia possibly the ones who were supposed to meet Miller and Tracy? It was something to think about.

Just to be certain that he wasn't missing anything in the newspaper, Hart scanned the next two issues. He wasn't surprised when he didn't find any further references to the incident. Whatever happened up near that old prison simply hadn't been reported and published. That didn't surprise Hart.

As Hart closed the volume of newspapers, he noticed that a second young woman was talking in low tones with the one who'd provided the newspapers for him. She was wearing a blue blazer in addition to blue slacks and a crisp white blouse. With her shoulder-length blonde hair and fair skin, he assumed that she was an American. He'd been so engrossed in the newspapers that he hadn't heard her come into the room.

The blonde smiled when Hart looked her way, her big blue eyes twinkling as she spoke. "Were you able to find what you wanted in the papers, sir?" she asked. Like the other young women, she spoke in crisp, formal English.

Maybe the fact that employees of the newspaper spoke excellent English shouldn't have surprised him, but Hart was used to hearing Portuguese, the official language of Brazil, along with the French and German languages often spoken on the streets. Oh, English is spoken rather frequently in Brazil, too, but this was not an English-language newspaper. He'd expected to converse in Portuguese with the employees.

"Well," Hart hesitated, not quite sure how he wanted to answer the blonde's question, "Yes, and no."

"Can we help you?" the dark-haired young woman asked.

"No, thank you. I'm afraid not. I was hoping to find a reference to a friend of mine, but I'm afraid his activities didn't warrant much space in the paper. Actually, I found a brief mention, but not as much as I'd hoped to find."

As Hart got to his feet and started to pick up the bound volume of newspapers, the dark-haired young woman raised her hand. "You can leave it there on the table, sir," she said. "I'll put it away later."

The blonde stepped forward. "I'm Lisa Cornett." She extended her hand in the typical American manner as she introduced herself.

"Hi, Lisa. I'm David Hart." He took her hand, and she gave him a firm handshake. She was taller than she first appeared, and she exuded the commanding presence of a typical reporter going after a story--come hell or high water.

"And this is Maria Mendez." The blonde motioned toward the dark-haired young woman who'd brought the newspapers to him.

Maria stood up, smiled, and extended her hand. "I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Hart."

He had to smile at her formality as he took her hand. "I'd like for you to call me David if I may call you Maria, okay?"

Maria smiled, then hesitated. "Certainly, David." She gave his hand a little squeeze.

Lisa immediately picked up on the young woman's hesitation. "Americans like David here aren't as formal as the people we usually associate with, Maria," she explained, then added, "David's just trying to be friendly."

Maria smiled shyly and nodded. "That's fine. You may call me Maria, and I'll call you David," she said.

Lisa stepped closer. "You've been in Brazil before, haven't you?" she asked.

"Yes. I was here several times on temporary assignments with the United States embassy."

"But you're not with the embassy this time?"

"No. I'm doing a little advanced scouting for a motion picture company. We're thinking of filming some scenes here in Brazil, and I'm going to be looking at some possible locations."

"I see." Lisa immediately pulled a notebook from her pocket and flipped it open. A pen appeared as if by magic in her right hand.

Hart raised his hand to protest as she started to write in her notebook. "Wait a minute, Lisa. May I make a request?" he asked.

Lisa stopped writing and looked at him. "Sure."

"I'm guessing that you're a reporter, and I'm going to ask that you not write anything about my being here on this scouting assignment, at least not right away. Could you do that for me? I'd just as soon keep my presence here out of the newspapers, at least until something positive develops. Okay?"

Lisa arched her eyebrows and frowned. "You're right about me being a reporter, and you're right to guess that I'm interested in what you're doing here. How about promising me an exclusive story? When you've made decisions about filming a movie here, you let me know. I'll get you some good press, some good promo for the movie. Is it a deal?"

"It's a deal."

Lisa produced a card from the pocket of her blazer and handed it to Hart. "Here's my telephone number, David. You promise to call me first, okay?"

"I'll do it. If anything develops with this film, you'll be the first to know."

Hart located one of the business cards he'd had made up and handed it to Lisa. Along with his name, it carried the name of the agency he supposedly worked for.

Maria and Lisa both escorted him to the door. Hart shook hands once again with both of them, then left the newspaper building.

There were three taxis parked almost directly in front of the building. Onc of the things he'd learned from his friends in the CIA was never to take the first, the obvious taxi. Instead, Hart went to the second one and asked the driver to take him to his hotel.

"Do you speak English?" Hart asked the driver, once they were on their way to the hotel.

"Yes, sir."

"I'm representing a motion picture company from the United States."

"Yes, sir."

"I'm considering locations for shooting a future movie."

"Yes, sir."

"I understand that there is a huge old abandoned stone prison located maybe thirty miles, mabe more, northwest of the city. The company I represent thinks it would be an ideal setting for some scenes in a movie."

The driver didn't respond.

"I believe the prison was called Elions. Something like that. I'm not sure of the exact pronunciation."

Again, the deriver didn't respond.

"Have you heard of it?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'd like to see the structure. Could you take me there? Perhaps tomorrow?"

"No, sir."

"It's very important to me that I see it."

"There's no way you can get to the old prison, at least not conveniently, certainly not by taxi. First of all, it's much farther than thirty miles. It's closer to one hundred miles from here.

"There never was an automobile road from this part of the country to the old prison, just a trail," the taxi driver continued, "and that was abandoned many years ago. What little I've recently seen of the old trail has deteriorated very badly. It's washed out and strewn with rocks and debris. Oh, some very few sightseers have traveled to the old prison by ATVs but certainly not by automobile. It's just not a trip you want to make."

"I see. Perhaps I'll have to schedule a helicopter then? Can a helicopter land near the old prison?"

"Perhaps, but I'm telling you that you really don't want to go there!" the driver exclaimed.

"And exactly why is that?"

"Elions is hauanted." The driver crossed himself, then added, "It is haunted with evil, the darkest evil imaginable, and cursed by the evil one himself."

"Haunted? And cursed? Cursed by the evil one himself?" Hart tried to sound incredulous.

The driver sighed. "Yes, sir, the old prison is haunted. Haunted and cursed. There are many stories told about the evil things that have happened within the prison at Elions over the many years of its existence. Visitors there yet today hear dreadful screams from within the buildings and see ghastly ghost lights flickering in the windows at night."

"You also said the old prison was cursed?"

"Oh, yes, cursed, and by the evil one himself. Many years ago, so the story goes, one of the women imprisoned there who was to be put to death for witchcraft placed a terrible curse on the old prison. Over the years since then, a number of people including government officials overseeing the prison have died unexplained, horrible deaths, all because of that curse. And the building is still haunted after all these years. In fact, just a few months ago, one corner of the main building is said to have collapsed, almost killing some sightseers who had hiked to the site. And a small building near the old prison is said to be in ruins. In fact, the government has since warned people to keep out of the area. I'd advise you to stay away from Elions."

"I see. Thank you for the information."

They had arrived at Hart's hotel. He thanked the taxi driver once again for his information about Elions and tipped him generously.

* * * * *

TAP! TAP! TAP! At eight-thirty that night there was a light knock on Hart's hotel room door. That knock startled him because no one he knew in Brasilia should have known he was there. His paranoia flared instantly, and he hurriedly looked around for a weapon. For the first time since he'd arrived in Brazil, Hart wished he had a gun. Traveling as a civilian prohibited that, of course, but he'd see about buying one locally first thing tomorrow.

TAP! TAP! TAP! TAP! Not seeing anything at hand that he could use for a weapon, Hart made his way to the door as silently as he could and looked through the peephole just as someone knocked softly again. Softly, but more insistently this time.

Lisa Cornett, the young woman he'd met at the newspaper office, was standing there.
Chapter 8

"Just a moment," Hart said, unlocking the door but leaving it on its security chain as he did so, wondering just what Lisa Cornett wanted with him.

Lisa and Hart eyed each other for a long moment through the crack in the door. "May I come in?" she finally asked, her voice a tense whisper.

"Um, yes. I guess . . . Yes, I guess so." Hart reluctantly undid the security chain, opened the door just enough for her to enter, and stepped back to where he could watch for anyone who tried to follow her through the door.

Lisa quickly stepped inside. She was still wearing the same neat blue blazer and slacks with a white blouse that he'd seen her wearing at the newspaper office that afternoon. To his relief, no one else was waiting with her outside the door. Nobody rushed into his room, following her.

Lisa appeared rather amused at his actions. "Aren't you going to say 'hello' to me, David?" she whispered, the hint of a smile playing on her face.

"Hello, Lisa. Come in." Hart wasn't sure why she was whispering, but he whispered back.

"Now, that's better. Hi, David." Her blue eyes were now smiling, but her voice still was a whisper.

Lisa stepped farther into the room. Hart closed and locked the door behind her. Before he realized what she was doing, Lisa reached into her purse and produced a small black box from which protruded a tiny antenna. Hart recognized it as an audio bug detector.

As he watched, Lisa quickly but efficiently swept the entire hotel room for audio bugs. One thing Hart did recognzie from his own training with bug detectors; this young woman was an expert at using that device. He had to wonder just exactly who she was and what other unusual skills she possessed.

Once she'd swept the room for bugs and appeared satisfied that there weren't any, Lisa sat down on the sofa, crossed her legs, and smiled up at Hart. He eased himself down into the recliner, facing her, still not relaxed. It doesn't pay to be relaxed when you don't know what's going on.

"Find any bugs?" Hart asked.

Lisa shook her head. "There aren't any bugs here in your room that I can find."

"Am I or are we under surveillance?"

"I don't know," Lisa replied, "but with our mutual interest, we can't be too careful."

"Our mutual interest?"

"Oh, yes. We've got a mutual interest, David." Lisa wasn't smiling now, and her voice was just a little edgy. "I sincerly hope we can help each other."

They looked at each other for a long moment. "I'm not sure I understand what you're getting at about our mutual interest," Hart began. "I'm just a scout for a--"

"Wait a minute, David?" Lisa held up her hand as she interrupted him. "Let's cut the nonsense. We're both interested in something that happened up toward or near the old Elions prison just over three months ago. How about if we get honest with each other and help each other. Can we do that?"

"Elions? The old prison? Ah, yes! The taxi driver!" Hart had to smile.

"Right. He's my friend, and he told me about your request. I had a good idea of what you were looking for before he told me about your conversation with him, though." Lisa was smiling now, the harsh edge almost completely gone from her voice

"How do you think we're going to be able to help each other?"

"Before I answer that question, are you ready to be honest with me, David?" Lisa's voice was edgy again.

"Seems to me that you're way ahead of me, Lisa," Hart replied, "but you've got to realize that I'm a stranger here, and I don't know whom I can trust."

"I don't know whom I can trust, either, but I'm willing to risk trusting you." Lisa's eyes brightened. "I'll trust you if you'll trust me. Now, can we cut the crap and be honest with each other?"

"Okay, let's give it a try."

Hart figured he didn't have much of a choice but to trust Lisa. Maybe she'd sell him out, but then again, maybe they'd be able to help each other as she was suggesting. At any rate, be Lisa friend or enemy, he wanted to hear what she had to say.

Lisa spoke softly, but her blue eyes were intense. "Maria told me that someone was looking at the particular back-issue newspapers you asked for this afternoon, and I watched you find the particular page where mention was made of those two men getting killed northwest of Brasilia. You see, I'm interested in anyone who looks up that particular information because one of those men who was killed on the way up toward the old prison at that time may have been my brother, Terry Cornett. Maybe he was killed thirty miles northwest of Brasilia like the paper said, or maybe he was killed farther away than that, maybe up by the old prison building itself. I don't know for sure."

"I'm sorry about your brother, Lisa."

"Oh, you needn't be sorry, and don't get me wrong. I'm not blaming you. He knew what he was getting into. You see, Terry was a mercenary soldier. A 'soldier of fortune,' he liked to call himself. He knew he might get killed, and he was willing to take the risks for the excellent pay. Well, for the pay, and for the adventure. Maybe more for the adventure. Actually, he followed me here to Brazil from the United States."

"He followed you here?"

"Yes. As you probably realize, I'm a United States citizen, just like you are."

"If it's okay to ask, how did you get to Brazil?"

"It's okay to ask. I grew up and went to college in the States, but my father worked for a company with an office here in Brasilia. He spent maybe two or three months a year here. When I was a child, I came here with him once in a while. Then, after I graduated from college, I spent some time here with him, found a job with the newspaper, and stayed."

"And your brother came later?"

"Yes. My brother loved his stint in the United States Army, but there wasn't enough action for him. When he got out, he came down here to see me and then joined one of the private militias--or some such organization. Don't ask me which one. He never would say, and I assure you, I didn't want to know."

"You don't know who he was working for, then, Lisa?"

"I don't know, but I really want to find out now, and I sincerely hope it wasn't a drug cartel. I hate drugs, and I hope my brother wasn't mixed up with drug smugglers."

"Lisa, listen to me. Was your brother working for the KGB?"

"Oh, no! Well, I hope not! I really hope not!" Lisa blurted as she buried her face in her hands.

"You hope not, but you're not sure. Is that it?" Hart asked as gently as he could.

Lisa lifted her head and looked at him. "I . . . I can't be sure of anything. Terry was . . . well, impossible for me to figure out sometimes. I just couldn't understand why he did some of the things he did."

"Okay. Let me ask you something else. Do you know for sure that your brother is dead?"

"Oh, gosh! I really don't know that, either, David. Not for sure, anyway."

"You didn't see his body?"

"No."

"How did you learn your brother was dead? Was there any kind of official notification, say, from the military? Or the police?"

"No. I never had any kind of official notification of his death. In fact, it was weird the way I learned about it. One night, I think it was the night after it happened, when I got home from work, there was a message on my answering machine. It was a man's voice, kind of 'hush-hush' like he didn't want anyone to hear him talking. Didn't identify himself or anything, just said that he'd been a friend of my brother and thought I should know that Terry was dead. Said he'd been killed up toward Elions."

"Hmm. But you never got any kind of official notification?"

"Not really. Well, sort of. Apparently my brother had listed me somewhere as his next-of-kin. About a week after I got the message on my answering machine that he'd been killed, someone from the police called. At least, the man said he was with the police. He told me Terry had been killed in an accident up north of Brasilia and said that they hadn't been able to locate any listing of a next-of-kin until then. When I asked about a funeral, they said he'd already been cremated and that his ashes had been scattered in the wilderness."

"And that was all you ever heard about his death?"

"Not quite. Two weeks later, I received a cashier's check for what amounted to $10,000 United States currency by way of my brother's back pay and insurance. There wasn't a letter with the check, and there wasn't a return address on the envelope."

"How did you know what the check was for?"

"There was just a notation on the check that it was for Terry's back pay and insurance. I don't know what he did with any other money he earned, and I don't know what happened to his personal possessions. That check is all I ever got. Oh, and the check was dated the day I'd been told my brother died, if that means anything."

"So you don't know who he was working for, and you can't be one-hundred-percent sure he's actually dead? I mean, more than one man has been reported dead as a way of covering his tracks. He could have been relocated somewhere and be using false identification."

"I'm afraid that's all very true." Lisa hesitated, and Hart thought she was going to burst into tears. "You see," she continued, "I thought you might be able to help me determine who my brother was working for and if he really is dead. After all, you've obviously got a keen interest in what went on at Elions that night, you're interested in going up there--and I'm wondering if you were actually there that night when I was told he was killed."

"Either you're good at guessing or you're one heckuva detective, Lisa," Hart told her. "Yes, I was up by the old prison building, but I was not near the site listed in the paper as thirty miles northwest of Brasilia where those two men were reported killed."

Lisa grinned momentarily, but her blue eyes still were tearful. "I thought you were somewhere up that way that night. My best guess is that you and whoever came with you came by helicopter--and that maybe you were the helicopter pilot. Am I right?"

Hart grinned back. "You are some detective, Lisa."

Lisa's eyes danced. "All good reporters are good detectives, David, and I do know something about covert operations from the stories my brother and some of his friends used to tell. So I figured if you were there, you likely didn't come by yourself and about the only way to get to that horrible location is by helicopter. I was really guessing that you were the pilot."

"So you're looking for information about what happened the night your brother was killed? If your brother actually was killed?"

Lisa frowned. "Yes, among maybe some other things, but that's not what you're after is it?"

"No."

"What you're looking for is still at the old prison, isn't it?"

"Yes, at least I think it's still there."

A mischievous smile played on Lisa's face. "I can take you to Elions, David."

"How? The taxi driver said the trail is impassible, and I don't want to rent a commercial helicopter. Not just yet, anyway."

Lisa shrugged. "The trail's not impassible. That's nonsense. Can you ride a motorbike? A trail-bike?"

"Sure. Can we get there by trail-bike?"

Lisa was smiling now, her eyes mischievous. "I said I could take you there, didn't I? We can rent trail-bikes and ride up there tomorrow if you want to. I've done it by myself, and it's not a bad ride. The trail is washed out and a little rough in spots, but it's not that rough. If you're willing to trust me, I'll take you there."

"You went way up there to that old prison all by yourself, Lisa?"

Lisa grined. "I sure did."

"When did you do that?"

"It's been about two years now. It was a long time before my brother's death."

"Why?"

"Why did I go? To see the place. I'd read about Elions, and I'm interested in unusual places. I'm a reporter, you know."

"Can we get there and back in one day?"

"Yes. We can drive part of the way. Then we'll have to take the trail-bikes. It'll be a long day, and we may have to come home in the dark, but we can do it. I know because I did."

"Did you do a newspaper story on the old prison?"

"No. I thought about it and I wanted to, but my editor nixed the idea."

"Wasn't that ride a little scary?"

"Yes, it was more than a little scary. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't anxious, and I certainly didn't go inside that old building. Not all by myself, I didn't. But, David, you've got to realize that there's not much I'm afraid of. And I'll bet there's not much you're afraid of, either. Now, are you willing to trust me to take you there?"

Maybe he was a fool, Hart told himself, but he'd already made up his mind to go along with Lisa, at least until she proved herself unworthy of his trust. After all, he had to get to Elions some way, and she seemed willing to show him the way. What the heck! Sometimes you just have to trust your gut instinct, and his said to trust Lisa--at least in this.

"Trust has got to be a two-way street, Lisa," Hart replied. "I'll trust you. Are you willing to trust me?"

"David, I wouldn't be here if I didn't already trust you. What I want to find out is what happened to my brother. Now, can you tell me what it is you're looking for at Elions?"

To be honest, he didn't want to tell anyone what he was doing. Still, Hart knew he would need some help sooner or later, and Lisa was here now. "Lisa," he asked, "do you know what I mean when I say I was on a need-to-know assignment that night?"

"Yes. You were only given the minimum amount of information required to do your part of the job. Right?"

"Right. So, I can't tell you exactly what was going on that night because I wasn't told. I only have some suspicions."

"Something was left there at the old prison, though, wasn't it?"

"Yes, but I don't know what was left there, and I don't know what happened to it after we left. And, after all, that all happened over three months ago."

"But you think whatever was left there is still there?"

"Yes. Well, maybe."

Lisa arched her eyebrows again and leaned forward intently. "Gold? Silver? Diamonds?" she asked, her voice now an excited whisper.

Hart chuckled. "I don't think so. Nothing so exotic as that."

"What then? Wait, let me guess?"

He waited while Lisa thought, her face serious.

She cocked her head to one side. "Currency?"

"Currency, or green ink as my Treasury Department friend used to call it. Okay. My best guess is that a zillion bucks, more or less, probably much less, worth of counterfeit United States currency, or maybe the real stuff, was stashed in that old prison. Now, let's get something else honest between us, okay?"

"Okay."

"If that currency, counterfeit or real, is still there, and if you'll help me get it out, and if we both live to tell about it, I'll do my best to help you find out what we can about your brother. I can't promise to share the currency with you because it's not going to be mine to share. That's the best deal I can make right now. Take it or leave it, but let's be clear about this up front."

Lisa wrinkled up her face. "It's a deal, but you said it's probably counterfeit currency?"

"Counterfeit, yes, but not just any ol' counterfeiting job. This would be extremely high quality counterfeiting. In fact, I doubt that anyone other than the Secret Service or maybe the Treasury Department could tell it was counterfeit, and they might have a tough time of it."

"That good, huh? Who did the counterfeiting?"

"I don't know who in Brazil did the actual printing, but I'm almost certain that the KGB had a hand in the process. Actually, I think the printing was done right here in Brasilia."

"Right here in Brasilia?"

"Yes. As you well know, there's a good printing industry here."

"I know that, but I didn't know anyone was counterfeiting currency. I mean, that's . . . that's illegal!"

Hart chuckled at her apparent naivete. "Well, Lisa, again as you probably know, counterfeiting another country's currency is more than illegal. It's an act of war. But that doesn't stop it from being done by the better intelligence agencies around the world. Anyway, the rumors I hear indicate that the KGB was doing a great job of counterfeiting United States currency and using it to pay off everybody from drug smugglers to weapons merchants. In fact, the currency was good enough that it was beginning to undermine the value of the good ol' United States currency held by many of the residents of Brazil. And believe you me, with the inflation and political uncertainty that has existed here in Brazil, an awful lot of people living here and in other countries in South America do hold United States currency as a hedge against inflation."

Lisa shook her head. "I don't know anything about that. Well, I shouldn't say I don't know anything. I'm well aware of the inflation and the political uncertainty, but I didn't know about people holding and hoarding United States currency. Of course, I'm not wealthy and I don't know very many wealthy people."

"Let me tell you what appears to be going on. You see, estimates are that of all the United States currency in circulation, maybe as much as 60 percent is held by people outside the United States. If enough counterfeiting of United States currency were to take place, it would certainly undermine confidence placed in the United States dollar and maybe even eventually harm the United States economy. You see how this counterfeiting operation was of concern to the United States government, and especially to the CIA?"

"Yes, I understand that."

"Okay. Again the rumors I hear suggest that CIA agents had discovered this counterfeiting scheme and were routinely intercepting shipments of the counterfeit currency." Hart paused, not sure if he should tell Lisa his suspicions about what happened next.

They looked at each other for several long moments. "There's more, isn't there?" Lisa prompted.

"Yes. What I'm going to tell you could get us both killed. You understand that?"

"I understand that, but maybe not knowing what you're going to say could get us killed, too. After all, I think I know what you're going to tell me, and believe me, I know that the CIA deals in all sorts of covert operations."

"You're right there. This is all rumor, okay? And I didn't say this, okay?"

Lisa nodded her own "okay."

"Rumor has it that the CIA didn't shut down the counterfeiting operation. Of course, maybe they have by now, but not at first, anyway. Instead they intercepted all the counterfeit currency they could, and they got their hands on a tremendous volume of counterfeit United States currency. It was a good enough counterfeiting job that nobody questioned it as being anything but genuine."

"Wait!" Lisa interrupted. "Let me guess. Somebody with the CIA started stashing some of this intercepted counterfeit currency in the old prison at Elions and using that area as a place to trade with smugglers or somebody."

"No, probably not. Oh, that's one possibility, of course. There are others, though. Many others." Lisa didn't need to hear Colonel Olmos's suggestion that Miller and Tracy were buying a KGB defector.

To be honest, while Hart didn't know exactly what Miller and Tracy had been planning to do with the contents of those crates, both men had fine records as soldiers and CIA advisors. They weren't the kind of guys to get involved in drug buys. But what their mission was that night--well, we might never know because they were killed before they could carry out any further activities related to that mission.

"It sounds to me like something went amiss with that operation."

"Yes, it did. Badly amiss."

"So what makes you think that the CIA hasn't already cleaned out the stash?"

"I can't know for sure, but here's my reasoning: The man responsible for stashing the currency at the old prison was mortally wounded on the night when you think your brother was killed. Another man who worked with our team that night also was killed. I flew them out of there, but I was the only one who made it back alive. My guess is that the two men who were found dead there, including maybe your brother, were the only other ones who knew about the operation and the location of that stash.

"No, Lisa," Hart went on, "you have to realize that I may be totally wrong about everything I've told you. Even if I'm right, somebody on one side or the other may already have found the stash and removed it."

Lisa was staring at him, her blue eyes wide with excitement, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. "I love it, David. This is just like a . . . just like a treasure hunt for, how did you say it, 'green ink.'" she breathed.

"A treasure hunt, maybe, but this one's a deadly treasure hunt, Lisa. You might call the treasure 'green ink.' I call it 'bloody green ink.' It's already claimed four lives that we know of. Are you sure you still want into this game, knowing what I've just told you?"

"Do I ever!" Lisa exclaimed. "You bet I do!"

She had not yet fully realized the tremendous danger involved. That would come later. Maybe she'd back out then. For now, he'd go with her enthusiasm.

"Okay, then. Two questions. First, I'm going to buy a gun first thing tomorrow. Do you know where I can do that without anyone asking a lot of questions?"

"Leave that to me. I know a reliable gun dealer, and I'll have one for you in the morning. What kind of a gun do you want?"

"How about a .45 Colt semiauto?"

"I can try. How about a second choice?"

"If you can't get a .45 Colt, try for any of the large semiautomatic handguns. Get me an extra mazagine and some ammo, too."

"Okay."

Hart removed ten United States $100 bills from his wallet and handed them to Lisa. "This is real money, not counterfeit, in case you're wondering. Will $1,000 cover a gun like I want and some ammo?"

"I think so. I'll do my best. What else?"

"Before I ask my second question, Lisa, do you carry a gun?"

"You better believe I do. I carry a 9mm Beretta pistol. It's a Model 92 with tritium night sights. And, before you ask, I certainly do know how to use it. My brother taught me all about guns and how to use them. In fact, I was a better shot than he was at the range. Now, what else, David?"

"The taxi driver said the old prison is haunted, that people have seen flickering lights in the windows and heard screams coming from inside the building. Moreover, he says the old prison is under a curse, that people have died there because of that curse. What do you think about these statements?"

Lisa thought for a moment before she answered. "I've heard the stories, but I personally don't believe in haunts or curses, not the kind he's talking about, anyway. My guess is that real people were, or maybe still are, responsible for the so-called haunts, the strange flickering lights, and the screams or whatever."

"Real people? Why is someone doing these things?"

"I honestly don't know. My guess would be that by building on the stories of haunts and witchcraft somebody is keeping the common folk at a distance. You've got to realize, David, that many people here in Brazil are terribly superstitious. Tell them there is a demon or the evil one himself lurking around that old prison, and they'll give the site a wide berth."

Lisa glanced at her watch, and Hart instinctively looked at his. It was nearly ten-thirty. They'd talked almost nonstop for over two hours since she arrived at his door.

"It's late, and I've got to be going," Lisa said, "but before I do, I want to ask something." She was silent for a moment before she continued. "Would you tell me what you know about what happened that night? The night my brother was killed?"

"Yes, I'll tell you. Now? Tonight?"

"No. When we get together tomorrow. Also, I want you to show me where you think Terry died. That is, I assume you still want to go to Elions with me."

"I sure do. How do you want to work that out?"

Lisa stood up. "As part of my job, I've got access to a van, a full-sized one. I'll rent two trail-bikes in the morning and put them in the back of the van. I should be able to get a gun for you in the morning as well. What do you say I pick you up in front of your hotel here about ten o'clock? Look for me in a full-sized, white Chevy van."

"That'll be great. I'll look forward to seeing you then. I assume we'll pretend that I'm a movie producer scouting the old prison as a potential site for a movie?"

Lisa thought for a moment. "That's as good a cover as I could come up with."

"Until tomorrow, then."

Lisa paused at the door and extended her hand. "Partner?" she asked.

Hart took her hand in his. It was soft and warm and--trusting. "Partner!"

As he watched Lisa walk down the hall away from his hotel room, Hart wondered if he'd just made the right decision in trusting her--or the biggest mistake of his life.

* * * * *

Should he have trusted Lisa as far as he had? Hart sat up for a while after she left, debating the answers to that question, and finally decided that he really didn't have much choice at the moment. After all, she seemed to know why he was in Brasilia and why he was interested in the old prison.

What the heck! Even if Lisa eventually proved to be his enemy, he doubted that she'd betray him before he had a chance to lead her to the stash of counterfeit currency, which he was going to assume was at the prison until proven wrong. As for what else might be stashed in that old prison building, she didn't need to know about any other possibilities.

Before turning in for the night, Hart added a few coded notes to his pocket notebook and checked his low-tech alarm systems. The next day should prove very interesting, to say the least.

* * * * *

Hart was waiting in the hotel lobby at ten o'clock the next morning, cautiously optimistic that Lisa would indeed be there as she had promised. When he saw her at the wheel of the white Chevy van turning into the parking circle in front of the hotel, he went outside. Moments later, he was climbing into the passenger seat.

Lisa smiled warmly and extender her hand across the van, palm up, as he settled into the seat. "Hi, David. Partner!"

"Hi, Lisa. Partner!" He slapped her hand.

"Ready, partner?"

"Ready, partner." They were on their way--and Hart had absolutely no idea what lay ahead of them!
Chapter 9

Hart looked behind him into the back of the van as Lisa pulled it into the street. There were two nearly new Honda trail-bikes secured with stretch-cords against the sides of the van.

Lisa saw him looking. "I got us a couple of nice ones," she said. "They're all gassed up and ready to go."

"Great."

Once they were on the highway, Lisa pointed to a heavy paper bag at Hart's feet. "I got you a gun, David. It's in there."

Hart opened the paper bag and retrieved the gun. It was exactly what he'd requested: a .45 Colt semiautomatic pistol, the Government model with which he was familiar.

Then and there, Hart field-stripped the Colt, checking it carefully for any abnormal wear, defects,or tampering. Even though the finish was lightly scuffed in a few places, the gun's mechanism appeared to be in perfect working condition.

Lisa watched him as he checked out the gun. After he reassembled it, she asked if it was okay.

"Seems just fine," Hart told her.

"I fired it twice myself at the gunsmith's range before I bought it for you," Lisa said, matter-of-factly. "It seemed to function perfectly."

There was a box of .45 ACP ammo in the bag, minus the two rounds Lisa used when she test-fired the gun, and a spare magazine. After checking over both magazines to make sure they worked smoothly in the gun, Hart loaded them. One magazine went in the Colt and the other in his pocket. He felt much better having a gun in his jacket pocket.

There in the bag also were two of the one-hundred-dollar bills he'd given Lisa. Hart asked her if she wouldn't keep them and apply them toward the rental of the Hondas, but she said that the trail-bikes were her contribution to the day's adventure. "I'll let you treat me to something later," she added, the tone of her voice teasing him as she spoke.

The traffic around them thinned considerably the farther they traveled from the heart of the city. While Lisa drove, Hart studied the rearview mirror, watching for anyone who might be tailing them. No one appeared to be.

Once he was certain the Colt was ready for action and that they weren't being followed, Hart studied Lisa. She looked absolutely beautiful that morning dressed in khaki slacks and a crisp khaki blouse.

Lisa's eyes sparkled when she caught him watching her. "David?" she called.

"Yes?"

"Do you like me, David? Even just a little bit?" Lisa asked.

"Yes, I do, Lisa," he replied. "I do like you. Not just a little bit, but a whole lot." What he said was true. He was beginning to like Lisa very much. But liking and trusting were two different things. How he hoped he could come to trust her.

"I like you a whole lot, too, David. I . . . I hope we'll become good friends." It was the first time he'd ever heard Lisa speak so shyly."

"I hope so, too, Lisa. I'd like that."

They drove in silence for a few minutes. After another check of the rearview mirror, Hart retrieved the Global Positioning System receiver from his jacket pocket and began to program it for the day's travel.

Lisa grinned when she saw the GPS receiver. "Oh, my!" she exclaimed, "You think of everything, don't you, David?"

"Try to. Have you ever used one of these?"

"I've never used one myself, but my brother showed me how to use his once. At least he showed me how something he called the 'Military Grid Reference System' worked." She glanced at the one Hart had. "Is that map of Brazil already in your GPS receiver?" she asked.

"Yes. I've got a complete set of world maps and street maps of most of the major cities in the world on CD ROMs. I programmed Brazil and Brasilia into the GPS receiver before I came here."

"Would you show me how to use your GPS receiver some time? I'd like that."

"Sure. I'll show you how it works when we get back home. I'll enter information as we travel along the trail today. The maps it creates and displays will be especially useful when we come back up here at night."

"It'll actually make a map of our trip?"

"Yes. Actually, the map it creates will be something like a 'breadcrumb path' of our trip, just like if we dropped breadcrumbs all along the way, with the key locations identified by icons. And, if we want to come to the old prison from another direction, this little gadget will help us do that, too."

"I see! Very handy, huh?"

"Yes, it is," he agreed.

"Now, David," Lisa changed the subject, "we're going to drive a few more miles on the highway. Then we'll park the van where I think it'll be safe to leave it all day and take the trail-bikes the rest of the way up to that old prison. Oh, and by the way," she added, "as I promised, I did pack some snacks and drinks for us."

"Great! Thank you."

Lisa parked on a side road near some residences on the outskirts of Brasilia. Hart helped lift the trail-bikes out of the van. They were sturdy bikes, he noted, with off-road tires and forgiving suspension systems well suited for rough trails.

They started the bikes and followed the highway for a few more miles. Then Lisa turned her trail-bike off the road and angled northwest along what once was a trail but now was mostly wilderness. Hart followed her, taking note of the bike's odometer reading as they started up the trail. If his impromptu calculations were correct, they had a good fifty miles or more of trail-bike riding to do before they reached the old prison.

The trail was fairly easy to follow. They rode the trail-bikes around small signs that cautioned them to turn back, paying no attention to the signs at all.

Hart tired to imagine what the trail had been like hundreds of years ago. He could easily imagine a procession of captives and their guards marching single-file toward the prison. Still, the first part of the trail was wide enough for a Jeep or similar off-road vehicle. It would likely narrow soon.

Hart visually searched the trail for signs that others had either walked or ridden it recently, but there were no footprints or wheel tracks in the earth except theirs. Nor did he see any other evidence that anyone had recently taken that trail. No cigarette butts, no trash, nothing. Just the wilderness. All the same, Hart liked the weight of the Colt in his jacket pocket.

Lisa handled her trail-bike extremely well. Hart let her lead, keeping a few yards behind her, cautiously watching both sides of the trail for any signs of an ambush. It wasn't that he expected an ambush at this stage of the game, but, okay--he's paranoid. Or experienced!

Before long, they came to what appeared to be a fork in the trail. Hart stopped and quickly programmed the location of the fork into the GPS receiver. Lisa took the fork in the trail that went left. Hart wondered where the right fork went and made a mental note to ask about that later.

After about an hour of riding, they came to a clearing. Lisa raised her hand and motioned for Hart to stop. Jumping off her trail-bike, she leaned it against a tree and then came back to him. "Let's take a break," she suggested.

"That's a good idea."

Lisa produced some snack bars and drinks from the bag of goodies she'd brought along. They sat on a couple of large rocks, facing each other as they prepared to snack.

"I'm just a little edgy about this place. Let's keep an eye on each other's backs," Lisa suggested. Hart agreed. They kept an eye over each other's shoulders as they ate the bars and rested.

"Are you doing okay, Lisa?" Hart asked.

"Sure, except for feeling a little edgy. And you?"

"Fine."

She smiled. "I used to ride trail-bikes all the time."

He had to tell her. "You handle that bike like a real professional. It's . . . Well, it's fun to watch you ride."

"Thanks. If I had somebody to ride with, I'd do more trail-biking. Maybe you'll ride again with me one of these days after all this is over? At least, I hope you will. We could explore a lot of the countryside."

"Yes, I will. That would be fun."

"I'm going to hold you to that promise." Lisa smiled, then continued in a more serious tone. "We don't have all that much farther to ride, but the trail gets rougher. A whole lot rougher. Are you ready, David?" she asked.

"Just a minute. Let me make a couple of notes in my notebook," Hart replied, then drew some little maps detailing the major landmarks in his notebook. He had the GPS receiver, of course, but he never entirely relied on something like that because he'd seen electronic gadgets fail too many times, and they usually failed in a pinch. That's another of Murphy's laws of covert ops: "GPS receivers, like radios and other electronic gadgets, will fail you just as soon as you desperately need them."

Once he'd taken notes abut their locations and also programmed the GPS receiver, Hart turned to Lisa. "Okay, Lisa," he said. "I'm ready. Let's get going."

Lisa was right about the trail getting rougher. They slowed way down and kept the trail-bikes in low gear, letting them idle over the washed-out, rock-strewn trail. Hart kept looking for signs that anyone else had used the trail recently, but he didn't see any. Nor did he detect signs of any kinds of human activity in the area.

This lack of human activity seemed odd to him. It was almost as if no one ever traveled that trail, but the taxi driver had mentioned that people passing the prison saw lights in the windows. Yet there were no signs that anyone ever passed that way. It was too good to be true. That troubled Hart.

Thirty minutes later, Lisa held up her hand, stopped, and then switched off her bike. Hart slowed, pulled the trail-bike he was riding along side Lisa's, and switched it off.

"The old prison is just over the next rise!" Lisa exclaimed in a hushed whisper. "Maybe we'd better walk the rest of the way in so as not to call undue attention to ourselves."

Undue attention to ourselves? Did Lisa think we'd made it this far without being noticed?

"I agree." It wasn't that Hart actually thought they'd made it up there without being noticed, but it would be just as well not to go roaring up to the buildings on those trail-bikes.

They pushed the bikes along the trail until they came to the top of the rise--and there it was. The abandoned stone prison known as Elions stood before them, perhaps a quarter of a mile away.

Lisa put her hand on his arm and looked up at him. "We made it. There it is," she whispered.

"It sure is." Hart entered the building's location into the GPS receiver and made a few more notes in his notebook. It was time to take a close look at the old stone buildings he'd come to investigate.

Even as he looked at the old prison in the distance, though, Hart could hear the taxi driver say, "It is haunted with evil, the darkest evil imaginable, and cursed by the evil one himself." And then Lisa echoed his thoughts: "This is a horrible place. Evil things happened here years ago, David--and I believe they still do"
Chapter 10

The old stone buildings looked much as Hart remembered them, just as he'd first seen them a little over three months ago. The main, two-story structure was about three-hundred feet long by one-hundred feet wide with a wing built on one end that he estimated to measure about one-hundred feet long by one-hundred feet wide.

In the bright sunlight, the buildings appeared much less monstrous and formidable than they had in the darkness of night. Still, the narrow windows, some of which were broken, were covered by massive steel bars, just as he remembered them, reminding Hart of the building's purpose.

There was evidence of a basement under the building, just as Hart remembered, and he could make out the small, heavily-barred basement window where he had detected an arc of light from Tracy's flashlight that night. If the stories about the prison he'd read were correct, there might be as many as two sub-basements under the building, or at least partial sub-basembnts that still remained intact from earlier prisons that once stood on this same site. Exactly where the storied dungeons were located, he couldn't even guess.

The second, single-story building standing beyond the main structure appeared to measure about fifty feet long by thirty feet wide. It, too, had narrow windows, some of which were barred.

The taxi driver had implied that one corner of the large building had collapsed, but from what Hart could see, only a few stones had fallen from the top facade. In general, it appeared that the main structure had deteriorated very little from when it was built. Of course, if the stories were correct, the structure hadn't deteriorated much over the past several hundred years.

In daylight, the main building appeared quite sturdy, as if it had been constructed only yesterday. Maybe that was a result of the human blood rumored to have been mixed into the mortar.

If any building had the look of a haunted place, the old stone prison called Elions certainly qualified. Hart could imagine the effect a flickering light in one or more of the windows would have on a passerby some late night, and screams from the building would be most effective at keeping people from exploring the entire area. As to the curse, well, from what he'd read, the old prison had housed its share of those accused of witchcraft and practitioners of other black arts.

Hart could make out both the clearing near the northwest corner of the old prison where he had landed the Huey, and the large steel door through which Miller and Tracy had carried those four wooden crates. A few large stones that had fallen from the top of the building since that day lay scattered around on the ground in front of that steel door. Those broken and scattered stones wouldn't pose any problems with their entering the old building through that door.

Colonel Olmos had asked about landing space for the Pilatus Porter. There certainly appeared to be enough space to land the STOL, but he'd have to check the surface before he could be absolutely sure. One thing for sure, those sturdy little airplanes have landed and taken off in almost impossible locations, ignoring mud and ruts and all the rest. There might be enough of a landing strip here to accommodate the aircraft if its use seemed warranted or necessary. Colonel Olmos would make that decision based on what information Hart could provide for him.

After carefully scanning the entire area around the old prison for any signs of human activity and finding none, Hart took the little digital camera he'd brought along and took several pictures of the overall scene. Lisa watched as he took the pictures.

In addition to his digital camera, Hart used his smart phone to take a variety of photographs. Those would be easy for him to transmit directly to Colonel Olmos.

"Let's go on down and take a closer look around, Lisa," Hart suggested, once he'd finished taking pictures.

"Okay." She was eager to go.

Lisa and Hart pushed the trail-bikes over to a clump of scrubby trees a few hundred feet from the prison and left them there where they wouldn't be overly obvious. They studied the area once again to be sure no one else was around, then walked down to what might once have been called the prison grounds, but was now overgrown with brush. Hart took more pictures of the northwest corner of the structure.

Lisa picked up right away on Hart's interest. "Is that the door you're most interested in?" she whispered, motioning toward the steel door at the northwest corner of the building.

"Yes. Let's not pay too much attention to it right now, though, just in case someone is watching us--and we've got to assume they are. Let's walk around and see what's on the other side of the building."

Something did puzzle Hart. If people did pass by the building as the taxi driver implied, why was there no trash lying around? No cigarette butts? Nothing? It appeared as though someone had recently cleaned up the grounds.

They walked slowly around the entire building while Hart tried as best he could to act like a movie producer wanting to use the structure as background for part of a movie. Every now and then, he stopped to study the old structure and to take a picture or two.

After they'd made their way completely around the building, he stopped again to take a careful look at that steel door on the northwest corner. At one time the door had been fitted with an old-fashioned keyed lock of some kind. Miller and Tracy had no trouble with the lock, but Hart had no way of knowing if the door actually was locked when they approached it, or if it was locked now, for that matter. Hart knew what tools he'd need to unlock that door. He'd brought them with him.

He didn't want to spend a lot of time examining that particular door, and Hart certainly didn't want to try opening it--not while people might be watching. That would come later. Just to have something to remind himself of what he was up against, he took a second close-up picture of the door and its odd, keyed lock.

As he turned aside from examining the door, the glint of brass in the scrubby grass caught his eye. It was an empty cartridge, probably one of the several ejected from Tracy's rifle on the night they were ambushed. Tracy had stepped out of the doorway, saw the intruders firing at Miller, rolled to his left, and returned fire. As he looked around, Hart saw several additional empty cartridges scattered around, grim reminders of that deadly night.

There were other doors on the old prison building. What was once the main entrance door had a heavy chain looped through its handles. A sturdy padlock secured the chain. Still another steel door, this one smaller than the other, was on the other side of the building where the addition met the main structure. Like the main entrance, this smaller door was chained and padlocked. It appeared that the chains and padlocks had been there for many years because they were quite rusty. Nobody had entered those doors for a long time.

Somebody had wanted those doors kept shut. The chains and padlocks probably meant that the original door locks no longer worked or at least not to someone's satisfaction. Chains and padlocks wouldn't pose much of a problem for Hart, though, nor for that matter would locks of any kind. He'd studied locks as part of his escape-training, and he figured he could open any of those confronting them there. Just to remind himself of what he'd be up against, he took close-up pictures of the chained and padlocked doors.

Hart also carefully examined the smaller building behind the prison. He wasn't absolutely sure what it originally had been used for, but it appeared to have once had a tall brick chimney standing at one corner. The chimney had long since been torn down, and the bricks had been carried off, save for a few fragments scattered around, but the place where the chimney once stood was well defined.

If the smaller building had indeed housed a heating plant for the prison, as Hart suspected, a tunnel for the steam or hot water pipes likely connected the two buildings. Such a tunnel might prove especially useful to them as a way of gaining entry to the old prison building if those locked steel doors proved to be a problem. Or as a way of escape once they were inside.

Lisa and Hart walked over the area where Colonel Olmos might want to land the Pilatus Porter. The ground was slightly ridged and rough; but the soil was solid, and there weren't any large rocks or brush in the way. There was a good 500 feet of landing area to serve as a runway and enough room to turn the plane around. He'd not hesitate to attempt a landing there.

By the time they'd explored the area, taken the pictures he wanted, and programmed the GPS receiver, it was time to be heading back to Brasilia. As they started walking back to where they'd left the trail-bikes, though, Lisa suddenly grabbed Hart's hand and stopped him.

"Wait, David?" Lisa looked up at him. There was the hint of a tear on her cheek, and he knew what she was going to ask.

"Yes?"

"Where did my brother die?" she asked.

"Lisa," he answered, "if your brother was one of the men who died here, it would have been over in that general area." He pointed out the spot where the two intruding shooters had died.

"Could we . . . Could we walk over there? Please?" She grabbed his hand, and looked up into his face with teary eyes. "Please, David?"

"Sure."

Lisa gripped his hand hard as they walked toward the spot where the shooters had died. "They came up that way." Hart pointed out the way from which the shooters had come. "They shot at the men who were with me from over there, without any warning whatsoever, and that's where they died." Again, Hart pointed out where the shootings had taken place.

They reached the spot where the two shooters died. Hart thought they might find empty cartridges from their rifles scattered around that area, but nothing remained to indicate that anyone had ever been over there, let alone died there. No blood stains. Nothing. Someone had removed the bodies and cleaned up the area where the intruders died.

Hart looked around for evidence of a nearby grave but saw nothing to indicate that the men had been buried nearby. Someone had taken the bodies away.

Lisa put her head against Hart's shoulder. She was trembling just a little. Hart put his arm around her. Gave her a quick hug. "Thank you, David," she whispered. "Somehow, I feel a whole lot better now." She wiped her cheek with her sleeve.

They started the trail-bikes and picked up the trail that would take them away from the old prison and back to where they'd left the van that morning. As they rode away, Hart looked back over his shoulder at the imposing stone structures. The next time they came up here, they'd go inside those buildings. It wouldn't be long now before they'd attempt to discover their secrets.

And something else was puzzling Hart. That trail they'd followed didn't end at the old prison. It continued on to the north. Where did it lead?
Chapter 11

It was dark by the time Lisa and Hart arrived back in Brasilia and returned the trail-bikes to the rental agency. They then had dinner together at a small cafe Lisa recommended, but it had been a long and tiring day, and neither of them felt much like talking.

"When will we get together again?" Lisa asked, as she drove Hart back to his hotel.

"That depends on you. Are you free tomorrow, or working, or . . . ?"

Lisa smiled. "I'm free tomorrow. I'll print your photos early in the morning at the newspaper photo lab. After that, I'll be free whenever you want me to be. And believe me, David," she added, "I do want to be in on your plans to explore that place."

"Why don't you call me around ten-o'clock in the morning, Lisa," Hart replied. "We'll take it from there. I want to see the pictures and study the maps before we make any more plans."

"Okay."

"Lisa?"

"Yes?"

He had to ask. "Are you sure you still want in this game?"

"Of--"

"Wait." Hart held up his hand.

"Okay. What is it?"

"Lisa, you need to know that we'll be going up there at night next time, and we'll be going inside the old prison building, probably into the basement or even a sub-basement or a dungeon, way underground, and, well, it could get plenty scary."

Lisa pulled the van into the parking circle in front of Hart's hotel and parked before she answered. "David!" she exclaimed, the hurt showing in her voice. "Of course, I'm in. I'm not afraid to go up there at night, or to go inside that old prison, well, not with you, anyway. We're partners, remember?"

"Sorry. I didn't mean to imply that you weren't up to such an adventure. I just wanted to be sure you knew what you were getting into."

Lisa put her hand on Hart's arm as he started to get out of the van. "We are partners, aren't we, David?"

"We're partners, Lisa," Hart assured her, then thanked her again for all the things she'd done for him that day--for buying the gun, for renting the trail-bikes, and for guiding him to the site of Elions, the old stone prison.

"Just so you know, David. I've taken several days off from work so I can be with you on this adventure. See you tomorrow," she called softly, her voice just above a whisper, before she drove away.

That night in his hotel room Hart studied a detailed map of Brazil, the GPS receiver's maps, and the landmarks he'd recorded in his notebook. The next time we--he thought 'we' because Lisa seemed determined to go with him--went to the site of the old prison, they'd probably go at night, check out the entrances to the building, go inside, and locate those crates. If Colonel Olmos was right, maybe they'd even find something else of considerable interest inside that abandoned building. With those objectives in mind, Hart wanted to identify some alternate routes to and from the site. After carefully studying his maps, he was able to identify two possible routes that looked promising. They'd cut through a wilderness area but there didn't seem to be anything there that might endanger their progress. And they might not be able to escape back down that trail they'd ridden that day.

Hart had most of the things he thought he'd need to gain entrance to the old prison building and go looking for those crates: lock-opening tools, a wire-saw for the chains if he needed to cut them. A flashlight. Night-vision scope. Other electronic gadgets he'd brought along. What he didn't know was what they'd find after they gained entrance, or where or if they'd find those crates.

After they gained entrance to the old prison building, they'd first be faced with the task of exploring the area where Miller and Tracy had deposited those four crates. That's where the real challenge would lie. Hart hoped the enemy, whomever they were up against, hadn't booby-trapped the hiding palce. Hart sure would have, and the enemy probably had.

Hart intended to find those crates. He and Colonel Olmos had worked out some plans for getting the crates out of there once he'd located them. It was time for him to let Olmos know of his progress.

When Hart finished studying the maps and thinking about gaining entrance to the old prison, he put everything away in his briefcase or luggage. He then prepared a coded radio message for Colonel Olmos describing what he'd done so far, his immediate concerns, and his plans for the following day.

In addition, Hart asked him to check on the possibility that the two unidentified men reported killed in an accident some thirty miles northwest of Brasilia on the night of Miller's and Tracy's ill-fated mission had been involved in that mission in some way. He also gave him Lisa's name and that of her brother and described them along with Lisa's possible involvement in his plans. Finally, he alerted Colonel Olmos of the possibility that tomorrow night or the next night at the latest they were going in.

The high-tech radio Hart carried would broadcast his message in encripted code and in bursts of almost undetectable signals. He'd send that message in the morning. He'd also send some of the photographs. After Colonel Olmos had studied the message and photos, he would reply in code, and Hart's radio would alert him to his response when it arrived.

Once Hart was sure that the message was ready to go in the morning, he disassembled the pistol Lisa bought for him all over again, carefully checking it to be sure he hadn't overlooked anything that might be wrong with the gun. Finding nothing wrong, he reassembled the gun, loaded, cocked and locked it, and shoved it under his pillow, exactly as he was used to doing with his service pistol at camp. Then, after checking to be sure that his low-tech security syestems were in place, he lay down on the bed and turned out the light.

TAP! TAP! TAP! He'd just turned out the light when there was a soft knock on his door. His hand shot under the pillow and closed on the grips of the Colt even as he was climbing out of bed and pulling on his pants. Who could be outside his door at this hour of the night? As Hart made his way to the door, he was mighty glad he had that gun.
Chapter 12

Gun in hand, ready for anything, Hart eased his way to the door. He need not have worried quite so much, however. A glance through the peephole revealed Lisa standing there. He didn't see anyone else in the hall, so Hart switched on the small desk lamp, moved the chair he had propped under the doorknob, and opened the door.

"Come in, Lisa." He kept his voice low.

Lisa looked apprehensively at the Colt in his hand, now aimed past her and through the door, covering anyone who might be behind her.

"Sorry," he told her, letting the muzzle of the gun drop to point toward the floor as he talked, "I wasn't expecting you, and I had to be sure you were alone."

"I . . . I understand."

From the look of her eyes Lisa had been crying, but the moment she was inside Hart's room she put her finger to her lips in a way that demanded immediate silence, withdrew the audio bug-detector from her purse, and swept the entire room for bugs. In the dimly lighted room, Hart could make out the tiny green light glowing on the bug-detector in her hand, and was pleased to note that it didn't once turn red as it would if a bug were detected.

Hart quietly closed the door and pushed the chair back under the doorknob while Lisa continued to sweep the room for bugs, then studied the hall through the peephole, not sure what might be coming down.

Only when she was satisfied that there weren't any bugs in that room did Lisa relax. That's when she came over to where Hart was still standing by the door, put her hands on his arms, and whispered, "I feel real bad, and I need you to hold me, David. Sit beside me and hold me while I cry. Please."

"Okay."

With that, Lisa led Hart to the sofa. They sat side by side. Hart put the Colt within easy reach on the table at the end of the sofa and put his arm around Lisa. She rested her head on his shoulder for a long moment and then, blinking back tears, told him what she had been doing and why she came back to his room.

"I was so lonely and sad, thinking about my brother, Terry, that I just couldn't stay in my apartment alone tonight. I . . . I really didn't want to bother you, though, but I had to do something to get my mind off my brother, so I took your camera's memory unit over to the newspaper photo lab and printed the photos. I've got the pictures here in my purse.

"But then," Lisa continued before Hart could respond, "I . . . I just couldn't bring myself to go back to my apartment, and be alone with my . . . ." Tears now were trickling down Lisa's cheeks. "I . . . I've never cried over my brother's death before, and I guess it's time I did. Whatever he was mixed up with, whatever he was doing, well, he was . . . he still was my brother, you know." Lisa reached into her purse, retrieved some tissues, and daubed at her eyes.

"I'm sorry about your brother, Lisa, I really am." Hart didn't know what else to say so he just held her as she cried.

"I know guys don't like for girls to cry," Lisa whimpered, "and I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

Lisa twisted around to face Hart, threw her arm around his neck, and buried her face into his chest. "I've . . . I've always considered myself a tough cookie, and I never thought I'd need a shoulder to cry on, but I sure do need one tonight. I just couldn't go back to my empty apartment and, well, you've been so . . . so good to me. I just didn't want to be alone. Not . . . Not tonight."

"You can stay here tonight if you'll feel better," Hart assured her. "I'll sleep on the sofa and you can have the bed."

Lisa raised her head, looked directly into his eyes through her tears, the crinkle of a smile playing on her teary upturned face. "No way, David!" she whimpered. "I want you to hold me right here, just like this--all night long."
Chapter 13

In his paranoia, Hart sometimes played out worst-case "what if" scenarios in his mind. Doing so had alerted him to viable options and helped keep him alive on several occasions. That night, as he held Lisa close to him long after she had fallen into a fitful sleep, Hart began to do just that.

What if? What if Lisa were the enemy, let's say KGB or Nazi, playing me along strictly to get to those crates of counterfeit currency, if indeed that was what they contained, or whatever else the KGB or the Nazis might think was hidden in that prison? What if?

If that were the case, he'd probably be safe at least for a while. Whoever she was working with probably wouldn't try to kill him before he actually located the currency or whatever or at least got them close enough to it so that they thought they could find the crates by themelves without him.

With those thoughts in mind, Hart reviewed exactly what Lisa knew about the whereabouts of the crates containing the currency. Given what she now knew, could she find those crates on her own, or more likely, direct her brother or other associates to the cache? Probably not yet. Unless Hart missed his guess, they'd wait until he'd actually located the crates before they tried to kill him.

Was anyone else tailing him? Tomorrow maybe he'd better do another little surveillance-detection walk around the area just to see if he could detect anyone with an interest in his whereabouts.

What if? There were countless possibilities to work through, and Hart spent some time just thinking.

After thinking through the worst case scenarios he could dream up regarding his attempts to locate those crates and whatever else might be hidden at the old prison, Hart finally was able to relax and fall asleep. He couldn't be completely sure that Lisa wouldn't do him in while he slept; but then, again thinking of the worst-case scenarios, she didn't yet know all of his plans, so she'd probably keep him alive until she did.

The next morning Hart took Lisa to breakfast. That finished and back in his room, she seemed refreshed and eager to talk about the plans to search out those crates.

"Here are the pictures I printed for you," she said, handing him a manila envelope.

Hart spread the pictures out on the table, and they studied them together. Lisa knew which door they'd be going in, and she asked if Hart knew what to expect beyond that door. He truthfully assured her that he didn't.

After they familiarized themselves with all of the information about the old prison that the pictures could provide, Hart got out his map of Brazil, and they traced the trail they'd taken from Brasilia to the old prison, using the "breadcrumb trail" map the GPS receiver provided.

Hart had several questions for Lisa. Pointing out the fork in the trail where they'd turned toward the left, he asked her where the right fork led.

Lisa hesitated and caught her breath before she answered. "I've asked that question myself," she finally replied.

Something was up that way, all right. "And?"

"The first person I asked, another reporter on the newspaper staff, just looked at me, shook his head, and said, 'Just keep the hell away from there!'"

"Meaning what?"

"That's what I asked. The guy just turned and walked away. I could see that he was scared to be talking about that trail, and that, well, that scared me, but I had to know."

"And then?"

"So I asked another person. Well, it was that taxi driver you met. He said about the same thing. I pushed him, and he said that fork of the old trail went off toward a lab where the narcotraffickers--that was his word, narcotraffickers--produce illicit drugs. He said he'd heard that it was a major operation, and warned me to keep well away from it."

"How far away from the old prison is this big drug lab?"

"Oh, it's supposed to be a long ways from the old prison, maybe eighty or one hundred miles or so to the east, but the taxi driver said there were rumors that armed men regularly patrol the entire area north of Brasilia, keeping away anyone who ventures too close to the lab."

"Yeah, I'll bet they do."

Lisa looked startled. Her voice dropped. "Something else he told me. It . . . It's rumored that several people just . . . just disappeared when they went up that trail to the right and got too close to the lab."

"I can believe that, too."

"David?" Lisa's voice now was a whisper.

"What?" Hart whispered back.

"Oh, I should have remembered and told you something else about that drug lab. They . . . They say that some general in the Brazilian army has an interest in that drug lab. Maybe it's just rumor, I don't know." Lisa whispered the words as if she were afraid that someone might overhear what she was telling.

From what Hart knew about the Brazilian military, that rumor probably was true. And the men who'd killed Miller and Tracy had looked like military or paramilitary types. At least they were dressed and acted that way. Maybe they also killed those two men who were reported in the newspaper article as having been killed thirty miles or so up that way.

Hart looked at Lisa, wishing like everything that she'd told him about the drug lab and the army general earlier. So whoever's patrolling that territory porbably knows we went up there yesterday."

Lisa sighed. "I . . . I'm sorry, David. I should have said something. I guess I just didn't think about that drug lab and the possibility of anyone watching the trail to the old prison. Did . . . Did I blow things for you . . . for us?"

"It's okay." He thought a moment. "Lisa, could you make me a blow-up of this portion of this one picture, maybe an eight by ten--or larger?" Hart handed her the picture of the massive steel door where he thought they'd try to enter the building.

"Sure."

"Could you enlarge just the area where the lock is?"

"Yes."

"Good. I want you to enlarge the part that shows the lock as big as you can before it gets blurry." Hart outlined the part of the photo that he wanted her to enlarge.

"Okay. I can do that."

"Oh, and this one, too?" He handed her the one that showed an overall view of the prison and grounds. "Can you enlarge just the part of the picture that shows the small building?"

"Sure. Would you like me to do these enlargements right now?"

"Just as soon as you can." Hart thought a moment. "Wait a minute."

"What is it?"

"That trail we took up to the prison doesn't end there. As near as I can tell, it continues on up north. Do you know where it goes?"

"Yes. Well, I'll tell you what I've been told."

"Okay."

"Well over a thousand years ago, nobody knows exactly when, an ancient civilization constructed a temple up there. It's about fifty miles on north of the prison."

"A temple?"

"Yes. Archaeologists think it was dedicated to a particular god of the native civilization that occupied that territory, but I don't remember which one. At any rate, a few people continue yet today to make pilgrimages there to offer sacrifices to this god."

"What do you know about the god?"

"Not much. Some people say it demanded human sacrifices. I do know that people go up there, although they don't usually make a big show of it. They go, they do whatever they do to worship the god, and then come home. It's some of them who've said they've seen lights in the windows of the prison when they were passing by."

"It must be difficult to get to that temple. Do they walk the entire distance?"

"As near as I know they do. Most of those who go up there are impoverished and probably can't afford to rent trail-bikes."

Hart studied his map and found the approximate location of the temple, then turned back to Lisa. "Now, about these photos."

Lisa marked the pictures Hart wanted her to enlarge. "I'll meet you back here in an hour, okay"

"Great. Then we'll decide what we're going to do." Lisa started for the door, but Hart stopped her. "Wait a minute, Lisa. I've got another question for you."

"Okay."

"What's over in this area?" He pointed to the area west of the old prison on the map of Brazil.

"Nothing except empty wilderness as far as I know. The Brazilian government hopes to encourage settlement and industry out that way. Well, I guess you know, that's why Brasilia was built out here in the wilderness."

"To encourage economic development of the mid-section of the country?"

"Yes."

"But you don't know of anything out in that area yet. Drug labs? Militia camps? Smugglers? Ancient temples? Anything?"

"No. I've never heard of anything being located out that way."

"Okay. Just wondering."

"Want me to go make these enlargements now?"

"Yes, please."

The moment Lisa was out the door, Hart took his radio out to the enclosed patio just outside his hotel room. His windows were oriented toward Colonel Olmos's camp, and at that time of day, the window was perfectly positioned for satellite transmission.

There wasn't anyone he could see watching him from the roofs or windows of the nearby buildings. After carefully calculating the location that let him orient his radio toward Colonel Olmos's camp for the best satellite transmission and with minimal interference, Hart extended the eight-foot telescopic antenna, rechecked the frequency setting, and sent the message he'd composed the previous night.

Someone at Colonel Olmos's camp obviously was monitoring that frequency because confirmation that his message had been received came back instantly. That done, he quickly composed another brief message, relating the information he'd just learned about the illicit drug lab located east of the old prison, and the rumor that a general in the Brazilian army had strong and protective ties to the lab, and sent that message. Once again, confirmation that his message had been received came back almost instantly.

Once Colonel Olmos had composed an answer and replied to Hart's messages, his radio would alert him with a number in its display. Then, using a small earpiece, he'd be able to listen to his recorded audio response. That would likely be some time later in the day.

With the radio transmission over, Hart placed the radio on a corner of the patio, its antenna fully extended and ready to receive a reply from Colonel Olmos.

Once again, he studied the map of Brazil. Hart had no knowledge of where the illegal drug lab to the east of the old prison was located but he could guess. Knowing the lab was there led him to wonder if the men who had attacked Miller and Tracy were a part of a private army--or the Brazilian military--that guarded it.

Lisa knocked on his door while Hart was contemplating the existence of that drug lab and the ways of minimizing any problems the men guarding it might cause. The moment he opened the door to her, Hart could tell by the expression on her face and the fact that she seemed to be out of breath that something was very, very wrong.
Chapter 14

"What's wrong, Lisa?" Hart asked.

"Oh, David, somebody . . . somebody stole . . . somebody stole my . . . my blazer," she gasped.

He put his arms around her. She was trembling. "Tell me about it, Lisa. What happened?"

"I . . . I left it on the back of the chair at my desk a few days ago, just like I usually do when I'm at the office. I meant to pick it up on my way out today and wear it over here, but it's gone! I mean, nobody ever bothered it before. I . . . I can't understand why somebody would take it."

"Maybe somebody just moved it?" Hart suggested. "A cleaning lady, maybe?"

"No. I looked all over for it. It's gone," Lisa asserted, then brightened. "I've got your pictures, David."

'"Good.

"Here they are. I . . . I hope I did okay on them for you." She handed Hart a large manila envelope containing the pictures.

They spread the pictures on the table under his lamp and studied them. From what he'd gathered from the first picture, that lock on the steel door they'd go through wouldn't give him any problems. He even had the right tools with him that he'd need for opening it. He'd have to admit, though, that whenever he got to thinking something would be easy, he was reminded of the Murphy's law of covert ops that states "The easy way in is always mined." Remember to check that entry for booby traps, Hart told himself.

The enlarged print of the small building behind the old prison showed detail of interest to him that Hart hadn't remembered. For one thing, he could see that there was a slight difference in the soil color on a line between the small building and the main prison building, suggesting that a tunnel indeed did exist between the two. For another thing, from the way the shadows fell across the entrance to the small building, its door appeared to be slightly open.

"You did a good job on the pictures, Lisa," Hart told her. "Thanks for enlarging them."

"You're welcome. So, what do we do now, David?" She asked, her voice still a little shaky. Something Hart didn't quite understand had spooked Lisa. Maybe we could deal with that later.

"Do you still have the van?"

"Yes. I thought we might want to use it so I drove it over here. It's parked right outside."

"Good. Can we pick up the trail-bikes this afternoon?"

"Sure. Will we be going to Elions again later this afternoon?" She seemed eager.

"I think so. That is, unless something comes along to change our minds."

"Okay. What else can we do to get ready?" Again, Lisa sounded especially eager to get going.

"Once we're under way, we'll want to wear dark clothing, the better to blend into the night shadows if anyone is watching. Do you have some dark clothing you can wear? Not necessarily black, but dark gray or blue-black?"

Lisa thought a minute. "Yes. I've got dark gray slacks and a gray sweat shirt."

"Good. Shoes?"

"Sure. I'll wear my black hiking boots. They're sturdy enough to walk on the rough ground if we hike in part of the way.

"Okay. And a gray cap or scarf?"

"Yes."

"And your gun?"

"That, too. We can stop by my apartment after we get the trail-bikes. It'll only take a few minutes for me to change into the dark clothing and pick up my gun."

"Extra ammo?"

"I've got an extra clip for the gun."

"Okay."

"We'll want something to eat. I'll bring some snack bars and water, too."

"Good. Let's go pick up the trail-bikes and then your things. We'll decide exactly when we're leaving when we get back here."

"David?" Lisa arched her eyebrows--a gesture he was fast becoming accustomed to--and grinned mischievously.

"Yes?"

"You really are going to take me with you, aren't you, David?"

"I sure am."

"David?"

"After all of this is over, could we do something nice together? Just you and me. Something really nice?"

"Something really nice? Sure. What do you have in mind?"

"Oh, David, I don't know. Maybe a nice dinner together somewhere? Maybe a nice dinner together at some nice quiet place where we could just talk and get to know each other better. I . . . I really do like you, you know."

"Yes, I'd like that, Lisa," he told her, "but you've got to remember something."

"What's that, David?" Lisa's blue eyes were soft and warm as she looked at him. After all the things he'd seen, he wasn't sure his eyes would ever be soft and warm again--certainly not soft and warm like Lisa's.

"You've got to know something about me, Lisa. I'm not the kind of guy most girls would want to have much to do with, and I'm sure not the kind of guy most girls would want to take home to meet their parents."

A mischievous smile flickered across Lisa's face. "David," she said, her eyes dancing as she spoke, "you've got to remember something about me, too. I'm not most girls. I'm me, and I think you're a real special guy."

"Well, thank you, Lisa. I think you're a really special girl, and yes, when this is all over, we'll do somthing special together." He didn't feel any need to tell her that the key to their getting together after this was all over was whether or not they both were still alive.

"I'll hold you to that invitation, David," Lisa almost purred. "After all of this is over, we'll do something nice together. Promise?"

"It's a promise."

Lisa came over and put her arms around Hart's neck. "Thanks for letting me cry on your shoulder last night," she said, then added, "I'm really looking forward to our having a whole lot of good times together once this adventure is over."

He could have sent Lisa out to get the trail-bikes and her dark clothing by herself. Somehow, though, he didn't want to let her out of his sight just then, especially now that she knew they'd be leaving for the old prison that very afternoon. Unfortunately, he still didn't quite trust her. Not just yet, he didn't.

Before they left, Hart checked the radio. Colonel Olmos had personally acknowledged receiving the message, given him the code for "go ahead," and arranged to pick them up that night. Now it was up to Hart.
Chapter 15

Hart packed his clothes and gear in preparation for leaving. The things he thought he'd need with him at the old prison went into a small duffle bag that he could carry with him. In less than an hour, they had the trail-bikes in Lisa's van. She'd changed into her dark clothing and had her gun n her pocket.

"Okay, Lisa," Hart told her, "this is what we're going to do."

Lisa listened intently to everything he said. "I'm ready, David," she assured him when he'd finished.

Hart debated for a long time about which route to take back to the prison and finally decided that they'd go back over the same trail they'd taken the previous day. After all, if anybody was interested in their being at the old prison, they'd likely be watching it, and whatever way they approached from wouldn't make much difference. And there was a very real advantage to their already knowing the trail.

Lisa drove them in the van to where she had parked it the day before. There they unloaded the trail-bikes and checked them over, then loaded the gear they thought they'd need in the saddle bags and onto the small luggage carriers. The rest of their gear was left in the van. Hart wasn't sure when or if they'd ever return to claim the van and the rest of their belongings. Maybe never.

It was late in the afternoon when they started down the trail that would take them to the old prison. Once again, Hart visually searched the area as they rode for any signs of human activity. There were none that he could see except for the tire tracks the trail-bikes had made the day before.

Things were going much too smoothly. Hart knew that. And it wasn't to last. As they neared the fork in the trail, Lisa suddenly slammed on her brakes, skidded the trail-bike to a stop, and jumped off. Pulling along side of her, Hart stopped, his right hand instinctively wrapped around the Colt's grip in his jacket pocket. "What's up?" he asked.

Lisa hesitantly pointed at what she'd seen. Lying against the base of a scrubby tree were two decapitated, blood-drenched dolls. "Macumba," she gasped.

"Macumba?" Hart echoed her words. "Devil worship."

"Close enough," Lisa breathed. "It's an Afro-Brazilian cult, and a whole lot of people in Brazil practice it. Some of its practitioners believe they can call up the very devil himself with things like this." Lisa waved her hand in the direction of the ruined dolls.

"Do you believe in that devil stuff?"

"No, but . . . Oh, my gosh! Look, David. See that . . . that piece of blue cloth pinned around the one doll? The . . . The girl doll?"

"Yes, I see it. What about it?"

"That's a piece of cloth torn from my blazer, the one I told you was stolen from my office."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. And I am not going anywhere near those dolls." Lisa looked at Hart, her eyes wide. "Don't you go near them, either," she hissed.

"You think they were placed there as a warning to us?"

"I sure do. Those headless dolls are telling us that somebody wants us dead! Someone even took the trouble to get a piece of my blazer to help with his death curse. Those dolls are warning us that if we continue down this trail, we . . . we're . . . we're dead!"

"Lisa, I told you this might get scary. Are you still coming with me? You can still turn back, you know."

Lisa grabbed his hand. Even though it was a warm evening her hand was icy cold. "I . . . I sure am still coming with you. I . . . I don't want you going on alone! You . . . You still want me to go with you, don't you?" Her voice was hesitant.

"Yes, I do. I want you to go with me."

"Okay, then. Let's go. Let's do it now!"

Hart had studied about Macumba, the common term used in Brazil for worship of African deities through magic and spirit possession. Strictly speaking, the word Macumba refers to the major forms of African worship in Brazil, those being Cadomble and Umbanda--or sometimes Quimbanda.

It all began when the Portuguese brought African slaves to Brazil in the 1500s, and the slaves brought their own religious practices with them. Over the years, the African religions mixed with the religious practices of the native Brazilian Indians and, in some ways, some people claim, with Catholicism, too.

Today, Macumba is almost omnipresent in Brazil, and it is rumored that many of the drug traffickers and other criminals practice Macumba as a way of gaining power and money through a pact with what they see as the "old gods," including the evil one himself, as the taxi driver had put it. Sell your soul to the devil, and he'll not only take good care of you but help you to prosper seems to be their motto.

Of course, pacts with the devil aren't exactly a new idea. Even the Nazis appear to have formed alliances with the occult to insure conquests, victory, and world domination in World War II. So who were these people--these devil worshipers--we were dealing with?

Enough of that thinking. Lisa and Hart had a job to do. He followed Lisa as she started her trail-bike and led them up that trail, wondering what they'd find next. Whoever had placed those headless dolls against that tree where they'd be sure to see them wasn't through with them yet. Of that, Hart was certain. And it did concern him that whomever went to the trouble of cutting the heads off those dolls managed to get a piece of Lisa's blazer to pin around one of them. He hoped that her discovery of the bloody dolls hadn't scared her too badly. They'd both need all of their wits about them if they were to survive this adventure.

They followed the trail until they came to the spot where they'd rested the day before. Lisa looked back at him then, and he motioned for her to stop. They'd take a much needed break from riding the trail-bikes because the trail would be getting much more difficult from there on.

They rested for a few minutes and talked over some ideas about what they'd do next. When they started back up, they once again were able to let the trail-bikes idle along, carrying them effortlessly around the rocks and debris that littered the trail and over washouts without making much noise.

Hart kept a close and continuous lookout for signs of other human presence but didn't see any at all. Of course, that didn't mean they weren't being observed. After all, a person with binoculars might be keeping an eye on the trail or on the old prison from a mile away, and they'd never see him. If the old prison were strategic enough to those who were keeping an eye on things, they might even have motion detectors set along the trail to sense the presence of people or vehicles.

Once they arrived at the site of the old prison, Hart and Lisa again looked for signs of hman activity, and seeing none, rode the trail-bikes straight to the door of the smaller building exactly as they planned to do.

Just as it had appeared in the one picture he'd taken, the door to the small building was slightly ajar. After checking the door as best he could to determine that it wasn't booby-trapped, Hart pushed it open far enough for them to push the trail-bikes inside.

They pushed the trail-bikes into a windowless corner of the building, then closed the door like they'd found it on their way out. The trail-bikes wouldn't be visible outside to give away their presence.

Hart now was almost certain that the smaller building had at one time contained a heating plant to supply the prison with heat. If that were the case, any equipment had long since been removed. There were, however, stone steps leading to a lower level. That's where they might locate a heating-pipe tunnel, a potential escape route, leading to and from the main building.

Hart had four little electronic motion detection devices with him. They looked something like small ball point pens with a pointed, spike-like tip and a small wire antenna on the top. In use, they are pushed into the ground until all that is visible is the antenna. And the antenna isn't very visible at all, especially in dim light or darkness. After being planted in the ground and activated, they would detect the footsteps of anyone within twenty-five or thirty feet of them and transmit a signal to the receiver on Hart's belt. Best of all, they would pick up the sound of heavy footsteps or an engine or something louder from a much greater distance.

With those motion detectors in place, Hart would know if anyone was moving around outside the old prison. By checking his monitor to see which device was broadcasting, he'd know approximately where those people were. He could even tell by the general activity of the motion detectors approximately how many people were approaching and the direction in which they were moving.

Hart retrieved the first motion detector from his duffle bag and placed it near the entrance to the second building, the building where they'd stowed the trail-bikes and from which they might exit, assuming they could find the tunnel that he was sure connected the two structures. He placed the second and third motion detectors so that he had three of the four likely approaches to the building covered. He'd place the fourth outside the door at the northwest corner where they intended to enter.

Lisa watched him place the motion detectors, then turned to him and asked, her voice a whisper, "You're expecting someone to come looking for us, aren't you, David?"

"Yes."

The sun was sinking lower in the west and beginning to cast long shadows around the buildings. Keeping to those shadows as much as possible, Lisa and Hart made their way to the huge steel door on the northwest corner of the main prison structure, the door through which Miller and Tracy had transported those four crates.

Before Hart went to work on the lock, he placed the last of the motion detectors a short ways outside that door. At least they'd have warning when people came looking for them. Not if, but when.

Hart had his lock-opening tools in hand as he knelt in front of the door. As they'd agreed earlier, Lisa stayed close to him while he worked on the lock. Her left hand was on his shoulder, and she had her right hand firmly holding her Beretta in front of her, out of any onlooker's line of sight. Maybe they'd think we weren't armed at all if they didn't actually see any guns. At least, they wouldn't know exactly how we were armed. And all the time Hart worked on the lock, Lisa kept her eyes searching the wilderness area behind and around them.

It took Hart all of thirty seconds to unlock that door. Interestingly, the mechanism moved relatively smoothly once he was able to manipulate it, suggesting that it had been operated recently and maybe even had been oiled. At any rate, it wasn't rusty like the locks and chains on the two other doors.

Thinking back to the night when Miller and Tracy had opened that door, Hart had to wonder about whether they'd found it locked or unlocked. Neither one of those men would have had any trouble opening that lock if they'd had the tools he carried, nor would anyone with a little skill at opening locks. Regardless, it now appeared to Hart that the door had been opened quite recently, probably since Miller and Tracy had opened it.

"Okay, Lisa," Hart whispered once he'd unlocked the door. "I'm going to check for tripwires around the door and frame." Lisa squeezed his shoulder, the pre-arranged signal that she heard him and understood what he was doing.

Hart eased the door open just a fraction of an inch. It didn't offer any undue resistance, nor did the hinges squeak like rusty hunges usually do. This door indeed had been opened relatively recently. Most likely, to judge by the way the door moved, the hinges had been oiled recently, too.

With the door open a little farther, Hart ran his fingers around the edge of the door and the door frame, feeling again for a trip-wire. There didn't seem to be any. Satisfied that it was safe to do so, he eased the door open just far enough for them to go inside, then quietly closed and relocked it behind them.

Hart debated for a few seconds about securing the door from the inside and was immediately reminded of that law of covert ops that states: "If you make it tough for the enemy to get in, then you can't get out." Even though he knew that was true, Hart took a few seconds to jam the door's locking mechanism. Anyone who tired to open that lock from the outside now would pay the devil to get it open. And the flip side was that they wouldn't get out so fast through that door either. Knowing how he'd jammed it, though, Hart could get it open from either side without too much trouble. He hoped he wouldn't need to open it fast.

Looking around, Hart saw that they were on a landing. Straight ahead of them was an open stairway leading upward toward the prison's second floor. To their right was a stone wall, although something told him that there was some space behind it, that it wasn't the end of the building as it appeared to be. To their left was a narrow passage way leading to and between the double row of prison cells on the first floor. To his surprise, a stairway leading downstairs wasn't immediately visible. It had to be close by. They'd find it.

Although they stood perfectly still just inside the door and listened for several anxious minutes, there was no sound other than their own breathing. If there were others inside the building, they were keeping extremely quiet.

"Let's look around, Lisa," Hart whispered. She squeezed his shoulder.

Lisa still had her Beretta in her right hand. Hart slipped the Colt from his pocket and checked to be sure the safety was off. Even though he hoped he wouldn't need it, the Colt was ready for action. It would stay in his hand as long as they were exploring that old prison.

They moved slowly and cautiously to the left, through the narrow passageway that led toward the rows of prison cells on the first floor. There it was! To their right, almost concealed by its very location, was a narrow stairway leading down toward the basement. Hart's guess was that Miller and Tracy had taken those crates down that stairway. Any light they used going down those stairs wouldn't have been visible outside the building. Except through that one narrow window.

Lisa followed close behind as Hart moved on through the narrow passage and between the rows of prison cells that lined both sides of the hall. They were tiny cells, measuring perhaps four feet by six feet in size, with a few larger ones on the right. The heavy steel bars that once defined the cell walls and doors now were rusty, but obviously still as sturdy as they ever were. It would have been a tough prison from which to escape. In fact, escape would have been virtually impossilble without aid from someone on the outside.

Chains were secured in the floors of some of the cells, and the chains were fastened to leg irons. Other chains were secured in the walls of the cells, some fastened to neck irons. These restraints served to remind Hart of the brutal treatment of prisoners, especially those convicted of witchcraft, in the old days--and yet today in some places.

They'd walked only three or four steps down the passage between the rows of cells when Hart saw several spots of something black and shiny on the floor. He dropped to one knee to examine them. By scraping at those spots with his thumbnail, he found they easily lifted off the stone floor. Hart showed what he'd found to Lisa.

"Candle wax." She confirmed his observation.

"See any candles?"

She looked around. "Yes," she whispered.

"Where?"

"There's one over there." Lisa pointed to the stone bench inside the third cell to their left. There on the bench was what was left of a burned-down black candle.

"I see it."

"Black, the devil's candle," Lisa whispered. "I've read where black candles figure in black-magic curses. Somebody around here is into black magic. That's what all the evil rites I've read about require. They stick pins and needles into a doll to harm people and cast evil spells by the light of black candles."

"I've heard all of that, too," Hart whispered, "and that candle also explains the lights people say they've seen flickering through the windows of the old prison. No ghosts or haunts of an otherworldly nature here, just flesh-and-blood people doing their bit to gain power and get rid of their enemies."

"Maybe there are real devils around here, too," Lisa added. Her voice was a little shaky. Moments later, as they moved closer to that burned-down black candle, she clutched Hart's arm, gasping "Look . . . Look at that wall over there, David!" and pointing a shaky finger toward the stone wall behind the candle.

There, chiseled into the stone wall were two occult symbols. At the top was the inverted pentagram with two points facing upward and one straight down, the commonly used symbol of Satan's head. Below that baphomet, as the inverted pentagram is sometimes called, was the less commonly used inverted double-headed axe that symbolized Roman justice.

"Look! Look over here," Lisa whispered. She was pointing toward other symbols carved into the wall--a swastika over a dagger dripping red blood. "That's . . . That's ghastly, David," she hissed.

As he studied the swastika and dagger, classic Nazi symbols, Hart was reminded that many Nazis had fled to Brazil as well as other South American nations during the final months of World War II. They, and the wealth they'd brought with them, had been well received by the governments of Brazil, Argentian, Bolivia, and other nations friendly to the Nazis. The CIA even now was well aaware of serious attempts to keep the Nazi movement alive in those countries. And the Nazis had formed their alliances with the occult early on in Hitler's reign. Many other radical groups used the swastkia symbol as well as the Nazis, and seeing the swastika there on that wall and associated with the other symbols of the occult gave Hart pause to wonder once again just what kind of group they might be dealing with.

"Maybe somebody uses this cell as a kind of shrine. Anyway, this place gives me the creeps," Lisa whispered after she'd studied the symbols. "Let's keep moving."

Hart hoped that Lisa wasn't afraid of all this witchcraft and occult stuff they'd encountered, or the Nazi symbols either for that matter. As for Hart, if he couldn't see it or feel it or smell it or whatever, he didn't much pay it any heed. There are too many human enemies, including fanatical Nazis, to contend with for me to spend much time worrying about the supernatural ones.

Lisa and Hart continued down the passageway between the cells on the first floor. At the end of the building, they came to what probably once was the prisonkeeper's quarters or offices. A quick check of the rooms assured them that they now were empty. Any furnishings had disappeared years ago.

Something else interested Hart about the interior of that old prison as Lisa and he encountered it, and that was the fact that there was very little dust to show footprints or where things had been moved. Looking back down the hallway where they'd come, they hadn't left visible footprints. Maybe the winds sweeping through the broken windows swept the dust along. At least, they didn't have to worry about leaving footrpints that anyone could easily track, not on this level anyway.

After they explored the rooms once inhabited by the prisonkeepers, they found there was a similar passageway between cells down the other side of the building. They circled back that way and explored the cells and rooms in that area.

Once they'd seen enough to know that there weren't any people on the first floor of the old prison, Lisa and Hart made their way back to the stairs leading to the second floor and cautiously climbed those stairs, pausing each step of the way to listen for anything to indicate that there might be someone upstairs. They heard absolutely nothing.

Another double-row of empty prison cells confronted them on the second floor of the old prison, the heavy, barred cell doors open and inviting as if they were waiting for prisoners to be delivered that very day.

No one was on the second floor of the main part of the old prison either. The remains of black candles occupied stone benches in two of the cells on that floor, however, and these candle remains, like the one on the first floor, appeared to be rather old. Commonly used occult and Nazi symbols also were carved into the stone behind those candles, just as they had been on the first floor. If Hart had to guess, he'd guess that someone had burned those candles within the past few years but not within the past few days. Maybe Lisa was right, and the old prison was being used or had been used as a site for devil worship or something like that.

Having assured themselves that no one was on the second floor, Lisa and Hart made their way back to the first floor and then to the narrow stairs that led to the basement. As they stood at the top of those stairs listening for sounds, a slight breeze drifted upward from the basement--and that breeze brought with it a putrid smell and a chilling apprehension that raised the hairs on Hart's neck.

"What is that terrible smell, David?" Lisa gasped, her voice a choking whisper.

"Death."

"Oh, my!" Lisa gasped, and brought her hand to her forehead.

"Shhh. Stay behind me," Hart cautioned. He didn't know exactly what they'd find in the basement, but he'd encountered that unmistakable smell of death many times. There had to be a decaying corpse, and maybe more than one, somewhere in the bowels of that old prison.

* * * * *

The demon who'd overseen the evil done over the centuries at that prison watched the two visitors explore the building. The general would not be pleased with their activities, with their intrusion upon his domain. Soon, however, they would die like countless people before them. Their blood would soak the earth. He and the general would see to that. "Ye-e-s-s-s-s! Life was good!"
Chapter 16

The stairs leading downward to the old prison's basement were narrow, so narrow that Hart wondered how Miller and Tracy were able to carry those wooden crates down them as fast as they must have, given the short time they had taken in the building. They had to have had a good idea of where they were taking those crates and how to angle them just right to carry them down those stairs. Someone must have provided them with detailed information about the building. Someone who'd been there.

Lisa and Hart descended the steps slowly, taking time to check each one carefully for a trip-wire and listening for any signs of human activity in the basement. Once they reached the bottom of the stairs, they found themselves facing yet another heavy steel door.

Before examining that door, Hart checked his motion-detector monitor to be sure he'd set it properly. None of the sensors had yet detected any motion. He had a feeling that it wouldn't be long before they would.

The steel door at the bottom of those stairs was hinged to swing away from them. Hart pushed it, and it gave just a little, enough for him to get his fingers around the edge of the door and the frame and check for trip-wires. Finding none, he held his breath and pushed the door open even farther, fully expecting something to blow up in his face or trigger a booby trap of some sort. When nothing untoward happened, he eased the door open wide enough for them to step through the opening.

Although it was getting dark outside, the remaining sun cast a little light into the basement through the high, broken windows. By the limited light, they could see that they were in an open area with three narrow passages leading off, two to their left and one straight ahead.

Lisa and Hart held their breath and stood listening for several moments, assuring themselves that there were no sounds to be heard on that level of the old prison. Then Hart eased the steel door shut behind them and found a short timber to block the door's swing. That timber wouldn't prevent the door from being forced open, but its movement would alert them to the fact that someone was pushing the door open from the other side.

Hart assumed that the narrow passages leading out ahead and to their left from the open area led to cell-blocks. To the right, he saw a door that appeared to be set right into the stone foundation wall itself.

They couldn't be sure just yet where the putrid odor of death they'd smelled as they came down the stairs originated. It might be coming from behind that door. There was only one way to find out.

Hart was certain that at one time the old prison had been heated by steam from a boiler in that smaller building. He wanted to see where those steam pipes came into the main building because he hoped they'd be able to follow the pipes through a tunnel and exit at that small building. As he looked around, however, he saw that many of the old pipes had been removed. There were pipe hangers in place, and holes were visible in walls and floors where pipes once passed, but most of the pipes themselves were missing. Perhaps they'd find the entrance to the steam-tunnel later. Or maybe not.

Lisa's hand was trembling slightly on Hart's shoulder as she hesitantly followed him toward that steel door. After he examined the lock, he turned to her. "Lisa," he whispered.

"Yes. What . . . What is it?"

"Listen. I don't want you to look when I open this door. Just keep to the side and turn your head until I tell you everything's okay. Watch our back, not through the door. You hear?"

"There's . . . There's a . . . a dead body in there, isn't there?" Lisa mumbled.

"Maybe. Maybe not. Now, Lisa, when I open that door, I want you to stay to the side and turn your head away. Don't look. That's an order, okay?"

"Okay." Lisa's voice was almost a whimper.

Hart knew Lisa wasn't going to turn her head away. She wanted to see what was behind that door just as much as he did. If it was a corpse, though, he knew that the sight of it was going to make her sick. He tried the door handle . . . .
Chapter 17

. . . . but the door wouldn't budge. It was locked tight.

Hart focused the tiny flashlight from his tool kit on the door's lock and studied it for a minute or so while he selected tools to open it. Then, just as he shoved the Colt he'd been carrying in his hand into the waistband of his trousers and was about to go to work on the lock, he noticed what appeared to be a sliver of wood wedged between the door and its frame. That door was booby-trapped.

Ever so slowly, Hart eased back and away from the door, guiding Lisa away from it with him.

"What's wrong?" she whispered.

"It's booby-trapped."

"Oh! No!" Lisa's free hand went again to her forehead.

"Lisa, I'm going to try to by-pass the booby-trap and open the door, but you stay to the side, and don't you look inside that room when I open the door." He knew that she was going to look anyway. Nothing he could say would keep her from looking. Not Lisa.

Keeping to the side of the door, Hart studied that little wooden wedge. Then he began to work that wedge out of the crack between the door and the frame. When he finally got it loose, he saw that, just as he'd expected, its purpose was to conceal a wire wrapped around a screw head in the side of the door. That wire was undoubtedly connected to a trigger mechanism of some sort, probably the trigger mechanism of an explosive device.

Anyone who pulled that door open would pull the wedge and the wire with it, triggering something. It was a simple and crude trip-wire arrangement, but it would have worked just as well as the most sophisticated detonation devices available anywhere if he hadn't seen that tiny wooden wedge.

Once the wedge was out and the wire exposed, Hart carefully worked the wire loop over the screw head and let it drop back inside the room behind the door. Then he went to work on the ancient lock. Moments later, there was a rusty "click" that told him the bolt was drawn back.

Hart stood to one side near Lisa as he eased the door open just a little, then felt around the edge of the door and the door frame to see if he could find any more trip-wires. When he didn't find any, he eased the door open far enough to beam his flashlight inside.

The trip-wire had dropped to the floor behind the door. Hart followed it with his flashlight beam toward the back of the room. Whatever it was attached to was hidden behind a pile of rubble, but it no doubt went to the trigger mechanism of an explosive device.

It appeared that the room had been a storeroom of one kind or another at some time not terribly long ago because its walls were lined with well-preserved sturdy wooden shelves. Except for some rubble, however, the room now appeared to be empty.

Even so, the room was of interest for another reason. It occupied space under what must have been a similar room or space on the first and second floors. They hadn't seen any doors on those floors leading to such rooms, but the space had to be there. It even appeared that there was enough space for a small room between the walls of this room and the outside foundation walls.

Once Lisa and Hart were inside the room they carefully inspected it for an exit door or concealed passage. Nothing like that was obvious. They'd check further after they'd made a more complete inspection of the old prison. Why, Hart reasoned, would someone booby-trap an unused and empty room?

Hart also examined the small explosive device, being very careful not to disturb it. From its construction, it appeared to be no more than a few years old, and it could have been placed there much more recently than that. It had been rigged so that a slight tug on that trip-wire would have detonated the explosive. Hart carefully coiled that trip-wire around the device to prevent either of them from accidentally kicking it in the darkness of the room.

Once they'd looked around, Hart guided Lisa past the rubble and the explosive device as they left the room, then pushed the door closed, careful not to lock it because they'd be returning to it after they surveyed the rest of the prison. It was then they turned their attention to the three narrow passageways leading, they presumed, to additional cell-blocks.

When Miller and Tracy were inside the old prison, Hart saw an arc of light from a flashlight through one of the basement windows. Still keeping his hand on her arm, he led Lisa toward the passageway that would take them close to that window. "Stay behind me, Lisa," he told her, "and keep your hand on my shoulder like we talked about, okay?" If they ran into another booby-trap, she would be safer behind him.

"Okay." Lisa's voice was stronger now that they'd actually been inside that room and hadn't found a corpse. They'd find one before long, though, because the smell was getting stronger.

The farther they moved down that passageway, the stronger the smell became. "Phew! It's . . . It's getting . . . getting stronger, David!" Lisa gasped and clutched his arm. "We . . . We must be getting closer to . . . to the body--to the corpse."

"Yes, I think we are. We'll come across it any minute now."

Hart's first impression was that athe old prison building had been constructed entirely of stone. As they made their way down that narrow passageway between barred cells, however, his flashlight beam revealed heavy wooden flooring boards underfoot.

Something about that wooden floor gave Hart pause. Something wasn't quite right. At first, he thought it was only that the stone floor had seemed so solid and the wood floor was simply less so, almost spongy underfoot--as if the wood was somewhat rotted and deteriorated. Then, as he took another step, he felt the floor quiver, shift and--CREAK! The floor dropped away under his foot.

As the floor suddenly dropped away, Hart felt himself falling--toward the blackness below. And the terrible smell of death now was very strong!

"Get back!" The words tumbled out as Hart stumbled backward, grasping for whatever support he could reach at the rough stone wall and trying to push Lisa back at the same time.

Somehow Hart managed to jump backward, shoving Lisa back as he tried to avoid dropping through the floor as it gave way. They both landed on their backs on the stone floor, fortunately unharmed except for a bruise or two. It was a hard landing for both of them--but they were still alive.

"Are you okay, David?" Lisa asked as she picked herself up. She was breathing hard.

"Yeah, I'm okay. Are you?"

"Yes, but I bet I'll have some serious black and blue bruises tomorrow. You probably will, too. What happened?"

"The floor gave way, but I'm not sure exactly how that happened. Let's look."

They crawled on hands and knees to where the floor had dropped out from under them. It wasn't rotten flooring boards that had given way, however. Instead, a trap-door in the floor of the passageway had dropped open when Hart stepped on it. That putrid smell they'd encountered as they came down those stairs and into the basement rose up strong to greet them from that trap-door opening. They'd find the corpse soon.

Lisa and Hart cautiously eased their way to the edge of the drap-door. "Don't look down there, Lisa," Hart whispered as he aimed the flashlight down the opening, knowing full well that she was right beside him and that she was going to look.

The opening itself was about three feet square, and the shaft appeared to drop straight down maybe twelve to fifteen feet--into a lower chamber, likely opening into the first of the sub-basements he'd read about. On one side of the passage was an ancient iron ladder set in mortar, designed so that a person could climb down the vertical passageway. Also, Hart could make out that there was an opening off the side of the passageway, an opening that no doubt led to the sub-basement.

They'd found the source of the putrid odor, all right. The arc of light from the flashlight revealed a corpse impaled on a closely-set series of sharply pointed stakes centered at the very bottom of the shaft. It was a booby trap supreme! Someone had fallen down that shaft, landed on those deadly stakes, and died right there where he'd fallen.

Whoever had been impaled on those stakes had been wearing military-style clothing that reminded Hart of the clothing worn by those intruders who ambushed Miller and Tracy. That didn't mean this person was one of their associates, of course, because quite a few of the paramilitary groups wear that style of clothing, and it's readily available to any civilian who wants to purchase it.

Hart would see if he could find any identification on the body when he went down to that sub-basement level, but he doubted that there would be anything on him or in his pockets to help identify him. In Hart's experience, most of the paramilitary types in South America didn't carry identification of any kind. Anyone out in that old prison, be it by choice or otherwise, probably would have no identification either.

Lisa looked down the shaft, of course, just as Hart knew she would. When she saw that corpse grotesquely impaled on those death-spikes, she yelped, clutched Hart's arm, and almost fainted. Death is horrible to see, and Hart had tried to keep her from seeing that corpse because he didn't want her hurt or sick. She just had to look--and maybe it was good for her to learn just what they might be facing.

Hart grabbed Lisa so she wouldn't accidentally fall into the shaft if she actually fainted, then put his arm around her shoulder and gently pulled her away from that death-shaft. "Hold me," she whimpered.

"Okay." He sat back against the wall and held her as she shuddered in horror at what she'd seen.

"It's okay, Lisa," he murmured. He was sure those words weren't of much comfort to her, but that was all he knew to say, and moments later she gained control of herself.

Lisa turned her face up to look at Hart, her eyes wide, her face white from the shock of seeing the impaled corpse. "That's . . . That's horrible! I . . . I know . . . I shouldn't . . . have looked. I'm sorry, David!" she gasped.

"It's okay. It's okay." Hart whispered those words over and over as he held her, squeezing her shoulder and trying to reassure her that it really was okay.

"Are we . . . going . . . down there?" Lisa blurted out the question, pointing toward the shaft.

"You're not if you don't want to, but I am."

"Oh, David. David! Please don't leave me here by myself. I . . . I'll . . . I'll go with you . . . if . . . if I can."

"Not a good idea, Lisa. Better that you stay here and on the alert for anyone moving up behind us."

When he saw the look of complete terror that flitted over her face, Hart changed his mind. "We'll go down the shaft together. You can do it, Lisa. I'll help you." He tried to be reassuring as he got to his feet and reached for her hand.

"Now? Are we going down there now?" Lisa whimpered as Hart pulled her to her feet.

"No, not just yet. We're going to inspect that trap-door and then continue past it on down the cell block. Maybe that's where the guy who fell in there was going. Maybe we'll find what he didn't live long enough to find."

An examination of the trap-door revealed a pulley and weight mechanism attached to it so that it would yield and drop under the pressure of a person's feet, but then would swing back up into a position level with the floor after it had been pushed open and released--that is, after the person had fallen past the trap-door. Already that deadly door was slowly swinging back up to floor level, its rusty mechanism rasping and slowing it as it moved. Hart wondered just how long that trap-door had been there, and just how many victims it had claimed over the years.

* * * * *

The demon scowled. He'd never known over two or three people besides the prison staff who had managed to escape that trap. In the 800 years that trap had been in existence it had claimed at least 60 lives, the last one only a few nights ago. How he'd loved the screams of those impailed on the spikes! Ye-e-s-s-s!

* * * * *

Hart made Lisa wait while he worked his way past the trap-door, supporting himself by the cell bars on either side of it as he did so. Once past the trap, he checked for additional booby traps on the other side.

The floor beyond the trap-door appeared to be solid wood flooring. Hart steadied Lisa as she climbed around the booby-trap, one hesitant step at a time, to join him on the other side.

They continued to explore the narrow passageway and the cells that lined either side, working their way toward the end of the cellblock, ever alert for yet another booby trap. The cells didn't look much different than those they'd passed earlier. What was it, Hart asked himself, that the deathtrap guarded? Or did it actually guard anything? Or maybe it had at one time but not now?

Where in those cells could Miller and Tracy, or anyone for that matter, hide something anyway? The walls appeared to be solid stone while the ceiling and floor in this part of the prison were both constructed of heavy wood planking.

There was a block of stone in each cell that must have served as a bench, and the doors to the cells were made of heavy iron bars. There certainly wasn't much space for Miller and Tracy to have stashed those crates in this area, but this was Hart's best guess so far as to where they'd find those crates.

Ever so carefully, Hart ran his fingers over each stone and iron bar in that cellblock, pushing this way and that way as he did so, trying to find something that was loose, something that would move and reveal a hiding place. Finally, he found a stone bench that seemed to move slightly under his hand.

He rocked that stone bench back and forth, hoping to blazes that it wasn't some kind of diabolic booby trap just waiting for him, and finally pushed the bench a few inches away from the wall to see what might be hidden under it. He wasn't at all surprised to find a substantial cavity in the floor under that bench, a place ideal for hiding something. From what he could see, however, the cavity appeared to be empty.

Or was it empty? Lisa helped him push the stone bench father away from the wall. They tried to do so as quietly as possible and, once they'd uncovered more of the hiding place, Hart aimed his flashlight into the cavity in the floor. The entire cavity, certainly large enough for a human to be concealed in was now, indeed, empty. Then, next to the far wall, Hart saw relatively fresh saw cuts across the floor. Someone had cut away another section of flooring.

This might be it! Hart tugged on the first board and found that it lifted easily--and there they were! Those four crates that Miller and Tracy had taken into the old prison were stacked in a cache under the flooring that had been cut away and then replaced to conceal the hiding place.

"Is that . . . Is that what you're looking for?" Lisa asked, her voice barely audible.

"Yes."

"Then we won't . . . we won't have to go down into that awful pit, will . . . will we? Will we?"

"Oh, yes. We'll go down there, too," Hart assured her, "just as soon as we finish looking at these crates."

Lisa blanched as before at his words, but she didn't say anything more. She'd go with him. She could do it.

The crates were there, but did they contain anything? Hart tried lifting the top crate by the handle on one end and found it relatively heavy, about the weight he'd judged it to have been when he saw Miller and Tracy carrying it. Then, while Lisa watched with rather wide-eyed excitement, he took a small pry-bar from his tool kit and pried up one corner of the top crate just enough for them to look inside.

Light from Hart's flashlight revealed exactly what he thought was inside that crate--United States currency. Counterfeit or real, he had no way of knowing, not then, anyway; but it was United States currency--the "green ink" they'd been searching for. And the currency appeared to be packaged with paper wrappers, just as if it came from the mint.

"See if you can reach inside and bring out a bundle," Hart whispered to Lisa.

While he held the lid of the crate up just the inch or so, Lisa squeezed her hand through the small opening and withdrew a bundle of the currency. Then Hart pushed the lid back into place as best he could.

Lisa held out the currency for him to take, but he shook his head. "Put it in your pocket. Consider it a souvenir."

"Okay, partner." Lisa grinned as she shoved the currency into her pocket. She was more animated now. More vital. Her color was better, too. That was good.

They'd found the currency. Hart wondered just how long it would be before somebody found them.

* * * * *

The demon smiled. He had no use for the currency as these people did. They killed for it, of course--and that was his fascination with the money. As long as there was treasure, be it paper or gold or silver, there would be those willing to kill for it. "Ye-e-s-s-s!"
Chapter 18

Before exploring any more of the old prison, Hart would send a message detailing their progress to Colonel Olmos. But first they would push the stone bench back over the opening in the floor to conceal the now empty but potentially useful hiding place. That done, they retraced their steps past the trap-door booby trap, back to the door and the stairs leading up to the first floor.

Once they were on the first floor of the old prison, Hart programmed a coded message into his radio to let Colonel Olmos know that they were in the old prison building. He also wanted him to know that they had found the crates Miller and Tracy left there, that they were just starting to explore the prison, and that, if his estimate was correct, they'd be ready to leave in three hours.

That done, Hart extended the radio's antenna to its full eight-foot length, placed the radio in one of the prison windows, and tapped the "send" key. Almost instantaneously, a tiny red light came on to indicate that the message had been received.

With the assurance that his message had been received by Colonel Olmos's staff and the radio back in his duffle bag, Lisa and Hart retraced their steps down to the basement of the old prison.

b-b-z-z-z-z! b-b-z-z-z-z! Just as they closed the steel door at the bottom of the stairs, Hart's motion detector monitor vibrated, alerting him that someone was approaching the prison. To judge by the monitor's alert, that someone probably was on foot.

The monitor's read-out indicated that not one but two persons were approaching the door at the northwest corner of the old prison where Lisa and Hart had entered the building. He quickly guided Lisa into the deepest shadows under the basement window closest to that door, and they both held their breath. Waiting. Listening.

Not only was Hart alert to the men just outside the old prison, but he also was alert to the possibility that Lisa might try to communicate with them, especially now that she knew where the crates of currency were hidden. How he wished he could trust her completely.

Hart didn't need the motion detector now to know that someone was nearby because he could hear muffled voices and actual footsteps as they approached the building. Whoever was out there wasn't making much effort to keep quiet. Maybe they didn't know anyone was inside, or maybe they didn't care if anyone knew they were there.

One of the men tried the door through which they'd entered, rattling it hard against the lock. Then they just stood there outside the door, talking in such low tones that Hart couldn't make out what they were saying.

Hart smelled cigarette smoke. One or both of the men had lit up a cigarette, and they apparently were taking a break before moving on. They continued to talk in low, seemingly friendly tones, and Hart didn't hear anything said that led him to believe they knew anyone was in the old building.

One of the men got on his radio, probably reporting to his commanding officer to judge by his tone of voice. After talking on the radio for a few moments, the man who seemed to be in charge directed his companion to check the other doors on the old prison. Hart wondered then if they had been told that he and Lisa were there.

Both of the men seemed to be taking their assignment seriously. They started checking the other doors to the old prison right away, and Hart could hear them rattle the chains and locks securing the different doors as they did so.

Hart watched his motion detector monitor, watched it indicate that the men indeed did completely circle the old prison, pausing to check each door as they came to it. He couldn't tell if they actually checked the door on the smaller building where they'd hidden the trail-bikes or if they only checked the doors on the main prison building. Only after the men circled the old prison did the footsteps begin moving away from the prison and on to the north. Although the men had spoken English, Hart hadn't understood much of what they'd said. Once they were sure the two men had moved away from the area, he asked Lisa if she had understood anything they said. She thought they had discussed the door having been locked and they seemed satisfied when they found that it was. They'd apparently been ordered to check things more carefully. That was all she could--or would--tell him.

Could it really have been that simple? Maybe those men were on a routine patrol, checking to see that everything was okay in the domain of the general's drug lab. In the same way, maybe the men who'd ambushed Miller and Tracy were out on a routine patrol when they came upon them.

Maybe? In the world of covert ops, maybe isn't good enough. Hart's guess was that those guys were keeping a close eye on the general's domain. And that included the old prison--and him and Lisa.

Once they were reasonably sure that the men were not returning right away, Hart motioned for Lisa to follow him. He then led her back to where they'd encountered the trap-door above the impaled corpse.

"Lisa," he told her, keeping his voice low, "I'm going to climb down those steps once I'm sure they'll hold me. When I get to the bottom of the ladder and am standing on the floor, I'll guide you down the steps. Just put your foot down over the edge and I'll guide it to the first step. First one and then the other. I won't let you fall. Okay?"

"I . . . I guess so," she whispered

"Good." Hart took a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Lisa. "Hold this around your nose and mouth as best you can. You can breathe through it and maybe it'll cut the odor. At least a little." She'd discover soon enough that the horrible odor of death clings to a living person for a long, long time. She'd also discover that the handkerchief over her nose wouldn't actually do much to cut the odor, but it might help her to deal with it psychologically. At least, Hart hoped it would.

"Thanks." Lisa folded the handkerchief and held it around her nose and mouth.

"Okay. Here goes." Hart cautiously put his weight on the ladder. It seemed to be solidly set in the mortar. Maybe this was some of the mortar that had been mixed with human blood.

One step after another. Down. Down. Down. Hart tested the steps individually as he put his weight on them and found they were indeed solid. The stench from that corpse was horrendous, of course, and there seemed to be a slight draft that carried the smell right up that passageway and past them.

Whoever had designed the diabolical impaling spikes in the floor had left enough unspiked space for two people to put their feet when they reached the bottom of the passageway. Hart soon was standing in those foot-sized spaces on the bottom. Before he asked Lisa to join him, however, he wanted to see what was beyond the passageway and in the adjoining sub-basement. Yikes! Hart could scarcely believe what he saw.
Chapter 19

Who-o-e-e-e! By the light of his flashlight, Hart saw what apparently was an elaborate Nazi shrine. There was a large, gold trimmed Nazi banner hanging on the wall and what appeared to be an altar of some sort set in front of the banner. Carved stone seats were positioned throughout the room. Hart couldn't see what else was in the room, but that sub-basement definitely was worth exploring further.

"Okay, Lisa," Hart whispered up to her, "Put your left foot over the edge."

Lisa hesitantly slipped her left foot over the edge of the passageway and down the side. Hart steadied her foot and guided it to the top step in the ladder. She tested it with her weight and seemed to relax somewhat when she found that the step would hold her weight without bending.

"Good girl. Now the right one."

Lisa slipped her right foot over the edge, and Hart guided it to the next step down."

They took that ladder one step at a time. A short time later, when Lisa reached the bottom, Hart had her duck her head, and then guided her past the corpse and directly into the chamber where the Nazi shrine was located.

"I'm going to examine the body. Don't watch me, Lisa, please," Hart cautioned.

"I . . . I've got to watch. I . . . I've got to know, David," she countered.

"Know what?" Hart asked.

"If it's my . . . my . . . my brother." Lisa was whimpering now.

"Lisa, the face of a corpse is a horrible thing to see. If you've got to look, you wait until I've finished looking things over, and then you take just a quick tiny peek at just the face. Okay?"

"O . . . Okay." Lisa continued to whimper, and she put her hand on his shoulder. It was shaking badly.

From the amount of dried blood around the corpse, Hart guessed that whoever this had been had died right there and hadn't been dead when he'd dropped onto the spikes. He'd not been there long, either, maybe as long as several days but no more. How long it took him to decompose to his present state would depend on how the temperatures had been, and Hart had no way of estimating the range of temperatures in that sub-basement compartment.

Unfortunately, just as Hart suspected, there was no personal identification in the man's pockets or anywhere else on his person. Neither was there a weapon of any kind near him, and that seemed odd to Hart, suggesting that he hadn't been here on his own. Possibly he'd come here with others, and they'd just left him there after he fell. They'd have taken his weapon with them, no doubt. Or, maybe it wasn't an accident that he was impaled there. Drug lords sometimes left the corpses of their enemies--especially traitors--where they died as an example for others.

Fingerprints? Hart searched for something in his pocket that he might be able to press against the dead man' fingers to capture his fingerprints. Then he looked at the man's fingers and saw that they'd been altered. No way was that corpse going to identify itself by its fingerprints.

Sque-e-e-ak! Hart heard a squeaking movement above their heads. Looking quickly upward toward the trap-door, he saw that it had just finished closing. He could open it from below without too much trouble if they wanted to leave through it, although he hoped there would be another entrance into that sub-basement Nazi shirne. They'd sure leave through another entrance if they could find it.

"Can . . . Can I look now, David?" Lisa's voice broke into Hart's thoughts.

"I guess so. If you want to. Do you really have to?" He didn't like to think of Lisa's probable reaction when she saw that gruesomely semi-decomposed face--especially if she should recognize it as that of her missing brother.

"No, I don't want to, but I . . . I have to," Lisa murmured.

"Okay, then. Fast!"

Lisa dropped to her hands and knees so that she could look up and into the face of the corpse. "It's . . . It's not . . . It's not him. It's not my brother, but it's . . . it's just horrible!" she gasped as she recoiled from the corpse.

"Come on. Let's see what's in here," Hart said, taking Lisa by the hand and trying to get her mind off that blasted corpse.

The huge Nazi banner he'd seen earlier hung on one wall of the sub-basement room and another smaller but similar banner hung on the opposite wall. Carved into the stone wall directly under the small banner was a large inverted pentagram, its two points facing upwards. Carved into the stone wall beside the devil's symbol was the Nazi swastika over a dagger dripping blood. These carvings were similar to the ones they'd seen upstairs in the old prison, only these were on a larger, grander scale. Moreover, the swastika had been painted black at some point and the blood dripping from the dagger had been painted red.

A stone bench sat like a grotesque altar under the carvings. On the bench stood the now-familiar black candle, although the one here had not been burned as much as the ones upstairs.

As Hart moved up to examine the altar-like bench, he felt something crunch under his foot. By the light of his flashlight, he saw that he'd stepped on a platter of some sort that had been filled with rice.

"Oh, no! No! No!" Lisa screamed when she saw what had happened. "That was . . . That was a Macumba offering!"

"Sorry." He'd let the Macumba believers worry about that spilled rice.

"David, you don't understand! In the Macumba religion, breaking that platter and spilling the offering is a very serious offense. You're supposed to light an all-night candle of a particular kind to redeem yourself," she whispered.

Hart ignored her, once again hoping she wasn't going to be unduly frightened by this devil-worshiping stuff.

Lisa had turned even paler--if that was possible. She clutched at his arm, digging her nails into his flesh. "David, I'm telling you that the Macumba rites are dangerous to get involved with--but . . . but you're not afraid? Are you? Are you?"

"No, I'm not afraid. And I don't want you to be afraid, either."

"David, I'm not just afraid, I'm scared to death!" Lisa continued to clutch his arm.

Hart put his arm around her. "It's going to be okay, Lisa." Once again, Hart knew his words weren't of much comfort to her but again it was all he could think of to say. And she did seem to relax a little as he held her.

As Lisa calmed, they turned their attention back to the room in which they found themselves, examining it by the light of Hart's flashlight. Actually, it was more like a cavern carved out of the bedrock on which the old prison sat. Maybe it had at one time been used as a dungeon.

Hart checked his compass to be sure he hadn't become disoriented and then explored the entire room. It was approximately ten feet wide and maybe fifty feet long. Stone supports were placed every fifteen feet, effectively dividing the long, narrow room into three parts. There were holes in the ceiling and floor where some sort of gates might once have been installed; but the gates, if that's what indeed had been there at one time, now were missing.

The Nazi-devil shrine was at one end of the sub-basement. At the other end, well hidden behind one of the stone supports, was a narrow stairway leading up. Hart's best calculations indicated that it led up into the room-like space beside the room where they'd found the explosive device--the room that had been booby-trapped.

As he surveyed the immediate area around them, considering just what he wanted to do next, Hart sensed the same slight air movement that he'd sensed when he climbed down that vertical passageway into the sub-basement. Then he saw the large Nazi banner flutter ever so slightly.

Lisa saw the banner flutter, too. "There must be a passageway of some sort behind that banner," she whispered.

"Right. Let's look."

Lisa and Hart lifted that Nazi banner to reveal the opening of a small tunnel carved through bedrock. Although it was a very narrow tunnel, measuring perhaps twenty to twenty-four inches in width, and perhaps six feet or slightly less in height, it appeared to be large enough for a small man to walk through standing upright.

Hart aimed his flashlight directly into the tunnel. It seemed to continue straight ahead for thirty or forty feet and then curve to the left. With the banner lifted away from the tunnel opening, they could feel a slight draft of air, suggesting that the tunnel actually opened into fresh air some distance south and away from the old prison. And the entrance to that tunnel was far enough away from the prison that they hadn't encountered any signs of it when they first explored the area.

"Where does that tunnel go, do you suppose?" Lisa whispered.

"I don't know," Hart replied. "Shall we find out?"

"Oh, David. It's . . . It's awfully narrow."

"Think you could walk through it?"

Lisa almost giggled. "Sure, but I don't think you'd fit into it very well, especially if it gets smaller as it goes along. It might, you know."

Hart had to chuckle. "Don't know if I'd fit or not, huh? Maybe we'll find out after a while. Let's check out that stairway at the other end of the room first."

Okay."

They left the Nazi banner pulled up and away from the tunnel opening, hoping that they'd get a little more air movement through the tunnel and clear some of the death-smell from the area.

The narrow stone stairway at the north end of the sub-basement led exactly where Hart thought it would--through an opening in the ceiling and into that seemingly inaccessible space next to the room where they'd found the explosive device. And in that room is where they found the first hoard of contraband weapons Colonel Olmos had talked about.

There were, to put it bluntly, enough weapons in that room to arm a small army, and arm them very well, certainly enough to arm a major drug lord bent on defining or enlarging his territory.

To their right were row upon row of wooden crates containing surface-to-air missiles of the kind that can be carried, aimed, and fired by one man. There were both Stinger and Redeye missiles, and a quick count suggested perhaps thirty of the Stinger missiles and twenty Redeyes, each of which is capable of shooting down any type of aircraft.

Whereas the surface-to-air missiles were of United States origin, to their left were row upon row of wooden crates containing Russian-made AK-47 assault rifles. Next to them were a number of boxes of ammunition that also appeared to be of Russian manufacture.

Additional crates that Hart guessed from their markings contained machine guns were stacked behind the assault rifles, as were boxes upon boxes of ammunition for those machine guns. A closer inspection revealed that they were M60 machine guns of United States manufacture.

While Hart inspected the cache of weapons, Lisa sat on the steps leading into the closed room, listening for any sounds that might alert them to anyone approaching through the tunnel they'd found. Before Hart had time to thoroughly inspect the cache of weapons, Lisa flicked her flashlight in his direction in a pre-arranged warning, whispered his name, and motioned for him to come quickly. She'd obviously heard something.

b-b-z-z-z-z! b-b-z-z-z-z! Hart's motion detector indicated that at least two men were outside.

Hart and Lisa moved quickly but quietly down the stairs and into the sub-basement and made their way to the south end where the Nazi shrine and the entrance to the tunnel were located. Lisa had been correct in her assessment of the sounds she'd heard. There now were the unmistakable sounds of human movement in that tunnel, amplified by the very nature of the tunnel's construction and the narrow room into which it entered.

Once they were at the entrance to the tunnel, Hart lowered the Nazi bannor over the tunnel entrance, leaving it just as they'd found it. He positioned Lisa behind one of the stone pillars where she'd be safe and out of any direct line of fire while he waited, Colt in hand, in the near-darkness beside the entrance to the tunnel.

Hart hoped he wouldn't have to use the gun. Not only would the noise that it made inside the sub-basement be horrendous, but a gunshot would alert anyone still outside to their presence, and they had no idea of how many men were out there.

The entrance to that tunnel must be quite a distance from the old prison building, Hart reasoned, because they could hear the activity in the tunnel before the motion detectors on that side of the building gave the alarm.

Hart's motion detector sensors at the other locations hadn't picked up any motion. That lack of activity around the building might well mean that the "enemy," whoever it was, knew they were inside the old prison. Hart strongly suspected that they did.

If the enemy had discovered even one motion detector, they'd stay away from the prison in order to lull Hart and Lisa into a false sense of security. A glance at his watch told him they still had almost an hour and a half before they could expect Colonel Olmos to pick them up.

Light from a flashlight inside the tunnel very briefly illuminated the back of the Nazi banner. A rifle barrel then pushed the banner aside. Moments later, a head appeared. As the man climbed through the tunnel entrance and stood up, letting the banner drop into its original position against the wall behind him, Hart drove the butt of the Colt against the base of his neck, trying his best not to kill the man as he did so.

The intruder sagged and fell against Hart without making so much as a moan. Hart got an arm around him and grabbed his rifle as he dropped it before it could hit the stone floor. Quickly laying the man's body to the side of the tunnel and standing the rifle against the wall behind him, Hart waited for the second intruder.

He didn't have long to wait. The second intruder came through that tunnel entrance just as the first one had, and Hart slugged him into unconsciousness just as he had the first one.

There were no other sounds in the tunnel. After listening to be sure, Hart looked through both intruders pockets but could find no identification of any kind. Not that he expected to find any identification, but he'd have been remiss not to check.

After they were sure that there were no other men coming through the tunnel, Lisa and Hart dragged the two men to the middle of the sub-basement and tied them to one of the stone pillars using a length of cord one of them was carrying in his pocket and the laces from their boots. Next Hart ripped one of the men's shirts into strips and gagged both men with the material. The blows he'd administered would keep them quiet for quite a while, but he wanted them quiet after that, too, and the gags would keep them that way until they got back to them.

The first of the two men who'd come in through the tunnel was carrying a radio on his belt. No doubt he was supposed to contact someone at regular intervals, and Hart had no idea how much time they had before someone would come looking for the two men. With that possibility in mind and the likelihood that whoever came in after them might use the same path, they'd just take care of that tunnel.

While Lisa waited, Beretta in hand along with the flashlight one of the men was carrying, Hart climbed the vertical passageway past the impaled corpse and through the trap-door. Once in the basement area, he located the explosive device that someone had used to booby-trap that room adjoining the one where they'd found the weapons and took it back to the sub-basement.

Positioning the explosive device at the tunnel entrance behind the large Nazi banner, Hart devised a trip-wire a few feet inside the tunnel. Anyone who came through that tunnel and hit that trip-wire would set off the explosive, assuming the detonator was still live, of course. That blast might well seal off the tunnel for a while as well as take care of any intruders for good. Hart could live with that.

Once he'd finished booby-trapping the entrance to the tunnel behind the Nazi banner, Lisa and Hart climbed back up the steps into the room containing the cache of weapons. They carried the two AK-47s they'd taken from the intruders with them. Once there, Lisa again sat on the steps, guarding the entrance, while Hart inspected the room for what he hoped would be a door or entrance of some kind to one of the adjoining rooms.

They didn't have much of a respite. Hart hadn't been in that room for over five minutes when the radio he'd taken from the intruders crackled and a man's raspy, authoritative voice asked why the patrol hadn't checked in at the appointed time.

In some of the spy-novels Hart had read, the superhero in their situation simply would have disguised his voice and responded to that question, throwing off any suspicions about what had happened; but as Colonel Olmos so pointedly had reminded Hart, he was not a superman. There was no way Hart could respond to that radio request. Whoever was in charge of the patrols around the old prison would be onto them now. They'd have to work fast.

It didn't take long for Hart to find what he was looking for. Hidden behind some of the crates was a stone that pushed out of the wall and allowed for a crawl space into the empty room where they'd found the explosive device. With that discovery, they now didn't have to go back into the sub-basement to reach the basement level and then the main floor.

There once had been a stairway in that room where the weapons were cached leading up to the room above it. That stairway, however, had been torn down, probably years ago. They could still see where the stone steps had been by the change of color on the wall, and most of the rubble that once was the stairs was piled in a corner of the room. Also, Hart could see what appeared to be a moveable cover over the entrance to that first-floor room, but he had no way of climbing up to it--other than maybe over the crates of weapons.

Well, what the heck. Why not? Those crates were solid wood. They'd support his weight. After moving three of the crates containing missiles, Hart managed to climb high enough to push that entrance cover aside and get his head through the opening into the room above.

Hart almost couldn't believe what he was seeing.
Chapter 20

Things were beginning to fit together. Colonel Olmos indicated that Hart might find weapons diverted from shipments to the Nicaraguan Contras stashed in the old prison. Olmos also thought that they'd encounter a general in the Brazilian military with strong ties to a major drug cartel. Furthermore, he'd hinted that the general would have Nazi leanings. Lisa and Hart had found evidence to support every one of Colonel Olmos's conclusions. Before that night was over, they'd find exactly what kind of an adversary they were dealing with. Hart was sure of that!

As he looked through the trapdoor into the room above the weapons cache, Hart sensed Lisa scrambling over the wooden crates to stand beside him. He grabbed her hand to help her climb to his side.

"Let me look," she whispered excitedly, holding on to Hart's arm for support.

"Okay."

Hart moved back as she raised her head through the trap-door and looked at the additional weapons stashed there.

"Good grief! There are enough weapons in here to start a small war!" she exclaimed, keeping her voice a hushed whisper.

"Yes, there are. The supply pipeline that was supposed to move these weapons directly to the Contras leaked something awful. Guys with money, like our Nazi general here, could buy all the weapons they wanted from the rebel leaders, and then pay for them with money they got from selling drugs in the United States. Or pay them with the near-perfect counterfeit United States currency we suspect the KGB of producing."

Lisa and Hart could make out the stacks of weapons--rifles, machine guns, ammunition, and missiles--in wooden crates even without flashlights because the room had small barred windows set high in the outside wall, and the night outside now was lighted with stars. Hart tried to get a count of the various types of weapons without actually climbing up and into the room, but as he was starting to do that, Lisa suddenly stiffened and then whispered, "What's that sound, David?"

WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP Hart heard it, too, growing louder and louder--the unmistakable sound of a helicopter approaching. Then they saw it silhouetted against the stars through the high windows as it passed close by the old prison. From the sound of the engine, the heliicopter was slowing and circling the old prison grounds. They heard it hovering to the south of the stone building, then circling again.

Lisa gripped his arm. "Who could that be, David?" she whispered.

"Only one way to know. Let's go find out."

Hart quickly replaced the trap-door in the ceiling of the hidden room. They climbed down over the crates of weapons, careful to keep any sounds to a minimum. Taking the two AK-47 rifles with them, they made their way out to the central basement area.

While they watched its progress through the basement windows, the helicopter slowly circled the old prison once again and then landed a short distance to the south, near where Hart suspected the tunnel they'd discovered exited.

The helicopter appeared to be a civilian aircraft rather than the Brazilian military one that Hart had expected. It did not appear to have any identifying markings, however, nor did it appear to carry any weapons systems.

Lisa and Hart climbed onto some rubble in order to watch what was going on outside through one of the high basement windows. As they watched, four men dressed in military camouflage clothing jumped out of the helicopter. All of them carried AK-47 rifles that appeared to be equipped with night-vision scopes.

Two of the men took up positions in the brush to either side of the helicopter, their rifles aimed in the general direction of the prison. The other two men circled around the old prison building, and it wasn't long before Hart's motion detector monitor alerted him to the fact that they were watching the prison from the opposite side.

"LISA CORNETT AND DAVID HART!" Suddenly the silence was shattered by a voice amplified by a bullhorn. "LISA CORNETT AND DAVID HART" the voice boomed at them. "WE KNOW YOU ARE INSIDE THE PRISON," the voice continued. "YOU ARE TRESPASSING ON BRAZILIAN GOVERNMENT PROPERTY, A VERY SERIOUS FEDERAL OFFENSE! YOU MUST COME OUT IMMEDIATELY. WE HAVE YOU SURROUNDED! IF YOU COME OUT NOW WITH YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR, YOU WILL BE ESCORTED AWAY FROM HERE IN SAFETY! YOU HAVE FIVE MINUTES TO RESPOND!"

"Wh . . . What are . . . What are we going to do, David?" Lisa whispered, her voice trembling.

"Nothing. Our ride home isn't here yet, and we're certainly not leaving with whoever's out there."

"He said . . . He said we'd be . . . ."

"Do you really think he would let us leave here alive if we went out there now?"

"N . . . No. I . . . I suppose not."

"They won't let us leave here alive, Lisa, not after what we've just seen. If we give ourselves up to them, we'll just join the many people who have disappeared in Brazil, disappeared courtesy of the drug lords and the crooked authorities. Let them come and get us if they want us. We've got a few aces of our own to play if they want to get rough with us. Let 'em come get us."

It was less than an hour until Colonel Olmos should arrive.

Lisa and Hart watched the helicopter and the armed men, keeping to the shadows and away from the windows so they wouldn't be seen. If those guys expected them to come running out, they surely would be disappointed.

The two men guarding the helicopter scanned the old prison building with their scopes. Hart knew exactly where they were because they made no real effort to take cover or conceal themselves. Thanks to his motion detection monitor, he also had a good idea of where the other two men were located. They were prowling around the old prison building, probably insuring that Hart and Lisa didn't attempt to escape from the opposite side of the building.

"LISA CORNETT AND DAVID HART!" The voice boomed again.

"David!" Lisa exclaimed in a whisper, as she heard the voice for the second time, "I know that voice!"

"You know that voice? Who is it?"

"Do you remember Maria Mendez, the girl who--"

"Yes," Hart interrupted, "but--"

"Well, I met her stepfather several times. His last name is Wolff, and he is a very good friend of the editor of my newspaper, and . . . and I'm certain that's his voice."

"Maria Mendez's stepfather? Hmmm. This Wolff? Is he a military officer?"

As the voice repeated the statement that they were trespassing on Brazilian government property and the demand that they surrender immediately, Lisa summarized what she knew about Maria Mendez's stepfather.

"Yes, at least he was a military officer when I met him. My newspaper editor introduced him to me at an office party several years ago. When I met him, he was a colonel in the Brazilian army, and I might add, very proud of his rank. He wore all sorts of medals and was a very . . . well, charming isn't quite the right word, but it's what I think of as describing him. I mean, he was a real ladies' man. He flirted with all the girls at that party--including me."

"A real ladies' man, huh? So . . . ?"

Lisa smiled up at him. "David! Can't I even make you a little jealous, not even a tiny little bit?"

Hart squeezed Lisa's hand and couldn't help but smile at her comment. "Knowing who we're up against helps explain a lot of things, doesn't it, Lisa?"

Lisa squeezed his hand in return. "It sure does. Do you think Maria is the one who took my blazer? Is that how those Nazis got it and used a piece of it on that cursed devil-doll, trying to scare us off--or worse?"

"Good guess, I'd say. Is Maria into Macumba?"

"I . . . I don't . . . Yes, she was, at least a little bit. I remember that she enjoyed listening to music that she said was inspired by Macumba. Of course, most Brazilians do like that type of music. So that doesn't prove she's into Macumba, does it?"

"If her stepfather is the general who owns and/or protects this drug lab you mentioned and also the one who acquired the weapons stashed here in the old prison, it's no wonder that his friend, your editor, turned down your idea to do a story on this place."

"That's for sure. My editor wouldn't have liked that story one bit." Lisa grinned mischievously.

"And I'll bet you still had my card in your blazer pocket when it was taken."

"I sure did. That's how they would have known your name, except . . . except, well, Maria would have remembered it anyway. I introduced her to you, you remember?"

"Yes, I know."

"David?"

"Yes?"

"Maria's stepfather wasn't a general, at least not when I met him a few years ago. He was a colonel."

"Lisa," Hart replied, "If you've got the influence we think this guy has, you can acquire rank in the military in most of these South American countries. All he had to do was pay off the right people in the right way and--he's now a big-time general. Was, or is, Maria a Nazi?"

"Not that I know of. At least, she never gave any indication that she was. But then, it's not real cool to be known as a Nazi, even in Brazil, you know. Not that there aren't a lot of Germans here, and I'd guess at least some of them are Nazis. Maybe a lot of them."

The booming voice had once again ended his shouted directive to Hart and Lisa with another order to surrender. Yeah, General, right away. Yes sir!

"Can you describe this General Wolff?"

Lisa's eyes sparkled in the darkness. "Of course, I can. I told you he flirted with me, didn't I? He'd have kissed me if I'd given him the chance."

"Yes, you told me he flirted with you. You were trying to make me jealous, if I remember correctly."

"Um-hm. Well, he's a tall man, a little over six feet tall, I'd guess, and well proportioned with broad shoulders and a slender waist. He's, well, he's sexy."

"Okay. What else can you remember? Blonde hair? Blue eyes? Fair skin? The typical Nazi-standard human being?"

"Right. He had close-cut, light blonde hair, fair skin, and really deep blue eyes. Intense blue eyes. Oh, yes, and he was very athletic in the way he moved. And he was a terrific dancer. He danced with all the ladies at the party. Some of them got kisses, too."

"Lisa, I'd guess that you won't be going back to your job with the newspaper, not if we're up against a good friend of your editor, a general in the Brazilian military, no less."

"I'm afaid you're right. It's . . . It's okay."

"In fact, neither of us may be able to go back to Brasilia, or maybe even to Brazil, at least not for a while, at least not by our real names, depending on how things work out here tonight."

Lisa squeezed Hart's hand. "That's just what I was thinking, and, David, it's okay. Maybe I'll stay with you, wherever you are. I'd like that."

"Okay." Hart squeezed her hand in return. This wasn't the time to argue that point with her.

"David?"

"Yes."

"I've been thinking about something else."

"What's that?"

"If this man outside in the helicopter really is General Wolff, the same man I met at that party and a good friend of the editor of my paper, maybe he had something to do with the way the deaths of those men you read about in the paper that day I first met you were reported."

"Oh, I'm sure he did."

"You know, David, I tried to find out more about those men who were killed after I learned that my brother had been killed because I thought he might have been one of them."

"But you couldn't find any more information?"

"Not a thing. I couldn't even find anyone who would admit to taking the information to be published in the first place. Maybe that information came directly from General Wolff to the editor. Naturally, I didn't question my editor. That wouldn't have been cool."

"You're probably right about the source of the information, or maybe I should say misinformation. Now, Lisa, I'm going to change the subject. Here's what I want you to do."

"What's that?"

"I want you to keep watch on what's going on with those guys outside while I prepare to send another radio message, okay?"

"Okay."

While Lisa kept an eye on the helicopter and the men within her line of sight, Hart prepared a coded radio message for Colonel Olmos, giving him an update on what was going on and providing him with the probably name of the general--General Wolff.

They could probably transmit the message from the basement, but Hart knew they'd have a better chance of sending it with almost certain clarity from a first floor window like he'd done earlier.

"What's going on outside, Lisa?" he asked, once he'd finished coding the radio message.

"Nothing that I can see has changed. The helicopter is just sitting there like it was, and the two guys with the rifles haven't moved," she replied.

The General wouldn't be content to sit there long. A few minutes later, his pompous voice once again boomed over the bullhorn:

"LISA CORNETT AND DAVID HART. WE KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE INSIDE THE OLD PRISON. IF YOU ARE NOT OUTSIDE WITH YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR WITHIN FIVE MINUTES, WE WILL COME IN AFTER YOU. YOU IGNORE ME AT YOUR PERIL! FIVE MINUTES. I REPEAT, FIVE MORE MINUTES. WE WILL COME IN AFTER YOU!"

"Let's leave them and take a walk," Hart whispered to Lisa.

"Okay." Lisa's voice was still a whisper, but she wasn't acting as if she were at all as afraid as she'd been earlier.

Walking as silently as possible, they made their way upstairs to the first floor. Hart couldn't see anyone within their view from the windows, so he set up the radio in that same window he'd broadcast from earlier and pressed the "send" button. Whoever was monitoring that frequency was right there because the little red light indicating that the message had been received came on instantly.

Taking Lisa's hand, Hart led her back downstairs. After checking to see that the helicopter and two men guarding it were still sitting there as they were when they left, they began to search the area of the basement where they hadn't been before--looking specifically for the tunnel that almost certainly connected the main prison building with the smaller one. It now was only forty five minutes until they could expect Colonel Olmos.

b-b-z-z-z-z! b-b-z-z-z-z! Hart's motion detection monitor vibrated. The two men who'd been on the north side of the prison had left and were moving past the sensors on either side of the old prison. Lisa and Hart hurried to the window and watched as they approached the area where the helicopter sat, and then suddenly just seemed to disappear.

The general must have sent the other two men in after us. They almost certainly were in that narrow tunnel leading to the Nazi shrine in the sub-basement. Now we'd see if our booby trap worked.
Chapter 21

Surely the general couldn't have underestimated us that badly. He must have known that we were armed. Or, maybe he really thought he had things under control with his trained thugs after us.

Lisa and Hart left the window and made their way in the near-darkness across the basement floor and to another of the passageways. This one would take them past cell blocks and into the corner of the building nearest the small building. Without using flashlights any more than absolutely necessary so as not to alert the general or his thugs to their whereabouts, they felt their way carefully down that passageway, alert for any signs of booby traps.

Suddenly, Lisa grabbed Hart's arm. "David, wait! Look there. On the floor."

Hart stopped in his tracks. "What is . . . Oh, now I see ti!"

To the side of their path was a human skull, tilted so that the blank eye sockets met their gaze. The remains of a black candle sat before the skull. More of the devil-stuff to scare us. Hart hoped it wouldn't bother Lisa too much. But then, just a few steps beyond the skull, Hart saw shadows cast by what looked at first like slender blades of grass. Only they weren't blades of grass. They were slender steel spikes, probably tipped with poison, sharpened and designed to penetrate a man's boot sole.

"Good thinking, Lisa. Thanks for alerting us," Hart told her as they made their way past the skull and candle and over the spikes. They continued down the passageway, now more alert than ever, using lights more than they would have preferred, keeping on guard for more booby traps but finding none.

At the end of that cell-block, they found the tunnel he'd been looking for--only they weren't going to get out of the old prison that way. Not without a lot of work, anyway. Someone had taken great care to block the tunnel entrance with a pile of rubble.

"Blocked!" Hart cursed silently.

"Maybe we could clear the rubble enough for us to crawl through," Lisa whispered.

"Maybe. What we need is some--"

KER-WHUMP! "iiiieee-e-e-e-e-e-e!" Hart's statement was cut off by the sound of an explosion followed immediately by a man's death-scream and the sound of crumbling rock. They wouldn't have to worry about at least one of the men coming in after them through that sub-basement tunnel, not after he'd tripped the trip-wire and set off the explosive booby trap.

In the distance, the general was shouting obscenities at them. Then came the sounds of the helicopter engine starting. Moments later, the rotors began to turn, followed soon by the whomp-whomp-whomp-whomp sound that told them the general's helicopter was airborne.

Lisa and Hart made their way cautiously down to the sub-basement and to the Nazi-devil shrine. Nobody would be coming through that tunnel now, not until someone cleared the rubble in its entrance.

The remains of the man who'd tripped the booby-trap were spattered around the room. His blood was splashed on the walls, and the now bloodied Nazi banner was partially ripped into shreds. The man's rifle, the stock shattered, was lying against the altar, and the explosion had blown that plate of rice Hart had stepped on, the Macumba offering, across the room, spilling rice all along the way as it did so.

There was no sign of the dead man's companion. When Hart beamed his flashlight into the tunnel past the rubble, however, he saw him. He had been far enough back in the tunnel that he wasn't killed instantly, but he now was buried under several heavy rocks with only his arms and one leg visible. He might still be alive for all Hart knew, but he wouldn't be bothering them, or anybody else for that matter, not ever again.

Hart looked at the two men they'd tied to the stone column earlier that night. One of them appeared to be dead, and a closer look told what had happened. A large rock, likely thrown across the room by the explosion, had caught him on the side of the head, smashing his skull. A check of his pulse confirmed Hart's suspicion. He wouldn't give them any trouble either.

The other man had been tied on the opposite side of the stone pillar. He'd been protected from the flying rocks--and he now was conscious. Hart shined his flashlight into the man's eyes. "I've got some work for you to do," Hart told him.

The man glared back at Hart. Defiantly. He didn't say anything.

"What's your name?" Hart asked, ignoring his defiance.

"Bo," he grunted.

"Bo?"

"Yeah, that's what they call me. Bo."

"Okay, Bo. I'm going to untie you," Hart continued. "If you don't do exactly as I say, I'll kill you. If you try to jump us or escape, I will kill you. Do you understand?"

Bo's eyes weren't so defiant now. Slowly he nodded. "I understand. Show me what you want me to do."
Chapter 22

Hart fashioned crude ankle hobbles for the man who called himself Bo, using the cords they'd used to tie him and his companion to the stone pillar. He would be able to walk slowly, but the hobbles would hamper any faster movements so that he wouldn't easily attack them or attempt to escape.

Once their captive was hobbled and untied from the pillar, Hart moved away from him and then motioned for him to get up and come with them. When Bo got to his feet, Hart directed him to climb the stairs up to the room where the munitions were stored. From there, Hart directed him through the passageway that led to the basement proper.

Hart watched to see Bo's reaction to his first view of the munitions. He didn't so much as blink an eye, suggesting to Hart that he already knew they were there. Maybe he'd even helped carry them into that room. Not that Hart thought he'd say so if he had.

When they arrived at the old steam tunnel obstructed with rocks and rubble, Hart told Bo to go to work clearing a crawl space. "If you throw a rock at either of us or try to jump us, you die instantly," Hart told him, holding his Colt where Bo could see it.

Hart meant it--and Bo knew it. He quickly nodded his understanding.

With that, both Lisa and Hart backed away. Guns in hand, they took up positions where they'd be at least partially protected if Bo tried to throw a rock at either of them.

While they watched Bo begin working to clear the rubble that clogged the tunnel entrance, Lisa produced two of the snack bars she'd brought. They ate those and rested, washing them down with the water Lisa also had brought. All the time, they were listening for any sounds that might indicate the general who thought he owned this place or his thugs were returning.

Fifteen or twenty minutes was all that it took for Bo to clear the rubble and open up a space large enough that Hart and Lisa could make it through the tunnel entrance. Beaming his flashlight into the tunnel, Hart discovered that the main part of it appeared to be clear of rubble. Someone had, however, blocked the other end.

"Okay, Bo. Now climb through that tunnel and clear the debris from the other end. Okay?"

Bo didn't say a word in response, but he clamored inside the tunnel and began throwing the debris aside, clearing the opening of the tunnel that would allow them to exit inside the small stone building not far from the prison.

Twenty five minutes remained until Colonel Olmos would arrive. Hart had the utmost confidence that he would be right on time.

What with their experiences in the old prison, Hart should have cautioned Bo to be on the lookout for booby traps. Then again, Hart thought he probably knew his way around any booby traps. Wrong. He'd no more than started to clear the far end of the tunnel when Hart saw him whirl around and then dive for the floor just as an explosion rocked the tunnel. KA-BOOM!

When the dust setted a few minutes later, Hart beamed his flashlight inside the tunnel, knowing exactly what he'd see. Wishing it weren't so.

Bo was dead. He'd been hurled against the tunnel wall by the explosion and, from the way he was sprawled on the tunnel floor, it was obvious that his neck was broken.

The explosion had done the work for them, however. The tunnel exit was free--unless, of course, there was another of those cursed booby traps.

It was nearly time for Lisa and Hart to exit the old stone prison building and await their "ride" with Colonel Olmos. With that in mind, they cautiously made their way into the tunnel and past Bo's body, carefully examining the entire passageway inch by inch for any signs of trip-wires or sharpened steel reeds.

Hart had been right about the tunnel connecting the main prison building with the smaller building. Once they'd climbed trough the tunnel's exit, they found themselves in what appeared to be the basement of the smaller building. Narrow stone steps, only partially blocked with debris, took them up to the first floor.

The Honda trail-bikes they'd ridden up to the old prison were still there. Hart inspected them carefully to see if they'd been wired with explosives but didn't see anything amiss. Not that they'd be riding them back to Brasilia anytime soon, or at least Hart hoped they wouldn't.

WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP It was the same sound they'd heard earlier that night and could mean only one thing. The general's helicopter was returning. Then, as they scanned the sky for the helicopter, they heard another sound--the whine of the Pilatus Porter's turbine. Colonel Olmos was at most three minutes early!

Hart had no idea who might be keeping the old prison under surveillance, but when he eased his way outside of the small stone building and cautiously looked around, he saw no one nearby. There was no movement indicating that anyone was around.

"Cover me, Lisa," Hart whispered, "I'm going to go unlock the door we went in."

"Okay." Lisa had her gun in her hand and was eying the area as Hart ran to the large steel door on the northwest corner of the old prison building.

He'd not only relocked that door, but he had jammed the lock with a small chunk of steel. It would have been exceedingly hard for anyone who didn't know what he'd done to reopen the lock, but he had the chunk of steel knocked out and the lock open in thirty seconds. Then he rejoined Lisa and waited for the Pilatus Porter.

Lisa and Hart watched from the shadows as the Pilatus Porter pilot banked right, lined up the clearing where Hart had landed the Huey a few weeks ago, deployed the wing flaps, and throttled back the engine. Moments later, the Porter touched down beautifully, an especially smooth landing considering the fact that the pilot hadn't used lights. The plane rolled to a stop in what seemed just a few feet, behaving more like a winged helicopter than the overgrown Piper Club it resembled.

As the aircraft rolled to a stop, four men--Tex, Colonel Olmos, and two other men Hart didn't know--jumped out. Each of them carried M-16 assault rifles and assumed protective cover around the aircraft. Overhead, the whomp-whomp-whomp-whomp grew fainter. Hart had a feeling that the general would be back--with a lot more firepower--now that he knew that the Pilatus Porter was there.

Hart switched frequencies on his radio and whispered their location. Three of the men joined him at the entrance to the small stone building. The fourth was covering the operation.

The men huddled briefly, and Hart outlined what he had found in the old stone prson. At Colonel Olmos's direction, Tex and one of the men Hart didn't know would go after the crates of currency. Colonel Olmos, Lisa, and Hart would take a look at the weapons cache.

Lisa and Hart led the men into the old prison through the door he'd just unlocked, then led them downstairs to the basement, keeping a watchful eye out for any booby traps. While Tex and his partner went for the crates of currency, Lisa and Hart showed Colonel Olmos the weapons, and then the Nazi-devil shrine they'd found in the sub-basement.

"We can't leave those weapons intact," Colonel Olmos said after he'd inspected them. He hurried back to the Pilatus Porter and returned with the C-4 plastique explosive and detonating devices that he'd brought.

They placed the explosive devices under the surface-to-air missiles and set the timer. No way would those Stingers and Redeyes be used to shoot down any of our aircraft, not after that C-4 exploded.

Again, at Colonel Olmos's direction, they carried one of the M-60 machine guns and one of the Redeye surface-to-air missiles to the Pilatus Porter as souvenirs. Hart knew Olmos would check the serial numbers and determine exactly where those weapons came from.

Colonel Olmos was busy lashing down the weapons in the cargo area of the Pilatus Porter. The other men had two of the four crates of currency loaded and lashed down in the cargo area and were just bringing the third.

"Let's you and me get the fourth crate," Hart told Lisa.

"Okay."

"Go for it." Colonel Olmos waved them on to do just that.

Lisa and Hart sprinted to the old prison and made their way to the basement where the crates of currency had been stashed, ever mindful of the booby trap that guarded the cache. The other men had pulled the fourth crate out of its hiding place, and Lisa and Hart began their way out of the old prison, carrying the crate between them. Just as Hart thought, the crate wasn't really heavy, but it was awkward to maneuver up the narrow steps.

Once outside the prison and ready to leave the area for good, Hart took the time to close and lock the door through which they'd entered. Then Lisa and Hart began to carry that last crate of currency toward the Pilatus Porter.

Things were going too smoothly. Much too smoothly. Hart knew it couldn't last--and it didn't last. Lisa and Hart had just about reached the aircraft when things got nasty.

The two men who'd carried the other crates were just starting toward them to help with the last crate when Tex shouted: "Hit the dirt!"

CRACK! Hart dropped his end of the crate, grabbed Lisa, and threw both of them to the ground as a shot came out from somewhere behind them. Something stung the side of Hart's head as he went down, covering Lisa with his body as best he could. That's when Hart heard the sickening thud of a bullet slamming into a human body. Almost simultaneously there was a burst of full-auto fire from Tex--his rifle slugs screaming right over their heads as he blasted away. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

Tex had spotted the shooter and dropped him with a burst of fire from his M-16 before the man could get off another shot. Even though the shooter was dead, he'd played havoc with the operation. The bullet that had just grazed Hart's head caught Jeff, the young man piloting the Pilatus Porter, right in the head. Where that shooter came from Hart didn't know, but professional soldier that he probably was, he'd waited until the time was just right. Knew exactly what he was doing. And he'd shot the pilot.

There was no doubt in Hart's mind that Jeff was dead--or dying. That blasted currency--the already-bloody green ink--was getting bloodier by the minute.

Hart helped Lisa up. She didn't appear to be hurt.

"You okay?" he asked.

"I . . . I'm okay. Just . . . Just scared, and . . . and bruised!" She spotted the blood on Hart's face. "You're . . . You're hurt, David."

"Just a scratch. It'll be okay. You're sure you're okay, Lisa?" Hart asked as they scrambled toward the aircraft.

"I'm . . . I'll be . . . I'll be find," she gasped.

"Good. Get in back," Hart told Lisa. One of the men grabbed her hand and helped her into the cargo area. Then, while Tex stood guard, his eyes searching the area for any additional signs of enemy activity, the other men loaded and tied down that last crate of currency.

Colonel Olmos already had removed Jeff from the pilot's seat. "Get up there, David. Let's get the blazes out of here," Olmos ordered. He motioned Hart into the pilot's seat as he carried Jeff to the cargo area.

Blood was trickling down Hart's head, but the wound wasn't serious, and there wasn't time to patch him up. Not with the general and his goons nearby.

It had been only a short while since Hart had flown the Pilatus Porter, and its controls were familiar to him. He quickly got the turbine engine started. As he throttled it up to a howl, he yelled for Tex to get in.

Tex clamored into the cargo area and braced himself against the door, all the time searching the darkness with his night-vision scope equipment, his rifle aimed at the shadows in anticipation of yet another shooter. Another of the men was searching for shooters on the other side of the airplane. Nobody wanted another lucky shot from the darkness.

"Everybody in?" Hart asked through his headset, not knowing for sure just who was tuned into the aircraft's communication system.

"Everybody's in. Let's go." Colonel Olmos's reassuring voice came back at him. With all that was happening, it was reassuring to know that Colonel Olmos remained calm; but then he's been under fire before.

"Yes, sir."

Hart released the brakes, taxied to the end of the clearing, and throttled the engine up to maximum power. The Pilatus Porter jumped forward, turbo screaming, prop shrieking, as it bumped over the uneven ground. Seconds later, the aircraft literally bounced from the ground and into the air. They were airborne.

They weren't out of the woods yet--not by a long shot. As Hart banked the Pilatus Porter, turning the aircraft toward home, he saw them silhouetted against the stars in the near-darkness of the southwestern sky--two helicopter gunships were coming their way. There was no doubt in Hart's mind who was commanding those gunships.

"Colonel Olmos, we've got serious muscle pursuing us. Two helicopter gunships. South-southwest. Maybe ten miles away now, but they're closing fast." Hart quickly relayed the information as calmly as possible, knowing he'd need his cool if they were attacked.

"I see them," Colonel Olmos's voice was even calmer than Hart's. "Keep as low as you can, David."

"Yes, sir."

"David?"

"Yes, sir?"

"I repeat, David. Keep as low as you can, and don't sweat those gunships. We're ready for them. We have serious muscle of our own."

"Good. Thank you, sir."

Hart throttled the engine back slightly and leveled out, keeping the aircraft just above the trees, hoping there weren't any of those Stingers or Redeyes sitting down there on some mercenary's shoulder and aimed up at them. A glance at his watch told him that a few minutes from then nobody would have to worry about those Stingers and Redeyes stashed in the old prison--or any of the other weapons there for that matter.

There it was: Colonel Olmos's "muscle." Our side's muscle. Looming up from behind a rise to their north-northwest was the unmistakable silhouette of a twin-engine Black Hawk helicopter, bristling with the most sophisticated weapons available and outfitted with the latest night-fighting equipment. When Colonel Olmos says "serious muscle," he means serious muscle!

Hart knew the men who were flying that Black Hawk. They were thoroughly professional fighting men with serious combat experience under their belts. They'd have no hesitation in blowing those two gunships out of the sky, none whatsoever, and they'd shoot first if they were challenged.

The Black Hawk appeared to be painted black or a black camouflage pattern. Like the Pilatus Porter, it carried no identifying markings of any kind. Even the serial numbers had been removed. No one could trace the origins of either aircraft with absolute certainty as to where they came from. That's the way they operated in this unit.

Colonel Olmos's Black Hawk screamed almost directly across their path as it streaked at full power toward those two pursuing gunships coming up fast from the south-southwest. The downdraft from the Black Hawk's rotors buffeted the Pilatus Porter briefly, and then the helicopter was gone.

Hart glanced back over his shoulder, following the flight of the Black Hawk. The helicopter gunships--the enemy--were still coming at them, challenging the Black Hawk, no doubt under orders from the general to shoot us all down. Moments later, Hart saw twin streaks of orange flame leap from under the Black Hawk as its missiles streaked toward the pursuing gunships.

Who-o-o-o-sh! WHOOM! Who-o-o-o-sh! WHOOM! Both pursuing gunships exploded in great balls of red-orange fire, first one and then the other. Almost instantly, as Hart watched in morbid fascination, the flaming wreckage from the first gunship crashed right into the old prison building, landing partially on the roof and spilling over the west side. Then the burning wreckage of the second gunship followed the first, smashing directly against the west side of the old prison building, debris from the burning helicopter cascading into the prison yard.

Hot flames shot skyward as the fuel from the wrecked helicopters spilled, and burned, and then ignited the wooden beams and the roof timbers of the old prison building. As the flames seemed to reach down inside the old prison building and into the rooms containing the ammo and missiles, there was the KER-WHOOM! of a tremendous explosion. WHOOSH! Orange flame shot into the air, only to die down within moments, leaving a corner of the old prison builidng--and the general's weapon stash--in ruins.

The burning fuel from the wreckage of the helicopter gunships must have reached the missiles at about the same time as the C-4 explosive device they'd placed under them exploded. No one would ever know whether the burning fuel or the explosive device got to the weapons cache first, and it didn't make any difference. Those weapons were history.

Hart got the Pilatus Porter up to its maximum speed, and they streaked for home. The Black Hawk stayed close to them, keeping a watchful and protective eye on them all the way.

Colonel Olmos radioed the base as they approached, apprising the medics and ground crew of the status of Jeff. Someone turned on lights illuminating the landing strip, and Hart deployed the wing flaps and slats, throttled back the engine, and raised the nose toward the vertical, bringing the Pilatus Porter down with a lightness that always amazed him, even though he'd landed the aircraft countless times.

They were home. The crates of currency Hart went after were home, too, awfully bloody--but home. If Hart knew Colonel Olmos, however, another hazardous mission was even now in the works. And it would involve David Hart.
Chapter 23

Colonel Olmos called Lisa and Hart to his tent late the following morning after they'd gotten some much needed and well deserved sleep. Olmos had a dozen maps made from recent satellite photographs spread out on his desk.

Lisa now was wearing a new outfit that Colonel Olmos had found for her. It replaced the clothes she'd worn when they'd explored the old prison. She looked really cute, in Hart's estimination, in a man's size "Small" camouflage shirt and pants, and her eyes danced when she saw him admiring her.

"Like this outfit, David?" she asked, almost giggling as she showed it off.

Hart grinned back at her as did, he noticed, Colonel Olmos. "I love it, Lisa," Hart admitted. She looked awfully cute in that outfit.

Colonel Olmos had checked out Lisa and her brother early on after Hart provided him with their names. He hadn't had time yet to fill Hart in on all of the information he had about them, but he'd taken a moment when they'd met last night at the old prison site to assure him that Lisa was, in his words, "a-okay" and "completely trustworthy." Colonel Olmos's "a-okay" rating was good enough for Hart. Now he could really trust Lisa, and that knowledge made him feel a whole lot better.

After a brief exchange of pleasantries, Colonel Olmos got down to business. "I've been busy looking at maps ever since you sent me information about that drug lab east of the old prison," he began, motioning toward his desk.

"I can see that by all the maps on your desk, sir," Hart replied. He had a grin on his face. "You've been keeping the satellite busy sending photos of the area."

Colonel Olmos grinned back at Hart. "Right. The drug lab you said was located east of the old prison where we picked you up was well camouflaged and very hard to locate, but I finally found it," he continued. He now had a fiendish grin on his face, and Hart had the distinct feeling he'd be very involved with that newly discovered drug lab before long.

"I'm guessing that it's well concealed in the wilderness. Am I right?" Hart asked.

"Well concealed, indeed," Olmos replied. "Here, David and Lisa, take a look at this map of the area where we now know it's located. The drug lab is in there somewhere. See if you can locate it."

The map Colonel Olmos handed them centered on the area to the east of the old prison. Using the old prison buildings as a landmark, Lisa and Hart carefully studied the entire area where the drug lab should have been located. There didn't appear to be anything resembling a drug lab or anything else man-made, for that matter, to the east of the old prison.

"There's the trail we followed up to the old prison." Lisa pointed the trail out to Hart, tracng it with her finger on the map as she did so.

"Yes, and there's the fork we came to in the trail. If your information was correct, the drug lab should be somewhere over in that area to the east." Hart tried to follow the trail as it forked to the east, but it soon vanished in the wilderness.

Both Lisa and Hart studied the map intently for several minutes. There were absolutely no signs of anything man-made to be seen in the area where they suspected the drug lab to be located.

Lisa turned to Colonel Olmos. "I give up. Where is it?" she asked.

"That's what I asked myself when I first got these maps," Olmos replied, "because even though I didn't doubt your information for one minute, I couldn't see anything that looked like a drug lab."

"I'll bet it's at least partially underground, maybe totally underground, and it's very well camouflaged," Hart said.

"Right you are, David," Colonel Olmos continued. "What puzzled me at first, though, was why there wasn't any activity around the lab, wherever it was, that should show up on the maps. There aren't any helicopters or any signs of activity. I mean, how do they get supplies to the lab and drugs away from it? That was my question so I took a look at the times these photos were taken."

"I'll bet the satellite that took these photos passes over the lab at about the same times every day. Those guys operating the lab must know when it'll pass over and take pictures, so they clear everything out above ground during those times," Hart suggested. "After all, if they've got a general in the Brazilian military watching over them, he'd know or could find out exactly when the spy-satellite photographs the area."

"Right again, David. Right on both counts. Wish you had been here when I was trying to figure all that out." Olmos grinned.

Hart had to smile. Colonel Olmos was awfully adept at making people feel good with comments like that, but Hart's guess was that he knew exactly what was going on and what he was looking for. It's really, really hard to put anything over on the colonel, as a number of people have discovered, some to their serious discomfort.

"But you finally found the drug lab?" Lisa questioned.

"Right. It took a little subtle pressure, but I got CIA headquarters to order a change in another spy satellite's orbit so we got good pictures at other times of day--and there it was!" Olmos handed them another map. "Take a look at what shows up on this map."

"There's activity there, all right." Lisa quickly found what they were looking for and pointed it out to Hart. On that map, made from photographs taken at another time when the Brazilian general could not have known they would be taken, they could clearly see a helicopter on the ground, marking the location of that drug lab as clearly as an "X" drawn on a treasure map marks the treasure site.

"Now, here's a blow-up of that area where you see the helicopter." Olmos handed them still another map.

"Wow! Look at that detail, David!" Lisa exclaimed. "You can actually see men on the ground beside the helicopter. I never knew satellite photos were anywhere near this good. You can almost see the individual leaves on the trees and around the helicopter!"

"Yes, they're excellent photos," Colonel Olmos responded. "Can you make out the entrances to the lab?"

Lisa and Hart studied the area around the helicopter. "There!" she exclaimed. "You can see what looks like a camouflage net that's been pulled back from . . . . Oh, and those look like steps leading down!" Lisa pointed to the map. "Isn't that the entrance? One of them, anyway?"

"That's it, all right. That appears to be the main entrance. You're good at reading maps," Colonel Olmos complimented Lisa as he replied. "Now, look here." He handed them yet another map. "I've outlined the drug lab as I see it in black."

Through the use of computer enhancement, Colonel Olmos had practically drawn a detailed picture of the drug lab as it might look without the camouflage netting. Infrared photographs also had picked out heat sources, indicating where the chemical operations were taking place and where the people were located. That enhanced map provided a detailed blueprint of the drug lab.

"Wow! So, what are you going to do now that you've found the drug lab?" Lisa asked.

Colonel Olmos smiled. "Destroy it," he murmured. His voice was soft, but his eyes were deadly hard as he spoke. Hart had seen that look in his eyes before. That drug lab was history."

"Destroy it--with the good General Wolff in it, I can hope," Lisa replied.

"Oh, we probably won't be so lucky as to catch the general there, but speaking of this general . . . ." Colonel Olmos smiled as he changed the subject to focus on the man instead of his drug lab. "Lisa, I've been looking into this General Wolff you've told us about. Intelligence reports indicate that there are, or at least recently have been, three General Wolffs in the Brazilian military establishment. Tell me in detail about the one you met, and do you know his first name?"

Lisa recounted her encounter with the man who then was Colonel Wolff, describing him for Colonel Olmos as she had for Hart earlier. "I believe his first name was Karl," she replied in answer to Olmos's question about the general's first name. "Everyone seemed to call him Colonel Wolff, though. It was as if that was what he expected to be called. Nobody used his first name."

"I was almost certain this was Karl Wolff. You see, we could eliminate one of the Brazilian military Wolffs because he's now much too old to be the one you met," Olmos replied. "We can almost certainly eliminate one of the others because he's much too young." Colonel Olmos leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head, deep in thought for a few moments, before he continued. When he did continue, Colonel Olmos's eyes flashed fire, and his voice was more intense than Hart had ever heard it. "If this is the Karl Wolff I think it is, I intend to destroy him--along with his drug lab and all of his neo-Nazi buddies I can find."

"What do you know about him, Colonel?" Hart asked, rather surprised at the rare burst of anger. Of course, he knew that his commanding officer hated the entire drug trade, and it did appear obvious that this General Wolff had a hand in the deaths of Steve Miller and Kevin Tracy. Still . . . .

"Okay. I'll tell you what I've learned so far," Colonel Olmos replied, interrupting Hart's thoughts. He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head once more before he continued, his voice now cool and focused. "Just as World War II was ending, a number of the Nazi leaders got themselves and their families out of Germany and escaped to several of the friendly South American countries. They brought with them all the valuables they could manage to get their hands on, gold, silver, diamonds, art, whatever. In fact, they practically looted the German treasury before they escaped, and a bunch of that wealth had been looted by the Nazis from people they trampled on during the war. You guys know all this, right?"

Lisa and Hart agreed. They knew all that.

"A bunch of the German Wolffs made it to South America. They brought with them at least two or maybe three or four--the stories vary--U-boats full of loot. Some of them changed their names. Some of them, though, like the one we're dealing with, didn't. This one's grandfather was a high ranking officer in the German army during World War II, and his grandson was and is particularly proud of grandpa's name as well as grandpa's service to the Nazi cause. At least, that's the information I received--and from a very reliable source, I might add.

"Okay," Colonel Olmos continued, "So the Wolff we're dealing with had not only the pride of being a grandchild of a Nazi officer, an officer who escaped Germany with a very large family fortune to operate from once he was settled in South America, but an established base of operations from which to develop his own personal agenda. Of course, this particular Wolff, like the other influential Germans who came here at the end of World War II, used his family connections as well as investing his fortune in his newly found homeland."

"So what did this particular Wolff do for his new country?" Hart asked.

"When he first came to the attention of the CIA," Olmos replied, "Karl Wolff was into procuring arms for the Brazilian military. I'm talking big-time, too. He built on his father's established business relationships and supplied everything from rifles to tanks to helicopters. Bought them in Europe, China, Rssia, wherever he could find them.

"Then, once he had his arms supply lines well established and working, he began to supply arms to the drug smugglers. That proved to be an extremely lucrative enterprise, so the story goes, what with the drug smugglers needing all sorts of arms to outfit their private armies. As a result, Wolff became more and more involved in the actual drug-smuggling operations. The drug smugglers paid him in drugs and then smuggled his drugs into the United States and sold them for him. Turned money for him right and left, more than most honest men would know what to do with."

"That would mean that he was in good favor both with the ruling party and the military leaders," Hart interjected, "because no highly successful business, either legal or illegal, goes unnoticed in South American countries like Brazil."

"That's absolutely right, and the authorities apparently closed their eyes to his questionable operations," Olmos continued. "Of course, Wolff needed some way to launder the money he was making from the arms dealing and drug smuggling, so he began to buy legitimate businesses." He turned to Lisa. "You said this Karl Wolff was a friend of the editor of your newspaper, right?"

"Yes. A good friend. At least that's how he was introduced to us."

"He's a good friend, all right. That part is true, but they didn't quite tell you the whole story. The man who then was Colonel Karl Wolff actually owned the newspaper at that time--and he still does."

"He owns it? This Karl Wolff actually owns the newspaper?" Lisa's eyes were wide with surprise.

"Oh, yes! Not only does he own that newspaper, but he owns a large printing company and two of the largest automobile dealerships in Brasilia. Then, too, he's rumored to own a major interest in two of the larger banks in Brazil. The truth is that, even with those legal businesses, he's hard pressed to launder the massive amount of money he receives from his illegal arms and drug smuggling businesses."

Colonel Olmos suddenly got down to business. "I know you're officially on vacation, and I'm not giving you much notice, David, but I want you to fly the Huey tonight. We'll take care of that blasted drug lab ourselves. What do you say?"

"Yes, sir. I'll be ready."

"Colonel Olmos?" Lisa spoke up.

"Yes?"

"Can I go along while you destroy that drug lab?" she asked.

Colonel Olmos shook his head. "I want to talk with you about a special assignment for you. If you're agreeable, I've got something I want you to work on this evening. Something that''ll help us get rid of General Karl Wolff."
Chapter 24

Lisa's eyes danced. "A special assignment? For me? Something exciting for me to do, huh?"

"Exciting? Yes, indeed. After David and I finish with tonight's raid on that drug lab, I'll want the two of you to go back to Brasilia to tie up a few things, a few loose ends, so to speak. Maybe get into General Wolff's hair in a major way. You understand, there's no way either of you can go under your own name, and it'll be even better if you have disguises.

"I understand that," Lisa said, "and there are things I need to do there in Brasilia--like getting my money out of the bank if I still can."

"I hope you'll be able to do that eventually, Lisa, but I have my doubts." Colonel Olmos shook his head. "What with General Karl Wolff knowing who you are, he may already have frozen or emptied your accounts. And I have no doubt but what he'll know the moment you attempt to assess your account, retrieve any of your personal belongings, or--"

"My gosh! Is he that powerful?" Lisa interrupted.

"Oh, yes. Don't ever underestimate Karl Wolff's influence. He owns part interest in your bank, probably a major interest. But with our needing you to go back to Brasilia, as well as getting you out of here," Colonel Olmos continued, "I've asked one of our technical people from the CIA, a woman named Sally, to work up some identification and a passport for you. You'll need to work with her on a cover story, and she'll provide you with the paperwork and help you with a disguise. She'll also take a look at David's passport and fix up any extra paperwork he'll need."

"Is that the task you've scheduled for me this evening, then?"

As the Colonel nodded that she was correct, Lisa continued excitedly, "She'll be here this evening? This very evening?" Lisa looked astounded. She was discovering just how fast Colonel Olmos could make things happen.

"Yes. She's scheduled to arrive here just before dark, probably just after David and I get on our way to take care of that drug lab. I've asked Tex to meet her, introduce you, and keep an eye on things while she's here. He'll find a place for you to work together."

"Okay, I guess." Lisa still looked and sounded as thought she was having a little trouble keeping up with the fast pace set by the Colonel.

Colonel Olmos turned to me. "We need to do a little planning, David. Before we do that, though . . . ." He turned back toward LIsa. "Lisa, I want to tell you what I've learned about your brother, Terry."

Lisa leaned forward, her eyes intent. "Yes, please tell me anything you can. I want to know what happened with Terry."

"Let me be very brief and summarize what I've learned so far," Colonel Olmos replied. "From what the CIA can tell us, Terry was working with them, the CIA that is, to assist a Russian diplomat in defecting to the United States. We were to pay off this general we've been talking about, this Karl Wolff, to assure the defector's safe passage to the old prison. There he would meet and be picked up by Steve Miller and Kevin Tracy, two of my men." Colonel Olmos paused and looked at Lisa to be sure she was following him, then added, "They're the two men David flew to the old prison building."

"Yes, I know what you're talking about," Lisa replied.

"Okay. This General Wolff controls the area where the old prison is located, and the crates of currency you guys found stashed there and brought back were to be the payoff for the general. Of course, we didn't know all of this at the time."

"My brother was working for the CIA."

"Yes--and no. At the same time your brother was working with the CIA, he also was in the employ of Karl Wolff. I don't know exactly what he was doing for him, but he was a part of his mercenary army."

"Good Heavens! Are you certain? Terry actually was working for General Karl Wolff?" Lisa blurted out.

"Yes. There is no doubt about it."

"But General Wolff didn't follow through with his agreement to protect the defector--or Terry, did he?"

"No. Once the general got wind of the plans of this diplomat to defect to the United States, he devised other plans. Not only did he agree to accept the currency Miller and Tracy were going to deliver, but he contacted the KGB. They offered cash for information about the planned defection, and you can guess what happened next."

"General Wolff is nothing but a filthy double-crosser," Lisa hissed, the words tumbling as she spoke. "The KGB killed both the defector and my brother, didn't they? Paid off the general and killed the defector and my brother!"

"That's the way it looks," replied Colonel Olmos, "and Lisa, I'm truly sorry about your brother."

"Thank you for saying that, Colonel Olmos," Lisa replied. She sat quietly for a few moments, thinking, then continued, "But even if somebody working for the KGB actually pulled the trigger and killed Terry and the defector, it was General Wolff who really sold out my brother, wasn't it?" Lisa asked.

Colonel Olmos nodded. "That's the way I see it. Then the general's men killed both Steve Miller and Kevin Tracy, and they would have killed David that night if they'd had the chance."

"So Wolff took payoffs from both sides and then double-crossed the CIA and your men?" Lisa asked.

"Yes. That's the way it appears. Of course, you and David got our currency back and, incidentally, I'm working on getting at least a portion of that back to both of you--a kind of finder's fee."

Lisa sat there for several moments, not saying anything. "Thank you, Colonel Olmos," she finally said softly. Then, sitting up straight and alert, she continued in a much stronger voice, "Now you said you have a special assignment for me? An assignment that might involve my getting into General Wolff's hair?"

"Yes."

"Okay, I'm ready. What is it?" Lisa asked.

"We almost certainly won't get Wolff when we raid that drug lab tonight. By now, he's at his mansion devising a plan to get back at those of us who took his cash and wrecked his weapons cache at the old prison. I thought you might like to help us get him."

"You're right about that. I sure would."

"I've been thinking about how we might get him out from behind all of his bodyguards. I haven't had a chance to think through the possibilities, but I thought you might help us. We'll plan that out in detail tomorrow. Right now, though, David and I have to make some plans for tonight's flight."

For the next hour, Colonel Olmos and Hart studied the maps and made plans for their raid on the drug lab located east of the old prison. They'd be flying a Huey similar to the helicopter Hart had flown when Miller and Tracy had deposited that currency at the old prison. There was a difference between the two Hueys, though; Colonel Olmos had this one outfitted with missiles, rocket launchers, and gatling guns--the works in weapons. In addition, he also had ordered the Black Hawk gunship that had protected us on our way home from that old prison be made ready to accompany us.
Chapter 25

Most of the men under Colonel Olmos's command don't know that he himself is a decorated combat helicopter pilot. He seldom talks about his own exploits, but he knew exactly what they would be getting into on their mission to destroy that drug lab. His superior firsthand knowledge about covert ops figures highly in the probable successes of any of the operations he and his men undertake--including this mission. Hart was proud to be flying with him that night.

As soon as Hart finished the pre-flight checks, Colonel Olmos climbed into the copilot's seat and went over the weapons control system with him. Once Olmos was satisfied that everything was in order, he gave Hart a "thumbs-up." Hart started the Huey's engine. They were on their way.

Hart felt especially good to be flying a big Huey again that night. There was something about being at one with the powerful machine, feeling the rotor blades cutting through the air above his head and the tail rotor pshing against the torque from the main rotor blades. These actions provide an exhilaration only helicopter pilots can know. Even the information provided by the dials and guages on the instrument panel seemed to be a part of him, perhaps an extension of him, as did the faint smell of fuel from the fuel tank.

Not that he actually could smell the fuel, but he'd smelled enough fuel to imagine that he could. That's just how close Hart was to becoming a part of the helicopter. Or it becoming a part of him! Sometimes he wasn't sure just how the helicopter and him fit together, which of them was an extension of the other, but he knew they did fit together as though they were a part of each other.

Flying was in Hart's blood. His grandfather was a pioneer bush pilot in Alaska back in the 1930s. He'd learned to fly in a wood-and-fabric plane without a radio or most of the instruments pilots rely on today. By modern standards, the engine was unreliable and needed constant attention. In those days, to fly in the bush country, a pilot had to be his own mechanic. His life depended on it.

Grandfather's first airplane was a two-seat, 65-horsepower Aeromarine Klemm floatplane produced in 1935, and that's the plane he flew all over Alaska, battling icy winds, and bitter cold, and fog, and snow, and loving it all the way--a real adventurer. Later, of course, he flew other, more advanced airplanes; but he always had a soft spot for that first Aeromarine Klemm. "That was really flying," he used to say when he'd talk about his first airplane.

Hart's grandfather taught his son, David's father, the joy of flying, and they both taught David. They took him for airplane rides when he was a baby and had him at the controls as soon as he could sit on their laps. At any rate, Hart soloed and earned his pilot's license at the age of eighteen. Then he got his aircraft mechanic's license. His real joy, though, was in flying the big helicopters--especially the Huey.

Hart kept the Huey low, avoiding potential radar detection as best they could. Colonel Olmos studied the navigation maps they'd prepared, all the time watching their progress on the helicopter's instruments. Neither of them talked. They'd made plans carefully, and there was no need for talk. Hart knew the Black Hawk gunship, guardian angel as it were, was close by; but they'd agreed to maintain complete radio silence with it unless absolutely necessary, just in case someone was listening.

If their information was correct, they'd reach that drug lab half an hour after the drug smuggler's helicopter left supplies and picked up its nightly load of drugs. Once that helicopter left, the men at the drug lab would cover the helicopter's landing site and the entrance to the lab with camouflage material. Then they'd relax and get to work on the next batch of drugs they were brewing. Hart and Olmos were counting on them to be preoccupied with their work, counting on the element of surprise.

Colonel Olmos clicked on the intercom. "There it is, David."

The image provided by the night-vision imaging system mounted on the front of the Huey enabled them to make out the camouflaged drug lab. It was exactly where they expected it to be, there in the wilderness east of the old prison. Hart hoped there weren't any mercenaries down there with Stinger missiles aimed their way.

If there was a mercenary down there holding a missile with their names on it, there wasn't anything either Olmos or Hart could do about it now. Both men blocked out the thoughts of what might be out there and concentrated on their approach to the drug lab. With any luck, they'd be gone before the guys operating that lab knew what hit them. And by then--they'd be dead.

Hart took the Huey down even lower as they approached the south entrance to the drug lab. Colonel Olmos monitored the target as it appeared on the imaging system, aiming the missiles as he did so. Moments later, he fired the first missile.

Wham! WHOOSH! KA-BOOM! The first missile slammed into the entrance to the drug lab, penetrating the heavy steel door guarding the entryway and then exploding. Wham! WHOOSH! KA-BOOM! The second missile followed through the ruined doorway and exploded in the midst of the underground drug lab. Wham! WHOOSH! KA-BOOM! A third missile followed the second one through the entryway. It, too, exploded in the middle of the drug lab.

Brilliant orange flame erupted from the mid-section of that drug lab as the second and third missiles exploded. Dense black smoke rolled upward, engulfing the orange flames as it did so.

Hart banked the Huey to the left and then around the ruined drug lab while Colonel Olmos raked the entire area with the gatling guns, concentrating on what they believed to be fuel supply tanks. With the tanks in ruins, Hart then lined up the Huey to attack the second entrance on the north side of the drug lab. A missile from the Huey quickly destroyed that entrance door and exploded. The second and third missiles exploded inside the drug lab. Once again, brilliant orange flame and dense black smoke rose from the ruins. That drug lab was history. Toast! Everyone inside it probably was, too.

Colonel Olmos's voice came through the intercom. "We've done it. Let's get out of here."

"Yes, sir."

The engine roared, and the Huey literally leaped forward as if it were as eager to get out of there as Colonel Olmos and Hart were. Within minutes Hart had the helicopter up to its maximum speed. Looking over his shoulder, he saw black smoke still billowing from the ruined drug lab. Then the night closed in around them, and they couldn't see even the smoke. They were on their way home. Mission accomplished.

Hart glanced over at Colonel Olmos. Even though he was wearing a flight helmet, Hart could detect a subtle smile on his face. He liked this kind of action. Hart almost wished that General Wolff had another drug lab hidden somewhere in the wilderness for them to destroy. Maybe he did. If he didn't now, he soon would.

They flew in silence for perhaps an hour, savoring the heady experience of destroying that drug lab and getting away without incident. Then Colonel Olmos spoke, his voice calm as it usually was. "That girl, Lisa Cornett, really likes you," he said.

"Yes, sir. I think she does," Hart replied, not quite sure where this conversation was going.

"I know she does." Colonel Olmos emphasized the word know. "I can see how she feels about you in her eyes when she looks at you."

"Yes, sir. I know she likes me. And she does have pretty eyes."

"They're soft and pretty eyes, David, not hard ones like yours and mine." Olmos paused, thought a moment, and then asked, "Do you like her as much as she likes you?"

"Yes, sir. I like her a lot," Hart replied. "She really helped me, you know, and she told me she'd like to do some nice things with me after we finished with the business at the old prison, nice things like going out together that would help us get better acquainted. Said she'd like to get to know me better."

"Good. She seems like a very nice girl, and you've got some time coming. I hope the two of you will do just that. Take her to a nice restaurant and maybe a movie or a ball game, whatever the two of you like to do. Enjoy life a little. Get better acquainted with her."

"Thank you, sir. I hope we can do that." There was no need for me to tell Colonel Olmos my thoughts about how a guy who's seen it all like I have isn't a very good candidate for a pretty girl's affection.

They flew in silence for a short time. Then the radio crackled. Code. Trouble! Serious trouble!

There had been serious trouble at the base, all right. Tex quickly assured them that he had things under control.
Chapter 26

Code. Still more code. Trouble.

There had been a serious attempt to assassinate Lisa. She was okay, but in the process of foiling the attack, Sally, the woman who'd been working on identification papers for Lisa, had been seriously injured. None of the other people had been hurt, however, Tex reported, and Sally would be okay.

Still more code. The story unfolded: The man who had piloted the helicopter that brought Sally to the base was the one who had tried to assassinate Lisa. He had been killed. Tex related the incident in code.

Colonel Olmos's voice came through Hart's headset. "We may have underestimated our nemesis, David."

"Wolff's behind this, do you think?"

"I'd guess so. Who else?"

"So Wolff must already have found out where Lisa is, and he must have known where Sally was going tonight. That means he's got some contact person or persons within the CIA."

"That's how it looks. Tex said he's reported what happened at the base to someone he trusts within the CIA They'll be checking into it. In the meantime, we're all going to be very careful, especially now that we've destroyed not only Wolff's weapons stash at the old prison but also his drug lab--his prize money-maker."

"Yeah, and don't forget the Nazi shrine. I don't know how much it meant to Wolff, but it must have cost him quite a bit just to furnish it with the Nazi banners and stuff. And, even more than the monetary cost, that shrine was his personal link with the occult--with the devil himself, if I'm reading Wolff right."

"Right. I'm sure Wolff will be quite upset, especially now with the loss of his drug lab--and that may be the understatement of the year. That drug lab was probably his major moneymaker, even though the weapons trade brings him a tremendous amount of cash and, of course, his legitimate businesses continue to do well, too. We'll be seeing more of him, of that I'm sure, and it won't be a pleasant sight."

They flew in silence for several minutes before Colonel Olmos's voice came through Hart's headset again: "David?"

"Yes, sir?"

"If you were General Wolff and you discovered that a prized weapons cache and an extremely profitable drug lab, not to mention your shrine, had been wiped out, what would you do in response?"

"Two or three things," Hart replied, after a few moments of thought. "First, I'd gather my mercenaries and/or my military, whatever force I needed, and take over another drug lab, by deadly force if necessary--just to show the drug traders who's boss, as well as to keep the hard cash coming in. After all, if he wants to rule this part of the world, he'll need cash and lots of it--and he'll have to show the rest of the drug traders who's boss.

"Second, I'd figure out just who was behind this destruction, and I'd go looking for 'em, with the KGB's help if I could--and with the help of the devil, too, if I believed in him. So that means I'd set up another shrine to the devil just as soon as possible--and do whatever it took to get the devil and his helpers on my side.

"Third, if I had the capability of printing counterfeit currency, I'd get with it. I'd start to undermine the economics of the area with a big and steady infusion of the only currency they really trust down here--that of the United States. I'd pay off everybody with that bloody green ink.

"Pretty soon, I'd be the kingpin in this area, the behind-the-scenes ruler, what with the drug trade, the arms trade, and the economic stability of the region in my hands. I'd own the local governments, and I'd sure go all out to get the rascals who dared to challenge me."

* * * * *

"Ye-e-s-s-s!" The demon who resided within General Wolff couldn't have agreed more.

* * * * *

Colonel Olmos didn't say anything for a few moments. When he did, his voice was hard. "We're going to stop this guy, David," he promised.
Chapter 27

Tex and Lisa were waiting at the base landing site when Hart eased the Huey down to the ground. Tex was crouched and holding his M-16 as if he were expecting an ambush at any moment. He'd posted armed lookouts all around the camp.

Lisa ran to Hart and threw her arms around his neck the moment he climbed out of the Huey. She was wearing the camouflage outfit that she'd been wearing earlier. To Hart, she still looked just as cute as could be. "Thank goodness you're back safe and sound, David," she breathed.

Hart hugged her in response and whispered, "Thank goodness you're safe and sound, too!"

While the maintenance crew took over the Huey, Colonel Olmos and Hart immediately accompanied Tex and Lisa to the colonel's office. Once there and still cradling that M016 in his hands, Tex calmly told them what happened.

"I was suspicious of that pilot who brought Sally here the minute I saw him," Tex began. "There wasn't anything in particular that I could point to that made me suspicious, but he just didn't quite fit the image I have of an experienced CIA helicopter pilot, at least not one who is used to flying into covert op bases. He just wasn't anything like you guys." Tex nodded his head in Hart's and Colonel Olmos's direction, then continued. "At least he wasn't tonight.

"He just didn't act like the CIA chopper pilots I've known, and his eyes were shifty, for whatever that's worth. To top it off, he seemed anxious, sort of edgy about something. Now, you guys," Tex again nodded at Hart and Colonel Olmos, "don't get edgy about anything. This guy was darned near jumpy! Anyway, I told Marty to stick to him like glue, to keep an eagle eye on him every single minute--and Marty did. Awfully good thing he did, too."

Marty is one of the former special forces officers, a captain, that Colonel Olmos personally recruited. He's the unit's intelligence specialist and, like Hart, he's suspicious of everybody and everything, and there's nobody who can keep an "eagle eye" on a questionable person like he can. Tex made the right choice when he told Marty to watch that pilot.

"I set up a work space for Sally and Lisa, and they went right to work on Lisa's papers," Tex continued. "Marty took the pilot over to the tent where we had the coffee pot set up. They sat and drank coffee and talked for a while. Then the pilot said he wanted to take some coffee over to Sally and Lisa, so Marty said that would be okay.

"Like I said, Colonel Olmos, Marty stuck to the pilot like glue. When the guy had the two cups filled with coffee for Sally and Lisa, Marty saw him stirring the cups, like he was stirring sugar or cream into the coffee. Only, as Marty well knows, Sally doesn't take sugar or cream in her coffee. She likes it black, and we all know that. So, right away, Marty's thinking poison.

Marty followed the pilot over to the tent where Sally and Lisa were working. He saw him hand each of the girls a cup of whatever it was he'd mixed up. Marty told the girls not to touch those cups. That's when the pilot went straight for his gun, but Marty's hand was already on his gun--and they don't call Marty 'dead-eye' for nothing.

"Like I said, the pilot went for his gun and came up shooting--not at Marty but at Lisa. Sally saw who he was aiming at before he got his first shot off and knocked Lisa out of the way, taking the bullet meant for Lisa in her own shoulder in the process. But, you don't want to mess around with Marty. No, sir! Before that pilot could get off a second shot, Marty fired right back and killed him.

"When I heard the shots, I came running," Tex continued. "I got the medics right away, and they treated Sally on the spot. She's going to be okay. I'd already been on the radio to CIA headquarters about this pilot, so I got back with them and told them what happened. They're checking him out right now. Marty's checking him out with one of his contacts, too."

"So Marty wasn't hurt?" Colonel Olmos asked.

"No. The pilot only got off the one shot, the one that hit Sally, before Marty nailed him."

"What about the coffee?" Hart asked. "Was it really poisoned?"

"Oh, it was poisoned, all right," Tex replied. "The medics and our chemist already checked that. If either Lisa or Sally had drunk just a sip," Tex made a motion as if he were slashing his throat," they'd have been dead. Instantly."

"Where's Marty, anyway?" Hart asked.

"He's on the radio to a friend of his in CIA intelligence. He doesn't much trust the local guys I contacted because he figures there's a mole inside that group, a mole who gave the pilot the information about where Lisa was located," Tex replied.

"Are you guys talking about me?" It was Marty's voice.

"We sure are. Come on in," Colonel Olmos called. Marty pushed aside the door to the tent and came inside, carrying a folder of notes.

Just then, before Martly could show us what he had in the folder, Colonel Olmos's fax machine jangled and begin to print something.

Colonel Olmos took the first printed page from his fax machine and studied it for a moment. "Look at this, David!" he exclaimed, handing it to Hart as the fax machine continued to run, now printing a second page.

Everyone crowded around, looking at the fax over Hart's shoulder. The faxed page was a satellite photograph of the area where the old prison is located. Clearly visible to the south of the buildings was a helicopter. Although it carried no markings, it appeared to be the same helicopter the general had used the night Lisa and Hart were inside the old prison, the night the general had tried to talk them into coming out and surrendering to him.

The fax machine churned out a second page--a second photograph. Colonel Olmos handed it to Hart.

Theat second photo, a close-up view made from the first photograph, clearly showed the helicopter at the landing site south of the old prison. It also showed two men working, apparently clearing the debris away from the heavy steel door at the northwest corner of the main builidng.

A third photo followed, as did a fourth and fifth. These had been taken at fifteen minute intervals, and all of them showed the men clearing debris around the northwest door. In addition, two men were seen near where we suspected the entrance to the tunnel leading to the general's shrine was located.

A sixth, seventh, and eighth photograph followed. Thse last three images showed another man, most likely General Wolff himself, although it was difficult to be absolutely sure of the man's identity, standing off to one side in the shadows, apparently supervising the work. By the time the seventh photo was taken, the debris around the northwest corner of the old prison had been cleared. The door was standing open.

Colonel Olmos's fax machine continued to generate additional photographs. In the ninth photograph, the man we assumed to be General Wolff appeared to be supervising as two of the men with him carried a large crate from the old prison and toward the helicopter. That crate reminded Hart of the ones filled with currency--bloody green ink--that they'd just brought back from the old prison.

Other men were around the area where the entrance to the tunnel leading to the general's shrine was located. They were carrying what appeared to be the torn Nazi banner toward the helicopter.

They'd get the video from which these still photographs were taken, but they already told the story quite clearly--the general was removing whatever he had left at the old prison.

The photographs they were receiving were still being prepared about every fifteen minutes. By the time the tenth photo was prepared, the helicopter and men were gone.

"He's clearing out his stuff, Colonel Olmos," Hart said.

"It looks that way. What do you think might still be there, David? After we destroyed his weapons cache, or at least a good part of it, what's there that brings General Wolff back to the ruins?"

"I've been thinking abut that," Hart replied. "Of course, he had that Nazi shrine there and, if the prison won't serve as a base for him now, he's got to move those religious icons and the Nazi relics. But my guess is that there is or was even more hidden in that old prison than we found."

"More? What makes you think so?"

"This is speculation, but the books I read about the old prison hinted strongly at a sub-sub-basement. Lisa and I found a sub-basement room, the one where the Nazi shrine I showed you was located, but we didn't discover a room below that one. I've been wondering where it is, and what's there, or what was there, and I've got a couple of ideas."

"Okay. So, what do you think is or was there?"

"We talked the other day about how the Wolffs and other Nazis escaped from Germany during the closing days of World War II, and how they brought treasure of different kinds with them."

"Right."

"Some of that Nazi treasure was quickly turned into cash or invested, generally invested well and where it would make money, and with the local government's blessing. We know that."

"Right."

"From what I've heard, though, a share of that Nazi treasure the Wolffs and others brought to Brazil was never accounted for."

"Right."

"What better place for the general to stash treasure than in a room below his shrine? After all, again from what I've read and heard, the Nazis loved to stash treasure in out-of-the-way places like that old prison. They used castles in Europe not only as officers' quarters and places to set up as shrines, but also as places to stash their personal treasures. Why not here in South America, too? After all, the general seems to think he's going to rule this part of the world in the near future, and he certainly rules the area around that old prison today. Has for some time. Probably will for some time to come."

Colonel Olmos looked thoughtful. "That's a decided possibility. From what you've told me, whatever the general stashed in that old prison would have been as safe as in a bank vault, what with his patrols around the area," he said. "What else besides personal treasure might the general have stashed there?"

"The possibilities are endless. Weapons? Drugs? We can't know exactly what's there, but something is there, something that he finds worth getting out of there. After all, he's going to quite a bit of trouble to clear the rubble and work at the site, especially now that the north end of the structure is probably badly damaged and his men will have to work slowly and carefully."

"I think you're right," Colonel Olmos replied.

"And did you see that crate those men were carrying in that early photograph? The one that appears similar to the ones filled with currency we just brought back from the old prison?" Hart asked.

Colonel Olmos smiled. "Yes, I saw that. Do you suppose the general has more of that currency stashed in the old prison?"

Hart smiled. "I think you're thinking like I am, Colonel Olmos. Wouldn't that old prison have been a great place to stash currency and to do his underground banking from? Actually, though, I'm also wondering if the general had something to do with having that currency printed. Maybe he actually financed the printing."

Lisa was looking at Hart, her eyes wide. Ignoring the conversation she said, "You want to go back to the old prison, don't you, David? You want to go back to see what's still there?"

"Yes, I'd like to do that, but I suspect that's impossible right now. And, to judge by the photographs we just saw, the general is moving swiftly to clean out his treasure cache."

Lisa's eyes danced. "Oh, David!" she exclaimed, "I'd want to go with you!"

"You don't think the fire and explosions damaged the sub-sub-basement room--or wherever the general's stuff is lcoated?" Colonel Olmos asked, ignoring Lisa for the moment.

"Not likely. That room, like the room where the general had his shrine, would have been carved out of solid rock. Bedrock. It would have been a real dungeon in the old days of the prison's use. Despite the fire and explosions, nothing appears damaged around the south end of the old building. If the general stashed family or Nazi treasures there--or weapons or drugs or freshly printed currency or whatever--it would still be there. Think of what we could do to the general if we looted the treasures his family pirated out of Germany! What we'd have to do first, of course, would be to find the entrance to his store room."

"This isn't the time for you and Lisa to go back to that old prison," Marty interjected, his voice deadly serious as he spoke. "The general isn't exactly a happy man right now, you know," he added.

"Right!" Colonel Olmos smiled and turned toward the intelligence officer. "Marty, we truly appreciate what you did tonight. What have you learned about the renegade pilot?" he asked.

"I've had a man I trust at the CIA check out this shifty-eyed renegade. Wouldn't you know, the guy has just had $10,000, and those are good ol' United States dollars, deposited to his personal bank account this very day, just fifteen minutes after he took off with Sally in the chopper. He's also made at least three deposits in his bank safe deposit boxes over the past twenty-four hours. We won't know exactly what he deposited in those boxes until morning when we'll have them opened, but I'd guess he got a monetary payoff for information about Lisa--and for what he was going to do here."

"Sounds likely. Anything else?"

"Seems as if our adventurous twosome here, Lisa and David, now are each worth $125,000 dead or $150,000 alive--delivered to General Wolff. That's in good ol' United States dollars, too, of course, and . . . ."

"Oh, my . . . !" Lisa gasped. "Dead . . . Dead or . . . Dead or alive! Are . . . you . . . Are you serious?"

"Yes, indeed, Lisa, I'm very serious. That reward for your scalp probably was what the pilot was working toward out here when he drugged your coffee. He was going to poison you and Sally and then run for it." Marty smiled at her. "Not to worry, though, Lisa," he continued, "because we're going to do our best to make sure that nobody collects that reward money! It's just that if you're going to play the game, you've got to know the score."

"We've got to be extremely careful," Tex interjected. He was still holding his rifle as if he expected someone to ambush them at any minute."These guys we're dealing with are professionals, professional killers, that is. Once they've tried to kill Lisa and failed, they'll try again, only next time they'll plan even more carefully. They'll be after David, too."

"You're right, Tex! We've got to be extremely careful from now on. Not just Lisa and David, but all of us, because the general apparently knows who's been bringing him grief and where we're located," Colonel Olmos added.

The price on Hart's head set by General Wolff didn't much concern him. It wasn't the first time that somebody wanted him dead. In fact, it was about five years ago to the day when he got a call from a CIA officer that began with the message: "I've got bad news for you, David."

The CIA officer went on to name a dictator in a third-world African nation who knew not only his true name, but the fact that he was a helicopter pilot serving with United States Special Forces in his country. He went on to say that there was a price on his head that amounted roughly to $10,000 United States dollars. That may not sound like much, but you have to remember that the average soldier in that dictator's army earned the equivalent of roughly $200 United States dollars a year, and those were good wages compared to what the average person there earned. Whoever claimed Hart's scalp would be set for life in that rinky-dink country.

Hart never did find out how the dictator acquired his name, but he suspected that somebody he'd worked with had been captured and interrogated. Obviously, nobody has collected that reward for his scalp--not yet, anyway!

Of course, Hart was most concerned about the general having offered a reward for Lisa. That fact itself would terrify most people, and they'd already seen just how close one of the general's lackeys could get to her with a lethal dose of poison. Still, Lisa had demonstrated good inner strength before, and they'd all do their best to protect her.

While Marty continued to talk about what he'd learned about the renegade pilot and the rewards on their heads, Hart studied the old prison buildings as they appeared in the current satellite photographs. Even though the wreckage of both helicopters had crashed into the main building, setting minor fires on the roof, and the explosives probably had damaged or destroyed part of the stonework along with the general's weapons stash in the north end of the main structure, the old buildings appeared to be in remarkably good condition for what they'd been through.

There was some debris remaining on the ground around that northwest corner, and to the north of the structure, debris that probably was shaken loose by the explosives, but both of the buildings were still standing and appeared surprisingly solid. Not that Hart wanted to venture into the north end of the building, at least the part where they'd destroyed the weapons, without a great deal of caution until he was sure that it was structurally sound, but the south end of the structure where the general's shrine was located probably had survived just fine.

Hart's guess was that the general's shrine and the rest of the sub-basement, if it really existed, were still mainly unharmed by the fire and explosion. Those rooms had been carved from the rock under the prison, probably with slave labor if the stories he'd read were correct, and maybe the stories he'd read about the prison's foundation mortar having been mixed with human blood and thereby being under the protection of the devil himself accounted for something after all!

Hart had to admit to himself that exploring the old prison had been a really exciting adventure. He had always enjoyed exploring caves and caverns and castle dungeons of one sort or another, and the fact that he and Lisa had been able to locate the general's weapons cache as well as the currency he'd stolen from Steve Miller and Kevin Tracy absolutely delighted Hart. Then, too, there were the smug feelings that he only halfway acknowledged that they had not just outsmarted the general. They'd outsmarted his evil cohort--the devil himself!

To be sure, Hart wished he could go back and explore the rest of that old structure, but with the general's current activity there, that was an impossibility for the time being. Still, it annoyed Hart no end that he and Lisa hadn't been able to locate the sub-sub-basement. maybe someday they'd have the opportunity to explore that part of the old prison. Hart hoped so. They'd see.

There was nothing more any of them could do for the time being."Let's all get some rest," Colonel Olmos suggested. "Then let's meet back here in about five or six hours. By that time, we should have additional information about the general and his activities--and we'll make our own plans. There's no way we can let this guy get away with murder, and we know that he's behind this attempted murder."

Everyone thanked Marty once again for keeping Lisa and Sally alive. Then, with Tex's assurances that he and the rest of the people on the base would be on the alert for any intruders looking for the money offered as a reward for either Lisa's or Hart's scalp, they all went to their tents for some well deserved rest. Things were beginning to unfold fast. Hart liked that. He was ready for action.

* * * * *

"Our general's been quite active, and now we've got something new to worry about with him, David." Colonel Olmos's voice was cold.

Hart had just awakened from a much needed sleep, dressed, and was sitting on the edge of his bunk. Colonel Olmos had come into his tent and was seated beside him. He was holding several computer printouts, which Hart recognized as intelligence reports.

"What's up?" Hart asked.

"You were right on with your predictions about what the general would be up to after we destroyed his weapons cache and his drug lab."

"Is he lashing out?"

"Big time! First of all, we've learned that a major drug lord who operated just across the border from Brazil in Paraguay has been murdered along with at least twelve of his personal bodyguards."

"General Wolff needs to expand his operation. That's for sure. Is he behind the killings?"

"It appears so." Colonel Olmos studied his report. "Intelligence suggests," he continued, "that General Karl Wolff's men infiltrated that rival drug smuggling operation some time ago, and that he almost certainly is behind this killing rampage. He apparently bought off all but twelve or so of the kingpin's bodyguards--and killed those twelve he didn't buy just as he did their boss.

"Oh, yes, and wouldn't you guess, a bunch of United States currency has been showing up in the area of Paraguay where this drug lord's operation was headquartered."

Hart broke in. "You think the general's financing this takeover, that is, paying off the drug lord's men--except for the dozen bodyguards--with counterfeit United States currency?"

"Sounds likely, although we both know that the general has plenty of genuine cash available. Still, my guess is that he's using the counterfeit stuff. And why not? Nobody can tell the difference."

"Didn't the CIA shut down the counterfeiting operation?"

"That was the story we heard. If they did, the general probably got it going again, probably with the help from the KGB. At the rate this currency is showing up, there'll soon be enough United States currency, counterfeit and otherwise, to float the whole South American economy--which is what General Wolff likely wants."

"So the general is taking over this drug smuggling operation in Paraguay?"

"Yes, and it was--and is--a very significant operation. Marty tells me that the general acquired at least two large-capacity drug labs, as well as the smugglers and other guys who worked for the drug lord. The general got the whole operation, from the peons who work the fields to the chemists who make the drugs to the guys who smuggle the drugs for them. The whole works! Moreover, Marty says the CIA figures the general will have no trouble holding on to that operation, either, because his takeover wouldn't have happened if Paraguay's military strongman had objected. You know what I mean?"

"Sure do. Wolff works fast, doesn't he?"

Colonel Olmos grinned. "Yep. We knock down one of the general's drug labs and almost overnight he acquires two in its place."

Hart nodded. "What do you know about the actual operation? The details? How did the general manage to knock off a rival drug lord and twelve of his bodyguards? Even if he bought off the rank and file, those kingpins usually are surrounded by a small but well-trained army. Of course, if he had the backing of Paraguay's military . . . ."

"We think he did, but we don't know the specifics. Not yet, anyway. From what we can gather, however, the general sent what amounted to a small army of his own mercenaries to do the job. Like I said, we suspect that he'd already bought off most of the workers with cash and promises of even better pay than they were currently enjoying, but, David, I've got to tell you this: The killings were absolutely ruthless--and the general's thugs knew exactly whom to hit. They took out the rival drug lord and every one of his bodyguards as they were walking into a nightclub on the outskirts of Asuncion. Caught them off guard, got up close and personal, wiped out the whole band with quick automatic rifle fire, and escaped into the darkness. It's exactly what you'd expect from a well-organized and financed gang of thugs."

Hart thought about that operation. "Knowing where to hit those guys would have demanded good intelligence. Even so, hit and kill and run operations like that take time to plan," he reasoned.

"That's right. Personally, I think the general had this coup planned for some time. By taking out his drug lab, we may have forced him to move a little faster than he'd intended; but I don't think he could have carried out this takeover without some advanced planning."

"If I remember correctly, intelligence reports have suggested that the general may actually be planning to rule this part of the world. Make it his personal kingdom. Do you think he'll be moving against other drug smugglers now that he's started?"

Colonel Olmos thought for a moment. "Probably, but I told you that we have something even more serious to worry about than even his military-style takeover of the drug trade and his printing of counterfeit United States currency."

"More serious, you say? What else is the general up to?"

"Biological warfare."
Chapter 28

Colonel Olmos's voice was soft, almost flat, as he murmured the words, but Hart didn't miss the importance of what he was saying, nor could he underestimate the dangers. If General Karl Wolff possessed the wherewithall to dispense biological poisons . . . .

Hart looked at Olmos. "Biological warfare? Every tin-pot dictator can get the stuff to brew up a lethal stew of biological poison these days, can't he? And most of 'em want to."

"Yep. I suppose we should have anticipated it, what with the general's illicit weapons trafficking. At any rate, intelligence reports that he has been looking into the acquiring of ingredients for use in the manufacture of biological weapons. One report states that biological weapons have recently been diverted from stockpiles in the Soviet Union and traced to one of the general's old weapons-broker buddies who's now in what used to be East Germany."

"What's the general trying to get from the Soviet Union?" Hart asked.

"Sarin. Or the stuff to make it."

"Sarin? That's the nerve agent that Aum Shinrikyo, the 'Supreme Truth' cult, unleashed in the Tokyo subway back in the mid 1990s."

"Yes, it is," Colonel Olmos replied. "It was in March of 1995. That attack killed 12 people and injured over 5,000. It was only because the sarin wasn't pure that they didn't kill thousands of people."

"I know it's deadly stuff. A tiny drop on the skin or the inhalation of its vapor will kill a person within minutes."

"Yes, it's very deadly. Of course, the cult responsible for the sarin attack was developing even more biological agents. And if those cult members could develop such weapons, General Wolff certainly wouldn't have any trouble doing the same, not with the chemists he likely has in his employ. And a little sarin properly delivered would wipe out the ruling people in any drug lord's headquarters. Even the threat of its use would probably spook some of the drug lords enough to capitulate without a fight, not that capitulation would keep the general from killing the drug lord and his loyalists anyway.

"Not only would biological weapons and the known willingness to use them be useful in commandeering the drug trade," Colonel Olmos continued, "but one intelligence report I saw suggests that the general might even now be in charge of one or more of the death squads operating in Brazil. Wouldn't sarin or something similar be a prime agent for destroying an enemy of the state and his entire family--right in their own home? I can believe he'd use it, too."

"Agreed." Hart thought about this possibility for a moment. "Sarin was originally developed in Germany in the 1930s. Did the general's Nazi ancestors have anything to do with its development?" he asked.

"I don't know," Colonel Olmos replied, "but it gives one pause."

"Colonel Olmos," Hart asked, echoing the very words he'd used only a few hours ago, "We're going to stop this maniac. But how are we going to do it?"

* * * * *

"Ye-e-s-s-s! Ye-e-s-s-s-s!" The demon who supported General Karl Wolff was overjoyed at the prospect of the general acquiring deadly nerve gas. He'd planted the idea in the general's mind several months ago, and had encouraged the general each step of the way. Once the chemicals were in the general's hands, even more people would die! "Ye-e-s-s-s!" The general must have nerve gas!

The demon who had overseen activities at the old prison over the centuries shared those sentiments. The general must seek vengeance upon those who had violated the stone buildings and caused them to be damaged. "Ye-e-s-s-s!" He, too, chortled his support. "Kill them. Show them no murcy. Kill those who have damaged the old prison! Our prison! Ye-e-s-s-s!"
Chapter 29

"You and me, David," Colonel Olmos replied, "we're going to do just that. We're going to stop this maniac, and we're going to talk right away about how we're going to do it.

"And while we're busy developing our plan to stop the general," Olmos continued, "I want you to know that I've already requested a portable biological-agent detector and suits to protect us from biological and chemical attacks should his people come after us before we take him down. Since we don't know exactly what the general has in mind or what kind of poison he'll unleash, we want to be as ready as possible for any attack."

"Right."

"We've got to get familiar with the operation of these units as soon as they arrive, just in case the general tries something against us--or in case we have to go in and clean up after he's released biological materials."

Hart already was familiar with the portable biological-agent detectors Olmos had ordered. They're called Portal Shields. They work to detect biological agents by sucking in air, checking for airborne particles, and chemically identifying what they find. If any dangerous materials are identified, a Portal Shield sends out an electrical message to alert the operators. That lets them know what kind of crud they're dealing with and helps determine what to do about it.

"What about the shipment of chemicals the general's waiting for? What's its status?"

"The CIA is stretched thin in that area of the world right now, but since they've caught onto the general's activities, they're doing their best to keep an eye out for it. And I've requested that they be on the lookout for any movement of biological agents around the world that might be earmarked for the general. In the meantime, we've got to be on the lookout for it--as well as whatever else General Wolff is up to.

"Actually . . . ," Colonel Olmos paused and looked directly at Hart for a moment, a look that said he had an important idea he wanted to share with him. "Actually, I think that the general's interest in sarin is one we can exploit."

"How's that?"

"We're . . . That is, you're going to offer to acquire some for him. Or maybe not sarin, but at least the chemicals necessary to produce sarin."

That declaration gave Hart pause. "Okay, tell me how we're going to do that."

"A little later, okay?"

"Okay. In the meantime, can we position one of the helicopters with listening devices where we can overhear his communications?"

"I'm working on that now. We don't know exactly where the general's covert operation is headquartered now, though, so we'll be monitoring his communicaions at several sites, at least for the time being, trying to track his movements. And we'll find him." Colonel Olmos's voice was grim. He meant business.

"Okay. Want to tell me what else we're doing?"

When Colonel Olmos didn't immediately respond, Hart looked up--and again Olmos was looking directly at him, his eyes dark and penetrating. When he saw Hart return his gaze, he broke the silence. "Okay, I'd wanted to wait until I got a little more information, but I guess now's as good a time as any. How would you like to attend a party with the general this coming weekend? Get a chance to meet him personally, and maybe find out firsthand about his interest in sarin?"

"Attend a party with the general?" Hart asked, not quite sure just where this was leading, but quite certain from the way he spoke that Colonel Olmos was deadly serious. "Sure! If you think we can pull this off, I'm game."

Colonel Olmos's lips turned upward in just the hint of an eerie smile. "I think we just might pull this off, David." He echoed Hart's words, almost teasing him with his tone of voice.

"Okay! Let's give it a try. Where's the party--and how are we going to pull this off?"

"Let's go over to my tent where our conversation will be a little more secure," Colonel Olmos said, his voice now little more than a whisper.

They walked to Colonel Olmos's tent, his command post, neither of them speaking. His tent was outfitted with sophisticated counter-listening devices. If somebody did have a satellite listening device aimed at their camp, and the Brazilian military intelligence certainly had that capacity, their conversation would be much less easily monitored there. Once they were seated, Colonel Olmos began:

"The United States embassy in in Brasilia will be hosting a reception on Sunday afternoon. Actually, it's the military attache who will be hosting the gathering at the request of the CIA--and with a little input from me."

Hart smiled. "A little input from me," Colonel Olmos had said. That probably meant he had the idea!

"Among the invited guests will be a number of Brazilian military personnel, including our General Karl Wolff--and several weapons brokers representing arms makers in the United States. They may not call themselves that, of course, but that's what they are. Okay?"

"Okay."

The purpose of the reception will be to acquaint the Brazilian military personnel with some of the arms brokers with the hopes of future weapons sales to the Brazilian government. Of course, from the point of view of the CIA, a major purpose of the reception is to gain as much insight as possible into the activities--both legal and illegal--of several men, including General Wolff."

"I understand."

"I've devised a way for you to meet General Wolff personally. Not only will you have a chance to meet him, but he'll already know that you have the resources to supply him with what he wants--maybe not sarin, but at least the chemicals to manufacture the nerve gas. Of course, you'll need a disguise as well as a fake ID and passport, but those things shouldn't prove to be a problem."

"No problem. I have fake ID and passport, and the CIA equipped me with several items for disguise. Am I going to this reception as an arms merchant of some sort?"

"Sort of, but actually, no. I thought it might be best if you went as a somewhat disreputable buyer and broker. Someone who deals in goods and services that others might not be so quick to handle. Understand what I'm getting at?"

"A disreputable buyer and broker? Sure." Hart smiled. "Sounds good to me."

"Yes." Colonel Olmos smiled back. "You'll be posing as a, well, shady is the term, I think, a shady or disreputable buyer--and broker--of surplus military items. Not cots and sleeping bags, of course, but of recently discontinued high-tech weapons and accessories--the kind of stuff that the leader of a private army or well-financed drug lord would be quite interested in. Missiles. Machine guns. Night-vision equipment. Listening devices. Those kinds of things. We'll also plant the idea that you might have sources willing to sell chemicals and the technology necessary to develop biological weapons. And these sources don't ask a lot of questions."

"I understand."

"That should give you plenty to talk about with General Wolff," Colonel Olmos continued, "and if he actually thinks you could help him acquire sophisticated weapons, perhaps biological weapons even, for his drug warriors, or for his new regime, well . . . ."

Hart grinned. "Let's give it a try!"
Chapter 30

"But, of course, I'm going with you, David! We're partners, remember!" Lisa exclaimed when she learned of the plans.

Hart wasn't at all sure that it was wise for her to accompany him when he met with General Wolff, but Colonel Olmos thought it was a good idea because the attache hosting the reception had extended invitations to the participants and their "lady companions."

"You'll be more satisfactory to the general and seem more legitimate if Lisa's with you," Colonel Olmos suggested to Hart in private. It was Colonel Olmos's call, and Hart would trust him with it. Besides, it wasn't likely that the general would attempt to kidnap or kill either or both of them right there in the United States Embassy if he did recognize them. Not with the United States Marines around.

Although Sally had not completed Lisa's fake identity documents on the night when she and Lisa had been threatened and she'd been shot by the renegade CIA pilot, there would be time for the documents to be completed by another CIA specialist before the reception. There also would be time for someone to help Lisa with her disguise and for both her and Hart to practice their assumed roles in anticipation of meeting the general and others in attendance. In the meantime, Hart would try to learn all there was to know about sarin and its production.

* * * * *

There were at least twelve black stretch-limousines in front of the entrance to the Embassy where Lisa and Hart, now using the assumed names of Leo Herring and Candance Nickel, had been directed. Each of the limos carried Brazilian military insignia, and looking them over gave Hart an idea of just how high ranking the guests of honor really were.

Even though he knew that the elite of the Brazilian military establishment, including, of course, General Wolff, had been invited to the reception, Hart nonetheless was in for a mild surprise when he saw the ladies in expensive gowns and diamonds in the company of the military officers in their dress uniforms. All of the men appeared to have been decorated with countless gold medals, medals now proudly displayed on their spotless uniforms. And it was not difficult to spot the burly bodyguards who accompanied the military officers.

Other guests were not all so lavishly dressed, of course. The women were dressed much like Lisa, in nice but not elaborate or inordinately expensive evening gowns, while the men wore tuxedos. Several of the men smoked cigars or pipes, and the air was mildly alive with the aroma of fine tobaccos.

The military attache, Lewis Rothman, who had arranged the reception with the covert cooperation of the CIA and the Embassy staff was a stocky, gray-haired man with piercing grey-green eyes. He greeted Hart and Lisa warmly. As they chatted briefly, a waiter came by with glasses of champagne for them. One of Rothman's assistants came over just as they accepted the champagne and said that he'd be pleased to introduce them to the others in attendance.

Few people would have recognized either Lisa or Hart in the disguises one of the CIA "magicians" had worked out for them. Of course, neither the general nor any of the other Brazilian military personnel attending the reception had ever seen Hart, at least not to his knowledge, but Lisa's presence did worry him some. After all, she had actually attended a party of some sort that had been hosted by General Wolff himself. He'd danced with her; and he'd flirted with her. Could he not recognize her--even through her disguise? Well, they'd find out!

Hart's assumed name already had been circulated on the guest list, and he'd made plans to let General Wolff find him rather than the other way around if at all possible. To be straight forward, Hart was certain that his assumed reputation as an arms buyer-broker who catered to anyone who needed surplus, high-tech arms as well as hush-hush chemical weapons, a reputation that most certainly had been furtively passed along to General Wolff by the embassy staff, should peak his interest in him--and he was absolutely correct.

Lisa and Hart had exchanged pleasantries with some of the Brazilian military officers and their ladies and walked to a window overlooking the street to enjoy the view when Hart caught a reflection of General Wolff detaching himself from a group of men with whom he'd been talking. He watched the general's reflection as the general made his way directly toward them. It was not long before Hart felt a hand on his shoulder. Looking around in feigned slight surprise, he recognized General Karl Wolff standing directly behing him. "Mr. Herring?" he asked, his voice low yet authoritative.

"Yes, sir." Hart turned to face him, smiled, and held out his hand.

"I'm Karl Wolff. General Karl Wolff." He emphasized his rank and returned Hart's smile as he shook his hand. His handshake was firm--invigorating. Hart returned his handshake in kind.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, General." Hart turned to Lisa. "This is Candance Nickel, General Wolff. Candance, General Wolff. General Wolff, Candace."

Lisa extended her hand. "General Wolff. Pleased to meet you," she said, her voice smooth as silk, as they shook hands. Even Hart wouldn't have recognized Lisa by her voice that night.

The first time Hart had encountered General Wolff was when he'd been outside the old prison building, demanding via his megaphone-bullhorn broadcasting system that Lisa and Hart immediately exit the building--or else. Now, seeing him in person, Hart realized that he was every bit as tall and imposing as he had seemed in the semi-darkness of that night.

General Karl Wolff stood well over six feet in height, slightly taller, in fact, than Hart's own six-feet, two inches. A handsome, powerfully built man with slightly greying blonde hair and rugged features, he reminded Hart of the stereotypical Nazi warrior. Hart could easily imagine his ancestors proudly wearing the World War II-era black Nazi SS uniform. To be honest, General Wolff would have looked resplendent in that uniform--even better, perhaps, than he now appeared in the uniform of a general in the Brazilian military.

"Your excellent reputation has preceded you, Mr. Herring. I have hoped for the chance to meet you and talk with you ever since I heard that you would be here this evening," General Wolff began, his English flawless, once the formalities were out of the way.

"Thank you, sir," Hart replied. "I've looked forward to meeting you, and it's now my pleasure to do so." He dropped his voice slightly and glanced furtively around the room. "Perhaps we can do business with each other at some time in the near future."

Generla Wolff smiled. "From what I have heard about you from Mr. Rothman, I certainly do think so. However, . . . ," he paused and looked cautiously around the room as Hart had done, ". . . this is not quite the right place for a serious discussion, what with . . . umm, listening devices . . . everywhere. You do know what I mean?"

"Yes, sir." Hart thought he knew what he was about to suggest, but he'd let him initiate the invitation.

"Perhaps, . . . ," the general again scanned the room, then turned back to Hart, ". . . perhaps we could meet at my apartment?" He turned toward Lisa with a smile, then back to Hart. "Of course, Mr. Herring, your beautiful assistant would be most welcome to come with you."

"Thank you, General Wolff. How would you like to arrange for such a meeting?" Hart asked.

"Easily done. Where are you staying?" General Wolff asked.

"At the Embassy Hotel."

"Ah, yes. A fine hotel. A fine hotel. I know where it is. May I have my driver pick you up tomorrow, say tomorrow evening at 6:30? That should give us time for a drink and dinner together while we talk business?"

"Certainly. We'll meet your driver in the hotel lobby at 6:30, then?"

"Yes."

General Wolff motioned to one of his bodyguards and the man came over. The general introduced him, then turned to Hart. "If you'll give Herr Mankin here your room number at the Embassy Hotel, he will ring you shortly before he arrives to pick you up tomorrow evening."

Hart had to chuckle inwardly. He was sure the wily general did, indeed, know where the Embassy Hotel was located. If the CIA information was correct, General Karl Wolff actually owned the Embassy Hotel. At least a major interest in it. Not in his own name, of course, but you understand how these things are done. He no doubt owned all of his businesses through dummy corporations.

"Agreed!"

They shook hands all around. Then the general moved away to greet yet another guest. "I shall see you tomorrow evening," he said as he turned away.

* * * * *

"Do you trust that guy?" Lisa whispered, once they were back at their hotel, and she'd checked their suite for bugs.

"Trust him?" Hart shrugged.

"Yeah, do you trust him? That's exactly what I said. After all, he's got a price on our heads. If he gets us inside his apartment, wherever that is, he can have us killed--and no one will ever know."

"Yes, I suppose he could."

"But you don't think he will?"

"I doubt it. Not just yet, anyway. First of all, we'll assume he hasn't discovered our real identieies. My guess is that he's so interested in purchasing the stuff he's heard we can provide that he'll take cxcellent care of us. Then, too, we'll alert Colonel Olmos and the CIA as to what we're doing. They'll keep an eye on us."

"Well, maybe so, but I still don't trust him!" Lisa exclaimed.

"You don't have to go--"

"David! of course, I'm going with you," Lisa interrupted. "Just because I said I don't trust him doesn't mean I'm afraid of the general. You and me, we're partners, remember. And I wouldn't miss seeing his apartment. I'll bet it is one grand place!"
Chapter 31

Herr Mankin arrived at precisely 6:30 the following evening and cordially ushered Lisa and Hart into the back seat of a black Mercedes similar to some of the vehicles they'd seen parked at the embassy. He proved to be a very smooth and skillful driver, and less than thirty minutes later, they were pulling off a quiet residential street and into a secured parking garage under an upscale apartment building on the outskirts of Brasilia.

Hart and Lisa exited the limousine and crossed the parking area to the door leading to an elevator that Herr Mankin assured them would take them directly to General Wolff's apartment. A burly security guard wearing a badge and carrying a Beretta pistol tucked into a belt holster under his sport jacket opened the door, eyed the three of them for a moment with a penetrative, once-over glance, and waved them inside without a spoken word.

Herr Mankin directed them to the elevator door and pressed a recessed button. As Hart looked over his shoulder, the security guard now was speaking into a cell phone--no doubt assuring General Wolff that they were on their way up to his apartment.

The carpeted, indirectly lighted, teakwood-panelled, luxury elevator had only one destination--the top floor of the building. Indeed, as might be expected, General Wolff occupied the penthouse apartment.

General Wolff himself greeted Herr Mankin, Lisa, and Hart at the door. He was dressed much as they had seen him the previous afternoon, resplendent in his Brazilian military dress uniform. In his most precise diplomatic protocol, the general politely dismissed Herr Mankin and shook hands with Lisa and Hart, welcoming them to his apartment as though they were most important guests.

Since Hart knew that the general had the financial backing to live any way he chose, he was somewhat surprised to see how austerely the apartment was furnished--except for the paintings of military officers that adorned the walls. Hart's surprise upon viewing the furnishings was nothing, however, compared to his surprise upon their being ushered into the general's small conference room. There on the wall behind the conference table was a life-sized oil painting of a man who looked almost exactly like General Karl Wolff--dressed in a World War II-era black Nazi SS uniform!

The general obviously was interested in Hart's reaction to the painting in that conference room because he watched closely as Hart first caught a glimpse of it. Obviously, he expected Hart to say something about the painting, so he did: "That's a very striking painting, General Wolff. Who is the officer?"

"A very striking painting. Ah, yes! A striking painting, indeed. Allow me to introduce you to the gentleman in the picture," General Wolff replied. Turning to stand at attention beside the painting, he continued: "The officer is my grandfather, and I'm sure you recognize the uniform."

"Yes. Yes, I do."

General Wolff lifted his hand toward the painting. "He, too, was a general, a general in Hitler's Third Reich, I might add, although you already know this from the uniform. I've always greatly admired him," the general mused. He was silent, almost reverential for a moment, then turned toward Hart and continued. "You've no doubt noticed that I have a number of oil paintings on the walls of my apartment."

Hart nodded. "Yes. Are the men in those paintings also your ancestors?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, they all are. I'll introduce you to them later." He motioned for them to be seated at the table, and they took their seats. Immediately, they were attended by a young man bringing a small decanter of liquor and three glasses.

Hart's eyes were drawn to the massive frame that held the painting of General Wolff's grandfather. Imbedded in the frame was a pattern, and as he focused on that pattern, he identified the same symbols they had found at the old prison building. The Nazi swastika was there as a central part of that design, as was the dagger dripping blood and the baphomet--the inverted pentagram representing the horns of Satan's head.

If General Wolff saw Hart scrutinizing the symbolism designed into the portrait's frame, he did not acknowledge the interest. Instead, he focused his attention on serving the liquor. Then again, perhaps the general had noticed Hart's interest in the symbols. His eyes did not give away his thoughts, and it was hard to know just what he was thinking.

"You realize, of course, that I am not a fanatical Nazi as the men in these paintings were," General Wolff began, once they'd all been served from the decanter. He looked from Lisa to Hart and back to her, then back to Hart, as though seeking their understanding, then continued, "The old Nazi party and its war machine ended with the man in this painting. You understand that?"

"I can understand that," Hart replied. Lisa nodded her agreement.

"Nevertheless," General Wolff continued, his voice now warming a little, "I continue to admire these bold men of the Third Reich--these mighty warriors of old. They might have ruled the entire world had a few things gone in their favor, and had the political decisions concerning the war been better made. After all, by the end of the war, they had developed some of the most sophisticated weapons in the world." The general's voice hardened as he added, "It was too bad that they never had the opportunity to exploit them."

"What you say is true. If things had happened then as you suggest, they might have won the war," Hart agreed, not yet certain where this conversation was headed, but wanting to lead General Wolff into telling them all that he would about his own motivations and ambitions.

General Wolff must have known what Hart was thinking because he continued by asking the question that had been on Hart's mind: "Why am I showing you these portraits and telling you these things about myself?"

"I am wondering that, but I'm sure that will be made clear."

"Certainly. I'm telling you these things because tonight I am not representing the Brazilian military and its needs." The general leaned forward across the table, his eyes intent. "No. No. No! Tonight, I represent a new South America. A united South America." Again, General Wolff looked inquiringly at both Lisa and Hart to be sure each one caught the impact of his words. Satisfied that they had, he then continued, "You see, it is the future of South America to be united, not under the leadership of the present corrupt political systems that exist in most countries in this hemisphere but under my leadership. Under my leadership, we shall develop a new Reich, a new regime that can exceed anything those brave warriors of the old Nazi party could even have imagined. Can you understand that?"

"I can understand your desire to realize that goal, General Wolff," Hart replied. "May I ask how you plan to accomplish this mission?"

"Ah, yes." General Wolff smiled. "Yes, indeed, you may ask. In fact, it is because of that very ambitious mission that I need the weapons you are rumored to be able to provide."

"So . . . tell us about your plans--and of your need for particular weapons."

The general stood to his feet beside the portrait of his grandfather and addressed Lisa and Hart as if he were speaking to his troops: "As I said, Mr. Herring, I and the men and women who work with me are not fanatical Nazis as was my grandfather here." General Wolff motioned toward the painting. "We shall not attempt to unite South America and ultimately the entire world by war as they did in the 1930s and 1940s. Oh, we shall use every method at our disposal, and there will be bloodshed, but ultimately we shall bring South America and the rest of the world to our doorstep by our tremendous economic might. Once South America is ours, can the uniting of North Amercia and Europe and all the rest be far in the future? I think not.

"You may not know this," the general continued, his words flowing smoothly, "but I already have the economic power to bring Brazil and most of the surrounding nations to our doorstep. My personal doorstep, if you will. With your help, Mr. Herring, I shall soon have the weapons that will allow me to consolidate my power--and then I'll be ready to accept the political position of commander-in-chief!"

The general's eyes were fixed and intent as he spoke. He now was standing ramrod straight. Although he had said that he was not as fanatical as the Nazis of the 1930s and 1040s, from what Hart had seen of photographs of those earlier Nazis, he certainly looked to be at one with them!

"And then, from being the ruler of South America, you can move to be ruler of the entire world?" Hart hoped he wasn't sounding too sarcastic, but the general didn't seem to take what he'd said in that way at all.

"Indeed, Mr. Herring. At least all of the world that makes any difference. The rest of the nations, such as they are, will come to me in due time. And if you can help me achieve my goals, you and your associates are absolutely certain to have a place of prominence with me in the new South America--and the new World."

"How, then, can we help you accomplish your mission?"

"Ah, that is the question I had hoped that you would ask. Come with me," General Wolff invited, his voice now a softer tone.

Lisa and Hart got up from their seats at the conference table and followed their host into an adjoining hallway, and then into a small room containing no furniture. There, they found themselves standing before another of the large portraits in the general's apartment.

In contrast to the officer in the black SS uniform, this man wore a conservative business suit of 1930s vintage. Other than their attire, however, they looked remarkably the same. Indeed, so much alike were their physical features that they could have been identical twins. "Are these men brothers?" Hart asked.

"There's a striking physical resemblance, isn't there," the general replied, "and they are related. However, they are not brothers, although that's a very good guess. Instead, this man before us is my great-grandfather. He is the father of the man you saw in the SS uniform."

"I see."

"This genius, my great-grandfather, was a master chemist. In fact, he actually helped invent the very weapon that I now seek to acquire. With your help, I shall soon have that weapon. With it, I shall be prepared to consolidate South America--and then the world--under my leadership. When they know that I have that weapon and the will to use it, they will have little choice but to follow me--follow me or face certain destruction!"

Hart had a good idea of what the general was going to say, but he had to ask, "What weapon is that, sir?"

General Wolff smiled. "Sarin."

* * * * *

"Ye-e-s-s-s-s! Ye-e-s-s-s-s-s!" screamed the demon who now resided within General Wolff. "We must have sarin. Ye-e-s-s-s-s! Ye-e-s-s-s-s! Ye-e-s-s-s-s!"
Chapter 32

"Sarin. Nerve gas," Hart reflected, then nodded his understanding of the general's request.

"Yes, the nerve gas." General Wolff smiled. Smiled? No. He absolutely beamed, obviously elated at the thought of obtaining his weapon of choice. "My plans," the general continued, "are to acquire the materials required to manufacture sarin. That I'm sure you can understand, is where you come in." He looked at Hart questioningly. "You can provide those materials, can you not?"

"General, acquiring the equipment and chemicals you need to manufacture sarin shouldn't be much of a problem," Hart replied with a slight shrug of his shoulders. He'd be honest with the general about that, but he wouldn't tell him that he wouldn't be the one to provide him with them. The general would learn that soon enough. Right now, Hart's goal was to lead him along and learn of his plans, and perhaps learn the location of the lab where he intended to produce sarin. There also could be little doubt in Hart's mind that the general also was involved in the counterfeiting of United States currency. If so, Hart wanted to discover what he could about that operation.

"No problems?" The general leaned forward. "You're certain? Absolutely certain?"

"No, there's no problem. And, yes, I'm certain. Obtaining the primary chemicals with which to make sarin is no problem--not with my connections. Do you remember back in the early 1990s when there was a political flap over an airplane that crashed near Amsterdam and was found to be carrying a chemical that can be used to make sarin?"

The general thought for a moment. "Yes, I seem to remember that disaster. That shipment was enroute to Israel, was it not?"

"Yes, it was. The plane was carrying about 50 gallons of dimethyl methylphosphonate--a key component in sarin. No one is saying that the chemical was actually to be used in the manufacture of sarin. naturally, no one would admit to that. In fact, the chemical also is used as a flame retardant and in the manufacture of certain plastics."

"Ah. This is significant,of course, because the chemical must be approved for air transport? Shipping it to a destination of my choice should pose no problem, then?"

"Dimethyl methylphosphonate is approved for air transport. You see, in that case I alluded to, the chemical was obtained from a chemical plant in the United States, in Pennsylvania, to be specific, and was, as you have said, destined for Israel. I know because an associate of mine handled that transaction."

"I understand. What problems, if any, do you foresee in obtaining a shipment of that chemical for my personal use?" the general asked.

"I can arrange that chemical shipment with few, if any, problems," Hart assured the general. "The method of payment will be up to the company, and they'll likely want a guaranteed bank draft or perhaps cash in advance. And, of course, there is always the annoying problem of international censorship once somebody determines that you have purchased the chemical--if that bothers you."

The general was silent for a moment. When he spoke, he spoke slowly and chose his words very carefully. "The payment, Mr. Herring, is no problem at all for me. I own two banks here in Brazil, and I have a majority interest in an off-short banking facility, so my guaranteed bank check can easily be obtained and personally delivered to the company--or I'll simply pay with United States currency. Just let me know what you need. It's as simple as that." General Wolff paused as if collecting his thoughts, and then laughed in derision as he continued.

"As for international censorship," the general laughed again, "the United Nations talks a great hard line, but that organization is like an old tiger who has no teeth. He roars and roars but he does not bite. After all, look at the way the United Nations has 'censored' those countries that already have biological and chemical weapons. People kill each other every day. Life goes on, and the UN does nothing. Censorship? Nonsense! I don't care about that, anyway. I want the ingredients for sarin. Besides, one of these days in the very near future, I will be the ruler of the nations united--not under the present UN's toothless-tiger banner but under my own. The United Nations will be mine."

"There are other things that we must consider," Hart continued, once the general was silent. "By itself, the chemical will be of little use to you. You'll need some reasonably sophisticated laboratory equipment and--"

General Wolff held up his hand to interrupt Hart. There was the hint of a smile on his face as he spoke. "No, Mr. Herring, I don't need a laboratory. You see, with the aid of two excellent chemists who even now are in my employ, I already have the laboratory set up. What I now need are the chemicals required to manufacture sarin, dimethyl methylphosphonate in particular--and the others that need to be used. I believe that my chemists mentioned phosphorus trichloride, sodium fluoride, isopropyl alcohol, and acetonitrile as necessary ingredients. Is that not so?"

"Yes, those are the basic ingredients in sarin. I'll supply what you need. But, General Wolff, you must realize that sarin is very dangerous to manufacture."

"Ah! That I do know. I've been told that sarin is twenty times as deadly as cyanide. Indeed, one of my sources says that sarin is a poor man's atomic bomb! But my chemists are the best to be found, and they have absolutely no fear of manufacturing sarin."

"I see. You'll pay for the chemicals with a guaranteed bank check or with United States currency--whatever's required?"

"Certainly. Just tell me the amount, and I'll promise you a bank check within the hour--day or night. However, I also understand that in business dealings such as the one we're talking about, you'll need cash for payoffs. Whatever cash you'll need, I'll have available in United States currency. Just ask me. My associates will deliver either a bank check or cash to you any time of day upon your request. For any other form of payment, one of my banks here can forward a check payable in United States dollars. There will be absolutely no problems with the payments. I'll assure you of that."

"How much dimethyl methylphosphonate should I contract for initially?"

The general thought for a moment. "Let us say 50 gallons."

"Fine. That amount should not arouse any particular interest in the international community. Once we've actually shipped that amount, along with the other chemicals you'll need, we can contract for more if you like."

The general smiled. "Ah, Mr. Herring, I do like your way of doing business. Of course, I shall need much more than 50 gallons of dimethyl methylphosphonate, much, much more . . . . But that amount shall be fine, to begin.

"I'll need two or three days to contact my associates in the United States. Rest assured that I'll do my best to obtain the chemicals you desire and as quickly as possible at the best possible price, General Wolff," Hart promised.

"Thank you, Mr. Herring."

"Thank you, General Wolff. It is a pleasure doing business with someone of your status."

General Wolff extended his hand, and they shook hands in the time-honored tradition of a handshake-sealed transaction. His was a firm handshake of confidence, and Hart had no doubt that in his mind the general already was ruler of the world.

Hart and the general had been standing while they'd talked, standing before the portrait of the general's great-grandfather, the man who had helped invent the very deadly nerve gas the general now wished to acquire for his own vile purposes. For a moment, General Wolff focused his eyes on the painting with a look that Hart only could describe as total adoration, then he slowly turned back to Hart and said, matter-of-factly, "I invited both of you to have dinner with me."

"Yes, sir. That you did."

"I regret that I cannot keep that invitation this evening," General Wolff replied. He fell silent, his gaze shifted and fixed upon the portrait of his great-grandfather. Hart wasn't sure if he expected a response, so he started to suggest that they'd be happy to take a rain-check.

Just as Hart was about to speak, however, General Wolff shifted his eyes from the portrait back to him and continued. "I don't want to bore you with my business problems, but I've been called to a very important business meeting this evening--a meeting of such urgency that it requires we postpone our anticipated dinner appointment.

"It appears," he explained, "that one of my most trusted associates, one who assisted me with my finances, to be direct, has been discovered to be a traitor." General Wolff looked at his watch. "That meeting must begin within thirty minutes if we are to deal with this traitor in a timely manner."

"I see. And may we plan to have that dinner with you at a later time?"

"While I have had my doubts about this person's loyalty," the general went on, ignoring Hart's question, "it now appears that she actually has been instrumental in passing on some of my confidential plans to my sworn enemies--to my financial harm. That, of course, can not be tolerated."

"What will you do with her?" Lisa broke in.

"Nothing, for the time being, Ms. Nickel. She will simply be placed under tight surveillance and allowed to go on with her work. Of course, if she really is passing information to my enemies, she will be given every opportunity to pass incorrect information to them." General Wolff's lips suddenly tightened from a slight smile into a hard line. "If she indeed is proved to be a traitor," he hissed, "she shall die a traitor's death." Turning toward Hart, then, the general's scowl softened into a smile. "Of course, Mr. Herring, we shall keep that dinner appointment at a later time." He paused, thinking. "Not tomorrow night, that is an impossibility, but perhaps the next?"

"Fine."

"I'll send Herr Mankin to pick you up at your hotel. Same time."

"We'll count on that, General Wolff. By then, I may have some pleasant information for you about the sarin chemicals."

"I hope so." The two men shook hands. The general pressed a button on an intercom mounted near the portrait of his great-grandfather and spoke into it: "Herr Mankin."

Herr Mankin appeared in the doorway as if by magic. "Yes, sir."

"Mr. Herring and Ms. Nickel are ready to leave," the general said, a hint of urgency in his voice. "Please drive them back to their hotel."

"Yes, sir."

General Wolff extended his hand. "Thank you, Mr. Herring." He turned to Lisa. "Thank you, Ms. Niekel."

Herr Mankin accompanied Lisa and Hart to the elevator and down to the parking area. "Wait here one moment, please," he said, leaving them in the care of the burly bodyguard who had been on duty when they came into the building. Shortly thereafter, Herr Mankin brought the general's black Mercedes to the parking area near the building's exit door. Moments later, they were on their way back to their hotel suite.

Hart watched carefully during the ride for any indication that they were being tailed. There weren't any signs of that, but then there was no need for anyone to tail them. Everyone who cared knew exactly where they were and where they were going. By now, General Wolff's men had had plenty of time to search their hotel rooms and bug them with sophisticated listening devices. Hart could count on their having done that. And whatever else they had done, he wondered.
Chapter 33

Once they were back at their hotel but before they went to their suite, Hart motioned for Lisa to join him in a short walk around the block and down the street to a cafe where they purchased soft drinks. While they walked, Hart told her his thoughts about their rooms having been searched and bugged. From now on, they'd be careful to say only things they wanted the general to hear them say.

During that short walk, Hart spotted two people keeping them under surveillance. One was an older, grey-haired man in a navy-blue business suit, stiffly-starched white shirt, and tie. He was pretending to read a newspaper, but was holding it much too high for that purpose. The other was a young blonde woman in blue jeans and a red blouse who was pretending to be window shopping. (Not that their hair wouldn't change color easily, but for now that was how Hart could identify them.)

They encountered each of them twice before they reached the cafe. They'd encounter the man but not the woman again on their way back to the hotel. Hart didn't spot her replacement--if there was one.

Of course, Hart couldn't help but wonder if these two people who were keeping an eye on them were in the employ of General Wolff or someone else, perhaps even the CIA. Furthermore, he wondered if they were simply two people who had been conspicuously placed there to be seen, while others, more talented at remaining unseen, did the actual surveillance and reported their activities. Either way, they'd be prepared for them.

Colonel Olmos had alerted Hart to the possibility that secure communications would be difficult. So far, their plans had gone according to schedule, and they had no immediate need to communicate with him about their conversation with General Wolff except for one thing--the general's mention of a female employee who'd been caught passing information to his enemies. Hart had no way of knowing just who this woman might be; but he thought it best that he let Colonel Olmos know about this development, just in case this person was in the employ of the CIA or some other United States agency.

Thinking that they might save the life of someone who had infiltrated General Wolff's organziation, Hart thought out a radio message for Colonel Olmos describing what he had learned about this "traitor." At the very least, the CIA should be aware of the possibility that this person had been given false information to pass along. On the other hand, Hart also tought it entirely possible that the general had been lying. There might not even be such a person, a traitor, in his organization.

Hart had left his personal radio at the United States Embassy to avoid having it found when General Wolff's goons searched his hotel rooms as he knew they would. He'd made arrangements with Lewis Rothman, the military attache who had invited them to the reception, however, to contact them at certain intervals. That night, after they'd returned to their hotel suite, Rothman did just that--called and asked them to join him for late refreshments.

As they visited with the military attache late that night, Hart passed along the coded message for Colonel Olmos. Lewis Rothman would be able to send it from the embassy over a secure radio transmitter.

Hart could be almost certain that Colonel Olmos received his message, too. They'd agreed upon a code by which he would reply to Hart--a code that would let Hart know he had received his message by mimicking the message content. They'd also worked out a different code by which he would reply, a code not even Lewis Rothman could interpret. Not that Hart didn't trust the military attache, but like he often says, he's paranoid.

Lewis Rothman was, as might be expected, quite interested in their meeting and conversation with General Wolff. He said that the CIA had been only mildly interested in the general until now because they considered him just another profiteer in the whole Brazilian drug-runner complex. Then, as his ties with the KGB and the counterfeiting of United States currency became more apparent, they had tried to keep a closer eye on his questionable activities--and found that the general was quite adept at keeping one step ahead of them!

"You both must be exceedingly cautious in your dealings with General Wolff and his associates because he is an exceedingly dangerous and treacherous man," Lewis Rothman cautioned as he dropped Lisa and Hart off at their hotel even later that night. "Not only is he extremely dangerous, but he is utterly ruthless. His goons torture and kill men and women for pleasure as well as for profit, and they'll do exactly whatever General Wolff asks them to do--no questions asked. If the general suspects one of his employees of being the least bit disloyal, his goons will kill that person slowly--as an example to the rest of his troops."

Lewis looked carefully around and over his shoulder, then continued, his voice low. Both Lisa and Hart leaned close to hear him. "You must be especially cautious of the man known as Herr Mankin."

"The man who drove us to and from General Wolff's apartment?"

"Yes. Not only is Herr Mankin one of General Wolff's errand boys, but he is thought to be his chief of intelligence, not with the Brazilian government, of course, but of the general's personal drug and financial empire. You would not realize this from his manner, but Herr Mankin is believed to have killed any number of people while in the general's employ, and he's almost certainly the one who engineered the recent takeover of the drug-empire in Peru. I'll repeat this to both of you for emphasis, Herr Mankin is not a man to cross. He is very dangerous. I know that you plan to deceive General Wolff, and that makes my warning all the more important. Herr Mankin may appear to be a mild mannered gentleman on the surface, but he's deadly. He tortures and he kills."

"How many Nazis who are loyal to General Wolff are there in South America?" Hart asked.

Lewis shook his head. "We can't count all of them," he replied, "but there are a great many, thousands, perhaps, who are known to be fanatical, and who will back General Wolff at every turn. Then there are countless others who either work directly for him and are very loyal or who admire him for one reason or another.

"Of course," Lewis continued, "there are many people throughout South America who are terribly dissatisfied with the present governments--the high, nearly intolerable, rates of inflation and the constant government corruption--and who would back anyone who might appear able successfully to challenge the political in-group and unite the countries with the promise of a better tomorrow. These people, too, will back General Wolff if and when he makes his move to assume power and unite South America."

"Will they back General Wolff if it means serious bloodshed?"

"Serious bloodshed? You can bet they'll back General Wolff--even if it means tremendous bloodshed. The working poor of these nations are so fed up with the present oppressive governments that they'll back him if it means rivers of blood throughout the entire South American continent!" Lewis exclaimed.

Hart made arrangements with Lewis Rothman to fake a small shipment of dimethyl methylphosphonate to General Wolff. He'd pretend to make the arrangements for this shipment and some of the other chemicals required to manufacture sarin by telephone from his hotel suite so that the general could monitor his conversations, but his calls would reach pre-selected people who would react appropriately.

It appeared that Lisa and Hart had done their part in gaining access to General Wolff and winning his confidence. Now they would have to wait for the general's next move--perhaps the dinner invitation for them two nights from now? And they'd certainly follow Lewis Rothman's advice to be extremely cautious about their dealings with the Nazi general and his henchmen.

* * * * *

Herr Mankin called to confirm Lisa's and Hart's dinner appointment with the general just as they'd been told he would, and he later picked them up in the black Mercedes he'd driven before. General Wolff had proved to be a man of his word.

This time, however, they were not going to the general's apartment, Herr Mankin informed them. Instead, they would be guests at the general's villa.

Herr Mankin drove them well beyond the city limits, finally leaving the main highway and taking a well maintained but inconspicuous road into the rural countryside, a road that looped back upon itself but generally took them to the east and north of the city. It was a road designed to be easily scrutinized and defended, and Hart saw several places where a roadblock could quickly be established, as well as overlooks from which a man with a rifle or machine gun could command the traffic.

Herr Mankin was the proverbial "man of few words." He said very little as he drove but did, however, let them know that they were indeed honored that night. They actually had been invited to General Wolff's villa, an honor bestowed on very few people! "General Wolff is quite pleased that you will be able to assist him with the establishment of a new regime in South America," Herr Mankin gushed in a rare moment of talkativeness. Hart thanked him profusely and indicated that "Ms. Nickel" and he were delighted to be guests of the general.

General Wolff's villa was protected by a rugged security fence and gate. As they approached the gate, Herr Mankin spoke a few words into his telephone. The gate quickly opened, and the Mercedes slowed to a stop beside a small guardhouse just inside the fence. A burly security guard who might have been a twin to the one they'd encountered at the entrance to the general's apartment in Brasilia stepped up to the car's window, the AK-47 he was carrying at the ready. When he recognized Herr Mankin, he let the rifle barrel drop and saluted--a salute that closely resembled those of the Third Reich!

As Mankin drove them to the curb near the front door of the villa, Hart was mildly surprised to note that there were a number of other vehicles, mostly black Mercedes, in a nearby parking area. Clearly, Lisa and Hart were not the only guests at the general's villa that night.

The villa itself was of rugged stone costruction. In fact, it appeared to have been made from blocks of stone similar to those used in the construction of the old prison. Not only did the stone remind Hart of those used in the old prison, but the villa's windows were protected with heavy bars--just as the windows on the old prison had been protected. General Wolff definitely was more than a little concerned with security, as well a man of his position and power should be.

Although it was impossible for Hart to estimate the age of the villa, it appeared ancient. Certianly it was not of new or even recent construction. In fact, it reminded him somewhat of a medieval king's palace--or perhaps a castle-fortress. Questions crossed his mind about just how long ago the general's villa had been constructed and, in carrying his thinking over from what he'd read about the old prison, whether the blood of human sacrifices had been mixed in the mortar.

There wasn't much time for studying the villa now, though. That would come later--if he had the chance. For now, there were more important things at stake. Like staying alive!

* * * * *

The demon that indwelled General Wolff readily agreed with Hart's assessment of the evening activities. There would be bloodshed that very evening. Ye-e-s-s-s! The demon demanded blood.
Chapter 34

Once again, Herr Mankin spoke briefly on his telephone, then opened the car doors for Lisa and Hart and escorted them to the massive front door, a door that in keeping with the villa's appearance as a medieval palace was constructed of sturdy oak and reinforced with iron. There to greet them was General Karl Wolff himself.

The general again was wearing his Brazilian military dress uniform, complete with a host of gold medals and colorful ribbons. He greeted them warmly, appearing quite animated, and ushered them into a large room where several men and women were talking among theselves.

Unlike the general, none of the other men were wearing military uniforms. Instead, they were wearing fashionable business suits, looking for all the world like corporate executives. Likewise, the women were dressed in tailored business suits. They, too, reminded Hart of well-dressed business executives he'd known.

As Lisa and Hart entered the villa, they were greated by eerie, moody music--Macumba music! To their right, row upon row of candles set upon a huge carved wooden table flickered, the flames seemingly keeping time to the music that swelled to fill the entire room. The flickering candles and the music appeared to Hart to reflect the general's, and perhaps his entire group's, belief in the workings of evil--and Hart hoped the macabre display wouldn't unnerve Lisa. They'd need to keep their wits about them if they were to survive the evening. Of that, Hart was absolutely certain.

They'd encountered black candles in the old prison, no doubt burned with the proper incantations to bring misery to the general's enemies. Tonight, however, there were few black candles in sight. Instead, red and green candles predominated.

Red candles--the color of passion? Then Hart remembered that red candles also are used when a sacrifice to the evil one is required. At least, that was the way it had been explained to him. A Sacrifice? Tonight?

Green candles? Green candles are used in healing ceremonies, of course, but green candles also are burned to attract wealth!

In addition to the single-colored candles, Hart recognized what he thought were several Seven African Power candles. These candles supposedly invoke the magical number seven to enhance the vibrations of the candle's flame. This is a candle for nations experiencing difficulty, and their burning is believed to enhance functioning on all levels, mental, physical, and spiritual. Whatever General Wolff had going here in the way of an alliance with the devil or his demons, he certainly was going all out with the candles.

Black candles to aid in casting curses and bringing harm to others. Green candles to attract money, and money's influence--power. Seven African Poer candles to enhance the group's functioning.Those Hart understood. But red candles? A sacrifice? Tonight?

The general himself announced their names, indicating that Leo Herring and Candance Nickel were his guests of honor for the evening. Talk ceased and everyone in the room turned toward them. Soon they were greeted by the men and women who were assembled there, shaking hands and introducing themselves while General Wolff stood a short distance away, a slight but twisted smile on his face.

Hart wondered if the others in attencance at the party that night knew about the general's desire to obtain nerve gas. And what they thought of his wish. Perhaps he'd find out before the evening was over?

Introductions over, the general invited all of them to follow him to an adjoining room where a dining table was lavishly set. Two waiters were placing food on the large table as they entered. A huge Nazi banner, similar to the one Lisa and Hart had encountered at the old prison, hung on the wall behind the seat of honor at the head of the table where General Wolff would soon be seated.

Still more candles--red, green, and black--flickered eerily around the dining room. Then, just as Hart was being seated, he saw her coming down the hallway, ready to join them at the table--the young woman who had driven the Toyota van and delivered those crates to Steve Miller and Kevin Tracy on the night when he'd flown them to the old prison, the night they'd died there.

Hart might have been mistaken, of course. He'd only seen her face for an instant, and tonight her hair was styled and she was dressed in a very stylish business suit. But, no! It was her, all right!

The young woman saw Hart--and recognized him instantly. He could tell that by the way her eyes flickered for an instant--and only for an instant. Then they broke eye contact, and she had her eyes under control. Hart glanced at the others in the room, but did not notice anyone watching the brief interaction between the young woman and himself.

As the young woman approached, General Wolff rose to his feet. "Ms. Becker," the general said, "I'd like you to meet Leo Herring and Candace Nickel, our guests of honor for the evening." He turned to Hart. "Meg Becker, Mr. Herring." He turned toward Lisa. "And, Ms. Nickel." The young woman extended her hand and both Lisa and Hart took it. General Wolff turned to Hart. "Mr. Herring, you'll be working directly with Ms. Becker. She handles a share of the finances in my organization, and she will draft the checks or prepare the cash you'll need to obtain the materials we discussed. I've arranged with her to be here to discuss these things with you later tonight."

"Thank you, sir."

The young woman smiled. "May I sit by you, Mr. Herring?" She motioned toward the empty chair next to his.

"Certainly." He held the chair for her as she was seated.

Someone turned up the music as they began to eat. The Macumba influence seemed to take hold of the group. Some of the people actually appeared to be swaying in time with the music as they ate. And the candles continued to flicker, seemingly in time with the music. In fact, so great was the near-hypnotic influence of the music and flickering chadles, that little was said throughout the entire dinner.

Only once did Meg Becker, if indeed that was her name, say anything--but that one thing she said was highly significant. "We must talk in private--and quickly," she whispered softly, then looked around carefully to see if anyone was listening.

"Yes," Hart murmured. The young woman's eyes told him that she'd understood.

The moment dinner was finished and General Wolff had announced that everyone should join him in the conference room in a few minutes. Meg tugged at Hart's arm. "Now," she whispered.

Lisa and Hart followed Meg away from the banquet table and toward one of the large windows that looked out over the drive. As they walked, Meg whispered, her voice barely audible over the Macumba-inspired music: "You must leave here immediately. He knows who you are--and he plans to kill you."

Hart took her at her word. "How?"

"That door across the room. Directly behind us. The one to the right. It leads to a helicopter landing pad. There's a small helicopter there--a Hiller. Here." Her hand brushed his, leaving him with a key. "As we are walking to the conference room, I'll create a diversion. I'll kill the lights. That's when you've got a chance. Go--and go like hell."

"Meg."

"Yes?"

Hart had to tell her what the general had said about there being a traitor in his midst, even though it might or might not have been Meg he was describing.

She caught her breath as he spoke, a response that told Hart she knew she was the person he meant.

"Are you going with us?" Hart asked.

Her response was instant. "Yes."

"How did he learn the truth about us?" Lisa asked.

Meg hesitated. She was watching a car, another of the black Mercedes that the general seemed to favor, pulling up to the door. Turning to Lisa, Meg whispered, "Watch that car. You'll see for yourself."

Lisa and Hart watched the Mercedes park at the curb. One of the general's men opened the back door for the passenger--Lewis Rothman. There could be no mistake. It was Lewis Rothman all right, the military attache himself, the man who'd set up Lisa and Hart's introduction to General Wolff.

"Traitor?" Hart breathed the question.

"Bought with millions of dollars worth of fake United States currency, only he doesn't know it's fake," Meg whispered. "Now! It's now or never! You've . . . We've got to get out of here."

The other guests were beginning to file slowly toward the general's conference room. General Wolff, though, was striding toward the front door. Hart assumed that he would be greeting Lewis Rothman personally. Meg called to someone that she'd be along in a minute, then headed down the hall, ostensibly toward a bathroom. Lisa and Hart angled toward the door Meg said led to the helicopter.

Meg had said that she'd "kill the lights." Suddenly, just as the general opened the door to Lewis Rothman, she made good on her promise, a move that she had to have planned in advance. She must have thrown a main switch or yanked the main fuses or done something to the villa's power supply because every light in the entire house went out.

Only the flickering candles now provided light--a kind of eerie hypnotic light. Somewhere a man shouted an obscenity. A woman screamed. Another man shouted. People began to jostle each other. Some headed for the front door, shoving and pushing each other aside in their attempt to vacate the villa.

Lisa and Hart hurried to the door Meg had indicated. He quickly located the lock, inserted the key, and breathed a sigh of relief as he felt the lock "click" as it opened. Hart couldn't see Meg anywhere as he gently pushed the door open--inch by inch at first--hoping it wasn't somehow connected to an alarm, or worse, a booby trap. Then, as the door swung open before them, he felt a hand on his shoulder. "It's not alarmed. Go for it! Now!" Meg's voice urged.

Once the three of them were past the door, Hart turned and locked it. They were in a windowless passageway--in total darkness. They could spend a lot of time just finding their way unless . . . . "Meg, can you lead us through here in the dark?"

"I'll . . . . I'll try. I've got a tiny flashlight in my purse."

Meg fumbled in her purse for an instant and produced the flashlight, then took Hart's hand. Hart took Lisa's. They didn't have much time, and they knew it, but it wouldn't help if they stumbled and fell. Meg knew the way through the passageway, though, and her light allowed them to see the uneven stones in the floor so they wouldn't trip on them. Soon, the three came to another door--the exit.

"What's outside?" Hart whispered.

"Maybe one guard," Meg replied.

Hart eased the door open and looked around. There was one guard, just as Meg had said there would be, and he was sitting on a stone bench a few feet from the door, his eyes on the open area where the helicopter sat.

All that Hart had with him by way of a weapon was a tiny .22 caliber Beretta pistol in his boot, but he didn't want to make any noise. Firing that gun would bring all the guards running. Hart looked hastily around, but there wasn't anything in the passageway that he could use as a club. The Beretta would have to do.

Hart wrapped his fist around the little gun, leaving the steel barrel exposed slightlly, took a deep breath, and crept softly from the doorway. Seconds later, he was directly behind the guard, swinging the gun at his neck.

The guy didn't make a sound as Hart's gun-fist hit him, and Hart caught him as he slumped--out cold. As Hart eased the unconscious guard to the ground and grabbed the AK-47 he'd been holding, Meg and Lisa scrambled from the passageway doorway to join him--and the three of them made a run for the helicopter.

Hart was quite familiar with that helicopter on the pad. It was a civilian version of a Hiller YHN-23 Raven that was used by the United States Air Force for many years. He'd flown these sturdy workhorses any number of times.

There wasn't any time for a preflight inspection. Hart scrambled into the pilot's seat and hit the starter. There wasn't much of a cargo area in the Hiller, so Lisa and Meg would have to share the passenger's seat. Fortunately, both women were small, and they did just that, holding on to each other with Meg partially in Lisa's lap. The helicopter might be a little overloaded on one side, but what the heck! Hart had flown Hillers in worse situations.

Lights suddenly came back on in the villa, and they heard shouting from that direction as the Hiller's engine roared to life and the main rotor began to spin above their heads. Men came charging toward them, then, from the door they'd exited. Too late! They were already airborne.

Hart saw muzzle flashes of several weapons, indicating that the men were firing at them as the helicopter gathered speed and alittude, but he didn't feel any of the slugs hit them. Nevertheless, Hart knew they weren't out of the woods yet. Unless he missed his guess, the general would have gunships after them as quickly as he could radio for their assistance--and he probably already had upped the price on their heads!

Hart turned on the lights on the instrument panel and scanned the Hiller's instruments. All seemed okay, so he cut the lights. The stars provided enough light for him to read the compass and see the countryside.

The Hiller's fuel tank was almost full and, if Hart calculated correctly, they would have enough fuel for around 200 miles, near maximum range for that particular helicopter--not that General Wolff would let them get that far! And with a maximum speed of around 80 miles per hour, they'd be no match for the kind of aircraft he could commander to search them out.

As soon as Hart was sure they were out of range of the weapons carried by the general's goons and that the Hiller was functioning properly, he switched the radio to a frequency regularly monitored by Colonel Olmos. Using code whenever possible, he radioed their location and situation. General Wolff already knew where they were, so Hart wasn't giving away any information that he didn't already have. Needless to say, Hart breathed easier when, moments later, Colonel Olmos himself was on the radio letting them know--in code--that he would personally oversee a rescue mission.

Hart didn't know exactly when or where they'd encounter General Wolff's gunships, but the Hiller had a nearly full tank of fuel, so he headed in the general direction of Colonel Olmos's camp, keeping as low as possible and staying away from populated areas--trying to remain invisible to radar and any search planes that might come looking for them. Fewer than ten minutes later, however, Hart heard Lisa shouting, "Airplane! Airplane!" and pointing over her shoulder at five o'clock. General Wolff's goons had found them.
Chapter 35

The twin-engine craft coming up behind the helicopter was maintaining a very low altitude, just above the chopper's flight level. It wasn't an armed military airplane, but even in the near-darkness, Hart could see a man with a rifle framed in an open cargo door. Just as Hart thought, the general's goons were going to try to shoot them down!

There were no weapons with which they could effectively return fire. They had the AK-47 that Hart had taken from the guard at the general's villa, but the way the two women were situated in the passenger's seat, they weren't in any position to manage rifle fire against the airplane. And the little .22 Beretta in Hart's boot certainly wouldn't be effective. The escape appeared to be short lived, but Hart was determined to give it his best shot.

As the pursuing airplane zoomed closer, slowing still more as it came even with the helicopter, Hart pulled the Hiller to an abrupt halt, at the same time taking it straight up as fast as it would go--full tilt. The ruse worked, and the airplane roared by slightly below them. Even so, Hart saw muzzle flashes from the rifle and heard the crackle of bullets tearing at the Hiller's skin.

The pilot of the airplane gunned the engines and roared forward, then swung around in a large loop, ready to attack the helicopter again from the rear. He would be prepared for Hart's evasive maneuvers this time.

The situation looked hopeless, but then Hart saw several small clumps of trees just ahead and to the left. There was space between the trees to fly the Hiller where the airplane couldn't follow. They'd be almost on the ground, and the tree tops would be well above them. If that pilot was even a little distracted . . . . There wasn't time to think about what might happen. As the airplane and its gunner came for them from the rear, Hart eased the helicopter down . . . down . . . down--into a semi-clearing "passage" between the trees.

The airplane was awfully close. Hart could hear the roar of its engines as it brought the rifleman in for a kill. He heard the crackle of gunfire. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! The shooter was firing full-auto. Bullets whined over them and some of them tore into the Hiller. Plexiglass shattered. The Hiller pitched. Lisa screamed.

The twin-engined airplane was much too low, however--much too low! In trying to take the gunner directly alongside of the chopper for pointblank shots, the pilot had made a fatal mistake, just as Hart hoped he would. He hadn't left enough room to maneuver around the trees on either side of them. There was a gut-wrenching CRUNCH! as the airplane's wing tip smacked into a solid tree branch.

CRASH! The airplane twisted and bounced as the pilot lost control. With a magnificent swoop, it nose-dived straight into the ground, then did a spectacular cartwheel--wing-tip to nose to wing-tip to tail! The gunner was thrown into the air from the open cargo door, his rifle flying from his grasp, and Hart saw him smack headfirst into a scrubby tree branch as he flew through the night air. Slightly ahead of him, the cart-wheeling airplane slammed into the ground with a tremendous THUD! THUD! THUD!--and burst into flames.

"David! David! Da-a-a-vid!" Lisa was still screaming for Hart's attention. Meg appeared to have lost consciousness and collapsed into Lisa's arms. As Hart pulled the damaged Hiller up and away from the clearing where they'd almost landed, he realized that Meg had been hit. He couldn't see the wound or wounds in the semi-darkness, but Lisa was pointing at Meg's leg. Then, while Hart was trying to determine just how bad Meg's injury was, he smelled fuel. A quick check of the fuel gauge told him that the Hiller was losing fuel fast. Most likely the tank had been punctured by the rifle bullets.

They weren't going to be airborne long now before they ran out of fuel. Hart had to find a place to land. Then they'd take a look at Meg's wound and prepare to evade capture on the ground.

Their route, north-northeast of Brasilia, so far had taken them into the area where General Wolff's drug lab, the one Colonel Olmos and Hart had so recently destroyed, had been located, so they weren't very far from the old prison building. Thirty miles? Maybe the Hiller would have enough fuel to make it that far. With that in mind, Hart radioed Colonel Olmos and updated him on their situation, all the time coaxing the Hiller west by northwest.

* * * * *

Hart knew approximately where the old prison, their desired emergency destination, was located. They now had no choice but to land there. As soon as Hart saw the ghostly outline of the buildings in the distance, he began to scan the area for a place to land. Not only was Meg crying and moaning in pain, but the fuel gauge indicated that the Hiller was almost out of fuel.

There was no apparent activity around the old buildings. At least, Hart couldn't spot any helicopters or vehicles of any kind, nor did he see any human movement. He debated for a moment about where they'd take their chances and decided to land in the area to the south of the buildings where General Wolff's helicopter had usually landed. If they could find the entrance to the general's tunnel and follow it underground, they might just be able to hold him off until Colonel Olmos arrived. They might. At least, they'd give it a try.
Chapter 36

The Hiller's fuel gauge was registering empty, and the engine was beginning to lose power as Hart set it down close to some trees not far from where General Wolff's helicopter had landed the night he'd tried to coax Lisa and Hart out of the old prison. Maybe tonight he'd try to coax them out again! Yeah, right! Dream on, David Hart. Tonight, he'd come after them with guns blazing.

There was another reason for setting the Hiller there instead of near the northwest corner of the old prison where he'd landed the Huey a few weeks ago. Here, the helicopter would be in the shadows of some trees and brush. It might be just a little more hidden from someone searching for them than at the northwest corner, which offered no trees or brush to shadow them in the starlight.

A rifle bullet had torn through Meg's leg. Fortunately, it hadn't hit a bone or a major blood vessel, but it had severely torn the flesh. Not only was she obviously in great pain and only semiconscious, but the wound was bleeding profusely. She'd lost some blood, and Hart didn't want her going into shock.

What he needed now was a length of cloth to bind up Meg's wound. The Hiller didn't seem to be equipped with a first aid kit of any kind. Nothing. So, he'd have to improvise. Well, he'd done it before so, with no hesitation, he pulled off his shirt and ripped out both sleeves, then bound up Meg's leg wound as best he could. At least they had the bleeding stopped.

While Hart worked on Meg's wound, he sent Lisa to look around to see if she could find the entrance to General Wolff's tunnel. Less than two minutes later, she returned. "I found it!" she informed him excitedly.

Meg still seemed to be semi-conscious. Once they got her wound treated, they began to make their way, Hart steadying her on her feet, toward the tunnel's entrance as she limped along. Moments later, she regained full consciousness and began to fill them in on what she knew about the general's plans for Hart and Lisa back at his villa.

"General Wolff was going to kill both of you," Meg began, her voice a halting, husky whisper. "Maybe he was going to . . . to kill me, too. He was . . . He was going to demonstrate the use of sarin on you . . . on us. That's what the red candles were all about. We'd have been his sacrifices to some devil he worships."

"Sarin? He's already got sarin?" Hart asked. Meg had explained the general's use of the red candles, all right. The three of them were going to be his sacrifice! His sacrifice to the evil one. Now, Hart wanted to learn what he could about his supply of sarin.

"Yes. He got a small amount from one of his friends in Europe. Someone from the old East Germany, maybe? I'm not . . . not certain about the source. It's . . . That is the sarin . . . is contaminated, but . . . but it's strong enough to kill us. He even . . . He even devised a sealed glass chamber so he and . . . and the others could watch us die. It would have proved to them just how all-powerful he is. He even described what was going to happen to us when he released the sarin. He . . . He seemed so . . . so proud of . . . of what . . . of what . . . he was going to do."

"You mean he described the physical symptoms?"

"Yes. What would happen . . . happen to us. How we were going to die. He talked about what happened to the people exposed to sarin in Iraq in 1991 when low level amounts of sarin were released into the air. He talked about . . . about how . . . ." Meg was rambling now, her words tumbling, not clear.

"That was when Iraq's rockets were destroyed?"

Meg ignored Hart's question and went on talking. "Miosis. That's the first symptom, he said. There's a . . . a definite pinpointing of the pupils of the eyes. He . . . He told us to watch for that in you and Lisa when the sarin hit you. Then there's tightness of the chest, and . . . . Uhh!" Meg pitched against Hart.

Hart caught Meg as she blacked out and carried her the rest of the way to the tunnel entrance Lisa had discovered.

The tunnel entrance Lisa had located began as a well-formed circular depression in the ground. That depression was encircled and built up with heavy stones, similar to those from which the old prison was built. There was a heavy steel mesh grill over the entrance, and Hart saw that it was locked with two large padlocks.

As he looked through the grillwork, Hart could make out what appeared to be steps carved into the stone. The steps angled toward the old prison, but appeared to be arranged in a circular manner, curving to the left, rather like a circular stairway.

Those two padlocks might pose a problem. They wouldn't if Hart had his locksmith kit, but without that? He did have one pick with him, however. He might be able to use it to open those locks. Otherwise, they'd have to try for one of the doors on the old prison or perhaps the stone building behind the main prison building.

"Lewis Rothman. He's . . . He's the one. He sold out to Genral Wolff several years ago, big time, and he . . . he sold both of you out to the general." Meg had regained consciousness and was talking again, her voice a harsh whisper, harsh but stronger. "He . . . Rothman . . . was going to . . . going to watch you die tonight. That's what he was doing at the general's villa."

There were countless questions Hart wanted to ask Meg. Before he could even attempt to respond to her, however, they heard the whomp-whomp-whomp-whomp! of helicopters to the north. They didn't seem to be getting closer, however, even though Hart was sure they were searching for them. As they scanned the sky in the direction of the sounds, the helicopters suddenly emerged from behind the trees and were silhouetted against the night sky. There were two of them, both just above the tree tops and traveling north-northwest--in the direction Hart and the women were moving when the twin-engined airplane with the rifleman caught up with them.

As the helicopters roared off into the distance, Hart turned his attention back to the tunnel entrance. Something didn't add up. This grillwork appeared to open on a tunnel or a cavern or something, all right, but the passageway didn't seem to lead directly toward the old prison building. And Lisa and Hart hadn't heard the sounds of boots on stone steps that first night when the general's thugs came looking for them. They would have heard them if the general's soldiers had gone through that entrance standing up and carrying rifles. Could this, then, be the entrance to something else? And if so, where was the entrance to the tunnel they were searching gor?

"It's . . . It's locked!" Lisa whispered, breaking through Hart's thoughts.

"Yes, but I don't think it's the tunnel we want, anyway," Hart responded.

"If you'll cover me, I'll . . . I'll go see if I can find another one."

"Okay, but let's look around first. Look for movement. See if anybody's around."

Lisa and Hart both raised their heads above the depression in the ground and cautiously looked around. They didn't see anything moving. After scanning the area as carefully as they could, rifle ready if he should see anythng, Hart motioned for her to go. Without another word, Lisa scrambled over the rocks and began to search the area for another entrance. Moments later, Hart saw her wave to him.

Meg was out cold. Her wound didn't seem to be bleeding much now, though, thank goodness. Hart picked her up in his arms and carried her as quickly as he could to where Lisa was standing.

This was more like it! The opening Lisa had located this time almost certainly had to be the entrance to the tunnel leading directly to the general's shrine room, the entrance they'd observed his men using in the spy-satellite photographs they'd viewed in Colonel Olmos's tent.

Hart kept thinking about that other tunnel entrance they'd discovered, the one with the steel-mesh grill and the massive stonework--and the locks. What was that an entrance to, anyway? A well? Perhaps the source of the prison's water supply? Or . . . ? Those padlocks securing the grill appeared to be relatively new and oiled. If he had to guess, Hart would guess that someone had opened them recently. That passageway certainly would be something to explore at a later time.

And why hadn't that stonework shown up in the satellite photos of the prison grounds? The nearby trees would have shaded it, but it should have been visible--unless the general had it covered with camouflage net. And why would he have gone to that trouble--unless it was an entrance of special importance to him. In that case, it certainly would be worth exploring.

There wasn't time to think about exploring anything now, however. In the distance, they could hear the whomp-whomp-whomp-whomp! of another helicopter. Once someone spotted the Hiller on the ground, they'd be right down there on the ground after Hart and the two women.

Like the other tunnel's entrance, this one began as a circular depression in the ground. There was no stonework surrounding the entrance, but it was covered with a wire-mesh gate, probably to keep wild animals out. No padlocks secured this gate.

The wire-mesh gate hinged on a post to the left and was secured with a latch on the opposite side. Hart checked carefully to be sure there wasn't a trip-wire attached anywhere. There wasn't. Once the latch was released, the gate swung open freely, and the dark passageway invited them inside.

Lisa recovered Meg's tiny flashlight from her pocket. They both knew they'd better check for booby traps not only at the tunnel's entrance but wherever they went inside.

They'd work at this cooperatively. Lisa and Hart teamed up to carry Meg into the tunnel, allowing Hart to carry the rifle and Lisa to carry the flashlight, which she beamed around the entrance as they searched for any signs of trip-wires or other dangers. Once inside the tunnel entrance, Hart pulled the gate closed behind them, checking to be sure the latch couldn't catch and lock them inside.

WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP The sounds were closer now. As the helicopters roared ever closer, Hart and Lisa cautiously made their way inside the tunnel entrance.

Just inside the shadowy tunnel entrance, they found more evidence of the general's practice of Macumba. There, on a shelf carved into the wall of the tunnel, was a rice-filled terra cotta platter. To the side of the plate was a huge black candle.

"Macumba," Lisa muttered. "More devil worship stuff!"

"Yes. See the symbols?" Hart pointed to the tunnel wall under the platter where he could just make out some carvings.

"I see them, all right," Lisa shifted the flashlight to reveal a variety of occult symbols drawn on or carved into the tunnel wall. Along with the familiar swastika were images of a dagger dripping blood and inverted pentagrams--the same images they'd encounered throughout the old prison building itself.

"That stuff scares me," Lisa whsipered. There was fear in her voice.

"No. Don't let it scare you, Lisa." Hart put his arm around her shoulder and tried to be reassuring, not knowing what else to say.

"I'll . . . I'll try."

WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP The shadow of a helicopter crossed the tunnel entrance as they moved further inside.

Hart expected the helicopter to land then and there. To his surprise, it kept moving away. Surely the occupants could not have missed seeing the Hiller on the ground.

Once the helicopter moved away, Lisa and Hart worked their way slowly along the narrowing tunnel, carrying Meg with them as they did so. They searched carefully for any traps that might exist--and they soon found one. There was a coil of tangled, rusty barb wire lying on the floor. Attached to the barb wire was another piece of wire leading toward a pile of rubble. Kick the barb wire out of the way and they'd likely set off an explosive device.

There was no way the three of them could move fast enough to get through that narrow tunnel and inside the old prison before the men in that helicopter could get to them, not with carrying Meg and having to clear the way of booby traps. Besides, Hart reasoned, after seeing where they'd landed in the Hiller, that's the entrance their pursuers would expect them to use. Instead, they'd make their way to familiar territory--the door at the northwest corner of the old prison.

"Come on," Hart told Lisa. "We're going to the northwest corner." Handing Lisa the rifle, he picked up Med and they eased their way back out of the tunnel entrance.

Once Lisa and Meg were outside the tunnel, Hart went back inside and inspected the explosive device that had been trip-wired to the coil of barb wire. It was of a type similar to the one they had found inside the old prison building when they'd been there a few days ago.

They'd made that explosive device work for them. They'd do the same with this one. Working as rapidly as he dared, Hart moved the device closer to the entrance to the tunnel, and after closing and latching the gate behind them, fastened the trip-wire to the latch. It wouldn't be necessary for someone to pull the gate open to trip the explosive. Just raising the latch would do it.

A cautious scan of the area told Hart there wasn't anyone in sight, and the helicopter was out of sight for the moment. Staying in the shadows as much as possible, Hart carried Meg, and the three of them quickly made their way around the old prison building and to the heavy steel door at the northwest corner.

WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP The helicopter was much closer. WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP It was circling now, likely coming back for a landing.

While the helicopter circled to the southwest of the old prison building, Hart tried the lock on that door. It was locked, but he'd opened it before. Using the tool he was carrying, Hart had it open in less than a minute--and not a minute too soon.

A quick check around the doorway didn't reveal any trip-wires, and they managed to get inside just as the helicopter overhead came in for a landing. Once inside the old prison building, they listened carefully for any sounds that might indicate someone was inside. Hearing nothing but their own breathing, they cautiously made their way down one of the cell blocks to a window where they could watch the helicopter land.

The helicopter's vibrations seemed to shake the old prison building violently. Dust or debris drifted down from the ceiling. Of course Hart didn't know how badly the old stone building had been damaged by the earlier explosions and fires. It certainly did not seem as solid as it had before. For all they knew, it might collapse at any moment. For now, though, the old building seemed like home!

The helicopter outside was a amall Hiller, similar to the one they'd used to escape from General Wolff's villa. It likely wouldn't be carrying more than two men.

Lisa, Meg, and Hart waited in the darkness inside the old prison, watching. Hart had the AK-47 ready and, for a moment, entertained the idea of ambushing the men in that helicopter and escaping in it. Of course, he knew that wouldn't work. It might work for a storybook superhero, but he wasn't Superman. No way. Even if they managed to get the helicopter off the ground, the general would have his gunships shooting at them before they could get very far. They'd take their chances there in the prison building, and hope that Colonel Olmos could reach them in time.

And that old building was crumbling. The mortar that once seemed to be as solid as the stonework seemed now to be deteriorating.
Chapter 37

The helicopter set down not far from where Hart landed the Hiller they'd escaped in. As the skids touched down, a man in the passenger seat jumped out and hit the ground running. He appeared to be wearing military camouflage clothing and a boonie hat of some sort, and was brandishing an AK-47 rifle as he ran to inspect the Hiller.

Before the rotor on their helicopter stopped turning, the man was back at the pilot's door, no doubt talking with him about what he'd found and affirming that it was indeed the helicopter Hart, Lisa, and Meg had escaped in.

As the helicopter rotor stopped turning and the engine shut down, Hart could hear the men talking. Although it wasn't possible to make out their exact words, it sounded as if one of them, probably the pilot, was talking on his radio, likely letting someone know that they'd found the Hiller. No doubt both of these men would be out to claim a sizeable reward for locating the "fugitives."

WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP Another helicopter, this one larger and with a cargo area, approached less than five minutes later. It hovered directly overhead, its occupants apparently checking out the scene below, perhaps using night-vision equipment to look for any signs of the fugitives, and then landed behind the other helicopter.

As the rotor wound down, a passenger climbed out of the larger helicopter. Even in the semi-darkness of the night, there would be no mistaking that imposing figure. It was General Wolff himself!

The general was not now wearing the dress uniform he'd worn earlier that night. Instead, he, like the other men they'd seen, was dressed in military camouflage clothing. He wasn't carrying a rifle, but Hart could make out a sidearm--a large semiautomatic pistol--on his hip.

Both pilots climbed out of their respective helicopters. They, also, were wearing military camouflage clothing and carrying automatic rifles. Hart wondered if the general had called out some of the Brazilian military or if he was directing his own personal army. Since the helicopters carried no military markings, Hart assumed that these were the general's private goons.

Two of the men kept their rifles aimed in the direction of the old prison while the four of them talked things over. The general must have offered an even greater reward for the fugitives because the men cheered, and one of them shouted, "Twenty thousand dollars each! Yeah, men! Let's go get 'em!"

Hart thought the men would go directly to the tunnel they'd just vacated. Instead, as Lisa and Hart watched from their hiding place, the three men escorted the general in the direction of the entrance to the cavern--or whatever--that they'd found earlier.

Although Hart couldn't see what was going on, he could hear the snick as both padlocks were opened and the scrape of metal against stone as the gate was opened. There was no doubt about it; those men were going inside that cavern. Whatever was in there must be very important. Perhaps they were checking to determine if Hart had been in there.

But they weren't in that cavern for very long. Moments later, the four men were back in Hart's field of view, moving on the run in the direction of the tunnel that led to the general's shrine--the entrance of which Hart had booby-trapped.

* * * * *

"Kill them! Kill them! Kill them all!" The demon within the gereral screamed over and over. "Kill them! Kill them! Kill them now!"
Chapter 38

KER-WHUMP! There was a muffled explosion as one of the men lifted the latch on the gate at the tunnel entrance, setting off the booby trap Hart planted there just minutes before.

"iiieee! iiiiieeeeeeeee!" Someone screamed wildly. In an instant, however, that scream was cut off as debris and thick dust spewed from the tunnel. How Hart wished he could see exactly what was happening!

All was silent for a few moments as the dust settled. Then, as Lisa and Hart watched from their vantage point, one of the men, the one with the boonie hat, staggered into their view, making a lurching-run for the helicopter. If he made it, he'd surely radio for help--but he was in Hart's rifle sights. He'd make sure the man didn't make it. CRACK! One shot was all it took.

Hart had to get out there and see what had happened to the general and the other men who were pursuing them. No way was Lisa going to let him go by himself and leave her and Meg inside the crumbling building. No. They'd go as a group. Moments later, the three of them quietly retraced their steps outside the old stone prison building and hurried as quietly as they could to the southeast corner.

There, they could remain hidden behind some scrubby vegetation and, from that vantage point, see the helicopters and the stonework leading to the tunnel entrance--but not the entrance itself. Neither could they see the men who'd set off the blast or what damage had been done.

Lisa wasn't at all happy about Hart's going on without her, but she agreed to stay with Meg by the corner of the old prison while he crept stealthily toward that tunnel entrance. The dust was still settling as he neared that entrance, and Hart saw that the explosive device had indeed done its work, proving to be a more powerful explosive than he had thought.

Two of the men who were with the general, probably the two who were leading the pack when they lifted the latch to open the booby-trapped gate, were obviously dead. One of them had been completely decapitated by the twisted gate as it was blasted from its hinges, catching him in the throat, probably accounting for the cut-off scream. The other man lay half buried by the rubble, his head buried under several large stones. Hart checked his pulse to be sure he was dead. He was.

What was left of the men's rifles lay nearby. The stocks were shattered on both rifles, so Hart removed the magazines and pitched the mangled remains into the tunnel. He might have need for the extra magazines.

Hart also removed the extra 30-round magazines the men had on their belts and snapped them onto his. If he got into a fire fight with the general's goons later than night, the extra ammunition would prove invaluable.

General Wolff must have been several steps behind the front-runners. They had taken the brunt of the blast. The general himself had been hurled several feet sideways and backwards and knocked flat on his back by the explosion. He appeared to be out cold temporarily, but certainly not dead. In fact, he was rapidly coming arond, and as Hart moved toward him, he heard him moan. Maybe the general heard or saw Hart coming because as Hart moved closer, the general's right hand was moving, unsteadily, to be sure, but surely--straight toward the pistol on his hip.

"No way, General! Give it up!" Hart shouted. The general's arm went limp, dropping to the ground. His eyes now were open and staring up at Hart--cold dark eyes with a hard, icy stare. Moving still closer and holding the rifle barrel in the general's face, Hart removed the pistol from its holster and shoved it in his own belt.

Hart backed away from the general, and still holding the rifle in his face, looked again into the entrance to the tunnel to see if anyone still could use it as an entry or as an escape route if necessary. No way! The explosion had left a virtual mountain of rubble inside the entrance. It would take hard work to move the debris before that tunnel would be useable again as a passageway. And Hart couldn't be sure that someone hadn't left another booby trap farther inside that tunnel.

It would take at least another forty-five minutes to an hour before Colonel Olmos could reach them. Hart wondered how long it would be before more of the general's men came looking for them--as he was certain they would. They'd take their chances inside the old prison, at least for the time being. Crumbling though it might be, it would be better than being caught out in the open. And now they had the villainous general to deal with.

"Can you sit up?" Hart asked General Wolff.

"Get the rifle out of my face and I'll try," the general snapped.

Hart ignored the bravado, backed away, and watched as the general struggled to a sitting position. The man appeared to be in better shape than Hart first thought.

"Sit still and keep your hands on top of your head where I can see them. Believe me, I won't hesitate to kill you."

"Yes, I understand." He wasn't quite so belligerent now.

Hart backed away to where the body of the man he'd shot was lying, all the time keeping an eye and his rifle trained on the general. A check of the third man's pulse let Hart know that he, too, was dead.

It wouldn't do to leave the man's body out in the open where anyone surveying the scene could see it, so Hart dragged his remains back to the tunnel entrance and shoved him inside by the others, then tossed his boonie hat inside with him. They'd all be out of sight unless an observer was close to the tunnel entrance, and if anyone was that close, it wouldn't make any difference anyway. After returning to where the man wearing the boonie hat had fallen and picking up his rifle, which happily appeared to be undamaged, Hart made his way back to where the general was sitting. With two working AK-47 rifles, a small reserve of ammunition, and the general's pistol, the group was in better shape to defend themselves if it came to that.

"Get up on your hands and knees and keep a low profile. We're going to crawl up to the old building," Hart told General Wolff, pointing at the corner of the building where Lisa and Meg were hiding.

Without a retort, the general got up on all fours. He seemed a little unsteady, but soon got moving ahead as Hart directed.

"Let's keep right on going up to the northwest corner. Stay close to the wall," Hart told him once they'd rejoined the others. "You can rest when we get inside the building."

"I . . . I . . . Let me . . . Let me rest a little. Now. Right here." The general's voice was a raspy whisper.

"Okay. Just for a minute." Hart looked around the area, all the time keeping his rifle on the general, half expecting to have someone ambush them while they waited for him to rest. Hart didn't see anyone.

While the general rested, Hart checked over the AK-47 rifle he'd taken from the guy who was wearing the boonie hat and then handed it to Lisa. "Know how to use this?" he asked.

"I sure do. My brother showed me how to shoot a rifle similar to this one." She made a point of showing Hart that she knew how to hold the rifle and how to operate the selective fire mechanism.

"Good girl. Keep your rifle trained on the general while I carry Meg. If he tries anything stupid, kill him."

"I'll do it with pleasure." Lisa's voice was cold, and the look in ther eyes told Hart she meant it.

Hart got the general moving again and started the rest of the little band moving as well. Lisa had her rifle at General Wolff's head like she meant business. Hart kept an eye on the surroundings but didn't see any activity. Still, he couldn't believe that nobody was looking for them.

"What'll happen to him once we're back at the camp?" Lisa asked, her voice a hushed whisper, tilting her head in the general's direction for emphasis, as they made their way slowly along the side of the building.

"That'll be up to Colonel Olmos. Likely, he'll be turned over to the drug enforcement people."

Lisa looked at Hart. Even in the dim light, he could see the sneer on her face. "The drug enforcement people? What'll they do with him?"

"I don't know."

Lisa was silent the rest of the way. Hart had a good idea of what she was thinking.

The four of them went inside the old stone prison via the heavy steel door at the northwest corner. Hart made General Wolff sit with his back to the wall with his hands flat on the floor beside him. Lisa and Hart sat a short distance away on either side of the general where they could see out the windows yet at the same time cover him with their rifles. Meg rested against Hart, semi-conscious now. She obviously was in pain because she moaned occasionally. Hart wished he had some medication for her.

Maybe Hart's eyes were playing tricks on him. He couldn't be sure, but in the semi-darkness he thought he could detect additional cracks in the stones around them. Maybe the old building was more damaged than he thought. Then again, maybe his eyes were playing tricks on him? Maybe the cracks weren't growing larger.

The four of them sat in silence for a few minutes. Then Lisa hunched forward toward the general and broke the stillness: "You killed my brother, didn't you?" she whispered hoarsely.

Hart's eyes now had adjusted even more to the semi-darkness, and he could see that Lisa's usually soft eyes were terribly hard as she fixed them on General Wolff, looking him full in the face as she asked her question.

"Your brother?" General Wolff questioned after a moment, his tone one of total indifference.

"Stop acting as if you don't know or care who he was. His name was Terry. Terry Cornett. My brother. You know who I mean. I'd like to know what happened to him--and why you killed him."

General Wolff appeared to be in deep thought. Finally, after what seemed like minutes but could only have been a few seconds of silence, he replied. "Yes, I know who he was. I had great hopes for Terry Cornett. Great hopes. I also must add that I had great hopes for all three of you."

"Great hopes for him? For us? What's that got to do with my question?" Lisa snapped, her eyes flashing fire as she spoke.

General Wolff ignored her immediate question, but coninued. "Your brother had much talent. Educated in the United States of America. A good soldier. Smart. Able."

"I know all of that," Lisa interrupted, "but what's that got to do with my question?"

"Terry Cornett could have had a great future with me," the general continued. "So could the three of you."

"Then why'd you kill him?" Lisa snapped.

"The trouble with Terry was, he was a moralist. He didn't like the fact that a great deal of our income comes from the drug trade."

"I can believe that. My brother never used drugs in his entire life. He didn't approve of them."

"Maybe not, but he didn't seem to realize that without the money we made from drugs, we wouldn't be able to finance my dream of a new world. A new and better world! But then, I could put up with his lack of understanding about finances. That wasn't the real problem with Terry. Not the problem that finally made him a liability."

"Okay. What was the real problem?"

"He simply knew too much about our operation, so when he started to work with the KGB--"

"My brother worked for the KGB? Lisa interrupted. "I don't believe it."

"Then believe it. Your brother may have been moralistic about some things, but he worked for the highest dollar. He started working for the KGB on the side while he was on my payroll. I let him do that for a while, as long as he remained loyal to me. When I found that the KGB was paying him cash for inside information about my operation, however, well, Terry Cornett quickly became a liability. After all I had done for him, he was on the verge of selling me out to the KGB."

"So you had him killed?"

"He brought it upon himself. He had no business working for the KGB in the first place, let alone trying to profit by selling my secrets to them. Of course, the irony of it was that he got himself killed while he was helping someone defect from the KGB. If I hadn't arranged for him to die, the KGB would have had him killed sooner or later."

"But you yourself were working with the KGB at the same time, weren't you?" Hart asked.

"Of course. They had something I needed," General Wolff replied, as if that made everything all right.

"What was that? The ability to produce excellent counterfeit United States currency? Isn't that what they did for you?"

General Wolff smiled, his teeth white against the semi-darkness. "You'll never know."

Wrong. Hart already knew.

WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP The sound grew lounder and louder. A helicopter was approaching, a big one to judge by the sound. It still was a good half hour before they could expect Colonel Olmos.

As the helicopter came closer, the old stone prison building seemed to pulsate with the vibrations. Then, as the building shook, dust and debris began to drift downward. Small stones clattered to the ground outside the windows. For a while, Hart thought they were going to be buried alive. Those cracks must be real! The battered old building wouldn't take much more shaking.

A powerful floodlight on the helicopter lit up the prison grounds and buildings. Hart thought it surely would land once the pilot saw the other helicopters on the ground, but instead it flew right over them and off into the distance. Maybe the pilot assumed that the general had everything under control.

As the sound of the helicopter died away, Hart became aware that General Wolff was muttering something under his breath. He couldn't make out the words and was about to tell him to shut up when there was a tremendous crackling sound from somewhere toward the west side of the old stone building. CRASH! BAM! CRASH! It sounded as if the very stones were breaking up. Then debris rained down on them as the west wall crumbled.

"Ah Ha! He's here! He's finally here!" General Wolff exclaimed, almost chortling.

"We're getting out of here! Now!" As Hart gave the order, he motioned toward the door, ignoring the general for the moment. Whatever he was talking about could wait until they were outside and in the clear.

General Wolff sat there as if in a trance, completely ignoring Hart's order, until Lisa shoved her rifle under his nose and snarled, "Get up and out of here. Now!"

"Over here." Hart carried Meg outside, and led the group away from the stone building to a small clump of shrubs near where he'd landed the Huey on that night when he'd first seen the old prison. They'd be somewhat hidden there.

Once they were again seated, Lisa and Hart situated so that they could watch each other's back, she turned to General Wolff. "You said, 'He's here. He's finally here.' Well, who's here?" Lisa asked.

The general smiled. "Baron Samedi." His voice was calm, almost taunting.

"Baron Samedi? You . . . You called up Baron Samedi?" The fear had crept back into Lisa's voice.
Chapter 39

"Indeed, I did call up Baron Samedi! And you heard him coming up from the underworld--tearing through the foundation of this dank and haunted place. He's here, all right. He's here! He's here!"

"I . . . I thought that calling him took a . . . took a Voodoo ceremony . . . in . . . in a . . . in a cemetery," Lisa whispered.

The general laughed. "A cemetery? Ha! Ha! Ha! This place is a cemetery."

"This place is . . . is . . . a . . . a cemetery?"

"You'd better believe it. They killed the slaves and the prisoners incarcerated here by the dozens in the old days, used their blood in rituals of all kinds, and buried their remains all over this forsaken place." General Wolff laughed again. "Who knows . . . ? Baron Samedi might bring his friends, Baron Cimiteve and Baron La Croix, with him! They'll come for me through that open door." The general tilted his head in the direction of the heavy steel door through which the group exited, and which now was standing wide open.

"No! No! Not Baron Samedi!" Lisa whispered, the fear now evident in her voice.

"Lisa?" Hart had to calm her.

"I'm sorry. What . . . What is it, David?"

"This Voodoo stuff is all nonsense. So's the devil worship. We don't have to worry about the spirit world. Let the general do that. Right now, we've got enough flesh and blood devils walking around on two legs to worry about."

"But Baron Samedi is . . . is . . . the . . . the . . . the Master . . . the Master of the Spirit World. If he's here--"

"I know about Baron Samedi and those others. Don't let the talk about them rattle you."

Hart could understand where anyone exposed to Voodoo might be frightened of Baron Samedi, the so-called Master of the Spirit World. He was always pictured as an imposing figure in his top hat, black coat tails, and smoked glasses, and with a cigar in his mouth. After all, it is said that he intercedes with death itself. But there were enough flesh and blood enemies for them to worry about right then.

"If the Baron refuses to dig my grave, I won't die. You can't kill me. Nobody can." General Wolff's voice was a proud whisper. Taunting.

"And if you do die, he'll help ou find your rightful place in the underworld, right?" Hart asked.

"I won't die," the general emphatically replied. "At least not until the Baron is ready for me to do so. Already, Baron Samedi has put me in touch with my great-grandfather and my grandfather, the great men you saw portrayed in the paintings in my apartment. Their spirits even now guide me. That's why I am assured that my mission will not fail."

"David?" Lisa now was ignoring General Wolff and looking intently at Hart.

"Yes?"

"He'll never go to trial for the murder of my brother, will he?" Suddenly, Lisa sounded angry rather than afraid.

Hart had to be honest. "No. I don't think so."

"Trial? Me? Go on trial for the murder of your brother? Ha! Ha! Ha!" General Wolff laughed as he responed to Lisa's question. "Of course, not, you foolish girl! There's no evidence that I did anything wrong, certainly nothing to connect me with your brother's death. Baron Samedi will defend me--and he's never lost a case."

Lisa's eyes flashed fire, but she didn't say anything. Hart knew what she was thinking. Knowing that he'd been at least partially responsible for the deaths of Steve Miller and Kevin Tracy and a number of others, Hart had been thinking the very same thing. Maybe there were other ways of achieving justice than in the courts.

Enough of that kind of thinking. Hart had been watching the partial collapse of the old prison building, thinking how much he would have enjoyed the opportunity to explore the parts of it that he hadn't been into yet.

As the dust settled, they could tell that the western wall had partially collapsed. The north wall appeared to be buckling. Slowly but surely, it was going down. Before long the north wall would collapse into the smaller stone building that once housed the prison's heating system. Hart thought it might collapse that way. That's why he hadn't wanted the group to take shelter there.

WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP To judge from the intensity of the sound, the helicopter that had passed over them just moments before was returning.

Hart had positioned the group so that if the chopper did return and fly over the old prison bulding as it did before, they'd be as hidden as possible behind some scrubby trees. From their vantage point, they now watched as the helicopter's search light illuminated the prison grounds just beyond their hiding place and the building itself as it flew over.

The searchlight's glare revealed the extent of the damage to the building. No doubt the helicopter's vibrations would now shake the building even more. Still, Hart would bet that the sub-basement and whatever sub-sub-basement existed would remain mostly unharmed. Entrances might be blocked by the debris, but the caverns and rooms under the basement would remain. One day maybe he'd have the chance to explore the ruins.

Once again, Hart was certain that the helicopter would land, but as before, it continued flying away into the night sky. It now was only fifteen minutes until they could expect Colonel Olmos. Still, a lot could happen in fifteen minutes.

* * * * *

Hart had just settled back against one of the trees when Lisa suddenly sat bolt upright, stared fixedly into the distance for a moment, whispered, "David!" and then raised her index finger to her lips in the universal sign for silence. Her eyes now were wide with excitement--or fear. Hart nodded his understanding of her signal to keep quiet along with his unspoken question of 'what is it?' and she pointed over his shoulder. "Intruders!" she gasped, her voice barely audible.
Chapter 40

Shifting his body as quietly as possible, Hart turned and scanned the area behind him where Lisa indicated she'd seen or heard something--and she was right! There was movement, and it was live human movement, illuminated only tentatively by the starlight. They were perhaps half a mile down the trail that Lisa and Hart had ridden when they first came to explore the old prison building. It was the same trail the men who had ambushed Steve Miller and Kevin Tracy on the night when he'd brought them here had followed.

The intruders, as Lisa had aptly called them, were keeping to the shadows. In fact, she had to have been keenly alert to have spotted them at all. As Hart watched, he could just barely make out their movements. They weren't moving fast, just steadily, quietly picking their way over obstacles as Lisa and Hart had when they came up here following that same trail.

WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP As Hart watched the men moving along the trail, he heard it--the helicopter with its powerful searchlight was coming back.

Hart had no way of knowing exactly who was on the trail nor did he know who was flying or commanding the helicopter. It seemed likely, though, that they must be cooperating. Perhaps the helicopter pilot had summoned the ground troops. Or maybe the ground patrol had summoned the helicopter.

General Wolff perked up when he head the helicopter returning. Of course, Hart thought that it would be one of his comrades looking for him and didn't want him doing anything to give away their position. As Hart watched the general closely, though, the general scowled darkly in the direction of the helicopter and started to mutter something. Hart put his finger to his lips and whispered, "Quiet."

The general ignored Hart's warning to be quiet. "Pamfilova," he whispered, then drew his finger across his throat in the universal symbol of death.

"Pamfilova? Who or what is that?" Hart whispered the question. They had to know who or what he was talking about.

"Pamfilova is a Russian drug boss who is financed by the KGB. He traffics in weapons, too. Has his own private army, and they're ruthless scoundrels, all of them. They'd love to see me dead so Pamfilova could take over my trade," the general replied, his voice a flat, whispered monotone. He seemed scared at the prospect that this Pamfilova might capture him. No doubt, he had good reason to be afraid.

The helicopter was coming directly at them now, coming in low, skimming the tree tops. At any moment the pilot would turn on the search light, flooding the area around the old prison building with light, providing the illumination the men on the ground would need to discover what was going on at the old prison. They'd likely be looking for Hart and the others, of course. And if they found them, they'd most likely kill them all along with General Wolff.

Hart would see what he could do about that. He studied the aircraft intently as it approached. It was a civilian helicopter and, therefore, wouldn't be carrying any protective armor. If it came in low enough and within range, he just might be able to shoot it down. It would be worth a try.

With that in mind, Hart sat back against one of the scrubby trees, braced himself against it, and aimed the AK-47 rifle at the approaching helicopter's belly, leading the aircraft as if he were duck hunting and it were a flying duck. First he'd take out the searchlight, and then he'd aim for the pilot. Lisa could watch the intruders on the trail to make sure they didn't jump them unannounced.

WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP-WHOMP Here it came. The vibrations shook the earth as the helicopter came in at tree-top level. Hart would be giving away their position when he fired, but . . . .

CRACK! The powerful searchlight came on but had not reached full intensity when Hart darkened it for good with his first shot. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! His next burst of rifle fire sent bullets streaming into the plexiglass bubble encircling the cockpit. Hart was aiming for the pilot.

Plexiglass shattered and fell away, the broken shards sparkling momentarily in the starlight as they arced into the night sky. Then the helicopter lurched to the right and spun, twisting counterclockwise. The pilot had lost control. Hart had hit him.

Unless the passenger was a skilled helicopter pilot and could react quickly to the situation, that aircraft was doomed. With that thought in mind, Hart fired several short bursts at the passenger's side of the helicopter. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! . . . CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! Once again, plexiglass shattered as the bullets ripped into the cockpit.

Nobody was in control of the helicopter now, and it quickly lost altitude. It was now much too low to clear the old prison building without climbing sharply, and Hart knew that wasn't going to happen. Twisting completely out of control, the helicopter smashed headlong into the side of the old prison building, its rotor blades shattering as they slammed against the stone wall in rapid succession.

The wreckage dropped fast, smacking hard into the ground near the wall of the old prison. Red flames soon licked at the fuselage. Thick black smoke began to billow skyward. BOOM! Within seconds, a tremendous orange fireball consumed the helicopter.

Hart had taken care of the helicopter. Now all they had to worry about were the approaching intruders. Wrong!
Chapter 41

Just as the doomed helicopter was going down, even while Hart was still raking the passenger side of the cockpit with rifle fire, but before the aircraft actually crashed into the stone wall, General Wolff bolted--straight for the heavy steel door that opened into the old prison building. That door was standing open, and the general went straight toward it.

As the general bolted, Lisa brought her rifle up and took aim at him, but Hart shook his head. "No, Lisa. Let him go," he whispered.

Lisa nodded "okay" and lowered her rifle.

Maybe he should have let her shoot him. Still, knowing that you've killed someone is a hard thing for someone like Lisa to carry with her for the rest of her life. Hart would spare her that memory, even if she didn't understand it at the time.

What the general had in mind Hart did not know. He apparently feared this Pamfilova, a rival who wanted him dead. Perhaps he preferred to take his chances inside the crumbling old prison with Baron Samedi.

Then again, Hart had a hunch why the general bolted for that doorway as he did. All along, he'd thought that the general must have a hideaway, a bunker-like place perhaps, somewhere in the lower depths of that old prison building. Perhaps he even knew of a passageway that would take him directly there once he was inside that doorway, a passageway that Lisa and Hart had overlooked when they'd explored the building. Hart dearly wished he knew exactly where the general was going.

Things weren't going to work out for General Wolff to escape from them, however. Just as his form disappeared into the dark doorway, a part of the wall of the old stone building that was still standing shuddered, groaned, and collapsed, triggered most likely by the helicopter's fiery crash. From where Hart sat, it apeared that there was no way the general could have escaped being buried alive in the falling rubble.

"Pamfilova? Did General Wolff say 'Pamfilova?'" Meg's voice was so soft and raspy that Hart could barely make out what she was asking over the crackling of falling stones and the whoosh of the fire that now was burning the helicopter to ruins.

"Pamfilova. Yes. That's what he said," Hart answered. "Do you know anything about him or them?"

"KGB. It's KGB. It's a man named Umar Pamfilova. General Wolff is . . . or was . . . his chief rival," Meg whispered. "Someone must have tipped them off about the general's whereabouts. About what was going on--and they came looking for him. Probably figured the general and his men had us trapped inside the old prison, so they could surround us and take all of us at once."

Hart scanned the darkness for signs of human activity on the trail before responding. Whoever was on that trail wasn't moving, at least not so that he could detect any movement. Maybe they turned back or called for reinforcements when they saw the helicpter crash.

"Meg?" Hart whispered.

"Yes?"

"Who sold out General Wolff to this Umar Pamfilova fellow?"

"I don't . . . I just don't know. There were people in General Wolff's organization who would have sold their own children if the price was right, and Pamfilova would have made the price right. He's financed by the KGB, and they're the ones who made the funny money."

"Rothman? Could it have been Lewis Rothman who sold out General Wolff?" Hart asked.

"Maybe." Meg rested her head against a tree, thinking. "No, better than 'maybe.' I'd say Lewis Rothman is a good guess. He loved money, even the counterfeit stuff. Of course, nobody could tell that it was counterfeit, so it was as good as if it were genuine United States currency."

The flames from the burning helicopter were dying down, leaving the night once again lighted only by the stars. Still, Hart couldn't detect anyone moving on the trail. But he knew they were out there somewhere. Maybe the helicopter's crash delayed them or caused them to call for reinforcements, but he figured they'd be back to look for them eventually.

Colonel Olmos should arrive within ten minutes. If his rescue party came equipped as Hart was sure they would, they'd have night vision capacity and be able to detect anyone intruding on them--on the ground or in the air. In the meantime, Hart and Lisa would hunker down and keep their eyes on the surroundings. Especially the old trail.

There wasn't much of the old prison left standing around the doorway where they'd last seen General Wolff when he made his escape. Maybe they'd have a chance to look into the ruins to see if they'd find anything of him. Then again, maybe they'd never know if he was dead or alive--or somewhere in between those two states with Baron Samedi.

Hart had quickly reloaded the AK-47, using some of the ammunition he'd taken earlier that night from the general's thugs. The AK-47, first produced in Russia in the late 1940s, wasn't the most technologically advanced firearm in the world, but there's a reason why it's still used throughout the world yet today--it works! And it certainly got the job done for them that night. Witness one dead helicopter!

As the fire that consumed the wrecked Pamfilova helicopter burned itself out and the night turned darker once again, Lisa and Hart hunkered down in the midst of the clump of trees in which they'd taken shelter, hunkered down and watched and listened intently for any indication that someone was approaching. They knew that the intruders would most likely be well-trained professional or mercenary soldiers who wouldn't be easy to detect. They'd know how to move--and how to kill--in the darkness. Still, Hart must have surprised them by shooting down the helicopter, perhaps leaving them leaderless. And if they didn't know exactly who or how many people they were facing, they'd be extremely cautious. And it was almost time for Colonel Olmos to arrive.

* * * * *

The first Black Hawk gunship came in low, bristling with weapons and high-tech night fighting gear. It roared directly over their heads and then hovered a little beyond them to the south, its crew surveying the terrain for any signs of aggressive human activity. Moments later, the Huey Hart had flown in there the first time he'd ever seen the old prison buildings lumbered into view. Colonel Olmos's rescue party had arrived--right on time!
Chapter 42

As the Huey landed almost on the exact spot where Hart once placed it, he saw the shadow of yet another helicopter, another heavily armed Black Hawk gunship, hovering in the night sky to the north of them. Colonel Olmos wasn't taking any chances. He'd brought plenty of muscle.

The first Black Hawk was hovering above the trail to the south of them where Lisa had spotted what appeared to be several intruders making their way toward them. Whoever was there must have retreated fast when Hart shot down the Pamfilova helicopter, however, because, as he later learned, the Black hawk crew didn't spot any kind of human activity in that region. Most likely, the intruders had retreated and radioied for reinforcements.

Tex and another knuckle-dragger Hart didn't immediately recognize, both wearing night-camouflage clothing and outfitted with night-vision goggles, jumped from either side of the Huey the moment it set down. Both men were armed to the teeth, Tex with his ever-present M-16 and the other man with an H&K MP5 automatic rifle. They quickly took defensive positions to either side of the Huey. As they scanned the area for possible snipers, Lisa and Hart got up slowly from their hiding place in the trees, making sure that they were correctly identified by the rescue party. Having come this far, noone wanted to be mistaken for an enemy. As Murphy's law of covert ops so aptly states, "Friendly fire--isn't!" Hart didn't want to draw any friendly fire--and he didn't.

The medic who'd accompanied Colonel Olmos on this mission jumped from the Huey and came running the moment he saw where they were located. He immediately picked up Meg in his muscular arms, carried her to the Huey, and began to rebandage her leg wound. He'd cleanse the injury and rebandage it properly--something Hart and Lisa couldn't do. He'd have some painkillers for her, too. For that Hart was thankful. She'd hurt enough.

Colonel Olmos himself was there to greet them. He climbed down from the Huey's copilot seat, an H&K MP5 automatic rifle in one hand, and extended his free hand to both Lisa and Hart as they came up. "We don't have much time. Are you guys ready to go?" he asked.

"No, sir. Not quite." Hart filled Colonel Olmos in on what had happened since their last radio message to him. They simply had to know the fate of General Wolff if it could be determined. Olmos agreed, and the three of them quickly made their way to the doorway of the old prison where they'd seen the general disappear.

And they found him. By the light of Colonel Olmos's powerful flashlight, they could see what had happened.

It was as Hart had suspected. The remains of General Wolff were almost completely buried under fallen rock and timbers. He'd just made it inside the door and appeared to be angling toward the stairway that lead to the basement before the doomed Panfilova helicopter smashed directly into the old stone building, sending the stone wall crashing down upon him. Only his boots and a little of his one trouser leg were visible.

Hart had to be sure as he could be that the body was that of General Wolff. More than one guy has faked his own death, although the general hadn't had much time for that kind of magic. Making his way to where the general's boots protruded from the rubble, Hart lifted enough stones to be reasonably sure that General Wolff's body was indeed the one that was crushed beneath them.

It wasn't possible for them to uncover the body completely or to see his face because the rocks on top of General Wolff were simply too heavy for even two or three of them to lift. And they didn't have time to do a thorough job of uncovering him. Still, they could be reasonably sure that it really was the general. That was good enough for Hart.

Lisa was right beside Hart, doing her bit to remove the debris that covered the general's remains. She, too, had to know if it really was the general. "A fitting end for a murderer! Good riddance to bad rubbish!" she snarled, as she saw that the body was almost certainly that of General Wolff.

"Right!" Hart had to agree with Lisa.

"What about the guys in the helicopter?" Colonel Olmos asked.

"My guess is that they're badly burned, but let's take a look," Hart responded. They had to learn what they could about them, too, even though Hart was sure that they were badly burned, probably beyond recognition.

Just as they turned away from General Wolff's body, Lisa grabbed Hart's arm. "Wait! Wait a minute, David."

"What is it, Lisa?"

"Look at his right leg, just above the boot. Where his pants are torn. There's something strapped to his leg. Right there. Just above his ankle." She pointed.

Lisa was right. It looked as if General Wolff was wearing an ankle holster of some kind, or an ankle or leg-wallet. They'd find out.

Quickly returning to where the general lay, Hart took his pocket knife and ripped the leg of his pants wide open. Moments later, he unstrapped the leg-wallet the general was wearing and handed it over to Lisa. Then Hart pulled off and searched the general's boots to see if he had anything secured inside them. He didn't.

Lisa couldn't wait to see what was inside that wallet the general had been carrying. As Colonel Olmos focused a tiny flashlight beam on the wallet, Lisa opened it--to reveal a thick bundle of tightly folded paper money.

As she began to unfold the wad of money, it was obvious that it consisted of United States currency, counterfeit or genuine, nobody could say for sure. It also was obvious that this crisp, new-looking currency was stained an ugly reddish-brown--the color of dried blood. Bloody green ink!

"Is that a bloodstain, David?" Lisa asked, holding the stained currency for Hart to see.

"I don't know for sure, but let's take it with us and look at it later." Hart was curious about the currency, but he also wanted them to get out of there because, as Olmos had indicated, they didn't have all night.

"Okay. We'll look at it later." Lisa started to refold the stained currency, then stopped abruptly, clutched at Hart's arm again, and exclaimed, "No, David. Wait!"

"What is it, Lisa?"

"There's something wrapped inside the folded currency." With that, Lisa quickly pulled the stained currency apart--to reveal two small strips of cloth rolled tightly together, and like the currency, stained reddish-brown--dried blood. "Oh! . . . Look!" she gasped.

It was apparent where the two strips of cloth had come from. One had to be a small piece of Lisa's missing blazer. It was the same blue material that they'd found on that headless doll on the trail from Brasilia to the old prison building. The other strip of cloth was probably torn from a shirt of Hart's that someone had found in the van they'd abandoned in Brasilia.

As Lisa pulled the bloody currency from around the bits of cloth, a scrap of paper fluttered from between the bills and to the ground. Hart picked it up. There was something written on it in what appeared to be German, but they'd have to read it later. "Hang on to this, Lisa," Hart said, handing her the scrap of paper.

"I've got it!" Lisa folded the currency, strips of cloth, and paper they'd found inside the general's leg-wallet and slipped everything into her pocket. The three of them then made their way to where the Pamfilova helicopter had crashed.

The helicopter had burned with a furious heat for a short while after it crashed. There still was heat radiating from the burned wreckage, although it was beginning to cool somewhat.

Colonel Olmos, Lisa, and Hart surveyed the wreckage of the helicopter from a slight distance, then moved in close despite the heat to inspect it as best they could. As Hart suspected, both the pilot and passenger were very badly burned. He checked as carefully as he could given the heat and circumstances, but there didn't seem to be any identification on the bodies, at least none that remained after the fire. None of them had any idea as to the men's identities. Then Hart got to thinking, wondering if Meg could identify either of them--especially this Pamfilova character that she'd told them about.

"Meg may know these guys, Colonel Olmos," Hart suggested.

Colonel Olmos called the medic on his radio and he brought Meg right over to join the three of them at the helicopter wreckage. Meg seemed to be alert and in good spirits, although obviously still in pain from the injured leg.

"Do you recognize either of these guys, Meg?" Olmos asked, indicating the men who'd been in the helicopter when it crashed and burned.

Meg looked over the bodies for a moment before she spoke. "Maybe one of them. That one." She pointed at the passenger.

"Who is he?"

"The passenger probably is Umar Pamfilova, the KGB drug lord. And he was a sworn enemy of General Wolff. I don't have any idea who the pilot is."

"Can you be sure it's Umar Pamfilova?"

"No. I can't positively identify his face, not with the way he's been burned, but Umar Pamfilova was known to always wear a big silver belt buckle just like that one." Meg pointed to what would have been a beautiful large silver belt buckle, now blackened and twisted by the fire, still in place on a charred leather belt on the passenger's ample waist. "Umar Pamfilova was a fat man, too, just like this guy was." Meg studied the bodies for another moment in silence, then added, "I think that's the best I can do."

"Good. Thanks, Meg. You did a good job." Colonel Olmos's voice was soothing. As the medic helped Meg back to the waiting Huey, Olmos secured a small digital camera from his shirt pocket and snapped several photographs of the remains of the man they thought had been Umar Pamfilova, paying particular attention to getting a close-up photograph of his belt buckle. He'd compare his photograph of that buckle with one in any available photographs of Umar Pamfilova.

Colonel Olmos also photographed the pilot although he had little chance of identifying him. He hadn't been wearing any particular clothing or jewelry that would help identify him, and none of these guys carry identification of any kind if they can help it. He'd be just another nameless victim of the drug wars as far as everyone except his family and friends were concerned. And his family and friends might never learn what happened to him.

They made notes about the identification markings on the wrecked helicpter. They probably wouldn't help much in identifying the owner, however, because the helicopter likely would be found to be registered in some corporate name that didn't mean anything--except that it avoided ready identification of the aircraft. Between the KGB and the drug cartels, these guys know all of the tricks about hiding the ownership of everything--including helicopters.

Colonel Olmos's radio chirped just then as he returned the camera to his pocket. "Headquarters says there's helicopter activity around Brasilia. Maybe civilian, but more likely military gunships. Whoever it is, there are two of them headed in our direction. Let's get out of here just as soon as you guys are ready," the Huey's pilot advised.

"Roger. Let's get going," Olmos said. Hart and Lisa were more than ready to go.

Lisa and Hart followed Colonel Olmos as he ran to the Huey. He quickly climbed into the copilot seat while Lisa and Hart scrambled into the cargo area. The pilot talked briefly by radio to Tex and the other knuckle-dragger, who were guarding us. They climbed aboard, still keeping a sharp watch from the cargo doors for any potential ambush. The Huey's engine revved, and the rotor above their heads began to pick up speed. Then they were airborne.

Hart looked back over his shoulder at the ruins of the old prison buildings that made up the Elions Prison complex as they grew smaller and smaller in the distance. One of these days, he told himself, he'd be back at those ghostly old ruins--exploring the underground passages. Maybe Lisa would come with him.

* * * * *

The immortal demon who'd inhabited General Wolff and encouraged his lust for blood and power was not at all discouraged at the chain of events. The general was dead, yes, but there were plenty of hosts he could encourage in their quests for money and power--and blood. "Ye-e-s-s-s-s!" he screamed. "Ye-e-s-s-s! Ye-e-s-s-s-s! Ye-e-s-s-s-s!" Men have always been willing to kill for money and power. He'd have no trouble in finding another sadistic host.
Chapter 43

The Huey's pilot, a "kid" nicknamed "Stubby" because of his sturdy build, kept the helicopter low, just above the tree tops, just as Hart had when he'd brought it to the site of the old prison buildings a few weeks ago. Stubby had co-piloted with Hart several times on different missions. They couldn't have asked for a better helicopter pilot that night, especially if things should go sour and they were forced into combat. Stubby has ice water in his veins, and plenty of combat experience under his belt.

Looking past Stubby, up ahead of the Huey, Hart could make out one of the Black Hawk helicopter escorts silhouetted against the twinkling stars. It's crew was watching for trouble as it led them toward home. Although he couldn't see it from where he was sitting, Hart knew that the other Black Hawk was only a short distance behind them, guarding the Huey's tail.

Before they'd flown very far, Hart became aware of a third escort silhouetted in the starlight against the blackness of the night. Another Black Hawk helicopter had joined them and was shadowing them at some distance to the right. Colonel Olmos had indeed brought serious muscle when he'd come for them.

Once they were well away from what remained of the old prison buildings, Hart asked Lisa if she still had the currency and other stuff they'd taken from General Wolff's leg-wallet.

"I sure do. It's right here!" she exclaimed, as she retrieved it from her pocket.

The medic, who was sitting beside Lisa, produced a pocket flashlight and, with Colonel Olmos's assurance that it was okay to turn on a small light in the cargo area, beamed it at the stained currency as Lisa began to unfold it. There was no doubt in Hart's mind that the reddish-brown stain was blood. What kind of or whose blood it was, Hart didn't know, but he'd seen enough bloodstains to recognize the color and know how blood soaks into currency and cloth.

Once again, Lisa gingerly unfolded the stained United States currency to reveal the two small strips of cloth from their clothing. Hart could see that the cloth strips also were soaked with what he assumed to be blood--likely soaked in blood as part of an occult ritual designed to entice the devil to soak their own clothing in blood. Their own blood.

Lisa then carefully unfolded the small scrap of paper and studied it for a long moment. "It's written in German, and I'm not very good with the German language," she murmured as she handed it to Hart. "Can you interpret it for us, David?"

"Maybe. I'll try." Hart held out his hand.

Lisa handed Hart the scrap of paper, and he studied the wording for several moments by the light of the medic's flashlight. His command of the written German language wasn't the best either, but he could make out the intent of what was written even if he couldn't provide a perfectly literal translation.

"What does it say?" Lisa's voice was hushed.

"Are you sure that you want to know what it says, Lisa?" Hart wasn't sure she'd want to know after she heard what was written there.

"It's a curse, isn't it? The general wanted us dead--and he wrote out a Voodoo-type curse upon me and you, isn't that what it's all about?" Lisa asked, ignoring his question. She'd guessed exactly what the message was all about.

"Yes. Now, are you sure that you want me to read it to you?" Hart asked again.

"Of course, I . . . I want . . . I want to know. I mean . . . well, it'll scare me a little, but I still want to know what it says." A little of the fear had crept back into Lisa's voice.

"Okay. I'll do my best to translate it for you."

Lisa clutched Hart's arm and looked up at him, her eyes focused on his.

"My knowledge of the written German language isn't the greatest, but my best translation of what the general has written is:

This is my enemy.

This is your enemy.

This cloth is not my toy.

As I say your name, Lisa Cornett,

So I shall destroy."

"Oh!" Lisa gasped and clutched Hart's arm tightly as she heard her name. He hoped she wouldn't be too frightened. If she was, she quickly gained her composure. "Is that . . . Is that all it says?"

"No."

"What else does it say?"

Was it Hart's imagination, or could he actually smell the faint aroma of burning candles--no doubt the black candles or the red ones he'd seen on the general's altar? The message repeated, this time substituting Hart's name for Lisa's:

This is my enemy.

This is your enemy.

This cloth is not my toy.

As I say your name, David Hart,

So I shall destroy.

There was more:

As blood soaks this cloth,

So shall blood soak Lisa Cornett's clothing.

So shall she die.

By your hand--and mine.

And the wording was repeated with Hart's name inserted instead of Lisa's"

As blood soaks this cloth

So shall blood soak David Hart's clothing.

So shall he die.

By your hand--and mine.

Lisa sat quietly when he'd finished. "Read it all to me again, David," she whispered after a few moments of silence, her voice much lighter now--if Hart was hearing her correctly.

"It's pretty harsh stuff. Are you sure you want to hear it again, Lisa?" he asked.

"Yes. I'm certain." Her voice was stronger now.

"Okay."

Hart read his rather rough translation of General Wolff's writings, not quite knowing how Lisa would react to hearing the death curse again. Then, as he finished reading, Lisa actually laughed and patted his arm. Hart looked down at her, not sure what the laugh indicated, but she was quick to enlighten him.

"It's ironic, isn't it, David?" Lisa laughed. No fear was now evident in her voice.

"What's that? What's ironic, Lisa?" Hart asked, hopeful but wanting to be absolutely certain of what she was getting at.

"My being scared of something the late great General Wolff wrote by way of a curse on you and me. Especially now that he's dead!" she explained.

"That's right. There's no reason to be afraid of him or his Voodoo or his Macumba or his anything else now." Hart tried to be soothing, knowing that Lisa had been truly frightened.

Hart had never thought there was any reason to be afraid of the general's curses or his candles or his devil offerings--but Lisa didn't see things that way--as yet. Maybe time would help her forget about the black candles, Macumba rituals, and curses.

"Let me see the note," Lisa said. She held out her hand.

"Okay." Hart placed it in her hand.

Lisa studied it for a moment. "What should we do with this?" she asked.

"What would you like to do with it?" Hart asked.

"Toss it out the cargo door, and let the night have it." She nodded in the direction of the door. "What do you think of that idea?"

"Why not? Go ahead and toss it out."

"I'll do it!" With that, Lisa ripped the note to shreds and, with a flourish, tossed the torn strips of paper out the open cargo door. They watched them flutter as they disappeared into the night.

"Well, that's that!" Lisa exclaimed. "We'll keep the cash and spend it, of course, but let's get rid of the bloody strips of our clothing, too, okay?"

"Sure. Toss 'em out!"

Lisa unrolled the stained strips of cloth and tossed them out the cargo door. They watched them flutter for a moment in the night air as the wash from the rotor hurled them downward and out of view.

Sutbby had the Huey going full tilt, and the helicopter's familiar vibrations put Hart at ease, soothing him into a state of near-euphoria--as near as he would ever be to being at one with the tremendous flying machine he loved. "Take us on home, baby," Hart breathed. "Take us on home."

Hart sensed Lisa relax against him as they watched the curses and bloody cloth vanish into the night. Maybe she, too, was now tuning into the helicopter's vibrations as Hart was. After a while, she smiled up at Hart and then rested her head on his shoulder. "Hold me, David," she murmured.

Hart put his arm around Lisa's shoulder. She snuggled close and squeezed his hand affectionaely. They were going home.
Epilogue

Colonel Olmos and Hart had done what they'd set out to do. They'd stopped General Wolff in his fiendishly mad ambition to become the ruler of South America and ultimately the world. He might have achieved that goal, too, given his tremendous economic power and devious methods of acquiring control. Given the capability of producing the sarin that he so desperately wanted, he might have been able to challenge and eliminate even the most dangerous of his rivals, adding their assets to his economic might. Indeed, given a few breaks, he just might have achieved his goal of world domination--even as Hitler's Nazis, the general's ancestors, might have won World War II.

In the world of drug cartels and weapons running, however, the death of one leader only spells opportunity for others. It wasn't long before they learned that Herr Mankin had taken over General Wolff's empire. In fact, their friends in drug enforcement assured them that the generals troops never missed even one drug shipment. And there wasn't even a blip in the flow of illegal weapons around the globe.

Herr Mankin proved to be every bit as ruthless as Lewis Rothman said he was. In the first two weeks after he came to power, he and those loyal to him massacred three drug lords in as many nearby countries and took over their operations. In addition, he had executed at least ten people in General Wolff's organization.

Of course, they'd done Herr Mankin a great favor by eliminating a key rival in Umar Pamfilova. Although it appeared to take some unexpected political savvy on the part of Herr Mankin, he eventually made peace with Pamfilova's KGB-financed organization. He even cooperated with them on re-establishing the counterfeiting operation--before massacring the KGB operatiaves who were running the operation and substituting his own loyalists.

So it goes. On and on. In the realm of drugs and weapons trafficking and other high-stakes illegal activities, the killing never stops. It doesn't even slow down temporarily if considered on a global scale. All in all, the KGBs counterfeit United States currency operation, the illegal production of "green ink" as Hart called it, had directly or indirectly claimed a tremendous number of lives. Steve Miller, Kevin Tracy, Terry Cornett, a number of General Wolff's men and the general himself, Umar Pamfilova and a number of KGB operatives, and countless peons in rival drug cartels--the list of men who died because that counterfeit currency combined with income from the drug trade and weapons trafficking represented near-global power goes on and on.

* * * * *

The demon that inhabited General Wolff found himself another able killer and torturer in Herr Mankin. Mankin obviously was ruthless, and at the demon's urging, set forth killing and torturing his enemies around the clock.

The demon who had overseen atrocities at the old prison for as long as it had existed quickly located another prison where savage acts were preformed daily. The warden there was sadistic by nature, and with the demon's urging, began to enjoy the abuse of his prisoners even more.

* * * * *

Lewis Rothman, the United States Military Attache' who had sold his country and several of its citizens, including Lisa, Meg, and Hart, down the river for bloody green ink, was nowhere to be found. Either Herr Mankin made sure he disappeared permanently and would never be found or the wily Lewis Rothman had carefully planned for the day when he'd need to disappear--and he'd done so.

Lisa now works as a communications expert for the CIA at a United States Embassy that will remain unnamed for her own security. Herr Mankin vowed that she shall die and offered a sizable reward for her--dead or alive.

Meg continues to work for the CIA, in a capacity that also must go unspecified for security reasons. Herr Mankin is not fond of her either, of course. Anyone who betrays her to him will be financially set for life--with counterfeit United States currency that's as good as the real thing.

David Hart is still flying helicopters on covert operations for Colonel Olmos. On a personal note, he's formulating plans for his next leave. His grandfather, the Alaskan bush pilot, disappeared one wintry day in a blizzard after picking up a miner at his claim. As the story goes, the miner, a man Hart's grandfather had financed in his successful search for gold, was carrying a bag of gold from his mine when he and Hart's grandfather disappeared.

No trace ever was found of the men or of his grandfather's airplane--and Hart always wanted to search for them. He's researched everything that's known about the lcoation where they took off, their destination, and the time their ill-fated flight likely began. He's plotted out their intended flight path and made attempts to determine how they might have been blown off course by the wind and where Grandfather might have tried to land if they experienced engine failure.

Although there was a massive search for them when they went missing, storms delayed the search for several days. And there are several large bodies of water in the area where they might have crashed and sunk without a trace. With the sophisticated search-gear available today, Hart thinks he's got a good chance of locating the wreckage of their airplane--and any remains of the two men. At least, he's going to give it a try.

As you might imagine, when Lisa heard about Hart's plans, she was determined to go with him. Of course, she's going with him. Lisa doesn't take 'no' for an answer. Wish them luck!

The End

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