The Dollar club

By Robert M. McLeod

Special Forces sniper Sergeant Ryan Stewart narrowly escapes with his life when his last mission in Kosovo turns into a deathtrap. Disillusioned and bitter, Stewart returns to the US determined to begin a new life as a civilian, unaware that surviving the mission has made him a pawn in a monstrous global conspiracy and the target of a ruthless madman. Divorced from his wife, an anti-abortion activist who blames him for the death of their unborn child, Ryan tries to start a new career shooting pictures instead of terrorists. Instead of the peaceful life he yearns for he finds himself framed for the murder of two abortion doctors. With the help of rookie FBI agent Grace Hutchinson Ryan, unable to prove his innocence and fearing he will never live to see the inside of a courtroom they risk everything to flee the country, escaping to Greece and the Mediterranean island of Thasos. There, they learn that they are the targets of an immensely powerful and shadowy organization known as the Dollar Club. Fleeing from the killers sent to find them Ryan and Grace stumble upon a conspiracy so vast that every country in the world will feel its effects. Hidden behind countless dummy corporations, cloaked in a veil of secrecy their influence reaching into every government on the planet, the Dollar Club will stop at nothing in their quest for wealth and power. Armed with the barest knowledge of what they face, unaware of the strength of the forces arrayed against them, Grace and Ryan travel across Europe and North America to a showdown where losing means more than just their death. With a relentlessness borne of desperation they struggle to unravel the threads that bind the conspirators together, before time runs out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert M. McLeod
• Release date: May 31, 2013
• ISBN: 9780992009007

Book preview

The Dollar Club

By Rob McLeod

Copyright 2013, Rob McLeod

Smashwords Edition

CHAPTER 1

The man and woman sat facing each other in the private compartment. She was slim, her skin pale, her normally soft features hardened with the stress of the last months. He was stern, watchful, his dark eyes roaming, constantly searching, never still.

Both of the weary passengers slumped back gratefully into the worn seats, relief flooding through them as the train began to pull slowly out of the Bahnhauf.

Are you sure they’ll follow us? She was surprised her voice sounded so calm.

I hope so, her partner said. His eyes fastened on the shadows moving across the compartment door.

Will they find us? Her voice betrayed her uncertainty.

I hope so. He grinned mirthlessly, and when they do we‘ll be ready for them. This time we’ll take them. He looked at her, his dark eyes hardening. We will find out what we need and then it will be our turn to go after them. This time the hunted will become the hunter.

She nodded wordlessly, her hand slipping absently under her coat, caressing the comfortable smoothness of the 9-mm Sig Saur that rested snugly in the shoulder holster. Reassured she leaned back, her head on the faded green cloth of the seat, gray eyes slowly closing with fatigue.

How long before we reach Geneva?

Four or five hours maybe longer, I’m not sure.

She closed her eyes, letting her head fall gently against the cool cloth of the seat, letting her fatigue claim her. At least they were safe for the next four or five hours. Within a few minutes she was asleep. He sat quietly watching her and wondered for the hundredth time why it had come to this.

He turned to the window, watching the German countryside flash by. There was a deep weariness in him, but his fatigue was as much mental as physical. He wished for sleep but knew it would be a long time coming. Twilight softened the harshness of the day, its gentle cloak beginning to cover the afternoon brightness. A dozen towns passed quickly by, each one differing only slightly from the next. The train slowed almost imperceptibly as it rolled through another anonymous town. His eyes watched as the cobbled streets and steep, vaulted roofs of the ageless village shops passed by.

It was a small town, not unlike one in Kosovo, somehow the same and yet worlds apart. One small town that almost a year ago had been the start of it all.

Christ, had it only been ten months since then? His mind wandered slowly, reluctantly back to the beginning. Back to where his nightmare had first begun.

Sergeant Ryan Stewart moved through the stunted brush and low grass, oblivious to any distractions, intent only on the blackness that enveloped him, the need to blend in with the dark, to be a ghost. His toes dug into the soft earth and pushed gently, propelling him a few silent inches ahead. Move a couple of feet then freeze, his body ridged, immobile, ears straining for that break in the night silence; the rustle of cloth on grass that would tell him the enemy was close. Satisfied he slid his arms forward cradling his weapon loosely and pulled his body a few inches farther along. Purposefully, silently, he crawled toward the small rise he had earmarked for his nest.

He reached his hide and slid into position. All the outside distractions fell away as he focused on the mission, nerves jangling; all his senses alert to any danger. He eased the weapon off his arms and quietly unsnapped the dull black Harris bi-pod. The sleek deadly M14 fell naturally in line with his body, an extension of him, of his purpose and mission. With practiced hands he quickly slipped the cover off the scope. His fingers moved with a surgeon’s precision, automatically adjusting for the darkness and distance to the target.

This was the part Ryan loved the most, the part he was the best at, waiting for the target to appear, sighting on the exact spot and gently squeezing the trigger. Feeling the recoil and hearing the muted bark of the weapon before slipping soundlessly, effortlessly into the night. This time, lying on this hard foreign soil, for the very first time in his career, he felt vulnerable. The night was too bright. The moon almost full and a thousand stars shone intensely. Prone in the ankle high grass, he felt as if he were centered in a spotlight.

His hands found the smaller magazine and he slipped it quietly into the weapon. Each movement was slow and deliberate, nothing fast, nothing that might give his presence away. He reached down to his hip and felt for the butt of his Sig-Saur. He was instantly reassured by the weight of the tough little nine-millimeter.

His target was a Serb captain named Anton Milovic, one of the hundreds of local warlords that had emerged in the war. Not really very important in the big scheme of things but a brutal bastard who was generating the wrong kind of headlines and beginning to make NATO look bad. He and his men had terrorized this part of Kosovo for months, killing and looting at will. NATO couldn’t talk diplomacy while this pig raped and murdered helpless Kosovars whenever he felt like it.

Now it was his turn.

Stewart adjusted the scope and scanned the scene below him. The target, was sitting on the hood of a jeep, his shirt unbuttoned to allow his huge belly to spill over his belt, a bottle, undoubtedly full of Slivovitz the fiery Balkan brandy, held in one meaty hand. He had men spread out all around the square; most of them appeared drunk. In the back of a small café, two waitresses huddled together trying to avoid the attention of the soldiers drinking at the tables. Although the square was brightly lit, most of the buildings surrounding it were dark, burned out and gutted. Only a few lights shone in the windows throughout the town.

Ryan did not like this situation at all. He continued to scan the scene, taking time to note everything, not just his target. The big Nimrod scope brought the small village square into sharp focus. This was not like the briefing at all. These troops appeared top of the line, hard core. The one or two vehicles he could see were in good shape. Nothing was the way the Ops Officer had described it, the way he told them it would be. Something was wrong, it didn’t jive. He was missing something, but what? He scanned the scene again. Nothing had changed. Everyone was still in their place, like actors waiting for their cue.

He adjusted the sight, drawing Milovic close, filling the eyepiece. The big Serb remained unmoving, the bottle still clutched in one hand but no closer to his lips than before. His weapon leaned casually against the bumper of the jeep, close at hand. Intelligence said he was a drunk, never far from a bottle. He didn’t appear drunk. In fact he looked alert and ready. Next the scope pulled in the soldiers at the café. They sat around in groups of two and three, drinks in front of them, but only one or two lifting the glasses to their lips. A hard knot of fear was beginning to form in Ryan’s stomach; this place was not what it appeared.

He swung the scope across the town square, searching for something, anything that would tell him what was going on. The streetlights were out all over the rest of the town but the square was lit up enough to make Milovic a perfect target. Ryan couldn’t see into the darkened alleyways, but he was sure that more men and probably more fighting vehicles lurked there, waiting to be unleashed.

This was a set-up. He’d run enough ambushes to know how one felt. Somehow Milovic knew they were coming. He was waiting for them. Ryan continued to scan the scene, looking now for a way to make the hit and get everyone out. His shot was the signal. He was to take Milovic out and then the other teams were supposed to take out as many of his men as possible. Ryan had argued that taking out these guys was a Navy SEAL or even a British SAS task. They were the guys who went in and eliminated a large group of enemies. A sniper’s job was to take out an individual. The Intelligence boys running this mission had overruled him, especially the Ops. Officer Capt. Freemont. That toad had never been on a mission and didn’t know Jack shit about dark Ops, but this was his show.

Ryan scanned the square a final time. It wasn’t any good. This was not going to happen. He was not going to take the shot. Their orders had been specific on that count at least. Without the first shot coming from his position, no one else was to initiate contact. If he didn’t fire the others would move back at the pre-arranged time and head for the pickup point.

His decision made, Ryan stretched his arm forward slowly, hands reaching out to collapse the bipod. Suddenly, he stopped, his arm frozen in position. A prickle of apprehension raced down his spine. He’d felt that particular sensation only a few times before. That odd sixth sense that all snipers acquired had just kicked in, an ability to sense when they were the ones now in the crosshairs, they were the target. There was nothing around him, at least nothing he could see or hear. Still without questioning the feeling he knew he was being watched. A hunch told him to check his three o’clock. He turned his head slowly to the right.

There was a low rise almost four hundred meters away. It was a perfect place for a sniper’s nest. Ryan could feel his heart start to pound. Someone was up there. He was suddenly very sure of that. Quietly he shifted his weight, slowly inching the M14 around toward the rise, his finger tightening reflexively on the trigger as he sought a target. The big scope drew in all the ambient light and focused it, turning everything around him into a sea of alien green. He was right. Across the night, someone lay in the grass staring back at him through a scope of his own. There could be no doubt that Ryan was his target.

In his mind’s eye Ryan could picture the small red dot from a laser sight, resting on his forehead. What was he waiting for? Ryan’s tried to concentrate. His mind racing through what few options he had, desperately trying to figure out his next move. Somehow, he had to find a way out of this trap.

Fear rippled along his spine. He had only one chance at this. He began moving backwards, painfully, slowly, inching toward the small depression that had been his cover coming in.

He waited for the round to slam into his brain, snuffing his existence. One part of his brain wondered irreverently if he would feel anything. Enough! Adrenaline surged through him pushing aside the fear. He needed to survive, needed to stop thinking about dying. He let his training take over. Without collapsing the bipod, without showing any change in his posture he dug his toes into the soft earth he began to move backwards. Why was the other shooter waiting, why wasn’t he taking the shot? He was helpless if the enemy fired.

Ryan realized almost immediately why his enemy hadn’t fired. The other sniper hadn’t counted on his being seen. He was going to wait until Ryan fired then take him out during the firefight. Jesus, Ryan almost panicked. That could only mean one thing. Whoever this guy was, he had to be aware that the other teams out there. He wasn’t sure of their locations and didn’t want to be caught in the firefight that would follow the first shot. The unknown sniper was the seventh team out and he didn’t want to be mistaken for a Serb. His shot had to be perfect. His retreat assured.

Ryan focused on the dark figure facing him, barely discernible in the blackness. He dared not take his eye from the scope, dared not lose sight of the killer on the rise. His finger cramped with the effort of holding the trigger taut, ready to fire. This guy is good Ryan realized. He’s playing with me. The thought made him almost physically sick. He’s waiting to see how far I can go before he has to shoot me. Fear pushed against Ryan’s mind, suffocating him. Only his training kept him moving. Ryan’s ankles were into the depression now, a few more feet and he might be able to get out of the snipers kill zone.

A familiar whistle intruded on his ears. Without thinking, acting on training alone, he closed one eye to keep from being blinded as a dazzling white light burst above the town. Shots exploded from the direction of the town. Shouts and screams mingled with the sounds of crashing guns as the troops in the town sprung their own trap. Ryan rolled violently to his left, instinctively twisting his body away from the gunman. He could feel the rounds hammer into the ground as he scrambled desperately into the depression. Dirt sprayed over him as the gunman tried to zero in on his prone body. He squirmed deeper into the depression, willing himself invisible. More flares rose up from the town taking away the sniper’s night vision. Ryan froze, letting more than a dozen years of experience take over, keeping him invisible, not allowing any movement to give his position away.

The frantic bark of Serb AK’s mingled with the roar of vehicles as the Serbs charged after the other teams. Explosions and shots filled the air as the rest of the team fought to extract themselves. Ryan could make out the sounds of each battle as groups of Serb soldiers attacked. Tracers told the story of each firefight. He could see a lot more of them heading out from the Serbs than toward them.

The last flare guttered and died, plunging the battlefield back into darkness. Slowly he crawled away from the town and the sniper on the rise. Still careful to stay concealed Ryan moved faster than he knew was prudent, his breath harsh and uneven. Even with all the confusion, one part of his brain noted that the Serbs had stayed away from his area. He would be safe from them for now unless the shooter was in radio contact.

Ryan wasn’t dead, so he was certain that the other sniper had pulled out as well, his route out set and ready to use. Soon the grass was higher and the depression lower, Ryan’s cover more pronounced and useful. He went slower now, pausing every few feet to listen for any signs of pursuit. After what seemed like a lifetime, he was back among the trees, away from the killing fields. Here was sanctuary. Here he could stand and move more freely. Here he was safe, at least for now.

He listened to the Serbs as they went after the other teams, the shooting becoming sporadic. Slowly it died to nothing. He waited until he was sure that he was alone and started toward the rendezvous, wondering if any of the others would show, if any of them were left to show up.

He climbed across the rocky hills surrounding the town, using the thick scrub brush and trees for cover. Certain no one had spotted him he still moved with excessive care, stopping every few minutes to be certain he was alone. Near dawn he found a quiet place between several boulders near the top of a gentle slope and hunkered down to wait for the morning light.

The pick-up wasn’t for several more hours. Hidden in the brush, quiet, watchful, he had time to think. Why? The word kept pounding into his brain. Why would he, Sergeant Ryan Stewart, become a target? Someone had betrayed him and the others. It had to be someone on his side, someone with all the details. It wouldn’t be hard to find out who it was. He didn’t know what he would do once he found him, but he was fucking well going to find him.

He was convinced now that his death had been set up from the start. The Serbs hadn’t come after him, hadn’t even moved out in his direction. That someone had tipped them off was obvious. The question was why?

He hadn’t wanted this goddamn mission from the very beginning. But headquarters had demanded it. In a few short weeks he was going to be a civilian again but they demanded that he perform one more mission before rotating back home. The rest of his team had gone home weeks ago but he had been kept behind for this one last shoot. Everyone running this mission was new to the game and more than a little inexperienced. He was supposed to be the corporate knowledge, the one they could turn to for advice. If he hadn’t already been told these losers didn’t know their ass from a hole in the ground, he figured it out the first time they tried to give a briefing. They didn’t know shit about silent Ops. In fact, they didn’t have any good Intel, or anything else useful for that matter. At least on the surface it appeared that way. Usually, inexperience on the part of the staff weenies was just a nuisance, nothing more than a small handicap, no big deal. From day one this whole thing had smelled wrong. Instead of listening to his instincts he’d simply written the feelings off, assumed he was just anxious to get home. But now he was beginning to understand that maybe he was the inexperienced one. Ryan realized that he really hadn’t been aware of what was happening around him, he couldn’t even blame it on his desperate need to get home or his preoccupation with Jenny and the accident. He hadn’t seen it coming, had not been prepared for betrayal.

He prayed at least one or two of the other guys had made it out. He needed to talk to them, to compare notes. He wanted to hear what they had to say before storming into that hive of useless fucking staff officers.

As night gave way to the morning light Ryan slipped through the bush heading for the pick-up point. He started off at a brisk pace across the terrain, picking his route; careful to circle the two broken, rotting buildings he came across. Careful to avoid any place that looked like it might hold troops. By mid morning he was three hours ahead of schedule, almost at the LZ. Now he became even more cautious and watchful, his actions determined and deliberate. He realized that if the bastards knew where he was going to conceal himself for the shoot then they would sure as hell know were the landing zone was. He had made sure he was early, finding a quiet spot where he could hide and observe he settled in to wait for the choppers.

While he waited through the rest of the afternoon, he watched for any survivors, wondering if there were any, would they be the traitor. As he sat there he couldn’t stop his mind going after the other sniper. Who was he? Was he out there? Was he hidden somewhere, waiting for Ryan to offer himself as a target.

The choppers came in almost four hours late. He popped a green smoke grenade and brought them into the landing zone. Both choppers landed, arching in quickly over the treetops, barely settling on the grass. He raced toward the closest one, his mind cringing, waiting to feel the punch of the bullet from an invisible sniper. He scrambled aboard unhurt. At the look of confusion on the crew chief’s face he pointed upwards, telling them to move off. The crew chief looked at him, his eyes wide and questioning. Ryan shook his head. In a hurricane of dust and grass the choppers took off, spinning quickly on their tails and heading back to camp.

CHAPTER 2

Ryan stormed down the hallway, eyes blazing. His fingers curled into fists as he took the stairs two and three at a time. The one or two people he passed in the corridor took one look into his dark burning eyes and instantly moved out of his path, their own eyes quickly searching for somewhere else to look.

He burst through the office door. I want to know what the fuck happened out there?

Captain Aldridge Freemont casually pushed the papers he was reading aside, and looked at Ryan. His disinterested attitude only served to spike Ryan’s rage. Jesus Christ this fucker was some piece of work. He’d obviously been warned that Ryan was on his way and was trying to pretend he were merely annoyed at the intrusion.

There is no need to barge in here like some second rate Bruce Willis. Freemont tried unsuccessfully to appear immune to Ryan’s anger. You’ve been debriefed Sergeant Stewart, you know what happened, I don’t think I owe you any kind of special explanation.

You bet your ass you do. Ryan slammed his hand on the desktop. Freemont flinched at the look of contempt on Ryan’s face.

And if you don’t owe it to me then you damn well owe one to the guys who didn’t make it back.

Freemont wrinkled his nose as if trying to avoid a disgusting smell. We lost several good men out there, Sergeant, and I realize you may be upset. That’s understandable considering the stress you’re under. But that’s the risks you take in this profession. The others were aware of those risks as well. He shrugged dismissing Ryan’s concerns. I’m sorry everything went into the tank on us. It was a good plan and should’ve worked. I don’t know why things happened the way they did but I’m positive we will find the problem and correct it for the next time.

Ryan stared opened-mouthed at the man in front of him, as if looking at some strange new bug for the first time. A career officer who had just received his second bar, Freemont came from lots of old money and had been chaperoned into his current position. A position Ryan, among others, had quickly realized he knew nothing about. He hadn’t known half his facts during the briefings and like the fool he was tried to bluff his way through. He pretended he was on top of everything and the person asking the question should smarten up and learn their trade. No one had been fooled, at least none of the old hands on Ryan’s side of the room. Freemont hadn’t instilled any confidence in the teams. In fact some of the others had tried to quit this job rather than work it his way. He was way in over his head, and not smart enough to realize it. Freemont was, Ryan thought, a typical officer. Arrogant, self-centered and unconcerned about anything or anyone that wasn’t good for his career. He was more concerned about how Ryan was treating him at this moment than what he had to say about the mission.

Ryan’s anger, already at the bursting point, was ready to spill out. He was still pissed from the debriefing the day before. Those stupid bastards over in intelligence had started to question why he was the only one who made it out. At first, his story about the other sniper had been dismissed as unthinkable, unbelievable. By the end of the session, they had inferred that perhaps he had run out before the firefight was finished. He had become unhinged at that, becoming so upset he’d almost choked the life out of one of the idiots debriefing him. Now he was on his way home. Just like that, they had decided to get him out of the Balkans. He wasn’t sure why they didn’t throw him in jail for choking that dumb fuck of a lieutenant, but he wasn’t going to argue the point that was for damn sure. But before he left he wanted one last shot at Freemont.

That night was the first night he’d worked with most of the other men. Snipers were by nature a solitary breed, and although you knew most by reputation, it was rare that you actually worked together. There was a reason for that, he ground his teeth at the thought and tried desperately to hold his temper in check, it was obvious that this little fuckwad in front of him couldn’t give a rat’s ass about the men who hadn’t made it back. He didn’t care that they were real people with real lives. There were a lot of rules about leadership and Sergeant Ryan Stewart knew them all. When you put your life in someone else’s hands you want to make damn sure he knows what he’s doing. The first rule was that you looked after your people, no matter what the situation, no matter what the problem, the troops came first. If they didn’t then they wouldn’t be there the next time you needed them. It was obvious that Freemont knew nothing about leadership. The little bastard was looking after himself and no one else.

That’s it? Ryan spat. Oh well, so sad. Better luck next time. You just sent four men out to their deaths and two into captivity in Serbia and you don’t give a Rats Ass? The way the Serbs are talking they’re going to execute them both and that’s OK with you? His voice rose as his anger started to spill out. We were set up from the minute we went in there and you know it. I told you what happened and what the Serb’s were doing. It was a goddamn setup. He could feel his control slipping. He wanted nothing better than to give into the urge to beat this arrogant little turd into the ground. With his last ounce of willpower Ryan fought down the urge to let his temper have free rein. His fingers gripped the edge of the desk; the last thing he needed was to go to jail for putting an officer in hospital, even if the dumb fuck desperately needed it.

I don’t think you should talk about being set up Sergeant. His tone was patronizing, his whole attitude that of a long suffering teacher with a slow student. It was dark, the firefight was confusing. I am sure you thought you saw someone out there, but we both know that was not what happened. If there was someone out there it was probably one of the Kosovars from the town trying to hide from the Serbs. He paused and tried to look sincere, but Ryan caught a flicker of fear, or maybe even guilt, flash across his eyes. His voice took on a petulant tone. And yes Sergeant. I care a great deal, but there is nothing further we can do. Now I think that is all we have to discuss.

No Sir. Ryan voice dropped to a whisper, his rage unstoppable. That’s not all we have to discuss. I want to know why you bastards tried to have the mission compromised. I know it wasn’t a Kosovars or a Serb out there. It was a professional out there. It was pure chance that I survived. If you had any kind of field experience, you’d know what the fuck I was talking about. He stared hard at the man in front of him, his breathing ragged.

Get a grip on yourself Sergeant. His tone now more strained than before. Freemont tried to sound superior but couldn’t quite pull it off. Now there was a real knot of fear in his voice. I said the discussion was closed. Now I suggest you leave this office before I take offense to your tone of voice.

Ryan leaned across the desk pushing his face close to Freemont’s, his six-foot frame towering over the smaller officer. He was too angry to feel any satisfaction watching Freemont slink back into his chair trying desperately to stay as far away from him as possible.

Listen to me, I’m telling you that there was something wrong about this mission, right from the goddamn start. You people back here sent us out to be hit. You know it and I know it. I may not ever be able to prove anything, not yet anyway, but we both know what happened. I don’t know why you did it. But don’t you give me any bullshit about caring what happened, because you don’t give a flying fuck about the men under your command. He jabbed his finger into the Freemont’s chest. You don’t care about the men. You only care about getting your next promotion. Well you fucked up on this one, and it’s going to come back to haunt you. I’ll make damn sure of that.

For a second neither man spoke, then Ryan spun, charging out of the office, his anger chasing him out before he hurt the little bastard. With any luck that part would come later.

Captain Aldridge Freemont wiped his brow and slumped back in his chair, sweat running down the inside of his shirt. Sergeant Stewart was supposed to be dead and he, Aldridge Freemont, was supposed to be getting ready to head back to civilization. Damn it. What had happened? Instead of being out of the way Stewart was yelling at the top of his lungs that he’d been a set up. Freemont was all too aware that it had been his mission. If anyone looked too closely it would be him and not Sergeant Stewart being crucified.

He reached for the phone with a trembling hand. He would have to make this call now, although his mind had been searching desperately for a way to avoid it. He had never met the person on the other end of the phone but the cold dead voice that whispered through the wire pushed a spike of fear deep into his guts. He dialed and waited for the voice.

This is Freemont, he said.

The air on the line was heavy, silent. He wiped the sweat off his forehead.

The target wasn’t hit. I repeat the target wasn’t hit.

How is that possible? Were all the assets in place? The voice seemed more curious than angry.

It wasn’t my fault, everything was in place. Somehow he spotted the shooter and slipped away, his fingers were white where they gripped the phone. You said the shooter was the best, you said he would be able to take out the target. Well he didn’t do it, and now Stewart knows something is going on.

My man is one of the best. But if you knew anything about your own men you’d know that the target is also one of the best.

Well he’s is still alive and now we have a problem on our hands.

Then I suggest you watch what you say and do for the next while, I don’t want more than one problem to deal with. Do I make myself clear? The line went dead.

Capt. Aldridge Freemont, youngest son of one of the wealthiest families in Pennsylvania, stared at the silent instrument in his hand. That had been no idle threat. He cursed himself again for allowing his father to talk him into this. There had been no threats of violence back in Ivy League schools young Aldridge Freemont had attended. No hint of fear or danger in the moneyed avenues his family inhabited.

It had seemed easy enough at first. Aldridge senior moved in powerful circles, this had been a way for his youngest son to step through the door into those same circles. Freemont stared unseeing at the desktop. He was deeply involved now. There was no way out. Because of him two US servicemen were in captivity; four were dead, and Stewart talking to anyone who would listen about a set up. Christ! What was he going to do? He knew Stewart was dangerous, but Stewart did not scare him as much as that voice on the phone did. With a moan of self-pity Captain Aldridge Freemont flopped back into his seat, eyes squeezed shut to hold back the tears of frustration and fear.

CHAPTER 3

High vaulted arches chiseled from the native stone had towered over the hall for centuries. One wall was covered in books; a multitude of rare, ancient and ornate tomes stretching from floor to ceiling, dominating the room. From the rich Persian carpets strewn in seeming random patterns on the floor, to the hundred-year-old scotch sipped from crystal glasses, this was a place of great wealth and power. The net worth of the people in the room was equal to most countries GNP. These men and women had come here from every part of the world. Most were well known both at home and abroad. It would have amazed many who knew them had they learned of the devious routes, precautions taken, and money spent so each could reach this place unnoticed by the outside world. They sat in a half circle, all eyes riveted on the only person who was on his feet. Ernst Mannheim paced slowly across the room, his head down, quietly absorbing the information from each of the individuals who in their turn reported to him.

His face, square jawed and imperious framed a pair of deep set intelligent eyes. With his short-cropped reddish hair and a nose that had been broken more than once in his climb to success, Ernst Mannheim was instantly reminded one of a General on the Battlefield patiently listening to intelligence reports before taking on the enemy.

For a long moment after the last speaker had finished he continued to pace, absorbing the information provided. Finally he raised his eyes and lifted his glass in a toast to those in the room.

"The little