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  Katz remained silent. Once more he recalled what the head Fed had said back at Stony Man Farm and what he had stated to be their objectives.

  Take a look at the town and come home. Nothing more.

  "We ought to go back to the hotel in Yalta," he said.

  "Go back!" McCarter sounded appalled. "We don't know enough to call it quits. I mean this is weird. Look." He pointed to bright lights near the edge of town closest to them. "Exxon, and it's even self-service."

  "McDonald's." Gary Manning nodded toward the familiar arch. "And over there, A & P. I mean, the Russians could use some supermarkets. They'd freak out if they saw shelves filled with everything from Wheaties to caviar. Probably think it was a KGB trick. But an A & P store here, that's as queer as moose seducing a bear."

  "It's a scene from a science-fiction video," Katz said. "We've stepped through a time warp."

  Manning nodded in agreement.

  "Then we go closer," the Briton said. "Must take a better look at this oddity, or I'll think I'm hallucinating."

  Manning agreed, but Katz still vacillated. "It's against orders," he finally said.

  "To hell with the orders. Brognola wouldn't want us to quit if he knew what we're looking at."

  "The guys at the hotel might get edgy when we don't return in time."

  McCarter became impatient. "They wouldn't go back if they were here, looking through our eyes."

  Katz tried to weigh their chances. "You know Encizo and James. If we're not back on schedule, they're going to come looking for us. The question is, do we risk their lives so we can satisfy our curiosity?"

  Silence greeted his words as the two men weighed the issues.

  "Maybe you're right," Manning conceded. "Figuring this place out isn't worth disobeying orders or risking our lives. Hell, we could end up getting ourselves into a real trapper's stew if we hang around much longer."

  His tone had changed. He sounded like a man anxious to avoid getting "involved."

  But then he rarely presented a clear-cut picture of himself. He looked like a man who loved a quiet lake, its surface broken by a muskie fiercely clamping its jaws around an artificial lure. He could be mistaken for a rugged, reclusive deer hunter, but no one would guess that in Canada he hunted game for food and anywhere around the globe he hunted men as food for his obsessive desire to thin the herd of human predators.

  "You two go back," Katz said suddenly.

  His associates had anticipated that decision. They understood Katz. They knew his story. Somebody who had sustained a lot of personal losses was willing to take more chances with his safety.

  They suspected he would give up his life without regret — if the price, the cause was right. Phoenix Force provided the perfect solution to the dilemma of a man who had limited reasons to live. He would take on assignments until he finally died in action, having taken with him scores of the world's assorted monsters.

  Manning and McCarter exchanged negative looks that let Katz know they did not find his plan agreeable.

  "We should return to the States and report what we've found. This place is too peaceful. Too innocent looking. There's none of the barbed wire or guard towers you'd expect at a Russian installation, but there has got to be more to it than what's visible."

  "There were five armed guards," Manning reminded him.

  "Five guards patrolling together? We haven't seen any other security men."

  "So?"

  "So they didn't expect any problems or…"

  "Or they were hunters, carrying weapons you'd never see regular security men using," McCarter said. "Five buddies out shooting rabbits. And we killed them."

  "It won't wash," Manning said. "They spoke English. They got uptight when Katz used Russian. They were guards, all right. Poor ones, maybe, but they weren't out shooting cottontails."

  "Look," Katz said. "One man can handle this. Besides, I've got a premonition. The deal is too simple. This is the kind of mission that could end in disaster."

  It was an eerie, mysterious kind of place, so inviting that it could be his downfall. He hated to take the others with him, but he knew they would not let him proceed alone.

  "Okay," he said. "We go in. Just stroll in like we were three buddies or three guards coming in off the line at the end of the shift."

  "Walk straight in?" Manning blinked with surprise.

  "Yes. Or you two can cover me."

  "No," McCarter said. "I like the idea. We go in straight and see as much as we can. The place is too big for everyone to know everyone else."

  Manning grumbled. "I don't like it, but I'm outvoted. So let's go."

  Before they could step off, an unexpected sound, familiar and reassuring, made them pause.

  A church bell was ringing at the end of the town's main street.

  * * *

  The Reverend Arnold Vulcan beamed from the pulpit at the front of the small church.

  "May the Good Lord shine his light upon you."

  He finished his brief sermon with the usual satisfaction. He appreciated the irony. Arnold Vulcan, the hardline Communist playing the role of born-again Christian. He loved wearing a false face. Every night, every day was a costume party.

  And he was the devil incarnate.

  Every day he grew stronger in his role and secretly hoped he was becoming indispensable to the state.

  With a well-practiced semblance of intimacy, he leaned forward so his elbows were on the podium and his fingers curved over the front of the gleaming wood.

  "Friends, and I do think of you all…" He interrupted himself because he was an avowed perfectionist, and no error could go uncorrected. " 'You all' is a Southern expression. Only those designated as living below the Mason-Dixon line will ever use it. Now, as I was saying, friends, God has favored us with a marvelous opportunity."

  Hiding his cynicism of religion was not easy, but he worked hard at it.

  He had spent all of his forty years of life, except for his early childhood days, climbing a political ladder that he had built in his mind. The ladder's feet were planted solidly in the earth of Party doctrine. The lower steps had meant fervent, dedicated service to the Communist youth movement. He'd openly campaigned for leadership.

  His application for the KGB was filed the moment he was old enough to be eligible. He took a stint in "Wet Work." Whenever possible, he had personally handled interrogations and was adept at torture. This blood sport gave him an aura of toughness that frightened the less dedicated men in the organization.

  But he had connived his way out of the sadistic realm and skipped to pure espionage as quickly as possible. He had sought assignments in the United States and again proved his faith by pretending he was eager to return home when ordered. No one ever thought he would defect. And he would not. Only in Russia could he gain power — pure, raw, vicious power over others.

  Power was his bread. Brutality was his wine.

  He had risen quickly through the ranks, but now he wanted to move out of the KGB and into a spotlight of his own. Although national leaders frequently had covert action experience in their background, he had sensed early that the new realm was slyly demoting both the intelligence and military organizations.

  Here in Cheyenne, a city of his own making, he was not only building a name and a reputation, but he was also carving a tight little niche for himself.

  The «Reverend» Arnold Vulcan worked directly for the Politburo. He had been so successful with his individual projects that the men who ran the vast empire gathered Cheyenne to their own protective arms.

  If the current project succeeded, he had no doubt he would either move directly into the ruling council or at least have his name at the top of the waiting list.

  All he would have to do for such a giant leap forward was to hint that he had another idea with equal potential.

  The Reverend Vulcan would stop at nothing to make the Cheyenne project a masterful success. Many would die in the process. Sacrifices, human sacrifices would be necessary
. But he considered the victims martyrs who would elevate him to a point where he could provide a better living for his people, where he could expand the empire, where he could exert control.

  He was the chosen one.

  "Those invited here tonight for this brief but all-important fellowship meeting have been given a mission."

  He prided himself on working religion into every pronouncement about this mission. It was a disarming asset to be considered a cleric when he worked abroad.

  Surprisingly the elation he had expected from his audience came back to him as a buzz of nervous tension.

  "Did you not hear me?"

  Vulcan allowed an inkling of threat to coax his "parishioners."

  Neither Vulcan nor Arnold was his real name, of course, but he expected to continue using them. Vulcan, like Alexander the Great, was a name suited for historic leaders.

  Within five years he would be in the Politburo, he promised himself. The world would need him there by then.

  "I say again." He raised his voice. "Did you hear me? Jesus Christ, Our Savior, has deemed us fit to serve His cause. Hallelujah."

  A tall, powerful man wearing jeans and a T-shirt with an I Love New York inscription stood at the rear of the church. He went by the name of Ollie Larson-Swenson. A native-born American according to his passport, he did not affect an accent.

  "All this religious garbage offends me," he said. "I am a good Party member."

  "The phony cloak of religion will not offend you when you are confronted by inquisitive CIA bastards."

  "It is not only the religious trash," Larson continued. "It's the mission. We are not ready." He lapsed into Russian, as though the English failed to convey his feelings on the matter.

  "English! English! English!" Vulcan raged.

  A tall, strong man with gray at his temples and piercing blue eyes, Vulcan rarely lost control. He was like steel, and the flames around him were no more danger to him than the heat of a match.

  "We heard that we will be used as assassins in the United States," a woman said. "Doesn't the KGB have a section of trained killers?"

  "Morkrie Dela," a man said. "Why should we do their work?"

  "There is no Morkrie Dela. You were not sent here to become mere assassins, but you will do as you are ordered, wherever you are. And if I hear one more word of Russian spoken from this moment until our triumphant return, I will have the individual and his entire family deported to Siberia. Understood?"

  No one answered.

  "Good. Now return to your homes and pack. Only the items on your personal list. Your travel guides will inspect your luggage. There must be no links between you and the motherland."

  "Are you saying we will be leaving tomorrow, comrade?"

  "Comrade? You idiot. I should have you…" Just then Vulcan was interrupted by a boy who entered from the wings and who proceeded to inform him in a whisper that five guards had not reported in on time.

  Vulcan wasn't concerned. "Probably drunk somewhere," he said.

  The security men were cadre. While they lived the American way, they were not sent on long-term missions. And they had little to do. No one had ever attempted to enter the town.

  "Send out a posse to find them and bring them to me."

  The boy assumed a puzzled expression at that command.

  "Posse means a group of men sent out to search for an outlaw. Haven't you been watching the films as required?"

  "Yes, pastor, I will form a posse right away."

  With him, Vulcan could pretend to have forgotten Larson's breaches of policy. He smiled broadly, sending a benevolent look at the youngster.

  "Express your excitement. How often do you get a chance to live the materialistic life-style of the decadent West?"

  "How long will we live to enjoy this opportunity," Larson persisted, "if we are sent on a particularly dangerous assignment before we are ready?"

  There were murmurs of support all around. A few, those designated as born-again Christians, stayed in their roles even as they questioned Vulcan's wisdom.

  "Jesus would not call upon us so soon."

  "Christ cannot protect against our own lack of training."

  "Besides," Larson said, "those who have gone before us had one long-term assignment alone, a man and wife at most. We are being sent in a herd, like cattle. Surely it is more hazardous."

  "There is safety in numbers."

  "Like hell."

  "Amen."

  "I say 'amen' to that, too."

  "So do I."

  "Think of being awarded the Order of the Red Flag," Vulcan told them. "Even the Gold Star is possible."

  Larson attacked again.

  "We want to know the nature of this mission."

  "It is a great pilgrimage. A real blow for communism. You will be given details en route."

  "You want us to go now?"

  "Impossible. Unwise."

  Larson drew himself up. "Unless we know the mission, it is impossible for us to go."

  A silence gripped the chamber.

  Mutiny. That could not be allowed, and Vulcan knew the remedy. He took a pen and small notebook from his pocket. Even before he scribbled with the pen, the silence developed into a dead stillness.

  To make the arrogant humble themselves before him brought Vulcan a gratification that was almost sexual. People were sheep, he thought. A lone wolf could attack the flock, knowing that no others would band together against him.

  Larson growled with contempt for his timid cohorts. "Ah, you are all fish. You would swim into the shark's mouth for fear of his teeth." He stalked from the church, spreading both doors as if a vast space was needed for his great bulk to pass through.

  In a way Vulcan admired the big man. Too bad he would have to die in his own explosion, lest he be traced back to the Soviet Union.

  But few from his «parish» would return, Vulcan knew. He had already commenced a list of those marked for death.

  The congregation waited for permission to leave.

  "Go. Make ready for what we have practiced. The order to move out may come any day, any hour. With luck we will have some days to shop in the West."

  The promise of shopping in a non-Communist nation cheered the phony worshipers, and they left, joking and laughing.

  Only one young woman remained.

  She was thirty-two and had never been married, according to her dossier. It was difficult to understand why she had not been pursued by many men.

  She was beautiful. Tall, five-eight or more without the heels that emphasized the taut, graceful muscies of her legs. Hers was a body fitting the universal standard of perfection. More than adequate breasts, slim waist and perfectly shaped hips. She was dressed like an American businesswoman and wore horn-rimmed glasses that could not detract from the sensuousness in her deep blue eyes. She had an inviting mouth, clear tanned skin, and her long, light brown hair gleamed with highlights.

  He had never wanted to screw any other woman so badly, but he was certain that she was a KGB agent paid to watch his every move. He must be careful.

  "Ah, yes, my dear Anna. My dear, dear, Anna. *

  She had been gone briefly, to Moscow for instruction, he supposed. Seeing her after the brief absence gave him an excuse to kiss her in greeting, but when he tried she turned her cheek. He pretended that she had only meant to protect her makeup, so his lips touched the back of her neck near her hairline.

  "Ann Cardwell," she said coyly. "Anna is a name for milkmaids in America."

  "They have no women milking cows in the United States," he instructed her. "They use only machines, so the women must live on the streets and serve as low-priced whores. But let us go celebrate."

  "I must go pack if we are leaving so soon."

  "If you do not come to my quarters, I could have your name dropped from the list," he threatened. He could not know with any certainty, but he guessed she wanted nothing more than to get out of the USSR.

  "You do not have such power as yet, Comrade Colon
el," she said.

  "I will have such power soon," he insisted.

  "Invite me then."

  He ran his tongue across his lips. Next to power, she was the thing he wanted most. The pleasure of having her would be doubly delicious because she would detest every minute of it.

  Not waiting for him to say anything, she walked away from him and out into the cool evening.

  He stood in the church doorway, looking after her with a gleam in his eyes, then turning his attention to and admiring his city.

  "Genius," he told himself. "Sheer genius."

  4

  Katz could almost smell the danger. He had no doubts that the town existed for a sinister purpose.

  He knew the Russian mentality, or at least, that of the Communist dictators who ran the prison empire. Even the current «enlightened» rulers who decreed incentives and toyed with supposedly freer elections were men of unfailing determination. Katz suspected that they would never relinquish any significant power to the people. The subjects of autocrats had a way of turning on their masters when the reins were loosened.

  Those in the Party extended that caution to the international scene. They knew empires continued to gobble up colonies or the colonials became restless. As long as the Russian sphere of influence, besides the occupied satellite countries, continued to grow, there was not much hope of pushing back the Iron Curtain. People, like gamblers, bet on players with a winning streak.

  And the USSR was not likely to build a fantasyland or theme park like Cheyenne that flaunted capitalist prosperity. Besides, in the two hours since they had first spotted the bizarre village, no one had entered or left. The road in had remained empty.

  But downtown buzzed with activity. People entered and left the assortment of stores. They drove late-model American and Japanese cars from the business area to the residential sections. Several disappeared inside the church.

  But there was no sound. The distance and trees muffled the usual noise.

  Pantomime, Katz thought. Television without sound.

  Strange. He had felt more competent dealing with the five guards. Silence was an ambush waiting for the unwary.