Chapter 1

His stalker came from the West, though his skills were born of the East.

Adolf Kluge had met his pursuer once. At first glance, Kluge might have thought him an average man. He was a thin Caucasian with dark hair, approximately six feet tall, perhaps 150 or 160 pounds. Other than a pair of abnormally thick wrists, he didn't seem exceptional in any way.

But he was exceptional. Of that, Kluge had no doubt.

The latest proof of this had been faxed to him not ten minutes ago. Among the documents were several black-and-white photographs that showed the bodies of men who had been killed in horrific ways. Kluge singled out a photo of a man whose head had been crushed by some massive force. He looked like a tube of toothpaste squeezed in the middle. In his mind, Kluge couldn't help but see himself as the victim in the photo. The thought froze his spine.

"The description by those left alive lends the appearance that this is all the work of a single assassin," said Herman, an aide. "I would venture that this is not possible. Do you concur, Herr Kluge?"

Eyes hooded as he looked up from the gruesome photo, Adolf Kluge gave his assistant a baleful glare. "Of course it is one man. Where else but in this village could one find an army that wears the same face?"

The aide frowned. "But it seems too incredible to believe," he insisted.

"That it does," Kluge admitted. His voice had an edge of annoyance.

Kluge dropped the photo. In the other hand, he still clutched the envelope containing the latest intelligence. With a world-weary sigh, he looked around the room. Involuntarily his gray-blue eyes alighted on the life-size painting of Adolf Hitler-Kluge's namesake-that graced the main wall of the large stone conference room. The fuhrer's flinty eyes had been painted so that they glared unapologetically at anyone who might enter this mountain fortress. As if the chancellor stared with disdain from a realm beyond death.