Goldenberg wondered how a man like that slept at night. As a brilliant young doctor, Boehm had practiced surgery in Buchenwald. His specialty was pain. He had diligently sought ways to relieve the agony of German soldiers wounded on the Russian front. The camps had provided him with an endless supply of guinea pigs for his hideous experiments in stress, cold and tolerance of the nervous system. After the collapse of Hitler's perverted dream, the Israeli knew, Gunther Boehm had escaped via the socalled Vatican pipeline. His expertise had been soon put to work by the secret police of half a dozen South American countries. He was not at all concerned by this new application for his extradition.

Boehm had made many powerful friends and considered himself beyond the reach of any investigators.

The waiter rolled the dessert trolley toward Boehm's table.

Goldenberg saw the color drain from his companion's cheeks. Wetherby's hand gripped the edge of their table, the knuckles white with tension. The Israeli agent had to reach across and hold his forearm. "I... I know him." Wetherby's terrified eyes indicated the tall, broad-shouldered waiter. The words were uttered in a barely audible whisper. "That's Phoenix. John Phoenix! I'll never forget him. What the hell does he think he's..."

"Sit down!" ordered Goldenberg. "Let's not draw any unwelcome attention."

Wetherby was right: he could never forget that man... on restless nights that chilling gaze still haunted his uneasy sleep. Mack Bolan; a.k.a. The Executioner; a.k.a. Colonel John Phoenix — and heaven only knows how many other names — had been the target of a worldwide dragnet, Operation Bad Apple. Wetherby had tried to bring him in from the cold outside Milan. The renegade American had stolen Wetherby's Fiat and left the agent stranded, shoeless, miles from the autostrada.