And although, in blessed moments, his life touched those of his fearless friends — the men of Phoenix and Able, Grimaldi, Turrin, Kurtzman and those lovely women, Smiley, Toby and their associates — his future was committed to acting under his own command. He was answerable to no one and to nothing except his understanding, born in flames, of justice. There would always be room in his campaign, of course, for his allies.

Dire events had conspired once more — relentlessly and inevitably, it now seemed to Bolan — to impel him onto this lonely odyssey. Bereft of his legions, he accepted his due stoically, determined to pursue his destiny to the end. He knew this war was really his and his alone. Why? Because his war was a simple matter: he would avenge to the last drop of blood the death of April Rose.

In the States, Yakov Katzenelenbogen routinely received intel reports from the Mideast, considered of possible interest to his ex-commander by contacts Katz maintained in Mossad.

When the Phoenix Force boss received news that Greb Strakhov was in Beirut, Katz immediately processed the item to Bolan via one of their standard floating contacts maintained since Bolan went outlaw.

Bolan had agreed: they could not afford to let such an opportunity pass to strike at the top-echelon member of the Soviet terror machine, the man at the head of those who had killed his beloved April.

Katz covered Bolan's travel to the Mideast under anonymous Israeli diplomatic immunity. Bolan's weapons and munitions had been shipped by air, hidden in crates of Tel Aviv — bound machine parts, with Mossad's Security Blue authorization, which meant no one checked them.

In Israel, Bolan had retrieved his hardware without any problems — there are no gun-control laws in Israel — and Katz had accompanied the Executioner as far as the Lebanese border.

There, an Israeli military patrol took "the mystery man from the States" into the war-torn Lebanese countryside for Bolan's rendezvous with Chaim Herzi, Katz's nephew.