Bolan crossed the sidewalk in two quick strides and melted into the shadows of an alleyway. The last thing he wanted was an interview with the members of Iceland's police. They would ask too many questions, study his ID, maybe check him out with Interpol.

There was not much crime in Iceland foreigners who broke the law were not welcome. The interview could turn into an interrogation.

And however much Bolan had been the injured party on this occasion, the fact remained that his Interpol dossier had him listed as an outlaw.

And he had killed two men on a Reykjavik street.

If he quietly vanished, with luck, he would get away unrecognized.

There were no witnesses to the shooting or to the clumsy attempt on his life at the airport; the doorman was the only person who had actually seen him during the firelight; he had made no reservation and left no name at the restaurant.

He releathered the Beretta and found his way back to the Hotel Wotan by a roundabout route. Thirty minutes later he was in bed.

He had barely fallen asleep when his unknown enemies struck again.

2

The attack was stealthier than the first two. If Bolan had not been a superlight sleeper, his warrior instincts sensitive to the slightest deviation from the norm and if he had not already been alerted by the two previous attempts the intrusion could have passed unnoticed.

For one thing, the clandestine entry was not made the obvious way via the fire escape, the balcony and the floorlength double-casement windows, which would have presented no problem to a professional. A small lobby, with closets on one side and the bathroom on the other, separated the bedroom from the door to the hallway. And it was through this door, the lock oiled with an aerosol spray and a skeleton key expertly maneuvered, that the killer came in.