Splinter Cell. Don Pendleton

       Chapter 8

       Chapter 9

       Epilogue

      Prologue

      The salt sea air mixed with the odor of fish grew stronger in Phil Paxton’s nostrils as he made his final walk toward the Ijsselmeer. Amsterdam was different from what he’d expected it to be. No, he thought as he stopped along the concrete railing to gaze down one of the city’s many canals, it wasn’t Amsterdam that was different.

      It was his behavior within the city that had surprised him.

      Phil looked at his watch. He’d be back in New York by this time the following night. He was ready to get back. Not just ready but anxious. Phil Paxton was ready to go home. He was ready to marry Janie.

      Taking in a final breath of sea air, Phil turned and retraced his steps toward the hotel. But when a passing taxi slowed he suddenly found himself waving it down. He still had several hours to kill before he headed to the airport.

      “Rijksmuseum,” he said as he got into the backseat.

      The driver nodded, pulled away from the curb and reached forward and turned on the radio.

      Phil closed his eyes and he pictured Janie as she had looked when she’d dropped him off at the airport two weeks earlier. Tears had trickled down her face, smearing her mascara and reddening her eyes. She had kissed him on the cheek rather than the mouth, then said softly, “Come back to me…if that’s what you want to do.” Then, without another word, she’d turned and walked away.

      Pain seared through his heart as Phil opened his eyes again. They were passing a large park with grills set in concrete and bicycle paths. He could imagine families crowding around picnic tables, laughing, having fun, children racing about playing tag and other youthful games. He had told Janie that he had promised himself as a child that he would visit Amsterdam someday—before he got married. He had told her that he had always dreamed of visiting the Rembrandt House museum, the house where Anne Frank’s family had hidden during the Nazi occupation, the step-gabled houses, historic churches and ancient towers.

      The history of the city fascinated him. But that had not been his only reason for wanting to go to Amsterdam. And even though he hadn’t told her, Janie knew it as well as he did.

      The cabbie stopped at a red light, then turned right. Phil Paxton frowned. He would have sworn the Rijksmuseum was to the left. But what did he know? Maybe the cabdriver knew a shortcut. More likely, he knew a “long cut” that would increase the fare.

      As the cab picked up speed, Phil closed his eyes again. Although Dutch painters and architecture had always been hobbies that bordered on passions with him, both he and Janie had known it was a very different kind of passion that had brought him to Amsterdam. Phil Paxton wanted to know for certain if he had finally settled down enough to get married. He didn’t want to marry Janie only to find himself cheating on her two weeks later. He needed to find out if he could resist temptation. And few places in the world presented temptation in the form of beautiful and available women like Amsterdam.

      Phil opened his eyes and was surprised to find that they were in a section of the city he had not seen during his two weeks of furious touring. “Where are we?” he asked the driver.

      The man glanced up into the rearview mirror. “Another fare to pick up,” he said. “No worry. I charge you one-half only.”

      Phil shrugged. He had never liked arguing with people, especially with the additional complication of the language barrier. So he just closed his eyes again.

      This time the smile that came to his face was genuine. He remembered the first night he had arrived in Amsterdam. Although he had caught a good six hours of sleep on the plane, and it had only been eight o’clock in the evening, he had convinced himself he was too tired to go looking for the fleshpots of the city. The next day he had spent several hours at the same museum toward which he was headed again now, eaten dinner at a small outdoor café, then returned to his hotel when the wine he’d drunk told him he was too woozy to get his money’s worth from any of the prostitutes who had smiled at him on the sidewalks.

      The third day he had gone to the Kalverstraut—the busiest shopping area in Holland. He had surprised himself when he’d returned to the hotel later that evening, unwrapped his purchases and suddenly realized they had all been presents for Janie.

      So that night he had forced himself out of the hotel even though he hadn’t wanted to go. He had made himself walk along the streets, eyeing the prostitutes who sat on display in the windows. Many were scantily clad. A few were completely nude. Without trying, he had found himself comparing each woman to Janie, and each time they came up short. Finally, he had come across a beautiful woman wearing a transparent negligee. Her long red hair fell past her shoulders and glimmered in the streetlights, and her skin was the color of milk. He had gone inside, paid the brothel owner for the entire night with her, then allowed the man to escort him to her room.

      It was only after the man had shut the door on his way out, and the prostitute had let the negligee fall from her shoulders to the floor, that he had realized what had attracted him to her.

      And why he could not go through with the act for which he had already paid.

      The woman looked enough like Janie to be her sister.

      Phil Paxton had left the room and taken a cab back to his hotel. The next day he had gone to one of Amsterdam’s more famous diamond-cutters and had a stone cut and mounted in gold, doing his best to guess at exactly what Janie would like. And for the next week and a half, art, architecture and history really had become the reason for his trip.

      His eyes still closed, Phil reached into the side pocket of his sport coat and felt the small felt-covered gift box that contained both Janie’s engagement and wedding rings. In less than a day now, the engagement ring would be on her finger, and the thought made Phil’s smile widen.

      His thoughts were suddenly interrupted when the driver slammed on the brakes. Phil opened his eyes to see that they were no longer on the streets but had entered a dark alleyway that stank of garbage.

      Then, as if on cue, the driver turned and aimed a pistol over the seat at his passenger. “Don’t move,” he said in a completely different accent than he had used earlier. “Or I’ll kill you here and now.”

      A second later, white lights from outside the vehicle flooded the interior. Phil’s door flew open and rough hands jerked him out. In a flash of vision, Phil Paxton saw rifle barrels and angry, dark-skinned faces. Then a hood was dropped over his head and tied in place around his neck with rope. Next he felt a hypodermic needle prick the skin on his upper arm.

      A moment later, euphoria overcame Phil Paxton. For a moment, he knew that whatever was happening had to be just fine. Everything would work out.

      The euphoria, however, was short-lived. A few seconds later, he lost consciousness.

      1

      Only a highly trained soldier, cop or intelligence officer would have been likely to notice the differences. Tiny differences, like the fact that his bearing was slightly more erect, that he exuded more confidence than the average man. Or that the set of his jaw was a little firmer. But it was his eyes, he knew, that would have really given him away had he not taken great pains to keep anyone from staring into them. In those eyes other warriors could see that he’d seen hell, and lived to tell about it.

      On the surface, however, Mack Bolan looked little different than any of the other men flying first class from New York. He wore a well-tailored gray pin-striped suit much like bankers, gem dealers and other businessmen wore when visiting Amsterdam. His passport claimed his name was Matt