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Desperate Cargo
Don Pendleton
Infiltrating a Dutch human trafficking organization turns deadly when two undercover agents are tortured and shot. Protected by a complex infrastructure and ruthless lawyers, the businessmen behind the crime are untouchable under international law. But Mack Bolan isn't about to play by their rules.Entering Holland alone, Bolan heads to Rotterdam where he is prepared to seek out his target and destroy the corrupt organization piece by piece. The leaders of the group think they are invincible, but with the lives of women and children at stake, they are about to learn what it's like to be hunted by the Executioner.
It wouldn’t be the first time the Executioner had been forced to rethink a mission
The chill draft caused by the train’s motion buffeted him and pulled at his clothing. From the tracks the ground fell away in a long grassy slope. Some way ahead he could see clusters of lights, indicating some habitation. A town. That meant people and maybe the chance to gain some other kind of transportation.
The sudden shriek of the train’s whistle alerted him. The train reduced its speed somewhat. He watched the ground some feet below. It still seemed to be moving by at a dangerous speed.
He figured it wasn’t going to get better than this. He was about to take a calculated risk—one that might leave him injured. But if he decided to stay on the train he could find himself in the hands of the authorities and his freedom might become a thing of the past. Bolan swung around so he faced the way the train was moving, waited for the clearest patch of slope and went for it.
Desperate Cargo
The Executioner
Don Pendleton
www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
It is easy to be brave behind a castle wall.
—Welsh proverb
The men who hide behind their wealth and pretend to be brave will pay the ultimate price.
—Mack Bolan
THE
MACK BOLAN
LEGEND
Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.
But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.
Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.
He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.
So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.
But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.
Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Prologue
During its long, slow voyage from Thailand, the Orient Venturer made a number of calls into friendly ports. Sometimes it was to take on more cargo, or to unload. It refueled and during those stays in port the captain played host to officials who marked his cargo as legitimate and departed the ship with considerably more cash in their pockets than they’d had when they boarded.
The Orient Venturer’s voyage was one it had made a number of times. In its hold, or in the steel seagoing containers secured to its rusting and scarred deck plates, it carried the mixed cargo that marked it as a ship of all trades. The cargo—mainly clothing and electrical goods, manufactured in Asian sweatshops—would find its way into stores and retail outlets spread across Europe. Cheaply made, the goods would be sold at marked-up prices for Western consumers. These items brought a fair profit for the company that owned the ship.
One container, however, held cargo that would net an even greater profit for the men behind the Orient Venturer.
The special cargo was stowed in a special container. A close inspection would have shown that the container had been altered to facilitate its cargo.
In the roof were a number of vented grilles to allow air to travel in and out of the steel box. This was necessary in order to keep the cargo of young Thai women and children alive.
The eldest woman was twenty-two, the youngest twelve. They were all kidnap victims, intended for sale when they reached their destination. They had no choice in the matter because they were virtual slaves. They’d been stolen from their homes for induction into the twilight world of human trafficking. At journey’s end they would be passed along to their new masters. Some would be forced into the garment industry where they would work endless hours for starvation wages. Others would be moved into prostitution, the sex industry, or they would go as personal playthings for wealthy clients. The younger and prettier a girl, the more likely she would be bought for sexual gratification.
Business was thriving. The Orient Venturer made regular trips delivering the cargo to mainland Europe and the United Kingdom. The men behind the business were based in Rotterdam and London. The organization conducted business globally, procuring assets for clients in the Middle East and the United States. It was well run, protected because of weak legislation and the inability of legal forces to act without absolute and watertight cases. One slip, one word or phrase, on a document, and the whole case could be thrown out of court. Proof positive was almost an impossibility, and although a dedicated effort was being made, no indictments had yet been achieved. Government task forces working together had their hands tied. They struggled for months to concentrate their investigations only to find that their superiors, sensitive to the demands of the courts, would shake their heads and demand even more proof.
The task forces looked for ways to gather their evidence and took the decision to insert undercover agents into the organization in an effort to obtain what they needed.
Dean Turner and Ron Bentley were seasoned agents, working for the joint task force. When they had been asked to take on a covert assignment to infiltrate the trafficking group in Rotterdam they didn’t need to be asked twice. Once assigned they distanced themselves from the main group, setting themselves up to watch suspected members of the trafficking organization. Over a couple of months they concentrated on the Rotterdam group, looking for any members who seemed to be vulnerable to turning, and finally fixed on a single individual who expressed some vocal dissatisfaction with his position within the organization.
The initial contact went well. Their man seemed to have a grievance against his employers and a tendency to complain about them to the American undercover agents. They spent time with him, sympathizing with his complaints, and slowly reeled him into their confidence. In the end he agreed to provide them with evidence that would give the task force solid evidence into the workings of the trafficking group.
However, when the agents made the rendezvous to meet their contact they were ambushed, disarmed and taken to an isolated location.
They were told they were going to be made examples of—used to show the task force that further efforts to break the organization were useless. The traffickers wanted the international task force to know powerful forces ranged against them. The organization had high-profile protection. They could not be touched. No one could harm them. The agents would be used to make the task force realize they were simply wasting their time.
For three days the agents were savagely tortured, their naked bodies abused and broken. Photographs were taken to be sent to the task force and a final message stated where the bodies could be found.
The stark warning, showing the brazen contempt the traffickers had for the task force, had its effect. After the bodies had been located and removed, the task force was ordered to stand back and reassess its operational method. There was a need to regroup—by no means to admit defeat, but the clear message to the task force from the traffickers had got through, and it was realized that the enemy had the upper hand.
1
From the window of his hotel room Mack Bolan could see the distant configuration of Rotterdam Port, the night sky ablaze with lights. He saw a vast sprawl of warehouse units, cranes and endless rows of steel cargo containers. He was seeing the vista through the sheeting rain covering the city, blown in from the cold swells of the North Sea. Across the stretch of water was England, the secondary target of Bolan’s mission.
The Executioner’s presence in Rotterdam was down to intel he received during a briefing with Hal Brognola back in Washington. That clandestine meeting between the man from Justice and Bolan had kick-started the Executioner’s journey to Europe. After touching down at Schiphol Airport, Bolan had ridden a local train to Rotterdam and his prebooked room. The weather had been rough for most of the flight and stayed the course while Bolan had transferred to his hotel. It was midevening, the sky already dark. Bolan had a rendezvous with a contact the next day, so he figured he would have an early meal and turn in. The turbulent weather during the flight had denied him sleep, so a solid night’s rest was advisable.
Bolan turned from the window when he heard a tap on his door. He crossed the room and opened up. A trolley was wheeled inside carrying the meal he had ordered. Bolan handed the service girl a tip, then closed and locked the door after she left. Bolan was on alert. He wasn’t the paranoid type who saw threats lurking in every corner. Even so, past experience had taught him never to leave anything to chance.
He took off the covers and checked the meal. It was exactly what he had ordered. A steak, potatoes, salad. He pulled up a chair and settled down to eat. The food was good. Only when he was done did he activate his tri-band cell phone and tap the speed-dial number that would connect him with Hal Brognola. The connection hummed and buzzed, then the big Fed’s voice reached Bolan.
“So how is Rotterdam?”
“Cold. It’s raining like it’s in for the duration. I’m fine. You have any updates for me?”
“No. Status hasn’t changed much since we talked and you flew out. The operation is stalled. The heads are talking. Trying to come up with a fresh way of moving on, but as of now it’s a no-go. Those two agents getting killed has hit hard. You know why. Suspicions there was a mole inside the task force appear to have been proved. Turner and Bentley were betrayed and the fact we have someone operating inside the group and capable of passing along information makes everyone suspicious of the man next to him. No one is going to commit to anything.”
“Let’s hope my meeting in the morning throws up something useful,” the Executioner said.
Brognola hesitated before he replied.
“Tread carefully with this man Bickell. Hasn’t been proved he was the one who turned Turner and Bentley over to the opposition but he was the only man who had access to them. The more I think about it, the less I’m in favor of you using him.”
“Right now we don’t have anything else. I’m not about to go into this meet blind.”
“Striker, these people are bad. You saw what they did to our two mans. They work a business that treats human beings like so much merchandise. Don’t believe they won’t do the same to you given the chance.”
“Understood, pal, now quit worrying and give me some good news.”
“Your Brit buddy,” Brognola said, referring to David McCarter, the Phoenix Force commander, “has a contact for you in London. He can set you up with specialist equipment. I’m sending a photo over your phone for identification. And I’ll text a name and phone number to set up your meet. This man is supposed to be good. He’ll sort out anything you want. Anything else you need right now?”
“Just a good night’s sleep,” Bolan said. “I’ll be in touch.”
Bolan checked the information Brognola had sent to him. A half hour later he turned in, clicking off the light. He lay staring at the rain-flecked window, his mind still active as he reviewed the past couple of days and the events that had brought him to Rotterdam and his upcoming meeting with a man who might turn out to be a Judas.
Two Days Earlier, Washington
DRESSED IN CASUAL clothing he might have been just another tourist taking in the sights of the nation’s capital.
But Mack Bolan was a world away from being just that. As he strolled around in the pale sunlight, observing the scene around him, Hal Brognola fell into step beside him.
“Looking good as ever,” Brognola said lightly. “Your lifestyle must suit you.”
“You didn’t call me just to boost my confidence, Hal.”
“Would you believe I need your help on a problem?”
“Go ahead.”
“A joint US-UK-European task force has been compromised by the deaths of two of its undercover agents. Dean Turner and Ron Bentley. They had gotten close to the group the task force was investigating. Human trafficking on a big scale. Working out of Europe and serving the needs of clients in Europe and the U.S. Striker, this is as nasty as it gets. These people are running a virtual slave trade. Men, women and even kids.” Brognola pointed at the slim briefcase he was carrying. “I have the whole dossier in here. Details the perps. Their locations. Right now the operation has stalled because there’s some concern how deep infiltration might have gone. The whole thing is on hold. And while that happens the suspects are still operating. Evidence against them is all suspicion but no substance. Nowhere near enough to even haul anyone in. It’s a big organization. Run by an influential head honcho with top-class protection. Hugo Canfield. British citizen. He has a hotshot lawyer with an impeccable record standing behind him. Dutch man called Ludwig van Ryden. And he uses that man every time one of his clients even gets a parking ticket.”
“What do you need, Hal?”
“Someone without ties to any part of the task force. A clean slate. No allegiances. Nothing that connects.” The big Fed paused. “And someone who can leave the book of rules at home.”
Brognola opened his case and extracted a thick folder. He handed it to Bolan. “We can see the end result of this business, Striker. What those bastards do to people. I want to reach the head and cut it off. The task force has its hands tied right now and I’m damn tired of the restrictions holding us back. If I had my way I’d go in all guns blazing but I’d have to fight bureaucracy first and last. I need a lever. Something I can use to force the game into the open.”
“Where would I start?”
“Our dead agents had an informant. Part of the organization but he convinced our mans he wanted to quit and was willing to cooperate. Name of Wilhelm Bickell. Based in Rotterdam, where the traffickers are said to have what Bickell called a distribution point. We don’t know if that’s true because our mans were killed before they got that information to us. All we have is a cell phone contact number for him.”
“It’s thin,” Bolan said. “But I’ve started with less.” He weighed the folder in his hand. “I’ll need credentials. Anything else you can conjure up.”
Brognola nodded. “No problem.” He tapped the folder. “The phrase read it and weep applies pretty well here, Striker.”
THE EXECUTIONER SPENT most of the day going through the contents of the explicit data. It covered suspects, the trafficking group known as Venturer Exports and its head, Hugo Canfield. Its grip on human trafficking was widespread and from the text of the reports Bolan became aware of the callous indifference of the people running the enterprise. The hub for Venturer Exports was mainland Europe and the U.K. Its market was worldwide and even Mack Bolan, well versed in the evil manifested through man’s indifference to human suffering, was forced to sit back and take a moment’s respite. It appeared that the practice of slavery was still thriving. From his reading it seemed that the majority of victims involved came from those ravaged parts of the world where recent conflicts had created rich hunting grounds for the traffickers. They scavenged through Asian and Eastern European countries, snatching people off the streets, collecting them from holding camps. The countless numbers of displaced people were seldom missed. Officials were paid off, heads turned and no questions asked. The victims were bundled into containers and taken by road, across borders where money replaced transit visas, and the human cargo was waved through without an inspection. The final destination of the converging containers appeared to be Rotterdam, and from there the merchandise was sent to whichever market placed its order.
The slaves provided cheap labor for sweatshops, for service industries, where the employers held the workers illegally. They were in foreign countries without proper papers, earning little money and constantly under the threat of violence if they made any kind of protest. Young women, chosen for their good looks, were channeled into the many-tentacled sex industry, from making adult movies to working the streets. And there was the ever-present shadow of the drug business in the background. The data Brognola had provided included photographs that emphasized the ever-present dangers encroaching on the lives of the traffickers’ victims. The sick, the dying and the dead. Drug affliction. The punishment meted out to a victim who had rebelled. Or those who simply succumbed to the pitiful life forced on them.
