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“Let’s go find them,” Bolan said, heading for the Englishman’s car.
Crissey nodded and hurried to the driver’s side. As Crissey drove to the warehouse district where they’d left the other two agents, Bolan felt his satellite phone vibrate. He took it out, glanced at the screen and answered the call with “Don’t you ever sleep?”
Brognola’s deep chuckle came from the other side of the world. “Hell, it’s zero-eight-fifteen here. Time for my midmorning snack while I get ready to watch Let’s Make a Deal.”
“Why don’t I like the sound of that?” Bolan asked.
“You must be psychic.” Brognola’s laugh came through clear as a bell. “I need to run something by you, but how did the mission go?”
Just then Crissey pulled past the empty car the two MI6 agents had been driving.
“Hal, hold on,” Bolan said. He reached for his Beretta with his other hand.
No one else was in sight. Crissey swung the car into the alleyway and proceeded slowly down the narrow route.
“Striker, you still there?” Brognola asked.
The headlights shone over a pair of legs extending out from behind a row of garbage cans.
“Bloody hell,” Crissey said.
“Let me call you back,” Bolan said into the phone.
Chapter Two (#ulink_bd0b35ff-1ed7-57a3-92cd-530ca6894702)
It was almost four in the morning by the time Bolan and Crissey transported the two dead agents, Thomas Norris Trent and Peter J. Helmsworth, back to the British Embassy. Searching and clearing the rest of the warehouse had been tedious, but necessary, as well as erasing any trace that MI6 had been involved. Not finding Trent’s weapon had drawn the process out further, and finally the threat of a nascent sun forced them to abandon their search. They left the rest of the mess for the Hong Kong police. When they finally sat down in a small room next to the embassy cafeteria, neither man had much appetite, but both needed a cup of strong coffee. They’d been up for more than twenty-four hours straight. The Brit was holding up pretty well, Bolan observed, maintaining a bit of the traditional stiff upper lip, but the Executioner could tell the man was deeply affected by the deaths.
“Did you know those men well?” he asked, taking a sip from his mug.
Crissey nodded. “Tom Trent and I have been here on assignment for the past year and a half. Before that we did a tour in Afghanistan.” He forced a smile and dumped some more sugar into his cup. “After that one, we thought coming here would be a bit of a vacation.”
Bolan said nothing. He knew that dropping your guard on any assignment, no matter how benign it looked, could be a fatal error. “At least they’ll be buried in home soil.”
Crissey nodded again. “I do wish we could have found Trent’s pistol. I would have liked his father to have it. It was a stainless steel Walther PPS. Quite the good gun. Had TNT engraved on the slide in fancy script.” Crissey smiled wistfully. “His initials. Made quite a joke of it.”
“Think his killer took it?” Bolan asked.
Crissey shrugged. “Most likely, but perhaps that’s preferable to the Chinese finding it and being able to trace it back to us.” His brow furrowed. “Trent was no neophyte. He knew his stuff.”
Bolan considered this. Trent had apparently had his neck broken. There was also a large dark spot on the right side of the dead man’s jaw, although Bolan hadn’t taken the time to examine it closely. At least it appeared Trent’s death had been quick—no needless suffering.
Bolan drank some more coffee and stood. “I have to make a call.”
“Certainly,” Crissey said, also standing. “I’d better check in myself.” He showed Bolan to an adjacent room and left.
Bolan punched in the digits of Hal Brognola’s number on the satellite phone. He answered on the second ring, sounding as gruff as ever. “About damn time you called back. What, you enjoying the Hong Kong nightlife, or something?”
“Not hardly,” Bolan said. “I was helping our friends at MI6 clean up a little mess. They lost a couple guys.”
“Oh,” Brognola said. “Sorry to hear that.” He waited a beat, then asked, “You get the package?”
“The Brits are giving it a once-over now, along with a prisoner.”
Brognola grunted an approval. “One of the buyers?”
“Affirmative,” Bolan said. “And he speaks Farsi.”
Brognola swore. “That’s not good. If the Chinese are exporting technology to Iran it could mean big trouble.”
“For what it’s worth, I don’t think the Chinese government’s involved. If they were, I doubt they’d be using a channel like the Triads.”
“True,” Brognola said. “But it no doubt points to some high level corruption in the PLA.”
Bolan had considered that possibility, as well. Corruption was rampant in China, especially in the government. Having access to the guidance system for an advanced missile would mean somebody who was pretty high up the food chain was complicit.
“Anyway,” Brognola said, clearing his throat. “I’m glad you intercepted it. Good work. So how you doing?”
Bolan smiled in spite of his fatigue. The sound of Brognola shifting gears meant the other shoe was about to drop. “I could use a couple hours’ sleep, but what have you got?”
Brognola laughed, but it sounded forced. “Can’t put nothing over on you, can I?” He cleared his throat again. “Since you got that one about wrapped up, you feel up to another mission?”
Bolan paused as he felt exhaustion seeping through him.
Brognola seemed to take his hesitation as reticence. “I mean, since you’re in the neighborhood and all.”
“Can the Mr. Rogers imitation. What’ve you got?”
Brognola sighed. “You ever hear of a Chinese dissident called Han, Son Chu, aka Sammo Han?”
“Sammo Han,” Bolan said. “Isn’t he that one-armed lawyer?”
“Lawyer, activist, blogging sensation and darling of the free press.”
“Free press?” Bolan said with a chuckle. “In China?”
“The world press, as well. Anyway, he was placed under house arrest two days ago.” Brognola paused and then emitted what sounded like a grunt of pain or pleasure. Bolan imagined him taking a long sip of some of Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman’s god-awful coffee. Bolan drank some of his own coffee and found it weak by comparison.
“Anyway, seems that Sammo Han’s not only a celebrity on the world stage, he’s also valuable to the USA. But word is, the People’s Standing Committee is set to charge him with sedition, lock him up and throw away the key.”
“After they give him a fair trial, you mean.”
“If he even gets to a trial. Most likely he’ll be conveniently killed trying to resist arrest. That Agency team was sent to do an emergency evac from Beijing for him and his family.”
Which was why, Bolan thought, they had no one to follow up on the Iranian/Triad deal, and I had to fill in. “This Sammo Han must have some very valuable intel.”
“Well,” Brognola continued, “everything was set until the team leader, Wayne Tressman, got pinched. He’s in a Chinese prison in Song Jing. Just outside the capital.”
Bolan frowned and thought about the unpleasant prospects of an American intelligence officer being in the custody of the Chinese.
“Any progress through diplomatic channels?”
“So far, the Chinese aren’t even acknowledging that they have him,” Brognola said. “The rest of the team’s still in place, but they’re kind of green and they haven’t made a move yet. I need somebody I can count on to go there and give me a sitrep. Interested?”
Bolan blew out a slow breath. “We talking about a jail break?”
“If the diplomats fail.”
Bolan sighed. “When do they ever succeed?”
Brognola barked another laugh. Two forced laughs in a single conversation. This was getting serious.
“All right,” Bolan said. “When do I leave for Beijing?”
“Aaron’s got you on a flight leaving in four hours.”
“Pretty sure I was going to say yes, weren’t you?”
Brognola snorted. “Let’s just say I had a real strong hunch.”
“Yeah, well if you get any new hunches about the Powerball jackpot,” Bolan said, “buy an extra ticket for me.”
“Hey, that’s not all.”
“You’ve got more good news?”
“Sure do,” Brognola said. “I’ve got help on the way.”
“Who?”
“Grimaldi.”
“Jack?” It was Bolan’s turn to chuckle. “I thought you said you were sending help? Talk about importing a bull into a China shop.”
“Well, he won’t get there for a while. He’s traveling commercial.”
“I pity the pilots.”
“So do I,” Brognola said. “You two will be there as sports journalists covering the World Asia Track and Field Games, not to mention that boxing match a couple of days later. The Chinese world champion is making his professional debut in Shanghai. That should give you guys the run of the place, not to mention a chance to see the fight.”
“Well, for the record,” Bolan said, “I’d settle for a couple cold ones in front of a big flat screen in Vegas.”
Brognola barked a final laugh before his voice took on a more serious tone. “Hey, Striker.”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for never letting me down.”
Beijing
GENERAL WONG SU TONG of the People’s Liberation Army stepped out of the jeep and told the underling to wait for him. He was perhaps one block from the entrance to the Forbidden City. The general carried himself with his customary military bearing, proud of the image he projected: a well-built man with the aplomb and power of a professional solider. He worked hard to maintain his sleek, iron physique—despite being in his early fifties—and kept his hair dyed jet-black. A solemn yet serene expression was on his face, even though the icy fingers of incipient and nagging panic were pinching their way up and down his spine.
He hated these subterfuges, these clandestine meetings that Chen insisted upon, but he also understood their necessity. Wong was no stranger to treachery. He knew full well that despite his exalted position in the Central Military Committee, spies were watching his every move. Several members of the all-powerful Standing Committee, who smiled to his face, would love to stick a knife between his ribs if the opportunity presented itself. And if they ever found evidence of his covert dealings, those knives would appear quickly. If he were caught, if his secret dealings with the Triads and his hidden assets were discovered, Wong would be arrested immediately. And no doubt his trial would be both expedient and lethal.
He walked briskly past the throngs of tourists and made his way to the whispering wall. More tourists, some Americans or Europeans, but mostly Chinese, strolled by. No one dared look him in the eye. A group of soldiers passed and saluted. Wong suddenly regretted he hadn’t changed to civilian clothes. His uniform made him stand out like a tiger in a marketplace. But time was of the essence. He paused under the entranceway to the Forbidden City, underneath the massive banner of Mao, and glanced around again. No sign of Chen.
Where was the son of a whore?
The past week had been a disaster. The deal with the Iranians, the stolen payoff money, the missing guidance system and, most of all, the loss of his personal flash drive, the dragon key. His whole life, as well as his future, was on that device. It contained all the bank account numbers and passwords to his secret accounts in Hong Kong and Zurich, the special accounts his brother-in-law, Yoon, had set up for him. The accounts that assured he would be richer than he ever imagined when he eventually left the PLA, and China, for good.
He silently cursed the woman who’d stolen it from him, and his own stupidity for being so drunk and infatuated with her red-haired beauty that he hadn’t immediately caught the substitution. But she had been so very talented, and the copy was so exact...
The fingers of his right hand momentarily went to the chain around his neck, the chain that always held the flash drive, disguised as a dragon’s head. Now it held the ersatz dragon key—the one the Russian had substituted. How had she known about it, much less taken the real one and replaced it with an exact duplicate?
Although the device was protected with a password, there was a slight possibility that someone might eventually breach the code. The Politburo Standing Committee would certainly have people who could do it. So would the Americans. He wondered which would be worse. The Americans would no doubt blackmail him, but the Committee would publically rend him limb from limb.
“General,” a soft voice said.
Wong looked around, but saw no one except the pretty Chinese girl smiling at him on the opposite side of the nearest obelisk. He could barely hear her above the cacophony of the milling crowd.
“General,” the girl said again.
Wong squinted at her and raised an eyebrow.
“The man you seek awaits inside the Hall of Eternal Harmony.”
She had to be one of Chen’s girls, Wong thought. He took another moment to appraise her. Her dark hair was long and fell like a curtain over part of her face. It was a pretty face, and although she wore pants and a loose-fitting shirt, Wong could tell her figure was excellent. The old, fat Triad leader liked to send young, fetching creatures to do his bidding. The general had no doubt she could most likely slice a man’s throat as soon as seduce him. He tugged the corner of his mouth into a slight smile, nodded to her and went to meet Chen. An interior meeting was eminently preferable to outside, where the prying eyes of the Committee could be hiding among the throngs of tourists.
He strode through the gate, bypassing a line of people at the ticket booth. A guard saw him and immediately came to attention as Wong walked past. Inside, the Forbidden City was divided into a complex of beautiful courtyards and ceremonial halls.
Wong stopped at the entrance to the Hall of Eternal Harmony and shook a cigarette out of his pack. He lighted it and drew deeply as he glanced around. The girl who had whispered to him was walking about thirty meters behind with two men, both dressed in loose-fitting jackets. Obviously they were Chen’s security team. He never went anywhere without one, and Wong could hardly blame him.
The son of a whore is cautious and thorough, he thought.
Wong took a few more drags on the cigarette, waiting for Chen’s trio to get nearer. When they were about five meters away, Wong crushed the butt under his shoe. The security team would no doubt keep any intruding eyes—and cameras—away from the meeting. He smiled slightly at the girl as the three grew closer, then Wong went into the courtyard. She was indeed a rare beauty.
He walked past a fountain with two stone dragons flanked by tigers. The tigers, his zodiac animal, buoyed his spirits slightly. Chen, Wong knew, had been born under the sign of the rat, which meant he was skilled at survival, subterfuge and gathering money.
Wong passed by a series of trellises replete with winding stems of blossoms and caught sight of Chen, who was sitting on a bench in front of a row of cypress trees, holding a flower.
He looked more like someone’s benevolent grandfather than the merciless leader of the Sun Yang Triad, the largest and most powerful of the Chinese crime gangs. Chen had survived the Cultural Revolution, a forced exile in Hong Kong, the internal power struggles of the Triad and innumerable attempts on his life. But then again, he was a rat, and rats were nothing if not resourceful.
Chen’s mouth flickered into a smile, and he bowed his head slightly as Wong approached. Wong did the same and sat on the opposite end of the bench. They were close enough to hear each other’s words, but they wouldn’t look like acquaintances.
They sat in silence for perhaps half a minute. Wong was growing impatient when Chen finally broke the silence. “Is it not miraculous, the way the leaves turn toward the sunlight? Do you ever wonder if they can feel the warmth?” Chen laughed softly, his chuckle sounding like the flow of water over pebbles in a brook.
Wong had little time for the riddles of horticulture. “Have you found out anything?”
Chen’s laugh came again, but this time it reminded Wong of an erosive leak down a wall. Wong’s face twisted into an expression of displeasure as he turned toward the Triad boss.
