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Price continued, “The intelligence community tried to build in safeguards to minimize any blowback against us or our allies. Sometimes the buyers ended up dead from natural causes.” She gestured quotation marks with her fingers to highlight the last two words. “Or thieves stole the weapons. But the thieves actually were on the CIA’s payroll. Or we sent in proxies to buy back the weapons. It wasn’t a perfect system. It’s not unreasonable to assume that some weapons fell into the wrong hands, that someone, somewhere slaughtered innocents with those weapons. But the operation did generate good intelligence for us. I guess the National Security adviser considered any mistakes a fair trade in exchange for the benefits.”
“A fair trade, maybe,” Bolan said, “but not an equal one.”
“Intelligence gathering isn’t always neat and clean, Mack,” Price stated. “I know that from my own experiences with the NSA. It’s as much an art as it is a science. Perhaps more art than science. It’s as imperfect as hell. You know that.”
Bolan acknowledged her words with a nod.
“And Garrison’s been doing this for how long?” Bolan asked.
“About twenty years,” Brognola said.
“And we’ve known about it how long?”
“About twenty years,” the big Fed stated.
Bolan searched his old friend’s face and waited for the punch line.
“I’ll bite,” Bolan replied. “So it’s twenty years later and suddenly we learn that someone within the organization has gone rogue, and we have an emergency. Are we just concerned about the satellite parts and the tubes?”
Brognola shook his head. “It seems that some of these creeps have begun moving up the Garrison food chain. They’re getting their items more quickly. They get to meet with select members of the senior management team. We’re worried that the Iranian and Chinese transactions are only the tip of the iceberg. So was the CIA, which is why they sent a team of agents down there to investigate.
“And it gets even more complex. Garrison doesn’t just play these cloak-and-dagger games out of a sense of patriotism. They’re sort of enmeshed in the intelligence community.”
“Enmeshed with or part of the intelligence community?” Bolan asked.
“Give the boy a cigar,” Kurtzman said.
“The whole damn operation was planned and sanctioned by the National Security Council,” Brognola said. “Using money from a slush fund, the council bought a small research-and-development firm a couple of decades ago and grew it into what it is today. Unfortunately, it seems to be taking on a life of its own, which has everyone from the White House on down worried.”
The big Fed set down his cigar long enough to take a swig of coffee. His face puckered in distaste, and he shot Kurtzman a dirty look. The computer genius just shrugged and studied at the contents of his coffee mug.
Brognola continued, “Most of Garrison’s money comes from black budgets. Or it uses its proceeds to pay for operations. Traditionally, most of what it made, it sold back to us or other allied governments. So the few politicians who knew about it, ignored it. The thinking behind it is that it allows us to have more control over the weapons we make and buy and it’s a source that, at least ostensibly, has our best interests at heart.”
“Plus it helps folks sidestep congressional scrutiny when budget time comes,” Bolan said.
Brognola gave the soldier a weary smile. “We’ve both seen too much of Washington, haven’t we? Fortunately, most of what they sell to the bad guys is crap. And they sell them precious little of that.”
He lifted his coffee cup about three-quarters of the way toward his mouth, paused and set it back on the table. Instead, he pulled out a roll of antacid pills and popped a couple into his mouth.
“This wasn’t part of a sting operation,” the man from Justice stated. “We already ran all the necessary traps to make sure that that wasn’t the case. No one knew anything about these particular deals.”
“And you believe that?” Bolan asked.
Brognola shrugged. “My gut says they’re telling the truth. What we’re looking at here, in my opinion, is an operation that’s gone out of control. We can debate all day whether it was a good idea to begin with. But the reality is that it’s out of control and we need to pull the plug on the whole damn thing, fast.”
“Explain,” Bolan said.
Brognola tapped a key on his laptop. An image appeared on a wall screen. The image depicted a limousine, the door held open and a young Asian man in a dark business suit stepping from the vehicle. A pair of hardmen flanked him. Bolan could tell from the angle of the photo that it had been shot from above.
Brognola let the soldier study the image for several seconds. With another keystroke, a close-up shot of the man in the middle filled the screen. A whitish scar ran from below the man’s shirt collar and up the left side of his neck, disappearing beneath his hairline. His black hair was long and pulled back into a tight ponytail.
“Name’s Chiun,” Brognola said. “He’s triad. He’s a boss in Ciudad del Este, Paraguay. There are several Chinese gangs operating down there, but his group is the biggest. Runs all the usual stuff—prostitutes, protection, counterfeiting, drugs. Launders money for Hezbollah. Does the same thing in Hong Kong and Malaysia.”
Bolan sipped his coffee. Ignoring the awful taste in his mouth, he studied the photo and committed it to memory.
“He’s a real piece of work,” Brognola said, “but he’s smart and ambitious. He started out as an enforcer for the gang, now he runs it. Spilled lots of blood along the way to get to where he is. Other gangsters, illegal immigrants, police officers—doesn’t matter to him. Everyone’s just a speed bump while he races to the top. When he was an enforcer, that wild streak served him well. Sure, it pissed off a hell of a lot of people back in China, but it also got him where he wanted to go. At least for the moment.”
“How does he fit in with all of this?” Bolan asked.
Price took over, “He’s in tight with Chinese intelligence. Rumor has it that his ties with the government helped him get where he is. Three days before he took over his gang, the government stepped in and snapped up most of the leaders.”
“Giving him a clear path,” Bolan said.
“Exactly,” Price stated. “And he seems all-too willing to repay them for the help. A couple of our intelligence reports indicate that he and his people pull off work for the Chinese all the time. We know of several dissidents killed by his thugs. The victims had no ties to him, but had made enemies in the government.” She snapped her fingers. “Suddenly they end up shot on a street corner or stabbed in alley by one of his people. Chiun’s gang also has smuggled weapons for the Chinese and carried out some small-scale industrial espionage on their behalf, primarily through his own network.
Brognola flashed another picture on the screen. This one showed another Asian man, his gray hair combed back from his forehead. He had a wide face with thick lips turned down in a deep scowl. Bolan saw that the decorated collar of a military tunic encircled the man’s thick neck.
“Colonel Chi Pu Deng,” Price said. “He came up through the People’s Liberation Army, but has focused exclusively on espionage for at least fifteen years. According to some very good sources—one of them a friend of Hal’s who operates in Hong Kong—Deng and his surrogates have maintained regular contact with Chiun and his gang for years. There’s more information on him in the packet I gave you.” Price indicated a folder that sat on the table in front of Bolan. “But the consensus of people paid to know these things is that Deng is the middleman. He pays Chiun for weapons and information and takes those things back to his government.”
“What else do we know about him?” Bolan asked. “If he’s working that close to a gang, he must be skimming money off the top. Or getting some other benefit.”
Price shook her head.
“Surprisingly enough,” she said, “he’s clean, at least from China’s perspective. Consensus is that he’s a patriot and incorruptible. That’s earned him more than a few enemies within his own government, as you can imagine.”
“Sure,” Bolan said.
“To take it a step further,” Brognola chimed in, “we think that’s one of the reasons he sticks so close to Chiun. There are more than a few guys on the take who’d just as soon see this Boy Scout taken out of the mix. But no one has the guts to do it, because they know he’s Chiun’s meal ticket. Or one of them, at least. And he’d be damned mad if someone took the colonel out.”
“Are they that close?” Bolan asked.
“Their only bond is money,” Price replied. “Apparently Chiun thinks Deng is a sentimental idiot. Deng thinks Chiun’s greedy and unpatriotic. But neither of them wants to pull the brakes on the gravy train. That’s why they tolerate each other. It’s an uneasy alliance, to put it mildly.”
“And up here is Albert Bly,” Brognola announced.
Bolan turned and saw a photo of a Caucasian man clad in a tuxedo. He was shaking hands with another similarly clad man whom Bolan recognized as a U.S. congressman. Bly balanced a champagne glass in his other hand as the two mugged for the camera.
“This is from the New York Times society page,” Brognola said. “Up until about two years ago, Bly was a very public face for Garrison. He was all over the news shows. Had audiences with congressmen from both parties. Then the company hit some rocky financial times. The board of directors named him chairman, kicked him upstairs and he disappeared from the public eye, seemingly overnight. We think there’s more to it. We’re still digging around to see what we can find out, but there are a couple of theories.”
“Like?”
“His corporate jet has filed a lot of flight plans to the Dominican Republic and Thailand, if that tells you anything,” Kurtzman said.
“It tells me plenty,” Bolan said. The soldier knew that both countries had booming sex tourism trades, an industry he’d confronted more than once. “Seems a guy in his position was courting disaster by going to those places.”
“No doubt,” Brognola said. “And, if either Chiun or Deng know this, it’d be an effective lever to force him to cooperate.”
“If they had to push him that hard,” Bolan replied. “Money alone can be a hell of a motivator.”
“It could be any combination of things,” Brognola agreed.
“So what’s the request?” Bolan asked.
“We need someone to find Serrano,” Brognola said. “We have to know what she learned, what her team learned. It had to be big for Bly to risk snatching and killing those agents.”
“ If he was the one who took those agents,” Bolan said. “Do we know that yet?”
“There’s a chance that someone else did it, but I’d be surprised. This was a very coordinated snatch-and-grab operation. It’s not something Chiun would’ve pulled,” Price stated.
“Why is this our gig?” Bolan asked. “I mean why won’t the CIA go in and pull her out?”
“Two reasons,” Brognola said. “First, all these operatives are nonofficial cover. That means that our government can’t officially acknowledge any relationship between them and the agents. We aren’t worried so much about the kidnappers themselves, since they’re probably nonstate actors. But, what we can do is send in a Justice Department agent to look for an American kidnapped in another country. And there’s another reason, which more specifically has to do with you.”
“And that would be?”
“The President doesn’t like how this went down, and neither do I. Bly has a lot of contacts in the intelligence world. Not just in the United States, but intelligence agencies in Britain, France, Saudi Arabia, Jordan. Name it. He knows people. We want to handle it because we operate outside normal channels. You’ll have a handful of vetted contacts when you hit the ground, but all the interfacing with other government agencies will happen through us.”
“Did you just say ‘interface’?” Bolan asked.
“Will you take the job?” Brognola asked, ignoring the gibe.
“Of course,” the Executioner said.
“Grab your gear then,” Brognola said. “Jack’s already warming up the plane.”
2
What the hell was happening? Were they going to kill her? What did they know? The thoughts raced through Maria Serrano’s mind as she regained consciousness and found herself seated in a wooden chair, hands bound behind her back.
Think, she told herself. Don’t panic. Use your brains. Use your training, not your emotions. She took a deep breath and looked around the room. She was positioned in the center of the cramped cell. A naked bulb hung from the ceiling and beamed down meager white light that the dark brick walls seemed to absorb. She still wore the blouse and pants she’d had on when she had been captured. Her shoes, belt and watch were gone. She had no way of knowing how long she’d been unconscious.
Her mind still was fuzzy from whatever drug they’d used on her. But she could vaguely recall being brought here by a pair of hulking men, one of whom spoke in heavily accented English.
On the other side of the door a bolt slammed back, then the door swung inward without a sound. A tall man filled the doorway and stared down at her.
Even with his face partially obscured by shadow, she recognized Albert Bly in an instant. He walked slowly to her, reaching into his pocket. Her muscles tensed involuntarily until his hand came back into view holding a white card laminated in plastic. He studied it for several seconds.
“Gina Lopez,” he said.
“Yes. That’s right,” Serrano said.
“What brings you to Bogotá, Gina?”
“Business,” she said.
“Business? Of what sort?”
“I’m not at liberty—”
“Of what sort, Gina?” The volume of his voice didn’t change, but she detected a hint of menace, cold, quiet, unspoken. A seething rage that was, at once invisible but seemed to fill the whole room.
“What business?” he repeated.
“I’m an auditor.”
He waited for more.
“I work for the government. The U.S. government.”
“Of course you do.”
Her mouth went dry, her throat tightened. Something in his tone left her feeling suddenly exposed, as though he knew everything about her, about her classified status. She swallowed hard.
“I work for the Government Accountability Office,” she said. “We investigate things for Congress. I’m not a criminal investigator. This was a fact-finding mission.”
“And what facts did you find?” Bly asked.
“Who are you?” she asked, feigning confusion.
“I think you know,” he said.
“Why are you holding me here?”
He didn’t respond.
She knew that playing the indignant bureaucrat wouldn’t move Bly, but it fit in with her cover.
“I mean it,” she said. “I’m an employee of the U.S. government. If this is some half-assed kidnapping plot, you might as well let me go. You won’t get a dime from me. We—”
Bly’s hand snaked out in a blur. His flattened palm struck her right cheek. The force jerked her head hard to the left. Flecks of spittle flew from between her parted lips. A moment later hot needles of pain jabbed her skin where she’d been struck.
Her muscles tensed and she strained at her bonds. Maria Serrano, a Central Intelligence Agency agent, didn’t put up with that shit. The rare man stupid enough to strike out at her found himself on his knees, sucking for air. Or begging for his life.
Gina Lopez, on the other hand—
She forced a tear from her right eye, trying to put together the right combination of fear and confusion, minus the righteous rage that smoldered inside her. “Why’d you do that?” she asked, her voice small.
“I’m a reasonable man. I’m not stupid,” Bly said.
She ground her teeth and nodded vigorously. A gesture of appeasement, not understanding. The coppery taste of blood seeped between her teeth and onto her tongue. As the physical shock of the blow wore off, she realized she’d bitten the edge of her tongue. He’d drawn blood. Bad mistake!
Bly’s face remained inscrutable. Pale blue eyes remained riveted on her. If smacking a woman made him feel bad or got him off, she realized, he gave no outward sign.
“Please continue,” he said.
“We’re here to investigate Garrison Industries,” she continued. “It’s part of a larger study.”
Bly leaned forward. His hand reached toward her face, this time slowly, deliberately as though to brush a stray lock of hair from her vision. Reflexively, she began to jerk back. Before she completed the move, his palm hammered against the damaged cheek. She yelped in pain and surprise.
