Don Pendleton - Hellfire Code

A hot, humid gust of wind swept across the nearly barren streets of south Manila.

Late afternoon was the hottest part of the day this time of year, hot enough that not even the monsoon rains had any effect. These were the same times where Warren Levine wondered how he ended up with a thirty-six-month assignment in this godforsaken hellhole. The fact he’d spent the better part of his teenage years here—a bit of an occupational hazard for the child of a widowed Navy father—had apparently left the higher ups with the impression he actually liked the Philippines.

A crazy notion on their part. Almost as crazy as standing on a corner near a market, chain-smoking cigarettes and drinking Gatorade by the bucketfuls. Why he couldn’t have simply paid the houseman of his air-conditioned office to keep up this vigil and notify him of any changes he’d never understand. But the call earlier that day had come directly from the deputy director for Foreign Operations.

“What’s so important about this Neely anyway, sir?” Levine asked the DDFO after his brief.

“It’s not my place to ask why, Warren, and it’s not yours, either,” was the reply. “I don’t like it any more than you, but those are our orders and so we follow them. We can’t screw this up. Understand? You keep on this Neely and don’t let him out of your sight.”

“But, sir, I have a lot of work—”

“Your other duties are rescinded. You just keep this guy under surveillance until you hear otherwise. Got it?”

The next thing Levine heard was a dial tone.

So he’d packed up his stuff, changed into the lightest and most comfortable clothes he had and then set out for the address the DDFO had given him. Six hours later, he was still hanging around and this Neely character hadn’t made a move. Levine tried to remain inconspicuous, but after hanging around so long he figured it was about time to hang a sign around his neck and shoot off fireworks.

What he knew about Neely wouldn’t have fit written in the palm of his hand. The guy was ex-NSA and “of special interest to certain members on Pennsylvania Avenue.” Or at least that’s how the DDFO had painted the picture. Okay, so either Neely was dirty or so important that Levine could shirk all of his other ridiculously important tasks to baby-sit. Not to mention he wouldn’t fool someone with Neely’s training.

The door to Neely’s apartment building swung open and Levine would be damned if it wasn’t Roger Neely who stepped into the afternoon sunlight. Levine turned so he could keep the guy in his peripheral vision, but not so as to pretend he had any interest in the man. He counted fifteen seconds before risking a fresh glance in time to see Neely making distance with a vigorous stride.

Levine cursed the insanity of it all. On an almost deserted street this time of day he’d most likely draw Neely’s attention if he followed him, and that would blow his cover, as if he really had any to start with. If he lost this guy he’d attract attention from the boss, and that led down a path of career destruction. Of course, maybe unemployment would get him home.

Levine considered this a moment longer but finally opted to pursue his quarry.

ROGER NEELY SPOTTED the observer almost immediately when he stepped out the front door of his Manila apartment. He’d seen the guy earlier, watched him while sitting in the window ledge smoking a cigarette after a two-hour romp with Malaya. The man had Agency written all over him, which of course didn’t surprise Neely in the least. Well, as long as he didn’t have to face that big bastard with the cold, blue eyes one more time. Especially not now, after he found himself at the mercy of Garrett Downing.

There had been a time when Neely felt good about what he was doing for his country. He didn’t know exactly who Matt Cooper worked for—and obviously he knew that wasn’t the guy’s real name—but he did believe Cooper was on America’s side. Neely was on America’s side, too, but he couldn’t risk Malaya and his baby. How Downing had ever managed to find out about his wife and child, secreted in Manila to protect them from exposure to danger, he couldn’t be sure. Then again, what did it matter? Downing had connections everywhere and could get to just about anyone; at least, that’s what Neely believed and that’s what mattered.

Neely had hoped once he did what Downing asked, the guy would leave him alone. After all, he’d arranged to get Neely secretly out of the country and back to Manila, and to protect him. Of course it didn’t seem he was doing a very good job of that now. Once Neely gave him the information on the location of the New Corsican Front’s underground headquarters, he figured that would square things.

Apparently not.

Downing’s representative, a muscular and intense man with a brush cut and Russian accent, had first made contact. Neely had never met Downing in person and had only spoken to him once by phone. The Russian-American, who Neely later discovered was named Alek Stezhnya, apparently headed “the Apparatus,” a group of highly specialized commandos hailing from nearly every continent, and they served to enforce the goals of Downing’s Organization of Strategic Initiative. Somehow, Neely had become a full-fledged member of the OSI and he’d never had any interest to start. But the threat against Malaya and Corinne, whether direct or implied, was more than enough to keep Neely interested. He would have joined the AARP if Downing had told him to.

Neely cursed himself for allowing this kind of manipulation. How many times had he been taught not to develop any strong bonds to anyone with whom he’d had a professional affiliation? It made innocent people a target, and the agent a test bench for blackmail. But his love for Malaya and his daughter went well above any of the NSA’s regulations, and he would do anything to protect them. Even swear allegiance to a man like Downing.

Neely slowed his pace, listened carefully to ensure the man followed, and then set his eyes upon the goal. He considered this a defining moment since the Russian-American had called to say Downing wanted to meet personally. He had a plan in place, and once he heard what Downing had to say he planned to tell the guy where to get off, then take Malaya and Corinne and beat it out of here.

Neely took comfort in the weight of the 9 mm SIG-Sauer pistol concealed at the small of his back beneath the loose flower-print shirt he wore. His clothing would have seemed absurd most anywhere else, but it fit the part of a gaudy, wide-eyed tourist perfectly. The short haircut would have most pegging him as a career military, probably Navy, on shore leave and looking for a bit of action. And that was exactly what he wanted them to think.

Neely rounded the corner and found the first cab in a group lined along the sidewalk. As the afternoon turned toward evening, people would start leaving the cool interiors and enjoying the ocean breezes that blew off the Pacific. The cabbies waited for them like vultures circling desert carrion, hopeful for an easy fare to the uptown area of Manila crammed with clubs and local watering holes.

Neely leaned through the window and handed the cabdriver a twenty-dollar bill. “This is yours if you agree to leave here now, drive to the downtown area and then circle back.”

The cabbie expressed suspicion as he pulled an unlit cigarette from his mouth. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” Neely said. “Another cab might follow you, but don’t worry about that. Now I’m out of time, so do it or don’t.”

“Done,” the cabbie said as he snatched the twenty.

While the cabbie started his engine, Neely turned and found shelter in the vestibule of an apartment complex. The follower rounded the corner a moment later as the cab sped from the area. The man obviously figured Neely was in the cab, because he jumped into the back of the next available car and gestured for the driver to follow. Neely watched through the long, narrow window of the apartment building as they pulled away. After about a minute lapsed, Neely stepped onto the street and continued toward the address the Russian-American had given him for the meet.