Don Pendleton - Enemy Arsenal

“But you wouldn’t hesitate to request a favor from a friend in a position to do so, would you?” Bolan said without a hint of rancor. He knew what it was like to lose people, to see them hurt in the line of duty. To see them dead for just trying to do the right thing. A terrible crime had been inflicted on this young woman, which would no doubt haunt her for the rest of her life.

Brognola turned back to him. “We go back a long way, Striker. I know I have no right to ask this of you—and I certainly don’t want you going to any special lengths on my account, or for some former CIA director—but if you have a mission that comes up in that area in the near future, I’d appreciate it if you or one of the others would keep an eye out for the ship or any of the men. Robert’s taking his own steps to find them—

he wouldn’t say how, despite my best efforts to find out—so anyone you send may find some competition there.” He held out a flash drive. “Here’s everything I could get—facial sketches of the pirates, the specifications on the yacht, all of it. I hope it can help in some small way.”

Bolan took the small drive and pocketed it. “I can’t promise Morgan or you anything, Hal, but I’ll see what I can do for you, even if that means just locating these people so you can pass the intel on to Robert.”

“Thanks, Striker.”

A cloud had blocked the sun, casting shadows over the garden, stealing the warmth away from the area. “Are you fixed for getting back to Washington?”

“Yeah, my car’s in the lot.” A wry smile quirked the big Fed’s lips. “Don’t worry. I’m a bit somber these days, but I still remember to know not to leave the area together.”

Bolan smiled as they left the garden, heading back into the Late Gothic Hall, where he shook Brognola’s hand before heading back to his SUV. He pulled out of the parking lot, merging with the freeway traffic back into the city. After five minutes of travel, Bolan plugged the USB drive into an adapter on his cell and hit the hands-free function, speed-dialing a number that would connect him to the Farm.

“Speak to me.”

“This is Striker.”

“How’s Hal?”

“All right.” Bolan filled Tokaido in on the general parameters of the task, leaving names out of it. “I’ll square it with Aaron. You’re my man till we see this through. I’m sending you files on the ship and the perpetrators. Start isolating general traffic in the area, satellite passes, law enforcement bulletins, whatever you can find.” “Aaron” was Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman, head of the Farm’s cyberteam.

“Okay. You do realize that this’ll be like searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack?”

“More like one ship out of a few thousand, but I’m sure you’re the guy to do it. Any word from Calvin on our subject?”

“He’s in the middle of the session now, using that new scopolamine derivative he stumbled across. Probably have a report ready for you by the time you get back.”

“And how’s your infiltration coming?”

Bolan heard a deep breath on the other end of the line. “As far as I know, we’re in. I just got the code of the account to wire the other half of the money. The event starts in four days.”

“Good work, Akira. Ask Aaron to contact Charlie and have him prep the jet. I want to be wheels-up as soon as I hit the airport.”

“You got it.”

“Striker out.”

With the balls in motion, Bolan disconnected, his mind turned to the logistics of such a personal mission, and how to execute it against the framework of a larger one.

CHAPTER SIX

Ninety minutes later, Bolan leaned back in his white leather chair of the Gulfstream G650 that Brognola had arranged to ferry him to New York City and back, grimacing in frustration.

Although there were plenty of crimes going on in the South China Sea—smuggling of drugs, knock-off merchandise and humans, illegal fishing, sweatshops—there didn’t seem to be anything on Stony Man’s radar that would necessitate actually going to the region. Even the fringe Japanese terrorist groups had been lying low recently. It was almost...

Too quiet, Bolan thought. The all-too-apparent lack of activity ironically seemed to point at something going on.

A chime from his combat laptop signaled an incoming videophone message. Bolan opened a window to answer it, and saw Tokaido’s smiling face.

Bolan didn’t mince words. “I assume you’ve got something for me?”

“Yeah. Whoever pulled that file together included every possible scrap of information about the yacht they could find, even down to service records, so my job wasn’t too difficult.”

“And?”

Tokaido tapped keys, and another window opened on Bolan’s screen, showing the lines of a yacht out at sea through the powerful camera of a spy satellite hundreds of miles overhead. The ship’s coordinates were in the upper right corner of the window, roughly 160 nautical miles northwest of the Philippines. As he watched, a speedboat raced in from the north, pulling up to the rear of the large pleasure craft. The detail from the picture was enough to show a dark-haired woman getting off the speedboat, dressed in business attire and carrying a small briefcase.

“Who’s that, and why is a businesswoman meeting with what are supposed to be pirates?” Bolan asked

“The pirates are very real. We found a satellite in the area two days earlier that caught the takeover on the periphery of its camera. They’re definitely hijackers, although they haven’t followed the usual pattern of either stripping and sinking the boat or modifying and selling it. Instead, they’ve stayed on board for the past two days. And now the woman comes aboard, a very unusual piece to this puzzle. We ran her picture through our database and found this.”

A newspaper article from the Hong Kong Standard appeared next to a blow-up and enhancement of the woman’s face. In the picture accompanying the article, an older gentleman was accepting some kind of honor from another suited businessman, the two shaking hands and smiling for the cameras. “The man on the right is Hu Ji Han, a noted businessman and philanthropist in Hong Kong. The man he’s shaking hands with is the chief executive of the city. The woman—” the newspaper photo magnified to reveal her sitting in the first row of the assembled visitors’ area “—is his personal secretary.”

The back of Bolan’s neck tingled with the distinct feeling he got when his instincts told him something much bigger was going on. “Why do I get the feeling that she’s not shopping for a discount watercraft.”

“Hardly. Mr. Hu could buy half the Chinese navy if he wanted, with enough money left over to raise another few skyscrapers in downtown Hong Kong.”

“What do you have on him?”

“Chinese national, sixty-four years old. Rose from nothing to create his business, which specializes in disaster recovery and infrastructure rebuilding. It’s one of the top companies in the nation, notwithstanding the rumors that Mr. Hu overextended himself during the building spree before the Olympics. However, he doubled down on ailing U.S. banks and national companies, such as Ford, Citibank, et cetera, during the fallout from the loan disaster in the U.S., and emerged even richer than before.”

Bolan’s mouth quirked in what might have been the beginning of a smile. “Well, then, I doubt he’s planning to branch out into actual crime. Legal theft is so much more profitable, as everyone saw recently. Still, this is the highest of high society meeting with the lowest of the low. There’s a bigger picture going on here, and we need to find out more than just this little bit.”

Tokaido smiled. “I figured you might say that. What’d you have in mind?”