Don Pendleton: Perilous Cargo

“What do we have on them?” Bolan asked. “Anything specific?”

“No one passes in or out of that region without at least one of them knowing,” Nischal said. “There is one operative who knows everything there is to know about the players in that area, though.”

“And who might that be?” Bolan asked.

She raised her hand and fanned her fingers in the air, waving them daintily. “Don’t worry, Colonel Stone. I’ll take care of you.”

“Let’s see how it goes in the field before we worry about who’s taking care of who,” Bolan said dryly.

“And on that charming note, I believe I’ll go and get ready. I’ll meet you at Andrews, Colonel.” She turned and added a respectful goodbye to Brognola.

Bolan watched her saunter off and shook his head. Hopefully, she was more than a pretty face and a sharp mind.

“Hal, we didn’t cover this, but how do you expect me to get that damn missile—assuming I can find it—from Tibet all the way to India?”

The big Fed shrugged. “My guess is you’ll have to drive it.”

“Drive it!” Bolan choked. “You’re talking about more than five hundred miles, in hostile territory, in what’s likely to be lousy weather.”

“Don’t forget all the mountains and the wind,” Brognola said, chuckling. “Just like when you walked to school back in the day.”

“Very funny,” he said. “I’m serious. You want me to drive it to Delhi?”

“Unless you come up with a better idea once you’ve got it, that’s the only move we’ve got in this case.”

Bolan sighed heavily and started to say something, but Brognola cut him off. “Before you say anything else about Alina, you know that I can’t override the President of the United States. He wants her along and he trusts her for some reason.”

“Hal, you’re sending us into hostile terrain while we try and track down a nuke. I’ll spend the whole mission trying to make certain she isn’t killed, and that’s assuming she survives a HALO jump out of the cargo bay of a stealth bomber in a country not known for its charming weather conditions.”

“Don’t count her as baggage just yet, Striker. I’ve read her file, and I think she’ll give you a run for your money. She’s the real deal and has been working in the field for the CIA for over a decade. She can handle herself.”

Bolan wasn’t entirely convinced, but the deal was done. There was no point in arguing any further. “Have a nice trip, Striker,” Brognola said. “Try to leave something in Nepal standing. The Chinese will know we’ve been up to something if Mount Everest isn’t there next week.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“You always do,” he said. “That’s why I’m sending you.”

CHAPTER THREE

The city of Yangon, which had been the capital of Myanmar until the early years of the new millennium, was a mix of the old and the new. Temples and shrines in gold and silver and white upheld the glory of years past, while the city center itself contained both colonial and modern buildings—most of which were tied to the government in one way or another. Much of the hidden work of the regional government was still done in this city, rather than the new capital. The media, including television, radio and the internet, were all tightly controlled, and access to technology was expensive. It was an unhappy place in many ways, despite the charming landscape. Tourists came here and saw nothing of how the population was segmented, keeping to their own areas and minding their own affairs, trying not to be noticed by the oppressive government. Citizens sat on the streets, drinking tea praying at the temples or selling tokens to travelers.

Nizar Vitaly despised the city with a true passion. His mother was Russian, and he never truly felt at home anywhere else.

Like most government buildings in the area, the Russian Consulate was an older colonial brick building, left behind from when the British ruled the nation. And the heat was as oppressive as any ruler had ever been, too, Vitaly thought as he walked into the main entrance. He was a big man, six foot four, and a solid mass of two hundred and twenty pounds, but he moved like a panther—and he knew it. Vitaly was a man completely aware of himself and his own place in the universe.

He passed the main desk and climbed a flight of stairs to the second floor. He followed a short hallway down to the consul’s office and managed to contain his surprise when he saw Anisim Grigori, the head of Russian Intelligence, sitting behind the consul’s desk. Vitaly closed the door behind him but noted two other ways to get out of the office if this meeting did not go in his favor for some as yet unknown reason. Certainly, he would not be the first operative killed by his own agency. Being aware of one’s own place in the universe meant being aware of one’s own mortality, first and foremost.

“Vitaly, it’s good to see you,” Grigori said, rising to his feet. They shook hands formally. “You are missed in Moscow.”

“Yes, sir, thank you,” he replied. “I am surprised to see you, I admit. What brings you to Myanmar?”

“There is a problem that I would like you to deal with.”

Vitaly kept his peace and waited.

“You are aware, I think, of our...interests in Kathmandu?” Grigori raised a bushy eyebrow.

“You know I am, sir. I recommended changes to the facility’s security systems months ago, but my report was filed away.”

“Yes, I’ve seen the report and I’ve seen to it that those who chose to file it rather than share it with the chain of command are seeing their future in a very different light. A very different light, indeed.”

“What has happened?” Vitaly asked. “It must be serious to bring you all the way from Moscow.”

“Please, sit,” Grigori said, gesturing to the nearest chair. “There is no need to be quite so formal.”

Vitaly sat, watching the man who had built the new Russian Intelligence of the internet age with interest. He was dangerous, yes, but he could be a very powerful ally. Vitaly had no interest in doing field work for the rest of his life, and Grigori could secure his future—or destroy it—with a few simple words.

“So, as you say, the matter is serious,” Grigori continued. “One of the weapons was stolen and taken into Tibet.”

“Do we know who the thief is?”

“No, the identity is uncertain. You will retrieve it and remove all trace of the facility’s existence.”

Vitaly nodded. “It will be done. In fact, we have options here in Myanmar that are suitable for relocation, and the government is very cooperative.”

“I will leave all of that in your hands, Vitaly. Just secure the weapon and wipe the Kathmandu facility off the map. Send me your needs by this evening and I will see to it that you have everything you require.”

Vitaly considered the situation. “Once I have the weapon, we’ll still have a personnel problem in the region. Too many people know about Kathmandu—especially now. That many will never stay silent.”

“I am sure you have heard the phrase, ‘dead men tell no tales’?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do I need to say more?”

“No, sir.”

“And one more thing, Vitaly. I do not hold any doubts that the Americans may be behind this, or possibly the Chinese. I should not have to tell you how delicate this is for our country. We cannot afford to lose our bargaining position now. Make certain that anyone who knows about the weapon or the facility is removed from the equation.”

Vitaly smiled. It was the kind of fieldwork he enjoyed most, and it was much better than skulking around Yangon. What was most important was controlling the information Moscow received. After all, the black market paid far better than the government, though he enjoyed the power and income from both sources. “It will be as you command. No witness will be left alive.”