Decision Point

“It’s all right, Colonel,” Brognola said. “Maybe an extra set of hands and eyes will be a good thing.”

Bolan grudgingly nodded his acceptance, then held out a hand toward the woman, which she took, and they shook on it. Then he leaned down, casting his voice so that only she could hear him. “Agent Peterson, if you get killed, I won’t shed a tear. I won’t stop to bury your body and I won’t ship you home with a nice flag-draped coffin. And if you get in my way or make it impossible for me to do my job, I’ll take you out myself. Do we understand each other?”

Keeping her own voice at a whisper, she said, “We understand each other fine, Colonel. Just remember that it goes both ways.”

Her tone was completely serious and in that moment, Bolan decided that he might like this woman. She had guts and was willing to stand up to him—so far, at least. He wondered if she’d live through what they were about to do, then shrugged off such considerations. For now, the mission was all that mattered.

“I think we’re all set here, Hal,” he said. “Unless there’s anything else, Mr. President?”

“Not at the present, Colonel,” he said. He, too, got to his feet, and they shook hands. “Bring her back for me, Colonel, and kill those bastards who did this.”

“Yes, sir,” Bolan said. He saluted once more, then turned to Brognola. “You’ll send me everything you’ve got?”

“You’ll have it first thing,” the big Fed said. “Thanks for coming in, Colonel.”

Bolan shrugged. “It’s what I do.” He turned to the woman. “I’m staying at the Premier Hotel. Meet me there at 0800 tomorrow morning and we’ll get the ball rolling.”

“I’ll be there,” she said, then turned her back on him.

Bolan let himself out of the room, knowing that the man in the hallway would escort him to the upper floors and ensure that he got out of the building. He’d head back to the hotel and grab a quick bite before hitting the rack and trying to catch a little sleep.

The next day promised to be a long one.

CHAPTER THREE

In spite of his first-class accommodations, the red-eye flight from Singapore to Washington, D.C., hadn’t been very restful. But Kabilan Vengai was used to going without sleep. He’d been running nonstop for almost a year and rarely slept more than a few hours a day. Many men would be exhausted under such a strain, and it would show in everything about them: their appearance, mental state and the decisions they made would be compromised by the constant drain. Kabilan, however, thrived on his role, and if someone were to compare him to a vampire that feeds on power, he wouldn’t have been deeply offended.

Standing in a small ballroom in the Ritz-Carlton, he looked up at the ornate ceilings and took a deep breath. Part of him wished that his army was nearby so that he could order the hotel ransacked, hostages taken for ransom, and then allow his men hot showers and a good night’s sleep in a comfortable bed. The other part of him knew that such luxuries weakened men like those who served him—they were field men, one and all, and while they might enjoy the sleep, it would only distract them from their true purpose. He slugged down the last swallow of the watery cocktail he was holding and shook his head. This wasn’t where he wanted to be at the moment.

But the ostentatious reception for the Tamil People’s Action Committee meant to raise funds for his people was necessary. It was another tool—a sometimes laughable, often degrading one—but a tool nonetheless. Kabilan knew that perception mattered a great deal in the world, and if he was going to restore the rightful sovereignty of the Tamil people, he had to play on this stage equally as well as he did when he was leading his men to successful raids on the ocean. He put his empty glass on the bar and ordered another, then turned his attention to the room.

Most of the people here were displaced Tamils who had come to the United States and made enough money to support the cause of their people back in Sri Lanka, India and other parts of Indonesia. A handful were businessmen with interests in that part of the world—a couple of whom were more than willing to overlook the defeat of the Tamil Tigers and continue to use them to work around the Sri Lankan government whenever possible. He would walk through the room, shake hands, nod in understanding at their sincere concern at the plight of his people. He would watch as they opened their checkbooks and tried to solve problems with money. In turn, he would present those checks to the executive director of TPAC, then take the money for himself, buy the weapons and equipment he needed, and so, in a sense, solve problems with money. He hated the deception, and it was a far greater crime than any piracy he sanctioned. It was also necessary.

Still, the money raised here was simply a cover for his true purpose, and Kabilan scanned the room once more. While holding the hat here and conducting good raids on the seas had proven lucrative, neither was cost-effective or fast enough for his long-term goals. Though his recent capture of President Daniels’s daughter had been unanticipated, and he held few doubts that the man would pay her ransom as soon as he realized that her death would be the only thing he could accomplish by not paying. If they didn’t pay, her death would serve their cause just as well. Killing such a high-profile hostage would be a show of power unlike any other and show the world that they weren’t to be trifled with. But money wasn’t everything and while it could buy many things—weapons, especially—what he truly needed was something that would level the playing field.

This night he was going to take delivery of that weapon. The Ocean Tigers, who had once been known as the KP Branch of the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam, were one of the few remaining hopes for the Tamil revolution. When Kumaran Pathmanathan had disappeared at the hands of the Sri Lankan Secret Police, it had been left to him to find a way to continue.

Vengai had immediately moved his forces into a new area and modified the immediate mission to piracy on the high seas. Much of the work his men had done was blamed on other groups, and the ransoms paid were an excellent way to raise funds. They simply weren’t enough, the Daniels girl notwithstanding. Using contacts he developed in the technology field, he’d groomed a new contact over the past year and the moment of delivery had finally arrived.

Unfortunately his contact had yet to put in an appearance.

He moved away from the bar and began making his way across the room. He paused from time to time to talk with someone or to answer a question. About halfway, he felt a light touch on his arm and looked down to see the executive director of TPAC, a dark-haired woman in her early thirties, hired for her lobbying skills, staring at him. She was Tamil, but only in the most remote sense. Her grandparents had been from there, but she had no real idea what being from Tamil meant.

“Mr. Vengai?” she asked. “A moment of your time, please.”

Seeing that she had someone in tow, he softened his gaze and allowed a faint smile to pass across his features. “Of course, Ms. Nilani. What can I help you with?”

“I’d like you to meet someone,” she said. “This is Mr. Borelli. He’s quite interested in our cause, and wanted to be introduced.”

“Ah, Mr. Borelli,” Vengai said, offering his hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”

Borelli was a stout figure, almost portly, with thinning hair and an off-the-rack suit that fit improperly. His hands were soft. “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Vengai. I’ve been looking forward to this since USTPAC announced you’d be in attendance. How goes the battle?”

“Not as well as we would like,” he said, “but it’s not over—what is the saying?—until the fat lady sings.”

“Well put,” Borelli said. “Well put, indeed.”

The man affected a near-British accent, but he obviously was American. “So, Ms. Nilani says you have an interest in our cause?”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “I’ve read about the situation quite extensively as part of my job, and I must say, it seems that the Tamil people have been very shabbily treated.”

“I see,” Vengai said. “And what do you do, Mr. Borelli?”

Borelli smiled then, and for a split second, a very different person was standing in front of him. “I work as an analyst, Mr. Vengai. In Langley.”

So, he was CIA. Interesting that he’d be so direct in his approach. “How goes the battle for you, then?” he asked.

The man laughed. “Don’t misunderstand, sir. I’m not here in any official capacity! I’m just an analyst. I don’t make all that much, but I’d like to contribute—provided that my contribution is completely anonymous.”

“That can be easily arranged,” he said. “Simply make your contribution with cash.”

“And should that go to you or to Ms. Nilani?” he asked quickly.

Damn the man. He knew that TPAC was a front. If he told him to give the money directly to TPAC, she’d have to deposit the funds in the main account; if he said to give it to him, she’d have a lot of questions. “Ms. Nilani can handle that for you,” he said with barely concealed ire. He wondered if Borelli were playing some kind of game, for his own amusement, or for more serious purposes.

“Very good, then,” Borelli said. “I’ll bring it by the office on Monday.” He offered his hand once more. “I won’t take up any more of your time, Mr. Vengai. Thank you.”

Vengai nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Borelli. Drive safely tonight.”

Recognizing the vague threat, Borelli grinned once more. “And when you return home, you do the same. Travel safely, that is.” Then he turned and walked into the crowd.

Ms. Nilani, who’d been silent the entire time, shook her head. “That was strange,” she said. “I’m not sure I understand what he was doing here.”

“Neither do I, Ms. Nilani, but I expect that you could find out. Why don’t you make a phone call and see what you can learn about Mr. Borelli?”

“Right now?” she asked. “In the middle of the fundraiser?”

At that moment Vengai saw his contact come into the room and linger near the kitchen doors. “No, but make no mistake, people like him come to events like this for two reasons—one, he wants to upgrade his contacts and has something he wants to sell, or two, he’s here to tell us that he’s watching. I have a feeling that it was the latter,” he said, waving her off. “But I want that information by Monday at the latest.”

“Of course,” she said, then turned and resumed her role in working the room. Briefly, he watched her go. She was good at her job, but not a very observant person. On the other hand, a person who did what he or she was told without asking too many questions was perfect for his uses.

Before he could be engaged again in a lengthy conversation, he moved quickly across the room to where his contact, a computer programmer named Tim Wright, was waiting for him. Wright’s appearance matched his profession: dark hair, cut short in a functional style, a short-sleeved, polyester dress shirt, khaki pants and loafers. He stood almost six feet in height, but wasn’t in great physical condition. The spare tire around his midsection suggested a life spent sitting, and not on the ab-cruncher machine at his local gym.

Vengai offered his hand in greeting when he got close enough. “Mr. Wright? It’s good to meet you in person.”

Nervous, Wright nodded. “Yes, I’m…it’s good to meet you, too.” He held up his attaché case. “Should we go somewhere to talk?”

“Yes, let’s get out of sight before you disappear into a puddle of sweat.”