Appointment In Baghdad

He turned to Price. “How many of Phoenix can you peel off that detail?”

Price pursed her lips, obviously conflicted. She was a mission-first person, and she ran Stony Man that way. Still, both operations were obviously of importance.

“I can’t drop the ball on that security detail, Hal,” she said. “I can give him two and that’s stretching it. Not Manning, though,” she added, thoughtful. “He’s my ballistics and explosives number one. He can handle the matter with North American International over secure communications if he needs to.”

Brognola turned back to Bolan. “I can give you two from Phoenix Force. Take them, Striker.”

Bolan nodded. He was pensive for a moment, weighing out the various specialties of each man. McCarter was out, obviously, as he was the team leader. The soldier trusted each man in Phoenix Force with his life; it wasn’t a question of trust. All of them were equally capable in their own ways. It was a question of pure pragmatism that guided his decision now.

“Give me Calvin and Rafe,” he said, referring to Calvin James and Rafael Encizo. “I’d like a dedicated Stony Man pilot if the need comes down to that,” Bolan said. “That could expedite things a lot. Jack, of course, if you can spare him.”

Brognola shifted his eyes to Price. Such matters were her domain.

“I’m sorry, Mack,” she said. “I know how much you trust Jack, but I need him down with Able Team. I can give you Charlie Mott.”

“He’s a good man,” Bolan agreed.

“All right,” Brognola stood. “Now that that’s settled we’ll get Rafe and Cal in here and get them up to speed. I have a meeting at Pennsylvania Avenue I’m late for.” He came around the table and shook Bolan’s hand.

“That was good work in Toronto, Striker. You keep yourself safe on this one.”

Bolan smiled back. If he had a dollar for every time he’d heard Brognola tell him to stay safe…well he’d be ahead by a lot.

“Thanks, Hal,” he said. “I’ll see you when I get back.”

S EVERAL HOURS LATER Bolan sat in the Stony Man Computer Room.

Price manned a telephone, deeply immersed in a conference call. Across the room Aaron Kurtzman worked at his station. He typed on a keyboard with a blunt, staccato rhythm. Maps, weather reports, intelligence bulletins and classified military reports scrolled across his multiple screens.

Bolan shuffled through his travel papers. He had identification as a North American International employee and another set as an Associated Press freelance reporter. His kit held passports, open tickets and visa receipts to bonded warehouses around the region. At his feet there was a black leather satchel that reminded him of a bowling ball bag which was tagged with a Diplomatic Pouch ID.

The suitcase was filled with stacks of money in several currencies. There was no functioning bank system in Iraq, no money wire transfers. Most people, from the government to the U.S. military to street vendors and terror agents, dealt in cold, hard cash.

In the War Room Rafael Encizo and Calvin James were being given their briefings. Bolan looked up as the door opened and Carmen Delahunt rushed in.

She held up a fax sheet and waved it at Price, who nodded and hurriedly cut her connection on the telephone. Bolan slid his paperwork together and put it in the black satchel with the cash before zipping the suitcase closed.

“We just got a break,” Delahunt said.

Price walked over to where Bolan was sitting and sat on a corner of the desk. Bolan leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desktop. Delahunt slapped the fax printout in front of them.

“I had a hunch,” she said. “So I did a keyword search of the integrated system. I came across an oblique reference to ‘Scimitar’ in an Interpol Asian Liaison report. It was pretty vague, but it was in reference to the Shimmering Raindrop Triad, known to operate out of Hong Kong. The interesting part is that the Agency,” she said, referencing one of the slang terms for the CIA, “has them pegged as a sometime mercenary cutout for China’s Central Control of Information.”

Bolan grunted in recognition at the name. The CCI was a branch of Communist China’s foreign intelligence services. It was mostly known for economic and industrial espionage. It operated out of Silicon Valley and Hong Kong the way the KGB had operated out of Berlin during the cold war.

“Good work, Carmen,” Price said. “What else?”

“Apparently the agency had a middle management mole in the triad. It was a report about that asset, Jigsaw Liu, that mentioned Scimitar. Jigsaw Liu was given control of triad gambling operations in Hong Kong. He was briefly the focus of an Immigration and Customs investigation into human smuggling with the FBI. The Agency stepped in and asked the DNI to squash it, despite the various crimes, because he represents a backdoor into the CCI.

“I have a contact number for Jigsaw Liu’s handler if you want to make contact before you go overseas,” Delahunt finished.

“Might give us a little more to go on before we commit,” Price said, thoughtful.

Bolan nodded. “Every little bit helps,” he agreed. “Check with the Agency man, set up a meet.” He turned to Price. “Go ahead and send Rafe and Cal to Zagreb,” he said. “Have them set up and start initial recon. I’ll handle the meet alone. It’ll expedite the whole operation.”

Price pursed her lips. “Rafe and Cal are probably our best choice for moving through Baghdad unnoticed, but they won’t exactly blend into the Croatian crowds.”

“I’m going to approach Mirjana as a representative of North American International. Don’t have them pretending to be local. We’ll set them up as company reps since they’ll obviously be pegged as foreigners.”

“Good point. I’ll send Rafe and Cal over on a commercial flight. You three can fly into Jordan from Zagreb later and then take a commercial flight into Baghdad International.”

“I’ll call the Agency handler and set up a meet with Jigsaw Liu,” Delahunt stated.

“Let’s make it happen,” Bolan said.

Things were starting to click. He just couldn’t tell if the pieces were falling into place or if this was the beginning of an avalanche.

CHAPTER SIX

Special Administrative Region, Hong Kong

Bolan stood in the alleyway behind the Mandarin restaurant.

Several streets over the sound of a busy Hong Kong night met his ears. Along the waterfront it was quiet. There were no streetlamps, the only illumination coming from bare bulbs set over the back doors of various businesses.

It was quiet enough that he could just make out the gentle lapping of harbor water against the wooden pilings of the piers. The alley he was in stank of urine, rotting vegetables and fish guts. Under a naked bulb casting a weak light, Bolan faced an old wooden door. The paint was peeling and the wood had grown soft with age and the erosion by salty air. A Chinese ideogram had been spray painted in the center of the door.

Bolan recognized the symbol from Carmen Delahunt’s report as standing for the Shimmering Raindrop Triad. Down the alley three Chinese men in their early twenties crouched and smoked, talking rapidly. One of them watched Bolan, dragging on his cigarette. The Executioner thought the youths likely to be security forces. Soldiers in the triads were differentiated by the slang numeric code 426.

Hong Kong had changed a lot since 1997 when the British had returned it to the control of the People’s Republic of China. Hong Kong formed one of only two Special Administrative Regions, the other being Macau. Despite the PRC’s take over, Hong Kong had maintained a high degree of autonomy and was China’s richest city, operating in accordance with terms laid out in the Sino-British Joint Declaration, existing under not Beijing rule, but the Basic Law of Hong Kong.

Under this “One Country, Two Systems” policy Hong Kong kept its own legal system, customs policy and currency until 2047. As a result, the city had one of the most liberal economies in the world and had maintained its status as an epicenter for finance and trade. It had long been a seat for the People’s Republic of China’s espionage efforts. In many ways it had come to replace old Berlin as the spy center of the world, though Islamabad and Amman gave the Asian metropolis a run for its money.

In spite of all this, or more accurately, because of all this, Chinese crime syndicates flourished in the environment. Bolan was about to enter living proof of that as he prepared to attend the meet set up by a junior Hong Kong case officer in the CIA.

Bolan turned the knob on the door in the alley and let it swing open. A concrete staircase, littered with multicolored stubs of paper and crushed cigarette butts, ran down to a small square landing. From this landing a second set of stairs led even deeper into the earth under the Mandarin restaurant.

The soldier walked through the door and descended the stairs. The door swung shut behind him and the gloom on the steps thickened. Another naked bulb hung from a cord above the landing below him, and Bolan carefully moved toward it.

The smell of the raw earth around him was dank. He could faintly hear the squeal of rats moving behind the packed dirt walls and rotted timbers. The earth had absorbed decades’ worth of body odor, spilled alcohol and cigarette smoke. He was entering the pit, an underground warren of small rooms and low tunnels devoted to the greatest vice of the Chinese: gambling.

The only legal gambling permitted in the Special Administrative Region of Hong Kong was the horse races sanctioned at the Happy Valley tracks since 1846 or at the relatively newer Shatin facility. This fell far short of satiating the traditional penchant for wagers and games of chance, and in the spirit of ruthless entrepreneurialism the Hong Kong triads had stepped in to meet the need.

Bolan turned the corner in the narrow staircase at the landing. Below him the second staircase halted at a sturdy metal door. A Chinese male sat on a tall, three-legged stool, guarding the door.

As he moved closer in the uncertain light, Bolan saw the butt of a Beretta 92-F sticking out of the guard’s waistband. On the back of the man’s right hand was a tattoo of the same ideogram painted on the door in the alley above them. More ideogram tattoos crawled up the man’s fat neck in precise, if sprawling, patterns. From through the cast-iron door Bolan could hear muted but obviously raucous activity.

The man scrutinized Bolan with narrowed eyes. He barked something in what Bolan took to be Cantonese. The soldier shrugged helplessly, then held up a thick wad of Hong Kong dollars. He said Jigsaw Liu’s name.