Lethal Risk

Tokaido brought up a two-week-old news article on his thirty-five-inch monitor. “Because there are no accompanying pictures with the data. The article simply stated that specially trained police officers had been assigned to the checkpoints around Beijing. We had no idea they were sending the equivalent of Chinese SWAT team members to stand around and check cars.”

Price nodded, although she would have made someone’s head roll if this had been a critical mistake. It sounded as though there simply hadn’t been a reason to follow up on a relatively innocuous bit of intel. Once again, she was reminded of the hazards of accepting things at face value, particularly when an item in question was on the other side of the world.

“This is flat-out ridiculous, Hal,” she said. “There must be something more we can do from here.”

As she spoke, Price noticed Kurtzman and Tokaido exchange a swift glance before returning their attentions to their stations.

“And that would be what?” Brognola popped two antacid tablets. “I can’t even joke about packing someone inside his suitcase, because he didn’t take one. When I say our hands are tied, our hands are tied.”

The two cyber wizards glanced at each other again and Price sighed. “What? If either one of you has anything pertinent to add to this conversation, now’s the time.”

Tokaido swept back his long hair before replying. “Well, China is one of the most heavily surveilled nations on Earth—”

“Yeah, behind only the US and maybe England,” Kurtzman added.

“Regardless, it is technically feasible to hack their systems and search for a particular face or build. It would even be possible to track said target’s movements throughout the city, allowing us to keep an eye on his movements and interactions.”

“Great, so we can see him get caught by the MSS or the military. There must be something more we can give him from here,” Price said. “Chinese hackers are battering at our firewalls every day. Surely you guys can do more than just get us a look through some cameras?”

Again the two men exchanged glances, then Kurtzman pushed his wheelchair back from his station and turned to face her. “Are you sure you want to continue down this path, Barb? We all know what the orders from Washington stated. So, what exactly would you like us to do?”

Price stared at the bearded computer genius for a few seconds, evaluating him and his question. It sounded as though he was trying to get her to drop it, but he was regarding her with a frank, open stare. She was pretty sure she knew what he was asking, but she had to kick the decision upstairs—in this case, to the man in the rumpled shirt standing next to her, before she could find out.

“Hal?”

He regarded her with a gimlet stare. “You’re the mission controller, Barb. How do you want to proceed?”

“We’re already providing data assistance as the situation develops. I want Bear and Akira to provide whatever mission-critical assistance they can to Striker without being detected.” She waited to see if either Brognola or Kurtzman had picked up on the discrepancy in the two sentences.

“Given the mission parameters, are we providing standard electronic antidetection?” Kurtzman asked. He was referring to the standard erasure that happened during stealth and infiltration missions, where the Stony Man cyber team removed all evidence that their operatives had been on site—altering vehicle logs, looping or deleting surveillance camera footage, deleting fingerprints on file or mug shots where necessary.

That was the lifeline Price needed. She grabbed it. “Yes, especially on this mission. Of course, you both will need to balance that aspect of this op with the mission-critical assistance.”

Kurtzman nodded, the hint of a smile playing around his lips. “Of course we will.”

Brognola held his gaze on Price a few seconds longer, then swiveled his head to look at Kurtzman and Tokaido. “You both heard the lady.”

The computer genius nodded once. “Understood. Now, if you’ll both excuse us—” he wheeled around to face his glowing bank of monitors “—we have work to do.”

“You will, of course, update us on the mission’s status as appropriate?” the big Fed asked.

“Of course. We always do,” Kurtzman replied without looking at him.

“Come on, let’s leave them to their work.” Price turned and headed toward the door, pausing there to make sure he was following her.

Outside, Brognola made sure to close the door to the Computer Room before turning to her. “Did what I think just happened in there happen?”

“That depends. And if you’d prefer to not get an answer you may not like, I’d suggest you not ask the question leading to it.”

“Barbara, you know I’m not against bending the rules when I think the circumstances warrant it.”

“And I can’t think of a better time for that to happen than right now,” she replied. “Aaron gave me the opening I needed to direct them to assist Striker without blowback. He also just gave us plausible deniability if we ever needed it.”

“You realize that if either of those two get caught sneaking around China’s computers, by the book we’d be forced to hang them out to dry, right?”

Price nodded. “Yes. But I don’t see that happening. First, Aaron and Akira are unmatched when it comes to breaking into enemy computer systems, no matter what country. And second, there is no way in hell I would let either of those two men go down as having done something perceived as illegal on my watch. I’ll fight for them every step of the way, if it ever comes to that.”

“Good, then we’re on the same page in that regard.” The big Fed glanced at the closed door a few feet away. “Not that I don’t appreciate what the guys are doing, but they didn’t have to go all cloak-and-dagger on us.”

“That’s what I love about this team, Hal. Everyone helps in the way they think is best.” Price smiled. “Come on. I’ll make us some decent coffee in the farmhouse. It’ll help distract me until the next update.”

“Agreed.” Brognola fell into step beside her as they headed down the hall. “You worried about Striker out there?”

“Yes,” was all she said.

Every time he leaves…

CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_4d220bcf-6789-5ae1-a86a-bb7559061eb2)

Who knew it’d be so damn hard to find a car outside Beijing?

Bolan had put a couple of miles between himself and the checkpoint, staying off the main roads and avoiding anyone he saw coming his way. More than once that had necessitated ducking into the lightly wooded area near the smaller road he was traveling. One time he’d had to drop to his stomach in some tall grass as a trio of giggling girls dressed in what looked like school uniforms walked by a few yards away.

But the farther he got from the countryside, the closer he got to the more populated suburbs—and the harder it was to locate a suitable vehicle to steal. In the country, the only vehicles available were tractors and bicycles. In this area it wasn’t that there weren’t any around, it was just that vehicles were all under lock and key, kept in some kind of building, whether that was a cinder-block garage or a makeshift shack of tin panels.

While Bolan wasn’t worried about breaking into a place to steal a car, he wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible about it. It was hard enough being a six-foot-three-inch man in a country where the average height was five-seven. Add that he was a Caucasian, and it meant that any sighting of him doing anything illegal would be the kind of thing that would definitely stick in the minds of the locals.

The countryside had grown quiet again and Bolan resumed his approach toward a cluster of houses in the near distance. With luck, he could find something here to take him into the city.

The houses were simple, one-story structures with white walls and red-tiled roofs. A moped was parked outside the front doors of several homes. Keeping his head down and his cap brim low on his face, Bolan surreptitiously checked the driveways and lawns of each house as he passed.

A door slamming made him tense and he ducked behind a tree while casting around for the source of the noise. On the next block, a man in a short-sleeved shirt and black tie, and carrying a briefcase, trotted out of the largest house in the area—it had a small second story on it—and headed for his car, a medium-size, well-used sedan. Bolan looked closer and saw that the trunk was ajar, held shut by a length of white cord. Wherever the man was headed, it had to be somewhere more populated, where Bolan could acquire better transportation.

A shout sounded from the doorway and he looked back to see a heavily pregnant woman in a house coat holding what looked like a sheaf of papers in her hand. The man ran back to the doorway and snatched the papers, getting into a brief discussion with his wife, Bolan surmised. But his attention wasn’t entirely focused on them—he was moving toward the car.

The lightly forested grassy area he was creeping through ended in a small green hedge that led almost up to the back end of the sedan. With the couple still talking about something, the soldier crept along the hedge to the trunk, reaching it as the couple’s voices got louder. The rope securing the broken trunk was tied in a simple square knot. Bolan untied it in a few seconds. Now came the tricky part—opening it wide enough to get inside without attracting the couple’s attention. He carefully eased it open just enough for him to squeeze inside, folding himself around the small, bald spare tire and thanking the Universe that this guy didn’t keep his trunk full of crap.

Bolan had just gotten the trunk lid back down when he heard approaching footsteps crunch on the gravel driveway. Clenching one hand into a fist—just in case he had to subdue the guy—Bolan waited for the car to start moving, wondering if the man noticed that the back end of his car was a couple inches lower now. The car door opened then closed, and after a few seconds, Bolan felt the car begin to move underneath him.

He kept hold of the rope so he could keep the trunk from opening, yet still give himself enough of a space to view the outside. His initial suspicion had been correct—they seemed to be heading deeper into the city. Crammed like a sardine into the dusty, smelly compartment, this was by far the worst accommodation Bolan had found on his trip so far. The car had definitely seen better days, and once it accelerating to about thirty miles per hour, the rattling over the washboard road jarred his spine and ribs unmercifully. But he was making a lot better time, and wherever they ended up, it had to be a place with more possibilities than what he’d seen so far.

As long as he doesn’t get a flat tire, I’ll be fine, he thought as the car rattled and swayed onto a major arterial highway, giving Bolan hope that he would be able to find what he needed near the driver’s final destination.

An hour later the car creaked to a stop on a narrow side road. The driver spent a few minutes wedging his car in among rows of similar sedans, then got out and walked down the street toward whatever office building he worked in. Bolan gave him five more minutes—in case he forgot something in his car—then eased the trunk open and looked around.

He found himself in what looked like an anonymous business section on the outskirts of the city. The streets were lined with small shops selling everything from knockoff clothes to electronics. Pulling his cap low, Bolan checked his cash and hit the first electronics store he found.

Four stores, forty-five minutes, a lot of pointing and around fifty thousand yuan later, Bolan was set electronically, with four cheap smartphones, three small tablets, several items of clothing and a backpack to carry everything. The phones were burners; he would use each one for a day, then destroy it. The tablets were along the same lines. Changing access accounts would be a pain, but it definitely beat spending time in a Chinese prison for cyber espionage.