Dragon's Den

“You do,” the Executioner replied. “I need you to get me on that boat.”

She let out a whistle. “You don’t ask much, do you? Well, just so you know, I don’t think I can get you onto that boat. It hasn’t been fully processed by our crime-scene people, and as such it’s considered to be in evidentiary lockup. I could only gain access now with a court order.”

“Look, you’ve probably figured out by now I could make a phone call and get verbal authorization to get on that boat within ten minutes. But that would mean involving your superiors, and if they’re in on this I don’t want them knowing someone other than locals are involved. It would jeopardize my mission, and it would put you in a compromising position, too. So let’s say we do this my way.”

“Okay, but it isn’t going to be easy. It’s under constant guard. Even if my people agree to let me on board, they sure as hell aren’t going to let you past, federal badge or not.”

Mack Bolan grinned. “Who said anything about asking them?”

T HE LUMINOUS GREEN NUMBERS on the digital wall clock read 3:23 a.m.

Although Barbara Price had perused Kurtzman’s intelligence four times in preparation for briefing Hal Brognola, it still frustrated her. The mission controller shook her head as she scrolled through the data displayed on the twenty-three-inch LCD monitor in the Computer Room of the Annex at Stony Man Farm.

Price got frustrated when she couldn’t seem to put her finger directly on something, even though she knew the answers were staring her in the face. Bolan, and the others in the field, Able Team and Phoenix Force, relied heavily upon her assessments. As mission controller, she gave the orders, after all. She had less of a hand where it concerned the Executioner—he called his own shots and they had an agreement on that particular subject—but he relied on Stony Man for his support. They couldn’t mandate what missions Bolan could take or not take. The choices were utterly his. Yet he never hesitated to lend a hand when called upon, and so at the very least they owed him good, solid intelligence when he asked for it.

“How’s it going?” a deep voice asked behind her.

Price jumped, then whirled in her chair. She felt her face flush. “What the hell is wrong with you? You scared the be-jeebers out of me!”

Aaron Kurtzman drew back his head and raised his arms. Her uncharacteristic reaction didn’t dawn on her immediately, but when it did she reeled back her temper and offered him an apologetic smile. She hadn’t meant to bark at him like that. Kurtzman had turned out to be her closest friend and confidant, which wasn’t surprising, since they spent many hours together at the Farm.

Kurtzman noticed her sheepish grin and accepted it as her way of apologizing. “My, my…Someone’s jumpy.”

“Not jumpy,” she replied, shaking her head. She looked back at the screen and sighed. “Just frustrated that I can’t figure this all out.”

“Well, I just came in to let you know Hal’s back from Wonderland, and he’s chomping at the bit.”

“Probably more like chomping at his unlit cigar,” Price said as she rose and scooped the computer printouts from the desk.

Kurtzman chuckled, then moved his wheelchair aside so Price could walk past. The click-clack of her heels reverberated off the walls of the hallway that eventually led to the underground tunnel connecting the Annex and the farmhouse. An electric car facilitated a faster transit time, but Price elected to walk the distance to clear her head, as well as to visit with Kurtzman.

“Any word from Striker?” she asked.

“Not since I talked to him earlier tonight.”

“Actually, that was last night,” Price reminded him with a wry grin.

“Touché.” Kurtzman cleared his throat. “I take it the data I sent you wasn’t that helpful.”

“It’s not the data, Bear,” she replied. “It’s my interpretation skills that seem to be off on this one. I can’t make heads or tails of this thing.”

“Well, maybe once you get it all out we can come up with something solid enough for Mack to work with.”

Her voice seemed weaker as she replied. “Maybe.”

They made the remainder of the trip in silence and within five minutes they were seated with Brognola in the War Room. The atmosphere actually made Price feel a little better, but it also caused her to realize how exhausted she really was. She hadn’t slept in more than twenty-four hours.

The Stony Man chief smiled at her, but she could see something deeper beneath the surface. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Brognola said. “At least nothing I want to get into right now. What have you got?”

“I wish I could say lots, but unfortunately I don’t know how much more I can tell you than you probably already know from reading Aaron’s intelligence.”

“Just lay it out for me and let’s see where it takes us,” Brognola said.

“Sure. Well, to start with it would seem Striker was right about the Golden Triangle as being our most likely source for this opium and heroin. Its opium production exceeds four thousand metric tons annually, and Myanmar remains the largest contributor to that overall. In fact, Myanmar could probably satisfy the majority of world demand for heroin, which equates to about two hundred metric tons uncut.”

Kurtzman whistled his surprise. “That’s some serious dope.” When Brognola and Price cast askance glances at him, he added, “No pun intended.”

Price continued, “Opium production was pretty much a closed market based on geography up until about a decade ago.”

“What changed?” Brognola asked.

“Mostly?” She shrugged. “Profit motive, I’d say. The various producers who had control of their regional territories decided they could all make more money if they pooled their resources in shipment and distribution. Since most of the north Asian and Middle East countries took second place when it came to places like Myanmar, they opted to defer to the Triangle for help and let them call the shots. Most of the product is now shipped into Taiwan and Vietnam, or smuggled south to Indochina, where it’s processed, packaged and exported. Mostly to the West.”

“Not that Southeast Asia doesn’t have its share of heroin addicts,” Kurtzman interjected.

“Of course,” Brognola said. “But the difference is many of the users there who get hooked are the same ones actually helping pick the crop. It’s how they make their living.”

“And others manage to make their living by getting our kids and politicians and educators hooked on the stuff,” Price said. “Like Hal said, it’s mostly an economic way of life for those people. Third World countries regionally cultivate poppy with scant interference from legal or political entities, and in some cases no interference. Central and South American countries, and places like Lebanon, are no longer the up-and-comers of poppy production like most people believe. Vietnam, for example, cultivates more than three thousand hectares of opium poppy plants regularly. Only because they don’t have the distribution system to support it do they have to funnel the majority of the product up through Taiwan and out of China.”

“Okay, so I’d hazard a guess and say it’s safe to assume Striker’s on the money about the source of these drugs,” Brognola said.

“I would agree with him one hundred percent,” Price replied with a nod.

“Any ideas on who’s behind it?”

“That’s been sort of the gotcha,” Price said. “There are any numbers of known overlords running the drug trade in the Golden Triangle. They’re all big names and, as of late, all seem to remain untouched by any form of recognized law enforcement over there.”

“Well, we’ve pretty much come to the consensus that the drugs are sourced in Myanmar. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find out who’s running things there and give that intelligence to Striker so he can act on it.”

“That’s the trouble,” Price said. “We don’t know whose operation it is anymore. Sung Suun was the man in charge up until about a year ago when he was killed during a police raid of his business holdings in downtown Pyinmana. Many of his competitors guess Suun’s own underlings actually murdered him, at his request, because he didn’t want to allow the authorities to capture him.”

“Nice,” Kurtzman said. “How did they cook up that theory?”

“I remember that,” Brognola answered. “Our own intelligence people figured it was probably a publicity stunt more than anything else. They figured his little drug empire would hold together better if he went down as a martyr.”

“And unfortunately,” Price added, “nobody was left to contradict the stories of his ‘heroic sacrifice,’ since the punishment for drug trafficking over there is death. As soon as a trafficker’s convicted, they take him out and put a bullet in the back of his head.”

“Sounds like we could learn a lesson or two from Myanmar’s government,” Kurtzman replied.

“Hardly,” Brognola replied with a snort. “Most of the public officials over there are just as corrupt as the dealers and drug lords.”

Price nodded. “It’s true. Whether anybody wants to admit it or not, drugs are a huge source of revenue for these people. They’ll never get fair prices from the majority of the countries to which they export legitimate goods and services, and most American companies who farm out cheap labor to that side of the world do so because the standards for work conditions and facilities aren’t nearly as stringent as they are here.”

“That almost sounds liberal, Barb,” Kurtzman said. “I’m surprised. I always took you for a conservative.”

“I’m for the truth, which is what that is…right, wrong or indifferent.”