Lethal Risk. Don Pendleton
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into Beijing. We can’t afford to let this spiral into an international incident. We’re just lucky the Chinese also want to keep this as quiet as we do. The black eye on relations between the two countries would take years to fade.”
Price looked down at her tablet, hiding a smile. She didn’t blame Brognola for his irascible attitude. As the Farm’s liaison to the President and a head honcho at the Justice Department, the big Fed had to wade into the alphabet soup that was Washington, DC, on a daily basis to try to glean whatever useful intel he could from the multitude of often-bickering departments on the Hill.
“What’s Striker’s ETA?”
“We sent him the Priority One message—” Price consulted her watch “—nine minutes ago. I’m sure Cowboy and he are double-timing it back.” She referred to John “Cowboy” Kissinger, the Farm’s premier weaponsmith.
As if in confirmation of her statement, her tablet pinged with a message from Akira Tokaido, a top hacker and member of the Farm’s cyber team.
Striker inbound. Coming your way in 10 seconds.
“He’s on his way here right now,” she confirmed, making sure her presentation was ready.
They both looked up as Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, strode into the War Room carrying a ceramic mug. “Barbara. Hal,” he said, greeting each of them with a nod.
As he slid into a high-backed leather chair, Bolan blew on the mug of steaming coffee and sipped it cautiously, grimacing as he swallowed. “Just when I thought I was used to Bear’s brew, he changes it up on me.” He glanced at Brognola with a raised eyebrow. “Sure you don’t want a cup, Hal? It’ll take the edge off.”
“Bear” was Aaron Kurtzman, who was as good with making Stony Man’s computers do everything but sit up and dance as he was bad at brewing remotely drinkable coffee.
“Yeah, that and ten years off my life.” Brognola had already pulled out the other indispensable aid he was never without, a roll of antacid tablets, and thumbed a pair into his mouth. “Keep that damn cup as far away from me as possible. The smell’s bad enough. I’d hate to have to actually drink it.”
Despite the potentially top-secret materials they were about to discuss, Price watched the two men sparring with an internal grin. Between them, Bolan and Brognola had carried the fight for justice and freedom to all four corners of the globe, and knew each other better than any person alive. Even she wasn’t privy to all parts of their relationship, which was fine by her. Some things were best left alone.
“Barbara, why don’t you fill Striker in on the mess we’ve found ourselves in, courtesy of those jackasses over at State?”
Barely resisting rolling her eyes, Price exchanged an it’s-gonna-be-one-of-those-days glances with Bolan as she started her program deck.
On the large flat-screen monitor at the end of the room, a man’s face appeared in a candid shot taken as he was walking down a busy street. He was Chinese, dressed in an expensive suit, and had the look of someone who appeared at ease on the surface but carrying a heavy internal load.
“Three months ago, a midlevel employee at our US Embassy in Beijing was approached by a man claiming to work at the highest levels of the Chinese government,” Price began. “He wanted to defect to the United States with his family, and was willing to provide a vast amount of information on everything China is involved in, from their military plans for the rest of South Asia and beyond, to top-secret economic programs being executed around the world.”
Bolan frowned. “Almost seems too good to be true. Who is he?”
“Zhang Liao. A career politician, his family’s made its fortune at the top of the Chinese government for the past four generations,” Price replied. “The Liao family has showed a particular aptitude for reading the political winds and shifting with them. No member has ever been caught in a scandal or punished as part of a change in the government. They even survived the incident in Tiananmen Square with their reputation intact, when most of the rest of the government suffered from the fallout.”
“So why the sudden change of heart?” Bolan asked.
“Liao said that he feared the course the current government was taking would lead inexorably to war, whether that be with Taiwan, or any of a half-dozen other countries, over the Spratly Islands, or the recent dustup with Vietnam over territorial waters, or even Japan, which has been flexing its military muscle recently, most likely to avoid the appearance of weakness. He even brought up the possibility of a military plan that could eventually bring in the other superpowers. He didn’t divulge any more details, but said he could provide proof that China was taking steps to expand its influence and power over the other countries in the region and beyond.”
“No kidding.” Brognola grunted. “The buildup of the Chinese military on the Indian border has the Indians alternately rattling sabers one minute while selling them trade goods the next. And the Chinese are practically buying Africa wholesale as it is, pouring billions into power grid and other infrastructure projects and dams in the interior. Those poor nations who think they’re getting a great deal right now don’t understand the bill that will come due afterward. The Chinese are masters of the long game—they don’t do anything without factoring in the ramifications years from now.”
While Bolan listened to Brognola, his eyes hadn’t left the picture of Liao’s face. “I assume standard verification and cross-referencing protocols were followed?”
“To the letter. Everything he starting feeding us to prove his bona-fides checked out,” Price said. “He gave us advance intel on troop movements for a buildup near Tibet pending a new crackdown on independence seekers there, and was also able to give us their previously unseen action plan for Taiwan, which involves them taking control of the country within the next decade.”
“Not much of a surprise there,” Bolan replied. “Any half-decent analyst could sift what we already know and come up with the same conclusion.”
“Yeah, but predicting’s one thing. Proof is something else entirely,” Brognola said. “This guy could give us enough intel to blunt or at least slow the intended Chi-Com advance across Asia for the next couple of decades.”
The corner of Bolan’s mouth quirked up at the old reference to the Chinese Communist Party. “Okay, so where is he?”
“He’s missing,” Price stated. “Although State claims they followed every protocol and procedure by the book—” Price couldn’t resist glancing at Brognola to see if he was going to chime in, but he held his peace “—the scheduled attempt to take him into US custody and begin the asylum process never got started. He was supposed to lose any government watchers and enter our embassy secretly three days ago. He never showed.”
“Are we sure that State didn’t just get cold feet again, like they did with Wang Lijun?” Bolan asked. “As I recall, the US turned down his asylum request because the government didn’t want to embarrass the Chinese so close to their VP’s visit to the States. Isn’t it possible this is along those same lines, and now State’s just covering its ass?”
“I could go along with that, if what I’m about to tell you hadn’t happened two nights ago,” Brognola said around his unlit cigar. “With typical State ham-fistedness, they sent one guy out to pick up his family.”
An American face appeared on the screen with vitals listed next to it. “Edward Carstairs. Good man, ex-Army, smart as hell, 99th percentile on his AFQT, but new to the region,” the big Fed continued. “The suits thought he’d be perfect, since he wasn’t known to anyone there yet. He made the pickup of Liao’s family—the embassy got a verified text from his phone, and also traced it to Liao’s home address two nights ago, but they never made it back.”
Price brought up the next slide, showing a totaled sedan that had been T-boned with a vengeance. “The official story is that the car was in an accident—which fits at first glance. Except the usual driver of the car was missing and hasn’t been seen anywhere