Don Pendleton

by Sabotage (v5)

  “Very well,” Mak said. “And what do you still have?”

  “We finished with the chemical plant,” Trofimov said, “though Heller is now pulling back from his promise to help us distribute the armor through channels. My financial assets are heavily guarded and remain extensive. This facility itself, and those within it, are equally heavily guarded. And we have the means to create more videos, perhaps even to discover further atrocities committed by the same soldiers.”

  “And Heller?”

  “Heller puzzles me,” Trofimov said. “He was willing enough to help before. Then we lost the disguised soldier unit. Now he will not return my calls. I do not know what to make of it.”

  “Forget Heller,” Mak said. “Corrupt U.S. politicians are never hard to find. You can always buy another.”

  “I suppose,” Trofimov said dubiously. He continued pacing.

  Mak, of course, knew the real reason Trofimov couldn’t reach Heller. It has been decided that such a resource—a congressman so willing to be cooperative, no matter the request, as long as the price was right—was too good to be squandered on Trofimov’s schemes, promising as they were. Mak’s people were in negotiations with Heller directly, attempting to work out an agreement whereby Heller’s connections in Congress and in the U.S. military could benefit China and China’s own military might. Mak had received the coded information just that morning, in fact. The notion had pleased him.

  Trofimov’s intercom buzzed.

  “Yes?”

  “Gareth Twain is here to see you, sir,” the receptionist reported.

  “Show him in at once.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Twain walked in, looking considerably less arrogant than he had when last Mak had seen him.

  How the mighty have fallen, he thought. It would have been amusing had it not been so familiar. It had happened to his own people enough times, engaged in similar operations among the Americans.

  “Twain,” Trofimov said, “we know what has happened. Sit down.”

  Twain sank into a chair, looking nervous and pale. Mak didn’t feel like waiting for Trofimov to get around to asking, so he asked himself. “What,” he said, “happened to you?”

  Twain looked at him for a moment as if he had two heads. Obviously the Irishman was unaccustomed to a direct question coming from Mak Wei; Mak had seldom deigned speak to him in such a manner. That didn’t matter now; issues of status and hierarchy were unimportant. What Mak wanted now was information.

  “They hit us,” Twain said. “Hit us hard in the Big Easy, right where we live. I was lucky to get out at all. I have—had—a hidden exit built into my office. And damned if I didn’t see her!”

  “See who?”

  “The girly-girl what chased me down with the FBI not so long ago,” Twain said. “She was there. She didn’t see me, but I saw her.”

  “Are you saying,” Mak said, taking a drag from his cigarette, “that the American FBI is behind these assaults on your people?”

  “Not hardly,” Twain said. “She was there, yeah, but these weren’t no FBI raids that knocked over my people and his things.” Twain jerked his chin toward Trofimov. “Death on the hoof, that big bastard is. Caught a glimpse of him as I was fleeing. Not one I’d care to see again. But I guess I got no choice, yeah?”

  “What do you mean?” Trofimov asked.

  “Well, put it together, why don’t you,” Twain said to him. “You don’t think you’re just going to sit up here nice as you please, without a care in the world, do you?”

  “I will have you know—”

  “Oh, shut your piehole,” Twain interrupted the Russian. “They hit me, and they’ll be coming for you. The whole thing’s blown, boy-o! The whole thing! All your schemes, all your plans, you think you can hide any of them? If they found me, they can find you.”

  “Your job,” Trofimov said, “is to protect me. That is your primary function. All other military actions are secondary to this.”

  “Don’t I know it, boy-o. Don’t I know it. And I’m here to do just that. I’ve pulled in my troops and they’re massing here. I’ve got people in Charlotte and Jacksonville, too, because, and here’s the bulletin, my boy, that’s all you’ve got left.”

  Hearing it like that gave Trofimov pause, obviously. He stared first at Twain, then at Mak, then back at Twain.

  “Can you do it? Can you protect me and what I have remaining?”

  “Frankly, I doubt it,” Twain said. “But I aim to try, don’t I? Now, quit your blustering and show me where you keep the booze. I need a drink.”

  Trofimov, so distracted he didn’t even react to Twain’s presumptions, pointed him in the direction of the liquor cabinet.

  “There must be something more I can do,” he said to Mak.

  “You have taken all the steps you can take.” He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray nearby. He would light another momentarily, but for now he was sated. “Did you really think, Trofimov, that one man, no matter how rich and no matter how powerful, could take on the combined military might of an entire nation and succeed without the slightest setbacks or delays? Did you really think it would be so easy?”

  “But I’m not fighting the entire military,” Trofimov complained. “I don’t know who I’m fighting!” He pointed at Twain, who was sucking whiskey directly from a decanter. “He tells me it is the Mob, and then he tells me it is the FBI. He doesn’t know. You speak of military failures, of past operations on American soil, of vague defeats about which you can offer no details. You speak of it as an old woman speaks of the bogeyman. Do you know nothing about what we face? Can you offer no insight?”

  “Are you really so foolish?” Mak asked.

  “I did not ask for your insults!”

  “Listen to me anyway,” Mak said. He paused to light another cigarette from the silver lighter he kept in his pocket. “The government of the United States is vast and powerful. In that way it is no different than the government of my nation, or the government of the Soviet Union that once was.”

  “So?”

  “Of all the resources available to that government,” Mak said, “do you truly believe there exist no men willing to take direct and violent action to secure your nation’s aims? You would be foolishly naive to think otherwise.”

  “You are saying that we are the victims of some unknown government force, some ruthless group of government killers?”

  “Perhaps,” Mak said. “Perhaps. It is at least possible, is it not?”

  “So what can I do?” Trofimov said.

  “Carry a weapon,” Mak said simply. “Be prepared to use it.”

  “That’s not a solution!”

  “Isn’t it? Who was it that said something about all political power stemming from the barrel of a gun?”

  Trofimov had nothing to say to that. He was an educated man, or reasonably so. He would know what Mak Wei meant.

  Twain finished his drink and pulled a sat phone from his pocket. He went to the window and angled the device for the best signal he was likely to obtain, then started to make calls. Trofimov ignored him, but Mak listened to see what he could learn.

  It quickly became obvious that Twain wasn’t shamming. He really was running scared, and he firmly believed that they would come under attack in Orlando, inevitably. As Mak listened, Twain continued to shore up the defenses in Charlotte and Jacksonville. The Chinese agent knew that Jacksonville, in particular, was very important to Trofimov. It was there that he stored hard, liquid assets, such as gold coins, to maintain his wealth should an economic collapse occur. And surely it was economic collapse with which Trofimov flirted, for in his desire to see the United States harmed, he set forces in motion that couldn’t be contained once released. If the United States lost so much standing in the world that it became weak, and its weakness created a power vacuum, such an act would be very dangerous indeed. Yes, China stood to benefit by stepping in to claim that power vacuum, but only a fool failed to recognize an enemy for what it was.
The United States economy drove the economies of the rest of the world. Hurt the United States, and you hurt that world economy. China, which traded extensively with the United States, couldn’t lose so vast a market for its manufacturing capacity—not without suffering consequences.

  Mak believed that the consequences, though negative, were far outweighed by the gains to be had in supplanting the United States as the world’s dominant superpower. This was the motivation behind China’s willingness to support Trofimov in the first place. That support had to come indirectly, for China still required plausible deniability, but come it had.

  “Twain,” Mak said, “I would speak with you at greater length. Come with me.”

  “Fine.”

  The two men left Trofimov to fret and pace in his office. Mak walked the corridors of Trofimov’s high-rise with brisk, military precision. Twain slouched along beside him, clearly distracted.

  “I have a business proposition for you,” Mak said without preamble.

  “Yeah?”

  “You are a man who understands certain pragmatic realities,” Mak said. “This is so?”

  “Sure and it is, then.”

  “Very well. Do you believe that Trofimov’s plans can be salvaged? Do you have faith in your role in them?”

  “Beats the hell out of me.”

  “An honest enough answer,” Mak said. “I make for you a contingency, then.”

  “How so?”

  “My government has an interest in the success of Trofimov’s efforts. Those efforts can take place without him as easily as they can with him, provided there is someone to drive them.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I am saying that Trofimov, for all the brilliance of his schemes, is clearly coming unraveled now that he faces adversity.”

  “True, yeah,” Twain said. He smoothed his coat a bit; perhaps Mak’s statement had hit a bit close to the mark.

  “I do not wish all of my nation’s time and effort to be wasted,” Mak said, “and in truth much of the resources I have diverted to Trofimov found their way into your hands anyway. My men, the weapons, certain funding…we both know that you are the driving force behind this plan. Without the men and matériel you bring to bear, there can be no plan, can be no scheme by Trofimov.”

  “True enough, yeah.”

  “I offer you twenty percent.”

  “Of what?”

  “Twenty percent again of your fee from Trofimov. That much over what you now earn, to turn to my side. You are a man who fights for money and nothing else, yes?”

  “Yeah,” Twain said. He was a bit uneasy. He’d never liked Mak Wei; he had considered approaching the man himself with just such an offer, and discarded it several times previously for that reason. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be any more under the man’s thumb than he now found himself, with Mak’s security personnel spread out amid his own forces.

  “Give me some time to consider your offer,” Twain said.

  “Very well. Do not take too much time. I am a patient man, but my government is not so patient. You know I must answer to others. Do not keep those others waiting too long.”

  “All right, yeah. Yeah, right. Just give me a bit.”

  Mak Wei said nothing. Eventually, Twain looked up at him. “I have to go to Jacksonville,” he said finally, “to make sure the golden goose don’t get cooked, yeah?”

  “Very well. Have your answer for me when you return.”

  Twain muttered something and hurried off. Mak watched him go, shaking his head.

  Mak checked the Chinese-made Makarov copy he kept in a shoulder holster. The pistol was loaded and a round chambered. He snapped the safety on and replaced the weapon, then returned to Trofimov’s office.

  The Russian was on his phone, making calls to those who maintained his financial stockpiles. He made no secret of it; he had boasted to Mak Wei several times that he had enough gold and precious stones to sustain him if the economy collapsed. Such a vast physical quantity of wealth required a high-security repository. Mak gathered that this was in Jacksonville. He was more privy to the details of Trofimov’s other financial data than the Russian suspected, for the firm that handled Trofimov’s monetary dealings—both legal and otherwise—was itself owned by the Chinese government, indirectly.

  “You are prepared to do what must be done?” Mak asked when Trofimov hung up the phone.

  “I have goals,” Trofimov said. “I would achieve them.”

  “Good. Then let us not have a repeat of the unfortunate conversation of some moments ago. You are above such hysteria.”

  “You’re right, of course.” Trofimov’s lips made the appropriate movements, but his eyes still spoke of his fear.

  “Twain is preparing your defenses,” Mak said. “Fear not. We shall meet this challenge and overcome it.”

  “I just need to know I can count on you, Mak,” Trofimov said. “I need to know your government’s support is not wavering.”

  “My dear friend,” Mak said, “China is nothing if not ever devoted to those who ally with it. You need not worry.”

  “I hope not.” He turned away, looking out his window once more.

  Mak smiled, and it wasn’t pleasant.

  It was the smile of a man who realized he had made a very significant mistake.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  On the monitor in the panel van parked outside the Richmond, Virginia, offices of Congressman David Heller, Mack Bolan and Agent Jennifer Delaney watched the congressman meet with Ambassador Wu Lok. The feed came courtesy of fiber-optic bugs installed by the NSA some weeks previously. Apparently, Heller had been under investigation for a while. Brognola and Price, working together to trace the orders for the Houston military unit, had uncovered both Heller’s involvement and the fact that he already had a questionable NSA dossier. Some quick string-pulling had resulted in cooperation from “No Such Agency,” and now Bolan and Delaney had access to a van full of NSA surveillance equipment, left for them by a taciturn man in a dark suit who hadn’t said two words while handing over the keys.

  On the screen, the tall, wrinkled Wu Lok sat like a praying mantis with his hands folded in his lap. A pair of his guards stood at the ready behind him.

  “You can understand the delicacy of the situation,” Wu said in lightly accented English. His voice was a low rasp, almost a death rattle low in his throat. “You are aware of the…arrangement…on behalf of certain elements sponsored by my government, and this Trofimov.”

  “Yes,” Heller drawled. “I surely am. I’ve worked with Mr. Trofimov to good effect, until recently.”

  “Yes, well,” Wu said, nodding, “that brings us to the reason for this direct visit. Understand, Congressman Heller, that once I leave here today, it would be very much inadvisable for us to meet in person soon, if ever again.”

  “I understand.” Heller nodded eagerly.

  “We can count on your discretion in these matters?”

  “Oh, of course, Ambassador,” Heller said. “I think you’ll find I’m nothing if not discreet.”

  “And I believe in being direct,” Wu said, inclining his head in a slight nod of his own. “Perhaps more so than my countrymen are known to be. You will forgive me if I state my business plainly?”

  “Of course, Ambassador.”

  “Very good.” Wu smiled faintly. “You had an arrangement with Trofimov. In exchange for his financial support, you provided to him certain government services. These services were rendered on the basis of your extensive contacts within your government and, especially, within the military. We know you have interests in multiple military industries, most of which are not known to the public.”

  Heller fidgeted a bit in response to that, clearly uncomfortable. “Yes, well, I mean, that is—”

  “Please.” Wu held up a hand. “I wish only that we understand each other. You can imagine the embarrassment my government might experience were my activities on its behalf to become public knowledge, just as you would fee
l embarrassed if your own less-public activities came to light.”

  “Of course, Ambassador.”

  “Good, good,” Wu said. “My government wishes to establish certain channels to yours. We wish you to be the liaison.”

  “Well, of course.” Heller nodded again. “Anything the United States can do for its friend and partner in trade, the People’s Republic of China.”

  “Yes, of course,” Wu said. “But I had something a bit less direct in mind. We wish for you to provide us, as I said, the same services you provided to Trofimov. But we want you to be prepared to do more.”

  “More?”

  “There will be, for example,” Wu said, “a variety of military interests into which we would like insight. This is insight you are positioned to provide.”

  “You want military secrets.”

  “That is a blunt way to put it, yes.”

  “I could get in serious trouble for providing you that information,” Heller pointed out.

  “You could,” Wu said. “My government, in turn, could ill afford the public-relations complications that would result should our acquisition of the data come to light. As you know, those to whom I answer are sometimes overzealous in their pursuit of Chinese advantage on the world stage.”

  “You could say that.” Heller nodded.

  “We would, of course, offer you significant financial compensation.”

  “How significant?” Heller asked.

  Wu recited a figure. Even on the video screens, the widening of Heller’s eyes was noticeable.

  “Well,” Heller said, coughing slightly before he sipped from a glass of water he kept next to a decanter on his desk, “I—I think we can come to an agreement, yes.”

  “Good, good,” Wu said. “I am told you have certain account numbers you will need to provide us.”