Ballistic

by Don Pendleton

  “Killed by a single man?”

  “According to the lone survivor. I’m not sure I trust him, sir. He may have run away and hidden.”

  “Do you have him now?”

  “I do,” Sundaram said.

  “Then wring him dry of answers. Verify his statements. If you need assistance...”

  “No, sir. Thank you. We can manage.”

  “I hope so. And you say the merchandise is absolutely safe. Beyond all doubt?” Jin asked.

  “Oh, yes, sir. In the morning, we begin transporting it.”

  “Why not start now?” Jin asked.

  The question seemed to baffle Sundaram. When half a minute passed with no reply, Jin said, “Before the woman and her helper can resume the search.”

  “Oh, yes! Of course! That’s brilliant, sir. We shall begin at once.”

  “And I suggest that you enhance security,” Jin said. “Remember, Khoo, your life depends on safe, timely delivery.”

  “Yes, sir. I won’t forget.”

  “See that you don’t, for all our sakes,” Jin warned.

  He cut the link before the Malay had a chance to grovel any more, switched off the cordless phone and set it on the low table in front of him.

  A Chinese spy—if spy she was, in fact—could only mean the Ministry of State Security was now involved, as Jin had known it would be from the start. Initially, he’d thought that Sundaram was being paranoid about the woman, but her rescue proved the opposite.

  Her rescue by a soldier capable of killing thirty pirates, all armed to the teeth, without sustaining any injury himself.

  Not good.

  Unless he had been sent specifically to find the female spy and that fulfilled his mission, Jin thought such a man would press ahead, use any means available to reach his goal. And what was that, if not the woman?

  It could only be the merchandise Jin waited for, which his intended buyers lusted after in their single-minded dedication to jihad. Or, was it now fatwa? In truth, Jin neither knew nor cared what term was used for any zealot’s madness of the moment. He concerned himself with cash, the nonnegotiable price he had arranged for the delivery of items ordered in a high-risk bargain.

  Now, it was his loathsome task to call Beijing and tell the man who had assisted him in setting up the job that there was—no, might be—a problem.

  Jin consulted his watch. It was one hour later in the Chinese capital, too early to rouse a sleeping man of great importance. But this day he had no choice.

  It would be infinitely worse if he delayed the call three hours and the whole deal turned into a steaming pile of feces while he stalled.

  Scowling, he reached for the telephone.

  Kampung Sedili Kechil, Johor, Malaysia

  BOLAN HAD LAUNCHED his Tioman excursion from a cove on Malaysia’s eastern coastline, near a small village. No one within the village knew his face, much less his business, and the time he’d chosen for departure guaranteed that most of the hardworking folk who occupied the hamlet were in bed, asleep. Returning three hours before the scheduled sunrise, Bolan killed his outboard when the Zodiac raft was still two hundred yards offshore and paddled in, with Maia Lee assisting him.

  They beached the boat, dragged it inland and deflated it. The raft had served its purpose and was now expendable. Ten minutes hiking through dark woods brought them to Bolan’s rented vehicle, a Chery Tiggo SUV produced in China for export to Asian markets. Boasting four-wheel drive, a five-speed manual transmission and a 1.6-liter engine, the Tiggo had taken Bolan where he had to go.

  So far.

  The drive to Johor Bahru first required doubling back northward to Kampung Sedili Besar, then picking up the expressway southbound to Johor’s state capital, linked to neighboring Singapore by the Johor–Singapore Causeway. Altogether, call it eight miles and change before they motored onto Khoo Kay Sundaram’s home turf.

  More time to talk along the way.

  Maia said she’d have to touch base with her people, which was understandable but still gave Bolan pause. There’d be no problem for him if they called her off, since she’d already shared the last address she had for Sundaram. If someone in the People’s Republic of China got hinky, though, and ordered her to turn on Bolan in the interest of deniability, he’d have to make a choice between her life and moving forward with his mission.

  Bottom line: no choice at all.

  Bolan had dropped the hammer on a few females in his long and lonely war. One was a mercy kill; the others eliminated deadly adversaries. He hadn’t enjoyed those killings, any more than he took pleasure in eradicating male opponents, but he didn’t discriminate in combat, when the stakes were life or death.

  He and Maia were heading in the same direction now, this moment, but he couldn’t guarantee what the next hour or day might bring.

  Who could?

  She used his sat phone as they drove, speaking Chinese, although he couldn’t say if it was Cantonese or Mandarin. Since Bolan spoke neither, it hardly mattered. He focused on her tone, noting the change in pitch as Maia seemed to disagree with something she’d been told, heat levels rising, then receding as she seemed to put her point across. The conversation lasted for five minutes, give or take, before she broke the link.

  “So?” Bolan asked.

  “They’re pleased that I’m alive,” she said. “Less pleased that you are an American.”

  “Surprise, surprise.”

  “I have approval to proceed with caution, bearing China’s interest foremost in my mind.”

  “I would expect no less,” Bolan replied.

  She took the borrowed pistol from her belt and checked its magazine. “Before we start,” she said, “I need more ammunition. And perhaps a bigger gun.”

  Beijing, People’s Republic of China

  FENG JINGWEI HELD the rank of commodore in the Chinese People’s Liberation Army Navy. After thirty-seven years of service, he was now landlocked, commanding a desk at the Ministry of National Defense compound’s August First Building. His greatest challenge in the past two years had been preparing speeches for his immediate superior, Rear Admiral Bai Zi’ang, to deliver before the Central Military Commission of the National People’s Congress.

  That was, until now.

  At fifty-six years old, Commodore Feng had found himself susceptible to flattery and bribes, the promise of eventual retirement in a style that he could never hope to afford on his PLAN pension. Of course he felt that he deserved more, after keeping China safe from rebels and aggressors over the better part of three decades. And if the task he had to perform truly posed no threat to China’s national security, why should it bother him?

  The men who had approached him—bought him—only wanted information. Dates, locations, codes, passwords. What was the harm? If certain items vanished from the PLAN’s inventory, they could be replaced. As long as none of them were used to injure the People’s Republic, why should Feng care?

  Then came the Shenyang attack, so many sailors dead and missing, and Feng could hardly confess his involvement at that point. Who benefited if he stood before a firing squad? Would any of the dead return to life? Would the Brave Wind missiles reappear, as if nothing had happened?

  No.

  The best thing Feng could do was watch and wait, hoping that nothing led investigators back to him. How long could he survive under interrogation at Qincheng Prison, in Beijing’s Changping District? Feng guessed that he might last a few days, perhaps only hours, depending on the methods employed.

  He barely slept these nights, since the Shenyang incident, and his days were an agony of waiting for military police to invade his office. Was it better to be questioned at the ministry, or dragged off in chains to a dungeon? Either way, it meant the end of life as Feng knew it.

  The end of life itself.

&nb
sp; And now, as if his own thoughts weren’t enough to rob him of much-needed sleep, the bedside telephone was clamoring for his attention. Feng glanced at the clock beside it, groaned and lifted the receiver.

  “What is it?”

  “Commodore Feng, I must apologize for waking you at such an hour.”

  He recognized the voice at once. There could be no mistaking it.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “You trust this line?” Jin Au-Yo asked.

  “I do.” At least, as much as Feng could put his trust in anything these days.

  “I’m calling to inform you of a...difficulty,” Jin explained. “It seems a Chinese agent has begun investigating our associates. She was detained, but then escaped with aid from an associate who has not been identified.”

  Feng felt his stomach twist into a painful knot. “The woman’s name?”

  “If we believe her travel papers, it is Maia Lee.”

  “And her affiliation?”

  “That, regrettably, is one of many things she did not share before parting company with our friends in Malaysia.”

  Our associates. Our friends. Feng hadn’t met them and he never would. Jin chose his words to reinforce Feng’s sense of guilt, as if reminders were required.

  “What will you do?” Feng asked, shifting the onus back to Jin.

  “We will pursue all avenues, of course, but you can help us.”

  “How?”

  “Pay close attention at the ministry. Find out, if possible, whether an agent was dispatched to seek the missing merchandise.”

  “I would expect no less,” Feng said. “But bear in mind, this agent may not represent my ministry. There’s still—”

  “The Ministry of State Security,” Jin interrupted him. “We’ve thought of that. Steps will be taken to investigate that possibility. Meanwhile...”

  “I’ll find out what I can, of course,” Feng said.

  “No one could ask for more,” Jin replied. “Good morning, Commodore.”

  The line went dead. Feng laid the phone aside and slumped back on his pillow. Any idle thought of sleep was banished now. Feng’s waking nightmare had begun.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Johor Bahru

  Khoo Kay Sundaram was drinking earlier than usual—or was it later? Either way, he could deceive himself by thinking of the Asta peach-flavored vodka as fruit juice, something anyone might drink for breakfast in the morning. And it soothed him, which was all that Sundaram could ask.

  Unfortunately, it didn’t soothe him enough.

  His mind was still in turmoil, and his stomach still rebelled, leaving a rank taste in his mouth that undercut the vodka’s fruity flavor. Sundaram wondered if he had ulcers, then decided that it made no difference. Unless he could regain control of his domain and solve the problem that confronted him, the odds were good that he wouldn’t survive to worry any further about transient stomach pains.

  His men were searching for the woman and the soldier who had rescued her, but they were limited in fundamental ways. As pirates, many of them former fishers and smugglers, they knew little about seeking out informers in the city, much less tracking Chinese spies. The triad would be better suited to that task, and while he knew that they were working on it simultaneously, Sundaram couldn’t afford to sit by idly, hoping someone else would do his work for him.

  The best that he could hope for in that case would be a short trip to a shallow grave. Perhaps a burial at sea. Shark food. It was a fate suited to buccaneers, but Sundaram preferred to die of old age, in a harlot’s arms.

  Assuming that the choice was his.

  His headquarters, appropriately, were located in Waterfront Lot No. 1, on Persiaran Tun Sri Lanang, a quarter-mile west of the Johor Causeway. From his third-floor window, Sundaram could see the lights of Singapore and watch them start to wink out as a new day dawned. Fatigue and alcohol combined to make his eyelids droop, but Sundaram shook off his torpor, drained his glass and went to make a pot of strong black coffee.

  “Sleep when you’re dead,” he muttered to himself, nearly smiling.

  Sundaram had sent all but three members of his headquarters staff to the streets, with orders not to return empty-handed. It sounded good in theory, but what could he really expect? Would the Chinese spy risk showing her face in Johor Bahru, even with a soldier to protect her? Sundaram thought it more likely that she’d run for home, but he couldn’t be sure. He had to go through the motions. Look busy. Appear to be doing his part.

  Meanwhile, his business suffered. He couldn’t launch any further raids on merchant shipping while loose ends from the big job still remained to be tied up. It struck him now that even when the missiles were delivered to the triad, he might not receive the payment that was due to him until he satisfied the Chinese mobsters that his mess had been resolved.

  What was the woman doing now, that very moment? Resting and recuperating from the pain she’d suffered at Syarif Hairuman’s hands, perhaps. Or making a report to Beijing that would bring more heat down onto Sundaram. He wouldn’t put it past them to abduct him, given half a chance.

  Never mind, he thought. At the moment I’m safe here, at the very least.

  * * *

  “THIS IS THE PLACE,” said Maia Lee.

  Bolan drove slowly past Waterfront Lot No. 1, eastbound, and checked out the spread. Its road frontage was close to four hundred yards long, and the whole lot—a kind of rectangular pier packed with buildings—protruded something like two hundred feet into Johor Strait, the serpentine strip of seawater separating Singapore from the Malaysian mainland.

  Access to the property was via a north-south road called Jalan Ayer Molek, which reached a dead end fifty feet past the southernmost edge of the waterfront lot, with a dock and crane designed for loading and unloading cargo ships. Bolan supposed it was ideal for dropping merchandise from raids at sea, although he doubted anyone was dumb enough to try off-loading two Chinese ballistic missiles there.

  “Ready?” he asked Maia.

  “Ready.”

  She’d known a place in Taman Daya township where hardware was available at need, had ducked in while he circled three times cautiously around the block and came out with a Chinese Type 85 submachine gun, the silenced version, plus spare magazines and extra 7.62 mm

  Tokarev ammunition. Bolan didn’t ask, and Maia didn’t tell.

  To reach the address that was third and last on Maia’s list, Bolan continued westward. Turning onto a one-way street, he drove a hundred yards, then turned right to reach the waterfront complex. No one was stirring on the property, as far as he could see, despite the first pale light of dawn breaking to Bolan’s left.

  The soldier couldn’t read the signs posted on any of the buildings, but their numbers were clearly visible and he had no trouble finding 107A. There seemed to be no 107B, but Bolan wasted no time puzzling over that anomaly. He motored past the address Maia had recorded as a possible hideout for Khoo Kay Sundaram and found a place nearby to park his SUV.

  “We don’t know what we’re walking into,” he told Maia, as he pulled the HK416 into his lap and double-checked its magazine. “If Sundaram’s inside there, he could have a couple of dozen bodyguards, or none at all.”

  “He never sleeps or travels by himself,” Maia replied. “There will be guards. As to how many, I don’t know.”

  “And if he’s not at home?”

  She shrugged. “We find another way to locate him. Pick up one of his men for questioning. Keep on until we find one who can help us.”

  “Right,” Bolan agreed, pleased with her go-to attitude. “I’ll know him from his photographs if he’s inside.”

  They left the SUV and Bolan locked it, then walked back the twenty yards or so to number 107A. Maia checked out the sign above its door and transla
ted. “Floating Dragon Enterprises,” she told Bolan. “It’s a front for smuggling, I believe.”

  No great surprise, considering the tenant’s stock-in-trade.

  Bolan ignored the front door, found a narrow passageway between the prefab building and its neighbor to the east and reached its rear approach in seconds flat. The door back there was locked, but Bolan checked for any sign of wiring for alarms, found none and went to work with picks while Maia covered him.

  The lock yielded a moment later, and the door swung inward at his touch.

  * * *

  MAIA FOLLOWED COOPER through the doorway with her submachine gun at the ready, muzzle-heavy with its sound suppressor and folded stock. Beyond the blacked-out entryway, a dim light beckoned from the second-story landing of a staircase just ahead. Beyond it lay closed doors flanking a silent corridor, no light leaking from under them.

  If Sundaram was here, according to her information, they would find him on the top floor, number three, a suite of offices with windows facing south. There’d been no time for Maia to assess that information prior to being captured in Johor Bahru, but at the first two places she had checked, there had at least been signs of Sundaram’s associates residing on the premises.

  But if they missed him here...

  Her companion started up the stairs, his eyes and automatic rifle raised to cover the landing above them. If trouble found them now, his body would block Maia’s line of fire, but there was nothing she could do about it on the narrow staircase. Keeping to one side, placing each foot in turn with care, she tried to keep the stairs from creaking as she climbed. No sign of bodyguards so far, but if a trap was waiting for them—

  Cooper froze on the stairs above her, half a dozen steps below the landing. Maia heard the floor groan then, a sound of footsteps moving closer, and she moved to reach the American, touched him on the shoulder, edging past him with her silenced weapon as he moved aside.

  The Type 85 submachine gun used two different grades of 7.62 mm Tokarev ammunition. Type 64 rounds optimized performance for the silenced version, with their smaller powder charge and heavier subsonic bullets, while standard Type 51 rounds made more noise and added fifty yards to the gun’s effective range. Maia had picked Type 64 to suit her weapon when she chose it from the covert armory her ministry maintained in Taman Daya township, and was glad now for her choice.