If Sundaram had talked.
Jin had a comfortable life in Pondok Indah, South Jakarta’s most affluent neighborhood, on par with
California’s Beverly Hills or London’s Belgravia district. Three-quarters of the neighborhood’s inhabitants were rich expatriates, many with children enrolled at Jakarta International School. Jin himself was childless and unmarried, but he did enjoy spending his free time at the Pondok Indah Golf and Country Club, once venue of the Golf World Cup.
Jin’s wealth and status flowed from long, hard work on behalf of the Flying Ax Triad. He had joined the triad as a lowly “forty-niner” in the rank and file. With diligence and raw ferocity he had advanced to hold the rank of “red pole,” or enforcer. More years spent in that position, shedding blood for those above him, ultimately led to Jin’s promotion as the “vanguard” in charge of the triad’s operations in Malaysia and Indonesia. His present coup, if it succeeded, would leave Jin ideally placed to lead the triad when its present “mountain master” died.
And that could be arranged.
But if he failed to consummate the deal, his prospects would be blighted. Either that, or Khoo Kay Sundaram’s assassins might collect his head before the triad got around to meting out whatever punishment it deemed appropriate.
Jin planned to be prepared. And that meant reaching out to warn a colleague in Beijing.
Aboard Batavia Air Flight 436
MAIA LEE WAS TIRED but couldn’t sleep. She’d tried, even before they started taxiing for takeoff, but her mind was racing and the knowledge that she’d only have an hour in the air prevented her from dozing off. Instead, she tried to read one of the in-flight magazines, but nothing held her interest.
Maia couldn’t stop thinking of the grim events that had consumed her past two days, and those that lay ahead. More blood would be spilled, she had no doubt of that. And some of it might be her own.
The Chinese agent had understood the risks before she joined the Ministry of State Security. She had performed her duties expeditiously on prior assignments, but the present task trumped anything she had been asked to do before. It might be an exaggeration to suggest that world peace depended upon her success. Then again, it might not.
Certainly, hundreds of thousands of lives depended on finding the two stolen missiles and neutralizing their threat. What was Maia’s survival compared to that goal? Beijing would only deem her death significant if it prevented Maia from completing her assignment. Otherwise, she was a resource to be used. A tool employed until it broke, then to be cast aside.
She had reported to the ministry, briefly described her capture and escape, the death of Sundaram and her intention of pursuing Jin Au-Yo. Maia hadn’t informed her masters of another player’s entry to the game. Matt Cooper would be her secret, and their victory—assuming they prevailed—would be reported to Beijing as hers alone.
Why not? It would enhance her reputation and her pay grade, possibly lift Maia to a rank where she wasn’t dispatched to filthy corners of the world in search of evil men. Perhaps she’d have a desk and office of her own, from which she issued orders to people underneath her. Let them catch the red-eye flights on half an hour’s notice. Let them dodge the bullets, take the beatings, face the alligator clips attached to hand-crank generators.
Or would she miss the action if removed from it? Her answer, at that moment, would have been a most emphatic negative. But if Maia was honest with herself, she didn’t crave a stationary job devoid of all adventure. She would miss the cachet that accompanied the tough assignments, facing danger, carrying a gun on hostile foreign streets.
Romantic? Hardly. Still, there was an element of raw adventure that had drawn her to the job initially, hoping to serve her country, see more of the world and have a certain measure of excitement in her life. Which brought to mind an ancient Chinese curse: may you find what you are looking for.
Maia had done that. It had nearly killed her—would have killed her, but for Matt Cooper’s accidental intervention—and now she was going back for more. Pressing her luck. Racing against the clock and flying in the face of danger.
If she failed, the blame would fall on her alone.
The good news: Maia probably wouldn’t be living to experience the shame.
Ministry of State Security Headquarters, Beijing
DEPUTY ASSISTANT MINISTER Chou Hua Tian glanced up from the boring report he was reading, distracted by the purring of his private phone line. Frowning in surprise, he opened the upper-left drawer of his desk and extracted the telephone he kept inside. The phone wasn’t secret, of course, since keeping secrets at the Ministry of State Security was an exercise in futility. The line was scrambled, though, and access to it was restricted.
“Yes?” he spoke into the mouthpiece.
“Are you free to speak?” a familiar voice asked.
“Briefly,” Chou answered, as his frown deepened.
“We have difficulties,” Jin Au-Yo informed him, speaking softly but with urgency.
“Explain.”
“An agent, likely from your ministry, has been investigating our transaction,” Jin replied.
Chou felt a chill seep through his bowels. He glanced around his office, as if worried someone might be crouched down in a corner, eavesdropping. “How do you know this?” he demanded.
“She was caught,” Jin said. “Detained for questioning, but then escaped.”
“Escaped? How could you—”
“Not from me,” the triad spokesman interrupted. “Our employees in Malaysia.”
Stressing our, making the point with Chou. “Can they retrieve her?” Chou asked Jin.
“Unlikely, since they’re dead. Her rescuer, whomever he may be, is an efficient killer.”
Lowering his voice almost to a whisper, Chou said, “Dead? Who’s dead? How many?”
“Numbers aren’t important,” Jin replied. “One of them, I must tell you, was my contact and the leader of the rest. There is no way to know whether he was compelled to speak before he died.”
The chill became a cramp, wringing a hiss of startled pain from Chou’s throat as he clutched the telephone in a death grip. “What could he tell?” he asked Jin. “Theoretically?”
“My name, of course. The timing of delivery. Not much.”
“Not much? How can you say—”
“He could not give a place for the delivery, which should occur within the hour. Sharing my name with his killers may direct them here. In which case, they will die.”
“But if these people wiped out all the others—”
“Not all,” Jin corrected him. “Twenty or thirty, I suppose, with their commander.”
“So—”
“The men who’ve died so far were peasants. Most of them were probably illiterate. No one will miss them. If their killers come to me, they must confront the Flying Ax.”
Hating to ask, Chou knew he was required to speak. “What can I do to help?” he asked.
“No doubt your agency was mobilized to find the Brave Winds after they went missing, eh?”
“Of course.”
“Find out which agents were assigned to seek them in Malaysia. Check for women first, but get a full list of the names.”
Another cramp. “If I—”
Jin cut him off. “You are a deputy assistant minister. Who will object to answering your questions? Who would dare?”
“All right. Yes. I will do it.”
“Do it quickly,” Jin amended. “There’s no time to waste.”
Chou listened to the dial tone buzzing in his ear and shuddered as his bowels cramped once again. The pain propelled him from his chair, across the office to his private lavatory, which he barely reached in time.
Scared shitless, as the crude Americans might say.
And thinking, eve
n now, of ways to save himself. Distance himself from Jin, the Flying Ax Triad, and all of it. But first, before he chose a path that might lead him to ruin, even death, he would attempt to do what Jin demanded of him.
Find a name or names. Betray the patriots to shield himself from shame, trial, execution.
Yes, Chou thought. He could do that.
Soekarno–Hatta International Airport, Jakarta
BOLAN DISEMBARKED with Maia at Gate D3, in Terminal 2. He took it as a good sign that no uniforms were waiting to receive them, and no grim-faced types in plain clothes showing bulges underneath their shirts or jackets. Posted signs at Immigration separated them by nationality, and Bolan showed his passport in the name of Matthew Cooper, a California resident. The passport—one of many forged by Stony Man from blanks provided by the State Department—was in all respects immaculate. He passed inspection after answering the normal questions, and dawdled at a newspaper shop while waiting for Maia to catch up.
Indonesia had suspended diplomatic relations with Red China for a quarter century following the xenophobic upheaval and massacres of 1965. Civil communication was resumed in 1990, but tourists from the PRC were still viewed with suspicion as potential spies in some quarters. With that in mind, Maia had brought along a passport from Taiwan, aka the Republic of China, occupied by descendants of Kuomintang supporters who had fled the mainland in 1949, when Mao Zedong’s Communist Party won the nation’s long and bloody civil war.
It passed inspection, and she joined Bolan moments later, catching him with a foreign edition of People in hand. Scanning the headline of the article he’d been perusing, she remarked, “I can’t believe they keep adopting all those children.”
Bolan’s contribution to the human gene pool had, so far, consisted solely of removing dismal specimens. He frowned, shrugged, laid the magazine aside. “At least they can afford it,” he replied. “Ready?”
They passed along the concourse to the Avis booth, where Bolan had a car reserved under his Cooper identity. Their vehicle was a Toyota Fortuner, a midsize SUV. Like its three neighboring countries—Malaysia, East Timor and Papua New Guinea—Indonesia had left-handed traffic, a holdover from old-time British influence. Bolan was used to it by now, from this and other missions overseas. With Maia navigating, translating the posted signs, he found the airport exit and was on his way.
“Guns next,” he said, when they were clear.
“Guns, definitely,” Maia said.
The contact they were seeking ran an import shop in Jagakarsa, South Jakarta. His name was Ruslan Bakrie, and while he wasn’t expecting them—it would have been too easy to prepare a trap—Maia told Bolan that he always kept a backroom inventory suited to the needs of gangsters, paramilitary types, or one-off killers with a private ax to grind. Bakrie judged no one, took no sides. All customers were welcome if they came with cash in hand.
And he would be acquainted with the local triad operators, certainly.
That could be good or bad, depending how it played. Even if Bakrie sold them out after the fact, it might provide a point of contact between Bolan and the Flying Ax Triad.
And if he played his cards right, one contact could be enough.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Bolan drove south along Jalan Lenteng Agung Timur, pacing the one-way traffic flow, until he reached Jalan Jagakarsa and turned west. Another eighth of a mile brought him to Ruslan Bakrie’s shop, under a sign that read Impor Murah.
“Bargain Imports,” Maia translated. “I don’t suppose we’ll get a merchandise we’re looking for.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” said Bolan, “but it’s my treat.”
“Ah. A rich American.”
“Let’s say it came to me as a bequest.”
He still recalled the Pennsylvania mobster’s final words. Hey, take the money, pal. Who needs it, anyhow? It’s yours!
“A relative?” she asked.
“The kind you don’t invite to babysit your kids,” Bolan replied.
He found a place to park, locked the Toyota, and they walked back to the shop. Inside, the atmosphere was rank with incense. Tinkling bells announced their entry, and a man of middle age came out to greet them. He had black hair streaked with gray, blue eyes at odds with his olive complexion, and a rolling walk that could have indicated either years at sea or maybe stiffness in his hips.
At sight of Bolan he tried English first. “Good morning, sir and madam. Welcome to my humble enterprise. How may I serve you?”
“Ruslan Bakrie?” Bolan asked him, making sure.
“Indeed, the very same.” He was all smiles, showing a gold incisor.
Maia took the lead then, telling him, “We’ve come for special merchandise.”
The smile slipped. Bakrie told her, “I would like to think that all my merchandise is special.”
Maia clucked her tongue and said, “We were referred to you by Jin Au-Yo. You understand?”
“Ah,” Bakrie said. “Of course. The extra-special merchandise.” He edged past Bolan, locked the shop’s front door, reversed a dangling sign to indicate the place was closed. “If you would kindly follow me...”
A basement, air-conditioned to prevent humidity from breeding rust. Bakrie had guns and then some racked along three walls, with more displayed on tables in the middle of the room. Around the tables, crates of ammunition and explosives had been stacked thigh-high.
“This is my standing inventory,” Bakrie said. “For very extra-special items placed on order, there may be a brief delay.”
“You should have everything we need right here,” Bolan remarked, as he began to browse.
He chose a Pindad SS2 assault rifle, standard issue for the Indonesian army, chambered in 5.56 mm. It had a folding stock and wore a Pindad SPG1 grenade launcher mounted below its barrel—an Indonesian knock-off of the American M-203 in 40 mm. As a sidearm, Bolan picked another local standard, the SIG-Sauer P-226 chambered in 9 mm Parabellum, fed from 15-round mags. The SIG’s muzzle was threaded for a sound suppressor, and Bolan added that to his shopping list, along with a Tanto dagger for hand-to-hand work.
Maia followed Bolan’s lead on the SIG-Sauer autoloader, but passed on a rifle in favor of a Pindad PM2 submachine gun with suppressor. The PM2 was modeled on Bolan’s SS2 rifle, but chambered for 9 mm Parabellum and loading 30-round box magazines. Almost as an afterthought, she chose what Bolan took to be a knuckle-duster at first glance—until she pressed a button at the top to bear a curved blade like a puma’s claw.
“A small surprise, eh?” she remarked.
“I’d say that’s right,” Bolan replied, and went to pay their bill while Maia packed the gear in matching duffel bags.
Pondok Indah, South Jakarta
“YOU KNOW WHO THIS IS?” the caller asked.
“Certainly, old friend,” Jin Au-Yo said.
The triad vanguard’s memory was excellent for voices, faces, names—all things, in fact, that might determine whether he remained at liberty. Whether he lived or died. The voice of Ruslan Bakrie was no challenge to him, even though they hadn’t spoken personally for the past six months or more. It helped, also, that Ma Mingxia had tipped him in advance.
“I’ve had two customers for special merchandise,” Bakrie informed him. “I thought you should know. They used your name.”
“Did they?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Describe them for me.”
“A white man and Chinese woman,” Bakrie said. “I would say the man is an American. Six feet, perhaps. Dark hair, an ordinary face, clean-shaved. He has a killer’s eyes. The woman is of average size. Her hair comes to the shoulder and is parted in the middle. Nothing to set her apart, if you saw her alone on the street.”
“What did they purchase?”
“One rifle, one submachine gun, two side
arms, two knives. Assorted ammunition for the weapons.”
“Thank you, Ruslan. I’m familiar with them. Rest assured your vigilance will be rewarded.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome, and good day to you.”
So Sundaram had talked, and now the people who had killed him were intent on making use of what he’d told them. At the very least, he’d spilled Jin’s name, which presupposed some mention of his rank within the Flying Ax Triad. It was as well for Sundaram that they had slain him. Jin Au-Yo would have been forced to punish such betrayal with a bitter and protracted death.
But the Malay pirate was beyond his reach forever now, and Jin had other problems to concern him. Could he trust that only two opponents had been sent to stalk him? While that number coincided with the spotty information he’d been given from Malaysia, it seemed ludicrous to Jin that anyone who knew a thing about the Flying Ax would send two lonely fighters—one of them a woman—to contest the triad’s power in Jakarta.
Ludicrous and fatal.
They were armed, but what of it? Jin had a hundred men at his immediate disposal, and no shortage of weapons. Khoo Kay Sundaram’s death and the decimation of his so-called soldiers was a cautionary tale, but Jin couldn’t compare a pack of fishermen-turned-pirates with the troops he kept on hand. The lowest forty-niner of the Flying Ax Triad was skilled in martial arts and marksmanship, each man a proven killer. There would be no repetition of the obvious mistakes that had led to Sundaram’s demise.
Jin wouldn’t underestimate his enemies, but neither would he overestimate them. Every soldier serving him had sworn an oath in blood before an altar dedicated to Guan Yu, a deified third-century general of the Han Dynasty. The oath included thirty-six specific promises of loyalty, with violation of any aspect subjecting the recruit to death by thunderbolts or a myriad of swords. Personally, Jin preferred a red-hot poker and a cleaver, for the images they left with cringing witnesses.
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