China Crisis (Stony Man)

by Don Pendleton

  By this time Tilman was well involved with Townsend and his operation. He worked closely with the man, manipulating Agency information leaks and making sure that Shadow remained just that—a whisper of a murmur, kept discreetly out of the limelight and always just beyond the reach of the authorities.

  The information concerning the Agency operation intended to gain evidence against the Oliver Townsend organization raised concern with Tilman’s employers. Townsend was one of the principal players within the consortium buying and selling U.S. technology and ordnance. The word filtered down to Tilman that any exposure of Shadow could create a ripple effect that would engulf them all. The cards would fall and they would all be taken down. Tilman, able to access operational details, was given the task of making sure the CIA operation failed. He was told that he had a free hand in solving the problem. Dead men didn’t point fingers.

  The remark was the last thing Tilman was told as the meeting ended. He repeated those chilling words over and over as he drove home, and by the time he reached his apartment his decision had been made. It wouldn’t be the first time he had killed. It had been part of his remit for so long it had become just another facet of his Agency work. Tilman had done wetwork for the Agency during operations in Central America. The concept didn’t cause him any moral problems. The atrocities man carried out against his fellow humans were well documented within the CIA. Tilman had viewed evidence in sound and pictures. He had seen videotapes that made the twisted outpourings of Hollywood look like kid stuff. So the acceptance of carrying out an execution-style killing settled easily on his shoulders. It was a necessity, something that was required to maintain the security of the people and the organization that he had become a part of. The bottom line was Tilman’s reluctance to lose what he had gained, including the woman who had first lured him. In an odd twist she had become as attracted to him as he was to her. Their relationship had developed into one of mutual dependency, spiced by lust and a craving for the excitement of the experience.

  It had been easy to find out the location of the surveillance unit. Tilman pinpointed where the assault team would be waiting, finding that he would be able to approach the truck free and clear. It would be parked in a secluded position where it could monitor the event planned to go down. Tilman was able to park his unmarked car well away from the location and work his way through the timbered area that lay on the blind side of the parked truck.

  Tilman had chosen an unregistered 9 mm Uzi he had obtained a few years back during an operation. The weapon had been brought into the States by some illegals and had fallen into Tilman’s hands at an opportune moment. The weapon was brand-new, had never been fired, and he had kept it on an impulse. He’d brought the weapon out of mothballs, fitted it with a suppressor and used it on the night he’d shot the three agents on the surveillance stakeout. The silent kill allowed Tilman to make his retreat without interruption. He had climbed into the waiting car and had driven quietly away, long gone before the waiting assault team became aware something was wrong and the surveillance team was out of communication. The car was one he had from the department pool. It was equipped with CIA plates that were untraceable. And when Tilman returned to his block and parked in the basement garage, he took the Uzi with him to his apartment, cleaned it thoroughly and returned it to its hiding place.

  He had been in the shower when the call came in about the killings. Suitably shocked he had readily accepted the order to return to the Agency and assist in the investigation that was gathering momentum. He had, with others from his section, remained on duty over the next couple of days. At the end of it there had been little solid evidence forthcoming. The investigation had been pushed to the higher echelons of the Agency.

  It wasn’t until some time later that Tilman learned from inside sources of the transmission from the surveillance vehicle that the late Agent Schofield had appeared to recognize his killer. It also came as something of a shock that he learned the murder weapon had been identified as an Uzi. He had experienced brief panic, but had calmed himself with the knowledge it meant little in itself. The sound of an Uzi did nothing to pin down the actual weapon or who had fired it. The added factor—Schofield appearing to recognize his killer—concerned him a little more. He spoke about it to Townsend. The man was more annoyed than overly concerned.

  “Okay, so Schofield saw you. That’s as far as it goes, Pete. He didn’t say your name. He didn’t write it in blood because he was dead when you left. He was dead, wasn’t he?”

  “What do you think I am? Some amateur? Yes, they were all dead. I made sure of that.”

  “So the Agency is walking around in the dark. All they have are theories. Just theories. Quit gripin’, Pete. Let’s move on. We got bigger things to deal with.”

  THE LAST TO ARRIVE WAS Joseph Riotta. He was Townsend’s negotiator, the man who handled the smooth running of deals and doing most of the financial arrangements. Riotta, a lean, balding man in his thirties, had a natural affinity for organizing money transactions. He was meticulous, sometimes too abrasive, but no one could come anywhere near to matching his skill when it came to working the clients. He came out onto the patio, wearing a neat suit and button-down shirt. His only concession to the informal occasion was that he hadn’t put on a tie.

  Townsend was already seated at the table with Tilman and Ralph Chomski. They were dressed in casual, light clothing and were already into their second round of drinks.

  “Joseph, fill yourself a glass and join us,” Townsend said. He turned back to the table. “So what’s the latest from our pals in the CIA?”

  “Can’t put my finger on it,” Tilman said, “but the Agency has gone quiet on the killings. Hardly ever mention it anymore. It’s weird. Like they’ve decided not to chase the case any further.”

  “Doesn’t sound natural to me,” Chomski said. “Like the cops shelving an investigation after one of their own gets hit. I’ve never heard of that ever happening. And I figure the spooks would be the same. You sure you haven’t been shut out, Pete? Like it’s gone to a higher level?”

  “Or maybe they have a suspect and they don’t want him to know,” Riotta said as he joined them, a tall glass of iced fruit juice in his hand.

  Tilman glanced across at him, a faint smile on his face. “It doesn’t work like that in the Agency, Joseph. If I was a suspect in the killing of three agents, I wouldn’t be sitting here. I would be locked away in a deep, dark place having the crap kicked out of me. Or I’d be sitting on a cloud with my harp, trying to explain to my three dead buddies why I shot them.”

  Chomski gave a loud hoot of laughter. “I like that, Pete. You know that’s the first time I realized you have a sense of humor.”

  “Yeah? So why don’t I nudge Joseph to see if some of it rubs off on him?”

  Riotta ignored the gibe. He noticed Townsend smiling gently. It made him bristle. Riotta admitted he had no sense of humor. He took his work, as his life, seriously. It was all business with Joseph Riotta.

  “Oliver, I confirmed payment for the shipment to Africa. Full settlement. The delivery should be completed in three days.”

  “Fine. That should keep our principles happy. Now what about the Jack Regan order?”

  “He’s still having problems with the local guy, Calvera.”

  “Is that the Mexican who thinks he’s going to put the squeeze on us?” Chomski asked.

  Townsend nodded.

  “Damned local hood who must have seen too many episodes of The Untouchables.” He reached across the table and plucked a thick cigar from an open box. “Let’s send Vic down to give Regan some backup. Our new recruit, Hawkins, can go with him. Let’s see how he operates when the going gets tough.”

  “New man?” Tilman asked, suddenly alert. “You vetted him?”

  “Relax, Pete,” Chomski said. “He’s ex-military. Served with Vic back when. Got ditched because he got a hard-on over some pussy UN officer who turned chicken and had to shoot some local warlord. I ran a compu
ter check on him. He’s been in a few scrapes with the law. Just toughed it out with some redneck trying to run a scam. Looks okay, but don’t worry, we’ll keep an eye on him.”

  Tilman picked up his glass and swallowed hard.

  “If you say so.”

  “Ralph, is the Kibble matter settled?” Townsend asked.

  Chomski nodded. “Account closed. We won’t be hearing from him again. Neither will anyone else.”

  “Joseph, I’m calling in a backup contact for this Guang Lor deal. We have to complete this order on time. Su Han will start getting impatient if we lose time. And I don’t want to upset the Chinese government.”

  “I understand. Are you talking about Dupont?”

  “He works the same research department Kibble was in at RossJacklin. We brought him in and kept him in the background in case anything soured the Kibble deal.”

  “Did I miss something? Do we have a problem with Kibble?” Tilman asked.

  “Kibble backed off. Said there were problems at the plant. Security had been tightened. He wanted out.”

  “Scared people do things like caving in and talking to the wrong people,” Chomski said. “We couldn’t risk that, so Mr. Kibble has gone AWOL. For good.”

  “I’ll do some checking,” Tilman said. “See if the Agency is involved.”

  “Fine, Pete.”

  “By the way, our friend from Beijing called earlier,” Riotta said. “It appears our Chinese clients have an updated list of requirements.”

  “Can we handle it?”

  “I gave it to Ralph.”

  “More of the same,” Chomski admitted.

  “Anything else?”

  Chomski smiled. “Only details on deep-cover U.S. operatives working the Asian beat.”

  “That might come under your wing, Pete,” Townsend said.

  “I’ll see what I can do. It’s going to depend on which agency they’re with. Leave it with me.” Tilman glanced at his watch. “I’d better get on out of here. I’m going to be busy once I get back.”

  Townsend walked with him inside the house. They were deep in conversation as they crossed the living area and made for the door. Townsend beckoned the driver waiting in lobby.

  “Rik, run Mr. Tilman to the airstrip. I’ll call ahead and have the plane readied. Pete, have a good flight. Get back to me as soon as you have anything.”

  Townsend saw Tilman out the door, turning to return to the others. He failed to notice T. J. Hawkins standing just inside the partly open door that led into the games room off the lobby.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  South of the Texas-Mexico Border

  “Hell of a place to hold a ladies’ tea party,” T. J. Hawkins commented, studying their surroundings.

  “Does for what we need, T.J.”

  Vic Lerner coasted the 4x4 to a stop beside a battered semi-trailer rig and cut the engine. He checked his shoulder-holstered handgun before he opened his door and climbed out. Leaning back inside, he grinned at Hawkins.

  “You comin’, or what?”

  “Don’t bust your britches, I’m on my way.”

  Hawkins exited the vehicle and made his way to join Lerner. He fell in beside the man and trailed after him across the parking strip. They entered the diner, and Lerner immediately made his way to a corner booth and sat across from the man already there. Hawkins slid in beside Lerner, and the moment he laid eyes on the man they had come to meet he recognized him.

  The first time Hawkins had been involved with the man had been on a mission that had taken Phoenix Force to the Central American state of Santa Lorca. Hawkins had never actually spoken to the man, or even come close to facing him. He had only viewed him through the scope of his rifle during the final phase of the operation, but he would never forget his appearance. Since then, he had seen the man’s profile at Stony Man, so he knew more about him than he had previously.

  Jack Regan.

  He was still wearing the soiled Panama hat that appeared to be a permanent fixture. His suit was crumpled, matching the lined features of his tanned face. Regan was tall and lean. As Hawkins sat, Regan’s watery blue eyes wandered lazily to examine the newcomer.

  “Who is he?” he asked.

  “His name is Hawkins,” Lerner said.

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “Gettin’ ticked off being talked about instead of talked at,” Hawkins said.

  “Touchy, ain’t you, bubba? We delicate or something?”

  Lerner chuckled.

  “Don’t you go thinking that, Regan. This here fella was in the military with me. Local warlord braced him and old T.J. here, he just upped and took him out. Try not to piss him off.”

  Regan shrugged. “Hell, that’s all I need. Another tough guy.”

  “Don’t fret, none, Regan. Townsend hired him. He’s part of the team now.”

  The waitress appeared at their table. “What’ll it be, fellers?”

  “Coffee all ’round,” Lerner said.

  The waitress was suitably impressed.

  “And there I was thinking the last of the big-time spenders had upped and died.”

  “Stick around, honey,” Hawkins said. “We might even ask for refills.”

  “You funny all the time, bubba?” Regan asked.

  Hawkins leaned back and stared him out until Regan turned his attention to Lerner.

  “We ready for this to go down?”

  Lerner nodded. “If you have the cash we can finish this deal.”

  “Okay. Just remember what I told you about the Mex problem. Calvera is still pushing for his piece.”

  “I thought you took care of that, Regan?”

  “Look, bubba, that son of a bitch is pushy. He still believes he’s entitled to a percentage just because I’ve been dealing over the border.”

  “Calvera?” Hawkins asked.

  They waited while the waitress delivered their coffees.

  “Luis Calvera is the local heavyweight in the area. He comes down hard on anyone doing business on his turf,” Lerner explained. “Figures he’s entitled to a cut.”

  “Does he actually do anything? Or is he just playing the big honcho?” Hawkins asked.

  “Bubba, he just holds his hand out and asks for money, and he plays the big honcho because that’s what he is.”

  “So why not move to another area? Away from his turf?”

  Regan smiled. “Vic, your boy ain’t as smart as I was giving him credit for. Bubba, it doesn’t work like that. You realize what it costs to set up an area? All the people you have to buy off? The ones who need persuading? We’re not dealing in nickel and dime bags here. You guys have a stake in this, remember. That’s your weapons truck in Calvera’s warehouse. He doesn’t get his payoff, and we can all say goodbye to our deal. Calvera calls the tune across the border. You delivered the truck to me but I can’t move it on until Calvera is happy. Guys, I want this settled. Townsend and me, we do good business. This is the first time we ever had problems.”

  “No offence, Regan,” Hawkins said. “Just seemed to me you were being shaken down by a local hood.”

  “You’re not far off that being the truth,” Lerner said.

  “You’ll get no argument from me on that, boys. Calvera is a thug. He’s a son of a bitch, but he has this section sewn up tight and if he says the sun don’t shine, it don’t shine. I need to get that merchandise moving before my people start getting nervous on me. If Calvera doesn’t pocket his cut, it could get messy.”

  “Regan, we’ll help. If the deal goes sour, Townsend is out a big chunk of money. And he doesn’t like upsetting clients, either. Bad for his image.”

  “Calvera?”

  Lerner shrugged. “This time he’s shaking down the wrong man.”

  “When do you want to take delivery?”

  Lerner drained his coffee cup and signaled for a refill. “Tomorrow afternoon.”

  “We need the time to make arrangements,” Hawkins said.

  Lerner glanced at his partner.
“We do?”

  “We do, buddy, we surely do.”

  The following afternoon

  HAWKINS WAS UNDER no illusions about Jack Regan. The man put on an act that showed him as a casual down-home country boy, but the man had run his business for a long time, and Hawkins recalled that on the previous occasion Phoenix Force had encountered him, Regan was brokering a deal for one of Saddam Hussein’s Fedayeen faithful. Regardless of the fact Phoenix Force had severed that connection, Regan was still tight with the international set. Whatever else he might be, Regan was no fool and would bear watching.

  The meet had been set for two o’clock. The rendezvous point was two miles over the border, the location a long-abandoned shoe factory that had once employed a large number of locals. The place had shut down four years earlier and had been set for redevelopment until funds ran out and it was left to slowly disintegrate. Now it had become the main focus of Calvera’s business empire. Like the man who controlled it, the site was unimpressive and decaying from within.

  The weapons truck was parked inside one of the empty workshops, watched over by a trio of Calvera’s hardmen. They were armed with M-16s and carried autopistols in shoulder rigs. Hawkins picked out a couple more armed men in the shadows of the building as he and Lerner made their way inside, Regan just ahead of them.