China Crisis (Stony Man)

by Don Pendleton

The storekeeper appeared then, carrying a long box. He laid it on the counter.

  “Mr. Townsend has been waiting for this. His favorite shotgun. Had to send her away to have the engraving done,” he said. Then, glancing at Blancanales, “Be with you soon as I finish with this feller here.”

  “No rush,” Blancanales said. “I think I know what I came in for.”

  Hawkins paid the bill, tucked the package under his arm and walked out of the store.

  “Hey, Brandt, nice of you to wait. Makes me feel like part of the family.”

  He stepped off the sidewalk and made his way across the street, Brandt close behind, still trying to decide whether Hawkins had been genuine or simply making fun of him.

  Chomski was standing beside the 4x4, watching closely. He opened the rear door so Hawkins could lay the package on the seat.

  “And change,” Hawkins said, returning what was left of the money and the stamped invoice.

  “Everything okay?” Chomski asked.

  He was speaking over Hawkins’s shoulder.

  “Fine,” Brandt said.

  “Be a half hour before the order’s complete,” Chomski said. “Might as well go over and have some coffee.”

  “If you’re paying,” Hawkins said. “I haven’t had a paycheck yet.”

  Chomski managed a genuine smile this time. “Don’t fret, Hawkins. You’ll get what’s coming to you soon enough.”

  Stony Man Farm, Virginia

  “YOU WANT TO COME and look at what we found?” Kurtzman said.

  “Will I be impressed by your skills?”

  “As much as you are by my coffee, Barb.”

  “Oh? Bad as that, huh?”

  “Just get in here and stop trying to be funny.”

  Kurtzman put down the phone and swung his chair away from his desk. There were only two other members of the team on station at that moment in time, Carmen Delahunt and Huntington Wethers. The third member of Kurtzman’s group, Akira Tokaido, was off duty.

  “So what have we got on this Tilman guy?” Kurtzman asked as he wheeled his chair across for a coffee top-up.

  Wethers finalized what he was doing before he spoke.

  “Pete Tilman is a senior operative with the Agency for twelve years. Some of his files were closed, but your sneaky-peek program unlocked them.” Kurtzman raised his coffee mug at the last remark. “I downloaded everything I could find. It makes for interesting reading, and some sense. Tilman did some down-and-dirty black ops work in Central America. Wetwork, too. And one of his contacts down there, doing some buying and selling for him, was our old buddy Jack Regan.”

  “Official or otherwise?” Price asked.

  No one had noticed her enter the room, and she stood quietly against the wall while Wethers aired his findings.

  “Regan is one of those figures who defines the term shadow warrior,” Wethers said. “It’s hard to tell if he was on the payroll or just one of Tilman’s cash-in-hand employees. But they go back a good few years.”

  “And now we have Regan handling contracts for Townsend, who also has a connection with Tilman,” Delahunt said.

  “Keep digging, people,” Kurtzman said. He joined Price at his workstation. “Where’s Hal? I wanted to bring him up to speed with our findings.”

  “Off base,” Price said. “He had a request to make a house call. The White House. Should be back later. So what do you have for me?”

  “You heard of a company called RossJacklin Inc.?”

  “The company that develops and supplies technology for aviation and weapons? Rockets and missiles? High-tech electronics?”

  “The same.”

  “They have some long-term contracts with the Pentagon, don’t they? Computer-based development of circuitry and…”

  “Picture starting to clear?”

  “Yeah. Is this the company our missing technology came from?”

  Kurtzman nodded. “And Mark Kibble, one of T.J.’s names? Kibble was one of RossJacklin’s senior developers.”

  “Whoa, just back up a minute,” Price said. “That a slip, or did you mean to say Kibble was working for RossJacklin?”

  Kurtzman tapped his keyboard and brought data on screen.

  “Kibble’s body was found in a ditch outside Dayton, Ohio, where he lived and where RossJacklin is based. His skull had been stoved in from heavy blows. His car was nearby. The driver’s door was wide open and the interior ransacked. The local P.D. figured he was the victim of a roadside robbery. He was facedown in the ditch, in two inches of water. Medical examiner found that Kibble’s lungs had no water in them, so he was dead before he went into the ditch.”

  “That could have happened following the crime, couldn’t it?”

  “Possible, but the autopsy revealed a couple of really odd things. Kibble was facedown, but lividity had started to develop in the back of his legs, buttocks and arms, and the back of his shoulders. And it was fairly pronounced.

  “That isn’t all.” Kurtzman flagged up the medical examiner’s conclusions. “There were dust and seed particles on his clothing and in his lungs. Dayton CSI also found those same dust and seed traces in the trunk of Kibble’s car. The identification of the dust particles has them as grains of a granular species found in South Texas. The seed particles were of a native sagebrush plant from the same area.”

  “South Texas? Townsend’s ranch is in South Texas.”

  “Bingo,” Kurtzman said.

  “Is that a legitimate expression?”

  Kurtzman smiled. “No, but it kind of brings it all together.”

  Price had to agree. “One more thing. There was a single fingerprint found on the steering wheel of Kibble’s car that didn’t belong to him. The crime scene team checked it out through the IAFIS computer and matched it to a guy named Rik Brandt. I finally got a match through the military.”

  Kurtzman brought an ID photograph on screen.

  “There’s a face only a mother could love,” Price said. “He’s a big one.”

  “Ex-service. Air Force. Left around the same time as Ralph Chomski. And they were at the same bases every time.”

  “Old buddies?”

  “It’s worth sending Brandt’s picture over the wire to Lyons. If he spots Brandt in Texas, we could have another connection.”

  “What’s happening about Kibble’s murder?”

  “Hal has been dealing with that. He’s liaised with Dayton P.D. He worked his Justice Department magic and got them to hold off. Asked them not to chase up the Texas connection until we finish our mission. We don’t want the cavalry charging in and stomping all over while T.J. is still undercover.”

  “Townsend is connected to Kibble, Tilman and Jack Regan. RossJacklin is the source of the stolen technology. One of the missing pieces is a high-tech circuit board. The kind Guang Lor put in that downed missile.”

  “Don’t forget Sammo Chen Low liaising with Townsend’s buddy Joseph Riotta.”

  “One big happy family,” Price said.

  “What about this CIA guy?” Wethers asked. “Anyone considered him as a candidate for the shooting of the three agents?”

  “Reason?” Price asked.

  “You recall what Agent Schofield said just before he was shot? Something like—‘I didn’t see your name on the roster.’”

  “He recognized his killer?”

  “Because he was a fellow agent.”

  Kurtzman tapped in data and Tilman’s image flashed on the screen.

  “Well, we do have him linked to Townsend and Jack Regan. Unless we have more than one dirty Agency guy in this team.”

  “It’s worth looking into.” Price reached for a phone. “Let’s switch Gadgets onto Tilman. Carl and Pol can keep T. J. in their sights.”

  THE FIRST OPPORTUNITY Hawkins got fell into his lap. Since Lerner was out of commission, Townsend moved Hawkins into his spot and had him conducting ordnance evaluations on some incoming orders. It meant the Phoenix Force pro was allowed a reasonable run of the main house, and Haw
kins kept his eyes open for a slot. It came as he completed a part section of the list Townsend had assigned him to check out.

  He made his way to Townsend’s study-office. He had expected to find Townsend there, but the room was deserted. Hawkins paused at the open door, the room beyond silent.

  Across the far side a large window looked out over the ranch yard, and Hawkins could see Townsend in conversation with Chomski and Riotta. They were standing beside Riotta’s silver Mercedes. Hawkins let his gaze settle on the computer setup on Townsend’s desk. Even from where he stood he could see that the unit was active, the screen displaying a rolling screensaver.

  He stepped into the room and crossed to the desk, moving to stand at the computer. The screensaver floated misty images across the monitor. Hawkins hit the space bar and the desktop flashed into view. Using the mouse, Hawkins selected e-mail and tapped in the address Kurtzman had given him for just this kind of operation. He added his initials as ID, the arranged alert message and sent the mail. He watched it transmit, knowing that the moment it hit, the Stony Man system it would flag up a visual and audio signal.

  “OH, YES,” Kurtzman said as Hawkins’s message came through.

  The visual and audio signal had caught his attention, and he glanced at the separate monitor he’d had on permanent standby for just this occasion.

  He immediately turned to his keyboard and tapped in the response that would return the e-mail and insert his program into Townsend’s database.

  His quietly intrusive virus would be immediately absorbed into the entire system, enabling Kurtzman to download Townsend’s database in its entirety. The program would remain invisible in Townsend’s system, able to be accessed at any time Kurtzman wanted. Once it was established, Kurtzman could activate a stealthy siphoning of data, feeding it into his own system where he would then be able to work his way through the encryptions and firewalls, examining Townsend’s dark secrets at his own leisure. It took no more than a couple of minutes for Kurtzman to establish the electronic connection.

  STANDING TO ONE SIDE of the window Hawkins was able to see that Townsend, Chomski and Riotta were still deep in discussion. He was waiting for Kurtzman’s response to let him know Stony Man had access to the database. When it came, he almost missed the electronic beep. Turning back to the monitor, he cleared his e-mailed message, knowing that Kurtzman would also initiate a hard drive deletion that would scrub the communication from Townsend’s system. Hawkins left his checklist on the desk for Townsend to find, then retraced his steps, leaving the room and making his way out of the house. He strolled across the yard, heading toward the bunkhouse.

  Out the corner of his eye he saw Chomski glance around. The man watched Hawkins, making no comment. The Phoenix Force commando could sense the man’s mind working, maybe wondering what Hawkins had been doing in the house. After a few seconds he was drawn back into the conversation, leaving Hawkins to only guess what he was thinking.

  Hawkins entered the bunkhouse and made his way to his room, pausing briefly to check out Lerner. His ex-Army buddy was asleep, the paperback novel he’d been reading still in his hand. Back in his own room Hawkins stood at the window, recalling Chomski’s scrutiny. That alone didn’t warrant suspicion, but Hawkins knew the way Chomski’s mind worked. The man was terminally cautious. He didn’t trust anyone as far as Hawkins could make out and judged every move made to be a threat. Especially with Hawkins being the new guy in camp. One way or another Hawkins was going to have to tread carefully.

  Pushing to his feet, Hawkins took out his Beretta, checked the magazine and set the safety. He slipped a couple of extra magazines into his leather jacket’s inner pocket, then holstered the pistol again.

  From here on in he decided to adopt Chomski’s rule to not trust anyone.

  IT WAS QUIET in the Computer Room as Aaron Kurtzman rolled his wheelchair in through the door. Tokaido was at his post this time, hunched over his keyboard, monitoring data that was flicking across the screens banked on the wall above his station. He wore his earbuds and though he might have been tuned in to some loud music pumping from the player resting on his desk, his attention was on the screens. Every so often he would tap in a command, pulling down some incoming data stream. He would cache it on his own computer and store it in a file. Little got by the young hacker.

  Kurtzman left him to it. He trusted the young man, as he did every other member his team.

  Kurtzman silently rolled his wheelchair across to the coffee station. He took a thick mug and filled it. The rich aroma of coffee strong enough to buckle Kevlar reached his nostrils. Kurtzman loved his coffee. Not many others did. Kurtzman had to endure endless remarks about it, which he put down to jealousy.

  Mug in hand, he rolled across the floor to his own workstation and positioned himself at the desk. He placed the mug in its appropriate spot, squared his chair and locked the wheels. He tapped the keyboard and brought his equipment out of Standby mode. As his screen flashed into action, Kurtzman used his mouse to bring back into play the operation he had left working when he had gone for his break.

  He allowed himself a gentle smile when he saw the screen box announcing that his intrusion program had wormed its way in through the protection put in place to stop exactly what he had done. Thanks to Hawkins managing to open a connection, Kurtzman had been able to create a link enabling him to covertly infiltrate Townsend’s computer system. Now all he had to do was to confirm the connection and start his surreptitious download of everything in Townsend’s memory banks. Once he had that locked down and the information safe in Stony Man’s data files, Kurtzman could do exactly what he wanted. He had the option of completely wiping the data from Townsend’s computer or locking it by planting a virus that would prevent Townsend from accessing his own information. He could even change the data. Kurtzman debated his options and chose to leave the data untouched for the time being. He didn’t want to create any suspicion in Townsend’s mind that someone might have tampered with his computer in any way, because there was always the chance it might endanger Hawkins’s position with Townsend’s organization. But what he could do, without being detected, was monitor any and all data that came and went through the system. His spyware would enable him to look over Townsend’s shoulder to see and hear exactly what Shadow was doing.

  Aaron Kurtzman dedicated the next work period to analyzing the data he had downloaded from Oliver Townsend’s computer system, leaving the rest of the team to their appointed tasks. He checked the surface data and quickly decided what he could discard and leave in the system for later retrieval. He was more interested in the encrypted files. There were a large number of them, held in locked vaults that were protected by barriers designed to hide them from unauthorized eyes. Which only peaked the computer whiz’s interest. He loved nothing more than a challenge to his cyberskills, and they were considerable. As well as being skilled in computer terms, Kurtzman was a master when it came to breaking encryptions and the lockouts designed by people who had dark secrets to hide.

  “Hey, Akira, Carmen, I’m sending data across from Townsend’s hard drive. The guy doesn’t want us to know what he’s been up to, so I think it only fair we accept his challenge. Drop everything and go to work on this stuff.”

  Tokaido nodded and waited while Kurtzman transferred a chunk of data to his station. He scanned files as they were listed, smiling to himself when he saw they were heavily encrypted. Puzzles, as he classed them, were his lifeblood. He saw them as adversaries just waiting to be defeated. The youngest of Kurtzman’s cyberspecialists, Akira Tokaido, was blessed with the demanding curiosity of youth. He refused to ever accept that any problem was unsolvable. The moment it seemed so, he went into overdrive and would persist until he broke down the walls. He filled his screens with the locked files, initiated Kurtzman’s encryption-cracker program and set to work.

  The first to extract information, Tokaido alerted Kurtzman and shifted the data to the man’s screen.

  “Sound bites,” To
kaido said. “Townsend has been recording conversations and storing them on encrypted files.”

  For the next half hour they listened to the open files. They were recordings of face-to-face meetings and also telephone conversations. Townsend always made sure that somewhere during each discussion he verbally identified the individual he was speaking to by addressing them by name.

  “He’s made records of conversations so he has incriminating evidence against them,” Delahunt said. “Clever guy. He’s making sure he has them where he wants them if trouble starts.”

  “Tilman. Riotta. Mark Kibble. Sammo Chen Low. We know these. Run checks on the other names, Akira. Let’s find out who else is in Townsend’s club.”

  “Evidence is stacking up here,” Wethers said. “We know Townsend had Kibble on his payroll. Now Kibble is dead and evidence points to him having been killed in Texas, then taken back to Dayton and his body dumped in a ditch. Rik Brandt left his print in the car and Brandt works for Townsend.”

  “One voice we don’t have here is Jack Regan’s,” Kurtzman said. “The question is why.”

  “Maybe Regan is a trustee,” Delahunt suggested. “Even someone like Townsend must have some people he doesn’t need to keep checks on.”

  “How’s that list of telephone numbers coming?” Kurtzman asked her.

  “Last few are coming through. Whatever else, Townsend has a lot of contacts.”

  “Get everything you can from the numbers. Names and addresses. The works.”

  “YOU READY FOR THIS?” Kurtzman asked.

  He was in the War Room with Brognola and Price. Kurtzman had sheets of data ready, and two of the wall screens were waiting for the signal that would bring the data on line.

  Brognola nodded. He had only just returned from his trip to Washington and a busy meeting with the President. The Man had asked for a situation update and had also wanted to discuss a few pointers with Brognola. The visit had been intense, and Brognola would have liked nothing better than to be able to slump in a chair with a large drink in his hand, his shoes kicked in the corner of the room. He visualized the scenario for a few seconds, then dismissed it as being untenable at this moment in time.