China Crisis (Stony Man)

by Don Pendleton

  “Yeah,” Lyons said. “Just like me, too. Caring and dedicated to their work.”

  “Gives me a lot to be thankful for,” Broken Nose said in a totally unconvinced tone.

  Santa Lorca, Central America

  TOWNSEND REALIZED Han was tired from his long flight from Shanghai to Santa Lorca. Picking him up from the local airport, which was for minor flights, Townsend drove the Chinese to Jack Regan’s hacienda fifteen miles up country from Santa Lorca’s capital city, Port Cristobal. Han said very little during the drive. The strain of his flight was only part of the reason for his mood.

  His long hours in the air had allowed Han to consider his future and attempt to dispense with the baggage of his past. He regretted having to leave China. The circumstances left him little choice. Remaining in the country would have simply been the end of his existence. Han accepted that being a living exile was preferable to a dead martyr. It made him aware of the inflexible attitude of the country’s leaders. Their obsession with maintaining China’s political stance had seemed an admirable thing to Han in his younger days, but the dogged refusal of the ruling class to emerge from the dusty shadows of the Marxist ideology was harming China more than it was helping.

  The country had proved it could adapt and become as one with the West. Manufacturing processes were already bringing in financial security, and the future had seemed bright. New construction in many areas was improving the living standards, though there was still much poverty in other environments. Rural China still existed as it had for centuries. But the obsession with military might, on a par, or better, than the West, was one of the drawbacks in China’s thinking. The panic when Russia had declared its intention to update its missile systems had created a state of fear and panic within the Party. In a state of extreme paranoia, their vowed declaration to draw level with America and Russia had kick-started the Guang Lor projects. The decision to enter into industrial espionage and steal American technology had been hailed as a brilliant concept. And it had been progressing well until the unfortunate crash of the Guang Lor missile. Bad enough in itself, the incident had been compounded by the appearance of the Pro-Democracy team. Their judicious snatching of the American-made circuit board from under the nose of Major Kang had been embarrassing. But the added interference of the American strike team had only increased the problems.

  What galled Su Han was his implication in the final result. After doing his duty to the state he was now being forced into exile by the very people he had served. It was trial without jury, a guilty verdict brought down on him simply because a fall guy, as the Americans would have put it, was needed. The realization hurt. It burned within him and made Han even more determined not to let the matter destroy him.

  He slept from sheer exhaustion that afternoon and woke feeling refreshed in the evening. Regan’s sprawling home was well appointed. Each bedroom suite was self contained, even down to private bathroom. Han took a long shower, shaved and dressed in lightweight clothing before making his way to the dining area. The meal was already under way, and as Han appeared Jack Regan waved him toward an empty chair.

  “Help yourself, Han,” Regan said.

  Han took some salad and fruit, poured himself a glass of orange juice, checking out the others as he did.

  He knew Townsend and Regan, Ralph Chomski and Joseph Riotta. There were two more men he failed to recognize. Townsend introduced them.

  “These are a couple of my guys, Su. The big one is Rik Brandt and the younger feller is one of my new associates, T. J. Hawkins.”

  Han shook hands with the two, then resumed his meal. The food on the planes had been typical fare. Nothing to make a fuss over and not very filling. Now his appetite was returning.

  “We may be joined in the morning by a couple more guests,” Townsend said. “Our CIA friend Tilman and someone from your part of the country.”

  Han looked up sharply at that. “Who?”

  “Hey, don’t sweat, bubba,” Regan said. “Just your pal from the firm. Chen Low.”

  Sammo Chen Low.

  “I don’t understand,” Han said.

  “He was out of the country the last few days,” Townsend explained. “He got the word about the Guang Lor fuck-up and saw the writing on the wall. Got to give it to the guy. He didn’t mess around. Figured it might not be safe calling home, so he phoned me. I told him what little I knew and suggested he get his ass over here pronto. Wasn’t long after you’d spoken to me.”

  Just like Chen Low, Han thought. He was as shrewd in personal matters as he was sharp in business. He would have kept himself informed about the ongoing Guang Lor incident, assessing the way it was going, and the moment everything came crashing down, Chen Low would have looked ahead to the inevitable damage limitation exercise Beijing would put in motion. Chen was closely associated with Su Han, part of his immediate unit, so he would catch much of the fallout. Chen Low, being a financier, had his own agenda bubbling away in the background. Being the official paymaster for Han’s deals he had been responsible for considerably-large amounts of hard cash as well as the electronic transfers. Han had been privy to Chen Low’s accounting. He understand creative accounting, and he knew Sammo Chen Low.

  So Low was saving himself, too. Han had to give the man credit. He could see a creative partnership in the future for them both.

  “Are you happy to talk in front of everyone here?” Townsend asked after a decent interval.

  “I have no secrets from any of you.”

  “Okay,” Townsend said.

  Su Han told the unfolding story from the moment the missile from Guang Lor went out of control and crashed, up to an including his own final hours in his Shanghai apartment. He concluded with the details of his leave-taking from China.

  A subdued silence descended over the table as the events and their implications were absorbed. The first to break the silence was the younger man called Hawkins.

  “Mr. Han, was there any indication who these Americans might be?”

  “What the hell kind of a question is that?” Chomski asked.

  Townsend leaned forward, raising a hand to calm Chomski.

  “What’s your thinking, Hawkins?”

  “Were they regular military? A mercenary team? A covert incursion by a group from the intelligence community?”

  “As in CIA?” Townsend queried.

  Hawkins glanced at him. “Just a thought, boss,” he said. “It’s clear as day the Agency isn’t going to sit on its butt after what happened to those three agents. Maybe they’ve been working on the quiet and uncovered a connection to your dealing here with Mr. Han. Followed it through and came up with a full hand. All I’m saying is they might be sniffing around, just trying to tie up loose ends. Pays to be cautious.”

  “Your young man is very perceptive,” Han said. “To answer your question directly, I had no contact with these people, but from what I managed to learn via reports they were professional and extremely adaptable. They outwitted Major Kang at every turn, taking on whatever he put in their way. Despite everything, I have to admire their resourcefulness and their dedication when it came to retrieving lost comrades.”

  “Maybe we should recommend them for a fuckin’ medal,” Chomski said bitterly.

  Han glanced across the table. “Mr. Chomski, they may be the enemy, but it is not a sign of weakness to acknowledge their qualities. Understanding your adversary is an important lesson in the battle to overcome him.”

  “Fortune cookie philosophy?”

  “No, Mr. Chomski, plain common sense. The art of war is far more than simply pulling a trigger.”

  Chomski fell silent, knowing he was on a loser. He flopped back in his seat, but managed to cast a dark scowl in Hawkins’s direction.

  “T.J., you might have something there,” Townsend said. “Take one of the cars and run into Port Cristobal. Have a quiet look around. See if there are any fresh faces in town. Hell, you’ll know what to look for. You’re new to the team so you can look around witho
ut being picked out. We’ve all been tagged one way or another by the Agency so they’ll know our faces.”

  “Whatever you want, boss. If you’re happy for me to go.”

  “Joseph, give him some cash. Our locals are happy to talk for a few dollar bills. You might pick up something. Worth a try.”

  Hawkins stood, taking his time. Riotta had left the table, returning a short time later to hand Hawkins a thick roll of money.

  “You want receipts, Mr. Riotta?”

  Townsend laughed. “I like this guy. He’s funny.”

  “Yeah. He cracks me up,” Chomski said.

  “And he knows big words, too.” Brandt grunted.

  “Education is a wonderful thing,” Hawkins said.

  He turned to Townsend. “Is there a number I can call here, boss? In case I need to contact you fast?”

  Regan scribbled a number on a card he took from his pocket. “Here you go, bubba.”

  Hawkins pocketed the cash and the card, turning to leave.

  “Hey,” Chomski called, “watch your back. It’s a bad world out there.”

  Hawkins smiled at the man as he passed Chomski’s chair.

  “Knowing you care, Ralphie, just makes me warm all over.”

  “You keep that in mind.”

  When Hawkins had gone, Chomski stood and gestured to Brandt.

  “Just something I need to talk over with you, Rik.”

  He glanced at Townsend. “Be back shortly.”

  Townsend barely acknowledged him. He was deep in conversation with Su Han.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Pete Tilman had been working a day shift. He was close to quitting when the TV monitor in the main office picked up a newsflash from CNN. Although official denial followed the report, the details that came over the broadcast told about the arrest of a RossJacklin employee named Raymond Dupont. Dupont had been apprehended trying to leave the Dayton research building with a classified piece of electronic software. When challenged, Dupont had made an abortive attempt at fleeing the scene but had been caught by company security. Although the incident had supposedly been blacked out by the authorities, someone had managed to leak details to CNN and they had included the report in their midafternoon program.

  “Same company who lost that other stuff,” Tilman heard someone say.

  “That guy killed in Dayton worked for RossJacklin. Mark Kibble.”

  “That’s right. Weird stuff.”

  Back in his office Tilman slid into his seat behind his desk and stared at his blank monitor screen, trying to make some sense of what was happening.

  The graph curve was dropping with rapid speed. Too much too quickly. And none of it encouraging. One minute life was running smooth, turn around and it was raining crap. Bad enough Kibble had started to run scared and had to be taken out. Now the reports Townsend had been getting from China were just as depressing. The Guang Lor business was reaching out to swallow them all in Tilman’s mind. The missing circuit board—one piece of technology—might come back to haunt them all. If its theft was traced back to Shadow, then it might also sting Tilman himself. He’d heard of guilt by association. He couldn’t argue the semantics on that. He was guilty and there was association. Sooner or later someone would fit all the tiny pieces together and they would spell, among other things, the name of Pete Tilman.

  From his association with Shadow it wouldn’t be a gigantic leap to connect him to the slaying of three CIA agents. And the day that happened he could kiss goodbye to his Agency pension.

  His cell phone rang. Tilman picked it up and recognized the soft drawl in the voice immediately.

  “Don’t talk. Listen. I need to speak to you. Pay phone. You got my number. Do it now.”

  The phone went dead. Tilman stood and pulled on his jacket. He left the office and made his way downstairs and out of the building. He walked along the sidewalk until he spotted a pay phone. He used one of the prepaid phone cards the Agency supplied to access the line, tapped in the number and waited until the connection was made.

  “Jack?”

  “Hey, bubba, listen up and don’t interrupt.”

  “So?”

  “Don’t make the trip down here. Something is brewing and it isn’t smelling too good. We might have been compromised. Caught with the goods and identified as being in the loop. You know we got Su Han here? He had to skip the old country ’cause his deal with Shadow has been busted right down the middle. Han got the hell out before his lords and masters decided to give him a Beijing haircut. You know, from the neck up? It wouldn’t be wise you coming down here.”

  “In other words, I’m fucked, Jack.”

  “Hey, we be fucked. Seems Su Han’s people let the circuit board we sold him get snatched by some group called Pro-Democracy who passed it to a covert American force. This whole thing runs like a season of 24. Bottom line is, the dots are being joined up. You understand? Do not come down here. You want my advice? Take your money and be gone.”

  “What about you?”

  “Hey, bubba, I been around too long to get my balls caught in a bear trap. Don’t worry about me.”

  Tilman stared around him for a moment. “Thanks for the warning, Jack.”

  “What’re friends for? We’ll talk again. Hell, we walked out of El Salvador, bubba. It’s all a picnic in the park after that. Don’t you forget it.”

  The phone clicked and Regan was gone.

  MINUTES LATER, back in his office, Tilman did the hardest thinking in his life. Through the glass partition he watched the routine of the field office, the coming and going of his colleagues. Those same colleagues would soon change their view of him if details of his attachment to Shadow were exposed. More so if it came out he had been responsible for killing three of their buddies. He opened desk drawers and slid out items he wanted to take with him. There were also a number of floppy disks he wasn’t about to leave behind. The items went into his attaché case. Tilman added his service weapon and extra magazines. He carried out these maneuvers calmly, even though he was eager to leave the department as quickly as possible. Closing his case, Tilman slipped into his jacket, shut down his computer and stood.

  Beyond the partition no one was taking any notice of him.

  He walked out of the office and through the department, nodding to people on his way. No rush, just an agent on his way to a meeting maybe, heading for a rendezvous. On assignment.

  Next the basement garage, where he picked up his car and drove to the exit. He had a brief word with the guard in the booth, watched the barrier raise, drove up the ramp and swung around the building to pick up the main drag that would take him to his apartment.

  It was a pleasant enough Washington day, warm, a slight breeze drifting in through the open window of his car door. Tilman fished out the cell phone in his jacket pocket and hit the speed-dial number he wanted. Listened to it hum and click, then connect and start to ring.

  The sound of her voice, as always, brushed away the tension.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Pete? Is something wrong?”

  “Does it sound like there is?”

  “Yes.”

  “Toni, I need to get away for a while,” Tilman said.

  “Away? As in skip town? Walk out?”

  “As in vanish.”

  “We need to talk. Where are you?”

  “Driving home.” He told her.

  “I’ll meet you there.” A slight pause. “Don’t make hasty choices.”

  HER NAME WAS Toni Hendrick. She was twenty-eight years old, a striking beauty that gave her an advantage when it came to her dedication to her profession. Hendrick was tall, with hazel eyes, natural thick chestnut hair cut in a short style. A lithe, toned body that carried greater strength and agility than she allowed to show. She also possessed a keen, inquisitive mind that seldom remained idle.

  Now, as she replaced the receiver, following her brief but illuminating talk with Tilman, she was already defining her upcoming actions.

 
; Reaching across the desk, she opened a drawer and removed a disposable cell phone. She tapped out a number and as soon as it was answered she spoke.

  “He’s just been on the line. What we discussed yesterday seems to have reached him.”

  Hendrick reported what Tilman had said. The man on the other end of the connection sighed.

  “A nuisance but these things happen. My sources have just updated me. It does appear that Su Han has fled China because his superiors need to hold him accountable for what happened at Guang Lor. A great shame. The Shadow operation was progressing nicely. Our friend Townsend had negotiated some lucrative deals with the Chinese.”

  “I doubt they’ll give up. Once the Han matter is settled, they’ll be on the lookout for another supplier surely?”

  “I have no doubt. But it’s not going to be as easy second time around. The President has already ordered tighter security at government contractors. Look at RossJacklin. They have intercepted the man trying to pick up where Mark Kibble left off.”

  “So what do we do about Tilman?”

  “Need you ask, my dear? Tilman was useful. His Agency involvement had advantages but they could also work against us, so he is a luxury we can no longer afford. The moment the web starts to unravel, certain players become dispensable. Tilman has already shown signs of panic by telling you he wants to get away. Does he still believe you are the love of his life?”

  “Of course.” It was said without any kind of exaggeration. “He hangs on every word I utter.”

  “Then use that. Get him out of Washington. Use the team. We need damage control. See to it. Just ensure it can’t be traced back to us. And once he has been dealt with, make sure he didn’t have any incriminating data with him. I’ll arrange to have his apartment searched.”

  “Understood.”

  Hendricks shut down the cell phone and slipped it into her pocket. She crossed the apartment to her bedroom where she picked up two packed travel bags. She took them with her and left the apartment, taking the stairs to the basement garage where she then walked out by the side exit, went to the street and hailed a cab.