Читать книгу China Crisis - Don Pendleton - Страница 7

Townsend Ranch, South Texas

Oliver Townsend, former Major Oliver Townsend, U.S. Army, retired from active service for the past three years, was the driving force behind the covert organization Shadow. Depending on your stand, Shadow was either an inspired business enterprise or an illegal operation.

As far as Townsend was concerned, his operation was pure genius. In a world dominated by global enterprises, many of them partly funded and under the protective umbrella of federal government, Shadow might have been small. It did, however, cater to a specific need—that of providing military ordnance and technology to the specific requirements of its clientele. In essence Townsend did his business with those customers who, by whatever misdeed, were considered untouchable by the legitimate suppliers. There was a great deal of hypocrisy in that. It was a well-documented fact that overseas regimes once favored by government could fall into the black hole of becoming non gratis due to political expediency, power change or not adhering to nonspecified rules. The delicate balance in the political game was easily tipped. Today’s friend was tomorrow’s enemy. It was a simple equation that highlighted the power struggles and the watch-your-back mentality.

Townsend had been a spectator to much of this during his military career, his final two years spent at the Pentagon, and he had realized that there was much to be made from the infinitely complex machinations of the strategy game. He had acquired a great deal of insight, background knowledge and, importantly, contacts, a number of whom were instrumental in backing his enterprise and working behind the scenes. They were powerful men, their influence running deep in financial, industrial and political circles, and Townsend was well versed in the way they operated behind closed doors.

With his backers on board, Townsend began to formulate the operation that would both fund his retirement and occupy his time. He saw an opportunity and he reached out and took it. There was a certain irony in his decision. His retirement had been forced on him through one of the manpower cut-back initiatives the military machine had devised. Men of his age were being offered early retirement because they no longer fitted into the scheme. The Pentagon wanted younger blood, officers who would slot neatly into the new technological era. Townsend made little fuss. He saw the writing on the wall and figured he might as well go quietly, taking with him all the information he had gathered and channeling it into his own personal data pool.

Within twelve months of the parting of the ways Townsend had his organization up and running. With his backing secured, Townsend recruited his team of specialists and his newly formed Shadow was already doing business. His first clients had been based in Asia. He had taken on the contract and supplied them with the ordnance they needed. The deal was conducted efficiently, the funds placed in a Swiss account Townsend’s moneyman had set up, and the client suggesting Townsend get in touch with a number of other groups who needed similar deals processing. Shadow’s efficiency was noticed, and over the next year Townsend saw his turnover increase substantially. The people he was dealing with had an urgent need for what he could supply, plus there was the added advantage they paid well and needed anonymity.

Now Shadow was not only operating from a strong business base but had expanded into another area entirely. Townsend was being asked to supply not just ordnance, but technology centered around advanced weaponry and electronics. He had done some research and found that industrial espionage, as it was designated, had a higher premium comeback. One deal in this sector would net him more than his entire income since he had started the enterprise. He discussed this with his people and the consensus was it had extreme possibilities.

Shadow had its contacts within military and government research communities, and once Townsend started to look further he realized that obtaining sensitive material was not outside his scope. He used his knowledge of how the military-industrial setup worked to his advantage. As well as employing monetary enticements, Townsend got his people to look into the backgrounds of people in top-secret areas. It wasn’t long before there was a stack of files on a number of key players, containing details of gambling debts, infidelities both financial and sexual, anything that could be used as a lever was employed.

Townsend learned something about himself during this stage. He found he had no conscience or moral restraint when it came to blackmail, coercion or downright threats. It was a part of his makeup he hadn’t been aware of before. Now it had surfaced he found he liked that side of his character. He was enjoying his new career, the money, the power and the sensation that he was defying the odds each time he went into a new venture. The illicit thrill engendered by the whole risky game was as much of a high as the money. The expansion of his organization, moving into something far beyond selling a few crates of automatic weapons, really hit the right spot for him.

The call from an intermediary asking for a meet in Paris with his main client had intrigued Townsend. The initial conversation hinted that any possible arranged deal would be worth an extremely high fee. This part of the conversation interested Townsend even more. His trip to Paris was to be paid for, as was his accommodation in a five-star hotel in the city. Townsend agreed to the meeting. A return ticket and hotel reservation were delivered by courier two hours later. The flight was due to leave that afternoon. By the evening of the next day Townsend was sitting in his hotel suite awaiting the call that would summon him to his meeting with his yet-to-be-identified client.

He had no idea just what he was going to be asked to provide. The hinted-at amount of his fee, being so astronomical, suggested something extremely high-tech and of great importance.

What was he going to be asked to do? Steal the latest U.S. Air Force fighter plane? Hijack a Navy submarine? He leaned back in the comfortable armchair, toying with the glass of fine French brandy, and let his imagination run wild. He hoped that when he did get the request it wouldn’t be a disappointment.

He was picked up an hour later and driven in a comfortable limousine to the outskirts of Paris and a château on the edge of the Seine. The house was more than four hundred years old, beautifully maintained and very private.

Townsend was met at the massive front entrance by an unsmiling Chinese in an expensive suit and immaculate shirt and tie. He was led inside the château, across the marble entrance hall, and shown into a pleasant, sunny room that looked out onto smooth lawns that led to the river. The door closed quietly behind him and Townsend found himself in the presence of a powerful-looking Chinese in his forties.

“Please take a seat. Do I call you Major, or is it now Mr. Townsend?”

“I left the rank behind when I left military service,” Townsend said.

“Mr. Townsend, my name is Su Han. I am director of the Second Department, Intelligence, of the PLA, and I would like to commission your organization to procure certain items for me. These items will be held in the strictest security by the U.S. government and will not be easy to get to.”

“Director Han, that is why you have come to me. My organization is dedicated to providing what our clients ask for. I’m sure you have done your checks on Shadow. If you have, then you will have seen we haven’t failed once to fill our obligations.”

“Quite so, Mr. Townsend. I am extremely impressed by your record of successes.”

“All praise is gratefully received.”

“From what I have learned, you have no problem relieving the American government of weaponry, electronics and the like.”

“Why not? Like all governments, the U.S. administration has no hang-ups when it comes to selling its wares if it decides a certain regime suits its purpose. As far as I’m concerned, Director Han, we are in a global bazaar. Supply and demand. It was what America was born for.”

Han reached down to a folder resting on the small table beside his chair. He opened it and offered it to Townsend.

“You may find my needs unusual. They are, however, strictly in accordance with current trends in defensive weaponry. In brief, China has an urgent need to bring herself in line with the present level attained by America and Russia. Our leadership cannot tolerate the advances made by Russia especially. The stalemate is too biased in favor of the U.S. and Russia. We need to redress that balance.”

“And to save time on development you need samples of the latest U.S. hard and software?”

“Exactly, Mr. Townsend. As for example, the circuit board on the first page. If we could have one of those, our technicians would be able to reproduce it and we would have saved two maybe three years of trial and error.”

“Very astute, Director.” Townsend smiled. “Let me work on this list. I need to do some checking. Get my people to assess how we could do this.”

“I take it you are interested in a deal?”

“As they say in my country, you can take that to the bank.”

“Take your time, Mr. Townsend. Anything you need should be available here. We have a communications room so you can confer with your people in the U.S. All lines are secure.”

“I would expect nothing less from you, Director Han.”

Han called out in his native tongue and the man who had met Townsend at the door entered the room.

“Show our guest to the communications center. He is to have complete privacy. No disturbances of any kind.”

The man nodded.

“Director Han, I will try to have some positive answers for you by midday.”

Neither man had broached the subject of money. It seemed to Townsend that it would appear churlish if he brought up payment at this time, and Han was plainly from the old school, where payment remained hidden discreetly out of sight until everything else had been cleared.

The communications center was situated in a room at the rear of the château and contained telephones, computers and a fax machine. Everything was the most up-to-date on the market, and Townsend noted wryly that it was all of Japanese origin. The door closed behind his escort, leaving the American on his own. He sat at the desk and used one of the satellite phones to call his U.S. base. Within a couple of minutes he had Ralph Chomski, his second in command, on the line.

Chomski, ex-Air Force intelligence, had been with Townsend from day one. He was a man who existed for life’s challenges. His contacts were legion, stretching from the military through both civilian contractors and even a number of covert agencies who handled a great deal of what was known as black ops. He hated being defeated by any problem and would do anything to make sure he came out on top. He had a small but influential list of people within government who could be persuaded to help. He would never divulge exactly what he had as leverage, and Townsend didn’t push him on that, content to accept that Chomski could deliver when required. Chomski listened as Townsend sketched in Han’s needs without being too specific.

“I’ll e-mail you the list in a few minutes. I need confirmation we can get what the man requires as soon as possible. Ralph, we could do extremely well on this.”

“Sounds interesting,” Chomski said, and Townsend could sense the rising excitement in his voice at the thought.

“Calm down, Ralph. Don’t wet your pants too soon. Look at the list first.”

As soon as he finished his conversation, Townsend used the computer setup to scan Han’s list and forward it as an attachment to an e-mail he sent to Chomski. He received an acknowledgment within a minute and knew that his second in command would be checking the list and working on ways to obtain the goods.

Townsend returned to find Han, informing him that urgent attention was being given to the list and he would have an answer within a short time. Han nodded, content, and invited Townsend on a tour of the house and grounds.

Two hours later Townsend had a call from Chomski, guaranteeing they could fill the order. Townsend informed Han, confident that if Chomski said yes they were in business.

“Excellent, Mr. Townsend. I hope you will dine with me this evening before you return to the U.S.A.”

“My pleasure, Director. Then I must leave. I have a lot to arrange.”

Townsend was back at his hotel by nine that night. He retired early and by midmorning the following day was settling in his seat on the plane that would take him to the States.

That had been six months ago…

Longhorn Bar, Landry Flats, South Texas Border Country

T. J. H AWKINS CAUGHT a glimpse of Carl Lyons as the Able Team leader paused in the doorway, scanning the bar’s interior. The moment he spotted Hawkins, Lyons made directly for him, coming to a halt at the table.

“You think I don’t have anything better to do than chase all over the damn place? I told you once before, Hawkins, nobody skips on me.”

Hawkins carried on drinking, aware of every eye in the place focused on his table.

“Playing dumb isn’t going to buy you a ticket home.”

This time Hawkins sat upright, leaning against the rear of the booth. He faced Lyons.

“And am I supposed to be worried? What are you going to do, rooster? Crow loud enough so everyone can hear? All I’m doing is having a quiet drink. There’s no law against that. I haven’t broken any rules, so back off, Jenks. I’m not in the fuckin’ Army no more. I don’t have to listen to you.”

“Listen, asshole, we had a deal. It’s time to settle.”

Hawkins shook his head. “Deal’s off. You didn’t come through on your end. Or have you forgotten that?”

Lyons reached out and caught hold of Hawkins’s coat, hauling him upright. He swung the younger man around, slamming him against the wall, then pinned him there with one big hand.

“You could die right here, Hawkins.”

“Then are you going to shoot all these witnesses? I don’t think even you could cover that up, Jenks.”

“Maybe I’ll risk it. Be worth the sight of you with your guts spread over this floor. I don’t like people going back on a deal.”

“Yeah, right. Jenks, you screwed up. You lost the merchandise and now you expect me to bail you out. Open your eyes, pal. It don’t work that way. We both know you’re trying to put the squeeze on because your boss is going to be pissed at you.” Hawkins slapped Lyons’s hands from his chest, then stiff-armed him away, pushing the man across the floor. “Go tell him what happened. Get the hell off my back. It’s not my problem. Now fuck off before I find my gun and put you down.”

Lyons made a show of bluster, but eventually backed away. He jabbed a finger at Hawkins.

“You and me got this to settle. This isn’t over, Hawkins.” He stared around the bar, face taut with anger.

“Jenks, this is finished.”

Lyons backed off a step, refusing to meet Hawkins’s eye. After a moment he spun around, glaring at the rest of the bar’s customers.

“Seen enough, you assholes? Get back to your bottles, losers.”

He turned and barged his way out of the bar, slamming the door behind him. A long silence ensued until a single voice broke it.

“Still bucking the odds, T.J.?”

Hawkins turned and watched as Vic Lerner moved away from his stool at the bar and crossed the room. He peered at Lerner, pretending he wasn’t certain he recognized the man.

“Vic? Where in hell did you spring from, buddy?”

“I was here awhile. Didn’t pay much attention until you made your little stand against the bully boy.” Lerner threw out a hand and slapped Hawkins on the shoulder. “Hell, T.J., how long has it been?”

“Too damn long. Hey, where’s the uniform?”

“I dumped that a while back. Had my belly full of being ordered around.”

“Yeah, I been there, done that.”

“I haven’t forgotten. Man, they really did the dirty on you in Somalia.”

Hawkins shrugged. “The system always gets you in the end. Let me buy you a drink, Vic.”

Lerner had already turned, gesturing to the bartender. He had quickly sized up Hawkins’s shabby appearance, figuring his former Army buddy wasn’t exactly walking around with too much in his pockets. When he returned with a couple of beers, Hawkins had taken his seat again. Lerner placed the chilled bottles on the table, pushing one across to Hawkins.

“Here’s to when we did have some good times, T.J.”

Hawkins lifted the bottle and drank. He brushed at his creased shirt. “Seems you caught me on an off day, Vic. I need to do my laundry.”

“Got to admit I’ve seen you looking better in the middle of a firefight, T.J.”

Hawkins gave a vague shrug, reaching for his glass again. “To better days.”

“So what happened after you left the service?”

“Things kind of went on a downward spiral. What the hell, Vic, I was trained as a damned soldier, not a brush salesman. Tried different things but nothing lasted. Money was scarce. I wasn’t pulling much in, so I started looking around for anything where I could put my training to use. You know what? Ain’t much there. Almost hooked up with a mercenary group going to Africa. Missed the boat there, too. Funny, I heard a month later the whole crew were wiped out by some local militia. So I guess my luck stayed with me that day.”

“And now?”

“I scratch around. Do a little social drinking, if you know what I mean. But I’m not eating too high off the hog, and that old pickup outside on the lot is the best I can afford right now.”

“What you working on now?”

“Now? Right now I’m drinking with an old Army buddy who looks like he won first prize.”

Lerner smiled. “Can’t complain.” He hesitated for a moment. “T.J., you up for a job?”

Hawkins toyed with his glass. “Is it legal?”

Lerner laughed. “Does it make a difference?”

“Hell, no. That deal I had with that jerk who was here wasn’t exactly tax deductible. Anything that kicks the honest and upright’s ass is just what I need. Walking the line didn’t do me any good. I did the right thing and the Army booted me out. Honorable discharge—that was their way of getting rid of me.”

“How about we get out of here? Let me buy you a decent meal and make a call. Could be I can find you a place with the people I work with. Hell, T.J., you got the credentials we’re looking for.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Lerner led the way out of the bar. His vehicle was parked at the edge of the lot. A dark metallic-gray Blazer.

“Cool-looking truck,” Hawkins said.

“What about yours?”

Hawkins grinned. He pointed across the lot to a battered and sad-looking Chevy pickup. The once-red paintwork had faded to a dull pink and numerous scratches showed rust.

“Some set of fancy wheels.”

“You said it, Vic.”

“Where did you buy that?”

“Let’s say it’s kind of borrowed. I don’t even have insurance, or papers for it.”

“That kind, huh?” Lerner grinned. “You bothered about leaving it lay?”

“Hell, no, the tank’s about dry anyhow.” Hawkins hesitated. “You mind if I pick up my bag?”

“Go fetch it.”

Lerner used his remote to unlock his truck and climbed in. He waited until Hawkins returned with a scruffy duffel over his shoulder. Opening the passenger door, Hawkins tossed his bag on the rear seat and settled in the passenger seat as Lerner fired up the powerful engine.

“Sweet sound.” He patted the leather seat. “I might move in. This is better than the trailer I’m living in right now.”

“Don’t worry, buddy,” Lerner said, “if this works out, you could be running around in one of these.”

As Lerner drove out of the lot, dust spewing up from beneath the heavy tires, Hawkins sank into the comfort of the seat, almost closing his eyes.

“Who do I have to kill to get one of these?” he asked. “Just remember that I got my own fantasy list to work through first.”

“That bad?”

“Fuck, Vic, look at me. One step off being a tramp. Man, I’ve been so long on the downslide I forgot what it’s like to walk tall. Be honest? If you can get me something I’m in. Man, I just want to climb out of this damn hole I been stuck in for too long.”

“O UR TWO-DAY STAKEOUT paid off. Looks like Lerner took the bait. He and T.J. just took off in Lerner’s truck. They headed west. That’s in the direction of the Townsend ranch. We’ll hang back. Give them some space until we know if it’s taken.”

“Keep us updated, Carl,” Price said. “Just don’t let anything happen to T.J. or we’ll have World War McCarter on our hands.”

Lyons smiled bleakly. He wasn’t a man to be fazed by anything, but given a choice between a room full of cobras and David McCarter on the prod, he admitted he would go for the snakes.

“Talk to you,” he said, and broke the cell phone connection.

He picked up the transceiver on the seat beside him and called Blancanales. “T.J. and Lerner in a metallic-gray Blazer heading your way, Pol.” He recited the license number. “Give them room. All we do now is watch and wait.”

“Understood.”

Lyons called Hermann Schwarz.

“The Politician has them under surveillance. They took off west from the bar.”

“Okay. What do we do?”

“Head back to the motel for now. We’ll coordinate once we hear from Pol or T.J.”

“M R . T OWNSEND, THIS IS T.J. Hawkins, the feller I called you about. We were in the service together until he got in a jam.”

“Heard about your trouble,” Townsend said. “You’re not the first to end up on the wrong end of military injustice. Might make a man want to get even. How do you feel on that score?”

“I think you already know that, Mr. Townsend. Since Vic called earlier, you probably have most there is to know about me.”

Townsend smiled. He jerked a thumb at the computer setup on the corner of his wide desk.

“We live in the age of information, Hawkins. Press a button and a man’s life spills right across your monitor.”

Don’t I know it, Hawkins thought. And now I also know I’m looking at your own information bank.

Hawkins waited. He wanted to see how Kurtzman’s data implants had colored his files. It was surprising, and a little scary, to realize just what could be done to someone’s background in the hands of a man like Aaron Kurtzman.

“Seems you’ve had quite a ride since you quit the military. Close scrapes with the law. What was that little fracas you had down in Albuquerque? They pulled you in for suspected dealings in illegal weapons. How come you walked away clean?”

Hawkins gave an embarrassed shrug. “I was kind of expecting problems, so I made sure I was well covered before the Border Patrol moved in. They searched, but they didn’t find a damn thing. While they were busting me, my deal was going through somewhere else.”

Townsend smiled. “So how come you’re walking around like a bum?”

“The deal was small-time, Mr. Townsend. By the time I paid off everyone it didn’t leave me with much, and the cops were still dogging me. I like making money. Problem is, I’m not too hot when it comes to working the financial side. So I had to move on. Since then, well, I guess my luck kind of went south.”

“With your guns by the sound of it,” Townsend said. “Your latest deal kind of bit you in the ass I hear.”

“Something like that.”

“Hawkins, I don’t deal small,” Townsend said. “You sound like the kind of man we could use. But don’t be fooled into thinking I tolerate any stupidity. Fuck around with me, and you’ll wish the Border Patrol had caught you. A stretch in Huntsville would be a vacation compared to what I could do to you.” He met Hawkins’s unflinching gaze. “Are we clear on that?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Townsend. Understood. I might not be too smart with finance operations, but I know how to take orders.”

Townsend visibly relaxed. “Fine. Vic, can you make room for Hawkins?”

“Sure. Plenty of spare rooms in the bunkhouse.”

“Get him some clothes and whatever he needs. Hawkins, there’s something coming up shortly. You can handle it with Vic. Let’s see if you’re as good as your rap sheet says.”

When Hawkins and Lerner left the office, Townsend turned to Ralph Chomski, who had been standing quietly to one side, observing. “Do the usual, Ralph. Keep an eye on him. See if he does anything we should be suspicious of. If he behaves himself, fine. If there’s anything, anything, that doesn’t sit right, you know what to do.”

“Oh, I know what to do,” Chomski said, his mood lightening at the thought.

“Now let’s have Mr. Kibble in here. I have a feeling I’m not going to be too happy with what he has to tell me.”

Chomski left the room. He was back a couple of minutes later, accompanied by a sandy-haired man in his early forties. Townsend indicated a seat in front of his desk.

“You have a good flight?”

The man nodded, his expression indicating he was in no mood for small talk.

“Sit down, Mark, and tell me what the problem is.”

Mark Kibble took the offered seat. He sat on the edge, refusing to allow himself to relax, and Townsend took that as a bad sign. The man was so tense he would snap in two if he bent over.

“The problem is, I can’t complete the arrangement.”

Behind Kibble there was movement. It was Chomski. He already had his hand inside his jacket. Townsend caught his eye and gave a slight shake of his head.

“Take your time, Mark. Tell me what the problem is. Would you like a drink?”

Kibble raised a hand in a gesture of refusal. “I need to get this said.”

“Fine. Go ahead.”

“There’s been some kind of security initiative. I don’t know where it came from, but the entire setup has been upgraded. New people running things. All codes changed and a fresh protocol put into place. They’re even installing some new hand-print identification procedure. One of those gizmos where you have to place your hand on a pad and it scans your fingerprints against records held in the computer. They took mine yesterday, and they have introduced more frequent stop and searches. There’s no way I can risk taking anything out now.”

“And you haven’t had any directives telling you why all this is happening?”

“Not a thing. Someone did ask, and they were told it was none of their business and to carry on with their work.”

“Do you think it might have to do with the missing items?”

Kibble shrugged.

He was running scared, Townsend realized, and a frightened man might easily let something slip.

“What do we do?”

Townsend smiled. He knew what he had to do. But not here. Not now.

“Mark, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We need to take stock. Stand back and look at this calmly. There will be a way around it.”

Kibble shook his head. “No. I’m out. If I got caught, I’d end up in some federal facility and I won’t risk that. Jesus, it would ruin my family. I have a wife. Children.”

“And you have a great deal of money hidden away in that special account we help you set up.”

“I’ll give the money back. It isn’t worth all this risk.”

Kibble was sweating now. He was ready to cave. The next step could be running to the Feds and telling them everything if it would help to pull him out of the deep, dark hole threatening to swallow him.

“I don’t see there being any need for that, Mark. You already earned that money for previous transactions.”

Townsend took a long moment to consider his next move. He wanted Kibble out of his house, well away before anything happened, because that was the next move.

“I just can’t do this anymore,” Kibble said, pushing to his feet.

“Okay, Mark. Leave it with me. I understand your position and I won’t push you into anything you can’t do. Perhaps it’s time to back off and let things cool for a while. Give things a chance to settle down. You agree?”

Kibble nodded, a little of the tension draining from his face. He watched Townsend stand and cross over to face him.

“I’m sorry this had to happen,” Kibble said.

“Like I said, Mark, don’t worry. We’ll figure a way around this mess. Go home. Be with your family. Someone will run you back to the strip and the Lear can fly you back to Dayton.”

Chomski waited until Kibble cleared the room before he spoke.

“He’ll do it,” he said. “Somebody gives him a hard time, he’ll spill his guts and point the finger. We can’t let that happen.”

“Nicely put, Ralph,” Townsend said. “You’ll never win prizes for diplomacy, but you head straight to the heart.”

“So?”

“Send a couple of the boys with him. Make sure they deal with it quietly. Just make sure there are no tracks that lead back to us. Fly him back home as excess cargo. Let his body be found by his local cops.”

Chomski turned and left the room, closing the door.

Townsend sat, staring out the window.

“That boy sure likes his work,” he said, voicing his thoughts.

Now that Kibble was out of the loop, he needed to work on his second string at RossJacklin Inc. He had to have the secondary circuit board. It was necessary if he wanted to deliver the full package to Director Han. Necessary and, more importantly, it would demonstrate Shadow’s ability to always complete its contracts. Since taking on the Chinese client, Townsend had profited greatly. His initial deliveries of vital components to the facility at Guang Lor had resulted in six-figure cash amounts being deposited in his Swiss account. There had been no delays, no complications. Han, as if to prove a point, had made immediate deposits, and had followed up with calls to Townsend to make certain the money had arrived safely. The man certainly knew how to maintain customer-client relations on an even footing. Townsend understood the courtesy. It was part of established Chinese custom. They understood the need for both the hard and the soft approach to negotiating a deal. Strict lines of communication, with everything handled quietly, resulted in a harmonious relationship. The American also knew there was another side to Director Han. It would only be revealed if Townsend failed to live up to his promises. The claws of the dragon would show and persuasive words would be lost in the roar of chastisement. He was in no doubt that Han would exact severe retribution if matters fell below his exacting standards.

Townsend assessed the situation. He realized why the security upgrade had happened. It was because of the CIA’s surveillance of the recent transaction. Bad enough that the Agency had gotten close enough to be on the spot during an exchange. Townsend’s CIA contact had prepared Townsend beforehand, allowing him to put on a display and had enforced the setup himself, leaving the Agency in no doubt as to what they could expect if they tried to interfere. They had nothing solid to move with and as long as Townsend could stay one step in front he would survive. It was all to do with keeping the balls in the air at the same time. Risk management came with the package. All Townsend had to do was to move the lines of engagement.

He picked up his telephone and punched in a number. He let it ring until a message clicked in. He waited until he was requested to speak.

“Call my number, Raymond. We need to talk. And it is urgent. I’ll expect your call back soon. Don’t make me wait too long.”

W HEN HE THOUGHT BACK to the night of the killing of the three CIA agents, it had taken a couple of hours for Pete Tilman to take in the full realization of what he had done, that there was no going back. He was fully committed now, even more than he had been before pulling the trigger. Yet even with that acceptance of having stepped over a line that wouldn’t let him go back, he felt little in the way of remorse. He lived in an uncaring world. One that decreed a man stand or fall by his own actions, and if he wanted to survive he had to make his stand for what he believed in. His actions had been dictated by that need for survival and his fear of being discovered.

His desertion from the path of loyalty to his chosen profession had been easy at first. The illicit thrill of playing a dangerous game had become a narcotic, fueled by the financial rewards and the closeness to men of power and influence. There was, too, the choice he made to kick back against the hypocrisy of the administration that preached one line of policy, while at the same time consorting with the devil. Government within government was no fantasy. Infighting and self-advancement created strange partnerships. Hidden agendas and the lust for power and wealth layered the administration with secret alliances and back-door dealing that would have astounded the naive and the innocent. As an agent within the CIA, Tilman had been privy to certain aspects of the Agency that had surprised him at first, but as his own experiences clouded his clear vision he began to see the world in a different light. What was good for America became blurred within the twists and turns of policy, and there were those in power who were working, not for the elected administration, but for their own goals. And with these insights Pete Tilman’s disenchantment soured his view of what was good and what was evil.

His move from the path he had walked initially to his crossover came about painlessly. He hadn’t realized that his casual remarks at an embassy party in Washington had been overheard by someone from a group influencing illicit operations from the corridors of power. Within days of the party Tilman had been approached by a young woman he had briefly met that evening. It wasn’t until later that he realized he had been drawn into a relationship with her. By then he was so smitten he would have denounced the President himself. Tilman already lived beyond his means. He owed money. He wanted more money. It was as simple as that. And he was fast losing faith with the agency, tired of being pushed around by younger, lesser men who were rising rapidly while he seemed to be standing still, despite his impressive record. She had suggested he meet someone who could offer him a promising future, someone who could use his skills and his position in the Agency. His desire for her sucked him even deeper. He was addicted, and there wasn’t a thing he could do to break the habit. In his private moments he accepted his weakness. It scared him a little, but he quickly got over that feeling. One phone call, hearing her voice, a few minutes of being with her and drinking in the sweet scent of her, and he was a total devotee and would have committed murder at her suggestion.

In the end he did just that, gunning down three fellow agents in a moment of desire to maintain his new lifestyle and his position within the organization that now called the tune he willingly danced to.

Financial rewards were offered and taken without consideration of possible repercussions. Tilman had taken on board the full package. The people he was secretly working for, while maintaining his position within the CIA, expected results and he found he was able to comply comfortably. His Agency classification gave him access to high-level data. It allowed him to view sensitive material, check operational dispersement and gain advance warning of upcoming operations. Once he had carried out a number of these clandestine procedures with no comeback, the illicit excitement had made him eager for more. It was almost a secondary sexual thrill, this dangerous game he was playing, but it was so addictive. It gave him back the buzz he had almost forgotten, the kind of feeling he used to get in the old days when he’d run his own team and was involved in covert operations.

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.”

T HE 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 computer 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.”