Читать книгу Enemy Arsenal - Don Pendleton - Страница 11

CHAPTER THREE

Eight hours later, Bolan, James and their prize were at Stony Man Farm, in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Jack Grimaldi had flown them out of John Wayne Airport on a red-eye back east, resulting in them enjoying a cup of real coffee—not Kurtzman’s superstrong black swill—and watching the sun come up over the fog-shrouded peaks.

Bolan had decided to spirit Araña back to Stony Man Farm to avoid any federal entanglements. The Executioner and James decided to check out leads the cyberteam had before they began questioning their informant. The two men heard a whoop just as they walked into the computer room in the Annex.

“What do ya think that’s about?” Calvin James asked.

“Akira either found the latest bootleg he’d been looking for, or he’s actually on to something. Only one way to find out.”

Akira Tokaido was one of Stony Man’s youngest members. He was also its best computer hacker, slipping in and out of foreign government mainframes, through criminal syndicate firewalls and anywhere else intel was needed from cyberspace.

But when Bolan and James walked to Tokaido’s workstation, his clenched fists weren’t raised in triumph at his latest sneak-and-peek, nor was he crowing about his success to anyone within earshot. Instead, his dark brown eyes were glued to a large monitor, his fingers blurred over the keyboard.

“Heard you hollerin’ in the hallway. What’s up?” James asked.

Tokaido didn’t take his eyes off the screen as he replied. “Shouted too soon. It’s probably just a false alarm. For a second, I thought I’d found a link to the Sale in the Sands.”

The name got both Bolan’s and James’s attention right away. Throughout the world, there were certain black-market events that Stony Man was constantly on the lookout for. The “Sale in the Sands” was one of them—a huge assembly of black-market weapon dealers that got together every other year to sell weapons, espionage technology, engineering and systems knowledge and entire mercenary groups to the right bidder. It had been on Bolan’s list to check out for some time, but either other more pressing ops had come up at the same time, or the Farm had followed artfully disguised trails that had led them nowhere.

“Why do you think it’s a no-go?” Bolan asked as he leaned down to survey the screen.

Tokaido leaned back and interlaced his hands behind his head. “Because, how would a low-life L.A. gangbanger get access to the triple-encrypted website that allows potential attendees access and the chance to put down their fifty-thousand-dollar advance reservation fee?”

“Fifty grand?” James whistled. “Damn, that’s one exclusive club.”

“That’s not the half of it, brother.” Tokaido tapped more keys. “From what I can tell, that’s only half of what someone needs to pony up to attend this little party.”

“Wait a sec—you’re telling me Araña had access to the site, that he was in, for all intents and purposes?” Bolan asked.

“Near as I can tell, yes. I’ve been tracking down every bit of conversation he’s had regarding this, and from what I’ve gathered, MS-13 was planning to attend. They’d put down their money, and were awaiting confirmation of their account being created, as well as the second part of the password to wire the second half.”

Bolan and James exchanged glances. “In for fifty grand, in for a hundred,” the lithe black man said.

“Akira, I assume you can masquerade as Araña and finish the transaction?”

“Well, I had already begun setting up a slave system on his smartphone to see just how far down the rabbit hole I could go. I was just waiting for authorization—”

“Which you just got.” Bolan straightened as his own cell phone buzzed. “Stay on this, and gather as much intel as possible. Cal, notify Phoenix to be on standby. If it’s going down in the next few days, we may have to scramble to get wherever it is on time.” He flipped his cell open. “Yeah.”

“It’s Hal.” Bolan’s long-time colleague and friend usually sounded either disgruntled, disgusted or dyspeptic, but this time his voice carried none of those overtones. Rather, Hal Brognola’s voice carried an undercurrent Bolan had hardly ever heard—nervousness.

“Are you all right?” Bolan asked.

“Yeah, everything in Foggy Bottom is as per usual—gridlocked and logjammed. Striker, I have a favor to ask you. How soon can you get to JFK?”

“Jack’s sacked out, but Charlie’s available. What’s this about?”

“I can’t talk about it like this, even over a secure line. Just get there as soon as you can, and call me. I’ll direct you the rest of the way once you’ve landed in New York City.”

“Hal—” Bolan turned away from the other men and lowered his voice “—you’re all right?”

“Yeah, this has to do with the circles I run in. Just get up here, would you? It would mean a lot to me.”

“I’m on my way.” Bolan hung up and speed-dialed Charlie Mott, Stony Man’s second pilot. “Charlie...yeah, it’s me...prep the jet for a flight to JFK...leaving in the next hour...thanks.”

James was watching him as he headed for the door. “What’s up?”

“Hal needs me in NYC. I want you to take over Araña’s

interrogation. Find out everything he knows about the Sale in the Sands, and anything else MS-13’s up to. I’ll call in once I’m in New York.”

“You got it.”