Читать книгу Enemy Arsenal - Don Pendleton - Страница 13

CHAPTER FIVE

Three and a half hours later, Bolan turned his rented Escalade off the Henry Hudson Parkway onto a forested road, leaving the whoosh and roar of the highway behind as he traveled into a secluded forest park.

He looked out the window at the well-kept lawns and stark trees just beginning to bud in the spring season. He hit his earpiece, speed-dialing Stony Man Farm as a building straight out the Middle Ages came into view, complete with a stone tower rising over the foliage. After the call was routed through a series of cutouts, an operator at the Farm put him through to Tokaido.

“Speak to me.”

“This is Striker. What am I coming up on?” After getting the address from Brognola, Bolan had sent it to Akira Tokaido to gather info during the hour-long drive from JFK to Long Island.

“Hey, Striker. You just entered Fort Tryon Park. That would make the building you’re coming up on part of the Cloisters.” Bolan heard keys tapping. “It’s a part of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, is dedicated to the art and architecture of Medieval Europe, and was opened in 1938 to the public—”

“I’m familiar with New York landmarks, so that’s enough of a history lesson, thanks.” Bolan watched the red tile-roofed building grow larger as he approached. “Wonder why Hal suggested this place, instead of any one of a dozen in D.C. that would be as discreet?”

“Offhand, it seems to be about as far from both NYC and D.C. as you could get. Since it’s so isolated, anyone trying to follow either of you would stick out like the proverbial sore thumb.”

“Right.” Bolan had known Hal Brognola far too long to suspect the man of trying to lure him into some kind of trap, but that didn’t mean there weren’t others who wouldn’t attempt the same using Hal as bait. “I’ll check in with you afterward.”

“I’ve downloaded a site map to your phone. You sure you don’t want eyes in the sky or ears on the ground?” Tokaido asked.

“Thanks, but I think I’ll be fine. Striker out.” Disconnecting his call as he pulled into an empty space on the graveled parking lot, Bolan took a few seconds to scan and memorize the grounds plan Tokaido had sent him, as well as look around, his trained mind evaluating entrances, exits, hard points, cover. He also took a moment to check his casual rig. His Beretta 93R was nestled in a Galco belt holster at the small of his back, easily concealed by his camel-colored sport coat. Keeping the pistol hidden from casual view, he drew it, checked the load and replaced it before shrugging into his jacket.

He strolled up the driveway to the diamond-shaped main hall, dropping a twenty-dollar donation to the organization that maintained the building. Exits at each point led to a medieval book collection on his right, into what was termed the Romanesque Hall straight ahead, and to the Late Gothic Hall on his left, which led to the garden.

Bolan walked into the larger hallway to his left, not sparing a single glance at the rich collection of artwork adorning the walls. Stepping out into the garden bathed him in the golden light of the late-morning sun, which washed the nearby wall and ground in its warm, glowing radiance.

The garden grounds were arranged in a traditional style, with the large rectangle formed by the walls divided by framed footpaths into four equal areas, each filled with a profusion of plants and color that created a heady mix of floral scents. In the center of the garden, a stone fountain burbled, and next to it, staring into its trickling waters as intently as if he was trying to divine the future, stood Hal Brognola.

Bolan walked to him slowly, his boots making enough noise on the gravel to alert the other man. He took in the big Fed’s appearance as he approached. Normally comfortably attired, if a little rumpled, he now looked as if he had been traveling for the past day or so and hadn’t gotten much sleep. His hands were in the pockets of his slacks, but Bolan couldn’t tell if he was holding something in one or both of them, or just clenching his fists.

He was a yard away when Brognola spoke. “Hi, Striker.” His usually warm, reassuring voice was thin and reedy, more evidence of the stress he was under.

“Hal.” Bolan strode to his side and looked into the bottom of the fountain. The face staring back at him, even distorted by the rippling water, made him pause. His oldest friend’s features were ashen-gray, with red-rimmed eyes surrounded by puffy skin, attesting to his lack of sleep. His graying hair, usually neatly combed, ruffled in the light breeze.

“Hal, are you all right?”

Brognola nodded, holding up a forestalling hand. “I’m fine. It’s just been a very busy past twenty-four hours, that’s all.” He rubbed his tired face with his hands. “Finally I just had to get away for a little bit—but of course, the business at hand always intervenes. That’s why you’re here.”

Bolan had a far less philosophical view of his endless war. It always came down to him versus the evil in the rest of the world. Usually Brognola was right there alongside him, fighting the good fight. To see him shaken this way was anything but normal. Bolan tried to snap him out of it by getting right to the point. “What’s this all about?”

Brognola took a deep breath and raised his head, staring into Bolan’s ice-blue eyes with his own rheumy ones. “In the course of my work in D.C., I’ve gotten to know people throughout the city. One family in particular—the Kirkalls.”

Bolan’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “The manufacturing Kirkalls? That’s quite a connection to keep out of sight, particularly on the Hill.” The soldier kept up on the movers and shakers in D.C., and also recognized the surname as a former director of the CIA about ten years ago. “I assume Morgan is part of the family, as well?”

“Of course. Despite our proximity to projects on both sides of the political fence, our families have always been friendly. Morgan’s granddaughter, Rachel...” As soon as he said her name, Brognola gritted his teeth, forcing his next words out. “Those heartless bastards.”

“What happened?”

“It’s a short story. After the spring term, Morgan’s son, Robert, took his family on an around-the-world cruise, a reward for everyone for their accomplishments during the semester. Apparently they had just left the Philippines when their boat was attacked by pirates. According to Robert, they were after the yacht, which will fetch several hundred thousand on the black market. But during the hijacking, Rachel’s boyfriend was shot and died of blood loss soon after. Their bodyguards were subdued, and Rachel was raped by one of the pirates. More than once, that’s all anyone will tell me. Afterward, they put everyone, family and the crew, into one of the speedboats and set them adrift after disabling the engine. They were out there for a day before a Japanese freighter found them and brought them to Singapore. As soon as he found out, Morgan sent his private jet to bring them all home.

“When I found out, I went to the hospital right away. But when I first saw Rachel in that hospital bed, I realized there was nothing I could do. I’ve known Robert for most of his life, but I’d never seen him cry out of sheer helplessness until I saw him that morning.” He rubbed his stubbled chin. “I got as much information out of him as I could, under the circumstances. Assuming that the pirates haven’t ditched the boat already, they’ve probably already modified it, replaced the transmitter and are hiding somewhere in the thousands of square miles of ocean in that area, perhaps in one of the hundreds of islands throughout the region.”

He stared at the wall across the garden, as if seeing a place somewhere beyond the garden, beyond the city. “Rachel once was an intern on the Hill. She’s so different from the girl I knew even a month ago. I know she’ll recover from this—she’s strong, like the rest of her family. But she’ll never be the same again. As I was leaving, I saw Morgan—he asked...no, he begged me to do what I could to find those responsible for this. He can’t possibly be involved in any way. If it were found out, the repercussions would destroy his reputation and damage the family’s. I told him that I would do what I could, and then set up the meeting here, with you.

“I could use my Agency contacts. I know a few people who could get the job done. But I don’t want to drag them into this. Last I knew, they were stretched pretty thinly across the region, and sending one off on a personal vendetta, even for me, seems pretty high-handed.”

“But you wouldn’t hesitate to request a favor from a friend in a position to do so, would you?” Bolan said without a hint of rancor. He knew what it was like to lose people, to see them hurt in the line of duty. To see them dead for just trying to do the right thing. A terrible crime had been inflicted on this young woman, which would no doubt haunt her for the rest of her life.

Brognola turned back to him. “We go back a long way, Striker. I know I have no right to ask this of you—and I certainly don’t want you going to any special lengths on my account, or for some former CIA director—but if you have a mission that comes up in that area in the near future, I’d appreciate it if you or one of the others would keep an eye out for the ship or any of the men. Robert’s taking his own steps to find them—

he wouldn’t say how, despite my best efforts to find out—so anyone you send may find some competition there.” He held out a flash drive. “Here’s everything I could get—facial sketches of the pirates, the specifications on the yacht, all of it. I hope it can help in some small way.”

Bolan took the small drive and pocketed it. “I can’t promise Morgan or you anything, Hal, but I’ll see what I can do for you, even if that means just locating these people so you can pass the intel on to Robert.”

“Thanks, Striker.”

A cloud had blocked the sun, casting shadows over the garden, stealing the warmth away from the area. “Are you fixed for getting back to Washington?”

“Yeah, my car’s in the lot.” A wry smile quirked the big Fed’s lips. “Don’t worry. I’m a bit somber these days, but I still remember to know not to leave the area together.”

Bolan smiled as they left the garden, heading back into the Late Gothic Hall, where he shook Brognola’s hand before heading back to his SUV. He pulled out of the parking lot, merging with the freeway traffic back into the city. After five minutes of travel, Bolan plugged the USB drive into an adapter on his cell and hit the hands-free function, speed-dialing a number that would connect him to the Farm.

“Speak to me.”

“This is Striker.”

“How’s Hal?”

“All right.” Bolan filled Tokaido in on the general parameters of the task, leaving names out of it. “I’ll square it with Aaron. You’re my man till we see this through. I’m sending you files on the ship and the perpetrators. Start isolating general traffic in the area, satellite passes, law enforcement bulletins, whatever you can find.” “Aaron” was Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman, head of the Farm’s cyberteam.

“Okay. You do realize that this’ll be like searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack?”

“More like one ship out of a few thousand, but I’m sure you’re the guy to do it. Any word from Calvin on our subject?”

“He’s in the middle of the session now, using that new scopolamine derivative he stumbled across. Probably have a report ready for you by the time you get back.”

“And how’s your infiltration coming?”

Bolan heard a deep breath on the other end of the line. “As far as I know, we’re in. I just got the code of the account to wire the other half of the money. The event starts in four days.”

“Good work, Akira. Ask Aaron to contact Charlie and have him prep the jet. I want to be wheels-up as soon as I hit the airport.”

“You got it.”

“Striker out.”

With the balls in motion, Bolan disconnected, his mind turned to the logistics of such a personal mission, and how to execute it against the framework of a larger one.