Читать книгу Desperate Cargo - Don Pendleton - Страница 8

From the window of his hotel room Mack Bolan could see the distant configuration of Rotterdam Port, the night sky ablaze with lights. He saw a vast sprawl of warehouse units, cranes and endless rows of steel cargo containers. He was seeing the vista through the sheeting rain covering the city, blown in from the cold swells of the North Sea. Across the stretch of water was England, the secondary target of Bolan’s mission.

The Executioner’s presence in Rotterdam was down to intel he received during a briefing with Hal Brognola back in Washington. That clandestine meeting between the man from Justice and Bolan had kick-started the Executioner’s journey to Europe. After touching down at Schiphol Airport, Bolan had ridden a local train to Rotterdam and his prebooked room. The weather had been rough for most of the flight and stayed the course while Bolan had transferred to his hotel. It was midevening, the sky already dark. Bolan had a rendezvous with a contact the next day, so he figured he would have an early meal and turn in. The turbulent weather during the flight had denied him sleep, so a solid night’s rest was advisable.

Bolan turned from the window when he heard a tap on his door. He crossed the room and opened up. A trolley was wheeled inside carrying the meal he had ordered. Bolan handed the service girl a tip, then closed and locked the door after she left. Bolan was on alert. He wasn’t the paranoid type who saw threats lurking in every corner. Even so, past experience had taught him never to leave anything to chance.

He took off the covers and checked the meal. It was exactly what he had ordered. A steak, potatoes, salad. He pulled up a chair and settled down to eat. The food was good. Only when he was done did he activate his tri-band cell phone and tap the speed-dial number that would connect him with Hal Brognola. The connection hummed and buzzed, then the big Fed’s voice reached Bolan.

“So how is Rotterdam?”

“Cold. It’s raining like it’s in for the duration. I’m fine. You have any updates for me?”

“No. Status hasn’t changed much since we talked and you flew out. The operation is stalled. The heads are talking. Trying to come up with a fresh way of moving on, but as of now it’s a no-go. Those two agents getting killed has hit hard. You know why. Suspicions there was a mole inside the task force appear to have been proved. Turner and Bentley were betrayed and the fact we have someone operating inside the group and capable of passing along information makes everyone suspicious of the man next to him. No one is going to commit to anything.”

“Let’s hope my meeting in the morning throws up something useful,” the Executioner said.

Brognola hesitated before he replied.

“Tread carefully with this man Bickell. Hasn’t been proved he was the one who turned Turner and Bentley over to the opposition but he was the only man who had access to them. The more I think about it, the less I’m in favor of you using him.”

“Right now we don’t have anything else. I’m not about to go into this meet blind.”

“Striker, these people are bad. You saw what they did to our two mans. They work a business that treats human beings like so much merchandise. Don’t believe they won’t do the same to you given the chance.”

“Understood, pal, now quit worrying and give me some good news.”

“Your Brit buddy,” Brognola said, referring to David McCarter, the Phoenix Force commander, “has a contact for you in London. He can set you up with specialist equipment. I’m sending a photo over your phone for identification. And I’ll text a name and phone number to set up your meet. This man is supposed to be good. He’ll sort out anything you want. Anything else you need right now?”

“Just a good night’s sleep,” Bolan said. “I’ll be in touch.”

Bolan checked the information Brognola had sent to him. A half hour later he turned in, clicking off the light. He lay staring at the rain-flecked window, his mind still active as he reviewed the past couple of days and the events that had brought him to Rotterdam and his upcoming meeting with a man who might turn out to be a Judas.

Two Days Earlier, Washington

DRESSED IN CASUAL clothing he might have been just another tourist taking in the sights of the nation’s capital.

But Mack Bolan was a world away from being just that. As he strolled around in the pale sunlight, observing the scene around him, Hal Brognola fell into step beside him.

“Looking good as ever,” Brognola said lightly. “Your lifestyle must suit you.”

“You didn’t call me just to boost my confidence, Hal.”

“Would you believe I need your help on a problem?”

“Go ahead.”

“A joint US-UK-European task force has been compromised by the deaths of two of its undercover agents. Dean Turner and Ron Bentley. They had gotten close to the group the task force was investigating. Human trafficking on a big scale. Working out of Europe and serving the needs of clients in Europe and the U.S. Striker, this is as nasty as it gets. These people are running a virtual slave trade. Men, women and even kids.” Brognola pointed at the slim briefcase he was carrying. “I have the whole dossier in here. Details the perps. Their locations. Right now the operation has stalled because there’s some concern how deep infiltration might have gone. The whole thing is on hold. And while that happens the suspects are still operating. Evidence against them is all suspicion but no substance. Nowhere near enough to even haul anyone in. It’s a big organization. Run by an influential head honcho with top-class protection. Hugo Canfield. British citizen. He has a hotshot lawyer with an impeccable record standing behind him. Dutch man called Ludwig van Ryden. And he uses that man every time one of his clients even gets a parking ticket.”

“What do you need, Hal?”

“Someone without ties to any part of the task force. A clean slate. No allegiances. Nothing that connects.” The big Fed paused. “And someone who can leave the book of rules at home.”

Brognola opened his case and extracted a thick folder. He handed it to Bolan. “We can see the end result of this business, Striker. What those bastards do to people. I want to reach the head and cut it off. The task force has its hands tied right now and I’m damn tired of the restrictions holding us back. If I had my way I’d go in all guns blazing but I’d have to fight bureaucracy first and last. I need a lever. Something I can use to force the game into the open.”

“Where would I start?”

“Our dead agents had an informant. Part of the organization but he convinced our mans he wanted to quit and was willing to cooperate. Name of Wilhelm Bickell. Based in Rotterdam, where the traffickers are said to have what Bickell called a distribution point. We don’t know if that’s true because our mans were killed before they got that information to us. All we have is a cell phone contact number for him.”

“It’s thin,” Bolan said. “But I’ve started with less.” He weighed the folder in his hand. “I’ll need credentials. Anything else you can conjure up.”

Brognola nodded. “No problem.” He tapped the folder. “The phrase read it and weep applies pretty well here, Striker.”

THE EXECUTIONER SPENT most of the day going through the contents of the explicit data. It covered suspects, the trafficking group known as Venturer Exports and its head, Hugo Canfield. Its grip on human trafficking was widespread and from the text of the reports Bolan became aware of the callous indifference of the people running the enterprise. The hub for Venturer Exports was mainland Europe and the U.K. Its market was worldwide and even Mack Bolan, well versed in the evil manifested through man’s indifference to human suffering, was forced to sit back and take a moment’s respite. It appeared that the practice of slavery was still thriving. From his reading it seemed that the majority of victims involved came from those ravaged parts of the world where recent conflicts had created rich hunting grounds for the traffickers. They scavenged through Asian and Eastern European countries, snatching people off the streets, collecting them from holding camps. The countless numbers of displaced people were seldom missed. Officials were paid off, heads turned and no questions asked. The victims were bundled into containers and taken by road, across borders where money replaced transit visas, and the human cargo was waved through without an inspection. The final destination of the converging containers appeared to be Rotterdam, and from there the merchandise was sent to whichever market placed its order.

The slaves provided cheap labor for sweatshops, for service industries, where the employers held the workers illegally. They were in foreign countries without proper papers, earning little money and constantly under the threat of violence if they made any kind of protest. Young women, chosen for their good looks, were channeled into the many-tentacled sex industry, from making adult movies to working the streets. And there was the ever-present shadow of the drug business in the background. The data Brognola had provided included photographs that emphasized the ever-present dangers encroaching on the lives of the traffickers’ victims. The sick, the dying and the dead. Drug affliction. The punishment meted out to a victim who had rebelled. Or those who simply succumbed to the pitiful life forced on them.

Read it and weep.

Brognola’s words had not been far from the truth. Venturer Exports and the men profiting from it had to be stopped. The Executioner was onboard.