Thunder Down Under

by Don Pendleton

  “Nope...sorry. Most of the founding members are still involved and any recent departees have either retired or died—of natural causes, mind you.”

  “Right. This whole op is sounding fishier and fishier,” Price mused. “Maybe Striker will be able to learn more when he gets to Wallcorloo headquarters.”

  “Yeah...about that,” Tokaido piped up. “Hal will probably need to smooth things over with Aussie law enforcement regarding Striker’s use of a firearm in a foreign country. As the weapon was WN property, and there are witnesses that will back up his story—since, you know, he probably saved their lives—it shouldn’t be that big of an issue, but we should probably be ready in case this gets back to that guy Payne and he has a fit about it—”

  While Tokaido was talking, Price’s phone rang. It was an unfamiliar number, but with a DC area code. “Hold on a minute, I have to take this.”

  She walked out of the room then answered the call. “Barbara Price.”

  “Ms. Price, what the hell is going on in Melbourne?” Christian Payne’s sharp tone shrilled in her ear. “Didn’t I specifically stress the idea of being discreet on the ground?”

  “Yes, Mr. Payne, however—”

  He cut her off. “Discreet is not getting into a gunfight on a crowded freeway!”

  “Mr. Payne, our operative is authorized to use force to protect himself if attacked, which the report and accompanying footage we received definitely qualify as.”

  “Wait—someone came after him within the hour he arrived in the country? Why? Who would do that? And, more important, how did they know he was coming?”

  “That is exactly what we are trying to figure out right now, Mr. Payne,” Price replied. “So, if you’ll excuse me, this is a high-priority item for us—”

  Again he interrupted her. “Agreed, but I think we need to get together and review the game plan again, especially given this screw—wrinkle. Why don’t you join me for lunch this afternoon at 1:00 p.m.?”

  His sudden change in tack almost caught her off guard. “Thank you for the offer, but that’s not how we do things around here—”

  “Even though I was blindfolded for my helicopter trip to your site, I know you’re not all that far from the capital. And seeing as how I’m representing the President in this matter, you can hardly refuse to meet me when I need to discuss it. I’ll have a car waiting at the South Capitol Street heliport. I know a great steakhouse near Capitol Hill. We can relax a bit and discuss this operation in a more pleasant setting, try to get the operation back on track.”

  It hasn’t quite gone off track yet—just gotten more complicated, she thought. With a sinking feeling, Price realized she didn’t have a choice. “That will be fine. I’ll see you this afternoon.”

  She hung up on his goodbye and looked down at her Crimson Tide T-shirt and loose jogging pants. If that bloodsucker thought she’d getting dressed up for him, he was dead wrong. Plain black pants and a dark top would do.

  Her phone vibrated again, this time with another message from Kurtzman: Striker’s on the line.

  She accepted the call. “Hello, Striker.”

  “Hello.”

  As always, his voice sent a little thrill through her. Price had long ago accepted the fact that Mack Bolan’s first priority would be his missions. But that didn’t mean she didn’t think fondly of him and the time they shared, or that she didn’t worry about him when he was in the field—beyond the concern of a mission controller, that was.

  Regardless, she kept her tone light considering the circumstances. “I understand you received a very warm welcome on your arrival.”

  “You could say that,” he replied. “Someone here wanted to send a pretty strong message.”

  “We’re looking into that now,” Price said. “I assume you’ve already thought about the possibility of someone on the inside at WN passing information?”

  “Naturally. It’s the only way they could have known I was coming. I know Bear’s already looking into WN personnel for possible connections. I had him add Brent Dever, our driver, to the list, just in case.”

  Price’s stomach clenched. The idea of someone sacrificing one of their own people to take out a target was abhorrent to her. She refocused on the task at hand. “What about your attackers? Were there any distinguishing features about them?”

  “Besides the fact that they were well-armed in a country where most firearms are illegal?” he replied. “Also, they weren’t just armed, they were armored, as well.” He described his shots on target and how they had shrugged them off. “At least Level II, maybe even III vests, plus antiballistic helmets.”

  “So, arms and armor,” Price said. “If this is the AFN, they’ve definitely stepped up their game.”

  “Right, but according to everything we know, they’re not into this kind of violence,” Bolan said.

  “We’re running down possible leads on that, as well as trying to see if anyone inside WN has connections to AFN or any other resistance groups. If there’s a link, we’ll find it.”

  “I have no doubt of that,” Bolan returned. “Let me know if you come up with anything, of course. Otherwise, I should probably prepare for my dinner with Mr. Martin tonight.”

  “Are you sure you should still go?” Price asked. “He might find it suspicious that you’re able to shrug off what would normally be a shocking attack to the average civilian so quickly.”

  “If I know this Martin, he’ll love that I was able to grab a gun and fight back—people like him are always impressed by that sort of thing, with absolutely no concept of what it really means,” Bolan said. “Just stick around and watch tonight—you’ll see.”

  “Don’t worry, Striker,” Price replied. “After today, we’ll be keeping a much tighter watch over you.”

  “I expect nothing less,” he said. “It’s going to be an interesting evening, that’s for sure.”

  “Indeed. We’ll be in touch if we find anything of import. Meanwhile—you be careful, all right?”

  “Always,” Bolan replied before breaking the connection.

  With a sigh, Price was about to head back into the Computer Room to finish her meeting with Tokaido and Kurtzman when approaching footsteps made her look back down the hall.

  Hal Brognola was practically stomping toward her, his dark glower indicating that the DC meeting had not gone well. And if he was angry over that, this latest incident would not improve his mood at all. But he had to be updated on Striker’s current situation, and that was the task of the mission controller.

  Taking a deep breath, she strode toward him. “Morning, Hal...”

  Chapter Seven

  At 8:00 p.m., Bolan stepped out of the Cadillac SUV that WN had sent for him. The vehicle had been manned by two large men with conspicuous bulges under their sport coats, and Bolan had detected a chase car discreetly following them, as well. Neither man had been up for any kind of protracted conversation, which was okay by him, so Bolan had looked through the tinted, bulletproof windows at the city of Melbourne as they’d driven to WN headquarters, located in the prime business area of Southbank on the Yarra River.

  Although Sydney often garnered much of the world’s attention, Melbourne was larger in most respects, particularly land area, population and financial transactions. But what many people were unaware of was the city’s long, vibrant and thriving arts history. It had been named UNESCO’s second City of Literature in 2008, had a thriving theater district and writers population, and put on many art fairs and celebrations throughout the year.

  Bolan, however, would have no opportunity to take advantage of that on this trip. WN’s headquarters was located on the southern edge of the City Centre, or City Business District, otherwise known as the CBD. It looked like any other modern metropolis with brightly lit skyscrapers rising into the sky while thinning crowds of people milled about the streets, some headi
ng out of the city to their homes in the suburbs, others heading to the many shops and restaurants open for business.

  Wallcorloo National’s HQ was a typical variation on the classic glass-and-steel skyscraper that was so ubiquitous around the world. Rising sixty-five stories into the air, it was definitely the tallest building in its neighborhood, possibly the tallest in the city. Again, Bolan wasn’t surprised. He knew Martin would want to have the biggest, tallest and very best of anything, and the headquarters of his business empire would be no exception.

  The bodyguards got out and established a perimeter as Bolan exited and walked to the entrance. Once again, he felt a bit underdressed, having not brought his pistol, which he had picked up at the consulate along with a holster and left in his hotel room. Although the attack on the freeway that afternoon had certainly raised his awareness of the serious circumstances he seemed to have landed in, carrying a concealed pistol to this kind of meeting risked jeopardizing his cover identity, a risk Bolan wasn’t willing to take. Besides, he thought, it seemed like WN security was well-armed, so he could always borrow a weapon from one of them if he had to.

  The wind had picked up since that afternoon and he noticed a potential storm front moving in from the northwest. The sound of raised voices could be heard from across the road and he looked behind him to see a dozen men and women of various ages holding signs decrying Wallcorloo’s damage to the environment while chanting at the building and at local traffic.

  Cindra Tate met him at the door. She looked a bit pale but otherwise composed. “It’s good to see you again, Mr. Cooper—Matt.”

  “You, too, Cindra.” Bolan jerked his head at the door and the protestors beyond. “You folks seem to have quite a fan base.”

  Tate leaned over to peer behind him and shook her head. “Honestly, I barely notice them anymore. I just tune them out. They were a lot more aggressive until we got the restraining order. But they still show up every day, reminding us of how our evil actions are despoiling the earth.”

  “That seems rather rude,” Bolan said. “I hope you’ll excuse what might be construed as personal concern, Cindra, but are you sure you should be here? After all, it’s not every day that a person gets shot at on the freeway.”

  Her answering smile was tight. “One could say the same thing about you. I’m fine, however, thank you for your concern. Still have a few things to take care of before your trip tomorrow.”

  “Of course.” And no doubt Martin was probably demanding to know where she was, as well. “How’s Brent doing?”

  “He’s still in surgery and I’m waiting for an update on his status. If you’ll follow me, please.” She led him into the marble-walled-and-floored lobby, which had several cameras in the corners, along with a security desk manned by two people. He couldn’t help but note it was otherwise empty of the usual decorations of many successful companies: a fountain, art on the wall or other such accoutrements. Instead a huge picture of Angus Martin’s dour, glowering face took up nearly the entire wall at the far end of the lobby, staring directly at anyone who walked in.

  “Mr. Martin looks like a charming fellow,” Bolan commented after they’d checked in at the desk and were waiting for the elevator. He’d been assigned a temporary visitor’s badge and made sure to give it a good examination through his glasses before letting it drop to dangle from the lanyard the desk guard had given him.

  Tate glanced at the picture and her smile grew a bit more relaxed. “He believes in using any advantage, including psychological, in his business dealings. He thinks if people get a strong impression of him from the start, it puts him at an advantage during contract negotiations and the like.”

  “Does it work?” Bolan asked as the elevator doors opened and they stepped inside.

  “Wallcorloo National has gone from number twelve in its field to number two in the fourteen years Mr. Martin has been running the company, so something is working,” Tate replied. “Whether that’s solely due to Mr. Martin’s expertise, I couldn’t say.”

  The doors opened again moments later and immediately Bolan heard a loud voice.

  “I don’t care what happened, I want it fixed. I don’t pay you for bloody fucking excuses, I pay you for results!”

  Bolan looked out to see a lavishly appointed office that took up at least half the floor. Oriental rugs vied for dominance with both a tiger-and bear-skin rug, while the furniture was a mishmash of elegant chrome-and-leather pieces set next to Baroque gilded antiques. Built-in shelves contained dozens of books, many of which Bolan suspected Martin had never read, along with various business awards and photographs of him gripping and grinning with various people the soldier didn’t recognize, most likely local business people or politicians. He did see a few even larger tycoons, such as Richard Branson and Rupert Murdoch, in a couple of the photos.

  The entire wall opposite the elevator was filled with television screens. Several were following various stock market indexes around the world, while others were tuned to local and national events, including two covering the day’s incident on the freeway. The outer walls were floor-to-ceiling windows, affording a spectacular view of the surrounding city as well as the river and, farther south, the Indian Ocean.

  And in the middle of it all, behind a massive metal-and-glass desk, was Angus Martin, who seemed to be berating someone on the other end of his phone.

  “Damn—we weren’t supposed to wind up here, hang on.” Tate was about to push the door close button when Martin saw them. His eyebrows shot up for a moment, but then he waved them into the room.

  “Look, my dinner guest is here, I gotta go. Just fix it next time, all right? Otherwise, I’ll toss you out on your arse!”

  He slammed the phone down and strode out from behind the desk toward Bolan. “Matthew Cooper, the man of the hour, am I right?”

  Up close, Martin looked more haggard and strained than he had in the pictures and television interviews Bolan had studied on the way over. There was an extra twenty pounds on his already paunchy body, along with dark pouches under his eyes and an underlying grayish pallor to his ruddy complexion.

  “Thank you for bringing him up, Cindra.” Grabbing Bolan’s hand, he shook it effusively, squeezing hard. The Executioner relaxed his grip, letting Martin manhandle it to his delight. “Here I’m spending all this money on private security, when I should have just hired a few environmental engineers, right?”

  He brayed laughter, and Bolan chuckled with him for a moment, then sobered. “I’m just sorry I couldn’t have prevented your driver from getting hurt.”

  “Brent? Ah, he’ll pull through, I just know it. The man’s tough as they come. Besides, he’ll be getting the best of care. I’ll spare no expense on that, let me tell you. Did the police give you any trouble about the incident?”

  Bolan shook his head—Stony Man was already running behind-the-scenes interference, but no need to let his host know that. “Nothing I can’t handle. Believe it or not, this wasn’t the first time I’ve been shot at while on the job.”

  “Really? Bet you’ve got some incredible stories to tell.”

  Bolan shook his head. “Most are covered under ironclad confidentiality agreements, I’m afraid. Business secrets, as I’m sure you understand.”

  “Damn right I do.” Martin nodded, making a swath of his unkempt red hair flap around on his head. “I’m just glad to hear the cops aren’t getting in your business. Don’t get me wrong, as a contractor, we’d go to bat for you in a hot second, but better if we don’t have to, y’know? Damn police, cracking down on a man who’s just doing what he has to do to defend himself, right?” He backed up, spreading his arms wide to encompass the room. “Come in, come in—sit down, for God’s sake. Care for something to drink? A cigar perhaps? Loosen you up after that killer commute, am I right?”

  He laughed again at that, but Bolan thought it might have been a little more self-conscious this
time. It was kind of crass, especially considering that two potential victims were standing in the room right now and another was fighting for his life in surgery.

  Bolan, however, kept his thoughts to himself, instead saying, “You know, a drink would be nice. What would you recommend?”

  Martin had already walked over to a well-stocked bar. “Let’s see...you strike me as a single-malt man, am I right?”

  Bolan raised an eyebrow. He didn’t typically drink very much at all, but he said, “I am.”

  Nodding, Martin began looking through the bottles. “Ah, here you go, Sullivan’s Cove single malt. Named best in the world a few years ago by some supposed expert in London. But you won’t go wrong with this one.” He looked back at Bolan. “Let me guess, you take it neat, right?”

  Bolan nodded. “That’s impressive.”

  “Oh, I can read most people like a book. It’s one of my strengths, being able to read someone and know what they’re about or what they want.” Martin waved a hand around, nearly spilling the Scotch as he came back to his guest. “That’s what got me all this, after all.”

  Well, that and the three-million-dollar loan from his father to get him started, and the company that existed for thirty years until Martin took it over, Bolan thought as he accepted his drink. “You’ve built an impressive business here.”

  “Damn right I have, and I’m not about to let some ignorant backwater arseholes try to take it away, that’s for sure,” Martin replied. “But, hey, look around, take it all in. There’s not a better view in all of Melbourne.”

  Bolan took his host up on his offer and strolled around while sipping his Scotch. Martin may have been a coarse, overbearing ass, but he did know his whiskey. While he walked, his camera glasses busily recorded and transmitted everything he saw to his phone, which would then compress the file, encrypt it and burst-transmit it to Stony Man for analysis.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, why did you set up in Melbourne?” Bolan asked. “I would have thought Sydney would be more...I don’t know, at the center of the action.”