Dragon Key

by Don Pendleton

“Just as you instructed, Master,” the Mantis said.

  The other man’s smile widened. He set his chopsticks down and reached over for the newspaper wrapping. After brushing away the bowls and cups in front of him, he set the package on the table and pulled at the knotted string. Master Chen frowned, then looked over at the Mantis.

  “A gift should not be like a puzzle box,” he said.

  “Forgive me,” the Mantis replied. In one smooth gesture he swept the balisong knife from his pocket and opened it. The Mantis rose to his knees and slid the sharpened edge of the blade under the string, cutting the knot with a quick flick of his wrist. He receded back to his sitting position and swung the balisong closed.

  Master Chen acknowledged the act with a slight bow. Then he unwound the string and carefully opened the folded paper. Inside was a clear plastic bag that contained three severed fingers: index, middle and ring. The master smiled and looked at the Mantis. “A traitor’s final gesture of fidelity to the Triad.” The smile faded as he leaned forward. “Tell me, did you make him suffer before he died?”

  The Mantis nodded, not mentioning that following those instructions had almost caused him to get caught by the British agents. Luckily, he had not allowed his former friendship with Chong or the unpleasantness of the task to distract him from his eternal vigilance.

  The master took another look at the fingers, then rewrapped them in the newspaper and pushed the package aside. He reached for his chopsticks again.

  “There is another pressing matter,” he said as he snared some more pork. “It involves the recovery of the general’s dragon key.”

  The Mantis nodded. “You wish me to obtain it from Han Son Chu?”

  Chen chewed thoughtfully, then nodded. He held up his chopsticks. “But it is a most delicate matter. Perhaps Son Yin may be of assistance.”

  At the mention of his sister’s name, the Mantis felt his throat tighten. But still, Chen owned both of them, as surely as he owned a treasure trove of riches and all the other men and women who worked under him.

  He was the master.

  The Mantis bowed his head. “She is well?”

  Chen’s beatific smile returned. “She is, and so shall she remain.” He snapped his fingers and the sliding door on the other side of the room pushed open.

  Lee Son Yin, the sister of the Mantis, entered wearing a long silk gown.

  * * *

  EXPERIENCE HAD TAUGHT Bolan to travel light. One ditty bag containing a change of clothes and a few toiletries was all he had with him as he stepped off the plane. Whatever else he needed in the way of weaponry would have to wait until it was channeled through diplomatic means to the American Embassy. Bolan also had little trouble spotting the agent who was supposed to meet him in the massive Beijing airport. The woman stood by a section of stainless steel pillars that stretched upward into an archway. She looked Chinese, but something about her said Made in the USA. Perhaps it was that air of confidence in her walk as she rolled her suitcase through the huge lobby.

  “You must be Matt Cooper, right?” she said.

  Bolan nodded, trying to place her American accent, if any. California was his best guess. She was about five-six, wore large glasses and had her hair in a long braid. Her blouse and pants seemed to conceal an athletic frame.

  “I’m Kelly Yang,” she said. “It’ll be less conspicuous if we don’t walk together, so keep going, okay?”

  “Sounds good.” Bolan kept walking toward the exit.

  Yang waited and then turned in front of him and began heading for the main exit, as well.

  Bolan humored her by staying a few feet behind her.

  As they got to the doors, the young woman turned left and began heading toward a long line of taxis. Bolan followed her as they walked past cab after cab, the drivers whistling and yelling to attract fares.

  They neared the end and Yang turned and winked. “Hey, big guy, want to share a ride?”

  A blue van pulled up with Chinese characters on the side. China Gates and Number One Tourist Service were stenciled in English along the top. Two Asian men sat in the front seats. The driver seemed to be around forty with a cigarette dangling from his lips. The passenger was younger and had a clean-cut look about him. He hopped out and slid open the side door of the van, taking Yang’s suitcase, and then turning to Bolan.

  “Taxi, mister? We offer the best service in Beijing.”

  Bolan held out his bag and let the young guy take it. The kid appeared to be in his early twenties, about the same as Agent Yang. Brognola hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d said the Agency’s team was a little green. Bolan got inside and the agent slammed the door behind him. As soon as he got back in, the van took off, shooting by several taxis and limos with a loud blare of its horn.

  “Easy, Herbie,” the young guy said. “We definitely don’t want to get stopped by the cops.”

  “No problem,” Herbie said, hitting himself on the chest with his right hand. “Number one driver.”

  The young guy turned and extended his hand toward Bolan. “I’m Peter Huang, Mr. Cooper. We got word via the embassy to expect you.”

  “Yeah, a few hours ago,” Yang said.

  “Sorry,” Bolan replied. “China Air was running a bit behind today.”

  “When doesn’t it?” Yang said. She took off the glasses. “These are just for show. Meet Herbie Zheng, our number one driver and asset in Beijing.”

  Herbie twisted in the seat and flashed a smile, the cigarette still dangling from his mouth.

  “We also got word that we’re to defer to you regarding the op,” Huang said, still twisted around in the seat to face Bolan. “What are your orders, sir?”

  “First,” Bolan said, “you can quit calling me sir. Are both of you fluent in Mandarin?”

  “We are,” Huang said.

  “I speak Cantonese, too,” Yang added. “And Korean and Vietnamese.”

  “That could come in handy,” Bolan replied. “What’s the situation with Tressman?”

  Huang grimaced. “Wayne’s still in Song Jing. We’re under orders not to try to see him, and we have it on good authority that he’s still alive.” He looked down. “They were working him over pretty good, and then stopped.”

  “Where did you get that information?” Bolan asked.

  Huang gestured toward the driver. “Herbie has a contact in the prison. He’s been feeding us bits of info.”

  “Number one info,” Herbie said. “Me number one agent.” He grinned and puffed on the cigarette. “Worth lotsa money.”

  “Any word as to why they supposedly backed off on the beatings?” Bolan asked.

  “Who knows?” Huang shot back. “This is China. You think they’re gonna follow our rules?”

  “I hate to think of Wayne being beaten,” Yang said. Her voice sounded brittle.

  The tension was obviously getting to both of these greenhorns.

  “Let’s stay on point.” Bolan had his work cut out for him with this group. Sending a couple of inexperienced kids on a mission like this showed questionable judgment from the get-go. But for now he had to play the hand he’d been dealt. “How many hours has he been in custody?”

  Huang looked at the roof of the van and blew out a short breath. “Fourteen.”

  “They haven’t even notified the American Embassy of his arrest,” Yang said.

  “Like I told you,” Huang said, “this is China.”

  “All right,” Bolan said. “Let’s assume he’s given up at least some of the information on your mission. What could he have told them?”

  Huang sighed and rubbed his temples. “We were sent here to evacuate an asset and his family. A dissident lawyer named Han Son Chu.”

  “Sammo Han,” Herbie said. He looked in the rearview mirror and grinned. “Everybody like him
. He’s famous.”

  “So I heard,” Bolan said. “When and how did Tressman get arrested?”

  “Wayne and I were in Han’s house,” Huang said. “Yang was out in front watching. We were going over our evac plan when all of a sudden this police van shows up. Wayne sent me out the back way. He stayed. We thought they were there to intimidate Han. I’d just made it out when I heard the police yelling inside.” He looked down. “I shouldn’t have left him alone.”

  “Then you’d both be in prison now,” Bolan said. “And we’d have two people to break out instead of one.”

  “They took Wayne away in the van and left a couple guards by the house.” Huang compressed his lips. He almost looked ready to cry. “Han and his family are under house detention, being investigated for disruptive activities.”

  “Are you still in contact with them?” Bolan asked.

  Huang nodded.

  “How do you do that?”

  “They let Mrs. Han go out to the market,” Yang said. “That’s how we’ve been communicating.”

  Bolan considered this. “How many people were you taking in the evac?”

  “Han, his wife and their granddaughter,” Huang said. “The girl’s mother and father were killed, and they’re raising her.”

  “What was the plan?”

  “We were supposed to get the three of them on a train to the coast,” Huang said. “Had the tickets lined up and everything. Once there, we had a boat ready to take them to rendezvous with a navy ship in international waters.”

  “How old’s the granddaughter?” Bolan asked.

  “She’s twelve,” Yang said.

  “What’s the prison like?”

  “Song Jing number ten,” Herbie said. “Very big place. Many, many guards.”

  “How hard is it to get inside?” Bolan asked.

  “No sweat,” Herbie said. “My friend work in Song Jing. You pay money, I get you in.”

  “Getting in is not what I’m worried about,” Bolan said. “It’s getting out.”

  Herbie grinned again. “That take lots more money.”

  Bolan wasn’t sure he could trust this guy, but at the moment he was stuck with him. He was stuck with all of them: two green agency kids—both fluent in Mandarin but short on experience—an incarcerated senior agent and a questionable Chinese collaborator. He couldn’t wait until Grimaldi got there, but he could imagine Jack’s reaction to all this.

  “What kinds of weapons do you have?” Bolan asked.

  Huang pulled back his jacket, exposing a Walther PPK .380.

  “I’ve got one, too,” Yang said.

  “That’s good.” Bolan glanced at his watch. It was sixteen-twenty-five. They had a few more hours until Grimaldi’s flight was scheduled to land. “Let’s go check out the prison. I want to see what we’re dealing with.”

  Huang and Yang exchanged glances. Bolan sensed they were holding something back. He stared at Huang. “What else do you want to tell me?”

  Huang glanced at the young woman again, licked his lips, then said, “When Wayne and I were talking to Han, he refused to go with us. He insisted he has to stay in China until he gets some issues resolved. Han just wants us to take his family.”

  “He’s not worried about his impending arrest?”

  “I guess not.” Huang shrugged. “He said he had some kind of insurance policy.”

  Chapter Four

  General Wong felt a trickle of sweat on his forehead and immediately wiped it off. Being summoned to Zhongnanhai, which housed the Politburo Standing Committee, the men who ruled China, meant that news of the American spy’s capture and possibly the incident in Hong Kong had reached them. The massive walled compound made Wong nervous each time he entered. He knew it was a place where men, both soldiers and civilians, faced the ultimate tribunal. One word from the members of the Committee and he could be whisked away forever, without a trace. And depending on how much the Committee knew, it was possible that would be his fate today.

  Wong was escorted down a long hallway by two armed guards, both of whom kept their faces expressionless. He longed to ask if they had any inkling of why he’d been summoned, but he knew better. Instead Wong thought about the captured spy and the stolen guidance system for the DF-21D anti-ship ballistic missiles—one of the closest-guarded secrets in China. If the Committee ever discovered that he’d agreed to sell even that early prototype version, they would place his head on a stake in the middle of Tiananmen Square. His act would be viewed as high treason. And to make matters worse, the prototype was now purportedly in the hands of the West.

  So now Wong had to wonder how much this captured American was worth. Perhaps he could arrange a trade, the American for the prototype. But this would have to be done carefully to avoid discovery. Perhaps Chen could engineer it.

  They came to a set of doors, and one of the guards pulled them open and stood at attention. The other entered and announced, “Esteemed ministers of the Standing Committee, General Wong Su Tong of the People’s Liberation Army now stands before you, as ordered.” The guard stepped aside and saluted as Wong marched forward.

  The room itself was large enough to hold hundreds of standing spectators, but it was devoid of anyone except the seven men who sat behind the high, elongated bench. They were all smoking cigarettes and blowing the smoke upward toward the ridiculously high ceiling. Each of these men had his own secret agenda, which involved living in opulence while professing allegiance to the austere principles of the Party line. He knew they were secretly skimming money and padding their own clandestine bank accounts just as he, and virtually every other powerful government official, was doing. But he also knew that such corruption could exist only so long as it was not overtly displayed.

  Or discovered.

  Wong stepped up to the lectern in front of the bench and saluted. He removed his hat and placed it under his left arm, pressing it against his side. He hoped the perspiration hadn’t yet begun to seep through the outer layers of his green uniform shirt.

  “Members of the Standing Committee,” Wong said with a bow of respect. “I stand before you as your humble and obedient servant.”

  Zhu Song Lin, a small man with wire-rim glasses, spoke first. “General, it has come to our attention that you have arrested an American and are holding him in Song Jing Prison. Is this true?”

  “It is, Minister Zhu.”

  “Is this American suspected of being a spy?”

  Wong had to tread carefully here. He didn’t know how much they already knew. If they caught him in a lie, his fate would be sealed.

  “That matter is under investigation,” Wong said, keeping his voice confident.

  “And why was the Committee not immediately notified of this event?” Zhu asked.

  Wong took a quick breath. “I was waiting to find out the entire story so I could present that to the Committee instead of unsubstantiated innuendos.”

  Silence, then Zhu whispered to Deng Ho Chin, the man sitting next to him. Deng was the senior member of the Committee and the one Wong knew he had to fear the most. Deng had lived through the Cultural Revolution in a “reeducation camp” in a remote province and had slowly risen back to power once Mao had died. Wong regarded him as the head of the serpent.

  “So we do not know, as yet, the purpose of this American’s presence?” Deng asked.

  Again, Wong had to answer carefully. If he divulged too much, especially about the missing guidance system—which he believed the Committee didn’t know about—he would open the door to his own arrest and interrogation. “He was speaking with a known dissident, but we have not yet determined the true nature of his presence here.”

  “And what are the Americans saying about this?”

  “They have not been contacted as of yet,” Wong said. “Nor have they inquired
about the matter, to my knowledge.”

  “Your knowledge, it seems, is very limited,” Deng said. He brought his cigarette to his lips. Wong held the man’s stare as the ash glowed red. “Who is this dissident?”

  “Han Son Chu,” Wong said. “He is a lawyer representing a group of farmers in the Chung Ja Province in a land dispute. He is also well known to the—”

  “We know who he is,” Deng said. “And his popularity with the Western press. There is a movement underfoot by one of their celebrities to meet with Han, is there not?”

  Wong nodded. “Yes, Minister.”

  Deng frowned. “And why is this Han not incarcerated? We do not need troublemakers running in the streets when the eyes of the world are upon us.”

  “He was placed under house detention,” Wong said. “Pending the conclusion of the Games. It was thought more prudent to wait until they were completed and the Western news media had gone, to formally arrest and charge him.”

  “What is the basis of his grumbling?” another committee member asked. “Farmers and a land dispute?”

  Wong’s armpits felt sodden. His brother-in-law had bribed countless local officials to obtain the land necessary for his latest construction project. To reveal his own familial connection to the dispute could spell disaster. Wong would have to hope this connection had not come to the Standing Committee’s attention.

  “A local matter,” Wong said. “Not worthy of notice by you and your esteemed colleagues.”

  Deng took another long drag on his cigarette and blew a plume of smoke from the corner of his mouth.

  “Have the American brought here,” he said. “Bring Han, as well. It is time to delve into this matter with more efficiency.”

  Wong felt a twinge in his bowels. Who knew what or how much Han had told the American? If he’d mentioned the dragon key and Wong’s involvement with the Triad... If both of them were brought to Zhongnanhai Hall, they would be broken shortly thereafter. The interrogators here were the most ruthless in the world. Everything would be brought to light.

  And a bright, harsh light will fall upon me, Wong thought. With the dragon key still not in his possession, fleeing to another country was not feasible. He would never survive, even if Chen agreed to hide him. Wong needed to stall for time until he found that damn dragon key. But how?