Dragon Key

by Don Pendleton

  “It shall be done, Minister Deng,” Wong said.

  * * *

  SONG JING PRISON was a twenty-minute drive away from the sprawl of the central part of the city. The identical high-rise apartment buildings seemed endless at first, but they finally gave way to stretches of older, more dilapidated houses. The prison itself sprang out of nowhere, an imposing, solid brick structure with massive concrete walls that were topped with concertina wire. There was barely any field space between the walls and the nearby residences. Guard posts adorned each corner and were also placed periodically along the top of the wall. Uniformed men with QBZ-95 rifles sat in each post. The tower at the front gate had a mounted machine gun on a turret.

  The only bright spot was the main road to the prison—where the clusters of buildings leading up to the front gate thinned a bit—but Bolan could see that between the gate and the first buildings was a long yard interspersed with walled sections. Two uniformed guards stood outside the barred gate smoking cigarettes, their rifles slung across their chests.

  “The place looks like a fortress,” he said as they drove past for the second time.

  Herbie glanced in the mirrors nervously. “Hey, boss, maybe we better get outta here. We no want police seeing us drive by many, many times.”

  “Good idea,” Bolan said. “You said you know somebody who works inside?”

  “My friend,” Herbie replied.

  “What kind of job does he do in there?”

  “He clean, sometimes cook.”

  A janitor who doubles as a cook, Bolan thought. Not exactly someone in authority, but on the other hand, someone invisible enough to have the run of the prison and overhear a lot of conversations.

  “Can he get a message to Tressman?” Bolan asked.

  Herbie shrugged. “He work now. I call later.”

  “He’s got a cell phone?”

  Herbie nodded and grinned. “He got number one cell phone. I got one, too.”

  “Then call him now,” Bolan said. “Find out what kind of shape Tressman’s in, exactly where in the prison he’s at and anything else of importance.”

  “Okay, boss.” Herbie took out his cell. “Right away.”

  “Monitor his conversation,” Bolan said in a low voice to Huang.

  Bolan glanced at his watch. Grimaldi’s plane was due to land in a little over an hour. He told Herbie to head to the airport. The driver steered the van toward an expressway while cradling the cell phone on his shoulder, talking rapidly the whole time. When he hung up, Herbie shook his head. “Something up.”

  “Something’s up about what?” Bolan asked. “Tressman?”

  Herbie shook his head. “Don’t know what, but he call me back. Maybe good news, maybe bad.”

  As soon as they were on an open stretch of road, Bolan took out his sat-phone and asked Herbie to pull over. Once the van stopped he got out and walked a few feet away to call Brognola. Huang got out of the van and walked in the opposite direction. Obviously it was time for him to check in, as well.

  Brognola answered on the third ring.

  “Any word on a diplomatic solution to our little problem?” Bolan asked.

  “Not much,” Brognola said. “The Chinese still haven’t officially acknowledged that they’ve got him. They’re stonewalling, waiting for us to make the first move.”

  “And?”

  “And the President doesn’t want to do that because it would be tantamount to admitting we had operatives working on the mainland during the big World Track and Field Games.”

  “Heaven forbid,” Bolan said. He disliked politicians, diplomats and the games they played, especially when the stakes were high. To them it was like playing a game of chess, or in this case, mah-jongg, except a man’s life hung in the balance. “Well, you might want to tell the President the place they’re holding Tressman makes Fort Knox look like a Boy Scout camp.”

  Brognola sighed. “I was afraid of that.”

  “Can you email me some sat photos? If we’re going to have to go in, I’ll need as much info as I can get.”

  “Roger that, will do.” Brognola cleared his throat. Bolan always took that to mean bad news was on the horizon. “I assume you tagged up with the newbies?”

  “I did.” Bolan glanced over at Huang, who was listening intently on his phone, his head bobbling up and down. “I’m with them now.”

  “Well, word is that Langley’s in the process of sending them orders to abandon any side trips and continue at full speed with their original assignment. They’re to let everything else get handled through diplomatic channels, and that includes Tressman.”

  “Diplomatic channels,” Bolan said. He glanced at Huang, who now appeared more animated. “I really hate that phrase.”

  “Yeah,” Brognola said. “Me, too, but what’re you gonna do?”

  “So they’re supposed to let their team member dangle in the wind?” Bolan knew the President had a window of about twenty-four hours in which to request Tressman’s release on the grounds of diplomatic immunity, but that was only after the Chinese acknowledged they had him. He wondered how long the poor guy could hold out without spilling everything. If his captors had indeed backed off on the beatings, as Herbie’s inside man had said, maybe it was a sign that Tressman was already broken. “That’s not the way I operate.”

  “I know.” Brognola sighed again. “Look, I don’t like it any more than you do. But that’s Langley’s decision, not ours. Did the newbies tell you what their assignment was?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Can you help them get back on track?”

  “I could,” Bolan said, “but first it would be nice to know what information’s been compromised by that troubling little diplomatic matter.”

  Brognola chuckled. “That’s what I figured you’d say. Look, I’m set to meet with the President this afternoon. I won’t pull any punches. As soon as he’s made a decision, I’ll get back to you, okay?”

  “Tell him not to take too long,” Bolan said. “It’s already tomorrow over here.”

  * * *

  AS SOON AS Wong was dismissed from the chamber, he jogged with careful deliberation to the nearby bathroom and vomited from both ends. He grabbed the stack of trimmed newspaper to clean himself, and pulled up his pants. Reaching into his pocket, Wong took out his cigarettes and lit one up as he flushed the mess away.

  He needed to think. He needed help. There was only one person who could assist him now: that old bastard Chen.

  Wong hated to become even more indebted to the Triad boss, but what choice did he have? He knew better than to call Chen while he was still inside Zhongnanhai. There were ears everywhere. He had no doubt one of the guards had been listening outside the bathroom door to the sounds of his purging.

  Let the treacherous bastard bring that report back to Deng and the rest of them, Wong thought. Let it spoil the sumptuous dinner that was no doubt waiting for them.

  As he stepped outside, he was surprised to see it was now dark. How long had he been in the hall? No matter. He walked briskly toward the gate that would let him out of this walled fortress. The driver and jeep that had delivered him here was still parked in the same spot by the curb. Wong strode to the vehicle and pulled open the door. The driver jerked to attention.

  “Take me to my residence,” Wong said. He needed to change clothes. And call Chen as soon as he could. Perhaps his sudden gastrointestinal attack was fortuitous after all. It gave him an excuse to delay dispatching the troops to pick up the American and Han.

  As they drove through the crowded streets of downtown Beijing, they were slowed by the sea of cars. Wong struck his fist against the metal door and swore.

  “Pull over there,” he said. “I want to make a call.”

  The driver, who knew better than to question the g
eneral, grunted an affirmative response and stopped at the curb. Wong pulled open the door and got out. The stench inside the car was making him sick. He lit up another cigarette as he took out his cell phone and dialed. Chen didn’t answer until the fifth ring.

  “How are you, Comrade General?”

  The bastard’s voice sounded as calm as a lily floating in a pond.

  “I have a new problem,” Wong said. He quickly explained the orders given by the Committee and his concern about the consequences.

  Chen remained silent for several seconds.

  “Are you there?” Wong asked.

  “I am.”

  “And did you not hear me? I don’t know what to do. Do you have any ideas?”

  “Most assuredly,” Chen said. His voice sounded soothing, and Wong was surprised at the calming feeling it bestowed. “Here is what I need you to do.”

  Chapter Five

  Bolan was waiting just outside the customs checkpoint. After Grimaldi had his passport stamped and cleared the booth, he strode forward and greeted Bolan with a hearty handshake.

  “Good to see you,” he said.

  “Likewise,” Bolan replied.

  As they headed for the exit, Bolan and Grimaldi talked about how excited they were to be covering the World Track and Field Games—just in case anyone was following them. They continued their innocuous conversation until they reached the van. Bolan chuckled as Grimaldi tossed his suitcase inside.

  “Is that any way to treat a Louis Vuitton Pegase 65?” Bolan asked.

  “That’s my 45,” Grimaldi said. “The 65’s the bigger model. But I got a hunch that’s going to be the least of my problems, right?”

  Bolan made the introductions all around, noticing Grimaldi’s less than enthusiastic handshakes with Yang and Huang. The Executioner knew he and Grimaldi shared a dislike of working with unknown Agency personnel in general, and newbies in particular. But in this case they had no options.

  As they got into the van, Huang held up his smartphone. “I just got a text. Your package has arrived at the embassy.”

  “Ah.” Grimaldi smiled. “It sounds like your baby and my SIG have arrived.”

  Bolan’s “baby” was the Executioner’s weapon of choice, a Beretta 93R. It was one of the few handheld pistols with a selector switch that allowed it to function in full-auto mode in three-round bursts.

  “Let’s set up a quick meet to get our equipment,” Bolan said.

  Huang nodded and sent a text back. The reply came about thirty seconds later with a location.

  Herbie shifted into gear and they took off. Bolan kept watch out the rear window to check for anyone tailing them, but he saw no one.

  “Were you able to get that helicopter lined up?” he asked Herbie.

  The lopsided grin flashed in the rearview mirror. “No sweat, boss. Gotchu number one chopper, but I not fly.”

  “I’ve got somebody who can take care of that,” Bolan said, grinning at Grimaldi.

  “What? I just get off an eighteen-hour flight and I’m expected to jump right into a pilot’s seat?” Grimaldi curled his head down and assumed a recumbent position. “Union rules. Wake me up in eight hours.”

  Yang and Huang looked at Grimaldi with widening eyes.

  “He’s a great kidder,” Bolan said. “Besides being a fairly good pilot.”

  Grimaldi’s head shot up. “What do you mean fairly?”

  “I figured that would wake you up,” Bolan said. “Herbie, what kind of helicopter did you get?”

  “Number one chopper, boss.”

  “You get the exact kind I wanted?” Bolan looked at Yang, who said something in Mandarin.

  Herbie listened, then began bobbling his head up and down. “Oh, okay. It China Tours helicopter. Very, very big, but no gun.”

  “No weapons,” Yang added.

  Bolan nodded. This was both good and bad, but hopefully, if they could smuggle Tressman out another way, they wouldn’t have to land the chopper inside the prison. Not having any gun mounts would mean they’d be sitting ducks if things went south. Plus, he still didn’t know how much he could trust Herbie. He talked a good game, and had delivered a few things thus far, but he was still a mercenary, and Bolan knew from experience that their loyalty was always available to the highest bidder. Still, the clock was ticking, and they had little choice if they wanted to get Tressman out.

  “A China Tours helicopter,” Grimaldi said. “What’s the make?”

  “Huh?” Herbie asked, his brow showing numerous wrinkles in the rearview mirror.

  Yang started to translate, but Grimaldi waved dismissively. “Forget it. It isn’t worth the time it’ll take.”

  “But are you sure you can fly it?” Huang asked.

  Grimaldi smirked. “Listen, pal, if it’s got wings or rotors, I can fly it. Now, what’s the plan?”

  Bolan told Huang to call up the satellite pictures of the prison on his tablet. He then gave Grimaldi a quick update on the situation and the plan to rescue Tressman. Huang leaned over and held the screen so the other two men could see it.

  “The place looks like a brick shithouse,” Grimaldi said. “What kind of guns they got in those guard towers?”

  “Looked like they had a big gun in that front tower,” Bolan said.

  “How big?”

  “Maybe a fifty caliber.”

  “Aw, hell. And I thought this was gonna be hard.” Grimaldi grinned. “Okay, do we have a contingency plan to deal with all these fortuitous circumstances?”

  “Herbie’s got a source inside the prison,” Bolan said. “They’ve got shift change in four hours. His inside buddy said he can bring in extra workers tonight.”

  “Clean with honey-wagon,” Herbie said.

  “Honey what?” Grimaldi asked.

  “It’s a big vacuum truck that sucks out the sewage,” Yang said. “Smells pretty awful.”

  “Ah,” Grimaldi replied. “Something else to look forward to.”

  “Actually, that’ll give us an advantage,” Bolan said. “Nobody’s going to want to check that truck too carefully. Herbie and Huang can go in, and the contact will lead them to Tressman. They remove him from his cell and smuggle him out in the truck. If that fails, plan B is for them to get up to the roof and call us.” Bolan pointed to a flat section of roof on the satellite picture. “If we can sweep in and land here, it’s at a higher elevation and far enough away from each of the guard towers that they won’t have a clear shot. We pick them up and take off.”

  “That’s a whole lotta ifs,” Grimaldi said.

  Bolan felt the same nagging doubts but had little choice. He didn’t like sending Huang in with Herbie to tag up with the unknown inside man, but neither Bolan nor Grimaldi could pass for Chinese. At least Huang spoke the language. As a female, Yang would stand out way too much. Besides, Bolan had another assignment for her.

  Grimaldi compressed his lips, obviously doing some mental calculations of his own. Finally he asked, “How much time we got before we have to start this misadventure?”

  “About four hours.” Bolan watched his reaction.

  “All right,” Grimaldi said. “Let me get this bird checked out. I want to make sure it’s gassed up and ready to go.”

  “No ready now,” Herbie said. “My friend say we must wait one hour.” He held up his hand and rubbed his index finger and thumb together. “He want money up front. Twenty thousand yuan. We gotta pay for honey-wagon, too.”

  “Who’s this guy again?” Grimaldi asked. “The piano player in the Geisha House?”

  “Geisha?” Herbie asked.

  “Jack.” Bolan shot Grimaldi a knowing look, discouraging any more wisecracks, and said, “Right now he’s the only game in town.”

  “Marvelous,” Grimaldi said. “
This just keeps getting better and better.”

  * * *

  GENERAL WONG SIGNED the papers and put his official PLA seal next to his signature. Captain Xi stood at attention in front of the desk. Wong assessed the young officer. He was reasonably competent, had always performed well in the tasks he’d been assigned and was a graduate of the PLA Academy. Xi also had a reputation for strictly adhering to orders. Wong handed him the papers.

  “You and three others will go to Song Jing Prison,” Wong said. “At exactly twenty-one hundred, you will pick up a prisoner, remove him from the facility and contact me for further instructions. Me, personally. No one else. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Comrade General,” the young officer said.

  Wong gave him a long stare. The timing must be perfect.

  “It is imperative that you do not arrive before twenty-one hundred,” Wong said. “Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Comrade General.”

  Wong felt the tug of a smile caress his lips. Xi’s deference reminded Wong of himself in his younger days. He had no doubt that the instructions would be carried out to the letter. Perhaps Chen’s plan would work after all. Perhaps...

  “The prisoner you are to pick up,” Wong said, thinking how to word his orders, “is not to be harmed, but he must be well secured at all times.”

  Wong waited for the inevitable “Yes, Comrade General.”

  “This prisoner is an American spy,” Wong said. “It is not known if he speaks Mandarin, but we must operate on that assumption. He is not to be questioned during the transport. Do you have any questions as to your assignment?”

  “No, Comrade General.”

  Wong took out a cigarette and lit it, letting Xi stand at attention throughout the entire ritual. He inhaled deeply and blew out a cloudy breath. “Once you have left the prison, a special contingent will escort you to Zhongnanhai. This transport is highly classified. It is particularly important that the foreign press, or any of their agents, is not alerted to the nature of this assignment. You and your men are sequestered to quarters until it is time for you to go. No communications with anyone. Is that understood?”