Dragon Key

by Don Pendleton

  “We are waiting, General.” Cao held his cigarette to his lips and drew deeply on it. As he exhaled the smoke he stared down at Wong with a reproachful look. “How do you account for this ambush, as you call it? This failure?”

  Wong had to tread carefully here. To suggest that the details of the plan had been leaked from within the Committee would be construed as a massive insult. There were only two other possible explanations. Wong did not want to name himself as one of them, so he did the next best thing.

  “I have it on good authority that there is a traitor employed at Song Jing Prison. I was going to contact the National Police to investigate.” He paused and glanced at the uniformed man standing to his left. “But since Colonel Yeoung is already standing before you, I shall refer the information to him. I lost four men due to this treachery.”

  Cao brought the cigarette to his lips once again, looking from Wong to Yeoung.

  He holds the damn thing like a woman, Wong thought.

  “A traitor? Do you know who was responsible for this, Colonel?” Cao asked.

  “No, esteemed Minister,” Colonel Yeoung said. “I shall launch an immediate investigation and report back to you.”

  Cao nodded, smiled and drew on his cigarette again.

  Wong could almost taste the smoke.

  “General,” Cao said, “you were also instructed to bring Han Son Chu before us, were you not?”

  “Yes, most esteemed Minister,” Wong said.

  Cao smiled. The old fool loved to have men of authority fawn all over him.

  “Yet,” Cao said, “you failed to accomplish this, as well. What is your explanation?”

  “As you instructed, I placed a guard on the troublemaker’s house but told my men to wait until the American movie star and the news media had gone before formally arresting Han and bringing him here.”

  Cao nodded, smiled again.

  “I lost two more men at this scene,” Wong said. He cocked his head toward Colonel Yeoung. “The National Police were also on the scene in full force. They were engaged in a dispute with the movie star, and by the time order was restored, Han was gone.”

  “Colonel Yeoung.” Cao took one last drag then stubbed the cigarette out in an ashtray. “Do you know who is responsible for this?”

  “The bodies of four men were recovered from the house,” Yeoung said. “It is believed that the troublemaker is being assisted by traitors within our own citizenry.”

  “Traitors?” Cao said, raising his eyebrows.

  “Gangsters,” Yeoung answered. “I believe the Triads may be involved.” Yeoung went into a long-winded explanation of his investigation and concluded by saying he had not yet come to any firm conclusions.

  “You investigate, and yet neither Han nor the American spy have been located.” Cao picked up his gold cigarette case. “Do you have anything further to report on this matter?”

  Wong felt a surge of relief. They seemed to be concentrating on Yeoung’s failures.

  As Yeoung was replying with more double-talk, Wong had an idea.

  “Most esteemed Minister,” he said. “It has also come to my attention that four transit police operatives were murdered this morning at Beijing South Railway Station. I believe this is connected to the previous two incidents.”

  The news got Cao’s attention. Yeoung had most likely briefed the Committee on the incident, but by bringing it up, Wong gave the appearance of being on top of things.

  Cao focused his attention on Wong and smiled. “And on what evidence do you base that assumption?”

  “I have no direct evidence,” Wong said, “other than the report that an American was involved in the incident at Beijing South, as well.”

  “I see,” Cao said as he took another cigarette out of the case and closed it with a snap. “Colonel Yeoung, you mentioned that you’ve discovered which train the suspects are now on.”

  “Yes, most esteemed Minister,” Yeoung said. “We have traced the purchase they made.”

  That cowardly bastard stole my “most esteemed Minister” line, Wong thought.

  “Very well, then,” Cao said. “Perhaps you and General Wong can work together.” He put the cigarette between his lips and held the lighter to the tip. “General, send a detachment of troops to stop that train and take custody of the Americans and the troublemaker.” He exhaled a plume of smoke, then fixed both of them with a baleful stare. “Do you each feel confident that you can accomplish that task?”

  “Yes, most esteemed Minister,” Wong replied, gritting his teeth as Yeoung echoed his words.

  * * *

  BOLAN HAD TO admit the Chinese bullet trains looked impressive. They had a sleek engine that resembled a rocket ship, and their cruising speed was listed as 186 miles per hour. Taking one of those would have gotten them to Shanghai a lot quicker than the Class D sleeper train they’d ended up riding, but now they had their own deluxe private compartment with two pull-down bunks and a bathroom. It was turning out to be a convenient way of keeping a low profile.

  After hiding the bodies in a maintenance closet at the Beijing South Railway Station, Bolan shelled out enough yuan to buy six first-class tickets on the bullet train to Hong Kong. Then Bolan had Herbie and Tai Pang do some informal horse-trading to exchange them for six tickets on the sleeper to Shanghai while Yang listened in.

  Once the slain officers were found, the authorities would pull out all the stops to trace the purchases. Switching trains and locations on the black market would buy them a little extra time. Still, Bolan harbored no illusions about how much of an edge this would give them. Once the false trail had been discovered, the Chinese could stop each and every train that had departed Beijing until they found the right one. But that was a lot of ground to cover, even with a two-million-man army.

  Herbie hadn’t been too keen on abandoning his van, but Bolan told Grimaldi to tell him they’d buy him a brand-new one. So he’d left it in a tow-away zone and helped carry the luggage into the train station. Leaving Herbie behind wasn’t an option. The Beijing slickster had proved useful thus far, but he was still a mercenary.

  Bolan felt only slightly better about his latest associate. Tressman would’ve vetted Tai Pang, but the man had shown no hesitation jumping into the fray, which a government agent would not do. One thing was for sure, the guy was extremely skilled in martial arts, and totally ruthless. He’d dispatched four police officers in the railway station without blinking an eye. Well, not quite. Bolan had detected a slight flickering of the man’s right eyelid before he struck. Whether it was a reliable way to forecast an attack remained to be seen. Bolan hoped he wouldn’t have occasion to find out.

  The train jolted slightly and he swayed with the movement. Grimaldi, who was snoring on the upper bunk, murmured something in his sleep. Herbie sat dozing in one corner, and Yang slumbered in the opposite one. Bolan looked at Tai Pang. The slender Chinese man was sitting in a lotus position on the floor, staring back at Bolan. The guy never seemed to get tired or bored.

  “How about going to the diner car and getting us all some food?” Bolan said.

  Tai Pang nodded. Without another word he got to his feet and left.

  Bolan went to the door and locked it after him, wondering what was the real story behind Tai Pang. But there was no way Bolan could contact Tressman to ask him anything.

  * * *

  THE MANTIS PAUSED in the gangway and looked out the window, watching the countryside fly by in the evening gloom. This was not the first time he’d taken a train between cities, but the swaying movement and flashing scenery never ceased to fascinate him. And then there was the sheen of the cars themselves. He ran his fingers over a chrome door. The Mantis liked shiny things.

  He assumed this affinity was the result of his deprived childhood. He remembered the orphanage on the outskirts of Hong Kong.
Even while guarding his younger sister, he would continually rub his small fingers over every shiny surface he saw, hoping that coins would magically spring forth. He reached inside his pants pocket and rubbed his fingers over the shiny surface of the stainless-steel pistol he’d taken from the British agent. It was a souvenir, but one that held little intrinsic value, as he seldom used guns. Prudence dictated that he discard it, but his inner voice told him to hold on to it for the moment.

  Such reverie was superfluous. He needed to give an update to Master Chen. His mission was still incomplete, and if he wanted to feel those shiny coins in his hands, he must keep on track. An apt metaphor for a man on a train. He smiled. The Mantis pressed the button on his cell phone.

  Master Chen answered immediately. “I have been hoping you would call me. All is well?”

  “It is. Everything is proceeding according to our calculations.”

  “Have you located the item yet?”

  “No,” the Mantis said. “He has secreted it in Shanghai.”

  “I see that you are proceeding there now.”

  “Yes,” the Mantis said.

  “There is much of which you must be advised,” Chen said. “Other factors we must anticipate, if we are to share the fruits of your labor. Is it safe for you to listen?”

  The Mantis looked around. The train was full, but he was alone in this small area, for the time being.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Ah, excellent,” Master Chen replied. “Here is what the general has told me.”

  * * *

  ABOUT FIVE MINUTES after Tai Pang had left, Han glanced up from the bench along the opposite wall.

  “The Chinese word for railroad is tielu,” Han said. “It means iron road. I imagine you have many trains such as this in your country, eh, Cooper-jun?” He had his shirt off and was undoing the straps for his artificial arm.

  “We do,” Bolan said. “Can’t say I’ve had the chance to ride them much, though.”

  Han smiled as he pulled the prosthesis loose and rubbed his left stump. “It is much faster to fly. We have many air flights in China now.”

  Bolan nodded.

  Han laughed. “You are too polite. Most people just come right out and ask me how I lost my arm.”

  Bolan said nothing.

  “It was 1989. I was a young student, full of idealism,” Han said. “We had assembled for a demonstration in Tiananmen Square. We thought it would usher in a new era of freedom in China. Mao Zedong was dead. His wife and the rest of her gang of four had been imprisoned. Our leader at the time, Deng Xiaoping, seemed to be a reasonable man who wanted to bring us back from the abyss of the Cultural Revolution.”

  Han closed his eyes and rocked his head back and forth, almost as if he were weeping. “One of my friends faced down a line of tanks that came to the square. We did not believe the soldiers would open fire on us, did not believe they would hurt their own people with such savagery. A bullet struck my left arm, up high, shattering the bone. It hung useless. I could not move.” He sighed. “I was carried out of the area and just avoided being taken to prison, but the doctor who attended to me had very little formal training. He amputated my arm. My family managed to smuggle me out into the country, where they said the injury was the result of a farming accident.”

  “It sounds pretty bad,” Bolan said.

  “It was, but some change did come as a result. The Standing Committee made an unspoken agreement with the Chinese people.” Han smiled wistfully. “Do not repeat the mistakes of Tiananmen Square, and we will grant you small freedoms, as we see fit.”

  “So in a way, you won. Your country’s progressed.”

  Han shook his head, his face taking on a sad cast. “If you call what is happening now progress. We pollute our land, our rivers, our air, all in the name of advancing China. We steal land from the poor farmers, while corrupt politicians line their pockets. This is what I fight against—the humiliation of the poor, of the disenfranchised. I am their voice.”

  Bolan glanced at his watch again. It was closing in on twelve minutes since Tai Pang had left.

  “There is a saying in my country,” Han said. “When the Yellow River is at peace, China is at peace. They built the Sanmenxia Dam many years ago during Mao’s Great Leap Forward. They said it would stop the floods that destroyed the farmland. Instead it made things much worse. Now heavy rains cause the reservoir to back up, and poisoned water rises over the banks. No one will acknowledge the mistake. Xie Chaoping was detained when he dared write about it.”

  “Is this political science lesson gonna go on much longer?” Grimaldi asked. “I would like to catch up on some sleep.”

  Han laughed. “I am sorry to wake you. My wife and granddaughter complain that I turn every dinner table discussion into a political lecture.”

  Bolan took out his satellite phone and checked the battery. It was dead, and he realized he hadn’t charged it since before he’d arrived in Hong Kong. He slipped it back into his pocket and tapped Grimaldi’s shoulder.

  “I need your phone. Mine’s dead.”

  Grimaldi made a series of grunts and groans as he turned over and retrieved the phone from the case on his belt. He glanced at it before handing it to Bolan. “Mine’s starting to run low, too. Is there a place in here that we can charge them?”

  “Different electrical current,” Bolan said. “We’d need an adapter.”

  Herbie seemed to stir awake. “You want adapter, boss?” He stood up and stretched. “I get for you.”

  “Only if you can do it without attracting attention,” Bolan said.

  “Okay, boss. No sweat.”

  Yang had stirred awake, too. “I’ll go with you.”

  Bolan shook his head. “Let Herbie go alone. It isn’t wise for all of us to be seen together.”

  She shrugged and sat back down.

  Herbie started for the door, but Bolan grabbed his arm. “See if you can find out what’s keeping Tai Pang first.”

  “Yeah,” Grimaldi said. “I’m getting hungry. Make sure he brings us some bottled water, too.”

  “Coming right up,” Herbie said. He opened the door to the compartment, looked both ways, then slipped out.

  Bolan checked to make sure no one else was in the hallway, then closed and locked the door. He turned back to Han.

  “Tell me about the dragon key.”

  Han stared back at him, not answering.

  “Mr. Han,” Bolan said. “If we’re going to get out of this safely, I need to know the whole story.”

  Han considered this, then nodded, waving for Bolan to step closer. Grimaldi cocked his head over the edge of the bunk.

  “It is a memory stick,” Han said. “It’s concealed in a small plastic case that looks like the head of a dragon. Its owner wore it like a charm around his neck.”

  “Who’s the owner?” Bolan asked.

  Han was silent for a few more seconds, then said, “General Wong Su Tong of the People’s Liberation Army.”

  Bolan and Grimaldi exchanged glances. The stakes had suddenly been raised.

  “The dragon key, as he calls it, is purported to contain sensitive information of his corrupt activities.”

  “Purported?” Bolan asked.

  “Yes. The general, for all his lasciviousness and greed, is a careful and intelligent man. He placed a cipher on the dragon key. I could not open it.”

  “A password?” Grimaldi said. “We’ve got people who could break that in a heartbeat. The Chinese honchos probably do, too, although it’d be a helluva lot simpler to just hold a gun to the general’s johnson and force him to divulge it.” He glanced down at Yang. “Sorry.”

  Yang smiled.

  “Don’t encourage him,” Bolan said. “What exactly does the dragon key contain?”

 
“Secret Chinese and foreign bank accounts, as well as the passwords for these accounts,” Han said. “Transactions he has received for selling secrets of the Chinese military to foreign governments.”

  “Like Iran?” Bolan asked.

  Han’s eyebrows rose. “I see you know much more than I have told you, Cooper-jun.”

  “That’s beside the point,” Bolan said. “Does the general know you have it?”

  A smile creased Han’s face. “Let us say he knows it’s missing, and has a strong suspicion that it’s in my possession. The threat of exposure was what kept him from having me immediately arrested. I let it be known that if I were taken into custody, the dragon key would become public information.” He looked at Bolan. “Now do you see why it is imperative that I go to Shanghai to recover it?”

  “How did you find out about it?” Yang asked. “I mean, if I had something like that, I certainly wouldn’t tell anyone.”

  “The general had a trusted aide,” Han said. “One that was very adept at teaching him the ways of the computer. Long ago, her uncle was a student with me at the university. We were together at Tiananmen Square that day. Eventually she learned the extent of Wong’s betrayal and confided in her uncle. He contacted me.”

  “A variation of the woman scorned, eh?” Grimaldi said.

  “Where’s the dragon key now?” Bolan asked.

  Han smiled. “It is in Shanghai. In a very safe place.”

  “Mr. Han, I told you, we have to know it all.”

  “Not to mention that the three of us have been risking our lives to keep you safe, pal,” Grimaldi said.

  Han drew his mouth into a tight line, closed his eyes, then nodded. “It’s in a bank in Shanghai. In a safety deposit box.”

  “Does this box have a key?”

  Han nodded, smiled and stuck his hand inside his artificial arm. After working his fingers around inside the prosthesis, he unpeeled a strip of duct tape and withdrew a thin metal key with a number stamped on the top.

  Bolan nodded and told him to stow it again. “I’d better call in.”