Desperate Cargo

by Don Pendleton

  “Hal, how far has this information gone?”

  “I haven’t spoken to anyone.”

  “Leave it that way. We started this mission one-to-one. I’ll finish it that way.”

  “No problem. A little more feedback. Aaron’s digging into the data he downloaded from van Ryden’s computer has paid off, too. Names on Canfield’s payroll. High rollers in government positions. Customs. Police. Canfield has connections. Those names covered individuals in Europe, the U.K. and the U.S. Looks like van Ryden was hedging his bets by keeping lists. Covering his ass in case he needed protection himself. That’s a lawyer for you. The task force will be drooling for weeks when they get their hands on that intel.”

  “Tell Aaron nice work.”

  “I’ll hold back on this until I hear from you,” Brognola said. “I guess Canfield is in for a surprise when you show up.”

  “That’s the idea, Hal.”

  20

  Banecreif was more than five hundred years old—a sprawling stone mansion with extensive grounds. Isolated—the closest village was over ten miles away—it stood on the coast, the east side of the massive building overlooking the cold gray waters of the North Sea. From the base of the east wall a sheer rock cliff dropped eighty feet to the inhospitable waters.

  Since he’d purchased the house Hugo Canfield had invested a great deal of money in the place. He added modern refinements. A powerful generator supplied electricity to light the house and provide heated water for the bathrooms he had built. The kitchen was equipped with professional stoves and freezers. There was no permanent staff. When Canfield was away a local couple kept the house running. If he was expecting business guests he flew in catering staff.

  With the current situation Canfield had Sergeant Gantley, plus a five-man security team at the house. His personal helicopter had brought them to Banecreif from the closest airfield. It was standing on the concrete landing pad next to the house.

  Sergeant Gantley looked after security and supervised the kitchen. One of the ground-level rooms served as a small but efficient control center. From there it was possible to view the incoming images from a number of security cameras that had been installed around the property. Total security systems had yet to be completed, with motion sensors and infrared detection still to be added. Fortunately the house was far enough off the beaten track not to attract many visitors. Canfield maintained a low profile when he was at the house and his roving patrols were enough to keep any unwitting trespassers away.

  Hugo Canfield always felt secure at Banecreif. The peace and quiet allowed him time to think out his problems and plan future enterprises. He had installed expensive communications systems—satellite phone lines, high-speed Internet. Distance was no problem. He could speak to anyone he wanted, anywhere across the globe.

  He was on the phone to his Russian contact in Leningrad. Pavel Molenski was head of the drug syndicate Canfield was hoping to do business with.

  The conversation was not going well.

  “Hugo, I hope you are keeping well? I have heard life is a little difficult at the moment.”

  “A few local problems, Pavel. Nothing to worry about.”

  “But that is the problem, Hugo. Friends are concerned. Questions have been asked. About your suitability to join us. And as much as I admire your past record, these recent setbacks are starting to give me reason to doubt.”

  “No need, Pavel. As I said this is a local disturbance. One that I will settle very soon.”

  “First your setup in Holland. Now your U.K. base. My sources tell me that your organization has been severely hit.”

  “Nothing that cannot be brought back on-line. Trust me, Pavel, I won’t allow this interference to put our deal at risk.”

  Pavel’s strong Russian accent came through clearly. “It has been decided, Hugo, to give you exactly one more week. If nothing has changed by then, if you have not completely cleared up this mess, we will be expecting the return of our merchandise and all future deals will be off.”

  “Don’t do this to me, Pavel. Not now. I’ve made commitments to my contacts here. I can’t renege on my promises.”

  “Understand me, Hugo. You made a commitment to us. We supplied the merchandise. It seems clear that you will not be able to go through with your end of the deal. We have to protect our interests. If you are compromised we could be drawn into the area of suspicion. One week, Hugo, then we collect our goods. And we can do it peacefully, or with extreme force. Please do not make it that we need to use force. That would be extremely foolish on your part.”

  The phone went dead. Canfield listened to the buzz of the line. He experienced a growing anger as he recalled the Russian’s words. The implicit threat.

  “The hell with you, Pavel.”

  He slammed the phone down and strode across the room, standing in front of the blazing fire in the ornate stone hearth. Canfield stared into flames, his thoughts working overtime. First Cooper. Now the fucking Russians. Whining because they were scared their consignment of drugs, stored in the temperature-controlled cellars beneath Banecreif, was going to be lost. Crying like babies who wanted their toys back. They were pathetic. They were greedy. Wanting everything instantly. Suddenly they were acting as if they were the top dogs. Pushing into every corner of his business. Uneducated, nonthinking thugs. Maybe he had been wrong to negotiate the deal. It was a mistake on his part. They were going to have to wait until he had the Cooper affair handled. Then he would show them how negotiate.

  He heard a clock chiming at the far end of the large room that served as his office. Canfield turned and crossed to the oak desk and sat down in the huge leather chair. He reached for the internal phone and called for Sergeant Gantley to join him.

  The ex-Army cop was there in minutes. He was an imposing figure in his dark military-style fatigues. He carried a SIG-Sauer P-226 in a high-ride holster on his right hip. The pistol, with its stainless-steel parts and wood grips, was Gantley’s personal weapon.

  “Any sign of Cooper?” Canfield asked.

  Gantley shook his head. He had his security detail on roving patrols in and around the massive old house. “Nothing from Breck or Munro, either, sir. I’m trying to get in touch with Harris,” Gantley said. “Maybe he can give me an update.”

  “I’ve just been speaking to Pavel,” Canfield said. “He had the nerve to actually threaten me. This Cooper mess has those Russians wetting their pants. He’s ready to go back on the deal. Told me we have a week to sort this out, or they’ll demand the drugs back.”

  “Russians? They couldn’t even keep their own country together, sir. Now they all think they’re Al Capone. Never met one I couldn’t drink under the table, sir.”

  “Just thought I’d let you know, Sergeant Gantley. First things first. We deal with Cooper, then sort out these bloody Russkies.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  GANTLEY MADE THE ROUNDS, checking his team. They were well armed. Two outside. Two more on the roof and one manning the security room, watching the camera monitor screens. Each man was carrying a holstered Beretta 92-F and an HK MP-5A4. The long-established submachine gun still performed well and Gantley trusted the weapon. The MP-5s were loaded with 30-round twin magazines for extended firepower.

  He climbed to the roof, walking the stone-flagged flat area bounded by a three-foot-high buttressed wall. From there he was able to look out across the surrounding terrain.

  He saw undulating grassland and timber and the thin gray snake of the narrow approach road. Moving around to the east side he stared out across the water. Mist hung over the jagged coastline extending away from Banecreif. Strong currents sent icy waves crashing against the base of the rocky cliff, the spray leaping high up the dark, weathered rock. Gantley felt the touch of rain and saw gray cloud sweeping in off the sea. He made contact with the roof sentries. The men wore thick parkas over their clothing against the chill. It started to rain heavily.

  “Anything?” Gantley asked.

  “Nothi
ng, sir. If he’s coming he’s taking his time.”

  “That could be deliberate,” Gantley said. “Trying to make us sweat.”

  The sentry smiled. “Hardly likely in this bloody weather.”

  “Well, don’t slack off just because he hasn’t shown yet. From what I’ve learned Cooper is no quitter. He’ll show.”

  Gantley started back down into the house. His cell phone rang and he answered.

  “It’s Harris. You need to hear this. Took me some time. There’s been a shut down on information coming from the cops. My contact in the information office finally came through. When the train arrived in Glasgow Breck and Chambers had already been found dead in the compartment Cooper booked. They had both been shot. Munro was found alive but with the back of his skull caved in.”

  “Cooper?”

  “No sign of a fourth man. He could have jumped the train anywhere after it crossed the border. He could be long gone.”

  “No, Harris, he’s not gone. The man is on his way here.” Gantley checked his watch. An hour after midday. “He’s had plenty of time to make new travel arrangements. Keep me informed of any developments.”

  Gantley ended the call and put his phone away. He crossed to stand at the wall again, scanning the surrounding countryside, nodding to himself.

  “Come ahead, Mr. Cooper. I’m ready and waiting for you.”

  21

  Using the available guest computer Bolan had checked out Banecreif on Google’s map site. It was a long drive down a rugged road that would take him to the easterly edge of the Scottish highlands. The road ran along the coast, the North Sea bordering the route. Remote. Isolated, with only a few scattered villages along the way. It would take Bolan the best part of a day to reach his destination. He didn’t mind that because the delay in his travel would leave Canfield wondering when his unwelcome guest might turn up.

  Checking out of the lodge Bolan asked the young woman behind the desk, the day-shift receptionist, to call him a taxi, explaining that his pickup had been postponed and he needed to locate a car rental agency. The closest agency was in the next town, a forty-minute ride away. The taxi turned up in short time and Bolan settled in the backseat. The journey took just over thirty minutes after Bolan promised the driver a bonus if he could get him to his destination quickly.

  At the rental agency Bolan made the necessary negotiations and hired a late-model Volkswagen Toureg SE. The big 4x4 had auto transmission and even a touch-screen DVD navigation system. Its powerful engine would provide Bolan with the kind of horsepower needed to cover the long distance to the Scottish Highlands.

  Leaving the rental agency Bolan spotted a convenience store and pulled in. He stocked up on a few sandwiches and bottles of water. Behind the wheel he tapped in the coordinates for his route and watched as the sharp image came on the screen. Pushing the stick into first Bolan settled into the comfortable leather seat and moved off.

  LATE AFTERNOON, hours into his drive, Bolan was away from the sprawling bustle of Glasgow and heading north, toward Inverness and the eastern side of the country where he would eventually link up to the coast road that would lead him to Banecreif. He saw that he was heading into rough weather as dark clouds rolled in from the east, gathering into a storm bank the farther he drove up-country. The road ahead stretched across low hills with little habitation save for a few farms scattered across the landscape. His original estimate was that he had roughly two hundred and seventy miles to cover—around six hours’ driving. With the weather backing up, threatening rain, Bolan added to that time. However it worked out, it was going to be late by the time he reached his objective.

  The realization did little to unnerve Bolan. A strike in the wee hours might work in his favor. It was the time when the most alert opponent lost a degree of his deductive powers. When the body naturally reached that twilight condition, slowing down. Leaving perceptions at a low ebb. Something to be taken advantage of.

  When Bolan spotted a truck stop he pulled in. The small restaurant and store was hosting only a couple of drivers from the long-haul trucks parked outside. Bolan picked up a thermos flask from the store section, went to the restaurant counter and ordered a black coffee. At his request the red-haired woman serving filled his flask with more coffee. Bolan allowed himself a leisurely break, downing a second mug of coffee before settling his bill and leaving. He took a few minutes to walk around the parking area before he returned to the 4x4.

  As he settled himself behind the wheel, securing his seat belt, the first fat drops of rain hit the windshield. By the time he had driven out of the parking lot and turned back onto the road the rain had increased to a hard downpour. Bolan flicked on the wipers, the built-in sensor determining how fast they needed to operate in order to clear the glass screen. It became gloomy enough that Bolan needed the headlights, as well. He set his speed and activated the cruise control, letting the vehicle take the strain.

  Bolan drove through Inverness into a rain-filled night, the road swinging toward the coast. Beyond the town the strip of road ahead was dark and empty, leaving Bolan the opportunity to consider what lay ahead for him at Banecreif.

  He had his mission to complete.

  Retribution to deliver to Hugo Canfield.

  THE UNBROKEN STORM followed Bolan all the way to his turnoff. He lost time negotiating the empty, winding main highway, only the powerful headlights of his vehicle breaking the darkness surrounding him. The navigation system performed its task well, and Bolan easily found the narrow, single-lane road that led to Banecreif. According to the screen readout the road ran for two miles, dead-ending at Canfield’s property. He cut the lights as he rolled the Toureg onto this feeder road, taking the first chance he got to turn the vehicle around and reverse into the cover of the trees and bushes edging the road. Bolan killed the engine. The drum of falling rain on the roof matched the distant crash of waves hitting the rocky shore close by.

  He pulled his blacksuit and boots from his bag and changed. His shoulder rig held the Beretta 93-R. Len Watts had also provided an Uzi, still one of Bolan’s favorite weapons. He slid a sheathed knife onto his belt. Snapping on a combat rig Bolan made sure the pouches held plastic ties and extra magazines for the Beretta and the Uzi. It was basic equipment, but enough for what he intended. He pulled on a black baseball cap to complete his transformation, slipped out of the vehicle and locked it, dropping the key into one of the blacksuit’s zippered side pockets.

  Using the faint moonlight Bolan headed in toward the dark bulk of Banecreif. Even at the distance he was from the house Bolan could see how it dominated the headland where it stood. Cold and brooding.

  HUGO CANFIELD FOUND IT hard to sleep.

  The early hours were the worst. Night was still hanging on, reluctant to relinquish its hold to the coming dawn. Canfield hated waking because he could never get back to sleep. This time was even worse. He couldn’t get Cooper out of his mind. The man stalked through his thoughts. A spectral figure bringing death and destruction with every step. He had certainly done that to Canfield’s operation.

  It angered and interested him at the same time. The anger was easily explained. His interest in Cooper another matter. The man intrigued him. Canfield wished he could learn more about him. No getting away from the fact that Cooper was a hell of an opponent. He came through every confrontation ready for the next. Gained his information and acted on it. He had a relentless drive to him that pushed him ever forward, his mind like a guided missile, directing him to the next target. In a perverse way Canfield likened himself to Cooper. In their respective businesses they knew what they wanted and simply went for it, casting aside doubt and uncertainty.

  If Cooper had allied himself with Hugo Canfield they would have made a formidable team. They would have been unstoppable.

  Canfield pushed that out of his mind as quickly as it presented itself. Cooper was on the side of the good and righteous. No doubt about that.

  The mix of conflicting thoughts denied Canfield any furthe
r rest. He left his bed, showered, shaved and got dressed. He made his way downstairs to the kitchen, craving coffee. He found Gantley already there. A mug of steaming black coffee was pushed across the work surface. Canfield took it.

  “How did you know?” Canfield asked.

  “It’s what you pay me for, sir. And I heard you in the shower when I passed your room ten minutes ago.”

  “So, is everything secure?”

  “As we can ever make it, sir,” Gantley said.

  “Can we stop him? Given his recent record.”

  “A bloody good try is what we can offer.”

  “Not the best summation, Sergeant Gantley, but an honest one.”

  BOLAN WALKED STEADILY, head down against the rain driving in from the seaward side of the track. The unpaved surface of the road had already become a soft morass of dark mud. He had only walked for a few hundred yards before the chill began to penetrate the blacksuit. There was nothing he could do to change that. Bolan kept moving, his mind focused on his objective.

  He was there to make sure Hugo Canfield was taken down. That his organization was neutered. Venturer Exports would be reduced to ashes and scattered beyond repair.

  That was going to require Bolan going on the hunt.

  He had no qualms about that. All he had to do was recall the deaths of two task-force agents and the twenty-five Thai women and children dropped overboard from Canfield’s ship while locked inside a steel container.

  Bolan wouldn’t derive satisfaction from whatever happened at Banecreif, but he would achieve some kind of closure for the dead.

  And that would have to do.

  22

  Faint dawn light was edging away the night. The rain persisted, laying a misty curtain across the landscape. Bolan didn’t mind that. It would offer some additional distraction for his approach. With Banecreif looming in front of him Bolan took to the ground, working his way through the wet grass, using every patch of shadow he could find until he was close enough to pick out the sentries.