Chain Reaction

by Don Pendleton

  “Before you launch into the guided tour,” Bolan said, “what’s the situation?”

  Chen’s face was creased by a wide grin at Bolan’s segue.

  “This man wastes little time on niceties,” he said. “Always down to business.”

  “Really,” Mitchell replied. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  Chen laughed. “I think the lady knows you well enough, Cooper.”

  The car cruised along the highway, water glinting on either side of them as they approached Kowloon.

  “Who are we liable to be up against?”

  “Everyone calls him Mr. Lau. He’s a powerful man, an old-fashioned trader. Anything for anything. He likes money. Lau has many friends and few enemies. Those he might have had are most likely dead. A word of caution—do not take him lightly. Mr. Lau would cut your throat in an instant.”

  “Has the name Hegre ever been mentioned?”

  Chen hesitated before he answered. “Only once. I heard it spoken by one of Lau’s men during a mah-jongg game. He was very angry even though he said the people were dangerous. Especially a woman who is very highly placed. He said she had made him look a fool over some trivial matter.”

  “Did he have a name for this woman?” Bolan asked

  “Dela something,” Chen said. “I don’t recall if that was all of it. Lau’s man was upset at the way he had been treated.”

  “He said no more?”

  “Not in my presence,” Chen said. “But a few days later his body was found floating in the harbor. I learned that his throat had been cut and his tongue removed.”

  “Bad,” Mitchell said.

  “A sign to warn others,” Chen said. “Step over the line and this could happen to you.” He looked closely at Bolan. “So you have had previous dealings with these people?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Nothing pleasant then?”

  “No. But right now I need to get a line on what Hegre is dealing with here. So who was this dead guy?”

  “Thomas Lam, one of Lau’s negotiators. He had contacts all across the region and traveled a great deal, here and abroad. I was his chauffeur whenever he was in town.”

  “And you were watching him?”

  Chen nodded. “I kept an eye on him. As one of Lau’s employees, he met a wide range of people. Persons of interest. And I had many of them ride in my car. Ran them all over town.”

  “Not all criminal types?” Mitchell asked.

  “No. He mixed with all kinds. People who could open doors, offer protection for the right price.” Chen spread his hands. “Money placed correctly can work wonders, and Lam always seemed to have plenty of it.”

  “Criminal organizations work that way. Spread the seed money to pull in the big payoff,” Mitchell said.

  “Is that in the Bureau’s manual?” Bolan asked.

  The question got him a thump on his shoulder.

  “Mr. Chen, anything you can give us will be helpful,” Mitchell said.

  “From what I have picked up recently, Lam had been concentrating his efforts around the Golden Shark Cannery at the harbor. He was seen visiting there a number of times before his death.”

  “What do we know about the company?” Bolan asked.

  “Visitors are not welcome. Contracts are given to local fishing boats for their catch. The cannery refrigerates fish and has its own fleet to move the product up and down the coast. That’s handy for distributing other items.”

  “Contraband?” Bolan suggested.

  “Suspected but never proved. Like I said, getting near the place is difficult.”

  Bolan didn’t answer. When Chen glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the expression on the American’s face, he knew something was about to happen. From past experience with the man, Chen could imagine the thoughts floating around in the his brain.

  “Anything on the Echo Rose?”

  “It is close,” Chen said. “My friend in the shipping office will update me later.”

  Chen eventually drove them to the hotel, where they checked in, Chen playing the chauffer role to the hilt, carrying the luggage up to the room.

  Mitchell sat on the edge of the king-size bed, a gentle smile on her face.

  “Hey, partner, you prefer the left or right side?” she asked.

  “You want me to step out while you make your domestic arrangements?” Chen asked.

  “Only if you embarrass easily,” Bolan said. “Chen, we need some hardware. We came in empty-handed. Can you fix that?”

  “No problem. Tell me what you want and I’ll get it.”

  Bolan made a quick list and handed it to the man. Chen scanned it, smiling, then folded the note and slipped it into a pocket.

  “It will take me a few hours to pull it all together. I’ll bring it by later.” He said goodbye and left the room.

  “Do you mind if I take the first shower?” Mitchell said. “That was the longest flight I’ve been on in a few years. I need to unwind.”

  “Go ahead. I need to make a call.”

  Bolan placed a call to Stony Man via an established secure line and spoke to Hal Brognola.

  “Hey, Striker, how’s Hong Kong?”

  “Bustling, as usual,” Bolan said.

  “Chen looking after you?”

  “Yeah. Right now he’s out hunting down merchandise for us.”

  Brognola didn’t need elaboration on that remark. Bolan and Mitchell had gone into the zone without any kind of ordnance.

  “You guys take care,” Brognola said. “If any information comes up, I’ll pass it along. To be honest, right now the team isn’t getting very far on the Hegre front.”

  “Chen has given us a possible way in. We’ll be taking a look later.”

  “Talking of we, how’s Mitchell doing?”

  “She’s good. Doesn’t have to prove anything to me.”

  “I’ll pass that along to SAC Duncan. He’s concerned.”

  “Tell him she’ll be in line for promotion after this is over.”

  “He’ll love that.”

  “I’ll call you with an update.”

  Bolan used the room phone and called down for room service, asking for cold drinks to be delivered. The service proved to be faster than Bolan expected. The order arrived just as Mitchell, wrapped in a white bathrobe, emerged from the shower, toweling her hair dry. When she saw the drinks, she grinned approvingly.

  “I could really get to like being in your company, Cooper.”

  Bolan poured her a glass of chilled orange juice, adding a touch of vodka and mixing it with the plastic stir stick.

  “I hope this is appropriate for an FBI agent?” he asked, handing her the tall glass.

  “The rule book doesn’t apply in this part of the world,” Mitchell said. She tasted the drink and nodded. “Just enough.”

  “Of which?”

  “Why, orange juice, of course. The correct proportions for a federally approved alcoholic beverage.”

  “We wouldn’t want to exceed the FBI limits,” Bolan said. He drained his glass of juice and headed for the bathroom. “No sneaking a refill while I shower. We have things to do.”

  “Mr. Cooper, what kind of a girl do you think I am.”

  “That’s something I still need to find out...”

  * * *

  CHEN HAD FULFILLED Bolan’s request to the letter. He brought a carryall with him when he returned to the room a couple of hours later. He placed the bag on the table, unzipped it, then stepped back as Bolan examined its contents.

  Chen had purchased a pair of Glock Model 22 pistols. Each weapon held a thirteen-round magazine. The bag also contained six loaded magazines, spring-clip belt holsters, two sheathed steel tanto combat knives, black combat-style
shirts and trousers, as well as rubber-soled lace-up boots. The last item was a state-of-the-art sat phone.

  “Is this going to be enough?” Chen asked.

  Bolan was checking one of the Glocks. He dropped the magazine and cleared the breech so he could work the action. He had already noted the pistol was clean, barely used. The action was smooth, the trigger pull easy. Mitchell was following his lead, checking her pistol. She nodded her approval to Chen.

  “Nice piece,” she said.

  “It should be,” Chen said. “Comes from a reliable source.”

  Bolan passed a set of the black clothing to Mitchell.

  “Looks about your size.”

  Mitchell caught the bundle. “My color, too.”

  “My friend in the shipping office came through,” Chen said. “The Echo Rose is due to dock this evening.”

  Chen waited in reception while Bolan and Mitchell changed clothes. In the bag were two long, lightweight overcoats they slipped on to cover the black outfits and their weapons.

  It was almost dark when Chen drove them to the Kowloon docks. The parking lot that served the harbor area was barely half full. Chen pulled in between a pair of old shipping containers perched on thick railroad ties. He had told Bolan they were used to store equipment no longer in use. He reversed in so he would be able to exit quickly. In the distance they could hear the night sounds as fishing crews went about their business.

  “Fishing boats don’t start coming in until dawn, but there is always work going on preparing for the day’s catches.”

  He had a layout of the harbor area on a rolled sheet of paper and spread it across the hood of the Mercedes.

  “This is our position.” His finger traced a route for Bolan and Mitchell. “Through this fence brings you into the Golden Shark’s yard. The main building is here.”

  Bolan checked out the site. The cannery faced the harbor where fresh catches would be landed and taken directly inside the building.

  “We are on thin ice here,” Chen said. “Not a lot to go on. Do you believe it’s worth going in on the information you have?”

  “We’re following a thin trail here, Andy,” Bolan said. “We believe diamonds will be traded so that Hegre has the money to pay for the delivery of uranium stolen in Kazakhstan. Iran is looking to be the end buyer. If we can prevent the diamond deal and pick up more detail on the uranium trafficking, it might give us the chance to stop it.”

  Bolan let the rest of his words trail off, allowing Chen to make his own assessment. The man processed the statement, his face giving nothing away.

  “The amount of processed uranium Iran would be able to produce goes way beyond what they’d need for conventional use. They seem to be in a desperate rush to get things moving, despite international diplomacy. The last thing we need is an escalation in tension, so stopping that uranium is a must.”

  “Okay, you sort of convinced me.”

  “Let’s go take a look at this setup,” Bolan said.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  An hour passed and then they saw the Echo Rose enter the harbor. It was being guided by a tug and was approaching the jetty. Powerful lights were situated along the jetty, and they had a clear image of what was happening.

  Bolan reached out and placed a hand against Mitchell’s shoulder. To her credit the woman remained silent, her gaze following the finger pointing along the jetty.

  They watched as the tug eased the ship into position, nosing the freighter against the hanging rubber tires that absorbed the slow momentum of the ship as it made contact. The docking maneuver was carried out with precision by whoever handled the tug. Once the freighter was in position, lines were thrown and hauled to the capstans at the fore and aft. The heavy pulse coming from the Echo Rose’s engines wound down as the power was reduced and finally cut. The tug powered itself away from the freighter and vanished across the harbor, leaving behind a white wake.

  “That’s what I call good timing,” Mitchell whispered.

  “Get comfortable. We could be in for a long wait.”

  “Just my luck. All the way to the exotic east and I end up on a backwater jetty staring at a rusty freighter.”

  “Think of it as an educational trip.”

  Mitchell muttered something unintelligible as she settled in for what might turn into a long wait. Surveillance was part of FBI procedure, watching and waiting for something to happen. Often the effort was fruitless, with the expected result failing to occur. Frustration could be the outcome after long hours of inactivity. It was tedious, but necessary. Mitchell would admit to disliking the process. It came with the job and she put up with it.

  More lights had come on across the harbor. Reflections showed on the oily water. Bolan maintained his watch on the ship. A side hatch was opened level with the jetty, and a short gangway pushed out to make contact with the dock. The berthed ship moved gently with the swells of the water. From somewhere within the vessel music from a crackly radio floated on the air. Bilge water was ejected from the outlet pipes. The Echo Rose was at rest.

  Half an hour later several members of the crew emerged, clattering across the gangway onto the dock. Gradually they drifted away from the ship, vanishing in the shadows. Over the next few minutes more men emerged and wandered along the jetty, heading for a few hours’ relaxation. Figures moved about on the deck. Lights gleamed from portholes.

  Bolan had just glanced at his watch. It was almost nine o’clock.

  A stocky figure clad in denim jeans and a gray shirt stood in an open hatch, pausing to light a cigarette. He didn’t seem in any hurry as he walked the gangway down to the jetty. He paused to adjust a bulky leather satchel hanging from his left shoulder. The guy walked slowly away from the ship, turning in the opposite direction to the one used by the rest of the crew members. He was making a failed attempt to appear casual. Bolan leaned forward, watching the man move along the jetty in the direction of the Golden Shark Cannery. He stopped to drop his half-smoked cigarette, grinding it out under the sole of his shoe.

  “Mitchell,” Bolan said softly.

  “I see him. He’s not a great actor. Top marks for appearing suspicious.”

  They watched the man reach the Judas gate set in the cannery’s main door. He worked the latch, pulled the door and stepped inside.

  “Let’s go,” Bolan said.

  They discarded their overcoats.

  Chen slipped out of sight without a word. It had been decided earlier that he would check out the rear of the cannery as a precaution.

  Bolan and Mitchell eased away from their place of concealment and headed for the cannery, keeping tight to the front wall. Bolan had his Glock in his right hand. Close behind him Mitchell eased her own weapon out.

  At the Judas gate Bolan gently raised the latch and eased the door open. He took a long, studied look inside and saw that the main area of the cannery building was in shadow. Machinery stood silent. Stacks of boxes and wire crates filled much of the space. He breathed in the strong odor of fish.

  At the far end of the large building he saw a pool of light and picked up the sound of men talking, a mix of English and Cantonese.

  “Let’s get inside,” he said.

  He widened the gap so he and Mitchell could slip through. Bolan closed the access behind him and they stood for a moment while their vision adjusted to the gloom. They moved through the hulking machinery, closing the gap until they were within twenty feet of the seven men grouped around a long trestle table. The delivery guy was there, smoking again as he watched a man with a jeweler’s loupe to his eye. The man was bent over the mass of diamonds that had been tipped out of the satchel, onto a spread of what looked like black velvet. The spread of uncut stones caught light from the overhead fluorescent tubes. Bolan had rarely seen such a large number of diamonds in one place and could understand
how they were worth the $80 million Kurtzman had quoted.

  The guy with the loupe said something to a man standing next to him. Of the seven three were Caucasian. The rest were East Asian and on guard duty. Three of them were armed with H&K MP-5s. The fourth, more finely dressed, man stood apart. Lau? Bolan wondered.

  Mitchell was close to Bolan. He could hear her soft breathing, feel the press of her shoulder against his.

  “When we go,” he said quietly, “there won’t be time for hesitation. Those shooters will try to take us the minute they see us.”

  “I get the message,” Mitchell said. “Shooters first...”

  Raised voices speaking Cantonese came from the far end of the cannery. The shouts grew closer. Louder.

  Something warned Bolan this interruption was not going to be good. He held Mitchell back.

  Figures stepped into the pool of light around the trestle table holding the diamonds.

  Two armed men pushing a third man in front of them. He had his hands bound in front of him as he stumbled forward, his head down until one of his captors reached out to take a handful of hair and jerk it back.

  He had been beaten hard. His face was bloody and badly swollen. Blood had spilled down his white shirt and the jacket of his suit. Bolan recognized him instantly. It was Andy Chen.

  “What the fuck is going on, Lau?” one of the Caucasian men asked in an American accent. “What gives?” This must be the Hegre group, Bolan realized.

  “We found this man sneaking around the back of the building, Kendrick,” one of Chen’s captors said. He spoke in English for the benefit of the American.

  “You know who he is?” Kendrick asked.

  “Chen is an undercover agent,” another of Lau’s men said in English. “He works for your damn people. Maybe CIA. He buys and sells information. We were told about him by one of our informants. He met two people off a flight from the U.S., a man and a woman.”

  “Son of a bitch. Could be that Cooper guy and the FBI chick.”

  “Who is this man?” Lau asked. “This Cooper?”

  “Someone our principle would love to get her hands on, Mr. Lau,” responded Kendrick.