been on a flight to Australia in three hours.
From there it had a bewildering tour of cities around Southeast Asia. He’d picked up the high-rolling scientist’s trail in Port Moresby and had missed him by three hours in Manila. From there, Bolan had passed through the glitter of Hong Kong, Tokyo and Bangkok, until they all blurred together in swaths of neon and steel, mirrored skyscrapers and plush hotels. Every time he landed, he was just one step behind the man. Along the way, he’d crossed paths and swords with men and women from British and Russian intelligence, as well as at least two hit teams, one from North Korea and a Chinese group. Brognola and Bolan figured they wanted the scientist dead before he could reveal China’s sales of enriched plutonium and other nuclear material to the regime.
This luxury hotel was the best lead and the closest he’d been to Dae-jung so far.
The soldier finished his sweep and found an unoccupied table at the bar, ordering a ginger ale from the server who magically appeared at his elbow. “I’ve canvassed the entire casino floor. Plenty of whales swimming in this ocean, but Dae-jung isn’t one of them.”
His words were transmitted through a tiny, flesh-colored microphone glued to the base of his jaw. They were then sent through a relay of satellites back to Stony Man Farm in Virginia, and the gruff answering voice of Hal Brognola came back to him through an equally tiny earpiece in his right ear. Both communication devices were slaved to the smartphone holstered at his belt, which provided power and a signal boost as well as high-level encryption for both sides of the conversation, ensuring no eavesdroppers.
“If he’s not there, he’s probably in his room. Have you identified any hostiles on-site yet?”
“None I can see—if they are around, they’re staying out of view.”
Brognola chuckled. “Easier for them than you, eh, Striker?”
Even through his fatigue, Bolan smiled. “Yeah—unless I’m crouching, it’s hard for me to blend in. Do we know which room he’s in? There are a lot of suites in the hotel, and I’d rather not kick in the wrong door if I can help it.”
“Akira says a man matching Dae-jung’s description is staying in the Chairman Suite on the fifty-fourth floor. He’s working on getting you access to the secure elevators as we speak.”
Bolan drained his ginger ale in one long drink and set the empty glass on the table. “Tell Akira he’s got about three minutes to open those doors.” Rising, he walked toward the casino’s main doors, which slid open at his approach, the air-conditioned comfort giving way to the oppressive mugginess of Singapore at the beginning of monsoon season. The air was thick and humid, and Bolan quickened his pace across the pedestrian bridge. “The vehicle I requested is in place?”
“In the parking ramp, ground floor, space A3.”
“So all I have to do is head up there, drag Dae-jung out of his hidey-hole, bring him down with me, get to our vehicle and drive to the airport.”
“When you say it, Striker, it sounds almost reasonable. Sorry we couldn’t do anything about getting you a sidearm before you went over.”
Bolan shrugged, missing the familiar weight of his Desert Eagle under his arm. “If this guy’s traveling with the entourage you say he is, I doubt it would get past his bodyguards, and since I’m supposed to be doing this on the down low, well, the .44 is a bit conspicuous. Don’t worry—I’m sure I’ll think of something.”
“Whenever you say that, that’s exactly when I start worrying.” Bolan heard crunching in his ear and grinned, knowing Brognola had just popped one of his ever-present antacid tablets into his mouth. “However you manage to get him out, just don’t create an incident with the Singaporean government. It’s bad enough we snuck you in. I’d hate to see us trying to extradite you from one of their prisons.”
“Thanks for the pep talk.” Bolan entered the main lobby of the Marina Bay, which was decorated to look like a jungle oasis had sprung up in the middle of the huge room, with palm trees and bright orchids and ferns growing inside a walled garden, complete with a twenty-foot waterfall. The rest of the room was modern, covered in exotic hardwoods and marble.
“Okay, walk straight through the lobby and take a right on the far side. The private elevators to the towers will be straight ahead.” The voice in his ear was younger and quicker, and Bolan could hear the tinny beat of the constant rock music Stony Man Farm’s computer hacker, Akira Tokaido, always listened to when on the job.
“You get that pass worked out yet?” he asked.
“I’ve almost got it. The security suite in this place is impressive, and coming from me, that’s saying something,” Tokaido said.
Bolan reached the far end of the room and turned right as instructed. Two sets of gleaming, stainless-steel elevator doors faced him several yards away. Not breaking stride, he headed for them. “Five yards away, Akira. You better type faster.”
“Don’t you worry, I’m on it.” When Bolan was a step away from the nearest set of doors, they slid soundlessly open.
He stepped into a cylinder large enough to hold a dozen people. The doors closed behind him, and the button for floor 57 lit up. The elevator began ascending so smoothly Bolan could hardly tell it was moving. “They spared no expense for this place.”
“Yeah. Too bad you won’t have a chance to catch a meal there. The restaurants are supposed to be terrific.”
Bolan watched the floor numbers tick off. “You’ll have to tell me all about it when you’re here.”
“On my salary? Hardly. Okay, you’re coming up to it. The suite will be to the right, the second door on your left. It’ll be easy to spot—it’s the one with the two bodyguards out front.”
“He couldn’t have taken a suite near the elevator, could he?”
“Come on. You wouldn’t want this to be too easy, would you? I’m cutting in an empty loop of the security camera on that floor. You know how you’re gonna get inside?”
“I’ll figure something out.” The elevator chimed softly, announcing he’d reached his destination. Bolan stepped out and looked both ways down the hall. Sure enough, two massive men wearing tuxedoes stood at ease in front of the second door on the left. Bolan headed straight for them.
The pair eyed him as he approached, their postures turning from relaxed to alert the closer he got. Bolan stopped in front of the nearer one, a Samoan man built like a mountain, with dark skin and black hair falling in ringlets to his shoulders. Despite his head-crushing demeanor, his voice was smooth and polite, with a hint of British prep school in it. “May I help you?”
Bolan decided to return the politeness. “I’m here to see Dr. Kim Dae-jung.”
The bodyguards exchanged glances, and the far one turned to face Bolan, stepping in front of the door. “I’m afraid there is no one inside by that name. Perhaps you have the wrong room.”
Bolan held his arms out enough so the hired muscle could see he wasn’t packing. “Relax, guys, I’m not carrying. If you’ll allow me…” He took out a slim leather billfold and flipped it open. “Matt Cooper, U.S. State Department. Now I know Dr. Dae-jung is inside, and all I’ll need is a few minutes of his time.” Bolan and Brognola had come up with the State Department cover
