detonated. He looked Asian. Just thought I’d pass that along.”
“Thanks. As I said, the FBI’s sending a team to Mexico to interview the Cuban. I thought maybe you two could stick around and give them a hand.”
“Give them a hand?” Grimaldi repeated with an exaggerated groan. “What does that mean?”
“See if the guy’s legit, for one thing,” Brognola said. “We know the Cubans have been working hand in hand with the cartels for years, smuggling drugs. With these new normalized relations with Havana, we’re going to need all the intel we can gather to keep on top of things.”
“We’ll need a better cover,” Bolan stated. “We were down here as ‘civilian contractors’ assisting the marines, remember?”
“I’ll have your usual DOJ credentials flown down to the embassy tonight.”
Tocumen International Airport
Panama City, Panama
Colonel Yi flipped shut the fake Chinese passport and placed it into his pocket as he waited for his luggage to clear customs. The rest of the Black Tiger team was going through customs, as well. Yi directed one of his men to take charge of the bags and strolled leisurely outside to stand in the nighttime air. He scanned his surroundings, looking for any possible foreign agents or police who might be suspicious of an arriving group of Asians. Their passports listed them as Chinese, a Hong Kong acrobatic team, which explained their elaborate equipment. And to the untrained eyes of the Panamanians, the distinctions between Koreans and Chinese would be indistinguishable.
Seeing no telltale prying eyes, Yi removed a cigarette pack from his pocket. He shook one out, placed it between his lips and lit it as he moved to a position of modest seclusion under a high concrete arch. Exhaling a cloud of smoke, Yi casually took out his satellite phone and called Song.
“We have arrived in Panama,” Yi said in Chinese, to maintain his team’s cover.
“Did you encounter any problems?” General Song asked, also in Chinese.
“None so far. We are clearing customs and waiting for our local contact to pick us up. We will then obtain the rest of our equipment. Are the ships in position?”
“Their arrival is imminent.” Song cleared his throat, which Yi knew was a bad sign. “However, there has been an unforeseen complication. The meeting in Mexico did not go well. Apparently, the Americans and some of their Mexican puppets interceded.”
Yi considered that. “How much damage was done?”
“Sergeant Kwon acquitted himself most admirably, from what I’ve been told. He fought back gallantly and blew up the plane containing the others before the majority of the principles could be identified or captured.”
“So the Iranians were not discovered?”
“Apparently not,” Song said. “But the briefcase with the money was.”
Yi knew that the Iranians had plenty of money to spend, so that was of little concern to him so long as the Americans did not link the money to Iran. It was, however, yet another reminder of the complexity of the plan—so many individual moving parts each dependent upon the other for the proper execution of purpose.
“Two prisoners were taken,” Song said. “One is a simpleton guard, who has already been dealt with.” He paused and exhaled loudly. “The other is one of the Cubans.”
This information concerned Yi. He said nothing, awaiting further information.
“It seems,” Song continued, “that this Cuban is withholding information at this time, so he can negotiate with the Americans. I have the information as to where he is being held. You must send the Black Dragon to silence him immediately.”
Yi was not thrilled about sending his best man to effect an assassination in an unfamiliar land, but still, the Dragon had accomplished such difficult tasks before on foreign soil. Yi decided he would send a Black Tiger with the Dragon. It would impinge upon the operational effectiveness of his own assignment in Panama, but two men would assure success. While it wasn’t certain how much the Cuban knew, or even if any early disclosure about the missiles would upset the delicate timetable, it was far better to leave nothing to chance.
“It will be done, sir,” Yi said. “And what of Kim Soo-Han? All goes well with the American?”
The other man chuckled. “Of course. That part of the plan is my least concern.”
Punta de las Sueños
Culiacán, Sinaloa, Mexico
JAMES HUDSON STOOD by the bed with the phone, watching the woman stroll around the room in her high heels and one of his white shirts, unbuttoned. The sight delighted him, even as he listened to the repetitive instructions from Dr. Phillip McGreagor over the cell phone.
“Remember,” McGreagor said, “we’re pulling out all the stops on this one. Besides employees, we’ll be hosting investors of all sorts, most of whom are accustomed to having their every whim satisfied. Am I making myself clear?”
“Absolutely,” Hudson said, watching as his companion plucked ice cubes from the plastic bucket and dropped them, one by one, into the two glasses.
“And make sure you’ve hired enough local police to maintain security down there,” McGreagor said. “We can’t afford to have anything untoward happen.”
The hotel was set on the beach, well away from the ramshackle houses of the nearby town. The beach and the grounds were patrolled by uniformed security carrying weapons. Hudson was sure of all this because he had already figured out a way to defeat all the measures. “I’ve gone over everything down here, sir,” he said. “Believe me, it’s tighter than a drum.”
Hudson heard McGreagor sigh. “And have you made arrangements for the...entertainment? A couple of these high rollers have exotic tastes.”
Exotic... The word fitted his companion to a T, he thought as she ambled back toward him, a glass of gin in each hand, the open front of the shirt giving him more than an eyeful of her stunning cleavage, her tight abdomen.
“Did you hear me?” McGreagor asked, his voice imbued with the customary irritation and truculence that set Hudson’s teeth on edge.
“Yes, Doctor,” Hudson said, figuring that the mention of the man’s PhD would stroke his ego enough to lessen the customary chastisement.
“Well, then, say something, dammit. You know I hate it when you don’t answer.”
Hudson frowned as he accepted the drink, so angry at the long-distance criticism that he felt like throwing the glass against the wall. But he didn’t. There would be time, later, to deal with this unctuous, demanding prick of a boss.
“I’ll make sure the hookers are first-class,” Hudson said.
“Dammit! Watch what you say. You never know who’s listening.”
“Sorry,
