Human trafficking on a big scale. Working out of Europe and serving the needs of clients in Europe and the U.S. Striker, this is as nasty as it gets. These people are running a virtual slave trade. Men, women and even kids.” Brognola pointed at the slim briefcase he was carrying. “I have the whole dossier in here. Details the perps. Their locations. Right now the operation has stalled because there’s some concern how deep infiltration might have gone. The whole thing is on hold. And while that happens the suspects are still operating. Evidence against them is all suspicion but no substance. Nowhere near enough to even haul anyone in. It’s a big organization. Run by an influential head honcho with top-class protection. Hugo Canfield. British citizen. He has a hotshot lawyer with an impeccable record standing behind him. Dutch man called Ludwig van Ryden. And he uses that man every time one of his clients even gets a parking ticket.”
“What do you need, Hal?”
“Someone without ties to any part of the task force. A clean slate. No allegiances. Nothing that connects.” The big Fed paused. “And someone who can leave the book of rules at home.”
Brognola opened his case and extracted a thick folder. He handed it to Bolan. “We can see the end result of this business, Striker. What those bastards do to people. I want to reach the head and cut it off. The task force has its hands tied right now and I’m damn tired of the restrictions holding us back. If I had my way I’d go in all guns blazing but I’d have to fight bureaucracy first and last. I need a lever. Something I can use to force the game into the open.”
“Where would I start?”
“Our dead agents had an informant. Part of the organization but he convinced our mans he wanted to quit and was willing to cooperate. Name of Wilhelm Bickell. Based in Rotterdam, where the traffickers are said to have what Bickell called a distribution point. We don’t know if that’s true because our mans were killed before they got that information to us. All we have is a cell phone contact number for him.”
“It’s thin,” Bolan said. “But I’ve started with less.” He weighed the folder in his hand. “I’ll need credentials. Anything else you can conjure up.”
Brognola nodded. “No problem.” He tapped the folder. “The phrase read it and weep applies pretty well here, Striker.”
THE EXECUTIONER SPENT most of the day going through the contents of the explicit data. It covered suspects, the trafficking group known as Venturer Exports and its head, Hugo Canfield. Its grip on human trafficking was widespread and from the text of the reports Bolan became aware of the callous indifference of the people running the enterprise. The hub for Venturer Exports was mainland Europe and the U.K. Its market was worldwide and even Mack Bolan, well versed in the evil manifested through man’s indifference to human suffering, was forced to sit back and take a moment’s respite. It appeared that the practice of slavery was still thriving. From his reading it seemed that the majority of victims involved came from those ravaged parts of the world where recent conflicts had created rich hunting grounds for the traffickers. They scavenged through Asian and Eastern European countries, snatching people off the streets, collecting them from holding camps. The countless numbers of displaced people were seldom missed. Officials were paid off, heads turned and no questions asked. The victims were bundled into containers and taken by road, across borders where money replaced transit visas, and the human cargo was waved through without an inspection. The final destination of the converging containers appeared to be Rotterdam, and from there the merchandise was sent to whichever market placed its order.
The slaves provided cheap labor for sweatshops, for service industries, where the employers held the workers illegally. They were in foreign countries without proper papers, earning little money and constantly under the threat of violence if they made any kind of protest. Young women, chosen for their good looks, were channeled into the many-tentacled sex industry, from making adult movies to working the streets. And there was the ever-present shadow of the drug business in the background. The data Brognola had provided included photographs that emphasized the ever-present dangers encroaching on the lives of the traffickers’ victims. The sick, the dying and the dead. Drug affliction. The punishment meted out to a victim who had rebelled. Or those who simply succumbed to the pitiful life forced on them.
Read it and weep.
Brognola’s words had not been far from the truth. Venturer Exports and the men profiting from it had to be stopped. The Executioner was onboard.
2
Wilhelm Bickell, average height, near-bald head glistening from the rain, hunched his shoulders beneath the long raincoat. Bolan recognized him from the photograph in the folder Brognola had provided. The image had been taken from a distance, but it was not difficult to identify the man. Bickell had an extraordinarily plain face. His outstanding feature was his large, crooked nose supporting a pair of heavy eyeglasses. According to the intelligence relating to the man, Bickell was a fixer for Venturer Exports. The detail provided by Turner and Bentley had him down as dissatisfied with his position. A disgruntled employee passed over by his superiors, tired of being treated as mere hired help. He was supposedly ready to turn against them for the simple emotion of revenge. The two agents had nurtured his feelings, fueling his resentment. They had been preparing Bickell as an aide in gaining possession of evidence that might have turned the task-force investigation to a positive outcome. That hope died after they had been lured into a meeting, taken captive and tortured savagely before being killed.
The Executioner kept those thoughts in mind as he stepped away from the café door and crossed the sidewalk to where Bickell was standing.
“Wilhelm Bickell? I’m Cooper.”
Bickell nodded.
Bolan took his hand from his coat pocket and palmed the leather wallet holding the U.S. Justice Department badge Brognola had supplied. Next to the badge, beneath a plastic cover was a laminated card with Bolan’s picture and cover name on it.
Bickell’s eyes, magnified by the lenses of his glasses, examined the big American’s face. The only contact he had had with Bolan was over the phone, arranging the meet. He recognized the voice.
“This is not a very satisfactory way for us to meet, you understand. Ja?”
“Under the circumstances I was given little choice. Turner and Bentley didn’t leave much in the way of contact details. You remember them, don’t you?”
Bickell visibly stiffened. Red spots colored his pale cheeks.
“Of course I remember them. We were working together. Am I under suspicion concerning their deaths? Perhaps you are not aware of the risk I took even associating with them. My own life is in danger now.”
“We’re all in a risky position, Bickell. I came to Rotterdam to try and pick up where the others left off. Are you willing to continue cooperating?”
“Of course,” Bickell said. “I am ready to help any way I can.”
A little too quickly, Bolan thought. Slow down, Bickell, you’re making yourself obvious.
“We should walk,” Bickell suggested. “I really feel I am being watched. You understand? Ja?”
“Let’s go,” Bolan said.
Bickell led the way along the sidewalk. The rain and the early hour had reduced the number of pedestrians. They walked for a few hundred feet before Bickell paused at the mouth of a side street. His hesitation warned Bolan, but for the present he played along.
“There
