Executioner searched the office. He wasn’t expecting hard evidence to directly point the finger at the trafficking business. He was just hoping to find something to work with. The desk yielded little of interest. He moved on to the battered wooden filing cabinets standing against one wall. The first held not much more than office stationary. The second had three drawers. Two were empty. The top one had a couple of folders stuffed with invoices. They were all from a company in the U.K. The company, South East Containers, was based near a coastal town that served as a conduit for the container business with Europe. The invoices were dated as far back as a couple of years. Bolan was about to leave the invoices when his attention was caught by the name of the company’s director, printed in a small box at the top of the invoice.
In itself the name wouldn’t mean very much. A legitimate-sounding company. Legitimate-sounding director.
Except that he had just ordered Mack Bolan’s death before walking out of the office.
The director was Paul Chambers.
Bolan folded one of the invoices and slid it into a pocket. As he placed the stack of papers back in the drawer a pale cream envelope he hadn’t noticed slipped from the documents. He picked it up and took a look at the address. It was to the same one that the invoices had been sent. The postmark showed it was at least three months old and mailed from Amsterdam. The envelope held a single sheet of good-quality notepaper. The same color as the envelope, the paper was heavy and embossed. The heading showed it was from a law firm in Rotterdam. The brief text in a smart font was in Dutch. One line indicated a time and date a week earlier. Bolan stared at the note, his eyes checking out the printed name at the bottom of the text.
Ludwig van Ryden. The lawyer Brognola’s information had named.
Small beginnings.
Bolan had long ago learned never to ignore any lead, no matter the initial insignificance. The letter went into his pocket next to the invoice.
Bolan took the SIG-Sauer and the extra magazines. Leaving the office he crossed to the car that had transported him to the warehouse. He made a quick search that netted him nothing. The car was clean. He debated whether to use the vehicle, making a quick decision to leave it where it was. The car might be fitted with a manufacturer’s tracking chip, allowing the opposition pick him up once they realized the vehicle was missing. Bolan decided he would be better off hiring a vehicle himself.
He walked away. It was still raining, the morning overcast. The weather was the least of his concerns. It took him twenty minutes to retrace the route the car had taken. Back on a main thoroughfare he managed to catch a passing cab and asked to be returned to his hotel. Back in his room he stripped off his damp clothing and took a hot shower. Clad in a thick bathrobe he rang room service and ordered a pot of coffee. It arrived quickly and Bolan filled a cup. He had the company invoice and the letter from the man called van Ryden in front of him. He took the pair of cell phones and switched them on. Bickell’s phone listed more than two dozen incoming calls, the majority from the same number. Vandergelt’s phone showed a couple of calls from the same number. The number matched the one on van Ryden’s letterhead.
Bolan activated his phone and called Brognola. His friend’s voice was slurry from sleep when he answered. “You get a kick waking me up?”
“Hal, if you insist on going to bed every night, what can I do?”
The big Fed laughed. Bolan heard him moving around before he spoke again.
“How did the meeting with Bickell go?”
“Interesting. You can scratch him off the list. He was the one who drew your mans into a trap. Had me walk into a setup with a couple of his Dutch buddies. We went to a rendezvous with a Brit named Chambers. He wasn’t too happy with me. Seems your task force was getting close to Venturer Exports. So the hit on your mans was ordered.”
“You mentioned Bickell in the past tense.”
“After Chambers ordered his local heavies to feed me to the fishes matters got a little heated. Venturer Exports is down three employees.”
“Understood. Did you gain any intel?”
“Couple of things. I want you to check into a U.K. company called South East Containers. Director is Paul Chambers. Has to be the same one who wanted me dead. I also found a connection with your lawyer Ludwig van Ryden. Another name for you—Rik Vandergelt. He was one of Chambers’s enforcers. See if there’s anything on the database.”
“Okay. I’ll get right on to it. Striker, you need anything else?”
“Right now, no.”
“Expect a call,” Brognola said.
“I may be on the move.”
“No surprise there.”
BOLAN DRESSED in one of the suits he had brought with him. He tucked the SIG-Sauer in his belt and buttoned his jacket. From a leather case he took a couple of printed business cards Brognola had provided. They showed Bolan as an executive from a computer software company based in Maryland. It was a fictitious company located at a nonexistent address. The telephone and e-mail contacts would route any caller to an automatic response that would accept the call and promise a return response. Bolan placed the cards in his wallet. He called the front desk and asked for a cab to take him to the Hofpoort district of the city. It was in the business center of Rotterdam. Ludwig van Ryden’s office was located there.
Bolan dropped his damp clothes into a plastic bag and took them down with him, asking for them to be cleaned and pressed. His cab was already waiting when he emerged from the hotel. The weather had brightened, the rain had stopped. The Executioner settled back for the journey, planning ahead for his anticipated rendezvous with Ludwig van Ryden.
THE OFFICE BLOCK was one of a number in the neat plaza. The notice board outside told him van Ryden occupied a suite on the sixth floor. Bolan made his way toward the entrance, pausing briefly to switch off his phone. Brognola had called during the cab ride to inform him that Ludwig van Ryden was one of the key names on the task-force database. His association with individuals within the trafficking business was known to the force, but they had nothing they could move on with certainty. The man was sharp. His reputation as a lawyer who worked very closely with human rights groups made it difficult to nail. The slightest hint of any possible move against him brought instant and vociferous agitation from influential members of the Dutch establishment. The big Fed provided information that van Ryden had made a number of visits to the U.K. where he had meetings with Paul Chambers and Hugo Canfield.
“Rik Vandergelt is known to Interpol. He served a couple of prison terms a few years back. Since his last incarceration he’s managed to stay out of jail. Seems he got himself a hotshot lawyer. Name of van Ryden.”
“Keeping it in the family,” Bolan said.
The Executioner stepped through the glass doors of the office block, hearing them swish shut behind him. He crossed the art-deco lobby and smiled pleasantly at the young woman behind the expansive reception desk.
“Do I need to sign in?” he asked, placing his hands on the marble-topped counter. “My first visit to Rotterdam. I guess I’m still finding my way around.”
The receptionist observed the tall, good-looking man, noting the intense blue eyes and the genuine smile. His voice was deep and a little unsettling. His steady gaze, appreciating her blond beauty, took her by surprise. She was not accustomed to such intimate scrutiny.
