with a prisoner.”
Brognola grunted an approval. “One of the buyers?”
“Affirmative,” Bolan said. “And he speaks Farsi.”
Brognola swore. “That’s not good. If the Chinese are exporting technology to Iran it could mean big trouble.”
“For what it’s worth, I don’t think the Chinese government’s involved. If they were, I doubt they’d be using a channel like the Triads.”
“True,” Brognola said. “But it no doubt points to some high level corruption in the PLA.”
Bolan had considered that possibility, as well. Corruption was rampant in China, especially in the government. Having access to the guidance system for an advanced missile would mean somebody who was pretty high up the food chain was complicit.
“Anyway,” Brognola said, clearing his throat. “I’m glad you intercepted it. Good work. So how you doing?”
Bolan smiled in spite of his fatigue. The sound of Brognola shifting gears meant the other shoe was about to drop. “I could use a couple hours’ sleep, but what have you got?”
Brognola laughed, but it sounded forced. “Can’t put nothing over on you, can I?” He cleared his throat again. “Since you got that one about wrapped up, you feel up to another mission?”
Bolan paused as he felt exhaustion seeping through him.
Brognola seemed to take his hesitation as reticence. “I mean, since you’re in the neighborhood and all.”
“Can the Mr. Rogers imitation. What’ve you got?”
Brognola sighed. “You ever hear of a Chinese dissident called Han, Son Chu, aka Sammo Han?”
“Sammo Han,” Bolan said. “Isn’t he that one-armed lawyer?”
“Lawyer, activist, blogging sensation and darling of the free press.”
“Free press?” Bolan said with a chuckle. “In China?”
“The world press, as well. Anyway, he was placed under house arrest two days ago.” Brognola paused and then emitted what sounded like a grunt of pain or pleasure. Bolan imagined him taking a long sip of some of Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman’s god-awful coffee. Bolan drank some of his own coffee and found it weak by comparison.
“Anyway, seems that Sammo Han’s not only a celebrity on the world stage, he’s also valuable to the USA. But word is, the People’s Standing Committee is set to charge him with sedition, lock him up and throw away the key.”
“After they give him a fair trial, you mean.”
“If he even gets to a trial. Most likely he’ll be conveniently killed trying to resist arrest. That Agency team was sent to do an emergency evac from Beijing for him and his family.”
Which was why, Bolan thought, they had no one to follow up on the Iranian/Triad deal, and I had to fill in. “This Sammo Han must have some very valuable intel.”
“Well,” Brognola continued, “everything was set until the team leader, Wayne Tressman, got pinched. He’s in a Chinese prison in Song Jing. Just outside the capital.”
Bolan frowned and thought about the unpleasant prospects of an American intelligence officer being in the custody of the Chinese.
“Any progress through diplomatic channels?”
“So far, the Chinese aren’t even acknowledging that they have him,” Brognola said. “The rest of the team’s still in place, but they’re kind of green and they haven’t made a move yet. I need somebody I can count on to go there and give me a sitrep. Interested?”
Bolan blew out a slow breath. “We talking about a jail break?”
“If the diplomats fail.”
Bolan sighed. “When do they ever succeed?”
Brognola barked another laugh. Two forced laughs in a single conversation. This was getting serious.
“All right,” Bolan said. “When do I leave for Beijing?”
“Aaron’s got you on a flight leaving in four hours.”
“Pretty sure I was going to say yes, weren’t you?”
Brognola snorted. “Let’s just say I had a real strong hunch.”
“Yeah, well if you get any new hunches about the Powerball jackpot,” Bolan said, “buy an extra ticket for me.”
“Hey, that’s not all.”
“You’ve got more good news?”
“Sure do,” Brognola said. “I’ve got help on the way.”
“Who?”
“Grimaldi.”
“Jack?” It was Bolan’s turn to chuckle. “I thought you said you were sending help? Talk about importing a bull into a China shop.”
“Well, he won’t get there for a while. He’s traveling commercial.”
“I pity the pilots.”
“So do I,” Brognola said. “You two will be there as sports journalists covering the World Asia Track and Field Games, not to mention that boxing match a couple of days later. The Chinese world champion is making his professional debut in Shanghai. That should give you guys the run of the place, not to mention a chance to see the fight.”
“Well, for the record,” Bolan said, “I’d settle for a couple cold ones in front of a big flat screen in Vegas.”
Brognola barked a final laugh before his voice took on a more serious tone. “Hey, Striker.”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for never letting me down.”
Beijing
GENERAL WONG SU TONG of the People’s Liberation Army stepped out of the jeep and told the underling to wait for him. He was perhaps one block from the entrance to the Forbidden City. The general carried himself with his customary military bearing, proud of the image he projected: a well-built man with the aplomb and power of a professional solider. He worked hard to maintain his sleek, iron physique—despite being in his early fifties—and kept his hair dyed jet-black. A solemn yet serene expression was on his face, even though the icy fingers of incipient and nagging panic were pinching their way up and down his spine.
He hated these subterfuges, these clandestine meetings that Chen insisted upon, but he also understood their necessity. Wong was no stranger to treachery. He knew full well that despite his exalted position in the Central Military Committee, spies were watching his every move. Several members of the all-powerful Standing Committee, who smiled to his face, would love to stick a knife between his ribs if the opportunity presented itself. And if they ever found evidence of his covert dealings, those knives
