Dragon's Den

“How’s it going?” a deep voice asked behind her.

Price jumped, then whirled in her chair. She felt her face flush. “What the hell is wrong with you? You scared the be-jeebers out of me!”

Aaron Kurtzman drew back his head and raised his arms. Her uncharacteristic reaction didn’t dawn on her immediately, but when it did she reeled back her temper and offered him an apologetic smile. She hadn’t meant to bark at him like that. Kurtzman had turned out to be her closest friend and confidant, which wasn’t surprising, since they spent many hours together at the Farm.

Kurtzman noticed her sheepish grin and accepted it as her way of apologizing. “My, my…Someone’s jumpy.”

“Not jumpy,” she replied, shaking her head. She looked back at the screen and sighed. “Just frustrated that I can’t figure this all out.”

“Well, I just came in to let you know Hal’s back from Wonderland, and he’s chomping at the bit.”

“Probably more like chomping at his unlit cigar,” Price said as she rose and scooped the computer printouts from the desk.

Kurtzman chuckled, then moved his wheelchair aside so Price could walk past. The click-clack of her heels reverberated off the walls of the hallway that eventually led to the underground tunnel connecting the Annex and the farmhouse. An electric car facilitated a faster transit time, but Price elected to walk the distance to clear her head, as well as to visit with Kurtzman.

“Any word from Striker?” she asked.

“Not since I talked to him earlier tonight.”

“Actually, that was last night,” Price reminded him with a wry grin.

“Touché.” Kurtzman cleared his throat. “I take it the data I sent you wasn’t that helpful.”

“It’s not the data, Bear,” she replied. “It’s my interpretation skills that seem to be off on this one. I can’t make heads or tails of this thing.”

“Well, maybe once you get it all out we can come up with something solid enough for Mack to work with.”

Her voice seemed weaker as she replied. “Maybe.”

They made the remainder of the trip in silence and within five minutes they were seated with Brognola in the War Room. The atmosphere actually made Price feel a little better, but it also caused her to realize how exhausted she really was. She hadn’t slept in more than twenty-four hours.

The Stony Man chief smiled at her, but she could see something deeper beneath the surface. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Brognola said. “At least nothing I want to get into right now. What have you got?”

“I wish I could say lots, but unfortunately I don’t know how much more I can tell you than you probably already know from reading Aaron’s intelligence.”

“Just lay it out for me and let’s see where it takes us,” Brognola said.

“Sure. Well, to start with it would seem Striker was right about the Golden Triangle as being our most likely source for this opium and heroin. Its opium production exceeds four thousand metric tons annually, and Myanmar remains the largest contributor to that overall. In fact, Myanmar could probably satisfy the majority of world demand for heroin, which equates to about two hundred metric tons uncut.”

Kurtzman whistled his surprise. “That’s some serious dope.” When Brognola and Price cast askance glances at him, he added, “No pun intended.”

Price continued, “Opium production was pretty much a closed market based on geography up until about a decade ago.”

“What changed?” Brognola asked.

“Mostly?” She shrugged. “Profit motive, I’d say. The various producers who had control of their regional territories decided they could all make more money if they pooled their resources in shipment and distribution. Since most of the north Asian and Middle East countries took second place when it came to places like Myanmar, they opted to defer to the Triangle for help and let them call the shots. Most of the product is now shipped into Taiwan and Vietnam, or smuggled south to Indochina, where it’s processed, packaged and exported. Mostly to the West.”

“Not that Southeast Asia doesn’t have its share of heroin addicts,” Kurtzman interjected.

“Of course,” Brognola said. “But the difference is many of the users there who get hooked are the same ones actually helping pick the crop. It’s how they make their living.”

“And others manage to make their living by getting our kids and politicians and educators hooked on the stuff,” Price said. “Like Hal said, it’s mostly an economic way of life for those people. Third World countries regionally cultivate poppy with scant interference from legal or political entities, and in some cases no interference. Central and South American countries, and places like Lebanon, are no longer the up-and-comers of poppy production like most people believe. Vietnam, for example, cultivates more than three thousand hectares of opium poppy plants regularly. Only because they don’t have the distribution system to support it do they have to funnel the majority of the product up through Taiwan and out of China.”

“Okay, so I’d hazard a guess and say it’s safe to assume Striker’s on the money about the source of these drugs,” Brognola said.

“I would agree with him one hundred percent,” Price replied with a nod.

“Any ideas on who’s behind it?”

“That’s been sort of the gotcha,” Price said. “There are any numbers of known overlords running the drug trade in the Golden Triangle. They’re all big names and, as of late, all seem to remain untouched by any form of recognized law enforcement over there.”

“Well, we’ve pretty much come to the consensus that the drugs are sourced in Myanmar. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find out who’s running things there and give that intelligence to Striker so he can act on it.”

“That’s the trouble,” Price said. “We don’t know whose operation it is anymore. Sung Suun was the man in charge up until about a year ago when he was killed during a police raid of his business holdings in downtown Pyinmana. Many of his competitors guess Suun’s own underlings actually murdered him, at his request, because he didn’t want to allow the authorities to capture him.”

“Nice,” Kurtzman said. “How did they cook up that theory?”

“I remember that,” Brognola answered. “Our own intelligence people figured it was probably a publicity stunt more than anything else. They figured his little drug empire would hold together better if he went down as a martyr.”

“And unfortunately,” Price added, “nobody was left to contradict the stories of his ‘heroic sacrifice,’ since the punishment for drug trafficking over there is death. As soon as a trafficker’s convicted, they take him out and put a bullet in the back of his head.”

“Sounds like we could learn a lesson or two from Myanmar’s government,” Kurtzman replied.

“Hardly,” Brognola replied with a snort. “Most of the public officials over there are just as corrupt as the dealers and drug lords.”

Price nodded. “It’s true. Whether anybody wants to admit it or not, drugs are a huge source of revenue for these people. They’ll never get fair prices from the majority of the countries to which they export legitimate goods and services, and most American companies who farm out cheap labor to that side of the world do so because the standards for work conditions and facilities aren’t nearly as stringent as they are here.”

“That almost sounds liberal, Barb,” Kurtzman said. “I’m surprised. I always took you for a conservative.”

“I’m for the truth, which is what that is…right, wrong or indifferent.”

“Okay, so Suun’s dead,” Brognola said with irritation evident in his voice. “What’s our alternative?”

“That’s where I’m totally stumped,” Price said. “Under normal circumstances we would have discovered who Suun’s replacement was and had our contacts keep tabs on him. But with the civil unrest that’s taken place over there the past couple of years, we’ve had to cope with distractions on a wider scale. That’s overshadowed our operations and made it much more difficult to keep our finger on the pulse of what’s actually happening in Myanmar.”

“Alternatives?” Brognola asked.

Price cleared her throat. “Well, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to bring this up, but I figure it can’t hurt to put anything and everything on the table at this point. One explanation might be that Myanmar is no longer the central point of production and distribution.”

“Explain,” Brognola replied quietly, furrowing his eyebrows.

Price reached to the printouts she’d brought and went right to a document halfway through the stack. “According to DEA statistics for just last year, America has a heroin-user population of more than two million people. That kind of demand has caused a sharp increase in opium imports. The primary crackdown area as far as the DEA is concerned has always been South American countries. Thus, most of our budget goes to operations there. That leaves the Southeast Asian heroin market wide-open. Most of drugs from the Golden Triangle come in through either maritime smuggling, mules over commercial flights or mail. The volume is simply too much for U.S. Customs agents to handle alone, and they aren’t getting much support from other agencies.”

Kurtzman shook his head. “Seems these days everyone’s way more worried about bombs and anthrax coming through the mail than dope.”

“Agreed,” Brognola replied. “So where do you think we should focus our efforts, Barb?”

“Well, a good number of those export maritime operations come out of places like Borneo, Sumatra and so forth. That accounts for almost fifteen percent of our total oil and gas, electrical appliances, textiles and rubber imports. Hardly anything comes from Myanmar. For lack of any other evidence, I think we should be looking at Indonesia, specifically Jakarta.”

“All right, start seeing what you can do about getting Striker a contact there.” He turned to Kurtzman. “Bear, touch base with Cowboy and see if he has any friends left who might be able to help us out. I’d prefer not to go through official channels if we don’t have to.”

“I’m on it,” Kurtzman said, and immediately wheeled himself out of the room.

Price and Brognola sat in silence a minute before Price said, “You want to let me in?”

“On what?” Brognola replied. He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, withdrew a cigar and stuck it between his teeth.

“Don’t be coy,” Price replied. “What’s going on, Hal?”

“Nothing, just a usual earful from the President.” Brognola shrugged. “I guess he wasn’t entirely happy about all the noise Striker’s making. Apparently, he stepped on pretty big toes when he ran into that pair from Homeland Security.”

“Striker can handle himself,” Price reminded the Stony Man chief. “I don’t think he considers them much of a threat.”

“No, but the President’s a bit close to this one because Simon Lipinski’s daughter was killed. He wants results and he wants them quick, and he especially doesn’t want to have a discussion about it. The last thing I need is for him to rag on me about Striker’s thunderous, albeit effective, methods.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it, Hal,” Price said as she rose from her chair. “Striker’s there to get the job done and he’ll come away with results. Whether the President likes it or not is irrelevant. We go through this almost every time. I’ve never seen you quite this affected by it. Did something else happen?”

“There are…Damn.”

Price watched as something fell in Brognola’s countenance. His face went pale, the expression morose, and light playing on those gaunt features and ghostly complexion aged him a good twenty years in the blink of an eye. Price had never seen him look more drawn and defeated than just in that moment, and it caused her heart to feel as if it might leap right up to her throat and lodge there.

Price swallowed hard. “My God, Hal. What is it?”

“The President received several official recommendations from members within his staff that he cease all sensitive operations outside of those conducted by sanctioned federal agencies.”

“The President would never do that. I’m sure you can see that. I couldn’t count on my fingers and toes the people who know about the Farm. Even the blacksuits aren’t entirely aware of what goes on here. And how would these individuals even know about Stony Man anyway?”

“I don’t think they do know,” Brognola said. “Call it an educated guess, a fishing expedition. Maybe it’s just a reactionary move, a political reach for lack of any other real control on the Oval Office. My guess is they’re little more than lackeys riding on the coattails of some oversight committee member, and they’re jockeying for position by calling out any discrepancy they can find.”

Price shrugged and took her seat. “It all sounds like the standard cutthroat politics of Washington, D.C. I don’t know why you’re getting so worked up about it.”

“Mainly because the Man said he’s officially giving the proposal serious consideration.”

Price caught her breath. “What?”

“It’s true,” Brognola said. “I had it checked out with my best sources.”

“You have ears inside the White House?”

“Unfortunately, espionage is a necessary evil in this business.” He lowered his voice, and added, “You of all people can probably understand that. We live in a time where you have to know where you might have enemies. While our operations remain mostly clandestine, there are occasions where Stony Man’s security has been compromised. In those cases the lives of our people can become forfeit, and I won’t allow that to happen. We’ve had our operations compromised before and it resulted in terrible, terrible losses. I won’t let it happen again if it’s at all in my power.”

“But why?” Price asked. For the first time she could remember in a very long time, she felt helpless. “We haven’t given him any reason to disband Stony Man.”

“He’s the President. He doesn’t need one.”

Price swallowed hard. “This doesn’t make any sense, Hal.”

“None of it makes sense,” Brognola replied. “For now, I want you to keep this quiet. Nobody’s to know we had this conversation, including Striker. At least not until I’ve had some time to think about it. Is that clear?”

“It’s clear.” Price stood once more. “I’d better get to work. We need to put together some additional intelligence. We should be hearing from Striker soon.”

She started to turn, then thought better of it, stopped and put her hand gently on Brognola’s forearm. “This will all turn out okay, Hal. Trust me.”

6

“This isn’t going to work,” Rhonda Amherst told the Executioner.

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