China Crisis

“Yes, sir, Mr. Townsend. Understood. I might not be too smart with finance operations, but I know how to take orders.”

Townsend visibly relaxed. “Fine. Vic, can you make room for Hawkins?”

“Sure. Plenty of spare rooms in the bunkhouse.”

“Get him some clothes and whatever he needs. Hawkins, there’s something coming up shortly. You can handle it with Vic. Let’s see if you’re as good as your rap sheet says.”

When Hawkins and Lerner left the office, Townsend turned to Ralph Chomski, who had been standing quietly to one side, observing. “Do the usual, Ralph. Keep an eye on him. See if he does anything we should be suspicious of. If he behaves himself, fine. If there’s anything, anything, that doesn’t sit right, you know what to do.”

“Oh, I know what to do,” Chomski said, his mood lightening at the thought.

“Now let’s have Mr. Kibble in here. I have a feeling I’m not going to be too happy with what he has to tell me.”

Chomski left the room. He was back a couple of minutes later, accompanied by a sandy-haired man in his early forties. Townsend indicated a seat in front of his desk.

“You have a good flight?”

The man nodded, his expression indicating he was in no mood for small talk.

“Sit down, Mark, and tell me what the problem is.”

Mark Kibble took the offered seat. He sat on the edge, refusing to allow himself to relax, and Townsend took that as a bad sign. The man was so tense he would snap in two if he bent over.

“The problem is, I can’t complete the arrangement.”

Behind Kibble there was movement. It was Chomski. He already had his hand inside his jacket. Townsend caught his eye and gave a slight shake of his head.

“Take your time, Mark. Tell me what the problem is. Would you like a drink?”

Kibble raised a hand in a gesture of refusal. “I need to get this said.”

“Fine. Go ahead.”

“There’s been some kind of security initiative. I don’t know where it came from, but the entire setup has been upgraded. New people running things. All codes changed and a fresh protocol put into place. They’re even installing some new hand-print identification procedure. One of those gizmos where you have to place your hand on a pad and it scans your fingerprints against records held in the computer. They took mine yesterday, and they have introduced more frequent stop and searches. There’s no way I can risk taking anything out now.”

“And you haven’t had any directives telling you why all this is happening?”

“Not a thing. Someone did ask, and they were told it was none of their business and to carry on with their work.”

“Do you think it might have to do with the missing items?”

Kibble shrugged.

He was running scared, Townsend realized, and a frightened man might easily let something slip.

“What do we do?”

Townsend smiled. He knew what he had to do. But not here. Not now.

“Mark, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We need to take stock. Stand back and look at this calmly. There will be a way around it.”

Kibble shook his head. “No. I’m out. If I got caught, I’d end up in some federal facility and I won’t risk that. Jesus, it would ruin my family. I have a wife. Children.”

“And you have a great deal of money hidden away in that special account we help you set up.”

“I’ll give the money back. It isn’t worth all this risk.”

Kibble was sweating now. He was ready to cave. The next step could be running to the Feds and telling them everything if it would help to pull him out of the deep, dark hole threatening to swallow him.

“I don’t see there being any need for that, Mark. You already earned that money for previous transactions.”

Townsend took a long moment to consider his next move. He wanted Kibble out of his house, well away before anything happened, because that was the next move.

“I just can’t do this anymore,” Kibble said, pushing to his feet.

“Okay, Mark. Leave it with me. I understand your position and I won’t push you into anything you can’t do. Perhaps it’s time to back off and let things cool for a while. Give things a chance to settle down. You agree?”

Kibble nodded, a little of the tension draining from his face. He watched Townsend stand and cross over to face him.

“I’m sorry this had to happen,” Kibble said.

“Like I said, Mark, don’t worry. We’ll figure a way around this mess. Go home. Be with your family. Someone will run you back to the strip and the Lear can fly you back to Dayton.”

Chomski waited until Kibble cleared the room before he spoke.

“He’ll do it,” he said. “Somebody gives him a hard time, he’ll spill his guts and point the finger. We can’t let that happen.”

“Nicely put, Ralph,” Townsend said. “You’ll never win prizes for diplomacy, but you head straight to the heart.”

“So?”

“Send a couple of the boys with him. Make sure they deal with it quietly. Just make sure there are no tracks that lead back to us. Fly him back home as excess cargo. Let his body be found by his local cops.”

Chomski turned and left the room, closing the door.

Townsend sat, staring out the window.

“That boy sure likes his work,” he said, voicing his thoughts.

Now that Kibble was out of the loop, he needed to work on his second string at RossJacklin Inc. He had to have the secondary circuit board. It was necessary if he wanted to deliver the full package to Director Han. Necessary and, more importantly, it would demonstrate Shadow’s ability to always complete its contracts. Since taking on the Chinese client, Townsend had profited greatly. His initial deliveries of vital components to the facility at Guang Lor had resulted in six-figure cash amounts being deposited in his Swiss account. There had been no delays, no complications. Han, as if to prove a point, had made immediate deposits, and had followed up with calls to Townsend to make certain the money had arrived safely. The man certainly knew how to maintain customer-client relations on an even footing. Townsend understood the courtesy. It was part of established Chinese custom. They understood the need for both the hard and the soft approach to negotiating a deal. Strict lines of communication, with everything handled quietly, resulted in a harmonious relationship. The American also knew there was another side to Director Han. It would only be revealed if Townsend failed to live up to his promises. The claws of the dragon would show and persuasive words would be lost in the roar of chastisement. He was in no doubt that Han would exact severe retribution if matters fell below his exacting standards.

Townsend assessed the situation. He realized why the security upgrade had happened. It was because of the CIA’s surveillance of the recent transaction. Bad enough that the Agency had gotten close enough to be on the spot during an exchange. Townsend’s CIA contact had prepared Townsend beforehand, allowing him to put on a display and had enforced the setup himself, leaving the Agency in no doubt as to what they could expect if they tried to interfere. They had nothing solid to move with and as long as Townsend could stay one step in front he would survive. It was all to do with keeping the balls in the air at the same time. Risk management came with the package. All Townsend had to do was to move the lines of engagement.

He picked up his telephone and punched in a number. He let it ring until a message clicked in. He waited until he was requested to speak.

“Call my number, Raymond. We need to talk. And it is urgent. I’ll expect your call back soon. Don’t make me wait too long.”

W HEN HE THOUGHT BACK to the night of the killing of the three CIA agents, it had taken a couple of hours for Pete Tilman to take in the full realization of what he had done, that there was no going back. He was fully committed now, even more than he had been before pulling the trigger. Yet even with that acceptance of having stepped over a line that wouldn’t let him go back, he felt little in the way of remorse. He lived in an uncaring world. One that decreed a man stand or fall by his own actions, and if he wanted to survive he had to make his stand for what he believed in. His actions had been dictated by that need for survival and his fear of being discovered.

His desertion from the path of loyalty to his chosen profession had been easy at first. The illicit thrill of playing a dangerous game had become a narcotic, fueled by the financial rewards and the closeness to men of power and influence. There was, too, the choice he made to kick back against the hypocrisy of the administration that preached one line of policy, while at the same time consorting with the devil. Government within government was no fantasy. Infighting and self-advancement created strange partnerships. Hidden agendas and the lust for power and wealth layered the administration with secret alliances and back-door dealing that would have astounded the naive and the innocent. As an agent within the CIA, Tilman had been privy to certain aspects of the Agency that had surprised him at first, but as his own experiences clouded his clear vision he began to see the world in a different light. What was good for America became blurred within the twists and turns of policy, and there were those in power who were working, not for the elected administration, but for their own goals. And with these insights Pete Tilman’s disenchantment soured his view of what was good and what was evil.

His move from the path he had walked initially to his crossover came about painlessly. He hadn’t realized that his casual remarks at an embassy party in Washington had been overheard by someone from a group influencing illicit operations from the corridors of power. Within days of the party Tilman had been approached by a young woman he had briefly met that evening. It wasn’t until later that he realized he had been drawn into a relationship with her. By then he was so smitten he would have denounced the President himself. Tilman already lived beyond his means. He owed money. He wanted more money. It was as simple as that. And he was fast losing faith with the agency, tired of being pushed around by younger, lesser men who were rising rapidly while he seemed to be standing still, despite his impressive record. She had suggested he meet someone who could offer him a promising future, someone who could use his skills and his position in the Agency. His desire for her sucked him even deeper. He was addicted, and there wasn’t a thing he could do to break the habit. In his private moments he accepted his weakness. It scared him a little, but he quickly got over that feeling. One phone call, hearing her voice, a few minutes of being with her and drinking in the sweet scent of her, and he was a total devotee and would have committed murder at her suggestion.

In the end he did just that, gunning down three fellow agents in a moment of desire to maintain his new lifestyle and his position within the organization that now called the tune he willingly danced to.

Financial rewards were offered and taken without consideration of possible repercussions. Tilman had taken on board the full package. The people he was secretly working for, while maintaining his position within the CIA, expected results and he found he was able to comply comfortably. His Agency classification gave him access to high-level data. It allowed him to view sensitive material, check operational dispersement and gain advance warning of upcoming operations. Once he had carried out a number of these clandestine procedures with no comeback, the illicit excitement had made him eager for more. It was almost a secondary sexual thrill, this dangerous game he was playing, but it was so addictive. It gave him back the buzz he had almost forgotten, the kind of feeling he used to get in the old days when he’d run his own team and was involved in covert operations.

By this time Tilman was well involved with Townsend and his operation. He worked closely with the man, manipulating Agency information leaks and making sure that Shadow remained just that—a whisper of a murmur, kept discreetly out of the limelight and always just beyond the reach of the authorities.

The information concerning the Agency operation intended to gain evidence against the Oliver Townsend organization raised concern with Tilman’s employers. Townsend was one of the principal players within the consortium buying and selling U.S. technology and ordnance. The word filtered down to Tilman that any exposure of Shadow could create a ripple effect that would engulf them all. The cards would fall and they would all be taken down. Tilman, able to access operational details, was given the task of making sure the CIA operation failed. He was told that he had a free hand in solving the problem. Dead men didn’t point fingers.

The remark was the last thing Tilman was told as the meeting ended. He repeated those chilling words over and over as he drove home, and by the time he reached his apartment his decision had been made. It wouldn’t be the first time he had killed. It had been part of his remit for so long it had become just another facet of his Agency work. Tilman had done wetwork for the Agency during operations in Central America. The concept didn’t cause him any moral problems. The atrocities man carried out against his fellow humans were well documented within the CIA. Tilman had viewed evidence in sound and pictures. He had seen videotapes that made the twisted outpourings of Hollywood look like kid stuff. So the acceptance of carrying out an execution-style killing settled easily on his shoulders. It was a necessity, something that was required to maintain the security of the people and the organization that he had become a part of. The bottom line was Tilman’s reluctance to lose what he had gained, including the woman who had first lured him. In an odd twist she had become as attracted to him as he was to her. Their relationship had developed into one of mutual dependency, spiced by lust and a craving for the excitement of the experience.

It had been easy to find out the location of the surveillance unit. Tilman pinpointed where the assault team would be waiting, finding that he would be able to approach the truck free and clear. It would be parked in a secluded position where it could monitor the event planned to go down. Tilman was able to park his unmarked car well away from the location and work his way through the timbered area that lay on the blind side of the parked truck.

Tilman had chosen an unregistered 9 mm Uzi he had obtained a few years back during an operation. The weapon had been brought into the States by some illegals and had fallen into Tilman’s hands at an opportune moment. The weapon was brand-new, had never been fired, and he had kept it on an impulse. He’d brought the weapon out of mothballs, fitted it with a suppressor and used it on the night he’d shot the three agents on the surveillance stakeout. The silent kill allowed Tilman to make his retreat without interruption. He had climbed into the waiting car and had driven quietly away, long gone before the waiting assault team became aware something was wrong and the surveillance team was out of communication. The car was one he had from the department pool. It was equipped with CIA plates that were untraceable. And when Tilman returned to his block and parked in the basement garage, he took the Uzi with him to his apartment, cleaned it thoroughly and returned it to its hiding place.

He had been in the shower when the call came in about the killings. Suitably shocked he had readily accepted the order to return to the Agency and assist in the investigation that was gathering momentum. He had, with others from his section, remained on duty over the next couple of days. At the end of it there had been little solid evidence forthcoming. The investigation had been pushed to the higher echelons of the Agency.

It wasn’t until some time later that Tilman learned from inside sources of the transmission from the surveillance vehicle that the late Agent Schofield had appeared to recognize his killer. It also came as something of a shock that he learned the murder weapon had been identified as an Uzi. He had experienced brief panic, but had calmed himself with the knowledge it meant little in itself. The sound of an Uzi did nothing to pin down the actual weapon or who had fired it. The added factor—Schofield appearing to recognize his killer—concerned him a little more. He spoke about it to Townsend. The man was more annoyed than overly concerned.

“Okay, so Schofield saw you. That’s as far as it goes, Pete. He didn’t say your name. He didn’t write it in blood because he was dead when you left. He was dead, wasn’t he?”

“What do you think I am? Some amateur? Yes, they were all dead. I made sure of that.”

“So the Agency is walking around in the dark. All they have are theories. Just theories. Quit gripin’, Pete. Let’s move on. We got bigger things to deal with.”

T HE LAST TO ARRIVE WAS Joseph Riotta. He was Townsend’s negotiator, the man who handled the smooth running of deals and doing most of the financial arrangements. Riotta, a lean, balding man in his thirties, had a natural affinity for organizing money transactions. He was meticulous, sometimes too abrasive, but no one could come anywhere near to matching his skill when it came to working the clients. He came out onto the patio, wearing a neat suit and button-down shirt. His only concession to the informal occasion was that he hadn’t put on a tie.

Townsend was already seated at the table with Tilman and Ralph Chomski. They were dressed in casual, light clothing and were already into their second round of drinks.

“Joseph, fill yourself a glass and join us,” Townsend said. He turned back to the table. “So what’s the latest from our pals in the CIA?”

“Can’t put my finger on it,” Tilman said, “but the Agency has gone quiet on the killings. Hardly ever mention it anymore. It’s weird. Like they’ve decided not to chase the case any further.”

“Doesn’t sound natural to me,” Chomski said. “Like the cops shelving an investigation after one of their own gets hit. I’ve never heard of that ever happening. And I figure the spooks would be the same. You sure you haven’t been shut out, Pete? Like it’s gone to a higher level?”

“Or maybe they have a suspect and they don’t want him to know,” Riotta said as he joined them, a tall glass of iced fruit juice in his hand.

Tilman glanced across at him, a faint smile on his face. “It doesn’t work like that in the Agency, Joseph. If I was a suspect in the killing of three agents, I wouldn’t be sitting here. I would be locked away in a deep, dark place having the crap kicked out of me. Or I’d be sitting on a cloud with my harp, trying to explain to my three dead buddies why I shot them.”

Chomski gave a loud hoot of laughter. “I like that, Pete. You know that’s the first time I realized you have a sense of humor.”

“Yeah? So why don’t I nudge Joseph to see if some of it rubs off on him?”

Riotta ignored the gibe. He noticed Townsend smiling gently. It made him bristle. Riotta admitted he had no sense of humor. He took his work, as his life, seriously. It was all business with Joseph Riotta.

“Oliver, I confirmed payment for the shipment to Africa. Full settlement. The delivery should be completed in three days.”

“Fine. That should keep our principles happy. Now what about the Jack Regan order?”

“He’s still having problems with the local guy, Calvera.”

“Is that the Mexican who thinks he’s going to put the squeeze on us?” Chomski asked.

Townsend nodded.

“Damned local hood who must have seen too many episodes of The Untouchables. ” He reached across the table and plucked a thick cigar from an open box. “Let’s send Vic down to give Regan some backup. Our new recruit, Hawkins, can go with him. Let’s see how he operates when the going gets tough.”

“New man?” Tilman asked, suddenly alert. “You vetted him?”

“Relax, Pete,” Chomski said. “He’s ex-military. Served with Vic back when. Got ditched because he got a hard-on over some pussy UN officer who turned chicken and had to shoot some local warlord. I ran a computer check on him. He’s been in a few scrapes with the law. Just toughed it out with some redneck trying to run a scam. Looks okay, but don’t worry, we’ll keep an eye on him.”

Tilman picked up his glass and swallowed hard.

“If you say so.”

“Ralph, is the Kibble matter settled?” Townsend asked.

Chomski nodded. “Account closed. We won’t be hearing from him again. Neither will anyone else.”

“Joseph, I’m calling in a backup contact for this Guang Lor deal. We have to complete this order on time. Su Han will start getting impatient if we lose time. And I don’t want to upset the Chinese government.”

“I understand. Are you talking about Dupont?”

“He works the same research department Kibble was in at RossJacklin. We brought him in and kept him in the background in case anything soured the Kibble deal.”

“Did I miss something? Do we have a problem with Kibble?” Tilman asked.

“Kibble backed off. Said there were problems at the plant. Security had been tightened. He wanted out.”

“Scared people do things like caving in and talking to the wrong people,” Chomski said. “We couldn’t risk that, so Mr. Kibble has gone AWOL. For good.”

“I’ll do some checking,” Tilman said. “See if the Agency is involved.”

“Fine, Pete.”

“By the way, our friend from Beijing called earlier,” Riotta said. “It appears our Chinese clients have an updated list of requirements.”

“Can we handle it?”

“I gave it to Ralph.”

“More of the same,” Chomski admitted.

“Anything else?”

Chomski smiled. “Only details on deep-cover U.S. operatives working the Asian beat.”

“That might come under your wing, Pete,” Townsend said.

“I’ll see what I can do. It’s going to depend on which agency they’re with. Leave it with me.” Tilman glanced at his watch. “I’d better get on out of here. I’m going to be busy once I get back.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.