Season of Harm. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ nausea or light-headedness, you sing out. Don’t be a hero. I know that doesn’t exactly come naturally to you.”

      “Whatever.” Lyons frowned.

      “Hey, guys,” Blancanales said. “Look at this.” He had in his hand what Lyons at first took to be a sheaf of papers. When Blancanales got closer, the big ex-cop realized the man held a badly folded road map.

      “What have you got, Pol?” Schwarz asked.

      “Not the most subtle encryption job.” Blancanales grinned. He spread the map out over the seat of one of the parked motorcycles. A route was laid out in highlighter on the map, leading through New York State and beyond. At intervals, red marker had been used to flag certain cities. Numbers had been written in over these cities.

      “You’re right,” Schwarz said. “I believe, with time, we can crack this code.”

      “Knock it off,” Lyons grumbled. He put his hand to his face and then to the back of his aching head. “Analysis.”

      “Clearly drop points,” Schwarz said. “Even better, turn it over.”

      Pol realized that Schwarz was looking at something on the curled corner of the map. He flipped it and they saw another set of notations written in the margin next to one of the street grid listings. It read, “Van 1, Van 2, Van 3.” Under each of these headings was a list of product quantities with the letters H and M.

      “Heroin,” Schwarz said, “and meth.”

      “And three vans.” Lyons nodded. He immediately regretted moving his head that much.

      “Looks like we’ve got the route they plan to use,” Blancanales said.

      “And that’s powerful information for NetScythe,” Schwarz said. “We can use this to coordinate with the Farm and intercept those vans before they get where they’re going.”

      “We know where they’re going, don’t we?” Lyons asked.

      “Yes, but not when,” Schwarz said. “We can use this data so Barb and NetScythe can help us figure out when they’re likely to get there. Then we can arrange to be there right on schedule.”

      “That I like,” Lyons said. “Call the Farm. Arrange for a cleanup crew out here. Let’s police up what we can and get gone before the cops come and start asking us about the body count. And let’s make sure this place doesn’t burn to the ground while we’re at it. No need to cause a forest fire.” He paused, making a sour face. “Also, make sure Barb knows that I saw Thawan but he got away.”

      “Don’t sweat it, Ironman,” Schwarz offered. “We’ll get him.”

      “Oh, we will,” Lyons said. “And when we do, I owe him a nearly broken face.”

      “Payback?” Schwarz asked.

      “Payback hell.” Lyons shook his head, groaning. “That’s just me saying hello.”

      “I’d hate to see you say goodbye, then,” Schwarz said.

      “So will Thawan,” Lyons vowed.

       CHAPTER SIX

      Outside Yangon, Union of Myanmar

      The slight Chinese man, gaunt and wiry even for an Asian, was dressed in a loose-fitting pair of drawstring cotton trousers and a rumpled, matching shirt with baggy sleeves. The flowing garment had not entirely concealed the butt of the stainless-steel revolver in his waistband, next to his skin over his appendix. McCarter had taken note of that when they met and exchanged code phrases at the airport. The Briton didn’t know exactly how much in bribe money, international saber rattling or other geopolitical pressure had been brought to bear here in Myanmar. All that mattered was that the old Toyota Land Cruiser had been waiting for them, Customs hadn’t met or searched their chartered plane and nobody had challenged the men of Phoenix Force, who were carrying weapons most certainly illegal to the mere mortals on the ground in what had once been Burma.

      Yangon, for that matter, was better known to most people as Rangoon. McCarter did not care much for the way various parts of the world, and the former British Empire, much to his chagrin, had been renamed, rebranded and repackaged in the past few decades…but then, nobody was asking him, and he had better things to be worrying about. He forced himself to focus on the task at hand.

      The little Chinese man had introduced himself only as Peng. Price had transmitted a limited dossier from the Farm on the flight in. Peng’s name had been offered by Interpol when a discreet query regarding local assets was made through the international intelligence community’s various networks. The Farm had gotten word to Peng and he had simply turned up at a time and place specified, whereupon arrangements for his rendezvous with Phoenix were made. Supposedly he was intimately familiar with the Triangle’s operations, though why that was the case was either classified or unknown. McCarter had to admit that knowing so little about their guide, the man who was supposed to be the key to getting close to and inside the Triangle’s operation here in Burma, made him nervous.

      Peng’s exact governmental affiliation was unspecified in his dossier, which meant it was secret. That told McCarter the man was a double agent of some kind, probably tied to the local intelligence services while working for, and feeding intel to, the Central Intelligence Agency. The specific agency might vary and Peng’s true story might be something else, but the Farm vouched for him as far as it could, which meant he was probably trustworthy.

      Peng was Chinese Burmese, specifically, part of a community of Chinese immigrants to the nation, raised from childhood in Myanmar. From the look of him he might have been of mixed race; it would explain his skin tone, among other things. The Chinese Burmese population was widely known to be underreported in Myanmar. Standing officially at three percent, the true figure was probably much higher. That little factoid had been part of Price’s electronic briefing package.

      Peng’s file also said that he spoke Burmese, Mandarin and English, as well as a couple of obscure dialects specific to upper Burma. He was supposed to be expert with small arms and no slouch with a blade—which, if McCarter’s eyes did not deceive him, he carried on a metal ball chain around his neck under his shirt. The little man had said nothing after their initial exchange, simply pointing in the direction they were to take the Land Cruiser once Phoenix Force was aboard and ready.

      Grimaldi had stayed at the airfield to guard the plane and keep it ready for a fast departure. While it would have been nice to have his air support for the mission, they had been unable to secure a suitable local equivalent to the Cobra gunship Grimaldi had flown in Thailand. Other choppers were available, but they were unarmed civilian models. To McCarter’s mind the benefit of having Grimaldi’s eyes in the sky was not sufficient to risk turning the pilot into a target, albeit an airborne and moving one.

      Through whatever technology and magic the NetScythe satellite employed, the Farm had been able to identify a facility in Burma that was, if not the termination of a Triangle drug trafficking line between Thailand and Myanmar, at least a major spoke in the network. The exact nature of the facility was unknown; satellite thermal imagery registered that it was there, in an area thick with vegetation. That was why Peng had been drafted for this duty; he was their local guide. He knew the terrain, knew the landmarks and knew the local crime scene. He would, at least in theory, stop them from reinventing any wheels as they performed their mission. If he had any thoughts about where he’d rather be or whether he wanted to be helping the Stony Man СКАЧАТЬ