Dragon Key. Don Pendleton

to confront the bastard privately. Get the dragon key back before they initiate a complete arrest.”

      Chen shook his head. “Regrettably, there is more. The American spy you mentioned...”

      Wong frowned. “What about him?”

      “He is being held at Song Jing Prison, is he not?”

      “Yes. How did you know that?”

      Chen’s smile returned, as placid as ever. “I have my sources.”

      Wong’s frown deepened. Was there nothing this old bastard didn’t know?

      Chen waited a beat and continued, “The interrogation of the American has yielded a bit of information concerning Han. He is getting ready to defect.”

      “That one-armed son of a whore,” Wong said. “I’ll take pleasure in watching him die slowly.”

      “Most assuredly. But let us assume Han anticipated his arrest. Would he not keep the device in a secret place? Would he not make arrangements to release it to a confederate if he dies prior to its recovery? We must fully consider this risk, should it fall into the wrong hands.”

      Like those of the Standing Committee, Wong thought.

      “Thus,” Chen said, “we must move with circumspection.”

      This did nothing to ease the growing tension in Wong’s gut.

      “Do you understand?” Chen asked.

      “Yes.” Wong took another cigarette out of his pack. “What do you want me to do?”

      Chen smiled at his acquiescence. “For the moment you can do nothing but stand and await my further instructions. But do not despair. I have a plan in mind, but it will require your assistance.” He heard Chen’s soft chuckle again. “As I said, be patient and trust in me. It shall all be resolved in an expeditious manner, Comrade General. Trust in your humble servant.”

      Humble servant. The old liar. Wong forced himself to nod in agreement, and then he lit his cigarette.

       Chapter Three

      During the flight from Hong Kong to Beijing, Bolan took a combat nap. He was awakened by a pretty flight attendant who advised him to fasten his seat belt and prepare for landing.

      “Welcome to Beijing,” she said.

      As Bolan looked around and assessed his surroundings, the businessman next to him flashed a nervous smile. He was in his mid-to-late fifties.

      “American?” the man asked.

      Bolan nodded.

      “You a soldier once?” he said, giving Bolan a thorough look.

      “Once,” Bolan replied.

      “Me, too,” the man said. “I was PLA artillery in our last war. With the Vietnamese.”

      “I heard it was short but bloody,” Bolan said.

      The man nodded. “Very much blood. Hard fighting, but we won.” He smiled. “War is cruel and sometimes strange. Back then I destroyed things. Now I build them. I have my own construction company. There is a building boom here in China.”

      At the expense of the rural poor, Bolan thought. Or so he’d heard. Maybe he’d get a chance to see firsthand.

      The plane began a slow descent, and Bolan glanced out the window. They were perhaps a thousand feet up now. Row after row of buildings and houses extended in every direction below, an ever-growing sea of humanity. “Looks like the construction business is good,” he said.

      “Business is business.” The man smiled. “Always number one when China number one.”

      Bolan nodded politely and braced himself as the pilot sent the plane down the runway with a hard initial bounce followed by several more. The flaps and brakes kicked in, slowing the craft into a noisy deceleration.

      Welcome to Beijing, Bolan thought.

      * * *

      THE MANTIS SAT in the back of a Mercedes limo as the driver headed to a commercial district—a busy area filled with restaurants, tea parlors and bars. The trip from Hong Kong to Beijing had been comfortable on Master Chen’s private jet, but the Mantis had never let the suitcase or the small newspaper-wrapped package out of his sight.

      Avoiding the cluster of humanity slowing the commercial airlines was one of the amenities Master Chen’s top enforcer enjoyed. The waiting limousine at the airport had been another. It amused him, however, that a man as powerful as the master would choose to meet in this district of low-grade restaurants. Pedestrians and bicyclists cluttered the roadway before them, and the driver continually blew his horn. The people scattered like unruly chickens.

      The Mantis sat back in the comfortable seat and waited, practicing his mental concentration by seeking serenity.

      His sifu’s words came back to him: Strive for harmony in all things, and embrace moments of solitude, for the march of time and life is often cruel and unforgiving.

      Unforgiving... Just like Master Chen. The Mantis traced his fingers over the tightly wrapped package. He’d tied the twine himself, feeling a slight twinge of regret over its contents. But, as his sifu had said, life is often cruel.

      Finally, the Mantis felt the vehicle slowing to a stop. The screen was down, and through the windshield he could see the endless rows of glowing, twisted neon spelling out Chinese characters. He pushed open the door and got out, surveying the scene in both directions. A sea of people moved along the street in the late afternoon, but the Mantis saw nothing out of the ordinary. No sign of police, uniformed or not. Even so, he slipped the package into his jacket pocket, grabbed the suitcase and slammed the car door behind him. He strode to the next corner and turned as the limousine lurched into the street again.