Black Dragon, page 6
“I’m impressed; she sounds as driven as her father to excel,” said Mitchell as he turned to look over at Fahimah and Donaldson. “According to the file I have on Atsuko, she was a target for kidnapping on several occasions in the past. Can you shed any light on what happened, especially on the most recent attempt?”
“Isn’t there anything in your briefing file?” said Donaldson, looking a bit flustered.
“None that I could I see,” replied Mitchell, flipping back through the few pages he had with him.
“Sorry about that, we’ve been so swamped with requests for information from Lancaster’s team that we must have missed it,” said Donaldson, feeling bad for giving Mitchell an incomplete intelligence file folder.
“It’s all right,” said Mitchell with a smile. “Bill’s in the field and is the organization’s main effort right now, so he should get your full support.”
A few seconds later, the image of Atsuko with a blanket wrapped around her arms appeared on the screen. Mitchell leaned forward studying the picture. A tired and unkempt Atsuko Satomi looked like she was being led away from a cabin somewhere in the mountains of Japan by a couple of female police officers.
“The only information that I could find was contained in an Interpol report from several months ago,” said Donaldson. “Miss Satomi was kidnapped and held for ransom by radical environmentalists from the Japanese wing of the Earth Freedom Fighters.”
“They sound more like a really bad eighties revival punk band than a group of terrorists,” quipped Mitchell.
“Perhaps a poor name for a group of diehard radicals, but they have cells spread throughout the world and are quite active. In fact, in the last decade, they were mainly known for freeing lab animals, protesting the building of nuclear power plants in Europe, or trying to block the logging industry in California and British Columbia. However, recently some members have publically advocated more violent action in order to get their message heard. Oddly, though, when Miss Satomi was taken, they went public in Europe denying any part in the kidnapping. The blame was squarely placed on a radical splinter group still using their name,” explained Donaldson.
“What happened?”
“They somehow managed to grab Miss Satomi when she was on her way to the airport and held her for one hundred million dollars ransom. They moved her around Japan for nearly three weeks, always keeping one-step ahead of the police until an anonymous tip to the police told them where to find her. Aside from being disoriented and slightly malnourished, Atsuko Satomi came out of the ordeal unhurt,” said Donaldson.
“You would have thought that if she had been targeted in the past that there would have been a security detail on her night and day.”
“If I were her father, you can bet your bottom dollar that she would have had a dozen large goons around her all the time, but according to the information that I have, she shuns security as an unneeded measure,” explained Donaldson as he bit into his tuna sandwich.
“Well, it would appear that her father has decided that security is something Miss Satomi cannot live without while she is here in the States.”
“Is there anything else I can give you?” asked Donaldson.
“Could you please print out all of that information for Nate and me? Also, Fahimah will need the rest of the day off so she can dig deeper into the files that you may have on the Satomis and, of course, she will need to go and pack for D.C.”
“Why do I get a sinking feeling that I should be paying more attention to this file?” said Donaldson, shaking his head.
6
Erenhot
Chinese-Mongolian border
Sam stared wide-eyed out the window of their dust-covered Land Rover as it passed underneath the massive statue of a pair of prehistoric Sauropods, their long, gray necks forming an arch over the road. To Sam, it looked like a couple of dinosaurs stealing a kiss. Grabbing her cell phone, she took a quick photo of the dinosaurs as they drove past.
“For my sister’s kids,” explained Sam to Cardinal, while he drove. “You know they just love this stuff.”
Cardinal just smiled. He had met the youngsters at Sam’s last family get-together. They were a pair of overly energetic four-year-old boys who had managed to run him ragged. “How long to the border from here?” he asked, hoping that it wasn’t too far. Sitting up in his seat to stretch out his aching back, Cardinal felt as if they had been driving for days.
Sam peered down at her map. “Not too far, just a few more minutes and we’ll be in sunny old Mongolia.” Their vehicle came with a GPS, but Sam still preferred to keep track of where she was on a map, just in case the GPS failed.
“It’s always sunny in the Gobi,” remarked Cardinal. “I don’t think it rains too much around here. That’s why it’s called a desert.”
“All right, mister science guy, just for your info, they can get flash floods here, and trust me, we don’t want to be trapped in one of those. Now drive,” ordered Sam, with a smile on her face, enjoying the freedom of their first assignment outside of the team. Sam knew it wasn’t normal for only two people to be out on their own; however, their briefing file had made it clear to them that this was a simple mission to find out anything they could on the missing grad students and nothing more.
Retracing the missing students’ footsteps, Sam and Cardinal first flew into Beijing, rented a vehicle, and then drove exactly the same route that the students had told their friends they intended to follow, all the way up to Ulaanbaatar, the capital of Mongolia. They hoped to find something along the way that might tell them what had happened to the students. It took six hours of driving just to make it to the border from Beijing, and Cardinal’s back was really beginning to bother him from sitting still for so long. The border was due to close at six p.m., and it was nearly that time. Driving through Erenhot reminded Cardinal of a city that was being rapidly built up around itself. Construction seemed to be going on everywhere; most of it just seemed like building for the sake of it. There undoubtedly was someone being paid a lot of money to build shops and houses that would probably never be used. Their briefing package described Erenhot as a growing commercial hub, but looking about, Cardinal suspected that it was nothing more than a place for black market smuggling and prostitution. He couldn’t wait to cross the border; not that he expected anything better once they were inside Mongolia.
Arriving with less than a couple of minutes to spare, Sam dug out their passports. With a bright smile on her face, she did all the talking for them in Chinese with a couple of young border agents, which Cardinal saw with a grin on his face, helped speed things along. After paying the obligatory taxes, they drove over the border into Mongolia just as it closed for the evening, stranding dozens of truck drivers from both nations in long lines on the wrong side of the border for the evening.
The hard, dry sand and rocky terrain of the Gobi Desert reminded Cardinal of his time in Afghanistan. With four tours under his belt, he had spent more than his fair share of time lying in under the scorching Afghan sun waiting for targets that sometimes never appeared. It was the lot of a sniper to wait and be prepared. Several years back, Cardinal, along with another sniper team, had been assigned to cover a U.S. SOF raid on an IED maker’s compound, which developed into a long and deadly firefight outside of Kandahar city. When the mission was over, he was introduced to the leader of the assault, Captain Ryan Mitchell. They struck up a friendship that existed to this day.
“It’s not safe to drive around the desert in the dark, so we’re gonna need to stop for the night,” said Cardinal wearily as a small town on the side of the road came into sight, its neon lights beckoning to the road-weary travelers.
“I doubt they have a five-star hotel, but as long as it isn’t cockroach-infested I’ll be fine,” replied Sam, folding up her map.
They pulled into the first gas station that they saw. Cardinal was thankful for the chance to stretch out his back and fill up their Land Rover while Sam worked her charms on a young man who recommended a hotel just off the main road. A couple of minutes later, they pulled up in front of a wooden, two-story building that was painted a garish shade of light blue with a large, golden, smiling camel hanging over the front door. The name of the establishment was written in Mongolian, Chinese, Russian, and very poor English. Sam cringed at the thought of staying at the Free Woman Hotel. Obviously, something was lost in the translation, she thought. Judging by the half-dozen other cars parked out front, it couldn’t be half as bad as it sounded. While Cardinal grabbed their luggage, Sam headed inside to see if they had a spare room for the night. At first, the hotel owner complained that they had arrived too late and that there was nothing available, but after slipping a hundred-dollar bill his way, a room on the second floor miraculously came open. After dropping their few pieces of luggage on the sagging bed, Sam and Cardinal decided to see what there was to eat in the hotel’s restaurant before getting some much-needed shuteye, knowing that another long day of driving awaited them first thing in the morning.
Taking a seat in a corner of the small, smoke-filled, but busy dining room, Sam and Cardinal perused the menu. Like the sign outside, it was written in four languages—and equally as poorly in all of them. Before too long, a young girl with a round face and pleasant smile came over. To their surprise, she spoke very good English with a slight Irish accent. When asked, she told them that she had learned English from some oil workers who had lived in the town several years back. Trusting in their waitress’ recommendations, they ordered a couple of the local beers and the house special, a lamb dish with dumplings and rice. As soon as the waitress left, Sam dug out her iPad and laid it on their table, quickly opening up a secure file on the missing students for them to review.
“So what are you thinking?” asked Cardinal as the young girl returned with their ice-cold beers.
“Well, according to the police report, we know that they crossed the border seventeen days ago, at precisely 3:15 in the afternoon, and that a major sandstorm was moving across the Gobi at that time. So it’s not inconceivable that they got disoriented in the storm and ended up on a side road somewhere well off the beaten track,” said Sam as she brought up an image of the road leading from the border to Ulaanbaatar.
Cardinal looked down at the map. “It’s roughly six hundred kilometers from the border to Ulaanbaatar; that’s a hell of a lot of distance to get lost in.”
“I agree, but if we say that they got no more than one hundred kilometers up the road before the storm hit, they would have slowed to a crawl. So I say we look from the town of Sainshand, southward,” said Sam, knowing that she was probably mispronouncing the name of the town as she pointed to it on her iPad. “It’s roughly two hundred kilometers from the border. We can use the town as a base from which to begin our search of the desert.”
Cardinal nodded his head. It looked like they had a working plan. “I doubt there are a ton of gas stations along the road, so I’ll buy a couple of extra jerry cans from the gas station before we head out in the morning.”
“And I’ll buy us some food and water as well. You never know when we may need it,” added Sam as the waitress returned to their table with their dinner.
Cardinal looked down at the food on his plate; none of it looked overly appetizing, but after trying a small portion of the lamb, he quickly changed his tune and dug in with gusto. After another beer, Sam and Cardinal made their way upstairs to get some sleep.
The next morning, the sun rose at just after five o’clock. A cool fog hung lazily about the town as Cardinal loaded up their Land Rover and made sure that their GPS was up and functioning. He watched a couple of mangy-looking stray dogs chase after a rabbit, which easily outran them and quickly disappeared under the floorboards of an old wooden building. The smell of dust and diesel exhaust from the dozens of trucks already making their way to the border hung heavy in the air. After placing a quick call back to the States on her satphone, Sam nipped inside to pay their hotel bill. They drove over to the gas station they had visited the day before. Cardinal was relieved to find that it was already open in anticipation of the flood of trucks waiting to come up the road the instant the border opened. While buying what they needed, on a hunch, Sam showed the gray-haired owner of the gas station a picture of the missing students and asked if he remembered seeing them come through a few weeks back. With a smoldering cigarette hanging loosely from his lips, the old man looked at the picture for a few seconds before shaking his head. He told Sam that plenty of foreigners come through on their way to the capital, he might have served them, but he honestly couldn’t remember. Thanking the man for his time, Sam paid for their supplies, walked back to their Rover and then climbed in. With a honk of the horn and a friendly wave good-bye to the gray-haired man, Cardinal pulled out onto the empty road and started the long drive north.
7
Washington Dulles International Airport
Dulles, Virginia
The steady, high-pitched whine from the Learjet’s engines filled the empty hangar as it slowly taxied inside, guided by two airport technicians dressed in navy blue coveralls. Outside, a light rain fell. Painted deep-yellow with white lettering and a stylized cherry blossom, the symbol of the Satori Corporation, adorning the nose section of the jet, the plane came to a halt inside an expansive hangar that catered almost exclusively to VIPs, diplomats and celebrities who wished to travel in anonymity.
Mitchell stood to one side, dressed in a form-fitting gray suit with a crisp black shirt and matching tie, his blue-gray eyes following the jet in. As soon as it parked, several more technicians ran over, placed metal chocks under the plane’s wheels, and then hurried to the back of the plane, ready to unload the passengers’ luggage. Parked behind Mitchell were two up-armored vehicles. The first was a brand new, silver-and-blue Bentley Mulsanne limousine. With 39mm-thick glass windows, reinforced fuel-tank protection, fire suppression system, run-flat tires, and underbody armor, this was a vehicle that was built to withstand an assault while still offering the finest in comfort to its rich occupants. The second car was a standard, company-black, up-armored Hummer H2.
Smoothly, the front door to the Learjet slid open and its stairs lowered to the floor. Almost immediately, a solidly built Japanese man in his late twenties, wearing a silver-gray suit and dark sunglasses, stepped off the plane and warily looked around the hangar. Seeing Mitchell standing alone, the man strode over. By the way the man moved, Mitchell could tell that he was most likely a former police officer now working as a bodyguard for Atsuko Satomi. The man stopped in front of Mitchell, and removed his sunglasses; his dark eyes looked deep into Mitchell’s, as if trying to read what was hidden there.
“Mister Ryan Mitchell?” said the man in flawless English.
“At your service,” replied Mitchell, with a smile and a slight, respectful bow.
The man, likewise, bowed. “Good day, sir, my name is Masaki Matsuda. I have been hired by the Satomi Corporation to protect Atsuko Satomi during her visit to the United States,” said the man, offering his hand to Mitchell in greeting.
“My pleasure,” replied Mitchell as he shook Matsuda’s firm hand. The man stood several inches shorter than Mitchell, with short, black hair and dark, almost black, eyes. He was in superb shape and moved easily, like a panther stalking its prey.
“My people told me that there were three of you in your security detail,” Mitchell said, looking over at the jet.
“That is correct. My men are still on the plane with Miss Satomi and her personal assistant. I told them all to wait inside while I checked things out before they disembarked.”
Mitchell took a liking to the man. It was obvious that he was a no-nonsense professional. He quickly briefed Matsuda on where they would be staying in D.C. before the unveiling of her father’s donated art at the gallery later tonight. This had all been pre-arranged last week between Mitchell and the Satomi Corporation, but he found that it was always good to go over the small details with the people he was working with, as things in his business had a habit of changing on the fly. With a quick, understanding nod, Matsuda walked back to the plane and climbed on board to brief his team. A few seconds later, Matsuda stepped back outside and then stood in front of the stairs, his body tense, ready to react at a moment’s notice.
Turning to the limo driver, a former Washington D.C. cop and now a tactical driving instructor at Polaris, Mitchell told him to pull the limo up beside the plane while he walked over.
The instant the limo stopped, Matsuda turned sideways, facing the nose of the plane, using his body as a shield, ready to protect Atsuko as she left the plane. A second later, a man dressed identically to Matsuda climbed down the stairs and opened the passenger door of the limo, his hand resting on his holstered pistol inside his jacket.
Mitchell looked back at the open door just as Atsuko Satomi walked off the plane. She was wearing an all-black suit with a white, open-collared shirt. Standing at just over five feet tall, she seemed exceptionally diminutive compared to Mitchell and her muscle-bound bodyguards. Seeing the open door of the waiting limo, Atsuko climbed down the stairs, calmly walked past Mitchell and then climbed into the white leather interior of the limo. She was followed by a young woman dressed in an unbuttoned black jacket, white shirt and a form-fitting, knee-length, black skirt. The woman said nothing; she quietly waited for the bodyguard to open her door on the far side of the vehicle, after ensuring Miss Satomi was comfortably seated inside.
