Loose Cannon. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
a mountain road after crashing into some fallen trees. They think at least a couple more men were dragged off by crocodiles.”
“So far, so good,” Brognola said.
“The men found in the gorge were killed by weapons found on the men who died in the Jeep crash,” Bolan went on, “so the theory is the second group died while fleeing the scene of the ambush.”
“And the men in the gorge were unarmed,” Price added, making certain she’d pieced it all together correctly herself. “They were supposedly on a field trip trying to gauge the toll poaching had taken on the preserve’s endangered species.”
“Correct,” Brognola said. “They were with Gerakan Aceh Merdeka.”
“The Free Aceh Movement,” Bolan interjected. “And the men in the Jeep were with the Ministry of the Interior. Government agents.”
“The head of the ministry is running against GAM for reelection as governor of Aceh Province,” Price said. She turned to Brognola. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember his name.”
“Noordin Zailik,” Brognola said. “He’s denying that the ministry agents had anything to do with ambushing the GAM people. Of course, GAM is pointing to the evidence and trying to milk the situation for all it’s worth, since their guy is running neck-and-neck with Zailik in the polls.”
“And their guy is Anhi Hasbrok,” Bolan said. “Former head of GAM’s military arm.”
Kurtzman grinned at Brognola. “What’d I tell you? You run something by Striker, it’s like programming it into a damn computer.”
“The governor has ordered a full-scale investigation, down to going after crocodiles with tranquilizer darts on the chance they can be x-rayed for any trace of the missing G-men,” the big Fed said.
“Good luck with that,” Kurtzman replied.
“It’s apt to be a drawn-out process,” Brognola admitted. “Meanwhile, both Zailik and Hasbrok are cranking up the rhetoric to the point where Washington is worried about the area’s political stability. And not just because of GAM’s track record for resorting to violence.”
“They’re worried about JI moving in,” Bolan guessed.
“Exactly,” Brognola said. “Jemaah Islamiyah have been taking it on the chin lately thanks to the antiterrorist squad Densus 88, but they’re not about to roll over. According to our intel, JI are replacing their cells as fast as they get knocked down, and they’re hoarding whatever arms they can get off the black market. Word is they’re stirring up most of the clamor in East Timor, and if they figure the time is right in Aceh, odds are they’d be quick to make a move there.”
“They’re backing some cleric who’s running against Zailik and Hasbrok, too, right?” Kurtzman asked.
“Yes,” Brognola replied, “but the guy’s running a distant third. The latest polls had him at less than ten percent.”
“He could wind up playing spoiler, though,” Kurtzman said.
“I suppose so.”
Bolan weighed the implications, then voiced his thoughts. “Any chance JI had a hand in the ambush?”
“You want to spell it out?” Brognola asked.
“It’s simple,” Bolan said. “If we’re assuming that things aren’t the way they look, then we’re saying somebody drove the ministry agents off the road, made sure they were dead, stole their weapons and used them to ambush the GAM people, then doubled back and left the weapons near the Jeep so it would look like a government hit. To pull off something like that takes a lot of precision.”
“Which JI specialize at,” Price added, completing the thought.
“You could have something there,” Brognola conceded. “But there’s another option we need to look at, too. I wanted to make sure you were clear on what went down before I brought it up, but now that you’re up to speed…”
Bolan nodded. “There’s always a twist.”
“Unfortunately, yes.” Brognola raided his attaché case for a file, which included a compact disc. “Can you cue this up for me, Bear?” he asked, handing it to Kurtzman.
Kurtzman, who oversaw the Farm’s cybernetic crew, wheeled to his computer station. In seconds, he’d opened the CD’s files and transferred its data onto his hard drive.
“Done,” he told Brognola. “What do you want to look at first?”
“The photo file,” Brognola replied.
“Coming up.”
Kurtzman worked his cursor, and moments later the image of a dough-faced middle-aged man with dark hair and a well-groomed goatee filled his screen as well as one of the larger monitors imbedded on the far wall.
“Carl Ryan,” Brognola said, identifying the man on the screen. “Career politico, mostly with the State Department, including a nice, long run as U.S. ambassador to Indonesia.”
“Until he wound up in prison, right?” Price said. “Something to do with skimming reconstruction funds after the tsunami.”
“That’s right,” Brognola confirmed. “He siphoned off nearly two million dollars that’s been accounted for, and they think he helped himself to even more before he got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.”
“I think I can see where this is headed,” Bolan murmured.
“Ryan was paroled last month after serving half his sentence,” Brognola explained. “He wasn’t out more than a week before he disappeared.”
“That would be a euphemism for ‘skipped the country’,” Kurtzman guessed.
“We don’t have any proof yet, but that’s the scenario we’re working with,” Brognola said. “And the thinking is that he’s probably headed back to his old stomping grounds.”
“To get to whatever money he managed to stash,” Price said.
“Again, that’s only speculation, but it would make sense,” Brognola said. “And you have to consider that he’s probably still connected with some key players in the islands. After all, he was ambassador for four years before the wheels came off.”
“Got it,” Bolan said, “but how do we figure he might be mixed up with the ambush?”
“He might not be,” Brognola conceded, “but when you figure he was replaced over there by the guy who blew the whistle on him, it’s fair to say he’d have an interest in seeing all hell break loose and have the new ambassador take the heat for letting things get out of hand.”
“That’d be going to a lot of trouble for not much in the way of payback,” Bolan said.
Brognola nodded, adding, “Or maybe the ambush is just the beginning.”
2
Banda Aceh, Indonesia
“Of course we had nothing to do with it!” Noordin Zailik snapped into his speakerphone. The provincial governor, an obese man in his late fifties with dyed black hair, leaned forward in his chair and slammed his fist hard on a large oak desk where the phone rested alongside a stack of paperwork and a few objets d’art accumulated during his term in office. “The ministry agents were there because poachers had been reported in the area. For no other reason!”
“What was that noise?” a man with a calm, sonorous voice asked over the phone’s speaker. Ambassador Robert Gardner was on the line from the U.S. embassy in Jakarta.
“This noise?” Zailik bellowed, thumping the desk a second time. “It’s me cracking heads trying to find out who was behind those killings! I’m being framed and you know it!”
“I’m