Act Of War. Don Pendleton

residue. Blood, sweat, urine, semen, any bodily fluid would give off a ghostly glow under the ultraviolet beam no matter how well the area was cleaned. Unless they use steam. But the room registered clean, merely in questionable taste. In Schwarz’s opinion, while Elvis may have worn outrageous costumes on stage, in his private life, Mr. Presley would probably have run screaming out of a room like this.

      “How clean?” Lyons demanded, his blue eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Has it been steamed?”

      “No, there’s soap scum on the bathroom towel and fingerprints on the TV set,” Schwarz stated, turning off the flashlight. “Nobody has been killed here, and the room washed down to hide the fact.”

      “You sure?” the Able Team leader asked, lifting up the covers to check under the bed.

      “Positive.”

      “Good,” Blancanales said, inspecting the telephone.

      Under his UV flashlight there were clear fingerprints on the buttons and a palm print on the handset, so Gallen had made a call to somebody. He could have just been asking housekeeping for more mints on his pillow, but maybe not. There was a pad and pencil near the telephone. Blancanales gently rubbed the pencil across the top sheet, but no words appeared, and there were no crumpled papers in the wastebasket. Damn, the man was tidy. It had to be his scientific training where a single misplaced item could ruin months of hard work. Too bad. Slovenly people were always easy to track, the Puerto Rican thought.

      Going to the dresser, Lyons opened the bottom drawer and began riffling through the contents for maps or brochures. If the professor wasn’t here, then he was somewhere in the city, and nobody wandered around a strange town with no idea where they were going. With luck, he’d left a clue to his whereabouts. If not, they’d have to hit the streets of Memphis and trust on luck. None of the Stony Man team put much faith in blind luck.

      “Better do the mirror,” Lyons directed, inspecting a drawer full of socks and underwear. “That’ll give us some warning if he comes back.”

      “Done, and done.” Taking the Elvis silhouette mirror off the wall, Schwarz laid it on the bed facedown. Pulling out a combat knife, he eased off the pressboard backing and used the tip of the blade to slice off a small amount of the silver backing. Next, he carefully positioned a metallic disk to the clear area and reattached the back before hanging the mirror on the wall once more. Pulling out his laptop, Schwarz touched a few keys and the plasma screen lit up with a sideways view of the hotel room. Adjusting the controls, the view rotated until it was right-side up.

      “We’re in business,” he announced, closing the lid. “Any maps?”

      “Not a damn thing,” Lyons stated gruffly, closing the top drawer of the dresser. “Guess we’re going to—” There was a knock on the door and everybody froze.

      “Mr. Caruthers?” a man called from the hallway. “Hotel management, sir. There’s a leak in the tub above your room. May I come in to inspect the bathroom, please?”

      Instantly the team was alert. That had been a mistake. If there was a leak, the management would simply use a pass key to get maintenance into the room as fast as possible. Asking for permission meant the person on the other side of the door wasn’t on the hotel staff.

      Pulling out his .357 Colt Python revolver, Lyons mumbled something into his palm to disguise the words as the other men took position on either side of the door. Shuffling over, Lyons paused, then threw open the door. Blancanales hit the startled man outside with his stun gun. The man grimaced, his arms and legs going stiff as the electric charge shot though his body. As Blancanales released the button, the stranger toppled over, breathing heavily. Catching the limp man under the arms, Schwarz dragged him into the suite and deposited him on the bed.

      The newcomer was freshly shaved and dressed in a hotel uniform. His shoes looked hotel issue, and his fingernails were short and clean. All well and good. However, there was no wallet or car keys in his pants, or any other items—aside from a photograph of Professor Gallen tucked in his jacket pocket, along with a hypodermic syringe full of a dark blue liquid and a pair of steel handcuffs.

       CHAPTER FIVE

       Ochong Island, North Korea

      A glorious sunset filled the horizon, the colors permeating the dense forest of oak trees and willows. Birds chattered constantly from the ruins of an ancient Buddhist temple, the lovingly carved stone blocks tumbling back into the earth they had been taken from a thousand years ago.

      There were no roads in sight, no cities, no radio towers, nothing that would in any way hint at the presence of a large military force. Thick white mist moved like a disembodied spirit through the lush jungle. As the soldiers in the old Land Rover jounced along the gravel road, the way was becoming treacherous. Skirting a sharp cliff, the driver tried not to look down into the ravine, knowing that death was waiting for them on the jagged rocks a hundred feet straight down.

      “Are you sure this is the correct way, sir?” the North Korean soldier asked, tightening his grip on the steering wheel as if it were a protective charm.

      “Shut up and drive,” the major said from behind his mirrored sunglasses, a smoking cigarette dangling from his thin lips.

      Dutifully checking the GPS device bolted onto the dashboard, the driver tried to cross the ravine again, and this time successfully found the land bridge, a natural stone arch that connected the two parts of the island like a granite umbilical cord.

      “Here we are, sir.” The driver sighed in relief, stopping the Land Rover with a squeal of brakes.

      The major scowled at the fog all around them with open dislike, then eased his tense shoulders. Women and the weather, a man could do little about either. Accept or ignore. That’s all the choice there was available.

      “Tea, sir?” a young corporal asked.

      “Please.” The major smiled, eagerly accepting a cup of the black brew from a Thermos. There was plenty of powdered milk aboard the Land Rover, but it was officially policy for soldiers to drink it with only sugar added.

      Suddenly a white light appeared on the northern horizon.

      “What is that, sir?” the driver asked, lowering his cup of tea.

      Before the major could respond, the fog was blown away by a hot wind that left an odd metallic taste in their mouths.

      Muttering curses, the major turned in the passenger seat and fumbled among the equipment boxes in the back to unearth a Geiger counter. The safety instrument added at the last minute in case of any trouble. The hidden cache of tactical nukes purchased on the black market needed to be checked every few days to make sure that none of the troops had decided to get rich quick and sell the bombs on the black market again. At least that one fool who tried put it on eBay first, the major noted, switching on the radiation counter. His death in one of the dreaded learning centers had been particularly gruesome.

      Spitting away the cigarette, the major waited for the Geiger to warm up, then exhaled in heartfelt relief as the meter stayed in the green zone, a long way from danger. Good. The nukes were the key to the huge North Korean army crossing the sixteen miles of the DMZ, the dark soil of the demilitarized zone so packed with land mines that sometimes even tiny birds landing on the ground set off a string of fiery explosions.

      “Do not worry, Private,” the North Korean officer said with confidence. “There is no danger.” But the light kept getting brighter, the wind stronger, and there was a weird prickly sensation on his skin as if he was being stabbed by a million tiny needles.

      “If you say so, sir,” the driver said, hunching his shoulder and trying to look directly at the terrible white light. There was a low rumble building rapidly, the ground shaking enough to jiggle the speedometer in the dashboard.

      Observing that reaction, the major openly cursed and thumped the Geiger counter with a fist. The needle in the meter promptly fell off, leaving behind a smear of dried glue.

      Glancing up in horror,