Survival Mission. Don Pendleton

a dozen people in the world had Bolan’s number. He had never fallen prey to random telemarketers.

      A quick check on the screen showed him that it was Hal Brognola calling from his office at the Justice Building in D.C., well past the normal span of business hours.

      “Go,” Bolan said without preamble.

      “How soon can you be here?” Brognola asked. “Well, let’s say Arlington.”

      “I’m forty miles away,” Bolan said, “give or take.”

      “I’ll see you there,” the big Fed said. “ASAP.”

      BROGNOLA DIDN’T HAVE TO specify which “there” he had in mind. They’d met on previous occasions at Arlington National Cemetery, and while that facility closed to the public from 8:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m., there was an all-night restaurant on Marshall Drive, near the U.S. Marine Corps War Memorial, that served as backup outside of visiting hours. Bolan found Brognola’s Buick Regal CXL already waiting in the parking lot when he rolled in, his second-oldest living friend ensconced with coffee at a corner booth.

      “You made good time,” Brognola said in greeting.

      “It wasn’t all that far,” Bolan replied, taking his seat across from the man.

      A red-haired waitress came and took their breakfast order, filled a coffee cup for Bolan, then retreated.

      “So, what’s the squeal?” Bolan asked, when they were alone.

      “It may upset your appetite,” Brognola said.

      “Try me.”

      “Okay. What do you know about the child-sex trade?”

      “Broad strokes,” Bolan replied. “It’s global. There’s a UN protocol designed to stop it, written ten or twelve years back, ratified by something like a hundred countries all around the world.”

      “One hundred seventeen,” Brognola said. “For all the good it does.”

      “No teeth in that, of course,” Bolan continued, “but most countries have their own laws penalizing human trafficking, child prostitution and pornography.”

      “Again,” Brognola said, “for all the good they do.”

      A nod from Bolan as he said, “Enforcement’s spotty, sure. Big money in the trade, and some of that sticks to official hands.”

      “You’ve heard of child-sex tourism, I guess,” he said.

      “Junkets for pedophiles,” Bolan replied. “They catch a flight to someplace where the cops and courts are paid to shut their eyes.”

      “That’s it in a nutshell,” Brognola granted. “Fifteen years ago, the International Labor Organization estimated that child-sex tourism produced two to fourteen percent of the gross domestic product for half a dozen Asian countries—Thailand, the Philippines, India, Malaysia, Indonesia. Since then, it’s been picking up in Mexico, Central America and Eastern Europe. The U.K. and the States have laws in place to punish nationals who go abroad to prey on children, but it’s tough to make the charges stick.”

      Bolan had dealt with human traffickers before and rated them among the lowest forms of parasites, but shutting down the trade was an impossibility. As long as there were customers with cash in hand, there’d be suppliers to provide whatever they desired.

      “Go on,” he urged Brognola.

      “So, let’s flash back to the so-called Velvet Revolution. Nineteen eighty-nine,” Brognola said. “Czechoslovakia divides into the Czech Republic and Slovakia. Assume they’ve always had their share of hookers. Overnight, the business takes off like a house on fire. The Czech Republic’s parliament banned any kind of organized sex trade—brothels, pimping, anything that smells like mob involvement—but they left the working girls alone, free to work under license. The net result—last year, reporters counted eight hundred sixty dedicated brothels nationwide, with two hundred in Prague. Hookers advertise in the newspaper classifieds section, charging an average sixty dollars an hour.”

      “Someone’s greased the cops,” Bolan said. No surprise.

      “Big-time,” Brognola said. “Two years ago, the state police investigated thirty suspected traffickers. Prosecutors took nineteen to trial and convicted a dozen. Facing maximum terms of twelve to fifteen years, three were sent up for three-to-five. The other nine had their sentences suspended and are back in business as we speak.”

      “It sounds familiar,” Bolan said, thinking of every place where organized corruption put down roots. And that meant everywhere.

      “Getting back to the kids,” Brognola said, “they come into Prague from all over. Eastern Europe and the Balkans, on to Vietnam and China. Some pass through the Czech Republic on their way to operations in the West, and others never make it out. If they survive, they’ll age into the adult trade or wind up on the streets, burned out and drug addicted, living hand to mouth.”

      “This must be going somewhere,” Bolan said.

      “You’re right. It is. Seems like the scumbags aren’t content to buy their kids from so-called parents anymore. It still goes on, of course, especially in Asia and some parts of South America, but kidnapping is cheaper. Why fly buyers halfway round the world, when you can cruise the streets of Prague, Brno or Ostrava and snatch them off the sidewalk? Slash your operating costs on one hand—on the other, keep enough white kids in stock to balance out the ethnic inventory. It’s a win-win situation for the sons of bitches.”

      “And?” Bolan knew there was more to come.

      “And,” Brognola replied, “that brings us to the reason why we’re here.”

      THE WAITRESS BROUGHT their meals, topped off their coffee mugs and went away. Brognola pushed his scrambled eggs around the plate, sampled a piece of toast, then set it down.

      “Last week—four days ago, to be precise—somebody grabbed a ten-year-old girl in Prague. Her name is Mandy Murton. She’s American.”

      “Odd place to find her,” Bolan said.

      “School trip, if you can believe it,” Hal answered. “It’s the sort of thing rich parents do these days, I’m told. Instead of summer school or family vacation time, you send the kiddies off to Europe or wherever in a small, select group with teachers from their private schools as guides, tutors and chaperones. Supposedly, most of the trips come off without a hitch, aside from minor illness now and then.”

      “But this one didn’t.”

      “Right. It’s still unclear what happened to the girl, exactly,” Brognola went on. “Another kid swears Mandy wasn’t taken from the room they shared. Seems she went out to get a Coke instead of calling room service. The vending machines are on alternate floors, so she had to go up or down one. She never came back.”

      “Security cameras?” Bolan asked.

      “The hotel’s equipped,” the big Fed confirmed. “Exits and elevators covered, but it’s spotty on the hallways. There’s no tape of Mandy leaving, on her own or with an escort. Two things clicked as possibles. First up, a food delivery around that time, downstairs, with crates of goodies coming in and empties going out. Second, a bellhop with his face averted from the CCTV, wheeling out a laundry cart.”

      “How many people on the food delivery?” Bolan asked.

      “Two came with the truck,” Brognola said. “A couple from the kitchen helped them with unloading.”

      “Have they been cleared?”

      Brognola shrugged and tried the toast again, then answered with his mouth full. “They’ve been questioned by the cops in Prague and by the PCR—those are the Feds, Police of the Czech Republic. No evidence of any criminal activity has been discovered, quote, unquote.”

      “The faceless bellhop, then.”

      “More