Incendiary Dispatch. Don Pendleton

packed nine more crates by the time the day shift began returning from lunch. Six crates had his special packages. Three of those were for passenger flights.

      Which left at least six of his special packages still on the shelves in the big warehouse at BirnBari Expediting Services.

      Hammil had been instructed carefully. He had been informed that there would almost certainly be more packages than he could ship out. As long as he shipped out most of them, he shouldn’t worry about it.

      But now he was worried about it.

      “Hammil!” It was one of the young guys on the day crew. Just some brainless bloke with a girlfriend and a bad complexion. “You look like hell! You feel okay?”

      Hammil got off the cart and leaned with his hands on his knees. He was supposed to act sick. But he didn’t need to act at all.

      “Hey, you want a drink of water or something?”

      They were gathering around him now. The blokes on the day crew. Including the young turd who managed the shift.

      “Your stomach acting up again, Hammil?” The shift manager, in his tie and jacket, was crouched next to him, looking at him worriedly. “You need a doctor.”

      “I’m okay.” But his arms were shaking. That wasn’t a part of his act. “Need to lie down.”

      “Take the rest of the day, but only promise me you’ll set up an appointment with a doctor already.”

      “Yeah. All right.” He stood. He wavered a little. They were all gathered around him. There were thirteen of them. There were still six of his packages left on the shelves in this very room.

      “You need to go to the hospital,” said one of the faces.

      “I’m okay. Really.”

      “How about I drive him home?”

      “Fine,” said the shift manager.

      “No. I’ll drive myself. I’m not that bad off.” The thought occurred to him that this lot would be gone in the late afternoon. An entirely different bunch of guys would be working this evening, in the room with the packages. These guys would be at home or at the pub or—somewhere else.

      Which did make him feel just a bit better.

      The shift manager was still walking with him as he got into his car. “I’ll be fine. I’ll call for an appointment.”

      He drove away, and the more distance he put between himself and BirnBari Expediting Services the less awful he felt. Everything had gone smoothly, except for a brief case of nerves. If only he had time to stop for a pint—but that would have to wait until later.

      He didn’t go home. He would never see his pigsty row house or his miserable Clara again.

      He took the M11 out of London and never looked back.

      * * *

      LEWIS CHARD HAD NEVER earned so much money for so little work.

      Fourteen devices placed on six cars and eight homes, all belonging to employees of BirnBari Expediting Services.

      The homes were no problem. He didn’t need to break into them, just get close enough to deliver the device. A few miserable dogs yapped at him when he crept up in the middle of the night. If the miserable dogs woke any of the homeowners, they’d find nothing suspicious. Chard was away in seconds.

      Putting the devices on the cars was riskier, but his contacts had told him exactly when the cars would be unattended. Apparently lunch would be paid for by the company today. Chard was told to wait for the shift to go to lunch, and then wait for one last bloke to step outside to get something out of his car. Chard didn’t ask questions, although it seemed an odd bit of staging.

      So, sure enough, the shift workers went to the pub next door, then one fellow darted out the back door and grabbed something from the back of his car. After that, Chard put a device on all six cars without delay. The devices were magnetized. They were primed. The LEDs were green.

      Lewis Chard was driving away from London before the lunch shift was half done.

      He considered the fact that one of the cars he had rigged belonged to the man who had ducked out the back. The car had also been parked at one of the row houses that he had rigged with a device the night before.

      Whoever had arranged this whole affair really wanted that one guy dead.

      Qingdao, China

      ZHANG JEI DUCKED into the park off of Xilingxia Road and sprinted through the darkness. The night was black. There was no reason for security this far away from the city center, the seaports or the airports.

      His reef walker shoes were in his pants’ pocket. He pulled them on, then removed his slacks and shirt. He was wearing a wetsuit underneath. He stuffed his clothing and city shoes into his backpack and stepped into the cold waters of the bay.

      The backpack floated behind as he paddled patiently into the blackness. There was no water traffic in this area. Too many rocks this close to the shore.

      The illuminated face of his TomTom waterproof GPS unit led him effortlessly to the Farallon MK-8. The neutrally buoyant DPV—diver propulsion vehicle—was fully charged.

      It started with a touch and hummed with power, like a sea snake. It was black aluminum and weighed almost 130 pounds with the battery.

      The battery was key. Zhang had a lot of distance to cover before sunrise. The MK-8 had fantastic range—three miles. That was more than enough.

      Silently, in darkness, he let the DPV pull him through the waters of Jiaozhou Bay, toward Berth 62.

      Zhang Jei considered himself to be an extremely lucky man. He had been at the right place at the right time with the rare combination of attributes needed for this particular task. They’d needed someone skilled in stealth diving and DPV use. Someone who didn’t have qualms about a long-distance solo operation. Someone who had demonstrated a certain degree of ruthlessness.

      Zhang Jei was all those things. Trained by the People’s Liberation Army navy for out-of-area operations, he had been part of the insertion teams on the Somalia shores that had successfully taken out a group of pirates preying on Chinese cargo ships. He’d earned a medal for it.

      Then came the operation in North Korea. He’d been part of a three-man nighttime insertion—two divers and an army sniper. To this day Zhang Jei didn’t know the identity of the North Korean official they were supposed to have killed, or why—only that the man had somehow become a severe hindrance to effective Chinese/North Korean relations.

      But the mission went all to hell. The sniper missed. Twice. The man was just sitting there in a parked military jeep and still the sniper missed.

      Before a third shot could be fired the North Korean target had been hustled into hiding and twenty North Korean special forces operatives were in pursuit of the Chinese sniper team.

      The sniper surrendered to the North Koreans. Maybe he thought the People’s Republic would negotiate his return. The other diver found himself surrounded by special forces operatives and shot himself in the head. It was a wise choice, in Zhang’s opinion, knowing that sniper would have endured months of torture and questioning before ending up just as dead.

      Zhang had made it back to the shore and into the water and then he’d just swam. He’d come ashore at dawn and collapsed in a stand of vegetation near a noisy little factory village. Throughout the daylight hours he’d been roused from unconsciousness by the occasional screech of bending metal. That night he’d stolen into a shabby building and eaten putrid food, then taken to the ocean again.

      It had taken him days to work his way up the coast, moving ever slower as his energy waned. He’d spent his last two nights on a makeshift float and kicked relentlessly across the tide.

      The North Koreans patrolled the waters, but one man, in the water at night, could sneak through their guard. When