Nuclear Storm. Don Pendleton

I requested is in place?”

       “In the parking ramp, ground floor, space A3.”

       “So all I have to do is head up there, drag Dae-jung out of his hidey-hole, bring him down with me, get to our vehicle and drive to the airport.”

       “When you say it, Striker, it sounds almost reasonable. Sorry we couldn’t do anything about getting you a sidearm before you went over.”

       Bolan shrugged, missing the familiar weight of his Desert Eagle under his arm. “If this guy’s traveling with the entourage you say he is, I doubt it would get past his bodyguards, and since I’m supposed to be doing this on the down low, well, the .44 is a bit conspicuous. Don’t worry—I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

       “Whenever you say that, that’s exactly when I start worrying.” Bolan heard crunching in his ear and grinned, knowing Brognola had just popped one of his ever-present antacid tablets into his mouth. “However you manage to get him out, just don’t create an incident with the Singaporean government. It’s bad enough we snuck you in. I’d hate to see us trying to extradite you from one of their prisons.”

       “Thanks for the pep talk.” Bolan entered the main lobby of the Marina Bay, which was decorated to look like a jungle oasis had sprung up in the middle of the huge room, with palm trees and bright orchids and ferns growing inside a walled garden, complete with a twenty-foot waterfall. The rest of the room was modern, covered in exotic hardwoods and marble.

       “Okay, walk straight through the lobby and take a right on the far side. The private elevators to the towers will be straight ahead.” The voice in his ear was younger and quicker, and Bolan could hear the tinny beat of the constant rock music Stony Man Farm’s computer hacker, Akira Tokaido, always listened to when on the job.

       “You get that pass worked out yet?” he asked.

       “I’ve almost got it. The security suite in this place is impressive, and coming from me, that’s saying something,” Tokaido said.

       Bolan reached the far end of the room and turned right as instructed. Two sets of gleaming, stainless-steel elevator doors faced him several yards away. Not breaking stride, he headed for them. “Five yards away, Akira. You better type faster.”

       “Don’t you worry, I’m on it.” When Bolan was a step away from the nearest set of doors, they slid soundlessly open.

       He stepped into a cylinder large enough to hold a dozen people. The doors closed behind him, and the button for floor 57 lit up. The elevator began ascending so smoothly Bolan could hardly tell it was moving. “They spared no expense for this place.”

       “Yeah. Too bad you won’t have a chance to catch a meal there. The restaurants are supposed to be terrific.”

       Bolan watched the floor numbers tick off. “You’ll have to tell me all about it when you’re here.”

       “On my salary? Hardly. Okay, you’re coming up to it. The suite will be to the right, the second door on your left. It’ll be easy to spot—it’s the one with the two bodyguards out front.”

       “He couldn’t have taken a suite near the elevator, could he?”

       “Come on. You wouldn’t want this to be too easy, would you? I’m cutting in an empty loop of the security camera on that floor. You know how you’re gonna get inside?”

       “I’ll figure something out.” The elevator chimed softly, announcing he’d reached his destination. Bolan stepped out and looked both ways down the hall. Sure enough, two massive men wearing tuxedoes stood at ease in front of the second door on the left. Bolan headed straight for them.

       The pair eyed him as he approached, their postures turning from relaxed to alert the closer he got. Bolan stopped in front of the nearer one, a Samoan man built like a mountain, with dark skin and black hair falling in ringlets to his shoulders. Despite his head-crushing demeanor, his voice was smooth and polite, with a hint of British prep school in it. “May I help you?”

       Bolan decided to return the politeness. “I’m here to see Dr. Kim Dae-jung.”

       The bodyguards exchanged glances, and the far one turned to face Bolan, stepping in front of the door. “I’m afraid there is no one inside by that name. Perhaps you have the wrong room.”

       Bolan held his arms out enough so the hired muscle could see he wasn’t packing. “Relax, guys, I’m not carrying. If you’ll allow me…” He took out a slim leather billfold and flipped it open. “Matt Cooper, U.S. State Department. Now I know Dr. Dae-jung is inside, and all I’ll need is a few minutes of his time.” Bolan and Brognola had come up with the State Department cover together, figuring a bureaucrat would be less fearsome than a CIA officer or even the lesser-known U.S. Diplomatic Security Service.

       The Samoan examined the credentials for more than thirty seconds. Bolan wasn’t concerned—they were real as far as anyone outside the State Department was concerned. “One moment, sir.” The bodyguard touched his earpiece and muttered something in what sounded like Korean.

       Moments later, the bodyguard returned his attention to Bolan. “Please stand with your legs shoulder-width apart and spread your arms.” Bolan complied, and the second man ran a handheld metal detector over his body. When he was finished, the Samoan patted him down thoroughly. Satisfied that Bolan was unarmed, the second bodyguard produced a key card and swiped it through the lock on the double mahogany door, which opened to a burst of music, loud conversation in several languages, the laughter of men and women, and a swirl of smoke.

       The Samoan opened the door farther for Bolan. “The doctor will be with his guests in the main room. You will be escorted at all times while inside. Do you have any questions?”

       Bolan shook his head and stepped into a small foyer. He was met by a smaller Asian man, also dressed in a tuxedo, with alert eyes, a buzz cut and an unmistakable bulge under his right arm. “If you’ll follow me, sir.” He turned and escorted Bolan into the large main room.

       The huge Chairman Suite more than lived up to its name. It was decorated in black wood and granite, with dark hardwood floors covered with large patterned rugs. A long black-and-silver screen depicting a flock of cranes taking off from a pond took up the far wall of the room. The furniture was modern and sleek, from the leather wingback chairs and plush couches scattered around the room to the ebony baby grand piano surrounded by several women as someone played what sounded to Bolan like some kind of show tune. The women were all singing in more than one language.

       From the looks of it, the party had been going on for some time. A long, granite-topped table along one wall contained the remains of a demolished buffet, and suit jackets, evening wraps and shoes were scattered around the room. Bolan guessed the women in attendance were professionals, and as he was led deeper inside, he saw one of them lead a balding, potbellied man dressed only in an undershirt, socks and garters into another room and close the door.

       Cigarette and marijuana smoke mingled, the thick, stale cloud obscuring what would probably have been a magnificent view of the city’s skyline.

       The third bodyguard led Bolan to a corner of the main room, where a large, U-shaped black leather couch was currently hosting several men and women, all in various states of undress. And in the middle of it all, leading his inebriated guests in an off-key chorus of “I Did it My Way” was the man himself, Dr. Kim Dae-jung.

       The man known as the driving force behind North Korea’s nuclear weapons program wasn’t much to look at. Barely clearing five feet, he was pudgy, with a bulging belly that attested to a life spent at a lab table. He wore rimless glasses and his receding black hair, normally swept back from his forehead, stuck out in all directions, as if he had just been mildly electrocuted.

       Bolan stood patiently next to the bodyguard while Dae-jung and his group finished their song. His eyes and ears, however, were cataloging every person, where they were, and what they were holding or doing. He spotted two more obvious bodyguards in the room, and one of the prostitutes who he thought might be disguised to blend