Breaking point - By Tom Clancy & Steve Perry & Steve Pieczenik Page 0,44

done in cash.

The drive from there had turned into a ride in the country, about forty-five minutes’ worth to this place.

Morrison put two and two together: Idaho, men with guns in paramilitary gear, razor wire. “Some kind of militia group,” he said. “Neo Nazis or white supremacists?”

“Let’s just say if you were black, it would be a lot harder to call in the favor.”

“Jesus.”

“These people speak very highly of him, yes, but I doubt he spends much time here.”

Morrison shook his head.

“Then again, it is unlikely in the extreme that anybody will sneak in here and kidnap you,” Ventura said. “Certainly not anybody of the Oriental persuasion.”

“I thought you said the Chinese wouldn’t send somebody who looked Chinese.”

They passed another trio of armed men in jungle camo sitting on or standing next to a military vehicle, a Hummer or Humvee or whatever. The three silently watched the cars go past, and when Morrison looked back, he saw one of the men hold up a com and speak into it.

“That’s only if they want to sneak up on you. The Chinese don’t like to delegate certain functions—they don’t trust each other, much less round-eyes. If you arrange a meeting with them for something they want, they’ll send someone who looks and acts the part. They won’t want you to doubt their sincerity.”

The narrow dirt road curved through another thick patch of woods, then into a cleared space maybe three or four acres big, with several prefab metal and wooden buildings centered in the clearing, all painted a drab olive green. A big air-conditioner rumbled in the background, spewing vapor into the hot afternoon.

There were more military-style vehicles, more armed men—as well as several armed women—and a pair of flags flying from a tall wooden pole in front of the largest of the structures. There was Old Glory, and under it, a shining white flag with what looked like a pair of crossed yellow lightning bolts over a line drawing of a hand.

“Sons of Pure Man,” Ventura said, watching Morrison as he looked at the flags. “Empowered by God Almighty to smite the wicked, scourge the impure, and kick the asses of anybody else who would mongrelize the true race.”

“These people are friends of yours?” Morrison said.

“These people will help me keep the wily Chinese from grabbing you, draining you dry, and then smiling politely as they hand your widow your head with an apple stuffed into its mouth, on a platter. We aren’t family here, but allies are where you find them—sometimes you have to overlook a few little cultural or philosophical differences.”

Morrison sighed, but didn’t say anything else. Ventura had a point. He was about to go into negotiations with people who had been wise in the ways of political and court intrigue for five thousand years. Being ruthless was not a problem for a culture with as much practice at it as they had. And he had hired Ventura for his expertise. As long as he did the job, Morrison didn’t care how.

“So now you put in a call to your friend the used car buyer and invite him to drop round for a little chat. He won’t like it, but he’ll come, especially if he’s figured out who you are, and that you might indeed have something worth selling.”

“And after that?”

“Well, once they know you are where they can’t get to you, then we can leave. Further communication can be relayed through here—the general has quite an up-to-date collection of electronics—and with any luck, we can keep them believing you are still here until the deal is done.”

“And after the deal is done—if it is?”

“One step at a time, Dr. Morrison. We’ll burn that bridge when we have to burn it. Oh, and by the way, after we step out of the car? Assume that everything we say is being monitored—because it probably is. They can’t hear us in here because we’re protected by certain devices, but outside, you can book it that somebody will have a shotgun mike or even a laser reader on us at all times.”

“ ‘Allies,’ you said?”

“Trust no one and no one can betray you. Just good tactics is all. Ah. There’s the general, come to welcome us.”

Jackson “Bull” Smith was no more a general than Ventura was a colonel, save to the bunch of mouthbreathers who hut-hut-hutted around his compound in the Idaho woods. Thirty years ago, Smith had been an Army infantryman, done some fighting in the Middle East, and more