White Gold

by David Barker

  The vague amount of professional camaraderie that Sim had built up with Roberts was ebbing fast. The CIA man was increasingly frustrated at the lack of progress.

  “What about toxicology? Those needle marks might indicate something,” said Sim.

  “We’ve already tried that. Haul your ass back to Britain and let us do our job.” Roberts turned to his secretary. “Get me Diane Butler on the phone. I need to tell her we’ve drawn a blank.”

  “What about the contents of the house? Anything unusual in that?” Sim would not be fobbed off that easily.

  Roberts sighed. He slid over a print-out that listed the contents by room.

  Sim scanned the list and halted over two items. “Don’t call it off yet.”

  “What you seen? Holding out on us, kid?”

  “More of a hunch. Just give me 24 hours.” Sim handed back the report and headed out of the office. Deck shoes and a waterproof grab-bag were on the list. Maybe YC stood for Yacht Club. He wanted to know for sure before he confessed to Roberts about the keyring.

  The Texas Corinthian Yacht Club was a very up-market place, not far from the Space Centre. The man at the gate wore a white uniform with creases sharp enough to cut paper. His expression suggested that the club took a dim view of non-members turning up un-announced or un-invited.

  Sim needed to think fast. He changed his Scottish accent into something that resembled Wardle’s English hoping the American would not be able to tell how bad it was. “Good day, my man. Bit of a long shot, I know, but I’m staying here for a few weeks while I tie up a property deal in the area and I’m desperate to get out on the water. Everybody says this is the tip-top club so I was wondering if I might have a chat with the secretary about some sort of short-term arrangement.”

  The man on the gate stood for a moment, unable to decide how to proceed. Sim drew out a twenty-dollar bill and flashed him a smile. The security guard went to make a call in his booth and a few moments later, the gates rolled back and finally the guard’s face cracked into a smile. “Welcome to the Corinthian, sir.”

  Sim was enjoying the view across the water from the secretary’s office while sipping a mint julep. The secretary of the club, a black man with tight grey curls, was expanding on the virtues of membership.

  “It’d be our pleasure to have you on board, as it were, Mr Watkinson.”

  Sim had adopted the surname he had used when he was undercover at the Moon base. “Jolly good.”

  “Minimum of six months’ membership, I’m afraid.”

  “Not a problem. Though I will need to hire one of your lockups. I can get my people to bring over some of my kit if I have somewhere to store it.”

  The secretary pulled a face. “You’re plum out of luck on that one. ‘Fraid all our garages are already taken.”

  “Ahh.” Sim tried not to smile. His whole plan had relied on this. “Perhaps there’s one that isn’t being used actively. Maybe we could share it, temporarily? Would an extra six months’ membership cover the inconvenience?”

  There was no moon to reflect across the dark waters when Sim returned to the club. The roads were deserted and he could see a different guard sat inside a little cabin by the gates to the Corinthian. Sim did not need his night-vision goggles. The cabin was illuminated from within and the big windows afforded a perfect sight of the bored woman inside, paying scant attention to anything going on around. This was going to be easy.

  Sim was about to scale the fence when he noticed a faint hum coming from the barrier. He switched his goggles to infra-red mode and the whole fence lit-up like a Christmas tree. Motion sensors. The club took its security more seriously than the guard did, it seemed. A high-end system like this could be defeated, but not with the equipment Sim had with him. It was time for plan B.

  Sim’s black outfit was perfect camouflage in the sea but had none of the thermal protection of a wetsuit. Fortunately, the waters in the bay were a pleasant temperature. He was relieved not to be doing this in one of the lochs near his home back in Scotland. The yacht club’s defences continued out into the harbour on top of and below the jetties that defined its part of the marina. Even the gap between the jetties, where during the day boats would sail out into the bay, was blocked by a stout aluminium chain and a laser beam.

  Sim took a deep breath and dove below the surface. He flicked a switch on his goggles and a beam of light illuminated the waters as he swam below the chain barrier. It extended down to a depth of at least two metres. Sim could feel the pressure building in his ears as he swam lower and then he was past the barrier, swimming back to the surface. He gasped as he broke the surface, turning off the beam from his goggles. The club’s marina was silent except for the gentle creaking of hulls against rubber fenders and the chiming of sail wires against masts.

  Sim swam between two yachts and used a ladder to climb onto a jetty. He crept towards the lock-ups. The secretary had explained that number 13 had not been used for a couple of months. The foreign gentleman who had taken up membership back in March had not been seen since. Sim plugged his wrist tab into the key pad and soon heard a click as the software cracked the code. He pushed the door open and once inside switched on the beam from his goggles again. The thin beam immediately picked out the jackpot. A Toyota in Ooh La La Rouge with plates that matched Frank Herbert’s car.

  It was all going a little too well. Sim was relishing the look on Roberts’ face when he told him in the morning about the find at the yacht club. But as Sim arrived back at his hotel, a message from HQ pinged. Wardle was on the warpath. Sim was needed urgently back in the UK for some ‘real work’. Pleading for just another week cut no mustard with his boss. There was a flight leaving in a few hours. Sim’s ticket had already been purchased and failure to get on the plane would be a sackable offence.

  Terminal B of the George Bush Intercontinental Airport was blessedly cool as Sim walked towards the check-in desk. He smiled at the person on duty and started thinking about Rosie’s little bump. He patched through at the terminal and told his wife he was coming home. He was pleased to hear that the morning sickness had passed. And the bump was definitely starting to show by now. Sim needed to be there. Vid calls were just not the same. All the way through security, duty free and at the departure gate. Rosie, Rosie, Rosie. He was definitely not thinking about the need for revenge. That would be pointless. All he could do was go home, look after his wife and wait. Do some boring assignment for Wardle. Pretend that everything had returned to normal when the truth was, it never could.

  CHAPTER 12

  At least Roberts and his team had something to go on. Sim had called from the airport and explained where to find the missing car. The CIA man had been furious at first. A shouted list of misdemeanours: withholding evidence, lack of procedure, entering without a warrant. This was the last time he was liaising with any foreign agencies. But he was glad to be rid of the bothersome Brit.

  CCTV footage of the roads near the boathouse were trawled through, just before and just after the likely time of death of the NASA impostor. Red Toyotas were surprisingly popular, but finally the right one had been spotted. The driver was wearing a baseball cap pulled down low, but at one junction he had carelessly looked up to read one of the road signs. The car itself had been clean of fingerprints but there had been some hair strands that did not match the DNA of the dead impostor. Not for definite from the killer, but a possible match. The final piece of the jigsaw had been the opioid found in the glove box of the car. Not the usual pure cut from the Golden Crescent or Golden Triangle but a new synthetic, not yet found on the streets of America. It was taking market share all over Europe and it was being produced in Turkey.

  Roberts had needed to work hard to get his boss to approve his plan.

  “Just because the drugs were from Turkey, that doesn’t mean the killer was too,” Diane Butler had said.

  “But the killer didn’t show up on the face recognition algo at NSA.”

  “So?”

  “So,
he’s almost certainly foreign too. Maybe even worked in the same terror cell as the infiltrator. That would explain why there had been no signs of a struggle. No break-in. I would say the two knew each other,” Roberts had replied.

  They had a photo, a DNA sample and an approximate date of entry. It was just enough for Diane to agree to a mission in Turkey. Roberts leant back in the seat of the private jet and smiled as the runway disappeared below the clouds.

  Now we’re getting somewhere.

  Nazim Oktar, the Turkish killer, was good enough at his job to know that he had picked up a tail. The CIA agent was good enough at tailing not to lose his mark, even through the busy streets of a chaotic town like Manavgat. It was hot and the town was not quite close enough to the Mediterranean to get the benefit of any cooling breeze. Monday meant market day, usually full of tourists at this time of year. But it was also RTE day – the annual celebration of the glorious Turkish leader. Eighty years old and still going strong. And that meant the locals were out-numbering the tourists for once. Live musicians were giving the crowd an excuse to sway and sing in the sun. Cheap, strong booze was being poured from unmarked bottles into little shot glasses at numerous tables covered in plastic sheets. Everybody who went past such a table was being offered a drink. The Turkish killer pushed away the glass. A firecracker went off in a side alley and he ducked, turning fast. The tail was still watching him. Hair cut so short it was almost not there. American silvered shades. Hi-tech wrist communicator. No gun drawn, not yet.

  Oktar jumped onto an electric bus heading west across the river, just before its doors closed. The tail broke into a run and slammed his hand on the back of the vehicle as it pulled out into traffic. Oktar leant back into the hot plastic of his seat and smiled, not realising that the bus now had a magnetic homing device clinging to its rear battery cover. A small drone took off from a nearby roof top and started following.

  The Turkish man rested while the bus wound its way through heavy traffic towards the D400. He dozed lightly, letting the chatter of old women and the leaking music of head-phoned youths wash over him. At Gundogdu he got off the bus and checked the passing traffic to make sure the bus had not been followed. Nothing. During a lull in the traffic, he ducked behind a hedge and started walking towards the abandoned village of Kisalar. Only a couple of kilometres across the fields. A walk that most people around here dared not take any more. The fields were baked-hard and barren. Abandoned by the farmers after the spread of rumours about the cursed hamlet.

  Well, let them think that for a while longer, he thought. The plants were trying to reclaim the village, but it was a perfect spot for a hide-out. Only one other person used these huts now and they were more interested in people smuggling than his line of business. Oktar pushed open the warped door of his humble abode and sat down to encrypt a report for HQ.

  The preparations of the CIA team were not ideal. After tracking the assassin to his hide-out, they had put together a hasty plan for the bagging operation. Taking the Turk alive would be crucial. The runway was a good hour’s drive away, but that could not be helped. Chances of being spotted in this remote village were slim but afterwards they would have to run the gauntlet of any possible spot checks by local police. Even if it came to that, there were expensive options still available. One was financially dear, the other would cost lives. But they would get their target to the waiting plane one way or another.

  As stars emerged, the CIA team moved into position and closed in on the village from all sides. Roberts heard voices from the path that led down to the coast. Little pin-pricks of light bobbed up and down. Ten, maybe twenty, people were approaching the village, wearing head-mounted torches. The language was nothing he had encountered before and he didn’t have time to fiddle with his translator module. This was going to complicate the mission, but Roberts was too stubborn to abort now.

  “Shit. Team, we’ve got witnesses headed our way. Keep your heads down and make sure they don’t distract you from the mark.”

  Roberts ducked behind a bush and watched as sixteen Africans walked past. They were chatting loudly, white teeth grinning in the darkness. Back-slapping each other, and a bottle was being passed down the line with each person taking a swig. A chant began. “Dee, Dee, Dee.” The man at the front turned and held his hands out for quiet.

  “That can’t be,” thought Roberts. “Fuck me.” The face of one of the CIA’s most wanted terrorists had flashed past him in the middle of a deserted Turkish village, in the middle of an unrelated mission. Which one needed priority? For once, Roberts was not sure. As he stood up and drew his gun, his foot crunched on a fallen branch. The group of Africans fell silent and a dozen tiny light beams swung around to partially blind the American agent. He ducked down again and whispered into his mic. “Prusak, we’ve got a new primary target. Leader of this African gang. Take him out while they’re distracted by me. Non-lethal force, do you hear me?”

  “Understood. Moving in now.”

  “Johnson, Fielding. Get Oktar, he’s going to break cover.”

  The pop of a firearm being discharged was all the answer he got to that order. A muffled yelp, and then a cry of “Man down, man down,” in his ear piece. The Africans heard the gunshot and scattered off the path in all directions, headlamps now switched off. Roberts pulled his torch and shone it along the barrel of his automatic pistol to where he had last seen the African leader. An empty space. The operation was unravelling fast. He needed to decide whether to pull the plug.

  “Prusak. Give me some good news.”

  “Target acquired.”

  “Fielding?”

  “Johnson took a round to the shoulder. He’ll live. Unlike the Turk.”

  By the time the plane took off from the unlit runway, Johnson’s wound had already been cleaned and dressed. The African prisoner’s head was sheathed in a thick cloth bag and his wrists were tied behind his back. The dead assassin had been left behind after his clothes and house had been searched. With one wounded agent and a prisoner to handle, Roberts had decided to ditch the body. No big loss compared with the incredible bonus of stumbling across a person who had evaded the CIA for so long.

  Prusak gave the prisoner’s foot a kick. “So, Skipper, you gonna tell us why you risked the whole op for this piece of shit?”

  “This, my friends,” said Roberts as he whipped off the head bag, “is the guy who broke George Washington’s nose. The man who brought down the French government in ’26 and defeated the Terracotta Army the following year. Meet Jember Abdi.1”

  The plane touched down on an island in the middle of an ocean. An island not officially recognised by most of the world, but which for CIA purposes counted as US mainland. A well-paid lawyer might have disputed that point, but the nearest one was 200 kilometres too far away to raise the issue. Roberts entered the interview room with a big grin on his face.

  “You’ll be pleased to hear that my agent’s gonna be fine. Don’t want to add a murder charge to your long list of misdemeanours, do we?”

  Jember Abdi shrugged and looked away.

  “Care to tell us why you were hanging around with Nazim Oktar?”

  No reply.

  “Or what you were planning with all those other Africans, sneaking into Turkey?”

  Jember raised his eyes. “They just want a better life.”

  “At the expense of other people’s lives?” asked Roberts.

  “I never kill nobody. George Washington. Carved rock. Big deal. French government. Politicians lose their jobs. Boohoo. Terracotta Army. Toy soldiers die. So what?”

  “Oktar killed somebody in Texas.”

  “I have nothing to do with him. He have nothing to do with me. We both use deserted village. Not ask each other why.”

  “I’m asking you. Why were you using that deserted village?”

  Jember shook his head and rattled the handcuff links against his chair. “Because it is deserted. I told you. I smuggle people into Europe, from Africa. Nice quiet spot to land.�
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  “You expect me to believe that’s all there is to it? You are one of the most wanted men in three continents.” Roberts took a slurp of tepid coffee from a plastic cup, watching Abdi’s face.

  “You haven’t asked me why it is deserted.”

  Roberts looked in the two-way mirror and raised his eyebrows briefly. “I’m all ears.”

  “What in it for me?” asked Abdi.

  Roberts laughed. “This is not a negotiation. This interview is not even happening, officially. If you talk now, you avoid all the unpleasant methods my colleagues have devised for forcing the truth from an unwilling prisoner. If you don’t talk now, you’ll talk later.”

  “And they say I the terrorist.” Abdi shook his head. “At least gives me a smoke.”

  Roberts reached for a packet, took out a cigarette. As Abdi held it between his lips, the CIA man lit it and waited while the African took a deep drag. Roberts took the cigarette and rested it on the edge of an ashtray.

  “I had been looking for a quiet base to use for smuggling people on Turkish coast. Towards end of last year, I heard rumour of a village that had been cursed, abandoned. I thought the Lord had answered my prayers. So, I went to investigate. People in the nearby villages, they not want to say anything at first. But finally, I found somebody who would talk.” He paused while Roberts gave him another drag on his cigarette.

  “Nine months ago, a pharmaceutical company had visited. They wanted to try out new drug on the whole village. They offered so much money, so much. Everybody suspicious. One condition. Nobody was allowed to leave the village once treatment started. No-one in. No-one out. Quarantine for a month. Most people said yes in the end. Money is money. Village was poor. Crops not grow in this heat.”

  “Go on,” said Roberts.

  “At end of month, the village was empty. No sign of villagers, no pharmaceutical company. But somebody did find a newly ploughed field. In it, big, big trench. That person dug up a body, but they not survive long enough to find any more bodies. Some people said it was a plague village. Others said it was cursed. Everybody stayed away after that.”