The ringing telephone interrupted his thoughts. He glanced over and confirmed that the light for his line was glowing. One of the basic things taught in Prospective Commanding Officers’ School was to never answer the phone yourself. You could never be sure it wasn’t “60 Minutes” calling.
Ward ignored the disturbance and re-read the last few sentences of the message.
Joe Glass stuck his head in the door.
"Skipper, some guy named Tom Kincaid on the line. Wants to talk to you and he says you’d be glad to take the call."
Ward grabbed the phone. The gruff voice on the other end was unmistakable.
"Jon, you old sea-goin’ reprobate! How you doing?"
Ward felt the years drop away. Hearing Tom Kincaid's voice always transported him back to his college days once again. They had had their share of fun back then, partying, chasing the same girls, trying to work their way through the great beers of the world one brew at a time. They had also found time for serious discussions on the state of the world, the future of the universe, and whether or not Ohio State would beat Michigan.
Had it really been twenty years ago already?
"Tom, great to hear your voice. You still growing mold up in Seattle?"
"You know me. Perfect nose for finding the best beer and coffee in the world. Have 'em both here. You and Ellen need to take a break and come up here sometime. I’ve found a seafood restaurant down by the ferry landing that is out of this world."
Ward took a sip of coffee. His friend sounded ebullient, his voice full of excitement. The last time they had spoken, a good year before, he had been almost despondent, complaining of serving out a sentence at the far end of the drug-fighting cosmos.
"Tom, I think it's your turn to come down here. Little sunshine would do you good and we serve a pretty good cup of coffee at ‘Casa de Ward.’ Take a couple of days, hop a plane, and come on down here before we head out again. We might could even break out the sticks and go lose some golf balls."
"I may just do that." Ward heard a very distinct shift in the tone of his friend's voice. He recognized it right away. The pleasantries were over. It would be all business now. Jon Ward was stunned by what his old friend said. "Jon, I've been talking to a friend of yours the last couple of days. John Bethea."
At that very moment, the Commander was staring at the initials “JDIA” on the “Top Secret” message on the wardroom table before him. The message that had just confirmed that Bethea and JDIA owned Spadefish, its crew, and its captain for the next little while.
Ward caught his breath.
"A relatively new friend of mine, but a friend nonetheless.”
Kincaid continued, "That’s precisely what he told me. Jon, we've been having a problem up here. Losing too many people, young people who had no business dying. It's that damn white shit. Someone is bringing it in from down south and it’s some nasty stuff. They’ve found some way to make it even more addictive, and you can imagine what that’ll do with all the casual use the stuff gets already. Good people are going to get hurt, Jon. More good people.”
Kincaid paused to swallow hard.
Ward knew exactly what was going through his friend’s mind. A sister. A sister Kincaid had loved dearly, and that he had been unable to save from her own addiction.
“Look, Jon, I’ve been calling in every chit I’ve got on this thing and I'm running into a brick wall finding out any more about what’s going on. And it’s getting real ugly. I talked to my best informant down there a few days ago. Good guy. Name of Pepe Licciardi. Real careful type. Said he'd see what he could find.” Ward clenched his jaw. Secure line or not, he was surprised Kincaid was mentioning out loud the name of so crucial an informant. He learned it no longer mattered. “They found him in an alley in Cartagena this morning. Throat slashed ear to ear. Not a drop of blood left in him. Left a wife, a seven-year-old daughter and a cat."
Jonathan Ward felt a chill enter the wardroom.
“So, how do you hook up with Bethea?”
“He called me, right after I talked with Pepe. He had gotten wind…somehow…that I was asking questions about de Santiago and the new strain of coke. He did me two favors. First, he told me he was going to invoke some extraordinary measures to make sure Rick Taylor and the DEA didn’t hear about me and my investigation so far. If JDIA knows about it, it’s just a matter of time before Taylor and his clowns hear. Believe it or not, he knows how badly that son of a bitch could queer this whole deal. And secondly, he rather strongly suggested that I get down to San Diego and visit with my old college bud for a few days.”
A dozen questions rattled around inside Jon Ward’s head, but he decided to save them for a face-to-face with his friend.
"Tom, hop on that plane. Be here tomorrow if you can. We need to talk. Somewhere away from any ears."
"Put on the java pot, Jonny. And make it strong, strong, strong."
Tom Kincaid almost sang the words. He was clearly elated to be back in the game, back to somewhere where he could make a difference.
12
British Airways flight number BA025 checked in with Hong Kong Flight Control ten minutes early. The twelve-hour, non-stop trip from London was almost finished and Antonio de Fuka could not have been more grateful. He stretched his aching muscles by locking his ankles beneath the seat in front of him and lifting his legs upward as hard as he could. The Oriental lady in the seat next to him was too exhausted to even give him a hard stare anymore when he grunted with the effort.
Even traveling first class had not really helped. He left Bogota twenty-nine hours before. The five-hour layover in London had been beneficial, but only marginally. He had been able to walk a bit, but the bland British food had left him dyspeptic and the rain gave him a chill. Then there had been the cab ride from Gatwick Airport to Heathrow, through the fog and mist and during the height of the afternoon rush hour.
For some reason known only to the airlines of the world, there were no direct flights from anywhere in Latin America to Hong Kong. A traveler had to go through either the United States or London. De Fuka was simply not comfortable traveling through an American airport, even if he never left the international lounge. He remembered all too well the story of Jose Castillo. Because of the vagaries of the airlines, he was forced to fly an awkward zigzag from Nicaragua to Guatemala by way of Los Angeles. He was arrested by Immigration and Naturalization Service agents at LAX for smuggling illegal aliens. At least the British seemed more likely to respect the international part of Heathrow.
The layover in London had been without event except for the near misses during the cab ride. Once at Heathrow, he had tried to sleep in the First Class Club, but that proved futile. A group of giggling, squealing schoolgirls on some class trip from America combined with rude businessmen and their too-loud cell phone conversations to make any nap impossible.
The Boeing 747 finally broke through the clouds that hid the giant Chek Lap Kok Airport. Jutting out into the South China Sea, the monstrous man-made island was the largest earthmoving project in history. The Chinese sheared the tops off two islands and filled in the sea with all that dirt and rock to make dry ground for the airport.
The smiling flight attendant, altogether too fresh and polite after such a long, grueling flight, handed de Fuka a steaming hot towel as they continued their descent.
"I hope you enjoyed your flight, Senor Silva. Hong Kong is such a vibrant city, don't you think?"
De Fuka muttered something polite but noncommittal and forced a smile. Part of his job was to remain as anonymous as possible, merely another Latin American businessman, a Mr. Silva, flying halfway around the world to seal some boring deal.
He hadn't been to Hong Kong since the Chinese had regained control or since the opening of the new airport. He certainly wouldn’t miss the white-knuckle approach to the old Kai Tok Airport, even if he would no longer have the panoramic view of Hong Kong Island and Kowloon.
The one advantage of flying first class was being first
off the plane. Despite wanting to blend with the crowd, de Fuka led the rest of his fellow passengers down the boarding ramp and out into the massive cavern of the terminal.
The scale of the building, even the soaring vaulted ceiling of the ultra-modern terminal, was lost on de Fuka. He was sore, tired and sleepy. Add the jostling crowds and the slow lines at customs and it all only contributed to his ill temper.
He didn't notice the neatly dressed Oriental gentleman standing by the magazine stand, studying the racks of publications for some other reading matter to add to the newspaper he had already. Not even when the man half-looked his way as he spoke into a cell phone, folded his paper under his arm, and walked away to be swallowed up by the milling crowd.
De Fuka stepped outside the mammoth building and breathed deeply. The warm, humid wind blowing in from the sea carried a faint scent of the New Territories of Mainland China, only 20 kilometers away across the water. The aroma mingled with the exhaust smoke from all the traffic that whizzed past. It was good to smell something besides the airline's canned air and his seatmate’s cheap perfume.
A black Mercedes limousine pulled up to the curb, easing to a stop at his feet. A small white placard was stuck to the passenger side window. "Silva" had been written on it in grease pencil. The driver hopped out, greeted him pleasantly in English, and placed his single bag in the trunk. De Fuka held onto his briefcase as he took one more whiff of the fragrant air and climbed into the back seat.
"Grand Hyatt Hotel on Gloucester Road in the Central District," he said and the driver nodded.
“I know, Senor Silva,” he said.
The Mercedes merged into the melee of buses and taxis leaving the airport. They eased past a shoeshine boy standing against the terminal building. The boy spoke a few words into a cell phone, then packed up his kit and trotted away.
The limo swung out onto Route Nine for the long drive to the Central District of Hong Kong Island. De Fuka watched the wild traffic ahead. His own feet subconsciously worked imaginary pedals in the floorboard as the driver negotiated the bedlam with seeming ease.
De Fuka continuously looked over his shoulder. He saw the various taxis that pulled in behind the limo for only a few minutes before giving way to another one. If he was being tailed, there was no way to differentiate these cabs from any of the others that herded around them, clogging the thoroughfare.
The route crossed over to Kowloon then tunneled under the Inner Harbor to emerge on Hong Kong Island. The Mercedes joined several other vehicles pulling up into the long, sweeping drive to the Grand Hyatt. The scent of bougainvillea hung heavy in the air. Water splashed from the large rock fountain like a gentle rain on the mountain rocks back home. The Colombian thought how easy it would be to slip down into the seat and take a quick nap. He had time. He would not meet with Sui until the next day. Tonight, he could sleep and prepare.
De Fuka left the limo and stepped through the large glass doors into the cool grandeur of the hotel, his driver at his heels with his bag. Brass, black granite, and ornately carved furniture gleamed throughout the lobby. It was hard to imagine that he was now in a communist country. Hong Kong could still rival any great capitalist enclave in its opulence and splendor. Beijing had not yet tried to dim its bright lights. De Fuka couldn’t help wondering if the Chinese would eventually gray it down to their customary drab utilitarianism. Or if this place might become the tail that wagged the Marxist dog that had now marked it as its own territory.
The hotel manager hastened to greet him halfway across the lobby. He insisted on escorting him directly to his suite without bothering with the formalities of checking in. The rosewood-and-glass elevator whisked them silently to the twenty-fifth floor where the manager led de Fuka into an expansive suite whose all-glass exterior wall looked out over Hong Kong's bustling Inner Harbor.
The manager bowed his way out of the suite.
"I hope you enjoy your stay, Senor de Fuka. Mr. Sui asked me to tell you that he will see you for dinner in the Cheng Fui Room. It is on the second floor. Dinner will be served at eight o'clock."
De Fuka stared hard at the manager as he quietly shut the carved mahogany double doors. He had registered and traveled under the name of Silva. The limo and the room were for “Mr. Silva.” No one in Hong Kong should know his real name or purpose. Sui's people had been told to meet a Mr. Gomez at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel on Charter Road tomorrow evening.
As far as anyone was concerned, there was no Senor de Fuka on the island. But Sui knew he was there. The Chinese crime lord had enough time to change his accommodations from a business suite to the penthouse, arrange a private dining room, and move the meeting up one full day. Furthermore, he was now to meet with the mysterious Sui in person, not with some lieutenant. Sui was placing great importance on this meeting. He rarely traveled from his secluded home in the mountains on the Thai-China border.
He had gone to great trouble to gain the upper hand by forcing the meeting a day early. De Fuka considered sending the Oriental word that the meeting would take place at the time and venue previously determined. Sui was certainly welcome to take part in the discussion, but the proxy of Juan de Santiago would appreciate the courtesy of no more changes in the plan. That would allow him a day to rest, to regain his edge. It would put Sui back on the defensive.
He stood at the huge window and watched the choppy water of the harbor. The lights began to flick on in the buildings all around. He decided to play it Sui’s way. He was about to ask for the man’s partnership and a significant investment, even by major drug kingpin standards. Better to acquiesce on these points. He may have to be adamant on others.
That’s why de Fuka had come instead of de Santiago himself. Something as insignificant as a change in the meeting plans, something as fully predictable as Sui being aware of his alias and his travel plans, could well have sent El Jefe into a rage. The chances of any accord with the Orientals would have been sunk to the bottom of the South China Sea.
With the recent discovery of the presence of a traitor, El Falcone, in their midst who knew what else Sui may know about de Santiago’s operations and how they may have been compromised. It would be best to go ahead with the meeting.
Nothing to do now but wait and see what played out. De Fuka kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the king-sized bed to rest his travel-weary body.
The private dining room looked out over a small, walled-off garden. The shady green foliage and the artfully placed rocks gave a sense of isolation and tranquility in the heart of the world's most bustling city. The gentle burbling of a small brook running though the garden added a further authentic touch of nature. Dense thickets of bamboo hid the high back wall. Small lanterns and soft overhead lighting illuminated the idyllic scene. Brilliantly plumed songbirds in cages hung from the limbs of a miniature gingko tree added even more to the illusion of being in a small, rural garden in the country, not just one floor above the lobby of a major international hotel.
The room was arranged with a small table that had already been set for two. The few pieces of antique Mandarin furniture along the two long sidewalls served as display stands for exquisite jade carvings. Two large Ming vases flanked the glass wall looking out into the garden. The effect was one of understated elegance.
De Fuka stepped into the room. A short, elderly man who had been gazing out the window turned and stepped briskly across to meet him.
"My dear Senor de Fuka. How very good of you to meet us so soon after your exhausting journey. I trust your accommodations are adequate."
The Oxford accent did not seem out of place at all, considering the Saville Row suit or the Italian silk tie the man wore. The hard, horny calluses on the extended hand, the iron grip, and the fierce light in the man’s dark, Oriental eyes served notice of how thin the veneer was.
De Fuka bowed slightly at the greeting. He tried not to wince at the power of the man’s grip.
"Mr. Sui, you do us honor by accepting our invitation to meet and speak th
is humble servant. But I must say, I was not expecting to meet with you. Juan de Santiago sends his greetings and highest respects."
Sui waved him toward a mahogany sideboard filled with shining crystal.
"May I offer you a drink?" A server appeared, as if summoned telepathically from behind the silk screen that shielded part of that wall from view. "We have an excellent fifty-year Laphroigg. That is your drink of choice?" De Fuka nervously agreed. The server poured several fingers of Scotch into a small snifter and handed it to de Fuka with a deep bow. Sui continued, "Although I never developed a taste for those earthy Islay malts. I much prefer a lighter Oban, myself."
As the two men strolled over to the window, they continued their small talk, discussing the virtues of various Scotches, the rigors of the half-a-world journey, the beauty of the garden, the changes in Hong Kong. The easy conversation continued over dinner, an excellent eight-course meal of Cantonese fare.
When the last of the dinner had finally been cleared away, the coffee and brandy served, and the cigars lit, Sui opened the next phase of the discussion. De Fuka fought to stay alert, his fatigue giving way to a sleepy mellowness after the fine fare.
"Senor de Fuka, now I hope you will please explain this proposition that Senor de Santiago wishes to implement, and tell me how I and my organization fit into his plans."
De Fuka looked quickly around the room, the question obvious on his face.
“Is it safe…?”
"Do not worry, Senor," Sui reassured him. "The only ears these walls have belong to me. These people all work for me. As do the ones who have watched over you since you landed in London. And their mission was not merely to track your progress, my friend, but to make certain that none of our mutual enemies deterred you."
De Fuka looked at the little man with a new respect. His reach was indeed a long one.
Carefully, de Santiago’s lieutenant began an explanation of the smuggling and distribution system that de Santiago was already implementing. Sui leaned forward slightly. He sipped his drink, listening intently to every word de Fuka uttered. When the Colombian described the miniature submarine and how it would work, the man’s eyes lit up and a smile flitted across his face.
Final Bearing Page 14
