by David Stone
Suspicion. Resentment. Perhaps Doc Holliday didn’t like this mission.
“I’m Captain Dalton, sir. Fifth SFG out of Fort Campbell.”
A pause while Holliday took that in.
“What’s a snake eater doing in this sorry-ass civilian cluster fuck?”
Dalton wasn’t surprised at the Marine’s attitude. Holding the CIA’s coat while the CIA pulls some sleazy prisoner exchange at an out-of-the-way airfield in Southeast Asia wasn’t the kind of thing a Marine Corps combat lifer likes to be seen doing.
“We came to get one of our own out of Changi, sir.”
“And you did. Good for you. They tell me he’s SAS.”
“Yes, sir. He’s had a hell of a time. I was—”
“You say your name is Dalton?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Micah Dalton?”
That stopped him for a moment.
“Yes, sir. Micah Dalton,” he said, carefully.
“I heard of you. You were in the Horn, your unit was covering an extraction of wounded and KIA. Uadan Highway Strip, near Gesira.”
Jesus. That totally fubar op. Now what?
“Guilty as charged, sir.”
“You called in CAS on your own position. They put a Spooky Gunship in the zone. Laid down chain-gun fire, lit up and shredded about a hundred Skinnies who were trying to get past your unit to put RPG fire into an old Convair Samaritan with UN markings? You were wounded, then you and three guys from your team spent two days being chased all over the AO by the Skinnies until the One-sixty AR managed to pull you out?”
“Yes, Major. Bad times.”
“Not for my niece Katie. She was a medic with Charlie Company, First of the Third, working with UNPROFOR Somalia. She was in that fucking Samaritan. I heard you retired, joined the DIA?”
“Not retired. I’m still Active. Seconded.”
“Still Active? Good for you. What can I do for you, Captain?”
“Are there two assholes around, PUNTS from Langley?”
“Yeah. Howell and Purdy. One white and one pink. Coupla limp-dick CIA pencil necks. They brought the Chinese geeks in. I already had the pleasure of their society up to my ass.”
“Sir, they’re here for my SAS sergeant.”
“Yeah. That’s what they’re saying.”
“Thing is, sir, I don’t want to hand him over to the civilians.”
Silence. Nothing but air rushing past and the rotors pounding and the airframe chattering hard enough to stun. Dalton felt the eyes on him.
“Roger that, Captain Dalton. Why not?”
“He’s a good soldier, and I want him in military custody.”
More silence. Fyke was watching Dalton. So was everybody else.
“I hear he went AWOL? I hear he’s facing federal charges.”
“I haven’t been shown any civilian charges. And if there had been civilian charges—federal charges—it’d be the FBI picking him up and not two pencil necks from the CIA, wouldn’t it? Sir?”
“The spooks are saying he’s a threat to national security.”
“With respect, sir, the CIA thought Ronald Reagan was a threat to national security.”
“Good point.”
He paused then. Dalton could almost hear his gears turning.
“Captain Dalton, is whatever he’s charged with a violation under the Uniform Code of Military Justice?”
“No, sir. Not to my knowledge.”
“You’re missing my point, Captain. I’ll say it again. I take it your SAS sergeant was seconded to an operation under American military control?”
“Yes, sir. At one point, he was.”
“Then you could make the case that whatever he did subsequent to that falls under the statutes of the UCMJ? Which makes it our business?”
“Yes, sir. You could make that case.”
“This a big deal to you, Captain? This means we’re stepping on civilian turf, taking your man into military custody. There’ll be a shit storm.”
“Perhaps the Major would lend me a slicker, sir?”
A throaty crackle then, not static. Major Holliday was laughing.
“Goliad, you listening?”
“Sir. Yes, sir.”
“Goliad, you dee-dee right now. Get over to Sembawang, put your bird down inside our compound. Don’t let nobody get near you until I get there. No civilians. No Embassy pukes. Nobody who isn’t Corps. Got that?”
“Aye, sir. What about the mission?”
“That is your mission. I’ll handle the PUNTS. Captain Dalton?”
“Here, sir.”
“That thing in the Horn?”
“Yes, sir?”
“It was fucking nuts, Dalton. When I heard it, know what I thought?”
“No, sir.”
“I thought, that fucking lunatic should have been a Marine.”
LUJAC WAS ON the cell phone seconds after the Huey lifted off. Larissa answered, still sounding sleepy but without the attitude.
Instead, she sounded worried.
“Kiki, Daddy wants to talk to you.”
“Okay. I’m right here.”
“Well, you’re on the cell. I told you to wait.”
“I need something.”
“That’s a shock. What?”
“If I give you a cell number and the ID for a brand-new Samsung Katana, can you get me a GPS reading on it?”
“Is this business or personal?”
“Strictly business, Cabbage.”
“Is the cell phone on ROAM?”
“Yes. It’s a London number. So we can assume yes.”
“That could be a problem. Generally, the GPS function only works if the phone is operating locally.”
“Then can you track it by the nearest cell tower?”
“That’s even harder to do than getting GPS data because you have to hack into the phone company’s operating grid. And even if you can do that, the tower number will only tell you where the phone is within a few hundred yards. I’m thinking about the GPS thing. Is the phone in Singapore?”
“Yes.”
“Look. Singapore is pretty sophisticated electronically. They do a lot of international commerce there. Lots of trade. The big banks and the global corporations are always worried about having their people kidnapped. They all require that company cell phones and handhelds have their GPS signals activated. It might be possible . . . they might have GPS tracking capacity in Singapore by now, even for foreign phones. I’ll have to know the account number. And who the carrier is. And the name of the account holder. And you’re sure the phone has its GPS identifier signal turned on.”
“It’s on. I did it myself.”
“What’s the number?”
Lujac had it memorized. He was good at that sort of thing.
“What’s the carrier?”
“AT and T.”
“That’s an American carrier.”
“Yeah. It’s an American phone. Belongs to the CIA.”
“Then it’ll be encrypted. And if I try to access the GPS system for AT and T locally, it might show up on an alert screen at Langley or the NSA.”
“Life is risk, Cabbage.”
“I’ll have to— I have Daddy on my other line. Hold on.”
Lujac braced himself. If something had made Larissa nervous, that something was probably her father.
Gospic was on.
“Lujac. You’re still in Singapore?”
Saigon. Shit. I’m still only in Saigon.
“Yes. I’m—”
“What have you got?”
“I’ve got that Dalton and the woman came here to get a man out of Changi Prison. And they did. They just took off in a—”
“Who was the man?”
“Somebody named Raymond Fyke.”
A silence. An electric hum. Larissa was still on the line. She was listening in. Why?
“Never heard of him.”
“He was going by another name.”
“Which was . . . ?”
/> “Brendan Fitch.”
“Never heard of him either. What was he in Changi for?”
“They say he got drunk and sank an oil tanker called the Mingo Dubai. In a storm off the Strait of Malacca.”
“How could one man sink a tanker?”
“No idea, boss. Maybe he left a tap running?”
A silence. A humming silence, filled with malice.
“Okay. A wasted trip. You still have a line on these people?”
That depends on your daughter.
“Yes. I do. What do you want?”
“It’s time. Give them all my greetings.”
“All. Including the drunk?”
“Yes. All of them.”
“Okay. Right now?”
“Now. Today. Then come home. I have something for you in Florence. Somebody needs to retire.”
“Sure, boss. Who?”
“Radko Borins. The Florence cops have him.”
“Did he get the job done?”
“Partly. He got the point made. But now he’s a problem. Is he a problem you can handle?”
“Sure. Right after I take care of this end.”
“Okay. Good work. Be back by the end of the week.”
“Looking forward to it.”
“Kiki, we’re gonna cut you off for now. I gotta have a talk with Larissa. You stay on those people. Get it done.”
“Okay, boss. But I think—”
The line went dead.
Thousands of miles away, Larissa was listening to her father’s breathing on the other end of the encrypted line out of Odessa.
“Larissa . . . I’m not going to be angry.”
“No, Daddy.”
“Did Lujac ask you to do anything personal for him today?”
Daddy has my phone tapped.
And probably my apartment too.
“Yes, Daddy.”
“What?”
“He wanted to find out where Vigo Majiic was.”
“I see. Did he say why?”
“He said he had a shoot in Geneva in December. For Chopard. And he wanted to see if Vigo would be a grip for him, because his other grips were on another job. He said Vigo used to work for a photographer in Trieste.”
“And does he have a shoot for Chopard in Geneva in December?”
“Yes. I checked with their agency.”
“Okay. Fine. And you told him where Vigo was now?”
“Yes, Daddy. I didn’t—”
“No harm done, sweet. No harm. I just don’t like Kiki Lujac calling my daughter up in the middle of the night, and I really don’t like him asking you to do personal favors for him. He’s an employee. Not family.”
“It won’t happen again. Sorry, Daddy.”
“You don’t have to apologize, sweet. Lujac’s not a problem for you.”
“You should know something, Daddy. He asked me to track a cell phone GPS.”
“For whom?”
“A woman named Mandy Pownall. A London number.”
“That’s okay. That’s business. Go ahead and do it. Give him the data as soon as you can. How are you feeling? How are the scars?”
“Healing, Daddy. Getting better.”
“Good. Another round coming up in Atlanta, you know?”
“Yes, Daddy. Four weeks.”
“I’ll come with you. Then we’ll have Christmas together. I’ve booked us into a really nice place in Savannah, Christmas in Savannah, Georgia, in America, Larissa. Just the two of us. Are you happy?”
“Yes, Daddy. Very happy.”
“Good. I love you. Bye, darling.”
“Love you too. Bye, Daddy.”
Gospic rang off. Larissa held the handset for a while, staring into space, seeing but not seeing the rain falling in sheets on the mountains far across the bay. Her cat was up, a muscular tabby, stretching his forepaws and getting ready to shred the couch some more. Radko was in a hospital in Florence, under guard. Daddy didn’t need Lujac to go retire Radko. The Italians would kill him for shooting the Italian woman. There was nothing Radko could say that would hurt Daddy’s business. The Italians were going to torture Radko to death, which was fine with Daddy since it would save him the trouble. So Daddy didn’t care what happened to Radko. He just wanted Kiki Lujac to relax, to think he was still in the family business.
So . . .
Daddy is going to have Kiki Lujac killed. For asking about Vigo Majiic. She had no idea why. But Kiki was going to die.
Soon.
Good.
31
USMC Air Unit, U.S. Embassy compound, Sembawang Field
Goliad flared the Huey like a combat pro and settled it down with hardly a jolt on the concrete pad with the crosshair pattern, about fifty yards from a group of low, bunkerlike buildings. The Air Unit Compound at Sembawang held another Huey, a big Sea King, a partially dismantled Cobra Gunship, and a couple of fixed-wing craft, including a highly unusual gunmetal gray and completely unmarked sixties-era Lockheed C-140 JetStar, a midsized, four-engine jet transport that had been a favorite of the CIA during the seventies and eighties. Dalton had last seen one—or part of one—in the middle of a burned-out clearing in Colombia, where it had crashed under RPG fire from a FARC patrol, killing eighteen CIA mercenaries. The plane was a dinosaur now, having been retired in the early nineties. So, what was it doing here at Sembawang and why had its markings been painted over? Dalton figured he’d never know.
Holliday had radioed ahead, and an EMS van with USMC markings was waiting by the hut, men in fatigues, standing around by the van, watching Goliad shut the chopper down. The rotors slowed, and the airframe rocked with the descant rhythm. Hazlitt and Kuhn got Fyke onto the tarmac and stood by while the rest of their passengers hopped out as well. There was a moment of silence while everyone tried to figure out what had just happened and what was going to happen next.
Everyone except Fyke.
“Leave off, I tell you,” he said. “I’m through being an invalid. Away with you, and my sincere thanks go with you. I’ll be needing no further ministrations—I’ve been hurt worse playing rugby—so I set you all free to walk in the Singapore sun and leave me the fook alone.”
Fyke stagger-stepped backward, creating some symbolic distance, and then rounded on Dalton, his battered face cracking into a ferocious grin. “Mikey! You old crocodile, I always knew you wouldn’t hand me over to a couple of prancing catamites from old Virginny. The Uniform Code! That was brilliant.”
Goliad and the two medics looked uneasy, as if they were waiting for the Special Forces Captain to tell them what to do. Was Fyke a guest or a patient or a prisoner? Did he need the EMS van or should they call the MPs instead? Dalton had to keep control of the situation, at least until Major Holliday got here. After that, Holliday would be running the show.
“Goliad, is there a mess facility here? Maybe we could all just take a pew and wait for Major Holliday to get here?”
“Yes, sir.” He pointed to a low, aluminum-sided building. “That’s the general mess for ground personnel. Mixed ranks. We can wait there.”
They all walked across the hardpan together, Fyke struggling manfully, clearly deeply unwilling to be helped by anybody. Miss Lopez trailed along in his wake, looking nervous and trying to figure out where she fit into this situation. The Marines, suddenly released from their transport and medical duties, decided to be relaxed and happy. Mission accomplished: where’s the beer? Mandy was drawing a fair amount of attention from the ground crew Marines, but she ignored that, walking beside Dalton, matching his stride. “Okay, so far, so good,” she said. “What now?”
“That depends on the Major. This is his turf.”
“What are you hoping for?”
Dalton was formulating a reply when her shirt pocket began to shrill. She fumbled at the flap button and pulled out her cell phone, flipped it open, looked at the caller ID.
“Christ.”
“What?”
“It’s Langley.” She held up a hand, put the phone t
o her ear, listened for a time, managing to get in a couple of faint “Yes, sir”s now and then. Dalton could hear a strong male voice speaking forcefully at the other end. Mandy’s face went pale and then pink, and then she looked at Dalton.
“Yes, sir. He’s right here, sir. Yes, sir.”
She handed him the phone.
“It’s Cather. He wants to talk to you. He’s not happy.”
Dalton gazed heavenward, got no reprieve from that quarter, took the cell, watching Mandy’s eyes as he put the phone to his ear. Cather was already talking, a low, purring growl full of quiet menace.
“. . . intrigued to hear your explanation, Micah.”
“Explanation?”
“Your reasoning behind what has just occurred down there. I’ve just taken a call from Tony Crane in London. He tells me that you have failed to deliver the package to our people and that you have instead entangled the United States Marine Corps in a jurisdictional waltz that may involve the Uniform Code of Military Justice and some strangely named entity he’s calling the JAG’s office. I’m curious to hear your views in this matter, since I’m reasonably certain that Miss Pownall was adequately briefed on the purpose of your mission, the success of which would determine what, if any, relationship you might have with the Cleaners’ Unit, and Clandestine Services in general.”
“I have some questions of my own—”
“No doubt. And I’d be happy to address them once you’ve responded to mine. I’ll clarify it for you. A little over a month ago, your immediate superior and a dear colleague of mine, Jack Stallworth, was found dead in his greenhouse in the backyard of his residence in Virginia. It appeared that he had contrived to shoot himself several times in the body and once in the forehead, a demonstration of grit, will-power, and heroic dedication to the mission that should shine forth as an example to us all. A shadow fell upon you in this regard, and this shadow will remain, until it is dispelled by a directive from this office. So, as I have said, I await your views with an open mind and a sunny smile and the bluebird of hope perched upon my shoulder.”
There was a stir at the compound gates as a tan Humvee with a .50 caliber on the roof came roaring up the entrance lane, coming to a sliding stop on the gravel in a cloud of dust. The gates were immediately pulled aside. The Humvee powered in and headed straight for them.
“Sir, you’re aware of a man named Branco Gospic?”
