“Any weapons?”
“None we can see. We’ve signaled and radioed them to leave, sir. Told them they’re subject to imminent defensive action if they come any closer.”
“In English.”
“Yes, sir.” Umsle didn’t have to tell Williams that no one on the Decatur spoke Chinese. Another reason the destroyer ought to back off a little, Williams thought.
“All right. If they get to five hundred yards, splash them with the Phalanx for five seconds. Warning shots only. No contact. And let’s don’t hit the frigates by mistake.” Williams hoped the Decatur could scare off the fishing boats with its cannons, which fired depleted-uranium shells that could cut the trawlers apart.
“Yes, sir.”
“Also let’s throttle up to thirty knots, get some distance from those frigates.”
“That’s the second problem, sir. There’s a red”—enemy—“destroyer in our path.” Umsle pointed to the Aegis display, where a red blip was moving toward the Decatur. “Twenty NMs”—nautical miles—“to our south, closing at twenty-five knots. It’s painted us twice already.” Meaning that the enemy destroyer had hit the Decatur with radar, possibly in preparation for a missile launch.
“Do we have positive identification?”
“Believe it’s one of their Luhas, sir. And the Hawkeye just picked up emissions from another hostile. Seventy NMs south.” The radar plane overhead could track a far larger area than the Decatur’s radar. “The Hawkeye believes it may be a Sovremenny-class boat.”
“We need visual confirmation on that ASAP. Tell the Reagan.”
“Yes, sir.”
Since the late 1990s, China had bought four Sovremenny-class destroyers from Russia. The Sovre mennys were the only surface ship in China’s fleet that posed a serious threat to the Decatur. They carried supersonic antiship missiles with a range of a hundred miles and a nasty radar guidance system. Though the missiles could be detected by infrared sensors because of the massive heat they generated, they were nearly impossible to intercept, because of their speed and the fact that they flew less than fifty feet above the water’s surface. Worse, they carried a 660-pound warhead, big enough to cripple the Decatur.
Williams turned to his communications officer. “Get me Admiral Lee.” If he was going to war, he wanted his boss to know. Meanwhile, backing off seemed prudent. He looked at Umsle. “Take us to twenty knots and a heading of one-five-zero”—a southeast heading, away from the Chinese coast.
“What about the trawlers? We’ll be on top of them.”
“Then they better get out of our way.” Williams preferred to pick a fight with an unarmed trawler rather than a Chinese destroyer. “Get ready to splash them with the Phalanxes. I want them to know we’re serious.”
“Captain,” his coms officer said, “I have the Reagan.” Williams picked up.
“Captain Williams.” The admiral spoke softly but with absolute authority, as befitted the commander of a 102,000-ton aircraft carrier. “Looks like the Chinese don’t want to grant you shore leave.”
“I could use more air support, Admiral.”
“It’s already happening.”
“Sir, request permission to pull back to the Lake Champlain.”The Lake Champlain,a guided-missile cruiser, was fifty miles northeast, seventy-five miles offshore.
“Understand your concerns, but that would send the wrong signal, Captain. Our intel’s clear on this.”
Easy for you to say in your floating castle, Williams thought. “Yes, sir,” he said aloud. “In that case, I’m going to lose these boats on top of me, open up some space, come back around for another look.”
“Sir, Captain, we’ve just fired warning shots at the trawlers—” This was Umsle, his voice rising. Williams waved a hand. Not now.
“Affirmative, Captain,” the admiral said in his ear. “We’ll have four more eighteens”—F/A-18 Super Hornet attack jets—“in the air for you by 2130.”
“Thank you, sir.” Click. At least he’d gotten approval, in a backhanded way, to pull back a few miles, buy some time.
“Lieutenant, I want us at twenty-five knots, heading of six-zero.” A sixty-degree heading was northeast, a hard left turn from the Decatur’s current path.
“Sir, the trawlers—”
Williams didn’t want to hear about the fishing boats anymore. He had bigger worries.
“We’ve warned them, Lieutenant. Every way we know how. It’s time for them to make way. Now! Hard over.”
THE COLLISION CAME THIRTY SECONDS LATER.
In the Combat Information Center, men skidded sideways. Manuals and pens and anything else not nailed down spilled to the floor. On the bridge, Wheeler, the Los Angeles Times reporter, banged her knee hard enough to leave it black-and-blue, but she hardly cared. She’d have the lead story in tomorrow’s paper, she knew.
The sailors and officers on the bridge of the Decatur insisted afterward that the trawler refused to move out of the Decatur’s way, as if daring the destroyer to run it down. The Chinese disagreed vehemently, saying that the Decatur had deliberately hit the little trawler, which weighed eighty tons, compared with the Decatur’s eight thousand. Jackie, who was as close to a neutral observer as anyone who saw the collision, wasn’t entirely sure what had happened. Both boats seemed to expect the other to turn away.
But neither did, and so the destroyer’s prow tore the little fishing boat nearly in half, slicing neatly through a banner that read “China Will Not Bow to America!” Besides its usual crew of ten, the boat contained another twenty-four passengers, mostly college students who had come out to protest—and snap some souvenir photographs of the destroyer. Only five people died in the collision, but most of the students couldn’t swim. Seventeen drowned afterward.
The Decatur slowed down after the collison, but before it could put any rescue boats in the water, one of the Chinese frigates fired warning shots at it. After consulting with Admiral Lee, Williams decided to sail away. The Chinese boats were moving quickly to the trawler, and staying around might inflame the situation. Later, the Decatur’s decision not to stop would add to the controversy.
Aside from a few bumps and bruises, no one aboard the Decatur was hurt. But in the days that followed, no one would say the United States escaped the collision unscathed.
27
EVEN WITH TYSON’S HELP AND THE WRITTEN APPROVAL of the agency’s general counsel, Exley needed almost a full day to get the agency’s health insurance records for Keith Robinson. Those showed that Robinson’s wife, Janice, had given birth to a boy, Mark, a decade before. Cross-checking Mark’s date of birth against Social Security death records revealed the boy had died eight years earlier, about the time the mole first contacted the Chinese, according to Wen Shubai’s timetable.
And so Exley and Shafer decided it was time to talk to Robinson. “We don’t have to ask about the dead kid,” Shafer said. “He might get upset.”
“Mr. Tact. Thank God you’re here to help. Of course we’re not mentioning his son. That failed poly gives us plenty of reason to interview him.”
But when Exley called Robinson’s office early Friday evening, he didn’t answer. His voicemail said he was out sick. With a couple of calls, Exley tracked down an admin on the China desk who told Exley that Robinson had seemed fine the day before.
IN THE NEXT OFFICE OVER, Wells was catching up on the mole investigation, poring over the transcripts of Shubai’s interview. He had put aside for now his efforts to find out who was paying Pierre Kowalski to support the Taliban. Without account numbers, the Treasury Department couldn’t trace the payments from Macao that Kowalski had admitted getting. And the CIA’s dossier on Kowalski offered no clues to the mysterious North Korean that Kowalski had mentioned—though the file had enough detail about Kowalski to infuriate Wells.
Kowalski has brokered weapons sales of $100 million or more for dozens of sovereign nations and paramilitary organizations, including Angola, Armenia, China, Congo, FARC (Revolutionary Armed Forc
es of Colombia), Indonesia, Libya, Nigeria, Poland, Russia, Saudi Arabia, and Yemen.
This list should not be considered conclusive. Kowalski often operates through intermedi aries in cases where he hopes to sell weapons to both sides in a conflict (i.e., Chad and Sudan). His commission ranges from 2 percent, in cases where he is merely negotiating a price and package of weapons, to 25 percent when he acts as a third-party dealer. Kowalski has earned about $1 billion since 2000, although the exact amount is unknown.
One billion. A thousand million. Maybe on Wall Street or in Congress that number was just another day at the office. But Wells couldn’t get his head around it. In Pakistan, he’d seen kids die from cholera because their parents couldn’t afford antibiotics that cost a few bucks.
The rest of the dossier detailed Kowalski’s personal history. Not surprisingly, he had never served in the military. As far as Wells could tell, he had never been near a battlefield, never seen what his mines and AK-47s and mortars did to the human body. He preferred the bodies in his vicinity to be young and blonde, and he could afford what he liked. Twice divorced, he’d acquired a taste for second-tier Russian models, who cost more up front than a wife but didn’t rate alimony on their way out. More than ever, Wells regretted not having put a bullet between Kowalski’s eyes back in the Hamptons.
After reading the dossier, Wells had paid a visit to the analyst who’d written it, Sam Tarks, a career officer in the agency’s arms control/nonproliferation unit.
“Pierre Kowalski? Nasty man.”
“I’m looking for anything that might have been too juicy to make it into the dossier,” Wells said. “Personal or business.”
“His personal life is about what you’d expect. He’s got a yacht called the Ares.Lots of coke, lots of Eu rotrash. Good times had by all.”
“Ares like the Greek god of war?”
“The one and only. But he doesn’t have any serious glitches as far as we know. I mean he’s not a pedophile or a sadist or anything. He likes to party is all.”
“How about the business side? Is there any country he’s especially close to? The Russians, say?” Wells still didn’t think the Russians would have helped the Taliban, but anything was possible.
“Not particularly. He sells mostly Russian stuff, but he keeps them at arm’s length. Smart man. And he makes sure to keep his business far from Zurich. Also smart. Pays enough in taxes to keep the Swiss happy and keeps his money in local banks, mainly UBS.”
“Did he ever work for U.S. companies?”
Tarks nodded. “Lots of folks wish he still would. The Indian Air Force is looking at a huge order, close to a hundred thirty planes, and the French have hired him to convince the Indians to go with the Mirage”—a French-made fighter jet—“and not the F-16. That would be a very big sale. North of five billion. If we don’t get it, some Lockheed lobbyists”—Lockheed Martin manufactured the F-16—“will tell the Armed Services Committee it’s because we don’t have guys like Kowalski on our team. They’ll say it quietly, but they’ll say it.”
“Wonderful world,” Wells said. “Could you see him selling weapons to the Taliban?”
“That’d be pushing it, even for him. He’d know we wouldn’t be happy if we found out. To put it mildly.”
“But if the money was right, and he thought he could get away with it?”
“Under those circumstances? I’d say there’s nothing he wouldn’t do.”
WELLS’S LAST CONVERSATION with Ed Graften, the East Hampton police chief, had been more gratifying. After the East Hampton police freed Kowalski, he refused to answer any questions. He had no idea who had attacked him and his guards, he said.
“Boys will be boys. Why don’t you ask them? I was in my bedroom.”
“What about the tape, the handcuffs?” the lead cop on the scene said.
“A new weight-loss method recommended by my physician. With my mouth taped shut, I cannot eat.”
“Sounds like you need a new doctor.”
“I have already lost five pounds,” Kowalski said, sucking in his gut in a show of dignity. “Now, I appreciate your leaving my property so I can return to bed.”
The unconscious guards were taken to Southampton Hospital. By morning, they were stirring. All four claimed they had no memory of what had happened. They refused to answer questions and demanded to speak to Kowalski’s lawyers. Since they appeared to be victims, not perpetrators, the cops had no choice but to let them go. They were asked to return for interviews later.
But they never showed up. And when the police went to Two Mile Hollow Road to find them, they discovered the mansion was empty. Flight records showed that Kowalski’s Gulfstream had flown out of the East Hampton airport less than eight hours after Wells’s courtesy call. According to the flight plan they’d filed before takeoff, the jet was bound for Miami—which probably meant it had wound up in the Dominican Republic or Barbados or Venezuela. In any case, Kowalski and his men were gone.
“Just thought you might like to know he’d flown the coop. My guys said he was a very cool customer,” the chief said. “Hardly complained when that tape came off him.”
“He is smooth.”
“A weight-loss program. Have to give him credit for coming up with that.” Graften chuckled. “Did you get what you needed?”
“Thanks for the help, chief. If you hear anything more, let me know.”
“Will do.” Click.
WELLS HOPED HE WAS ONLY temporarily stalled on Kowalski, although in truth he wasn’t sure where to look next. The trail seemed to have dead-ended. So he’d decided to catch up on the mole investigation. But as he read over the personnel reports that Exley and Shafer had put together, Wells wasn’t convinced that Exley’s hunch about Keith Robinson made sense. Then again, he hadn’t seen the guy’s house or his wife.
A rap on his door startled him. Exley. “Want to go for a drive?”
WHEN THEY GOT TO the Robinson house, Exley was glad she’d asked Wells to come. The lights in the house were off, but through the windows Exley saw the television in the den flashing.
“Sure she’s home?” Wells said. He was standing beside the door, hidden against the wall of the house.
“She’s home.” Exley knocked again. Finally she heard footsteps. Janice pulled open the door, glassy-eyed, a steak knife wavering in her hand.
“You,” she said. She jabbed the knife in Exley’s direction. She seemed more likely to drop it on her foot than do any serious damage, Exley thought. Janice took a tiny step forward, and Wells reached out his big right arm and twisted her wrist until the knife clattered down. Janice’s mouth opened and closed in wordless drunken confusion as Wells tossed the knife aside.
Exley knew Wells was just making sure they wouldn’t get hurt, but somehow she was angry at the almost robotic ease with which he’d disarmed this pathetic woman. Forget breaking a sweat. Wells hadn’t even blinked. She realized something about him then, something she should have known all along. For all the emotional weight Wells carried, the thought of death hardly scared him. On some unconscious level he must feel immortal, Exley thought. He probably couldn’t imagine losing a fight, couldn’t imagine anyone was stronger or faster than he was. Exley had seen firsthand what he could do in close combat. She wondered what it would be like to have such physical confidence. She’d never know. Women never got to feel that way. No wonder Wells was addicted to action.
Janice staggered forward, tripping over her feet. Wells put a hand on her arm and held her up. Her eyes flicked helplessly between Wells and Exley.
“You can‘t—” she said softly.
“Ma‘am,” Wells said. “We’re sorry, but can we talk to you inside? Please.”
Janice’s face crumpled on itself like a leaky balloon. She didn’t answer, just stepped into the yard and stared at the sky. The golden retriever stood behind her in the doorway, tail down.
Finally she waved them inside. “What difference does it make anyway?” she said. “Wait in the kitchen.”
She wandered upstairs as Wells watched, a hand near the Makarov he had tucked into his shoulder holster before they left the office. But they had nothing to worry about, Exley thought. Janice was harmless now. Sure enough, her hands were empty when she reappeared. She seemed to have gone upstairs mainly to fix herself up. She’d pulled her hair back into a ponytail and fixed her makeup.
“I thought maybe when you showed up again that you were his girlfriend. But you’re not.”
“Your husband’s girlfriend? No, I’m not.”
“Because I know he’s got a girlfriend, and he got all nervous when I told him you came by. He wanted to know what you wanted. Then when I woke up this morning, he was gone.”
“You know where?”
“Haven’t seen him or that Acura of his since last night. He hasn’t called neither, and his phone’s turned off.” Janice focused her wobbly attention on Exley. “But anyway I see you’re not his girlfriend. He likes ‘em younger than you. And prettier. You from the agency?”
“Yes, ma‘am,” Wells said. “We are.” He passed her his identification card, the one with his real name. Janice held it close to her face, her eyes flicking between the identification and Wells.
“I don’t believe it, but I guess I do,” she said. “Is Keith in trouble?”
“We’re trying to find out,” Exley said. “He tell you where he was going?”
“As I just recounted”—Janice sat up straight as she used the half-dollar word—“he didn’t even say he was leaving, much less where. He was just gone when I woke up, and his favorite clothes too.”
“Did he take anything else?”
“I don’t rightly know. Maybe some stuff from the basement. He spends a lot of time down there. Last night he was saying strange stuff, like what would I think if we left the country and started over somewhere else.”
The Ghost War Page 26
