by Tom Clancy
“Looks that way from where I sit, too,” Vince Scull growled. His fringe of hair in a careless uproar around a shiny expanse of scalp, a frown creasing his bulldog face, Vince appeared to be on the verge of an angry eruption. This was nothing unusual to people who had been exposed to him for any length of time, since his total range of emotions ordinarily seemed as narrow as it was volatile, with splintery annoyance being the lowest gradient on the scale, blistering fury the highest, and radical fluctuations between these extremes occurring once every hour or so. “We put the crypto out overseas without restrictions, and presto, every bad guy with a computer link can buy himself electronic communications that law enforcement can’t crack. If Ballard’s got the high-wattage brain they say he does, he ought to be able to understand that without any problem. I mean, it’s pretty damn obvious, isn’t it. Bob?”
The FBI man shrugged. “In all fairness, there are gray areas. A valid argument says the bad guys have already gotten their hands on the technology through Internet dissemination, not to mention American companies who’ve circumvented the law by selling crypto abroad through their international subsidiaries. Follow that line of reasoning, and you have to ask whether it pays to restrict our software manufacturers from competing on the foreign market.”
“Can’t put the genie back in the bottle, so put him to work instead. That’s the same crap I’ve been hearing for years from people who want to legalize dope. And let me tell you, it doesn’t make any sense. Back when I was wearing a cop’s badge, I saw—”
“Listen, you asked me something, I answered,” Lang interrupted. “If I needed to be persuaded, I wouldn’t be here today, putting my career and reputation on the line. As Dan can attest, I’ve argued vehemently against deregulation before a dozen congressional committees.”
“I agree,” Gordian said. “There’s no need to rehash the whole policy debate at this table. Our purpose should be to make sure we haven’t overlooked any means of stopping Morrison-Fiore, or effectively presenting our case—and our solidarity—to the public, the government, and the rest of the industry.”
Nordstrum had been thinking precisely the same thing, and was relieved Gordian had gotten the static out of the air before sparks started flying.
“Regarding your last few points, I’d say reading our little declaration to the National Press Club on the day of the signing is perfect strategy,” he offered. “It will stir up controversy, grab media attention, take a story that would otherwise appear on page nine of the dailies and put it right on page one, above the fold.” Nordstrum paused thoughtfully, adjusting his wire glasses on the bridge of his nose. “As to throwing some last-minute hurdle in front of the bill. .. short of locking the President out of his office the day after tomorrow, or conspiring to break his writing hand, I honestly don’t see how it would be possible.”
“Any ideas, Dan?” Gordian asked.
“I opt for breaking his hand,” Parker said, but Gordian could only manage a feeble approximation of a smile in response.
Parker studied his face, and for perhaps the fourth time that morning observed that he was not looking well at all. His cheeks were ashen, and there were deep hues under his eyes that gave him the appearance of someone who hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks. Gordian wasn’t the sort of man who was quick to share his problems, but he generally got around to it with Parker long before they swamped him. He had opened up to him about his difficulties readjusting to freedom after five years in a Hanoi POW camp, confided in him when his marriage hit a rocky patch a while back.
Lately, though, he’d been sealed tight, leaving Parker to play guessing games with himself about what was wrong. His instincts told him it was something personal. . . but a hunch was a hunch, and with Gord keeping quiet, and the shit flying in every direction because of the crypto debate, he hadn’t had a chance to pursue it very far.
Parker suddenly became aware of the silence around him, realized Gordian was still waiting for his answer.
“From a political standpoint, I think we ought to be looking ahead to the next session of Congress,” he said, shoving his concerns about Gord to the back of his mind. “Take a hard line now to gain a public-relations edge, advocate a return to the previous Administration’s policy of setting firm limits on the level of encryption software that’s authorized for foreign sale …”
“And perhaps ease toward some compromise as things pick up again in the Hill,” Gordian said, completing Dan’s thought. “I like it.”
“So do I,” Lang said. “As it reads, I believe Morrison-Fiore will be calamitous to our national security. But certain changes could be incorporated that would mitigate its damage.”
“Such as…?”
“Off the top of my head, a clear-cut provision banning export of plug-in encryption cards, and critical components for multiplex encoding units, like the type used by our armed forces—the same type you and Mr. Sobel are refusing to market abroad.”
“Another thing would be a tough set of international laws and standards managing the operation of key recovery centers,” Parker said. “These places are essentially private banks where governments deposit the digital key-codes to their data-scrambling software. Right now, police and intelligence agencies can subpoena the banks to turn over the codes … although the civil libertarians are challenging that power in various courts.”
He looked at Lang. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but my understanding is that there are no effective international treaties which would compel a key recovery center in one country to turn its keys over to another, even if the nation requesting them can prove they’re needed to counter a threat to its security.”
Lang nodded. “You’re dead-on. A terrorist with sophisticated electronic equipment could theoretically cripple our economy, even disable our military computers, while the ambassadors are wrestling over what legitimately can and can’t be done under existing cooperation agreements.”
For a moment Gordian sat staring out the office’s floor-to-ceiling window at the San Jose skyline, and the vague humps of the mountains off to the southeast. Then he shifted his attention back to Dan.
”What about the Foreign Trade Commission?” he said. “Setting our sights on the future, I’m wondering if anybody there eventually could be nudged toward at least some of our positions.”
“Never happen,” Parker said. “Olivera, the head of the organization, is a militant free-trader. More important, he’s a Ballard appointee who’s been brown-nosing the President since they were poli-sci majors at the University of Wisconsin. Not for all the Chapstick in the world would he tear his lips away from the President’s backside. Nor would he allow his underlings to stray.”
“Somebody in Congress, then. Preferably the NSC.”
Parker shook his head. “I know of several men on the panel who are privately sympathetic, and one who actually views Morrison-Fiore as a poison seed in our national defense system. But all come from states where the software industry has tremendous clout, and where people are afraid of losing jobs because of an inability to enter foreign markets.” He smiled ruefully. “Do you have any idea what my opposition to the bill has cost me in votes? Being the representative from Silicon Valley? I’d probably have alienated fewer constituents if I got bagged for armed robbery … with an Uzi and the stolen goods in hand.”
Gordian looked outside again, past the broad stretch of Rosita Avenue, to where the Diablos went marching up to Mount Hamilton, its distant flank barely visible through a thin veil of smog. Closer by, one could still see a few of the aging food-processing plants and plastic factories that had once formed the industrial base of the city . .. but they were really nothing more than relics. Technological research and development had been San Jose’s lifeblood for over twenty years; its economic survival was dependent on the hardware and software outfits that gave a huge chunk of the population their employment. Dan Parker was deliberately understating the price he would have to pay for standing by his principles … and b
y his friend. In doing so, he had quite possibly committed political suicide.
Gordian turned from the window and ran his eyes around the table, letting them settle briefly on each face, each member of the coalition that had gathered around him. Parker was immediately— almost physically —struck by the realization that some of the old steel had returned to his gaze.
‘ ‘We should discuss our travel arrangements for the trip to Washington,” Gordian said. ”I think we’re ready for the next round.”
FIVE
SINGAPORE
SEPTEMBER 18, 2000
FROM THE STRAITS TIMES:
Investigation of “Phantom” Freighter Continues Authorities Increasingly Look Toward Piracy As Explanation for Crew’s Disappearance
Singapore —Nearly 48 hours after the freighter Kuan Yin was mysteriously abandoned by its crew in Sembawang Harbor, its undelivered cargo remains in the possession of local customs officials, who have revealed that they are consulting with their Malaysian counterparts and the Piracy Center in Kuala Lumpur regarding the possibility of a hijacking at sea.
According to Tai Al-Furan, a spokesman for the Customs Ministry, the vessel is licensed to Tamu Exports, a commercial shipper based in East Malaysia. Mr. Al-Furan confirmed that it left Kuching Harbor sometime on the evening of Sept. 15 with a manifest of general wholesale goods designated to arrive in Singapore that same evening. No other stops were scheduled in transit. It was also revealed that the ship was fully laden when found at anchorage early on the morning of the 16th, adding questions about the motive for a pirate raid to deepening concerns about the present whereabouts of its crew, which is said have consisted of almost a dozen seamen.
‘The shipowner is being very cooperative and has provided our investigators with a complete list of those who were legitimately aboard the Kuan Yin when it set sail,” Mr. Al-Furan told reporters.
While Mr. Al-Furan acknowledged fears that the crew members may have been forced to evacuate at sea by a hostile boarding party—giving rise to speculation that the vessel was commandeered as a means of gaining the perpetrators false documents and illegal entry into Singapore—he expressed optimism that a more routine explanation might be found for their disappearance.
“We are keeping open minds about what may have happened to them, and see no reason to jump to any conclusions at this point,” he stated.
Mr. Al-Furan would neither confirm nor deny rumors that signs of armed violence, including apparent bullet holes, have been discovered by police in the vessel’s lower deck.
Despite joint efforts by the Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN) to combat maritime crime, the frequency of pirate attacks in China and throughout the region— many of them sponsored by under-world syndicates—has increased by more than 50% over the past decade, with their level of violence also escalating. Last year alone over 400 seamen were either assaulted or killed by pirates, an alarming figure in light of recent improvements in the equipment and interdiction methods used by counter-piracy patrols….
They had been following the woman for two days. According to their information, the American would likely appear tonight. And it would be tonight that they struck. Otherwise, it might be another week before they had their chance, a week during which the investigation of the Kuan Yin hijacking would broaden and escalate into a manhunt, and the assumed identities of the ship’s crew would become increasingly useless to Xiang and his men. They wanted to be long gone from Singapore by then.
The guest house they had been staying in was a shuttered, run-down building crammed between two other dilapidated structures in a twisty larong not far from Fat B’s. They had booked three rooms at a cheap rate, and though the accommodations in each were limited to a few sagging cots, a shaky corner table ringed by some equally lopsided chairs, and a washbasin with a dripping faucet, the out-of-the-way location and sordid atmosphere discouraged tourists and other meddling transients from seeking the place out, which was Xiang’s only real requirement.
In fact, comfort was the last thing on his mind this evening.
His tattooed chest bare, he sat with both arms on the table, having wedged a small piece of cardboard under one of its legs to steady its irritating wobble. On its surface before him was a photograph of Max Blackburn. To his right was a candle he had set to burning in a flat metal ashtray. Beside the candle was a long, thin needle with a round ceramic handle. Across the room from Xiang, two of his men. Sang and Kamal, had pushed their cots to one side and given themselves space for the supple, tiger-style martial arts exercises of karena matjang. The shades were drawn and the electric fixtures in the room were off, and the candlelight projected their weaving shadows onto the walls and ceiling.
Thrown loosely across one of the cots were the clothes they would be wearing when they took Blackburn and the woman later on that night. Nondescript khakis, denims, and long-sleeved cotton shirts. The clothes of soft, weak people who lived safe and easy lives.
I suggest you get something to wear that will let you blend in, the peacock at the bar had said. His advice had been well taken, though he’d thought Xiang too witless to detect the mockery behind his neutral expression. Perhaps assuming size and stupidity went hand in hand. It was a mistake people often made in dealing with the Iban. And it only played to his advantage.
Now Xiang reached out with his large right hand, lifted the needle off the table, and held its carefully sharpened end into the flame. Let the others practice their kata. He had his own special method of preparation, of steeling himself for what lay ahead of them.
He waited silently, holding the needle out by its handle, watching it heat up. When it was red-hot he pulled it out of the flame, then raised his left hand in front of his face, his fingers straight up and close together. He stared at it for several moments, his eyes slitted with concentration, almost as if he were reading his own palm. The glowing needle was still in his opposite hand.
Now he brought the needle horizontally toward his left hand, aligning its tip with his little finger just below the upper joint. His lips pressed tightly together, he slid the needle into the finger, piercing the soft flesh behind its pad, pushing it through until the tip came out the other side with a little squirt of blood.
Perspiration filming the wide expanse of his brow, he drove the needle further into his hand. It penetrated the fourth finger below the knuckle, cauterizing his flesh as it lanced on through and then exited again, its point emerging to prick his middle finger.
Xiang continued pushing in the needle until it had skewered all of his fingers except his thumb, rotating it once or twice to avoid nicking bone. There was an almost trancelike absorption on his face.
Slowly, then, he curled the hand into a fist around the needle. A minute went by, two, three. His fist tightened. He felt the needle’s heat and pressure blaze across the inner joints of his fingers. Blood greased his wrist and went splashing down onto the photograph of Max Black-bum. The more excruciating his pain became, the harder he squeezed down on the invasive metal, causing the skin of his fingers to stretch and bulge around its length. The dribble of blood quickened and intensified, slicking his forearm, covering the image on the photo. His fist tightened some more. The pain was a wave to be ridden and crested by sheer force of will, and he did not want it to stop.
He sat there with glazed and unblinking eyes, oblivious to the other two men as they continued their ritual exertions, their shadows slipping back and forth across the room, integrating and drawing apart in the liquid patterns of their millennium-old fighting techniques.
“It will be done,” he hissed under his breath. ‘*It will be done.”
His fist tightened, tightened, tightened.
A half hour later, Xiang pulled the dripping needle from his flesh.
He was ready.
The second time they’d been together—the first was that crazily exciting weekend in Selangor, when Max Black-bum swept into her life like a whirlwind, swept her into bed before she had a chance to
think about what she was doing, or even ask herself whether anybody was at the wheel in her swoony little head—the subject of Marcus Caine’s business ethics had come up in their conversation. Actually, Max had brought it up. Over dinner at a Thai restaurant on Scotts Road, she recalled.
They had finished their meal, and were on their second bottle of claret, and a half hour later would be grappling breathlessly in Max’s suite at the Hyatt, the clothes they had shed leaving a scattered trail to the door. In between, though, they had drunk their wine and discussed her employer. Briefly, it was true. Very briefly, because they’d both been looking forward to more delightful activities than talking shop. But long enough to touch off a sequence of events that would eventually turn her world inside out.
The workday over, alone except for the cleaning woman out in the corridor, Kirsten Chu sat in the quiet of her office knowing that she was about to blow her career, and perhaps her entire life, to smithereens. Maybe sometime in the future, just so it would make clear and easy sense, she would convince herself that it was done out of conscience, moral indignation, and her refusal to become a passive accessory to acts that went far beyond the boundaries of international law. A woman of principle. Yes, that assessment by way of fuzzy hindsight had a nice ring, and would make her feel good about her decision in the reflective moments of her dotage. But right now, running an internal truth check, she could find only one overarching motive for what she was doing.
Of all the damn reasons in the world, it was out of love and longing for a man she barely knew anything about.
How bloody romantic.
Kirsten glanced at her wristwatch and saw that it was five-thirty, almost time to be off; Max was meeting her outside the Hyatt in half an hour. She popped the disk that would be the instrument of her professional demise out of her computer’s CD-R drive, and for several moments afterward just sat there shaking her head, staring at the lethal circle of plastic, remembering that conversation at the restaurant as clearly as if it had occurred only yesterday.
