by Ken Goddard
CHAPTER 24
In the Phuket Mariott coffee shop
Ged Bulatt and Pete Younger sat quietly at a small, isolated table at the rear of the coffee shop and watched as a broad-shouldered and tough-looking Caucasian man entered and walked straight to their table. Two similar-looking men followed, taking seats near the front door.
“I’m Agent Smith. May I join you, gentlemen?” the tough-looking man asked.
“Do we have a choice?”
“There are other options. This one is easier for everyone concerned.”
Bulatt gestured Smith to one of the empty chairs. For a long beat, the three men stared at each other.
“And who might these other ‘concerned’ people be?” Younger finally asked.
“People who are interested in the origins of that latent print.”
“Why would they care?” Bulatt asked.
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Which actually tells us a lot,” Younger pointed out.
Smith shrugged as if to acknowledge the obvious.
“You’ve been monitoring us for a while, aware of our investigation into the Khlong shootings, waiting to see what we found,” Bulatt said matter-of-factly.
“Actually, we’ve been monitoring the two of you ever since you took down the Captain of the Muluku.”
Bulatt snorted derisively. “Are you suggesting that incompetent idiot was involved in the Khlong killings?”
“I can’t talk about that.”
Younger stared at Smith for a long moment, and then smiled.
“Of course, it’s the Russians, isn’t it?”
“What Russians?” Bulatt asked.
“We had intel that a Russian drug smuggler named Gregor was using the Muluku as a cut-out for some of his transactions,” Younger said, “but we never got a lead on the guy.”
“And you never will,” Smith said, “because he’s dead… along with his entire crew.”
“How did they die?” Bulatt asked.
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Pure coincidence, of course,” Younger added, “that we’re looking for three former military-types who are quite good at killing people; one of whom carelessly left his fingerprint on a transmitter battery.”
“You want to find them, and we want to know who they are,” Bulatt pointed out, “so let’s work together, share what we know.”
“I can’t. Info can only go one way on this deal.”
Bulatt sighs, pulls a cellphone out of his pocket, punches a couple of buttons and handed it to Smith. “Here, I think a Major Prethat wants to talk with you. He’s been listening in on a ‘remote’ line.”
Smith stared at Bulatt, takes the phone, listens for a long moment, then slowly places the phone on the table.
“I’m sure you have some kind of diplomatic immunity,” Younger suggested helpfully, “but you should also be aware that the Major has a one-track mind where shooting of Colonel Kulawnit is concerned. He’s not likely to care about that immunity.”
“My guess is he rolls up your entire operation within the hour, then takes his sweet time in responding to your Embassy’s ‘query’” Bulatt added with a tight smile.
Smith stared at the two men coldly for a few moments, and then sighed.
“I can’t tell you much about them. They were in the Australian Special Air Service before they decided to free-lance their skills.”
“With your Agency?”
Smith ignored the question. “They excel at what they do, but not necessarily at staying on point.”
“The Russian drug smugglers — ?”
“Were apparently too tempting.”
“What did they take?” Bulatt asked.
“A yacht and a lot of cash.”
“The Avatar?” Younger asked.
Smith nodded silently.
“So why are you after them?” Bulatt asked. “You can’t possibly care about dead drug smugglers and their missing assets.”
“It doesn’t matter why, Agent Bulatt,” Smith said firmly. “You and your Interpol pals are getting in our way, and that's not going to be acceptable.”
Bulatt seemed to consider that idea for a few moments.
“You know,” he finally said, “I’d like to believe you really do intend to take these men down; and it’s really tempting to just step aside and let you do that.”
Smith stared at Bulatt, saying nothing.
“But if we did,” Bulatt went on, “you might decide to put them back to work, and that’s not going to be acceptable to us… or to Major Prethat.”
Bulatt looked up to see flashing red lights outside.
“And it looks like his internal affairs team has arrived for their heart-to-heart talk, so we’ll be leaving now.”
“Oh, and may I suggest that you try not to become an ‘inconvenience’ to the Major, Agent Smith,” Younger said as he and Bulatt got up from the table. “He’s not likely to find that very amusing.”
As Bulatt and Younger walked outside the Mariott hotel, they saw a tired-looking Achara Kulawnit in her Ranger Captain’s uniform, directing teams of SWAT-armed Rangers toward the front and back of the hotel lobby.
Bulatt walked up to her as Younger responded to his beeping Blackberry.
“I seriously doubt this was what the Major had in mind when he assigned you to our Interpol team,” he pointed out. “If nothing else, he probably expects you to get some sleep every now and then.”
Achara smiled cheerfully. “The Major also expects me to keep you and Peter safe while you are in Thailand, and that is precisely what I am doing — protecting the two of you from this very dangerous man.”
“And we thank you kindly for that,” Bulatt said seriously, trying to ignore the flashing gleam of amusement in Achara’s dark eyes. “Any chance you and Major Prethat can keep Agent Smith and his goons in protective custody for about twenty-four hours?”
“I’m certain that can be arranged,” Achara said with a dimpled smile.
“Good.” Bulatt turned to Younger. “And do you think you and Achara can watch out for each other, and stay out of trouble, if I make a quick trip to Oregon and Washington?”
Younger smiled brightly. “No worries, mate.”
“But why would you do that when so much is happening here?” Achara asked, looking puzzled.
“I’m going to go meet with some very smart people who just might be able to help us put the pieces of this puzzle together.”
CHAPTER 25
Outside a private plane terminal — Bangkok International Airport
Pete Younger, Major Prethat and Captain Kulawnit all watched as Agent Smith and his two men boarded a small private jet. Younger waited until they were all on board and the door was shut, then he reached for his cell phone and began typing:
OKAY, GED, AGENT SMITH ET AL HAVE BEEN RELEASED TO YOUR EMBASSY… AND THEY’RE UNDOUBTEDLY HEADING YOUR WAY IN A COVERT G5. PHOTO OF PLANE AND TAIL NUMBER TO FOLLOW. TIME TO WATCH YOUR BACK.
International Terminal — LAX Airport
As Bulatt entered the International Terminal at LAX with his carry-on bag, he activated his shut-off Blackberry, read the message from Younger, and then smiled. Then he looked up and saw a pair of three-piece-suited men headed in their direction. The one seemingly in charge stepped forward in front of Bulatt and held out a set of FBI credentials.
“Special Agent Gedimin Bulatt?”
“That’s right.”
“Sir, I’m FBI Special Agent in Charge Ted Grendel from the LA Office. Your boss apparently talked to my boss who ordered me to assist you in any way I can with your current assignment.”
“Really?” Bullet cocked his head curiously. “Would that order possibly include seriously messing with an aggressively obnoxious Fed Spook who plans on tailing me around the country in the comfort of his private jet and interfering with my Interpol investigation… ideally delaying him here for a while… maybe twenty-four hours or so… and then letting him think I’m going up
to Seattle?”
The FBI SAC blinked, paused for a moment, and then smiled pleasantly. “That would be my pleasure, sir.”
On the tarmac of the Private Plane Terminal at Ashland, Oregon
As Bulatt stepped out of the FBI plane and onto the small tarmac of the Ashland Municipal Airport he saw a long-dark-haired young woman in a white lab coat approaching.
“Special Agent Bulatt?” the young woman asked.
“Yes, that’s right,” Bulatt nodded.
“Great. Welcome to Ashland. I’m Juliana from the US Fish amp; Wildlife Forensics Lab. I know you planned on visiting with us first before going on to Seattle; but after talking with his Interpol friend — and apparently yours also — Pete Younger, our director thought you might want to see these right away.”
She handed Bulatt a piece of paper and an envelope.
“That is my lab report on the analysis of blood on a skinning knife taken from subject Carolyn Fogarty. I confirmed the blood as coming from a Bighorn Sheep,” the forensic scientist continued.
“Could you match it to a specific trophy head?” Bulatt asked.
“If you bring me the head, yes sir, I could.”
“A second question. Did you receive the two Clouded Leopard carcasses from Bangkok?”
“Yes, we received them yesterday morning.”
“Wonderful.” Bulatt opened the envelope, read the message, and then turned to the FBI pilot standing at the doorway of their plane.
“Can you guys stand by for another quick flight either late this evening or very early tomorrow morning… this time to Redmond?”
“Hop, skip and a jump, sir.” The FBI pilot replied. “You’ve got my cell number. We’ll be ready to leave anytime you are.”
CHAPTER 26
The National Fish amp; Wildlife Forensics Laboratory, Ashland, Oregon
Special Agent Gedimin Bulatt and Special Agent in Charge Fred Schweer sat in the main conference room of the National Fish amp; Wildlife Forensics Laboratory, and stared across the table at three white-lab-coated forensic scientists — Steve Hager, Donn Renwick and Juliana Ferreira — who sat calmly behind their individual stacks of lab notes and case files.
They were all waiting with varying degrees of patience for the triangular conference-call system positioned in the center of the small conference table to ring back.
Schweer, by far the least technically-astute member of the group, was staring at the no-longer-familiar-looking communication device like it might suddenly lunge out and bite him if he didn’t hit it first.
In the time since their first call to Thailand that morning, the U.S. Fish amp; Wildlife Service Forensics Lab’s conference-call device had been significantly modified by the lab’s chief computer expert. There were now three separate electronic ‘black-boxes’ linked between the conference phone and the lab’s security phone line, and cross-connected with a dizzying array of cables; all three of which were rigged with big mushroom-like ON/OFF buttons that were all glowing a bright green.
The instructions left by Linda Reston — the lab’s the decidedly distracted technical support chief — were simple and to the point:
“If any one of those buttons turns red,” she’d said, meeting the gaze of every scientist and agent in the conference room, one at a time, “you hit it with your fist, immediately, and then come tell me about it. Any questions?”
“If more than one button turns red, which one do we hit first?” Schweer had asked reasonably.
“In the highly unlikely event that should happen, you immediately grab the phone line, rip it out of the wall, and then come tell me about it,” Reston had replied matter-of-factly before collecting up her tools and heading back to the lab’s Technical Support Section, where she had far more significant problems waiting.
That had been a half hour ago. They were still waiting for the call-back.
“Rip it out of the wall? Was she serious?” Schweer asked.
“Yes, I’m sure she was,” Ferreira replied.
“Definitely serious,” Hager added.
“And since you’re the closest one to the phone line, you’re the one she’s going to blame if you don’t rip it out quickly enough and the hackers get into our servers during our call,” Renwick pointed out.
Schweer seemed to contemplate that idea for a few seconds. “All of this really is your fault, you know,” he finally said to no one in particular.
The three forensic specialists raised their eyebrows collectively.
“Scientists, as a whole,” Schweer clarified, glaring at the white-coated figures, “definitely all your fault.”
The three forensic specialists looked at each other and shrugged. None of them seemed particularly concerned about the comments being made by the SAC of Special Operations… mostly because he wasn’t in their chain-of-command, but also because they’d been hearing variations on that general theme all morning.
“It’s true,” Schweer went on when he failed to get the hoped-for defensive response from the amused scientific specialists. “When I joined the Service, way back when, the life of a federal wildlife agent was pretty damned simple and straight-forward. Catch a guy with an over-limit of ducks, geese, deer, elk, bear, whatever; check his tags and license; write him up; petition the courts to revoke his hunting privileges; and then go on to the next guy. No pieces, parts and products to worry about; no hybridized species; no DNA testing complicating the issue of what the victim was or wasn’t; no god-damned computers for good ‘ol Bubba and his kids to hide their guide lists and jay-pegs in; and absolutely no god-damned spooks sticking their noses in our business where they don’t belong. Fact is, the way I see it, everything was going along just fine until you scientists started using all these expensive toys of yours to push the envelope.”
The three white-coated scientists looked at each other again and shrugged agreeably.
“Of course that was back when the agents and game wardens had to catch their suspects in the act or in possession — when they were still armed with a scoped rifle or shotgun, and were far more dangerous — because we didn’t have the tools and techniques to match the gut pile from a crime scene back to blood or tissue at the suspect’s house,” DNA specialist Juliana Ferreira reminded.
“And that was before we had automated international fingerprint databases capable of matching a partial latent lift off a cartridge casing to a suspect from another state or country,” latent print specialist Steve Hager added.
“And definitely before we had a computerized bullet and cartridge case system to link up firearms evidence from a single gun to poaching scenes all over the world,” firearms examiner Donn Renwick finished with a cheerful smile.
“Not to mention the fact that if their lab director hadn’t pushed a whole bunch of envelopes, in between driving you duck-cops up the wall, you wouldn’t even have snooping crime scene investigators like me on the force, much less a wildlife crime lab capable of pissing off nosey spooks,” Bulatt pointed out helpfully.
“A mixed blessing at best,” Schweer grumbled. “And speaking of the devil, what the hell was your boss doing in DC when all this started anyway? I thought he was supposed to stay here and keep you people from getting into trouble.”
“As I understand the situation, he was back there trying to con the government into buying us some more expensive toys,” Ferreira replied.
“So we can continue to push our envelopes, and make things more complicated for everyone; good guys and bad guys alike,” Hager added.
“Which nobody told us included a bunch of spooks; but I don’t know that we really care, because that’s what we do for a living anyway,” Renwick finished with a cheerful smile. “No real problem to pick on them, too, while we’re at it.”
“Using a couple of fourteen-year-old juvenile delinquents?” Schweer was starting to look apoplectic.
“Well, no, not normally,” Renwick conceded. “But they’re better at it than we are, in their own area of expertise.”
“Truly evil little bastards,” Hager agreed.
“Fact is, after that first little incident, back when they were twelve, the boss never lets them anywhere near the lab any more — much less near any of our computers — because he doesn’t trust them,” Ferreira added.
“Not that anyone else around here trusts them, either; specifically including their mother,” Hager pointed out.
“You think your boss trusts them now?” Schweer sputtered.
“No, probably not,” Renwick acknowledged, “I think he’s just pissed because the CIA and NSA crime lab directors back in DC slammed the doors in his face this morning when he tried asking for the latent print information nice and friendly-like; and then started ripping into our firewalls right after he left; so he decided to go nuclear.”
“Nuclear?” Shweer’s eyes widened in alarm.
“So to speak,” Ferreira shrugged.
“Yeah, I just hope the kids don’t fry anything expensive, like one of those Cray’s,” Hager added. “Washington Office would probably try to take it out of our budget.”
“What’s a Cray?” Schweer asked.
“Supercomputer,” Renwick explained. “NSA buys them by the dozen.”
“How much do they cost?”
Renwick shrugged. “Depends on how many tera-flops you want.”
“Tera-what??”
“Flops, meaning operations per second, and tera meaning trillion,” Hager explained. “Basically, lots of very fast flopping.”
“And the prices are coming down,” Ferreira pointed out. “The new ones only cost a couple hundred million, give or take.”
“Those kids are going to try to fry a — ” Schweer couldn’t get the words out of his suddenly constricted throat.
“Not fry, really,” Hager said. “More like tug on.”
“Exactly,” Renwick nodded in agreement.
“Tug on?” Schweer was definitely looking apoplectic now.
“Yeah, think of a big tinker-toy structure, made up of lots of extremely powerful computers, all connected together three-dimensionally, and all sending out lots of little tentacles that try to probe at doors and brick walls,” Ferreira explained.
