Syren's Song

by Claude G. Berube

  “It’s just a simple cruise,” he said patiently. “We leave India for Yemen. I’ll have teams on board, including Gunny Willis, if anything comes up. And this is a really good ship. She’s different from anything Highland Maritime has had so far.”

  “Still. You shouldn’t be doing this anymore,” she said, her gaze flicking up to the wall of dead heroes.

  She had never told Stark about the photos. He had learned about them from Mack on his first night in Ullapool. One photo—that of a Royal Navy lieutenant killed when HMS Coventry sank at the Falklands—was of her father. Another photo—that of a Royal Marine killed in Iraq—was of her only brother. Like Maggie, they hadn’t been people to back down from a fight. But they had died far from home. From now on she wanted to keep her family close. And Ullapool was where Connor should be if he wanted to be her family.

  “I won’t be gone long, Maggie. Really.”

  “If your picture goes up on that wall, I’ll kill you myself.”

  Connor’s lips quirked up in a half smile. He knew better than to point out that if his photo was on the wall, he was already dead.

  Maggie took a long look at Connor, then bent over and unlocked a drawer. She pulled out a knife—more accurately, a sgian dubh, a traditional Scottish weapon. The antique scabbard was made of wood, leather, and silver. On the hilt was her family’s clan crest, a thistle above a crossed sword and pen. The six-pronged ornament at the top of the hilt held a brownish-gray piece of quartz—a cairngorm.

  “Then you’ll take this,” she said. “For luck. Just in case.”

  “Just in case what?”

  “Just in case you face someone like Gunny Willis out there and you can’t duck in time. And don’t lose it,” she snapped.

  He admired the sgian dubh for a few seconds, then returned it to its scabbard and slipped it down inside his right boot. For luck.

  Singapore

  He cursed the minor State Department bureaucrat who had forced him to travel coach from Washington, D.C.—and at the back of the plane, no less. A full eighteen hours huddled with the masses—trapped next to the snoring seatmate, the stench emanating from the restroom a few feet away, the sleepless child who kept kicking the back of his seat, the bland airline food and the wine that tasted as if it had been fermented in a barn. He hadn’t drunk more than a sip from the glass when the child behind him had kicked the seat, jogging his elbow and spilling cheap wine on his impeccable slacks. The flight attendant was too busy responding to other complaining passengers to see him trying to ask for towels to dry himself. Unable to waken his seatmate, he sat like a baby in damp diapers for another hour until they landed.

  Damien Golzari was decidedly unhappy. He skulked at the baggage carousel until his black bag appeared. Then he removed himself to the closest restroom, changed his trousers, and made his way to the taxi stand. Fortunately the line was short and he waited only a minute for his turn.

  “What hotel?” the cab driver asked.

  “None. Take me to the United States embassy,” Golzari replied without looking up as he texted his contact. It was only six-thirty in the morning, and the streets of Singapore were not yet crowded by rush hour traffic.

  Golzari got out at the embassy gate and showed his badge to the Marine guard. As he was slipping the wallet back into his jacket pocket a stern-looking woman with fair skin and auburn hair came through the embassy entrance. “Agent Kelly, I presume?”

  “You presume correctly, Agent Golzari. Welcome to Singapore. Follow me.”

  She took him inside and paused before a locked door, which she asked the secretary to unlock. Golzari set his bag down in the hallway and stepped into the nondescript office. Agent Kelly and the secretary followed him inside and waited silently as Golzari looked around.

  “When was the last time he was in here?” Golzari asked.

  “Two days ago. He left at ten a.m.,” the secretary replied.

  Golzari sat in the chair and examined the desktop for anything out of the ordinary. Nothing. A few pages of standard State Department bureaucratic forms were halfway completed. He ignored the stack in the man’s in box. Those would have come in afterward. Golzari paused when his gaze landed on the family photos on the desk. One photo was of the man’s wife and son. Golzari had never met the boy, but he remembered meeting the wife when she was pregnant.

  “Did you know Special Agent Blake?” Agent Kelly asked.

  Golzari reflected for a moment. “Yes. Yes, I did. We were classmates at Glynco.”

  Agent Kelly immediately understood. Glynco, Georgia, was the location of FLETC—the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center.

  Bill Blake had been a former police officer, just like Golzari. He was also one of the few classmates not to mock Golzari’s slight British accent, the result of his early education in England.

  “Do you need to go to the morgue?” Kelly asked.

  “Has the autopsy been performed?”

  “Yes. I have the full report here,” Kelly said, handing Golzari a packet. Golzari thumbed through the papers and the photos.

  “Looks thorough,” Golzari observed. “I see no reason to go there. Would you concur?”

  “Yeah. He was killed with two shots in the chest and one in the head. All at close range.”

  “Anything found on the body?” Golzari asked. The young secretary gasped when Golzari coldly said “the body.” Holding a hand over her mouth she darted down the hall.

  “Sorry, Agent Golzari. She’s had a tough time since we found him. It’s her first overseas assignment for the State Department, and Blake was her first boss,” Kelly explained. “And to answer your question, there was nothing on him. Literally. Not even a shred of clothing. He had been killed and dumped naked near the zoo. The embassies got a report that a Caucasian male was found yesterday morning. That’s when we found out who it was. I identified him.”

  “Singapore has a lot of cameras. Did you check with the police?”

  “Yes. He was dumped in a blind spot. No cameras.”

  “So it was premeditated. The killers picked the spot because they knew they wouldn’t be seen.” Golzari looked back down at the autopsy report. “And he was shot with a .45-caliber pistol. I presume no pistol was found nearby?”

  “We did a sweep of the area. Nothing.”

  “So we know how he died and where he was found. Now I just have to find out where he was killed and why. Do you think the secretary could pull herself together long enough to help me get access to his computer files?”

  “Sure, I’ll get her.”

  Golzari wasn’t expecting to find much. Bill Blake had expressed a distinct aversion to computers when they were at FLETC together, preferring telephone calls to e-mails and pens to keyboards. In that way Blake reminded him of another former associate of sorts, Connor Stark. The mercenary.

  Golzari thumbed through a couple of small notepads filled with Blake’s scribbles. The second to the last page had a few phone numbers—all from around Washington, D.C. On a whim he called the last number. It was late in the afternoon in the capital.

  “HSI Fraud. Lowell.”

  Homeland Security Investigations, Fraud Division. Well, Golzari thought, so I’ve reached someone in the bureaucracy. “Yes, this is Diplomatic Security Special Agent Damien Golzari. I’m calling you from Singapore.”

  “Singapore? I thought Blake was working this.”

  “Not at the moment,” Golzari replied. “I was just looking for the paperwork on this and can’t find much to go on.”

  “Well,” the HSI agent explained, “it’s pretty simple. A few days ago we were asked by the Office of Export Control at the Department of Commerce to check into a license for a research lab in Singapore. I talked to our Diplomatic Security liaison here and he gave me the e-mail for the RSO there—Blake—to check with the lab.”

  “Why did Export Control want to know about it?”

  “They said they approved the shipment of some lab equipment but they never got confirmation i
t arrived.”

  “OK. Look, we’ve had problems with some files. Could you resend whatever you have about this lab to the RSO secretary here?”

  “Sure thing, but it’ll have to wait until tomorrow morning. I gave it to my secretary to secure, and she’s already gone home for the day.”

  “I understand.” Actually, he didn’t. Golzari had never understood that cases could be solved and wars won despite small bureaucratic delays and the eight-hour workday. Golzari’s workday had no end. Morning, noon, and through the night he was always on call, always on the move. That was one of the many reasons why his two brief marriages had failed early in his career. “In the meantime, Howell, is there any information you can recall that might be helpful here?”

  “Ah, not much. I processed it real quickly. The only thing I remember is the name of the lab. Academic Solutions.”

  “Excellent. I’ll start with that. Thanks for your help.”

  “Yeah, no problem.”

  Kelly returned with the secretary, who was still wiping away tears with a wad of tissues.

  “I need your help,” Golzari said. “I know this is difficult for you, but we need to find out what happened to Special Agent Blake. I need a list of his cases, access to his computer, and anything you received for him from a lab called Academic Solutions. Can you do that?” Golzari spoke with as much sympathy as he could muster, which wasn’t very much. He had a low tolerance for human weakness.

  She nodded and went back to her desk.

  “You look tired,” Kelly said.

  “I feel tired. Long flight.”

  “Let me guess. Because of the latest Capitol Hill budget battle your department downgraded you from business to coach?”

  Golzari nodded once. “And yet they expect us to walk off the plane bright-eyed and ready to work.”

  “Tell you what,” Kelly said. “It’ll take a little time to get this stuff for you. Why don’t you head to the hotel? You’re at the Marriott downtown. Get a couple of hours of rest, clear your mind, and then I’ll give you any help you need.”

  “Thank you. I’ll do that.” Golzari wasn’t happy about any delay at all, but at least it would give him a chance to get his wine-soaked trousers cleaned.

  DAY 2

  Port of Chennai, India

  The khakis, boat shoes, and white long-sleeved cotton shirt Stark wore were an adequate combination for the heat of southeastern Indian weather. The bustling daytime activity at the large port made him cautious. Cranes, vehicles, and people all trying to move cargo and ships as quickly as possible to maximize profit were a dangerous combination. Accidents and injuries—even deaths—were not uncommon in busy ports. Stark slung his large backpack over his shoulder and made his way to one of the smaller piers. Gunny Willis was by his side.

  “What do you think, Gunny?”

  “No offense, but give me terrain instead of the sea, Skipper. Never liked being on an amphib or in port.”

  The out-of-the-way pier was just as busy as the rest of the port and the nearby shipyard, though on a demonstrably smaller scale. Dockworkers were loading crates of food and supplies onto an unusually shaped ship that resembled a shoebox with a horizontally pointed bow. The ship’s pilothouse sat forward and was offset to port, making her appear lopsided as well. Two men were on the deck watching a crane load pallets. One of them, a tall, burly redhead, caught sight of Stark and Willis and made his way down the ladder to the dock.

  “She don’t look like much,” Willis remarked.

  “It’s all in how you look, Gunny,” Stark said as he leaned across and put one hand on the familiar aluminum hull. “She’s a very special ship.” It’s good to see you again, old girl, he thought.

  “If she’s so special, why did the U.S. Navy get rid of her?”

  “Shortsighted flag officers and rice bowls, Gunny. If the Navy had built a whole class of these ships, things might be different. They’re small, but they have a lot of potential.”

  “That’s why Highland Maritime bought her? For her potential?” Gunny asked.

  “Yeah, potential and more. I commanded her for a few months back in the day when she was first built. I know her. And she’s got as much heart as Kirkwall,” Stark said, referring, Gunny knew, to the Highland Maritime ship lost in the Gulf of Aden in a battle with pirates. “But in the end, it’s not the ship but the crew that makes her special.”

  Stark checked the lines that secured the ship to the pier as the redheaded man reached the end of the gangplank. “Jay, what’s the good word?” Stark said, shaking the outthrust hand of Jay Warren, Highland Maritime’s utility infielder. Warren was one of the new hires in Highland Maritime—in the non–security operations wing.

  “Boss, are we glad you’re here!” Warren said, pulling Stark close and embracing him in a bear hug. Gunny Willis frowned at the informality and took a step backward to put himself out of reach. Stark didn’t appear too comfortable with it either, but he had learned long ago to give Warren leeway. You had to do that when dealing with a genius.

  “I got here as soon as I could, Jay,” Stark said, gasping as Warren’s giant arms finally released him.

  “You have got to see the new engines,” Warren said enthusiastically. “They work like a dream! She’ll be the fastest ship in the Indian Ocean.”

  “Speed burns fuel fast, Jay.”

  “I know, I know, usually; but that’s the beauty of the new system I installed. We’ll get 30 percent more range at top speed,” he said, happy as a child with his first bicycle. “I wish we’d thought of it back when we built her. Remember? We talked about it, but the technology just wasn’t there yet.”

  “Thirty percent? This I have to see.”

  Gunny Willis touched Stark’s arm. “Sir, we have company coming,” he said as a black limousine approached.

  “Jay, this is Gunny Willis,” Stark said. “Would you take him on board while I do a meet and greet?”

  The limousine stopped a few feet away from Stark, and two men exited from the rear door. One was a military officer; the other was a civilian holding a briefcase.

  “It’s good to see you again and with another ship,” said the officer, extending his arm and clasping Stark’s hand warmly.

  “Captain Dasgupta, this is a pleasant surprise,” Stark greeted the captain. “I hadn’t thought to see you on this trip. I appreciate your recommendation that we refit the ship here. This yard completed the work six weeks ahead of schedule.”

  “We look forward to seeing how she performs,” the Indian naval captain said with a smile, “although you understand that my government remains concerned about maritime security companies. Your adherence to our regulations has assured them that Highland Maritime remains on our approved list for now.”

  “Thank you, Captain. You have my personal assurance that we won’t engage in some of the practices of some of our competitors.”

  “Yes. In fact, that is why I would like to introduce you to Ambassador Adikira of the Democratic Socialist Republic of Sri Lanka,” Dasgupta said, gesturing toward his companion.

  Stark nodded briefly in respect. “Mr. Ambassador.”

  “A pleasure, Captain Stark,” the slender, swarthy man said politely. “On Captain Dasgupta’s recommendation I have come to you with a proposal. You are aware of the recent terrorist attacks on the Sri Lankan navy?”

  “I’ve seen a few news reports about it.”

  “Then you will know that the Tamil Sea Tigers have returned. They succeeded in destroying most of our fleet. That is no secret. We seek . . . assistance.”

  “What kind of assistance?” Stark asked warily.

  Adikira pulled two sheets of paper from his briefcase and handed them to Stark. The first was in the ambassador’s native Sinhalese. The other was formatted the same way but in English. Three words immediately stood out.

  “A letter of marque?” Stark asked in disbelief as he read the document.

  “We have no ships, Captain Stark, except a few that are in grea
t need of repair. Two American Navy vessels are being temporarily transferred to our government. They will arrive in a few days. I believe the term your government used is ‘capacity building.’”

  Stark laughed. “Mr. Ambassador, letters of marque haven’t been used since the nineteenth century. I’m not sure they’re even still legal.”

  “I assure you they are, Captain Stark,” the ambassador said with a smile. The smile faded quickly. “These are difficult times. We need ships and people and very quickly. Captain Dasgupta recommended your firm and you, based on your actions against the Somali pirates.”

  “I wasn’t hunting anyone then. I was just providing security.”

  “This is security,” the ambassador said, “the security of our ports and our livelihood. We need you to gather as much information as you can about the Sea Tigers and then provide that intelligence to the new American ships so they can take action.”

  “That’s all?”

  “We understand that you are experienced in conducting vessel searches, Captain Stark. We expect that your intelligence gathering will include stopping and searching any ship within our territorial waters.”

  “Does that include only Sri Lankan vessels?”

  “No,” he said firmly. “It means any ship.”

  Stark’s face was grave as he thought about that for a moment, considering the implications. What if his men boarded a Russian or even an American-flagged ship? What were Highland Maritime’s legal rights? What were the other ships’ legal rights?

  The ambassador must have noticed Stark’s apprehension. “I think I understand your hesitation, Captain Stark. Your ship would operate under Sri Lanka’s flag and would fall under our government’s jurisdiction. You will also have a Sri Lankan liaison on board to provide additional legitimacy to your activities. He is a commander in our navy—one of the few who escaped the devastation.”