Fight Fire With Fire.

by Amy J. Fetzer

  Grabbing a flashlight, he locked the car and walked to the shop front. The odor of mold hit him as he stepped inside. A staircase led to the second floor, the hand rail missing. He investigated the lower floor and found little more than trash and weathered discards. It had been stripped of anything useful and easy to carry.

  Vaghn’s decoy had come from the roof on the north side, he recalled and took the staircase that was missing a few treads. Old footprints left a path in the sandy floor, and he carefully inspected each apartment. Wasn’t much to them, more efficiencies than homes and all vacant. One door was half-open, and he nudged it, drawing his weapon. The wood swung wide and a not-so-pleasant breeze pushed through the open windows on the street side.

  He shined light around the rooms and saw rats burrow into crannies. Bet this is a real let down after the Hamptons, he thought as he went to the window. The only fire escape still intact was outside this apartment. He turned back inside and flowed the light slowly over the pitch black room, then crossed to the kitchenette, searching each cabinet, finding the makings for coffee and little else. In a corner, a trash can was piled high and spilling. He crossed to it, overturning the can.

  He used a pen to poke through the remains of several packaged meals dripping in sauces, toiletry wrappings, a paperback novel, and a couple porn magazines. A lot of booze, he thought when he saw the row of empty liquor bottles lining the table like trophies.

  “Courage in a can,” he muttered, rooting though the flat.

  For a second Max sat at the table, trying to think like a fugitive. Travel light, pay cash, leave nothing to trace.

  He caught a whiff of ash and ran his hand over the table; his sooty fingers confirmed Vaghn had burned anything they could link to him. He shined the light on his immediate surroundings and spotted paper under the table. He ducked and grabbed a thin scratch pad, thumbing through the cheap newsprint. All blank and half gone. Then he tipped it toward his light and smiled. Smart guy made a mistake.

  E Ring

  Pentagon

  Hank Jansen knocked softly, then entered the office. Gerardo sat behind his desk, the phone to his ear, yet he waved him in closer. The general cracked a joke about meeting on the golf course to do battle, then hung up and gestured to the coffee service nearby. Hank poured himself a cup.

  “That was Joe McGill. Are you familiar with David Lorimer?”

  He added cream and turned. “He’s General McGill’s favored tech and he’s worked with him a couple times, but I don’t know anything about the operations.”

  “Neither do I.”

  Hank stopped mid-sip, and his brows shot up. “Excuse me, sir, but you don’t?” It was hard to believe that an operation of any kind was beyond Gerardo’s clearance. He had the ear of the president, for pity’s sake.

  “No, and I’m not digging either. There are some doors that should stay sealed. Joe insists it’s a closed case and David can be trusted. He said Lorimer could pull a needle out of a haystack.”

  “Why do you need him? He’s Sat Com.”

  “Yes, but he’s assigned to Deep Six right now.”

  Good God. Deep Six was just that. Clandestine field intelligence, a relay to stations around the world. His clearance had to be just as stellar. “How come we’ve never used him?”

  “He’s a well-kept secret. Young, twenty-eight maybe. He should be here any moment.”

  Hank waited while Al did his organizing moment. He’d worked with him long enough to recognize that tidying his desk was a mind-prep before he’d explain his purpose.

  “We’d received a flag on a random burst off one of our satellites in the South Pacific. Analysts there tracked it, but only picked up a portion of a stream and they thought, some vocals.”

  Hank frowned. “But it wasn’t?”

  “That’s the problem, the noise.” Gerardo reached for his mug, cupping it. “The report was sent to Langley for deeper analysis and given to this David Lorimer to pick apart. This morning I got a call from Major Beckham with Lorimer’s concerns. Someone in the Company was backlogged or wasn’t on it fast enough.” He shrugged and pushed the young man’s file across the desk. “McGill was just confirming what I knew.”

  Hank opened it, scanning the most recent pages and felt his smile broaden to almost painful. David Lorimer exposed Deputy Director Lania Price, who’d not only released classified satellite patterns to see who’d take the bait, but enlisted an outside asset to assassinate a field operative when the agent learned the truth.

  He whistled softly. “That took guts, especially knowing Price.” Her wealthy suburbanite appearance was a façade. There was a vicious pit bull underneath all that Lily Pulitzer. Now she wore Leavenworth gray. Lorimer had been her executive assistant, but she hadn’t included him in her plans.

  He closed the file. “What’s your decision?”

  “I’m bringing him in. If it’s a crossed stream, fine. If not, then someone knows when they’re in orbit to jump it. We need to know if it’s viable.”

  It sounded like a lot of man-hours for something as trivial as a commercial satellite straying out of alignment for a few minutes. It didn’t happen that frequently, but Lorimer’s career was exemplary and with McGill, it was wise to shut up and listen.

  The intercom buzzed, a gentle voice announcing Lorimer. A moment later, he entered the office, and Hank wondered if there was a pocket protector under that tailored navy suit. His short dark hair was neatly combed but he could tell it hid a funky haircut, like his sons. He was tall, but not a big man, yet beyond anything, the intelligence in his eyes was unmistakable, and he was all business.

  “Thank you for seeing me, sir.”

  Gerardo put up a hand. “I understand why you want to investigate this further, but you’re Deep Six. Why didn’t you just keep going with your suspicions?”

  Hank’s gaze moved between the two men, and he wondered what Gerardo sought.

  David frowned. “I was assigned to analyze the stream to learn if the hit posed a threat, not its origin.”

  “But you did.”

  “No sir, that was a hit between the birds. Two portions of one stream. We have half, I believe. It isn’t impossible to hop from one country’s satellite to another’s. Likely why we have this chunk and nothing else.”

  “What do you believe it is?”

  “Other than it hit on one of ours, I have no idea.”

  He frowned.

  “And I can’t know until I have authority to go postal on it.”

  Gerardo smiled, then glanced at Hank. It’s what he needed to hear. “You have it.”

  “I can tell you the data is encrypted.”

  Gerardo arched a bushy black brow at that bit of news.

  “That’s what clued me in. Encryption in the data sometimes makes noise that sounds like stretching vowels.”

  “I’ve never heard of that,” Hank said.

  David met his gaze. “No one has, sir, just something I recognized a while back. It’s sort of like listening to whales. Certain transmissions make no sound, some crackle, but very few have steady enough tones to track and learn what’s in it. I haven’t decided if it’s coincidence or confirmed, but I’m keeping a record. Classified, of course.”

  Their expression must have startled him because David straightened and shuffled. “General McGill authorized it.”

  Hank shook himself out of awed stupor and stood. If his sound theory was authenticated, the young man would revolutionize the intelligence world with a way to catch encrypted, often treason worthy, data from leaving the country.

  “Not a problem,” Al said. “What do you need to crack this burst?”

  “Nothing I don’t already have right now sir. But if it gives me fits, permission to contact Nolan Deets, NSA? He’s a wizard.”

  Hank blinked at both, then smiled. Apparently, the young man was aware of more than they were.

  “I’ll warn him,” Gerardo said, and jotted a note.

  “Then I ha
ve your full permission to continue?” The young man looked ready to come out of his skin for the chance to get at it.

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent! Sorry,” he added, blushing.

  Chuckling, Gerardo leaned to open a drawer and slipped out a small file box, and flipped through the contents and pulled out a blue plastic card, handing it to David. “Authority to use Deep Six to go postal.” It was the access codes to sensitive transmissions, Hank knew.

  David grinned, placing it carefully away. “What are your suspicions?” Gerardo asked. David’s expression turned serious again. “That burst transmission wasn’t all of a single send, and this portion was big. You’d need a system strong enough to launch that much data. And somewhere for it to land.” He sanded his fingers together. “It’s pricey and that narrows the field. Besides, you can send anything in increment pulses so it doesn’t have to be in one big chunk. That it was on the cusp is just a little too accurate for my comfort zone. I’m betting it hopped a sister satellite or two before jumping off.”

  “Can you learn who and where?” “I believe so, yes.” Gerardo nodded, then handed him a business card. “My cell number, report to me whatever you find.” David immediately slipped it into his wallet behind his CIA credentials and the code card. “Any further instructions?” Hank glanced at the general and got a nod before he said, “How are you at deciphering satellite imagery?” David frowned. “What do you have?”

  Eight

  Singapore

  The moment Safia was out of the room, Riley went to her jacket hanging on the hook, found the phone he’d called her on, and with Vaghn’s, he went to the computer. He opened Vaghn’s phone, removed the SIM memory card, and inserted it into the reader. The list of calls was short. He repeated the process with her phone, then did a comparison.

  “Ohh-rahh,” he said under his breath, then replaced the cards and quickly returned her phone to the jacket still on the hook.

  Sebastian shook his head, looking disappointed. “You don’t trust her.”

  Riley shrugged it off. Sebastian knew as well as he did that the checks and balances of the intelligence community weren’t fair. Sebastian was the only member of the team who left the military when he wanted—before he lost something vital, he used to say. But his superiors abandoning Sam in hostile Serbia was Riley’s first lesson, and he was a quick study. “Brilliant lass, but she’s been CIA for a long time.”

  Dragon One had done a lot of clean up recently for the Company and too many renegades used their influence outside the SOP, Standard Operating Procedure. It was breaking those same checks and balances that got them there and he didn’t expect any less from Safia. He hoped, but he didn’t expect.

  “I have a common number. If we can track it, maybe we can learn who is orchestrating this weapon’s deal.”

  “You’re convinced it’s bigger now?”

  He laid Vaghn’s phone aside, turned off. “Never doubted it. Just the degree of Company involvement. Which is still out to lunch,” he said, working the computer for a trace then went the simple route and just dialed the common number. After two rings, someone picked up.

  “Who is this?”

  Female and annoyed. “Wrong number,” he croaked in Gaelic and cut the call. “It has a GPS, and I think it’s Red Shoes. She’s the only woman.”

  “So far,” Sebastian said, cleaning up dishes. “And why is the money talking to Vaghn if Barasa already has him?”

  “Good question. I’m thinking this Barasa is being played like a gopher. He’s an arms dealer, so he’s bargained a prize out of this, probably, but the woman and Vaghn know each other.” Riley loaded the numbers and GPS into his hand held Recon computer, then wedged it into his back pocket.

  “How well?”

  “Three calls to her phone.”

  “New target?”

  He shook his head. “A phone won’t get us much until she uses it again.”

  Sebastian tossed a towel on the counter and came around the edge, then flung himself over the back of the sofa and stretched out his long frame. Riley stood, wishing he had Se-bastian’s ability to relax in a tense situation. Probably a good thing for the guy since Sebastian was a close quarter’s explosives expert.

  “Listen for the biomarker’s tone,” Riley said, scowling and moving to the door.

  “I’ve got the comm, Obi Wan. Where you going?” Sebastian said, wiggling his shoulders into the plump cushions.

  But Riley was already moving through the CIA station house, his fury building when he heard the roar of a motorcycle.

  Triad house

  Singapore

  The knock was loud and short. Barasa paused in wiping his face.

  “Come in,” he said and swiped the last bit of shave cream, then tossed the towel aside. He reached for his cologne as Rahjan entered the suite. Barasa patted his smooth face, then picked up a fresh shirt and slid it on.

  Rahjan stopped in the middle of the grand rooms, and his presence was almost offensive to the lavish décor. No longer wearing the rescue jumpsuit, he was clothed in his favored dirt gray trousers and shirt. Too loose for a man his size. Rahjan was powerful, though not a tall fellow. Barasa suspected even now he was armed with his long curved dagger, a Ghurka soldier’s weapon of choice. It was his Nepal training that Barasa had hired years ago, and for that Rahjan, above all, was his most trusted. They were not equals, but comrades, he thought. Good ones.

  “Relax,” he said and gestured to the bar on the far side of the master bedroom, already open. His half-finished drink waited on the granite counter.

  Rahjan glanced, yet didn’t move. “You do not want a report?”

  “Is everything secure?”

  Rahjan frowned slightly. “Yes.”

  Cale crossed the room to the bar. “Splendid. Then reveal the details at your leisure.” He picked up his drink and drained the remains, then grabbed a second glass and filled both with ice. Rahjan joined him, pointing to a twenty-year-old bourbon.

  “You will leave the scientist in there all night?”

  He referred to the isolation room where the beetle of man sat, secured and unaware of his location. “Yes. He’ll talk soon enough.”

  Barasa passed him the drink, and Rahjan crooked a finger for the bottle. Cale slid it to him, then walked past the living room furniture positioned in front of a bank of tall windows, a pair of doors between. He threw the doors open and stepped out onto the stone balcony. Four floors above the street, he could see the lights of Singapore City in a soft glow against the twilight sky. He surveyed the shadows, the buildings across the street, yet knew he was well protected.

  The house belonged to him, yet anyone searching for ownership would find a Chinese owner on paper. He’d become quite skilled at burying his trail, and paying bribes to keep his actions quiet. He was always aware of law enforcement, legal and not. Today’s incident was a thorn in his otherwise unnoticed life.

  His skin tightened when he thought of the risks he was taking for a weapon he did not possess. His client would only wait so long.

  Rahjan startled him when he appeared at his side, staring straight ahead and taking a drink.

  “You should be accustomed to me by now,” Rahjan said.

  “All but your stealth, my friend, and I am glad of it,” he said. “As I’ve said before, you are worth your price.”

  “Perhaps you should wait until you have my bill,” he said into the glass, then sipped.

  Cale chuckled shortly. Rahjan cared little about money and more about enjoying the challenges he was offered. He hadn’t hesitated to hunt the last driver and had tied up the loose ends. The men had failed and they knew the consequences. They were paid handsomely for the risk. Though the death of Rahjan’s teammate wasn’t expected. Cale still wondered over the shooters on the bridge and their purpose. He’d yet to learn who’d snatched the scientist from his drivers, but he would, soon. Dr. Vaghn’s countrymen, he supposed, then shook his head.

  Even n
ow, he found it difficult to believe the young man was as brilliant as Odette had claimed. Thus far, he’d been a moaning adolescent.

  “The helicopter was repaired enough to fly it back to the hangar,” Rahjan said. “It will be ready for flight by morning. Your calls to your associates helped me expedite the disguise.”

  All traces back to them had been sanitized. “The drivers?”

  “The bodies are left to the authorities. The weapons, if they can recover them, are in the river.”

  Neither the men nor the weapons could be traced to him. “Release their families,” Cale said.

  Rahjan nodded and pulled out his cell phone, hit a button, then a moment later, spoke to his man. “Drop them near their homes, but keep them blindfolded,” he said, then ended the call. He took a sip of his drink.

  “You saw the people who took Vaghn from the drivers?”

  He nodded. “I counted two men, perhaps three.” He rubbed his chest.

  “You should have dealt with them as well.”

  Rahjan looked at him, his curry brown skin creased in a scowl. “Unnecessary, and no price.”

  That statement reminded him that Rahjan’s work ethic was unique. He assessed threats quickly, made decisive decisions, but he didn’t do anything for free. “The authorities hunting Dr. Vaghn were his own, and they will show themselves again. Increase security. Start with my neighbors,” he said, waved at the town spread out around them. He set his glass on the balcony stone rail, then tucked in his shirt. “I think I’ll join you for the first session.”

  “You do not want to be a witness.”

  “But I do. I have several questions for our bit of cargo.”

  Rahjan sighed and finished off his drink in one swallow.

  Despite the trouble on the bridge, Cale possessed the most important piece; the creator and his computer. However, no one could access the information on it and extracting the password would offer an insight into the man’s character. He always enjoyed observing how far people would go to save their own lives.

  The heat was cloying and her dark tee shirt clung at the small of her back. The humidity was relentless and lying on the flat rooftop felt like a bed of hot rocks beneath her. Her body wept with perspiration, her bra already soggy. So much for the refreshing shower, she thought as she watched through a night vision scope.