Tom Clancy's Op-center Novels 7-12 (9781101644591)

by Clancy, Tom

  Fortunately, Jelbart and Coffey had not been with her when she told them about Dorothy Darling. The conversation was only about what she knew, which was not much.

  Loh told them how the thirty-five-year-old woman had gone to Singapore with her young daughter Jessica-Ann. They went to the famed Jurong Birdpark early one morning, two hours before it opened to the public, then went off by SUV into the surrounding hills. Mrs. Darling was a pilot and an avid fan of hang gliding. While her daughter picnicked with Mrs. Darling’s personal secretary, Robin Hammerman, Mrs. Darling and her longtime flight instructor from Cairns drove their car higher into the range. They brought a powered hang glider—a tandem unit that looked like a large motor scooter suspended from a traditional hang glider. The unit was an early, homemade model. It did not have the ballistic parachute system that came with later designs.

  Loh told the men how the engine of the hang glider caught fire shortly after liftoff. While Jessica-Ann watched, the blazing hang glider briefly circled the hills before plunging into a dense wood.

  “That had to have left some serious psychological scars,” Lowell Coffey suggested.

  “The girl described the sight as a red-and-black bird,” Loh said. “She said there were screeches coming from it.”

  “Jesus wept,” Jelbart murmured.

  “Was this information contained in an official investigation report?” Coffey asked.

  “I only read the Australian newspaper reports, which were rather graphic,” Loh told him.

  “Many of the local rags tend to be that way,” Jelbart admitted. “I don’t like reading or repeating that rot.”

  “I did hear that Mr. Darling’s bank accounts were flagged and watched,” Loh said.

  “By which nation?” Coffey asked.

  “Australia,” Loh said. “According to those newspaper accounts, which I’ve read, the man’s wife was allegedly having an affair with the flight instructor. Prosecutors wanted to see who Darling might have paid to sabotage the engine. If they found anything that would have given them an actionable crime, they could have made a case for intent to cause death.

  “The murder investigation was the start of the search, but the end was somewhat surprising,” FNO Loh continued. “There was not enough of the engine left to examine, and investigators did not uncover any sort of payoff from Mr. Darling to whoever may have executed this crime. But they did find evidence of unusual financial activity.”

  “Unusual in what way?” Coffey asked.

  “Mr. Darling was putting more money into Singapore banks at a lower interest rate than he could get in Australia,” Loh said. “And he was keeping it in liquid assets only.”

  “Was that in the newspapers, too?” Coffey asked.

  “No,” she replied.

  “Then how do you know?” he pressed.

  “I briefly dated a banker. He liked to impress me with the names on accounts he was managing,” she said.

  “Hence the ‘briefly dated,’ ” Coffey said.

  Loh did not respond. But the American attorney was correct.

  “This banker bloke told you that the government was watching Darling’s accounts?” Jelbart asked.

  “He did,” Loh replied. “He did not tell me what they may have found out, if anything. I’m not sure he would have known.”

  “So you don’t really know the extent to which the government is investigating Darling or what else they may have found,” Jelbart said.

  “No,” Loh said.

  “If they had evidence connecting Darling to the death of his wife, they would have gone after him,” Coffey said. “Australia and Singapore have an extradition arrangement.”

  “I can’t imagine him being careless enough to leave any kind of trail,” Jelbart remarked.

  “As American presidents and corporate CEOs have demonstrated with regularity, powerful people often feel bulletproof,” Coffey pointed out. “Though I am intrigued, FNO Loh. You seem pretty certain that Jervis Darling had his wife murdered.”

  “By all accounts, he is a possessive man.”

  “And are all possessive men killers?” Coffey asked.

  “I believe most people would be killers if they thought they could get away with it,” she answered.

  “I’m not sure I agree, but that’s not important,” Coffey said. “FNO Loh, do you have access to the government files on Darling?”

  “I don’t know,” Loh admitted. She found herself overenunciating the words as she forced them from her mouth. “But I’ll find out,” she added.

  “When you do, ask if they have anything on Mahathir bin Dahman, a Malaysian billionaire,” Coffey said. He spelled the name for her. “Have you ever heard of him?”

  “Again, only what I have read in the newspapers,” she said. “He is heavily involved in the development of real estate.”

  “Any scandals?” Coffey asked.

  “None of which I am aware,” the officer reported. That was a somewhat milder form of “I don’t know.” It did not come out any easier. FNO Loh wished she did not feel as though she had to impress these two men. They certainly were not pushing her.

  “All right,” Coffey said. “Anything you can find will be more than we have now.”

  “Have you heard anything more about the sailor from the sampan?” Loh asked.

  “The last report I had from the hospital was about ninety minutes ago,” Jelbart said. “The patient was sedated and not speaking.”

  “Do they have anyone who can speak Malay in case he does say something?” she asked.

  “The intercom is on, and there is a voice-activated tape recorder at his bedside,” Jelbart said. “Anything he says will be recorded and played for someone who can translate. I’ll make certain you hear it as well.”

  “Thank you,” she said. Loh had to admit that for men, these two seemed all right.

  “The question is, what do we do while we wait?” Coffey asked.

  “If I may make a suggestion,” Loh said.

  “Please,” Coffey replied.

  “I will contact Singapore for those files. But we have a saying in the military: ‘Do not wait. Advance.’ ”

  “I’m sure that reads well in a textbook,” Coffey said.

  “It works in practice, Mr. Coffey,” Loh replied. It felt good to say that with certainty. “I believe that we should try to collect our own intelligence about Mr. Darling.”

  “I’m a coastal police officer, not a spy,” Jelbart said. The warrant officer was not complaining. It sounded to Loh as though he were frustrated. And a little concerned. “I’m also afraid that the more Australians who know about this, the greater the odds of Darling finding out. We’re still talking about theories, and highly speculative ones at that.”

  “Our top spy will land in Australia a few hours from now,” Coffey said. “He’ll know what to do.”

  “I can tell you what we have to do,” Loh replied.

  “Can you?” Coffey asked.

  “Yes.” It felt good to be able to answer this one, too. Because the answer was not only right, it was obvious. “We should not waste time following the 130-5 trail. It is already cold.”

  “What should we do?” Coffey asked.

  “Make sure that Jervis Darling is unable to kill,” she replied. “Again.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Washington, D.C. Friday, 12:31 P.M.

  “Boss, would you please authorize the uploading of a benevolent systemic virus?”

  The man in the doorway was portly Matt Stoll. The young computer genius was standing there with his arms at his sides and his expression deadpan. Unless there was a crisis, Paul Hood had learned to take nothing the technical wizard said seriously. Stoll was not just a proudly archetypical nerd, he was a proudly archetypical nerd on steroids. It was not enough for him to be smart. He was aggressively intelligent, still driven by the curiosity and precociousness that must have made him an elementary school terror.

  “A benevolent virus,” Hood said, playing along. “What
did you have in mind?”

  “Something that would allow users of National OnLine Operations to enjoy a functioning Internet provider,” Stoll said. “Every time I open an attachment, I get booted. Every time I download a photograph, I get booted. Every time I try to access data, I’m told that the system is busy.”

  “Matt, am I wrong in believing that we do most of our on-line work through U.S. Governet?”

  “You are not incorrect,” Stoll said in his characteristic monotone. “I am talking about a system I use at home. However, our computers here have the juice to really spruce up the service.”

  “Permanently?” Hood asked.

  “No. For just an hour. To show those NOLO incompetents what they could have if they upgraded their systems and paid more attention to customers than to their stock prices,” Stoll said.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Hood replied. “No.”

  Stoll seemed unfazed. “They are an evil empire, sir. This is a crisis situation. It is within the parameters set by the NCMC charter to involve ourselves.”

  “The charter also specifies the process by which executives other than the director, deputy director, and acting directors may request operational status for a project,” Hood said. “Write a report and submit it to the CIOC. If the committee backs this, you will have my full cooperation.”

  “I could have done it without telling you,” Stoll pointed out. “You wouldn’t have known about it unless you saw it on the news or read it in an intelligence briefing.”

  “Possibly. Why didn’t you?” Hood asked.

  “Because the individual we are investigating, Jervis Darling, is a major stockholder in NOLO-Australia,” Stoll said. “I did not want any moves against a holding controlled by him to be traced back to me or to Op-Center. It might raise flags.”

  “Thank you,” Hood said.

  “You’re welcome,” Stoll replied.

  The technical officer stepped from the doorway and left. The encounter was strange but not unprecedented. Telling someone the damage he could do was Matt Stoll’s way of complaining. He was a tech guy and a perfectionist. He had vented about cable networks, long-distance phone carriers, and other high-tech systems in the past. It was like Mike Rodgers beefing about the bureaucracy at the Pentagon or Bob Herbert venting about what he could do with one-tenth the budget allotted the CIA or the FBI.

  Stoll was right about one thing, though. “NOLO contondere,” as it was referred to in the stock pages, was an ineffectual disaster. It made money because it was a monolith, nothing more. If he started thinking about that, Paul Hood would get pissed as well.

  The phone beeped. It was Lowell Coffey.

  “Paul, there has been a strange twist since our last conversation,” he said. Coffey proceeded to tell him about the discussion with FNO Loh. “She spoke to the military intelligence people in Singapore who liaise with the prime minister’s Office of Strategic Information,” Coffey went on. “They confirm business ties between Darling and Mahathir bin Dahman. He’s invested in the Malaysian’s building projects, commercial aircraft plants, and water-processing facilities.”

  “Do you know what the paper trail looks like?” Hood asked.

  “If you’re asking whether this is public knowledge or not, it is,” Coffey replied. “Darling puts money in Malaysian banks, and bin Dahman draws on that as needed.”

  “Is there a public record of Darling’s holdings?” Hood asked.

  “No,” Coffey said. “The government has learned that Darling gets private stock for his money. Nothing actionable, though.”

  “It’s a lot of stock, I’m sure,” Hood said. “An improportionate amount compared to what other investors get. I’ll bet that bin Dahman takes a big hit every time Darling invests.”

  “He does,” Coffey said.

  “This could suggest that bin Dahman is using real estate and privately held businesses to pay Darling for services rendered,” Hood said. “Such as providing him with nuclear materials.”

  “It makes sense,” Coffey said. “What’s your view on Darling himself? He’s got a helluva reputation down here. He’s got a mega-fortune. Why would he risk all that to do something like this?”

  “I’ve been wondering about that,” Hood said. “Maybe it’s tied into something you said a minute ago. He got away with murder and liked how it felt.”

  “You mean Leopold and Loeb, the sequel?” Coffey asked. “Bored rich man gets his kicks planning the death of millions of people?”

  “You answered your own question.”

  “Yeah,” Coffey replied. “Jelbart and I were talking about this as a power grab, but you may have something there. You don’t even have to run that one past Liz Gordon. It’s simple but neat.”

  “It’s a starting point, anyway,” Hood replied. “Meanwhile, what’s your next step?”

  “We’re sailing back to Darwin to wait for Bob, then I guess it’s on to Cairns,” Coffey said. “We’re obviously going to have to take this investigation directly to Darling.”

  “I agree,” Hood said. “And when you do grab him, I want you to do me a favor.”

  “Sure,” Coffey said.

  “Tell him he runs a lousy on-line service,” Hood said. “Tell him for Matt Stoll.”

  Coffey was confused, but Hood told him not to worry about it.

  Hood hung up. He felt more involved than he usually did in evolving situations. For one thing, unlike Mike Rodgers or former Striker leader Colonel Brett August, Coffey was keeping him plugged into every development in the field, however small. For another, the diverse resources of three nations were available to him. It was as true in crisis management as it was in mathematics: one point was simply one point; two points defined a line; three points created a plane, and a plane was something you could stand on. The United States, Australia, and Singapore created a plane.

  There was something else that gave Hood comfort as well. For all his clout, Jervis Darling was still a businessman at heart. He was a potentially twisted one, yes, but a corporate tycoon nonetheless. Unlike the rogue generals and megalomaniacal politicians Hood and his team usually faced, he understood this breed. He could sit in their chairs and imagine the decisions they made.

  But there was still a storm in the distance. One that Paul Hood could not anticipate. One that Op-Center and its allies might not be able to control. It had to do with the circus, of all things. Bob Herbert once told the CIOC that a crisis was like the big top.

  “You can’t afford to grab the ringleader and lose the other attractions,” Herbert had said. “While we’re all packed shoulder to shoulder in the grandstands, those rampaging elephants and runaway clown cars will crush us flat.”

  Hood hoped that if Darling were involved, he knew where the nuclear materials were headed and who was handling them. Otherwise, the toll in the grandstand could still be catastrophic.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The Celebes Sea Saturday, 2:02 A.M.

  Peter Kannaday did not know what to expect when he reached the radio room.

  He could not imagine to whom Hawke might be broadcasting. Jervis Darling? The Malaysian fishing ship? Someone else? Kannaday’s mind leapt to conspiracies. Perhaps Hawke had pirates following them in order to seize the Hosannah. Or maybe an aircraft was en route to remove him. Or Kannaday.

  As Kannaday swung down the stairs he learned how wrong he had been. Hawke was not even in the radio room. He and his thugs were waiting for the captain in the hall. Two men grabbed Kannaday, one hugging each arm. A third got behind him and grabbed Kannaday’s windbreaker. He grasped it near the neck and put a knee against Kannaday’s lower back. That prevented the captain from bending. A fourth man forced a rag in Kannaday’s mouth. The captain tasted oil. It had come from the engine compartment. The men turned Kannaday so he was facing into the corridor.

  Hawke was standing there.

  The security man passed under the recessed light. His arms were at his sides. For the most part his expression was as inscrutable as always. Exc
ept for the eyes. They were volcanic.

  Kannaday struggled for a moment before settling into tense compliance. He was not afraid. Though Kannaday had a pretty good idea what was about to take place. He was going to die. He was resigned, though still defiant.

  Hawke stepped in very close. He put the heel of his left palm against Kannaday’s chin and began to push up slowly. The captain’s head went back. Kannaday’s gaze shifted from Hawke’s angry eyes to the low ceiling of the corridor. He felt the muscles tense along his shoulders and upper arms. The pressure was cutting off his air. He tried to draw breath around the rag in his mouth. Nothing was getting through. He began to feel claustrophobic, panicky. If Hawke pushed back any farther, his neck would snap.

  Kannaday resisted. He began to struggle again.

  “You want to breathe,” Hawke said. “Let me help.”

  Hawke released kannaday’s chin. He stepped back and punched the captain hard in the gut. Kannaday could not help but breathe then. He sucked air through his nose and around the rank cloth. Hawke moved in on him again. He hit Kannaday with a roundhouse right to the jaw. It struck so hard that the cloth flew halfway from the captain’s mouth. Kannaday snatched more air through his nose and mouth as he took another blow to the belly, a hard left. Hawke stepped in as he delivered it, twisting at the waist. At the same time he drew the other elbow back, tucked tight against his ribs. That gave the twist extra snap. Hawke knew how to drive the blows in. He knew how to make them hurt.

  When he was younger, Kannaday had been in a number of dockside brawls. But those always ended up on the floor and consisted mostly of grappling and clawing. He had never been given a beating. Kannaday’s jaw throbbed, and his ears were pounding. He was nauseated from the blows to the abdomen. His shoulders burned from the strong fingers of the man behind him.

  A left uppercut rocked Kannaday’s head back. He could actually feel his brain bump the top of his skull. His teeth bit through the cloth and snapped on his tongue. He tasted blood. The bone of his lower jaw literally rang, and the ringing spread to his limbs. If the men had not been holding him up, he would have fallen. Kannaday’s jaw continued ringing as Hawke followed the uppercut with a right back fist to the mouth. Kannaday’s head slumped to his right shoulder. His hurt tongue flopped over dislocated teeth. His eyelids sagged.