Point of Contact

by Mike Maden

  “Yes, I know. But please, do it now, while I’m on the phone.”

  “As you wish.”

  She put the call on speakerphone, opened her desk drawer and removed the package, then opened another drawer and pulled out a pair of scissors. She carefully cut the twine binding it and slid a thin fingernail underneath each perfectly placed piece of Scotch tape, lifting them in such a manner to not harm the contents inside. She then gently lifted the heavy box lid.

  Her eyes widened.

  The voice on the speakerphone asked, “Are you surprised?”

  “Completely.” Masood lifted the item out of the box.

  Jane Austen’s Persuasion. She opened the first pages. Published 1907, illustrated by Brock.

  “I love it, Uncle. Thank you.” She read the attached note. Something to read tonight after your first day back at work.

  “It’s my favorite Austen novel. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

  “I’ll start it on my lunch break, in the next few minutes.”

  “How does it feel to be back at work?”

  “Don’t you mean to ask, ‘How is the pacemaker working?’”

  He laughed. “Something like that. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, Uncle. No problems, really.”

  An alarm blared on her monitor.

  “Uncle, I’m sorry, I have to go.” Without waiting, she hung up the phone.

  The screen that Masood monitored featured a live video feed from the Japanese geostationary satellite Himawari 8. Though owned and operated by the Japanese Meteorological Agency, the Himawari 8 fed images to the BMKG, the regional agency managing the Tropical Cyclone Warning Center. She was in charge of deep convection analysis, one of several optical and sensor operations provided by the sixteen-channel multispectral imager on board the solar-powered satellite.

  She knew every monitor on her floor was alarming as well. Tropical Storm Ema was strengthening into Typhoon Ema—and charging north. Impossible. It had never happened before.

  And it was heading straight for Singapore.

  56

  SINGAPORE

  Jack left Lian on the third floor, more determined than ever to find the missing QC file—and the person who tried to get him killed last night. He stabbed the elevator button, his mind racing. He needed Paul to work his forensic magic, maybe find a trace of when the file had been deleted—that would determine when it had been copied and downloaded to a hard drive. If they could figure that out, they might be able to get access to computer logs and find out which computer was used—unless those were deleted, too.

  The elevator doors slid open and Jack stepped in, hitting the first-floor button, still trying to work the angles. If he knew which computer was used and at what time, he could figure out who was using it, but how, if the security-camera footage and computer logs had all been erased for the last twenty-four hours?

  Whoever had covered Jack’s tracks were really covering their own. But why? The only thing that made sense was that if Jack was hauled into the police department they might start retracing his steps, and that would lead the police on a search for the culprits and the crime they had committed.

  Jack pocketed the phone and got back to his main problem: How to find that file?

  If Paul was right and the data had been saved, the easiest way to do that would be with a USB drive.

  His Dalfan security brief indicated that the only people allowed to download data from the machines were Dalfan employees with Dalfan USB drives, each registered to just one individual. If Lian really wasn’t responsible for the file disappearing, he might be able to convince her to pull every Dalfan USB and check for the file—or at least the trace of it, assuming that by now it had been transferred to somewhere else. If they could find the USB that had been used to copy it, they’d have their culprit. It was a long shot, but the only one he could think of.

  The elevator door slid open and Jack headed for his office, nodding at the security receptionist at her desk, frantically typing away at her desktop. He waved his flash card and passed through the security door.

  Jack saw that half of the workstations and offices were empty in the main work area. He bumped into several people who were gathering up their belongings and leaving. He supposed it was lunchtime.

  Jack waved his security card over the reader to the last door, but he could already see through the glass walls that Paul wasn’t in his office. He entered it anyway. He looked around. Didn’t see Paul’s coat or his laptop bag. He turned around. Yong wasn’t in his office, either, nor was Yong’s junior spy, Bai.

  Jack headed back through the first floor, now largely empty. He approached the security receptionist, who was pulling on her raincoat. Her computer was already shut down.

  “Did I miss the memo?” Jack asked.

  “You haven’t heard? Typhoon Ema is on the way here. We’ve been told to go home and prepare.”

  “When will it get here?”

  “Tomorrow. The news says it probably won’t reach here, but the weather will get worse for sure.” She grabbed her purse.

  “I’m looking for Mr. Brown, my associate. Have you seen him?”

  She pulled her hair into a ponytail and slipped a scrunchie over it. “He asked me to call him a cab. Said he wasn’t feeling well.”

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  “No, but I assumed he was going home.” She pulled on a floppy rain hat. “Sorry, but I need to go. Anything else?”

  “No, thanks. Be safe.”

  “You, too, Mr. Ryan. Find some high ground, and stay off the roads.” She turned, then stopped herself. “And please tell Mr. Brown I hope he feels better soon.”

  “I will, thanks.”

  She bolted for the front door, her rubber rain shoes scuffing on the granite floor tiles.

  Jack went back to his office and grabbed his stuff, too. No point in going down with the ship—at least, not this one.

  More important, he needed to find Paul.

  In his office, Jack pulled on his coat and gathered his things. He noticed he was almost the last person on the floor. For a moment, he seriously considered rifling through Yong’s office, maybe even Lian’s and Dr. Fairchild’s, too. If he had the run of the place, it would be the perfect time to nose around. But there were still security cameras working and Lian’s security team was probably still on the property, even if they weren’t standing on the floor. And what would he find, anyway? Paul was the key.

  Time to find Paul.

  —

  The traffic heading home was even worse than it was coming in. Jack wondered if he would have been better off walking home. Or maybe swimming.

  The security receptionist was right. The BBC report he was listening to said that Typhoon Ema was now a category 2 storm, heading north from the Java Sea toward Singapore, but at its current rate of speed wouldn’t reach landfall until three a.m.

  “However, a spokesman for the Indonesian Agency for Meteorology, Climatology, and Geophysics stated that computer models have proven wrong so far, and that it’s equally likely the storm will resume its westward track. Dr. Paolo Pratesh of the University of Melbourne claims that global climate change is wreaking havoc with ocean temperatures, causing the erratic behavior of storms like Typhoon Ema, and called for an emergency climate summit to address the crisis of manmade global warming.”

  Jack snapped off the radio. Why did everything have to be political? He pushed his irritation aside and concentrated on the traffic in front of him. The water level in the street had certainly risen in the last few hours, hitting the bottom rim of the tires on most of the cars around him. Nothing to worry about, but he knew that underpasses and other low-lying roadways would be more difficult to navigate—maybe even impossible. But no such hazard awaited him between here and the guesthouse. He was glad he was staying close by and not across t
own, where his hotel had been booked.

  Jack watched a low-flying passenger jet zoom across his windshield, crabbing wickedly against a stiff crosswind, heading for nearby Changi International. He wondered how soon until they closed down the airport and canceled all flights. The BBC newsreader said that wind gusts of up to 125 kilometers per hour could be expected by tomorrow morning—no way a plane could fly in that. Judging by the way the trees were bending in the wind, he was surprised they were flying now.

  —

  By the time Jack finally made it to the guesthouse, the driveway was covered with an inch of water. His boots splashed as he dashed for the front door. He fumbled with his key but finally unlocked it and stepped into the tiled hallway, where he shook off his raincoat and hung it up. He thought about calling out to Paul, but if he was sick he might be asleep and Jack didn’t want to wake him. Paul seemed a little rough around the edges this morning; Jack assumed it was another hangover, but maybe he was wrong and Paul had picked up a bug.

  Jack kicked off his soaking-wet boots before planting his feet on the carpet and heading upstairs, not quite jogging, but at least he wasn’t limping. He was still stiff and sore as hell, though. When he got back downstairs to the kitchen he’d scarf down some more Advil.

  He walked down the hall to Paul’s room. The door was open. The bed was made and the room empty.

  No Paul.

  Jack sped back downstairs to the kitchen, calling out, “Hey, Paul! You around?” as he yanked open the drawer with the Advil. Jack tossed a couple tablets into his mouth and took another swig out of the kitchen faucet to wash them down.

  “Paul?” Still no answer.

  Where the hell was he?

  57

  Jack headed for the living room, searching for Paul. Maybe he was passed out on the couch.

  Jack turned the corner and stopped in his tracks.

  The glass coffee table, lamps, mirrors—all smashed. Pictures were knocked off the walls, sofa pillows scattered everywhere, chairs overturned.

  It must have been one helluva fight.

  “PAUL!”

  Jack dashed through the living room and back into the kitchen, then out the back door and into the pouring rain toward the garage. He kept calling out Paul’s name, but there wasn’t any response.

  Jack ran back into the kitchen, socks soaking wet, water dripping onto the floor from his jacket. He pulled out his cell phone. No texts from Paul, no e-mails, no voice mails, no missed calls.

  Jack punched the speed dial for Paul. The phone rang. It went to voice mail.

  “Paul, where the hell are you? Call me as soon as you get this. You all right, buddy? I’m worried.” Jack hung up.

  What to do? His phone rang.

  “Paul?”

  “Sorry, just me,” Gavin said. “You want me to call back?”

  “No, Gav. Sorry. What’s up?”

  “Those photos you sent? The fingerprints? Man, what have you got yourself into?”

  “What did you find out?”

  “Three of the guys came up zilch. I think I know why. The fourth I found—but it wasn’t easy. In fact, it was a real bitch. I don’t know how many DoD alarms I might have tripped getting it, either.”

  “If it wasn’t easy for you, Gav, it would’ve been impossible for anybody else.”

  “That’s nice of you to say, Jack. It’s totally true, of course. But still nice.”

  Jack bit his tongue. “So, what did you find?”

  “The one hit I got was for a character named Wang Kai, age fifty-one or thereabouts. He’s a colonel in a PLA SOF unit, currently attached to Department Fifteen in the Ministry of State Security. His last known location was in Damascus as a so-called diplomatic liaison to the Assad regime.”

  “How in the hell were you able to hack into the PLA and MSS databases?”

  “I wish I could, but I didn’t. I just used my NSA back door to access the DoD mainframes. Turns out this Wang Kai guy attended a U.S. Army training program in 1998—an officer-exchange deal, back when we were trying to cozy up to the ChiComs. Anyway, the DIA guys were lifting fingerprints and DNA samples from cups, towels, silverware, and anywhere else they could get them from all of those visiting PLA comrades in the exchange programs. Photos, too. Of course, your guy was a lot younger then. He’s a real badass. Or at least he was—until you wasted him.”

  “I didn’t tell you I killed him.”

  “He looked deader than a doornail to me, and I doubt he would have voluntarily given you any of his fingerprints unless they were attached to a large-caliber bullet.” Gavin chuckled. “Unless you’re claiming you just found those four dead guys.”

  “You should’ve been a detective.”

  “It’s not hard to guess that Wang’s three friends were either PLA or MSS as well. They just weren’t in any of our databases.”

  “Good work, Gavin. I appreciate it.”

  “Oh, there’s more.”

  “Shoot.”

  “That license plate you sent me? On the truck?”

  “A rental, stolen, or both.”

  “Why do I even bother.”

  “Because you care so deeply.”

  “Well, you asked for it.”

  “And I appreciate it. I just wanted to confirm what I suspected.”

  “So back to my other question, Jack. What have you gotten yourself into?”

  “I’m handling it.”

  “Four dead Chinese spies can only lead to more live ones, and pretty pissed off. They’re not exactly the forgiving types.”

  “Anything else you can tell me?”

  “Maybe we should read Gerry in on this.”

  “You tell Gerry anything and I’ll blood-eagle your ass.”

  “Nice Vikings reference, Jack.”

  “I try. And by the way, I’m not effing kidding.”

  Silence on Gavin’s end. Finally, “Okay. I’ll keep quiet—for now.”

  “One more favor. Can you ping Paul’s phone?”

  “Why? Did he lose it?”

  “You ask too many questions.”

  “Gimme a second.”

  Jack heard keys tapping on the other end of the line.

  “Found it.”

  “Where?”

  “About fifteen feet behind you, and to your left.”

  Jack headed for the kitchen. Paul’s phone was on the counter. The text display read Hendley Associates. Jack turned it off.

  “Find it, Jack?”

  “Yeah. Now help me find Paul.”

  HENDLEY ASSOCIATES

  ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

  Gavin muted the Bluetooth device planted in his ear as he thumped across his office floor with his booted broken foot, checking the hallway to make sure no one had been listening. He shut his door.

  He wasn’t sure what he should tell Jack about Paul. Neither Paul nor Jack knew that he’d been working for both of them. In fact, Paul had demanded he not tell Jack about their working together in order to protect Jack. Isn’t that why Paul had him send that capture software?

  But now it was Paul who was in trouble. And maybe he was to blame.

  “Gavin? You there?” Jack spoke in his earpiece.

  Gavin unmuted. “Yeah, Jack. I’m here.”

  “Did you hear what I said? I need you to help me find Paul.”

  “Yeah, I heard you.”

  Jack was silent for a moment. “What aren’t you telling me, Gavin?”

  Gavin fell into his chair. “Paul and I were working on a project together.”

  “You mean apart from his work in Singapore?”

  “Mmm, not exactly.”

  “What exactly?”

  “Paul asked me to write him a piece of capture software.”

  “Capture software? To capture what?”

>   “He never said. But it was something on a USB. An encryption code.”

  “Why?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “And you just wrote it for him? Hell, Gavin, if I’d known you had that much spare time, I could’ve found something interesting for you to do.”

  “Technically, I didn’t write it. I mean, I jazzed it up a little, but the main code I got from somewhere else.”

  “So tell me why you got this for him again?”

  “Paul told me he was worried that the woman you’re having sex with is a Chinese spy.”

  SINGAPORE

  Jack stared at the phone, his face flushed with heat. “What the hell are you talking about? I’m not sleeping with anybody.”

  “Paul said you were sleeping with Lian Fairchild.”

  “That’s complete bullshit.”

  “I’ve seen her picture, Jack. She’s a looker.”

  “Shut your piehole, Gavin. I’m out here to do a job, not a girl. I’m telling you, there’s nothing going on between us.”

  “Paul thought there was, and that maybe she was working for the ChiComs.”

  “Why didn’t Paul tell me he thought she was working for the Chinese?”

  “He thought you were sweet on her, and he wasn’t sure she was a Red. He was looking for proof. At least, that’s what he told me.”

  “And that’s what the capture software was all about?”

  “That’s what he told me.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “Why shouldn’t I? Besides, he was just trying to protect you. So was I.”

  Jack’s temperature dropped, his anger morphing into regret. “Yeah, I guess so. And you’re right, she’s a looker. But no, I wasn’t banging her, and I’m pretty sure she isn’t a Chinese spy.”

  “But you had a run-in with at least four of them now. So Paul’s instincts were right.”

  Jack glanced around at the destroyed living room. “Paul’s instincts have gotten him into big trouble. Without his phone, there isn’t any way to track him, is there?”

  “No. Well, one.”

  “Tell me.”