Wall of Night

by Grant Blackwood

  “Why the Trojan?” asked Hersh.

  “I’d rather have a tommy-gun, but so far I’m not having much luck. Till then, I’d settle for the USC. I got a buddy who can attach a box magazine on it.”

  “No shit. How many rounds?”

  “Hundred.”

  “Whatchya gonna use it for?”

  “Quail hunting.”

  Hersh was in the middle of taking a sip; he choked, then started laughing. “A .45 round ain’t gonna leave much bird to eat. No, really, what for?”

  “I like to run combat courses.”

  Hersh finished his soda, tossed it into a nearby garbage pail. “I’ve got a Trojan, but it ain’t registered. That a problem?”

  “Not for me. What about the serial number?”

  “Somebody spilled some acid on it. Can’t read it for shit. Three grand.”

  They haggled for a few minutes and Cahil got him down to $2800 with ten boxes of ammunition and a Browning 9mm pistol thrown in. As they walked to Cahil’s car, Hersh said, “There’s a good course south of here.”

  “Bud’s?” Hersh nodded. “I’m headed there tonight.” Cahil stuck out his hand. “Thanks.”

  Hersh shook it. “Pleasure. Just so we understand each other, I don’t sell many of those. If it comes back on me, I’m gonna be unhappy.”

  “I hear ya,” Bear said.

  Cahil waited until the sun went down, then followed Highway 240/74 out of the city to Minehole Gap, where he turned north, following the signs for Bud’s. After another seven miles the road took him into a clearing where he found a ten-foot-high fence made of rusted corrugated steel. Above the razor wire, he could see the glare of stadium lights. He heard the staccato popping of semiautomatic gunfire.

  Parked along the fence was an assortment of pickup trucks and muscle cars, most sporting a mix of Confederate flags, pro-NRA bumper stickers, and naked lady mud flaps.

  Rebel heaven, Cahil thought.

  The men inside would likely be stereotypical “good ’ol Southern boys”: patriotic, bigoted, and full of “aw-shucks” charm masking mean streaks ten-miles wide. Cahil suddenly realized how far from civilization he was. If he got into trouble out here, he would be on his own.

  He got out, locked the H&K in the trunk, and walked through the gate. He found himself standing beneath a lean-to porch attached to an open-ended WWI-style barracks; inside were several dozen men sitting at tables, drinking and laughing. To his right, spread out over a quarter mile, lay the grass shooting lanes. Three or four men, each armed with some version of a banned assault weapon, were shooting at man silhouette targets.

  “Evening,” a man called from the counter.

  “Evening,” Cahil said and walked over.

  The man was in his early sixties, wearing a yellow “Prowl Herbicide” baseball cap. Tacked to the collar of his flannel shirt was an American flag pin with a gold “II” superimposed on it.

  That told Cahil much. The pin was the symbol of the militia group known as America Secundus, or Second America. Believing the government was tainted by corruption, cultural decay, and racial impurity, America Secundus was dedicated to the foundation of a new United States built on the ashes—metaphorical or literal, no one knew—of the old.

  Was Skeldon a member? Cahil wondered. And if so, did his affiliation have anything to do with his business with Baker and the Guoanbu? “Are you Bud?” he asked.

  “I am. You’re John Malvin.”

  Uh-oh. “That’s a helluva guess.”

  “Hersh called, said you might be stopping by.”

  “Nice of him. Listen, if I’m not welcome, I understand.”

  “Nobody said that. We’re kinda family out here, that’s all. Hersh said you seemed okay, asked me to make you welcome.”

  Cahil was guessing Bud’s was not only the headquarters for Secundus’s North Carolina chapter, but also the Southern version of a mafia social club. “Then I guess you know about our transaction.”

  “Yep. Nice rig.”

  “Mind if I give it a whirl?”

  “Go ahead,” Bud replied, then grinned. “Just don’t shoot no quail.”

  Looking better. “Deal.”

  Cahil gathered the Trojan and chose a shooting lane. He shot a few dozen rounds, getting a feel for the gun, then set to work sighting it in, starting first at twenty-five yards, then moving back to the fifty and one hundred marks.

  He heard voices behind him. He turned. Twenty or so of Bud’s patrons were standing on the porch watching him. As he’d hoped, the Trojan had attracted some attention.

  “Not bad for standing still,” one of the men called.

  “You volunteering to stand-in?” Cahil replied.

  There was general laughter.

  “What I mean is, try it on the run.” The man was nearly six and a half feet, with a long beard and heavily tattooed forearms. Cahil mentally named him “Beard.”

  “If I’m gonna tire myself out like that, I’d like it to be worth my time,” he said.

  Beard sauntered over. The rest of the pack followed at a distance, forming a semicircle around the lane. All of them were wearing either belt or shoulder holsters.

  “Hundred bucks says you can’t put two in the head of each target at a full sprint,” said Beard.

  Obviously, Hersh’s courtesy call hadn’t quite given him a full pass. Beard was either the de facto leader here, or the enforcer. To back down now could be disastrous.

  “I’ve got a better idea,” Cahil replied. “Turn off the lights, and for two hundred I’ll put three in each head.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Cahil shrugged. “If you don’t have the cash …”

  His eyes locked on Cahil’s, Beard called, “Bud, turn ’em off.”

  A few moments later Cahil heard a double thunk, and the range went dark except for what little light filtered out from the barracks windows.

  “Wanna flashlight?” somebody called. There was laughter.

  Cahil turned to face the lane. Working by feel, he changed the Trojan’s magazine, then stood still, letting his eyes adjust. After a few seconds, the outline of the twenty-five-yard silhouette came into focus. He brought the Trojan to his shoulder in the ready-low position.

  Nice and easy … get the sight picture, then squeeze.

  He started running.

  Thirty seconds later he was done. As he returned to the head of the lane, Bud flipped the lights back on. There was a few seconds of silence, then a lone, “I’ll be damned,” followed by murmuring.

  Each of the target’s foreheads was punctured by a near-perfect triad of shots.

  “Not bad,” said Beard.

  Time to back him down a little bit, Cahil thought. He took a step forward, pushing the man’s space. “Better than ‘not bad,’ I’d say.”

  Beard’s eyes narrowed, then he grinned. “Come inside. I’ll get your money, buy you a beer.”

  They drank beer and talked for an hour before Beard asked, “What brings you down here?”

  “Looking for an old army buddy. I heard he’d been spending some time here.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Mike Skeldon.”

  As Cahil had expected, Beard quizzed him for several minutes about the army. Finally Cahil said, “You know Mike?”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “Hey, forget it. If he don’t wanna be found, no problem. I know how it goes.”

  Beard took a gulp of beer. “Why wouldn’t he wanna be found?”

  “Forget it.”

  “No. Why wouldn’t he wanna be found?”

  Cahil shrugged. “Couple months before the army booted him, we were bullshitting—talking about work on the outside. Mike figured his experience oughta be worth something to somebody.”

  “Damn right it should. Why’d they discharge him?”

  Cahil put his mug on the counter, slid it away, and stood to leave. “I’m done getting quizzed.
If you don’t know why Mike got out, it ain’t my business to be telling you.”

  Beard put a hand on his shoulder. “Okay, relax. Nobody’s seen Mike for a few weeks. There’s a woman, though—she might know. She’s a stripper at Rhino’s downtown.”

  “Is she working tonight?”

  “Every night. She’s got a habit to feed. Name’s Candy something … Candy Kane, that’s it.”

  Cahil nodded. “Thanks, maybe I’ll look her up.”

  23

  ​Jakarta, Island of Java, Indonesia

  The plane’s approach to Soekarno-Hatta International Airport gave Tanner a breathtaking view of the Pulau Seribu, or the Thousand Islands, an archipelago that stretches from Jakarta into the Java Sea. From this altitude the islands were mere emerald dots against the blue ocean.

  Protected by Indonesia’s Ministry of Conservation, the 250 islands of the Pulau Seribu are mostly uninhabited except for a handful of resorts, ecological preserves, and tourist attractions such as old pirate fortresses and diving caves. Those islands that are privately owned serve as luxury retreats for Indonesia’s rich and famous.

  The plane banked again, revealing Jakarta proper and the Kota, or the Old Batavia quarter. All cobblestone, canals, and Dutch architecture, the Kota was a throwback to Java’s imperialist period when the English, Portuguese, and Dutch all fought for control of the Orient’s trade routes.

  To most, the name Jakarta conjures up images of colonial empires, Oriental warlords, and pirates, not an urban sprawl with nearly twelve million inhabitants rivaling that of New York City’s.

  Tanner had three days. Whatever plan he settled on, he wanted to be ready as soon as the delegation arrived. That’s when Soong’s security detail would be at its most vulnerable: Unfamiliar territory, arrangements to be finalized or adjusted, local authorities to deal with … Surprise was going to be his greatest, and perhaps only, advantage.

  The twenty-mile taxi ride into the city took nearly an hour as the driver negotiated traffic on the congested expressway. Every few minutes he would turn and offer a sheepish smile. “So sorry. Traffic bad this time of day.”

  “Is there a time when it’s not bad?”

  “Truly, no. Many people on Java. Almost one hundred twenty million.” His “million” came out “mellon.” “Which hotel, sir?”

  “I haven’t decided yet,” Tanner lied. In fact, Oaken had rented him a bungalow in the foothills below Bongor outside Jakarta. “You can just drop me in the Kota.”

  “You will have trouble finding lodgings. Big conference soon.”

  “I have friends I can stay with in Kebayoran if I need to.” Kebayoran, also known as Bloc M, was home to Jakarta’s mostly British expatriate community. It was another lie, of course, borne of old habit. However unlikely the possibility, he didn’t want to leave a trail for anyone to follow.

  The driver stopped outside the Fatahillah Cafe. Tanner climbed out, waited for the taxi to disappear down the street, then walked four blocks to a Hertz office where he rented an old VW bus for a week and asked the agent to leave it parked at the Tanah Abang Railway Station.

  Next he caught a taxi to the harbor and made another rental, this one an old Honda Express moped. He stuffed his duffle into the rear basket then took off down Martadinata, following the coastline east out of the city. He drove for fifteen minutes until Jakarta proper was behind him. To his left lay the Java Sea; to his right, the island’s mist-shrouded jungles.

  After another ten minutes he turned off the highway onto a narrow gravel road. A few more turns took him to a bungalow with a red, tiled roof and hibiscus bushes shading the porch. As advertised, he found a key under the mat.

  The interior was all white stucco and wicker. He dropped his duffle onto the couch and wandered into the kitchen. On the table was a note: “Mate: Bungalow’s yours as long as you need it. Fridge is stocked. Enjoy.”

  Tanner smiled: Just another friendly contact in the Walter Oaken Secret Friends Network. Judging from the salutation, the owner was probably a Brit or Aussie expat.

  He opened the fridge, found a beer, then headed for the shower.

  Free of the sweat and grime of the flight, he climbed aboard the Honda and headed back into Jakarta, where he pulled off Martadinata and drove until he found the Batavia Café. He locked the Honda to a bicycle rack and started walking.

  His destination was the Sunda Kalepa, the city’s old docks. A full-service harbor serving Java’s outer islands, the Sunda Kalepa is also home to the Jakarta’s fleet of Makassar schooners—or pinisi—with their brightly painted hulls and rainbow sails.

  Briggs paid his entrance fee at the Bahari Museum and walked onto the docks.

  The air was thick with the smell of tar. Old men in row-boats glided along the pier, waiting to be hailed by tourists, and children darted about, pointing at the pinisi and waving to the crewmen, many of whom displayed ancient Javanese tribal tattoos on their faces.

  The Kalepa’s piers were a maze of slips and turnarounds, so it took him several minutes to find the right path, then followed it away from the tourist area. At the end, he found a man coiling rope in the stern of a red-and-yellow skiff.

  “What’s the farthest you’ve been out?” Tanner asked.

  The man squinted at him. “Eh?”

  Tanner repeated the question.

  The man frowned for a moment. “Oh … yes. Let’s see … I have tennis elbow; not very far.”

  Good answer. “You’re Arroya?”

  “I am. Do I dare ask your name?”

  “Briggs.” If Mason’s people were wrong about this man, he had a lot more to worry about than using his real name.

  Arroya stood up and hopped onto the dock, a surprising feat, Tanner thought, given his physique. Barely five feet tall and pushing two hundred pounds, Arroya looked like a Javanese version of the Buddha, right down to the wispy moustache and cherubic smile.

  Arroya extended his hand. “Welcome to Java. Care for a tour of the Kalepa?”

  He rowed them into the harbor, then tossed a cinderblock anchor over the side. He handed Tanner a fishing pole, tied a sinker to the line, and plopped it into the water. “For cover,” he explained.

  “Do we need cover?”

  “Better safe than sorry.”

  “Fair enough. How long have you been—”

  “Working with your government?”

  “Yes.”

  “Seven years. For the last decade the Chinese have grown stronger and stronger here. Many people—people who still consider themselves Javanese and not Indonesian—do not like it. Since my government seems only too happy to sell our country to the PRC, I long ago decided I must do what I can, so I made myself known in the British expat community here.”

  “You work for them as well?”

  “So long as I’m not asked to do anything against my people, I am happy to help where I can.”

  “Which brings us to why I’m here.”

  Arroya smiled. “Indeed it does.”

  “I’ll do my best to use you as little as possible, but I may need a few favors.”

  “Do not worry about that. I am very good at what I do. No one looks twice at me. Besides,” Arroya said, patting his ample belly. “I’ve cultivated a rather harmless image.”

  Tanner laughed. “That you have.”

  “So, how can I help?”

  Tanner had to make a decision: Tell Arroya everything, the partial truth, or a lie—or a mixture of all three? If he followed strict tradecraft it would be the latter, which would make it harder for anyone—Arroya included—to discern Tanner’s purpose here. On the other hand, Arroya’s knowledge of the islands would be invaluable. Tanner went with his gut.

  “It’s pretty simple,” he said. “I’m here to help one of the Chinese delegation defect.”

  Arroya chortled. “Oh, yes, very simple.”

  “Perhaps ‘straightforward’ is a better word.”

  �
�Semantics won’t help you here, my friend. What you’re planning will be very difficult.”

  “ ‘Very difficult’ doesn’t worry me.”

  Arroya smiled. “Something tells me ‘impossible’ would worry you only a little more.”

  “What can you tell me about the delegation?”

  “Security is very heavy. Rumor is that there is already an advance team here. The delegation will be staying at the Hotel Melia. I have a friend who is a busboy there. He’s seen no less than two dozen Chinese security men in the hotel.”

  “Is everyone from the delegation staying there?” Briggs asked.

  “Officially, yes, but there is another rumor. Earlier this week, the advance team rented a fishing boat; they’ve been out to Pulau Sekong several times.”

  “That’s one of the Thousand Islands?”

  “Yes. Privately owned. You have seen James Bond—The Man with the Golden Gun? You remember the villain’s private island—the crescent beach, the jungle, the rock spires?”

  “Yes.”

  “Rumor is, Pulau Sekong is where they filmed that.”

  “No kidding.”

  “No kidding. It is owned by Somon Trulau. Very rich importer, friendly with Beijing. I suspect he’s offered them use of the island. The man you have come for … is he someone worth guarding?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then Pulau Sekong would be a good place for him.”

  It made sense, Tanner decided. Letting Soong out of the country was a risk; separating him from the delegation and assigning him a private detail was one way to lessen that risk. Whether Soong was truly their prisoner or not, the less he was exposed, the better.

  “First things first,” Tanner said. “We need to confirm the man I’ve come for will be staying on Pulau Sekong, and how they plan to get back and forth.”

  “I can do that,” said Arroya. “What else?”

  “Find a boat. I want to see this island.”

  Arroya nodded. “I know just the man.”

  24