by Mark Dawson
She put the glass down again. “The two of you are going to need to sort this out like big boys. Danny is in trouble and he needs your help. He’s not asking. He doesn’t even know I’m here. He’s as stubborn as you are.”
He folded his arms. “I am listening.”
“Wang has been trying to find Danny. I thought it was because of what you asked me to do—that Wang is going after him because of that—but I don’t think I was right.”
“So?”
“How much has he told you about Vietnam?”
“A little,” Yeung said.
“About why he deserted?”
“He said he had had enough. I can understand that—many soldiers like him came here to get away from the war.”
“Danny had evidence that his commanding officer fabricated a story that he used to boost his career. His name is Lincoln, and now he’s a senior CIA official. Danny made the mistake of letting Lincoln know that he was still alive, and that he was looking to come home. Lincoln has already murdered at least two men to prevent the truth coming out.”
Yeung listened intently. “And what does this have to do with Wang?”
“He had men on the docks looking for Danny. Two of them boarded his boat yesterday. And then three of Wang’s men found us at Chungking Mansions. I think Wang has been recruited by Lincoln to provide local help in finding Danny. I suspect this arrangement has been in place for at least the last month, and that Lincoln or his representative in Hong Kong became aware that I had requested the CIA’s assistance in locating Wang. They warned him. They were protecting their asset.”
“How extraordinary,” Yeung said.
“I couldn’t agree more. The whole thing has the potential to be a very big mess. All Danny wants is to go home.”
Yeung shook his head. “His home is here.”
“He doesn’t agree. He’s old. He wants to see his daughter before he dies.”
Yeung shook his head again.
Beatrix had considered whether she should mention Danny’s fears about his health, and whether it would have been more appropriate to leave it to him to say. She didn’t want to interfere or to abuse his trust, but, by the same token, Danny needed Yeung’s help. She told him what Danny had said to her.
Yeung’s face changed from a frown to concern.
“I did not know,” he said. “He has said nothing of this to me.”
“And perhaps I shouldn’t have, either. It’s private. But he needs you.”
Yeung exhaled. “I have wondered about him for the last few months. He has grown forgetful. He repeats himself. He never used to be that way—his mind was sharp. Not so much anymore.”
“That’s why he wants to go. He’s worried that if he doesn’t go now, he won’t be able to go at all. And he wants to meet his daughter before he dies. Put yourself in his shoes. You’d do the same.”
Yeung poured himself another sake. “Perhaps.”
“You’ve been friends for years. He’s helped you go from nothing to this”—she gestured at the club—“and everything else that you’ve achieved. And now he needs you to help him.”
It was the best card that she had to play. She had appealed to his sympathy; now she would appeal to his pride. Danny might not apologise for their estrangement, but he still needed Yeung. He needed his power, his wealth, his influence. Beatrix knew the way Yeung thought. He fostered the role of an inscrutable, almost mystical leader, but, at base level, he was the same as most men: he wanted his status to be acknowledged. He wanted to be in a position to dispense assistance to those who were prepared to prostrate themselves for it.
Danny might not be ready to play the role of supplicant, but Beatrix would do it on his behalf.
Yeung gave a nod. “He has been a good friend to me for many years. Our argument has been unfortunate, and I am not so vain that I cannot see my own part in it. I would like to restore things to how they were before, if I can. How can I help?”
“He’s going to need to fly out of the country, but he can’t use a commercial flight or go through Chek Lap Kok. He needs to be discreet.”
“Of course. Something private. That can be arranged. I will just need a little notice.”
Beatrix slid across the seat and stood. “Thank you.”
Yeung stood, too. “I want to see him,” he said, “before he goes.”
“I think he’ll want to see you, too.”
Yeung extended his hand and Beatrix took it.
“I’ll deal with Wang,” she said. “I’ll let you know when it’s done.”
He nodded.
“There’s one other thing.”
He smiled a thin smile. “Please.”
“Danny doesn’t listen to me. I’m worried that he’ll do something stupid, and I can’t be there to babysit him all the time. I have things to do.”
Yeung nodded sagaciously. “He can be his own worst enemy. His impetuousness has always been a problem. But, yes, we can keep him safe. Please—just tell me where he is.”
36
Beatrix changed back into Caprice’s disguise in a McDonald’s outside the club and then walked from Wan Chai to the terminal at Man Kwong Street. She bought a ticket and climbed aboard the seven o’clock ferry. It was busy, mostly with tourists; she stepped around a couple who were clutching their kids to them as someone else took a shot of them with a phone, and made her way to the prow, where it was a little quieter. The captain sounded the horn as he started the engines, the water frothing around the stern as the boat started out on the crossing.
Beatrix looked for Hathaway but couldn’t see her. There was another couple at the rail, the man holding out a phone with an outstretched arm as he took a selfie of them both with the island’s skyline in the background. An older man stood next to them with his arms crossed. Beatrix moved to a quieter space and turned back so that she could look down the boat in the event that Hathaway had been late to board.
There was no sign of her.
The older man straightened up and walked over to her. “You must be Caprice.”
Beatrix frowned. “Do I know you?”
“I work with Hathaway.”
“That’s nice, but I only deal with her.”
“She sends her apologies.”
Beatrix looked at him more carefully. He was tall, a good six inches taller than she was, and heavyset. He had a scruffy thatch of blond hair and was unshaven, his cheeks and chin covered in unkempt yellow and white whiskers. He wore thick-rimmed black glasses and an ill-fitting suit. She guessed that he was in his late forties or early fifties.
“Who are you?” she said.
“My name is William Logan.”
“And you are?”
“I work for the Agency.”
“Of course you do. In which capacity?”
“The Office of the Inspector General.”
“Internal Affairs?”
“That’s not a million miles from it,” he said.
“And it has nothing to do with me.”
“You had some business with Hathaway.”
“And what business would that be of yours? Is she under investigation?”
“No,” he said. “But the nature of the business has some interest to me. In particular, for the work I’m here to do. I’d like to talk to you about it.”
“I told you—I deal with her. I have no idea who you are.”
His tone hardened a little. “I’m afraid things have changed. Mr. Nakamura is of interest to the Agency—you can speak to me, or not at all. I think you’ll find our interests align.”
She crossed her arms. “You have as long as it takes for us to get to the other side.”
Logan nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “First of all, I’m sorry about the trouble you’ve been having.”
“What trouble might that be?”
“With Mr. Wang.”
Beatrix tried to keep an impassive expression.
“I’m going to be completely frank with you—”
“Really?” she
cut in. “Frankness isn’t a quality that I associate with the Agency.”
“Nor MI6,” Logan added with a smile.
“We’re halfway across,” she said, gesturing to the approaching island. “I’m not going to be surprised or impressed about something I’ve already concluded for myself, so let me save you a little time: Wang is working for someone at the Agency who wants to find Nakamura.”
Logan lit up a cigarette. “Indeed. All true. I don’t know the precise terms of the offer that was made to him, but Wang is working as a local CI for someone senior at Langley.”
“Dwight Lincoln.”
He regarded her shrewdly. “You’ve read Nakamura’s files?”
“They’re very interesting. He filled in the rest for me.”
“So you know that he went to the consulate and told them that he wanted a new passport? He gave them his name. Lincoln has had an alert on it for years. The alert was triggered, and Lincoln found out. Mr. Nakamura was on camera, of course, and his image was sent back to Langley together with fingerprints that were taken from the magazine that he was reading in the waiting area and those from the counter when he spoke to the clerk.”
“I’d already come to that conclusion.”
“Do you know why Lincoln is looking for him?”
“Lincoln thinks that Nakamura has information that could end his career.”
Logan’s face remained impassive. “Does he? I don’t suppose you happen to know what that information might be?”
Beatrix wondered whether she should share the information for fear of repercussions for Danny, but, in the end, she decided that they had nothing to lose. The truth needed to be told, and perhaps, if she could point the finger of suspicion at Lincoln—and rightly so—it would help Danny.
“There was an incident in sixty-eight,” she said, “while Nakamura was serving in Vietnam. Nakamura’s version of the incident is rather different from the version Lincoln gave. Nakamura deserted because of it.”
“Dak Son?”
Beatrix let go of the breath that she had been holding. It had been a gamble, but if Logan knew the name, the Agency must already have had some suspicions regarding Lincoln’s conduct. She nodded.
“I know Lincoln’s story,” Logan said. “It made his career.”
“He built it on a lie.”
“I heard the rumours,” Logan said. “It’s stolen valour if they’re true, and that’ll be the end of him. No wonder he’s anxious about what Nakamura might say. So anxious, in fact, that he dispatched a man to Hong Kong to find him.” Logan took out his phone and opened his images. “Here.”
Beatrix looked down at the screen and saw an old man. He had a full head of hair, heavily wrinkled skin and a flattened nose.
“Navarro?”
Logan nodded. “That’s right. Have you seen him before?”
Beatrix recognised him immediately, and the pieces began to fit together. “Yes. At a restaurant. With Wang.”
Logan took the phone back. “Lincoln is director of the Special Activities Division. You know it?”
“I do,” she said. “CIA Spec Ops.”
“The tip of the spear,” Logan said. “At least that’s how they’d describe themselves. Not a million miles away from DEVGRU. Serious players.”
“And Navarro?”
“Lincoln and Navarro have been as thick as thieves ever since Vietnam, but they’re very different men. Lincoln has always been focused on his career. He was a terrible field agent, and, to his credit, he realised that early on. Navarro was different. He’s a skilled paramilitary officer and not in the least bit political. He saw that Lincoln was going places and hitched himself to his wagon. They’ve been working together ever since. Lincoln climbs the ladder and brings Navarro with him; if Lincoln has a problem, Navarro is dispatched to deal with it.”
“And what does Navarro get for doing that?”
“It’s not money,” Logan said. “Not status. He’s not into either. Navarro is a psychopath. Always has been. He likes killing people. His job gives him the opportunity and he’s become very good at it. He has a small group of specialised skills officers under his command. Paramilitaries. They’ve been all over the world. They were the first CIA team to go into Afghanistan after 9/11. They’re all very dangerous and completely loyal to him.”
Beatrix took the packet of cigarettes and lit one for herself. “Why do you care?”
“We’re investigating the SAD. Lincoln and Navarro specifically. People like them are becoming a problem for those of us who would prefer that American foreign policy came with more accountability. Things are changing at Langley; there’s a new attitude. The Agency can’t afford for people like them to hold positions of power. Their time has come and gone.”
“Very noble,” she said.
He looked down at her. “What about you? What does MI6 want with an elderly American deserter?”
“Can’t tell you that.”
He kept his eyes on her. “I only ask because we have a good relationship with Hong Kong Station, and no one has mentioned running an asset like Nakamura here. Are you freelancing?”
Beatrix felt her stomach turn. That was a shot across the bows. Beatrix had worked for MI6 when she’d met Hathaway for the first time. There was no reason for her to have doubted that things might have changed in the years between their meetings, and Beatrix had not detected anything in their recent meeting to make her think otherwise. But Logan was different; he didn’t know her, and she felt certain that he had seen through her lies. She had little doubt that he would be able to confirm that there was no active British agent with her description working out of MI6’s Hong Kong Station and, if he realised that, he would be able to cause her no end of trouble.
“You don’t need to concern yourself with what MI6 is or is not doing,” she said stiffly. “If you have something to offer, now’s the time.”
“I agree. And I would like to help. I think it’s time that what happened in Vietnam receives the exposure it deserves.”
The ferry was closing in on the dock.
“You saw the Article 15 charges that were laid against him?” Logan said.
“I did.”
“The second notice.”
“They said he stole property on the way out,” Beatrix said.
“Specifically, audio recordings.”
“They contain the interviews he conducted with the Dak Son witnesses.”
Logan smiled, his eyes alight with interest. “Nakamura mentioned them to you?”
“He says he took them as insurance,” she said. “He’s not sure if he still has them.”
“It would be good if he does. They’re all we need. Lincoln only needs to know we have them—he’s a vain man, and the idea of his reputation being blackened will be too much for him to stand. We don’t want to take this to trial—it would make the scandal over rendition look like a walk in the park. Lincoln doesn’t want to go to jail, either. He’ll retire. I wouldn’t anticipate any need for Nakamura to do anything else beyond giving those tapes to me.”
“And what does he get for that?”
“What does he want?”
“A new life. A new identity. Passport, papers—the works.”
Logan nodded. “None of that would be a problem.”
“So let me ask him.”
The boat bumped up against the dock, and the crew shouted out instructions as they tossed down the mooring lines.
“Be persuasive,” Logan advised. “He won’t get a better offer. And he won’t get an offer at all if Navarro finds him first.”
“How do I contact you?”
Logan took a business card and a pen out of his pocket, turned the card over to the blank side and wrote down a telephone number. “This will get through to me,” he said, handing it to her.
She examined the card. The name was Henry Mackay, and he was listed as a senior VP of Reilly Oyster Sauce.
“I know,” Logan said. “Best legend I could get on short notice.
We had to move fast. The one benefit is that I’m now something of an authority on oyster sauce, which will not please my wife.”
A siren sounded, warning the passengers that it was time to disembark.
“I’ll be in touch,” Beatrix said, flicking the cigarette into the water and making her way to the gangplank.
37
Navarro called Lincoln to update him, went for a long walk to clear his mind, and then returned to the safe house in the mid-afternoon. Mazzetti had set up two laptops on the kitchen table and was busy working on both of them, typing on one and then swivelling around to tap out a command on the other. He was wearing a pair of headphones and Navarro could hear the sound of music coming from them. He ran himself a glass of water and called Millman at the harbour for an update. He reported that the Constance was still at anchor out in the channel, and that there had been no sign that anyone was interested in boarding her.
Navarro told them to maintain their position until they were relieved by Morley and Farrow, who were on their way and would take over for the late shift. Navarro knew that they might have to be patient. Wang had obviously given PROSPERO a fright and had scared him away. But, as far as Navarro had been able to ascertain, the old man had lived aboard the boat for years, and he wouldn’t have had time to collect all his things when he had fled. He would surely go back, and they would be waiting for him when he did.
“I’m in!”
Navarro turned. Mazzetti had taken off his headphones and was leaning back in his chair, his fingers laced behind his head.
“What? Where?”
“The school,” he said. “I made it look like a security notification from Google. One of the secretaries changed her password. I got access to her account and now I’m into MIRANDA’s.”
Navarro walked across the room so that he could look over Mazzetti’s shoulder. He had several windows open on the screen, and most of the contents made no sense to him; one, however, showed the logo of the school in Miami where PROSPERO’s daughter worked.
“What’s next?” Navarro asked.
“I go after him,” he said. He opened an email client and showed Navarro the message that he had prepared. “I’ve researched them both—he doesn’t have social media, but she does, and I know enough to put together an email from her to him with authentic details that won’t lower his defences so much as it’ll make him think that there was no need to be suspicious at all.”
