Except for the Rolls Royce angle, this was exactly the end he might have expected Rorke and her team to arrange for the brothers. If done well, it was much cleaner than having the authorities wondering about a missing body. As Franco thought about the story, he began to think long and hard about Rorke, and later about Pauling, and finally about Sloan. He hoped Sloan had returned to sobriety and that he was trusting Pauling to deal with the rice problem. Franco scanned his e-mails and seeing nothing except spam, departed the computer room. While there had been no doubt in his mind earlier, the current story further illustrated the enormously high stakes of the game they played. He hoped Sloan understood this, too.
On Tuesday, Franco returned to the computer room as was now his pre-dawn habit. The tabloid had a juicy story for their readers. The Rolls Royce, demolished in the early Monday morning fall, had full photo images and a background piece on the high official who owned it. In addition to the automobile, the official was leasing an apartment in the building where the suicide occurred. Four women from Thailand occupied the apartment and were apparently supported by the official for his use when he came to Hong Kong. Neither the official nor the Myanmar government was available for comment. Of note, there was no additional mention of the businessman or his brother.
On Wednesday morning, Franco saw that the Rolls Royce story was still alive with more investigation into the Thai women and the official. There was no further mention of the jumper, so the story no longer interested him. However, there was another story about a peasant farmer who died after apparently stumbling upon a cobra on his subsistence farm in southern Lantau. The story extensively discussed the dangers of venomous snakes in South China and printed a ten-year retrospective of all the serious snakebites that had occurred on the island. The rest of the article detailed how to avoid snakes and how to behave if a snake was encountered.
Franco again thought about Sloan. He realized that the circle of information on the rice story was tight and that the only loose threads outside of Pauling’s control were Sloan, Buddy, and himself. He prayed that Sloan was behaving, and began taking a new and special interest in any passengers on board who seemed to be paying too much attention to him.
Thursday’s news was of no special interest to him and his e-mail was also boring, with nothing worth reading. However, Friday morning brought a communication that Franco had been dreading, although half-expecting. He had somehow known that he would see it, but wanted to wish it away nonetheless. The letter was from a former Navy friend, a SEAL who Franco had worked with when he first met Sloan in Chicago. The Navy friend was retired and living in Oahu and he sent Franco an item from the Honolulu news. He knew Franco would care about what happened to Sloan because of working with him in the past. The SEAL had no idea about their most recent association.
The online link to the Honolulu papers only mentioned that Paul Sloan, a former decorated Marine pilot, died in an apparent malfunction of his single engine aircraft while crossing the Kaiwi channel. The Coast Guard search of the waters found only small scattered fragments of the plane. By the time the Coast Guard arrived on station, the debris field had spread widely, and there was no likelihood of finding any survivor or any useful insight into the accident. The National Transportation Safety Board’s final ruling on the accident would not be available for months, although it was speculated that fuel starvation, pilot error, or equipment malfunction would be the most likely reason for the accident. Franco assumed that the Honolulu control radar record of the flight and its rapid final descent would probably go missing.
In the e-mail, his friend wrote that the Coast Guard hadn’t spent much time on station searching the probable crash site because of the rough water and the low likelihood that anything could be found. The channel was up to 2000 feet deep and the expense of a deep recovery dive was not warranted. His friend wrote that part of what wasn’t published in the newspaper was that an empty vodka bottle was found at Sloan’s tie down spot at the Molokai airstrip. A few people at the airport also saw him drinking prior to the flight that morning.
Franco re-read the email and the newspaper link several times. It did not bring him any closer to knowing what to think or how to feel. He was angry and disappointed in Sloan, and angry with Pauling, Rorke, Chen and whoever else was involved in Sloan’s death. In truth, Franco was just a little bit afraid for himself. He wasn’t drinking and wasn’t threatening to go public with this terrible news, yet he knew he was a loose thread in an otherwise seamless fabric of concealment.
Franco stayed in his cabin for most of the day. He would be disembarking in the morning, and he used the coming arrival for an excuse to do nothing except pack and think about the events of the last few weeks. The more he thought about them, the more frustrated he was that he could not make sense of them or of much else in his life.
When the ship arrived in Singapore, his luggage did not need to be checked, since he carried it out on his back. The cruise line arranged the airport transfer and he had no delays at the airport. That was fortunate, because he had no energy to do anything. He spent the day in the Singapore airport waiting for the overnight flight to Christchurch. The plan for the rest of his life flashed in front of him and, with some regret, he realized there was nothing on it.
CHAPTER 34
It was about 10:30 local when Franco’s plane rolled out of its landing in Christchurch and began its taxi to the terminal. The gate was ready, and it looked like there would be no delays for his connections to Invercargill and then on to Stewart Island. Franco felt his pocket for his passport and readied himself to collect his bag and go, when the captain announced that when they came to the gate, all passengers would have to remain seated for a few minutes. Franco began to feel uneasy after the announcement. Those feelings heightened after the plane came to a complete stop and the air-bridge mated the cabin. He saw the co-pilot walking down the aisle to his row.
The co-pilot looked down to him and said, “Mr. Franco, would you please come with me, sir?”
Franco weighed his options and realized there was nothing to do other than to follow him. He collected his bag from the overhead and walked after the co-pilot. When Franco came to the cabin exit door, he was greeted by two large senior enlisted military from the New Zealand Army.
One said, “Please come with us, Commander.”
Franco was not sure whether to follow them, to call the police, or to try to run. There was no choice to make. He quietly followed them. The three made their way through the security door circumventing the customs route. A battery cart was parked there for them. One of the men drove, another stayed in back, and Franco sat in the passenger seat.
“What’s this all about?” he asked the driver.
“I don’t know, sir,” said the driver, as he weaved around the concourse passengers.
“Am I under arrest?”
“No, certainly not, sir. We’re military, not police.”
“Where are we going?”
“Someone needs to see you. We’re taking you to him.”
“Who is that?”
“Don’t know, sir,” said the driver. “He’s out at one of the far hangers—the Operation Deep Freeze hanger, you know, the military re-supply hanger for those blokes who go to the Antarctic.”
“Maybe your new orders are for the Antarctic, sir?” said the solider from the back of the cart. “Wouldn’t that be a shock?”
“Yes, Sergeant. That would be a helluva shock,” agreed Franco, thinking there were perhaps fates worse than being sent to the Antarctic.
“Well, let’s hope it doesn’t happen,” said the soldier.
They drove to the far end of the terminal and onto a large elevator that took the cart to the tarmac level. After flashing his identity credentials to the security guard, the driver brought the cart through a double door that led outside to the aircraft. They drove the cart close to the buildings and away from the airpla
ne traffic. Away from the terminal, the airliner traffic diminished and they made their way past a row of hangers until they came to one outside of which a large business jet was parked.
A large man in a suit stood at the bottom of the jet’s stairs when the cart pulled up.
The driver announced to Franco, “We’re here. Good luck, sir. Stay warm.”
Franco thought about Sloan.
“Thanks,” he said, and walked up the stairs, not knowing what to expect, and wishing he were armed.
When Franco entered the cabin of the big jet, the old man was sitting and smiling at him.
Franco looked at him and immediately said, “You didn’t answer my calls. Why not?”
“Easy answer,” said the Admiral. “I didn’t want to talk with you.”
Franco said nothing, and just waited for the Admiral to speak again. “We did okay, Franco,” he said.
“No,” Franco said. “I think I let you down with Sloan, sir.”
“Nonsense. You didn’t. He came back to the U.S. without having said a word about the project. You did your mission.”
“Are you sure he didn’t make any calls or write to someone?” asked Franco.
“Unless he was engaging in spy tradecraft and had letter drops pre-arranged, he didn’t communicate a word of the secret. We monitored the rest of his communications.”
Pauling seemed proud of the fact when he said it. It prompted Franco to say, “Yes, I figured you did. Is that why you killed him?”
Pauling’s warmth vanished. He hesitated before responding. “Although Sloan was once a fine man, his judgment was lost to alcohol. He was en route to speak with a journalist about the events you observed. That dumb Texan did our professor no favors by discussing the animal toxicology results with him. Sloan couldn’t handle the information.”
“Do you think I can?” asked Franco.
The Admiral took a deep breath. “Franco, if I didn’t think you could handle the information, I wouldn’t have called you in the first place.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Admiral seemed to brighten a little after the topic of Sloan was out of the way. “Do you realize that there are only four of us, five with the Texan, who really know what’s going on? There are just five people in the entire world who know that the entire rice supply of China will soon be polluted and will cause cancer for the whole population. Just five people who can potentially kill a billion and a half people and change the course of the world history and the balance of power forever. Since the Chinese supply rice to North Korea, it’s a double win.”
“Yes, sir,“ said Franco, nervously. In all the years he had known Pauling, he had never seen him like this.
“Listen,” Pauling continued, “there are only three of us who know all the key details.”
Franco finally asked, “What about the NSC and the White House? What do they say about this?”
“They don’t know anything about it, yet.”
Franco was incredulous. “What do you mean? How… how could you do this?” he stammered.
“Do what? Pull off the secret?”
“No! How could you send cancer causing plants to China?”
“I didn’t send them there. None of us did. They took them. They stole them like they’ve stolen missile guidance technology, fighter plane designs, nuclear power plant engineering, and weapons enrichment plans. We didn’t give it to them, and I’m tired of having the Chinese rip us off.”
Franco could not believe what he was hearing. “What agency is involved in this?” he asked.
“Just us,” said the Admiral. “It’s not even the agency, only Rorke and Chen. No one else knows. Langley has no idea.”
“What are we, you, going to do about it?”
“Before I tell you that, Franco, let me tell you a story, from an old cold warrior.” Franco waited while the Admiral collected his thoughts. “Did I ever tell you my Dad was killed by the Chinese communists?”
“No, sir,” said Franco, now very nervous.
The Admiral continued, “I grew up not remembering my father at all. My older brother had a few vague memories of him. I had nothing.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It was when the Chinese first invaded Korea—a colossal intelligence failure that we didn’t see them coming. It was November of 1950, and my Dad was in the hill country near Usan as a junior officer in the 8th Cavalry Regiment. I didn’t know much about it for years, until I was old enough to read, and then I learned it was very gruesome. I eventually ran into a survivor who said my father went down in the first wave. The entire regiment was overwhelmed with a surprise attack, and they were chopped up in little pieces at the start of the Chinese invasion.”
The old man looked out the window of the jet, not making eye contact with Franco. It was an uneasy pause, and Franco didn’t know how to respond.
“I’ll tell you this,” the Admiral said finally, “I’ll never be in love with the Chinese communists, because they killed my Dad.”
“Yes, sir. We both know you are a mean, miserable, son of bitch with a long memory.”
“Yes, I am, Franco. Do not forget that fact.”
“When do you share all this with the NSC?” Franco asked.
“Well, everything is coming together soon. You want to have it in a nice bundle before you turn it over to the politicians.”
“Sir, how will it be presented?”
“I’ve had all the Texan’s research documents translated into Spanish. I think, if we tell it right, that a pretty convincing story will be that the Cubans were working on this killer rice with the help of the Russians. The documents will be full of ill intent for the Chinese. We may try to implicate the Iranians as well. I haven’t completely worked that out.”
“Will the Chinese buy it?”
“Like everything in life, Franco, it’s all about salesmanship and presentation. I think if we arrange for the right middleman to show this to the Chinese, it could work. The cover story would be that they found it on a Russian spy as he was transiting their country back from Cuba. Maybe we find a Syrian that can bring it to the Chinese, maybe not.”
Franco was silent.
Pauling started talking again. “There is one thing that is tragically ironic. The ChiCom’s Red Army makes a lot of money on their various businesses in China; cigarettes are one of them. They may be a little reluctant to believe that there is still another reason, and a powerful one, to stop smoking. The scientists think that lung cancer with the rice and smoking will come on in a matter of a year as opposed to when it will happen in non-smokers.”
“Where it may take several years?” asked Franco.
“Yeah, that’s probably right,” said the Admiral.
“But it will happen?” persisted Franco.
“That’s what they say,” agreed the Admiral, almost cheerfully. “You know the Chinese communists are not animals like the North Koreans are. Well, some are—although their society as a whole is nothing like their neighbors. What I’m saying is, even if they need to import 100 percent of their rice for a few years until they can be sure none of this cancer rice is still around, they’ll do it. If they’re forced to choose between spending billions to catch up with us to close their military technology gap or billions buying food for a starving nation, they’ll buy the food. And they’ll have to buy a lot of it from the U.S. No one else has the capacity. That’s what I’m counting on.”
Pauling paused for Franco to respond. When he said nothing, the old man continued, “This is going to fundamentally change our balance of trade with the PRC. Because of this stolen rice, we’ll be able to pay down the markers the Chinese have on our debt.”
Franco said, quietly, “Admiral, this is a terrible thing you’re doing.”
Pauling did not immediately speak. He stood and walked about in the cabin a moment before t
urning back to Franco.
“Three points,” he said. “First, the history of using starvation in conflicts between nations is a long one. It’s even in the Bible as one of the Lord’s tools—see Ezekiel 5. That’s total war there. Starvation is obviously an ugly tactic because it hits non-combatants hard, yet there’s no doubt that it’s effective. From any of the sieges of the ancient walled cities, to MacArthur’s island campaign in the Pacific, to the current senseless control of tribes in the Sudan and Somalia, it’s a useful, albeit a non-discriminating weapon.”
Pauling looked intently at Franco as he continued. “Second, remember we didn’t do anything actively except to remove spies and thieves. We have a long history of doing that. When George Washington hanged Major John Andre, everyone was upset, although they understood the argument. That’s all I’ve done here. For the rest of it, the Chinese have done everything to themselves.”
“And third, yes, it’s a terrible thing. And it’s also true what they say—payback is a bitch.”
“The PRC will suspect we’re involved and that the Cuban story is bullshit,” Franco countered.
The Admiral replied. “That may be even better, so long as they can’t prove it. Think about it. They may think twice before ripping us off again.”
Franco sighed. “Sir, how does the story end?”
“Franco, I’m not sure.” Then he added, “Isn’t it amazing that only three little people control the fate of the world? If we just do nothing, if we are all hit by that proverbial bus today, the amazing events that will play out will be due entirely to the fault of others trying to take things that didn’t belong to them.”
Franco said nothing, letting the implication of those words hang in the air for a while. “Should I be concerned that your red-headed assassin will try to screw up my life?”
The Rice Thieves Page 25
