Minutes crept past, a small eternity of them. Chiang Long heard nothing more from behind him; no more words, no more traces of sound. His jaw knotted, the tension within building. Long didn’t consciously plan and trigger the move; his muscles simply exploded, hurling him to the far side of the corridor, spinning him around, snapping his hand to the butt of his pistol.
There was no one. The half-lit hallway was empty, the door to the security office gaping open.
With gun in hand, Long peered around the doorframe. An almost eerie sense of normalcy reigned in the security office. The motion-sensor board had reset and now glowed an unperturbed green. The television monitors cycled placidly through their interior views of an empty building. The set monitor covering the entry hallway showed the blonde of Long’s prior lustful focus emerging from the ladies’ lounge to take the arm of her escort.
It was if nothing had happened. Long might pass it all off as some freak of imagination … if he wished.
His hand dipped into his jacket pocket. A business card with the name of a Singapore Ministry of Immigration official, one higher up the ladder than his brother had ever been able to reach, with a date and time written on its back. This at least was real … if he wanted it to be.
Long closed the security office door, carefully securing the dead bolt.
Back in their shadowy corner of the courtyard, Christine palmed her cellular phone. Flipping it open, she verified that the unit was accessing service, a verification that the electronic barrage from the Cunningham was over. Over the sound of the dance music the distant metallic hee-haw of police sirens could be heard, a polisi patrol unit futilely responding to tripped burglar alarms elsewhere along the cape.
Tran chuckled softly. “I fear we’ve created a lot of paperwork for the local law enforcement.”
“Fa’ sure.” Christine returned the phone to her bag. Exchanging it for Kleenex, she reached up and lightly dabbed a smudge of lipstick from Tran’s mouth. “Excuse my familiarity, Inspector,” she said, grinning, “but I thought we should put on a decent show for our friend Mr. Camera back there.”
“Indeed, Commander.” Tran’s words were sober, but his grin matched the intel’s, his hands coming up to rest on her slim shoulders. “A good police officer must be prepared to make sacrifices for the cause.”
“Oh, very true, Inspector. Since nobody’s shooting at us or sounding a hue and cry, I’d guess everything went pretty well, including our buy off of Harconan’s security man. Do you think your little gift will hold him?”
“It is difficult to say. The Nung Chinese have a centuries-old tradition of serving as loyal retainers and bodyguards. Your own military used them as such in my former homeland. But there is one thing a Nung or any other Chinese values even over a word given to an employer.”
“Family?”
“Precisely. My contact at our Ministry of Immigration says that our guard is having certain difficulties in this area. Hopefully the coin I’ve offered him will be adequate to buy his silence.”
“In that case,” Christine said, “I can only see one small factor that I overlooked.”
“And what’s that?”
“Now I really do have to go to the bathroom.”
They shared the laugh and Christine lifted onto her toes once more and the intel and the inspector shared a second kiss, this one on their own time.
They separated, and a satisfied sigh later, Tran glanced across at the dance floor. “Look, it appears as if progress is being made elsewhere.”
Amanda Garrett still danced with Makara Harconan.
Amanda recalled a line from an old movie. Something about “Have you ever danced with the Devil in the pale moonlight?”
It was a novel sensation.
Likewise novel were the subtle differences between dancing with Makara Harconan and with one of her fellow officers. Certain intangible barriers born out of rank and professionalism did not exist. When this man held her, he might see her as an enemy but also as a woman. That she could recognize. There was no fear of the impropriety of his drawing her closer or shifting a hand with the hint of a caress.
There was a sensation of nakedness involved, of being stripped of layers of defense. Yet, as she moved in easy rhythm with the tall Eurasian, Amanda found this vulnerability only enhancing her own defiance. If one was going to dance with the Devil, one might as well savor the experience.
“Thank you again, Captain,” Harconan said as the music concluded. “Would you care to sit out this next set with a drink?”
“I’d like that.”
Amanda allowed herself to be guided to Harconan’s personal table, noting that they would be alone save for the waiter already standing by.
Around Makara Harconan, things didn’t have to be asked or called for: They seemed to simply happen effortlessly. Nothing ever just “happened,” of course. Deft organizational skills were at play here, as well as a meticulous attention to the smallest detail.
This was something to remember. A warrior often fought as he lived. She wondered what her own actions might reveal to Harconan.
The taipan held her chair, then took the seat across from her. Without a word being spoken, the waiter set a tall tulip glass at her place. Thanking him, she reached for it, then froze, her fingers not quite touching the glass.
It was a sherry and soda, her favored cocktail beverage, a fact she had mentioned to no one at the reception.
Harconan watched from across the snowy tablecloth, smiling slightly.
She broke her hesitation and took up the glass. “And thank you.”
She sipped. Yes, it was even her favorite brand of sherry. She admired the intelligence-gathering.
“My pleasure, Captain, and my honor.” Harconan took up his own drink, mineral water with lemon. Religion or strategy? Amanda wondered. Had he adopted the Islamic ways of the Bugis, or did he simply desire a clear head at all times? The taipan’s personal beliefs were something on which even Inspector Tran had no insight.
“When I learned you were coming to the archipelago,” he continued, “I knew I wanted you as my guest. You are a most remarkable individual.”
Amanda chuckled. “Why would you say that?”
It was Harconan’s turn to chuckle. “Would you deny your record of rather extraordinary accomplishments?”
Amanda frowned in thought. “Yes and no. I’ve been fortunate to command some excellent crews, and not so fortunate in that I’ve had to take them into harm’s way on occasion to serve my nation’s interests. Any number of other officers within my service could have done as well. Honor goes to the personnel I lead. As for myself, I am most extraordinarily average!”
Harconan laughed aloud this time, a genuine laugh, his even white teeth flashing. “Captain Garrett, we both know your charming humility is a polite fiction. You are a most unique woman, and we are both fully aware of that fact.”
Amanda couldn’t keep from smiling in response or lifting her head in challenge. “Why? Because I’m a woman and a naval officer? There’s nothing particularly remarkable about that anymore.”
“Agreed on that point,” he replied. “However, it is inconceivable that you could have ever become anything else.”
“How so?” Amanda inquired. This scenario was an intriguing one, as was the man. In her career she’d faced off against a number of strong and dynamic male opponents, but always across a battle theater, and never like this: eyes meeting across a table.
“There are many reasons,” Harconan continued. “For one, you are a warrior’s child, born of a line of warriors. The warrior’s flame burns true through the generations. Your father, Admiral Wilson Garrett, had no grown son to whom he could pass the spark, so it passed into your hands.”
Amanda felt her brows rise. Just how much did this man know about her?
Harconan touched the rim of his glass to his lips and answered her unspoken question. “Yet again: You are a sailor born of a line of sailors. You look to the sea to earn your living an
d to find your life’s duty. You also look to the sea for your pleasure. You scuba dive, you fish, you own a cruising sloop, and you’ve competed in offshore powerboat races.”
His voice softened, growing level, almost hypnotic. “You have never lived more than two miles away from the ocean in your life. You never will. You are physically and psychologically incapable of doing so. You would suffocate like a fish cast out on the land. The sea is in your blood. More than that, it is your blood.”
He leaned back in his chair. “This is something I can understand. I am this way myself.”
“You know a great deal about me.” Amanda said slowly. “What have I done to warrant this attention?”
Harconan shrugged. “You interest me, Captain, and I learn about things that interest me.”
“Apparently.” She was almost afraid to ask the next question, but she couldn’t not ask it. “What else have you learned?”
“One further critical factor: You command.”
“An aspect of my profession, Mr. Harconan.”
“Wrong!”
He put just enough sharpness into the word to startle her. He lifted a hand and aimed a finger at her heart. “You command as kismet demands that you command. Your profession merely takes advantage of the fact. Command is as much a part of you as the fire and the water. You are, by nature and by destiny, meant to rule and lead in the same way as the majority are meant to obey and follow.”
His voice softened to that hypnotic evenness again. “In the world where democracy is the current fad, that leaves you with either the military or commerce for your empire-building. By fastidious instinct, you dislike the miry waters of moneymaking, so you chose the clean cutting blade of the military. Save for one other potential, you have no other choice.”
Amanda noticed for the first time that Harconan had the eyes of his father’s people. They were dark gray and penetrating, and the way he used them on her put a wary but stimulating tingle down her spine. Damn, damn, damn, but she found she had to make one more pass closer to the flame.
“Interesting. I’ve never had my life assessed in quite that way before, Mr. Harconan. What’s the other potential career choice you believe I have?”
Harconan smile deepened.
“Queen,” he replied, and lifted his glass to her in salute.
“A port visit to Jakarta might have served us a little better, Admiral. Showing the flag at the real seat of power, you understand. But I can’t blame you for wanting a shore leave on Bali,” Ambassador Goodyard added with a forced attempt at humor.
“I’m sure our port call here will prove to be very productive, Mr. Ambassador.” More so than this conversation, at any rate, MacIntyre added silently. “Following our layover here, we intend to conduct some further training in these waters. We’ll give the Indonesians a good look at us.”
He and the ambassador were sharing a table for the mandatory protocol drink. It had come late in the game. The reception was on its down slope, with the first guests taking their departure.
The task force’s officers were rapidly approaching their own extraction time. They had come, they had seen, and if they had yet to conquer, they had at least conducted a successful probe into enemy territory.
Christine Rendino had given him the high sign about the successful insertion of the invader program into the Makara net. Even now, the combat hackers at cyberwar should be ravaging their way through Harconan’s business files for useful and incriminating intelligence. What the end result would be, only time would tell.
Likewise with Amanda’s psywar assault on Harconan. Would their applied pressure flush him out of his successful businessman persona into a more overtly confrontational mode? Again, time would tell.
MacIntyre glanced across the dance floor again. Amanda was still seated at Harconan’s table. She’d spent a great deal of her time during the latter half of the reception there or on the dance floor with the man.
If they’d shaken him with their challenging arrival, he’d recovered well. The taipan had proven to be the most charming of hosts. Could this be an indication that the suave son of a bitch was rising to the dare? Or did it mean they’d missed the call and he wasn’t their pirate king after all?
The admiral tasted the ice-weakened rye whiskey in his glass and scowled to himself. No. As Christine would put it, there must be “bad vibes” radiating off Harconan at an instinctive level. Why else would it put his teeth so on edge to see Amanda close to the man?
“… Admiral?”
MacIntyre snapped back into himself. “Excuse me, Ambassador, I was distracted for a moment. What were you saying?”
“The Indonesian naval ministry is very interested in your, ah, Sea Fighter task force,” Goodyard repeated. “They seem to think there’s a good deal they could learn from your people in relation to—what do you call it?—littoral warfare. As an aspect of your goodwill cruise, they’ve formally requested a number of their naval officers be allowed to come aboard your vessels as observers during your stay in Indonesian waters. I thought I’d run the idea past you before kicking it upstairs. I think it’s an excellent notion myself, both for them and for us.”
MacIntyre set his glass on the tabletop. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ambassador, but we’ll have to say no. Here in port, we’ll be glad to have Indonesian military personnel tour our vessels and we’ll be glad to make briefing officers available to the Ankatan Laut to discuss littoral doctrine. However, taking foreign observers aboard the task force at this time will be quite impossible.”
The diplomat frowned, his voice growing pointed. “Admiral Lukisan at the naval ministry has indicated a strong interest in this particular matter. He seems to feel the observers would promote … positive relations between your services and our governments. I must agree. The admiral also informed me that one misunderstanding has already taken place between elements of the Indonesian navy and your ships. We don’t really need any more of them. Onboard liaison officers would help in ensuring we would have no further such incidents.”
MacIntyre nodded. “I agree, Mr. Ambassador, on that one point. We don’t need any further conflicts with the Indonesians. That’s why I would suggest you advise Admiral Lukisan to withdraw the warship of his command that has been shadowing my task force. Either that, or have him instruct his shadower’s commander to stand off at a prudent distance in the future.
“As for onboard observers, as I have stated, that’s impossible due to national security concerns involving certain systems and procedures being tested by the Sea Fighter task force at this time. The matter is closed. Please give my apologies to the naval ministry.”
Goodyard’s eyes narrowed and his lips pursed. Since his appointment to ambassadorship, he had grown unaccustomed to being spoken to with such decisiveness.
“Let’s put our cards on the table, Admiral,” he challenged. “Why are you really here? Is this, in fact, just a goodwill mission or is something else going on? Dammit, this is my territory! I have a right to know and I have a right to know the truth!”
MacIntyre suppressed a snort. By the great Lord Harry, this man was a tyro, and one who obviously hadn’t been listening during the lecture series on basic State Department security. The admiral didn’t care whose campaign this man had done favors for, he should have been left in the Midwest, kissing babies.
“Mr. Ambassador, I will be pleased to show you the orders, issued to NAVSPECFORCE by the chief of Naval Operations, instructing the deployment of the Sea Fighter task force to the Indonesian archipelago on a goodwill cruise in support of our relations with the Jakarta government. Beyond that, sir, I can only suggest that you refer to the CNO or the Secretary of State. They may have some information on this matter not available to this command.”
“As you say, Admiral.” Goodyard stood abruptly. “I may very well do just that, concerning both this matter and others. In the meantime, I do not want to hear of any further incidents or provocations taking place be tween your task force and the Indonesians while
you are in my zone of responsibility.”
The corner of MacIntyre’s mouth quirked as he rose to bid Goodyard farewell. “Understood, Mr. Ambassador. I give you my personal assurance. You aren’t going to hear another word.”
Raider Two pulled away from the Makara Limited pier float. Lifting onto plane, it ran northward past the glittering lights of the resorts, bearing home the same party it had carried ashore hours before.
“As we had hoped, it was a most interesting evening,” Tran commented.
MacIntyre gave an acknowledging grunt over the rumble and hiss of the diesel propulsors.
“I’d say so,” Amanda commented, drawing herself in against the cooling slipstream that flowed around the cockpit control station. “I’d say very much so.”
“What do you mean, Boss Ma’am?” In the darkness of the cockpit, Amanda didn’t notice the intent way in which Christine stared at her.
“We don’t know what cyberwar may pick up from your probe yet, Chris. And we didn’t pick up on anything overt beyond Harconan having all of the appropriate connections and trappings of power. But I did learn something that convinces me that Inspector Tran, here, has us on the right track about Harconan.”
“Which is … ?” MacIntyre murmured.
“The man is capable of doing what the inspector says he is. That’s not saying that he’s doing it, but he has the personal capability to be our pirate king.”
“Where do you get that assessment, Captain?” MacIntyre asked stiffly.
“A combination of gut instinct, intuition, and personal experience, sir. I’ve been in the service long enough to recognize a born leader, the genuine article, when I see one. Harconan has the charisma and dynamism—the mystique, if you will—to draw followers and control situations. He also has the intelligence to effectively use this potential as a tool. Obviously he has used this talent to become an effective force in the business world. Just as easily, he could use it to become a national leader or a military commander. Remember General Belewa, Chris? He had the same touch.”
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