by Marc Cameron
Dom and Jack both shook their heads.
“No,” Ding said. “Just one dead dude.”
“Ackerman was a computer guy, right?” Biery said. “Into enough secret stuff to get him killed. I’m betting he had a second computer with all his secret shit on it. All the stuff he was using to anonymize his Web searches show he was paranoid as hell.”
“You found him,” Ding noted.
“I said he was paranoid,” Biery said. “Not talented. Anyway, he was a computer guy, so there’s no way he only had one laptop. I’m betting he’d keep another computer hidden somewhere in the house except when he was actually using it.”
“Look under the towels if there’s a linen closet, places like that. It won’t be anyplace that would damage the hard drive.”
Dom closed the freezer door and shrugged. “So not in here, then . . .”
“Got it,” Jack said, pulling apart the top of the dining room table and taking an HP laptop out of the space meant to store the extra leaf. A slip of paper fell out when he opened the computer.
“Looks like a phone number,” Adara said, doing a quick search on her phone. “Sixty-two is the country code for Indonesia,” she said. “And 431 is the city code for . . . Manado, wherever that is.”
Ryan read the number out loud so Biery could hear.
“Now we’re cookin’,” Biery said. “I’m sure I’ll be able to get you something as long as I have control of the computer, even remotely.”
“We’ve been here too long already,” Ding said. He moved his finger in a circle over his head. “Let’s get on the road,” he said over the radio, for Midas’s benefit. “We’ll link up at the hotel and let Gavin do his magic. In the meantime, bud, see what you can dig up on that number.”
“Copy that,” Biery said. “I’ll be here waiting to hear from you.”
Clark was already on the phone ordering up the plane when Ding ended the call. With Lisanne on leave, he spoke directly with the chief pilot.
“Hey, Helen,” he said. “John here. I need you to get the Gulfstream geared up for a possible trip . . . Good chance we’re heading for Indonesia. A place called . . .” He squinted to see the screen on Adara’s phone. “Manado.”
20
David Huang spent two hours completing a surveillance-detection run before meeting Michelle Chadwick in the small Virginia burg of Great Falls. Counterintelligence personnel from any number of U.S. government agencies had the habit of following low-level members of foreign missions because they were suspicious over some intercepted e-mail or phone call. Sometimes it was completely random. Huang assumed he was immune from such surveillance since he was posing as a Canadian lobbyist, but he could never be sure. The Ministry of State Security had assured him that his passport was a genuine document with a false name. Still, there was always a chance some peripheral investigation by the Canadians had discovered something about his passport. He might have been filmed meeting with Chadwick. His handler might have been discovered. Weak links could be mitigated but not done away with entirely. So Huang took the long way out of D.C. and ordered Chadwick to do the same.
The lengthy drive gave the Chinese agent’s support team time to watch for any agents trailing him while he doubled back in heavy traffic on the Leesburg Pike, got off and then on again at consecutive exits, or simply drove ten miles below the speed limit on the Beltway.
He’d come out here with his wife before, just to drive the twisting country roads and look at the houses. These weren’t the McMansions of the nouveau riche in other parts of D.C. where capitalist bureaucrats went deep into debt for just the right neighborhood and lobbied to put their kids in private schools they could ill afford. Great Falls was old money, expensive real estate, painted wood fences, and massive horse barns surrounded by forests of hickory and oak. It was too rich for a CIA officer on a government salary to buy a house unless he came from some kind of family. There were still police, but not like inside the Beltway, where it seemed every other person was an armed federal officer.
Huang arrived early and sat in his white Range Rover, sipping a Diet Coke and watching the wind whip the plum trees, when Chadwick’s BMW SUV pulled into the parking lot. Neither of them had brought a cell phone. What was the point of running surveillance detection if you carried your own tracking beacon around in your pocket?
He sighed at Chadwick’s wooden movements and furtive glances as she got into his car. The woman looked like someone pretending to be a spy—but that couldn’t be helped. She was frightened—a feeling she’d not likely experienced in some time, considering how long she’d held her powerful position. Huang saw the flash of hatred in her eyes, and resolved to keep in mind that powerful animals were always more dangerous when they were frightened.
“I’m here,” she said, when she flopped herself down in the Range Rover’s passenger seat and shut the door. “Now what?”
She had an annoying habit of styling her hair like a helmet, and the wind had pushed a great deal of it across her face.
“We need you to meet with Ryan again at once.”
“Not a chance.” Chadwick shook her head as if she were still in control and her decision was final. “I told you, the whole place is in crisis mode. I already gave you some juicy information.”
“My superiors were very pleased,” Huang said. “The timing is actually perfect for you to get close to him. As you say, he is in the middle of a crisis. People expose their true intentions at times like this.”
“I don’t know if he even believes me.”
“That would be unfortunate,” Huang said. “You should work very hard to see that he does.”
She scoffed, staring straight ahead, her chin quivering a little. “I’m not as good at lying as you.”
“Listen to me, Michelle,” David said. “I am truly sorry. You and I both find ourselves in situations we do not enjoy. But that is our reality.”
He was sorry for a lot of things, but Chadwick was a manipulator herself. That made it easier.
“None of that matters,” Chadwick said. “He’s too caught up to have a meeting with me on some bill I want to pass.”
“So you will meet about something else,” Huang said. “Something that plays into his present state of mind. Tell him you have a constituent who is of Chinese descent visiting Indonesia who might be able to help. Tell him your constituent knows about an American priest who was recently arrested for proselyting.”
“Is that true?” Chadwick asked. “Did your people have something to do with this?”
“At this point,” Huang said, “the truth doesn’t matter. But that is not the point. Ryan will likely already be aware of this information, which will corroborate what you say. He will be hungry for more.”
“He will,” Chadwick said. “And he’ll have the FBI crawl up my ass about my contact in Indonesia—a contact which I do not have, by the way.”
“Ah,” Huang said, “but you do. You’ll have a voicemail on your cell phone from an anonymous male caller in Indonesia as soon as you return to your apartment.”
“How do you know I came from my apartment and not my office?”
Huang reached for her hand. “Michelle—”
She jerked her arm away, furious. “I swear to you, David, or whatever your real name is, if you ever touch me again, so help me God I will break your hands—”
Huang chuckled softly. “I don’t believe in God . . . but I do believe you would hurt me if you had the chance.”
He leaned against his door, giving her space to calm down. Social engineering was, more often than not, making another human being feel as though they’d gotten their way, allowing them to win the small battles while you won the war.
“I am truly sorry,” he said.
“Bullshit!”
He shook his head slowly, looking away out his side window, careful to watch her reflection. “I
know you don’t believe me, but I’m as much a prisoner in this scenario as you are.” He waited a beat, then, when she said nothing, he started the Range Rover. “You should look at the upside. We are only helping you bring down a political enemy.”
“You bastard,” Chadwick said, quieter now, but no less intense. “Stop pretending like we’re on the same team. I detest Jack Ryan, but he’s a hell of a lot smarter than you give him credit for. He’ll figure this out. I can virtually guarantee it.”
“Call the number I gave you when you’ve set up the meeting,” Huang said. He hit the switch to unlock her door, a signal that their meeting was over. “I sense that you are trying to devise some plan to extract yourself from your present situation. But you should take great care, Michelle. Do exactly what I say, when I say. My superiors are dangerous men. You should see to your own safety, and let us worry about how smart Jack Ryan is or is not.”
21
Ding put Gavin Biery on speaker as everyone buckled into their seats on the Hendley Gulfstream for the nine-thousand-mile flight to Manado. With Lisanne Robertson on leave, they’d be without their director of transportation—meaning they’d have to rent their own vehicles, arrange their own ramp parking—and get their own drinks while on board.
“This Ackerman guy had come into some serious coin before he was killed,” Biery said. “I found recent bank deposits to the tune of twelve and a half million U.S.”
“An odd number for a payoff,” Jack said, looking up from where he was making his customary nest in the rearmost leather sofa seat of the company plane. “I’m betting he split a bigger payday with Noonan.”
“Already checked that,” Gavin said. “And you are correct. Right down the middle.”
Midas gave a low whistle. “Twenty-five million . . .”
“Makes sense.” Ding looked up from the Moleskine pad where he was taking notes. “We think they sold the AI program to another party before Father West was arrested and Noonan disappeared.”
“So there are two copies in play,” Gavin said. “Okay. It’ll take some time to get the particulars, but I’m on it. A cursory search on his laptop shows dozens of communications between him and a business called Suparman Games. Specifically, the CEO, a guy named . . . get this, Suparman. A one-word name.”
“Like the man of steel?” Ryan asked.
“Not sure of the etymology,” Biery said. “But it turns out Suparman is just a regular name in Indonesia. Being a video game company, this particular Suparman plays up the comparison, though. He’s got offices in Manado. A real playboy. Drives race cars and jumps out of airplanes in his spare time. Seems like he fancies himself a pioneer in the Indonesian video game industry. A real innovator.”
“You found all this on his computer?” Clark said.
Biery scoffed. “No, I found most of it on social media. This Suparman guy posts more stuff than the Kardashians. Every other pic is of him in a sports car or airplane with some hot babe on his arm. Think of an Indonesian James Bond with Elton John glasses. I’m sending you all photos now, but like I said, all you really have to do is Google him. He’s the kind of dude who probably has statues of himself in his mansion.”
Ding pulled up the photo on his phone. “Geez,” he said, looking at the thick glasses that made Suparman’s eyes appear extra-large. “This guy must be blind as a bat.”
Clark had the photo open on his phone as well. “He seems like he might be the type to throw some cash at a fancy new AI program for his company.”
“He’s got the money,” Biery said. “Worth about half a billion, just counting the funds we know of. There are likely a shitload of unknown accounts tucked away around the world.”
“So,” Jack said. “Someone frames Noonan into giving up this Calliope program, but Ackerman and Noonan have already sold a copy of it to Suparman.”
“That’s about the size of it, Weed Hopper,” Ding said.
Clark leaned back in his seat, folding his hands across his belly. “We have to fuel up again in . . .” He looked toward the cockpit.
“L.A.,” Helen, the pilot in command, yelled back. “And then again in Honolulu.”
“L.A.,” Clark repeated. “See what you can find out in the next few hours, Gavin. We’ll fly to Manado to steal this guy’s prize. A man’s life—and who knows what else—depends on it.”
Chavez ended the call and the team settled in for the long haul, ready for some much-needed rest as the pilots brought the Gulfstream G550’s Rolls-Royce turbofan engines to life.
“So,” Midas said. “This is a turn-and-burn? We locate and retrieve the software, then get it back to be analyzed so we know what we’re up against with the Chicoms?”
“Right.” Ding shot a sideways glance at Clark. “Except we don’t bring it back. This little piece of tech is too important for that. The powers that be are sending a couple of Eagles over from the 44th Fighter Wing at Kadena. We turn Calliope over as soon as we get our grubby hands on it. They’ll jet it back to our scientists at Joint Base Pearl Harbor-Hickam, at a cool Mach 2.5, not counting a couple of slowdowns for aerial refueling. They’ll scoot along at sixty-five thousand feet and beat us back stateside by a factor of . . . I don’t know, a lot.”
“Manado airport can’t be very large,” Jack said. “Can an F-15 even put down there?”
Clark nodded. “I asked the same thing. The Eagles need eight thousand or so. Manado is eighty-nine hundred and change. Anyway, first things first. We haven’t got Calliope yet. Let’s focus on that.”
“I have a couple of questions,” Ding said. “Before you all conk out. Who wants to tell me about the ghosts everybody was talking about during the scenario training in Chinatown?”
“We were gaming you,” Adara said. “We wanted you wondering what we were seeing. I planned to stash a cloned tracker along the route so you would think I was stationary, then I’d slip around and capture the RAF Hereford mug when you called Dave and Lanny to come check out our ghosts.”
Chavez’s face flushed. “That might have actually worked.” He didn’t know whether to be angry or proud.
Clark held up a hand before he could speak.
“You trained them well, Ding. They win, you win.”
“Maybe,” Ding said. “But from my viewpoint, I still think it looks a hell of a lot like cheating.”
“And just how is that?” Adara asked. “We were supposed to follow the rabbits to the hide, cause a ruse to get them away from the location, and then bring you the mug. That is exactly what we planned to do.”
Chavez glared hard at her—and had a hell of a glare. “Whose idea was this?”
Adara groaned like a kid who was caught red-handed but didn’t think she’d done anything wrong. “Mine.”
“And the rest of you?” Chavez asked. “No one else gonna step up?”
Midas raised his hand. “I am Spartacus.”
The others spoke all at once, each taking their share of the blame.
Adara leaned back, pounding her head against her seat, staring up at the ceiling.
“No,” she said. “It was all me, Ding. Okay? Don’t get pissed at them, they were just following my lead—”
Chavez chuckled. “Then you get all the credit—which means I’m buyin’ you dinner at Smith and Wollensky next time we’re in New York.” A sudden thought occurred to him, and he looked up at Clark. “Were you in on this, Mr. C?”
“Nope,” Clark said. “Wish I had been, though.” His cell began to buzz and he sat up, fishing it out of his pocket. “Clark . . .” He closed his eyes, listening, nodding, giving a polite grunt now and then to let the caller know he was still on the line. After three minutes, he exhaled slowly through his mouth and said, “Thank you for letting me know . . . Yes. Me, too. I appreciate it.”
“Everything okay?” Ding asked.
“Good to go,” Clark said, offering no furthe
r explanation.
“Hey,” Adara said, obviously sensitive to Clark’s need for some emotional space. “Maybe we can call ahead and get some poke brought out to the plane when we land in Honolulu. There’s a good place not too far from the airport.”
Ding shrugged. “If you’d rather have raw tuna and soy sauce than a Smith and Wollensky steak . . .”
“Nice try, mister,” Adara said. “One doesn’t have anything to do with the other.” She settled in beside Dom. “I love Hawaii. A shame we’ll only get to see the airport.”
Caruso leaned against her shoulder. “Don’t worry, hon, Indonesia is a tropical paradise, too. Just a hell of a lot more people who’ll want to kill us. It’ll be fun.”
The Gulfstream bounced a little as it rolled down the taxiway. Clark had never been much of a talker anyway, but he’d turned inward from the time he’d gotten the last call.
Chavez caught his eye and gave him an “Okay?” signal like scuba divers used, a circle with his thumb and forefinger.
Clark gave him a quiet nod and then shut his eyes, following up with an involuntary shake of his head. He’d known Pat West, so he was already upset about that. But this was different. Clark wasn’t just upset. He was shaken—which had a way of making Ding doubt the things he took for granted, like gravity. John Clark was as solid as they came. When something was bad enough to bother him, it was either very bad—or very personal.
22
Peter Li kissed his wife hello as soon as he walked in the door, and then immediately said good-bye. He felt a mixture of pride and giddiness every time he saw her radiant face and swelling belly. Most men his age were playing golf and looking at motor home brochures. Here he was, married to a woman more than ten years his junior, preparing for a new baby. It would either keep him young or kill him, but he decided he’d enjoy it either way.
Sophie was crestfallen. “You’re leaving again?”
“It’s just for a couple of hours,” he said, rubbing his eyes from jet lag. “I had an odd encounter on my trip and I have to let the security folks know. It’s a clearance thing. We have to disclose contacts with foreign governments.”