by Marc Cameron
Peter made another turn, slowing now that he was in town. Sophie wished he would speed so they would get pulled over and she could get a cop to help her.
“Where are we going?” she asked, figuring it out when she saw the sign for the mechanic’s shop.
“We’re going to switch cars,” Peter said.
“Switch cars?” Sophie shook her head. Her husband had gone completely insane. “Just. Call. The. Police. Why do we need to switch cars?”
Peter threw the Mercedes in park in the shadows behind the garage, away from the streetlight. Against her better judgment, Sophie followed him to the back door, completely passing his Audi, which was parked in the garage lot. Peter picked up a rock and made ready to break the window.
Sophie fought the urge to scream. “What are you doing?”
“Their alarm is broken,” he said. “I heard them talking when I dropped the car off for service yesterday.”
Sophie clutched the blood-soaked paper towels around her arm. “Peter, listen to me! We don’t need to break in. Your car is out here. There’s an extra set of keys on my ring.”
“No good,” Peter said. “Those people deactivated our alarm system to get into the house. If they’re that sophisticated, it wouldn’t be much of a challenge for them to track our car.”
“So?” Sophie stared at him, incredulous. “If they can track my car, then they can track your car, too.”
Peter used the rock to smash the window, then reached inside to unlock the door. “That’s why we’re not taking my car.” He grabbed the keys to a late-model Chevy Impala. The paperwork said it was in for a fifty-thousand-mile tune-up, still drivable. He led the way back to the lot. “Come on,” he said, scanning the dark and deserted streets. “They could be right behind us.”
Sophie got in the front seat this time. Peter eased out of the parking lot, heading south toward Chicago.
“And now can we call the police?”
“We will,” Peter said. “But not right away. The police are compelled to follow the law, and that takes time—time that others can use to finish the job they started in our house tonight.”
Sophie choked back a sob, clutching her belly. “Who are you?”
“I’m trying to protect you,” Peter said.
“You . . . shot those people,” Sophie said.
“They were—”
“I know,” she said, letting the tears take over. “I know it. I trust you. I’m just so scared . . .”
“Me, too,” Peter said, which, for some reason, comforted Sophie more than if he’d tried to pretend he wasn’t terrified by the attack.
Someone had invaded their castle, the place where they should have been safe. And that man, the one who had grabbed her, he was so . . . cold. Like he didn’t care if she lived or died. No, that wasn’t true. He wanted to watch her die. She’d seen it in his eyes. The whole thing left her feeling violated and raw—incredibly vulnerable.
Peter put a hand on her knee and gave it a squeeze. “You have to trust that I have a plan. I don’t want to scare you any more than—”
“That’s not possible,” Sophie said. “That guy threatened to cut out the baby.”
“This wasn’t a home invasion. They weren’t dopeheads there to rob us to get money for a fix. We’re dealing with an assassination team sent by a nation-state. Those kind of people don’t stop until they are stopped.”
“But you can stop them,” Sophie said. “I mean, you have a plan.”
“I do,” Peter said. “It’s not necessarily legal, but it’s moral—and it will save our lives.”
James leaned forward between the seats, cell phone in hand. The poor kid was still in shock, his mind searching frantically for the tiniest fragment of normalcy to cling to. “I forgot. Leah’s mom is supposed to pick me up for school in the morning. We were going to work on a project together. I need to call her and tell her I can’t make it.”
Peter shook his head, gripping the wheel. “No calls,” he said.
“She’ll figure it out, hon,” Sophie said. “Let’s work out what’s going on before we talk to anyone.”
“O . . . okay,” the boy said, his voice hollow, numb now that the adrenaline was ebbing. He slid the phone back into his pocket.
43
The phone on the desk in Ryan’s residential study chirped. He’d been expecting the call and snatched up the handset before the second ring. It was Foley and she was outside in the East Sitting Hall with van Damm.
“They have it, Mr. President,” Mary Pat said after Ryan invited them in. “The F-15s will pick up the thumb drive in . . .” She looked at her watch. “Eighty-three minutes. They’ll hotfoot it across the Pacific as fast as they can—which is a little faster than reported by Wikipedia—and get it to our labs in Honolulu in a little over three hours, not counting a couple of midair refueling stops.”
“Good to hear,” Ryan said. He knew Jack Junior was part of the team that had gone in, but made it a point not to ask about him personally. “Any mishaps?”
“Chavez got beat up a little,” Foley said. “But they say he’s good to go.”
“Are you both packed?” Ryan asked. They were coming with him to Indonesia, and would depart with him on Marine One from the White House.
“Yes, Mr. President,” they said in unison.
“Something else,” Ryan asked. He could see it in van Damm’s face.
“Mr. President,” the chief of staff said. “It’s about Father Pat. The Indonesian government is now charging him with smuggling heroin. No word on the trial, but until that time, they’re moving him to Nusa Kambangan.”
Ryan felt as though he’d been kicked in the teeth. “Execution Island?”
Foley nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
Nusa Kambangan was off the southern coast of Central Java. Part prison island, part ecotourist attraction, it was often called the Alcatraz of Indonesia—or, more fittingly, Execution Island. Capital punishment for drug offenses was not a foregone conclusion in the Indonesian justice system, but it was far from uncommon. Two of the so-called Bali Nine, arrested for smuggling heroin, had been executed by firing squad just a few years prior, along with six convicted narcotics smugglers from other cases in a lighted field behind Besi prison.
“Have they already moved him?” Ryan asked.
“I have assets checking now,” Foley said. “As does Adler. I’ll let you know as soon as I do.”
Ryan picked up the phone to call the communications office. He had a flight to catch, but it wasn’t exactly leaving without him. President Gumelar was expecting him, but he wanted another word with this new information. As Ryan expected, the president of Indonesia was “indisposed” at the moment. It was just as well; Ryan needed a few minutes to calm down so he didn’t come across like he was ripping the ineffectual guy a new asshole. He’d call again once he was aboard Air Force One, and he’d keep calling until Gumelar picked up the phone or Ryan was knocking on the front door of Merdeka Palace.
Ryan looked at his watch, if not calming, at least getting a handle on his anger. His late father had called it “putting a point on things.” Unfocused fury could be terrifying—and had a place once in a great while—but coherent wrath was exponentially more powerful. Aimed at the right target, it was a magnificent and terrible thing.
“Cathy will be on her way soon,” Ryan said. “I’m going to say good-bye to her in a few minutes. I’ll be right down.” He stared out the window into the distance, beginning to nod unconsciously.
Foley gave him a wary eye. “Jack . . . What are you thinking?”
Van Damm threw up his hands. “Well, hell,” he said. “That look always scares the shit out of me, Mr. President. You’re planning something.”
Ryan put the flat of his hand on the desk and spoke deliberately, like this was something to which he’d given a great deal of thought.
“As much as I hate to make this a personal matter,” he said, “it’s time to pull out all the stops, to use whatever means we have available to get Father Pat out of prison. I think it’s time I bring in a heavy hitter to give me some help once we touch down.”
“I see what you’re doing here, Mr. President,” van Damm said. “I’m going on record as being against it. This could have some serious blowback. If it gets out, this single event could be what your administration is remembered for.”
“Oh, I’m well aware, Arnie,” Ryan said.
“You have to say bye to Cathy,” Foley said. “I can make the call.”
“I’ll do it,” Ryan said. “I’m the one who’ll have to live with the aftermath.”
44
Ten minutes from the airport, John Clark checked his phone for the first time in an hour and a half. He had three messages. One was from his wife—who wouldn’t call again until he called back, unless the house was burning down, and maybe not even then. The last two were from the same number. He recognized it, and was mildly surprised. He called back, listened intently, then said, “Of course, sir. I’ll meet you wherever and whenever you say.”
Clark pulled up several airline websites on his phone the moment he ended the call. There was a flight to Jakarta in a little over an hour.
“Drop me off at Departures,” he said.
Ryan glanced sideways. “Okaaay?”
“You guys okay up there, Ding?” Clark asked over the radio.
“Good to go,” Ding said.
“Outstanding,” Clark said. “I’m going to need to leave you to it. Just got an interesting telephone call, and I need to bug out.”
“You’re not riding back on the Gulfstream?” Ding asked. “Sucks to be you.”
It did Clark’s heart good that Chavez didn’t ask for more details. Clark would give what he could, when he could, and Chavez knew it.
“Ryan’s going to make a quick detour and drop me off so I can catch this flight. You guys go on to the rendezvous point and turn our little friend over to the F-15s. I’ll give you a call when I get inside.”
Clark ended the call and began to divest himself of all his weapons so he could make it through security. He’d be able to get more where he was going. Midas passed him a box of wet wipes from a backpack at his feet. They’d all fired their weapons enough to be covered in microscopic—and not-so-microscopic—gunfire residue. A swab of Clark’s hands in the airport could stop him in his tracks while they sorted things out.
“Hit the dome light,” he said when he was finished with the spit bath, then leaned back in his seat with his arms and hands open. “Any blood on me?”
Midas and Ryan both gave him a once-over, shaking their heads.
Ryan caught his eye, quizzing him without words.
“Better for you if I keep this close to the vest,” Clark said. “It’s a need-to-know thing . . .”
Ryan scoffed. “And I don’t need to know.”
“That’s about the size of it,” Clark said. “I’m just looking out for you.”
45
Chavez watched John Clark’s plane take off an hour and five minutes before the F-15 Eagles were set to arrive. He was a big boy and had worked dozens of operations without Clark on scene. Maybe it was his massive headache from the repeated blows to his face. Maybe it was his chipped tooth. But for some reason, this time left him feeling like he was on the ropes. He had no idea what Clark was up to, but he could tell by the amused look on the man’s face that it would be dangerous.
Chavez and Adara took the Faraday bag containing Calliope inside the fixed-base operator, at the south/civil aviation portion of the airport. Jack Junior remained outside in one van while Midas and Caruso waited in the other, watching for threats. Chavez wasn’t worried about trackers. The Faraday bag would keep any signal from getting in or out of the drive or the plastic box it was stored in. But there was only one airport in Manado, and one FBO at that airport. It wasn’t a leap to think that Suparman might guess where they would go to get the tech out of the country. And if he figured it out, he’d come after it with a vengeance. The gaming magnate had already proven he would have no problem resorting to violence. In Chavez’s experience, people were seldom more ruthless than when they were trying to steal shit back that they had stolen from someone else.
On the other side of the door on the airport side of the building was the flight line, the secure area down the ramp from where the commercial airliners parked. The area around the airlines was brightly lit and a hive of activity. There were few lights immediately outside the FBO. The maintenance hangar was closed and dark, all the mechanics having gone home for the day. Several business jets and a couple of prop aircraft were parked in the darkness. Most sat locked and idle, but just beyond the Hendley G550, four men loaded bundles of what looked suspiciously like drugs into the back of a low-wing twin turbo-prop. Chavez recognized it as a Piper Cheyenne IIIA by the high T-tail and long nose. The DEA had a couple rigged out for surveillance. On the flip side, they were fast and fuel-efficient enough to make a pretty good drug-smuggling plane. The men did their loading in the dark, so Chavez felt confident that was what was going on here.
He would have been more than happy to blow their operation to hell, if he’d had the time. They’d eventually be caught—and probably executed. Drug smuggling was a stacked game in Indonesia. Even if you paid off the police, which you had to do, odds were you would eventually get caught. And they killed you for that over here. He’d give the Cheyenne a wide berth to avoid guilt by association.
If all went well, in a little over sixty minutes the F-15 pilots would come inside and take Calliope off their hands. He doubted if they’d even take the time to pee. The likelihood of a threat coming from that direction was low, but Chavez kept an eye peeled anyway.
Chavez had called Helen and Country, the Gulfstream pilots, to check on their status, but they were having issues with the rental car not starting and were at least another hour out. It figured. A beatdown, gun battle, and car trouble: The night could hardly get any better. It was a good thing Clark had flown commercial, even absent his desire to insulate the rest of the team from what he planned to do.
Everyone had brought all their gear with them, anticipating a quick egress from the country. There was no reason to return to the hotel. Nothing to do now but wait.
Chavez plopped himself in one of the faux-leather seats with a paper sack of popcorn. You got accustomed to waiting for agonizingly long spans of time in this business—waiting in the limo for your protectee to finish his or her meeting, waiting in the shadows for an asset to show up, or simply waiting at an airport for someone to pick you up. Smokin’ and jokin’, the Feds called it. Keeping your wits about you while you were exhausted, beaten down, and bored out of your skull was an art. Popcorn helped. A lot. Nearly every FBO he’d ever seen, anywhere in the world, seemed to have a machine. The smells of popcorn and jet fuel were so intertwined in his mind that if Patsy made Orville Redenbacher to munch while they watched something on Netflix, Chavez invariably had dreams about airplanes—usually jumping out of a perfectly good one.
With no metal detectors or X-rays inside the FBO, Ding and Adara had retained their handguns. Neither of them wanted to disarm until Calliope was on board one of the fighters and those fighters were back in the air, heading for a computer lab at Joint Base Pearl Harbor-Hickam. And then there were the drug smugglers loading the Piper Cheyenne to consider. Yep. Much better to stay gunned up.
Chavez rubbed a fleck of blood he’d missed on the side of his hand. He’d used wet wipes and hand sanitizer to clean up as best he could, and then finished the job in the restroom. Like most men’s rooms overseas, there were no paper towels, making Chavez glad he’d taken up his father-in-law’s practice of carrying a handkerchief. Head wounds were terrible bleeders, though, and he had a couple that made him look like a zombie if he didn’t k
eep an eye on them. He felt like a zombie, that was for sure. The pain in his head grew with each minute that ticked by.
“ETA one hour on the nose,” Adara said, startling Chavez a little when she sat down next to him with her own bag of popcorn. “We can stand on our heads for this long.” She turned half in her seat, assessing his wounds—and he had many—then used the long white paper bag to gesture at his left eye. “You need a few stitches right below your orbital,” she said. “Can you see okay? A blow like that can rattle your vision.”
“I’m good,” Chavez lied.
He still hadn’t gotten used to seeing Adara with black hair. A perfectionist, she’d taken the time to dye her eyebrows, too. One bottle of Indonesian hair dye and she’d gone from looking like a badass Tinker Bell, to . . . well, still badass, but not quite right, like the evil doppelgänger of her actual self. It was more than a little unsettling. Chavez kept that to himself, though, particularly since he’d been the one to give her the dye.
“Thanks, Doc,” he said. “I’ll hit a clinic as soon as we get home.”
As a former Navy corpsman, Adara was often referred to by the team as “Doc.” She slipped into the role with ease.
“I have lidocaine on the G5,” she said. “I can stitch it up for you, as long as we don’t have too much turbulence. The sooner the better with facial wounds.” She grinned. “And my copay is cheaper than a doc in the box.”
Chavez gave a slow nod, thinking it over. She’d stitched everyone on the team at one time or another, even back when she’d been director of transportation, before Clark and Gerry had tapped her to be an operator.
“Okay,” he said. “It is a hell of a long fl—”
The radio bonked, coming in garbled as two people outside tried to speak at the same time.