She laughed. “Shitty, as always. Trust me, Ethan, it’s not about the time.”
She hung up and spared herself a minute to look around, soaking in the tranquility of the cool morning. The truth was Rebecca had run this route dozens of times … and she had never once timed herself. For her, it really wasn’t about the time.
It was about the escape.
She picked up her feet and resumed her pace. The morning mist grew thicker, surrounding her, and then she was gone, lost in a cold, grey cloud.
Two hours later, Rebecca had traded in her damp sweats and sneakers for a charcoal Helmut Lang suit. Her long, fiery red hair was slicked back into a thick ponytail, and she wore a navy blue raincoat, belted at her waist.
The sharp lines of her designer clothes made her feel like a shark—a smooth, deadly predator, relentlessly moving forward. Her black heels clicked on the walkway between her office and the New Headquarters Building. Up ahead, a courtyard separated the two buildings with a centerpiece known as Kryptos, a sculpture as enigmatic as its name suggested.
Rebecca strode up to the eight-foot-tall copper statue. The sheet of metal rose up from the ground in a curved s-shape. It stretched twelve feet from left to right. A series of letters and symbols was stamped into the metal, divided into four square sections. Each section contained a coded message, all but one of which had been cracked and translated. The fourth code remained a mystery, known only to the artist and, according to legend, the director of the CIA.
Allan Bernatto stood in front of the copper statue, gazing up at the strange symbols that adorned its surface. Clad in a black trench coat, he held an umbrella in one hand and a steaming cup of coffee from the nearby cafeteria in the other. He stood with his back to her, but he spoke before she entered his field of vision.
“You’re late, Freeling.”
Rebecca didn’t bother glancing at the slim platinum watch on her wrist.
“Sorry, Allan. Rain slowed me down.” She stood next to him and glanced at the fourth section of the Kryptos panel. This was the code that no amateur or CIA cryptographer had been able to translate. “Taking a crack at the fourth code?”
Allan gave a short laugh, more of a grunt than an expression of humor. “You know how much this thing cost? Fucking ridiculous.” He looked down at Rebecca, raindrops beading on his small, round glasses. “Walk with me.”
Rebecca looked up and tried to read his eyes. As always, they were as dark and unyielding as the metal wall before them. She shrugged and nodded.
They turned and walked down the pathway leading out of the courtyard. The older man didn’t say a word as their footsteps crunched across the pebbled path. Gradually, the sound of the rocks beneath their feet became louder than the chattering of their coworkers in the courtyard. He cleared his throat once.
“Where are we on the Kusaka situation?” His voice was low and even, as emotionless as the navigation system in her car.
“Sir, with all due respect—”
“No,” he interrupted, “don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?” Even as the words left her mouth, she knew it was a futile gesture. She already knew how this conversation was going to go.
“I don’t care about your ‘due respect’ or your opinions on the matter, or why you don’t think we should get involved. I don’t care if you like me, or hate me, or you think I’m the fucking Anti-Christ. I assigned you a task. I’m on a tight timeframe here. What do you have for me?”
Rebecca stopped in her tracks, forcing Allan to shuffle a bit before turning to glare at her. “May I be blunt, sir?”
He nodded.
Rebecca took a breath. “I do not have the access required for the task you’ve assigned me. The assets you want to deploy in this situation require an extremely specific skill set. Language skills, deep cover background, regional knowledge … I’ve exhausted the normal pool of outside talent, and no one comes close.”
Allan looked at his watch. “I’ve got a meeting with Homeland in ten minutes. Give me your pitch.”
Rebecca stifled a laugh. Working for Allan had taught her new meanings of the word “arrogance.”
“I don’t have a pitch, Allan. I’m just not sure—”
Allan held up a gloved hand. “Just tell me what you want, Freeling. What’s it going to take to get you to do your job?”
All humor left her face as her features hardened into an icy stare. The man knew how to get a rise out of her.
“All right. I need higher clearance to find the kind of talent you’re looking for. I need access to records that are closed off to me right now. And I need Ethan working point for me on this. That’s what it will take to get this done in the timeframe you’ve given me.”
Allan nodded and looked towards the shiny buildings in the distance. Although he seemed disinterested, she knew him better than that. The far-off look in his eye was risk analysis. He was weighing the odds and planning his countermoves in case things went south.
“All right, fine. As of now, you are head of a new task group I’m starting. The Extra Departmental Assets Group, or some other bullshit name we come up with. High-level clearance. Minimal oversight. Ethan has access to any and all files he needs. Just get someone suitable in Tokyo by the end of the week. I don’t care who it is. I don’t even want to know who it is. Just get it done. Are we clear?”
Rebecca opened her mouth, but no words came out. Of all the possible outcomes of this meeting, a promotion was one she had never considered. Finally, she settled for a firm nod.
“Good. Don’t bother keeping me posted…. I’ll be keeping tabs on you.”
He turned and walked off into the rain. Rebecca bit her lip, turning Allan’s words over in her mind. She mentally replayed the conversation word by word. It occurred to her that a promotion at the CIA could be a curse in disguise.
Maximum clearance and minimal oversight … just enough rope to hang herself.
CHAPTER FOUR
After forty-eight hours in Bang Kwang central prison, Thomas Caine ranked it near the top of his list of god-forsaken hell holes. Eighty acres of stinking, sweat-stained concrete and metal surrounded him, and the air was thick with sewage and despair. He wasn’t sure which smelled worse. He knew he had seen worse…. He had suffered pain and captivity the likes of which most people could never imagine. But Bang Kwang, the legendary “Bangkok Hilton,” was a close second.
As he swatted a fly off his sweat-drenched forehead, he felt optimistic. True, conditions were bad, abysmal even. But in a place like this, a place of sickness, violence, corruption … how far away could death be? How long could he realistically expect to suffer before infection, or a cold metal blade in the dark, ended his horror for good?
He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. You’ve survived worse. You didn’t give up then. You can’t give up now.
But why not? he asked himself.
His gaze drifted across the courtyard. Men were everywhere, like bloated, lethargic vermin infesting a long dead corpse. Some talked in groups, smoking cigarettes they had bought off the guards with favors and contraband. Others played cards or flipped the pages of moldy, faded paperback novels.
Across the cement square, near a group of old picnic tables, a dozen or so prisoners lined up. An older man sat at the table with a worn leather satchel full of rusted tools. One by one, the men stepped up and opened their mouths, allowing the old man to peer in, examining their teeth.
As Caine had learned at mealtime the day before, the old man’s name was Narong. He had been a carpenter before murdering both his wife and her lover. He had set fire to a van they were using for one of their romantic trysts. He claimed not to know they were both inside it at the time. The trial didn’t go his way.
However, the fact that his cousin was an oral surgeon officially qualified him to act as the prison’s dental services provider. They even let him carry his old tools. Prisoners requesting dental care lined up at his table. They were responsible for acquiring their own cups of alco
hol to sterilize Narong’s implements.
Caine looked away as Narong lowered a pair of pliers into a shivering, emaciated prisoner’s mouth. Screaming filled the air. It was not an unusual sound in Bang Kwang, and the guards paid no attention.
Caine felt a prickling on his neck. He once again scanned the yard, drinking in the details. He watched Narong tugging at his pliers, the grimace of pain on his patient’s face. The guards kept their backs to him and the other prisoners, studiously avoiding the horror show playing out behind them. Why are they all looking away?
A man emerged from the pack of prisoners, his leg chains jangling with each step. In seconds, the man closed in, and Caine knew what the prickling was: the sixth sense of a killer, recognizing impending violence. He had been sent here to disappear. It only made sense Lau would send someone to finish the job.
Caine, like every other prisoner, wore irons and chains around his ankles. There was just enough play for him to step forward and balance on his rear leg. He brought his hands up in front of him, palms open.
The assassin blinked, surprised to see his target advancing instead of moving away. Only an inch or two shorter than Caine, muscles bulged beneath his prison rags. Caine swore at himself for not noticing him sooner.
A tattoo of a scorpion danced across the thick cords of his shoulder and neck. It was the symbol of a Chao Pho, a local gang of mixed Thai and Han Chinese ethnicities. They controlled organized crime in Thailand’s cities. Caine had a working relationship with the gangs, and he paid them a percentage when operating in their territory. But this was obviously not personal. Just business.
Scorpion made a rapid, twisting motion with his left ankle. The iron manacle clicked open and fell to the ground. Caine barely had time to register the movement before the big man pivoted on his left foot. Then, Scorpion launched his right leg into a powerful spinning heel kick.
Caine instinctively tried to execute a defensive kick. He raised his right foot, but then heard the clink of the chain surrounding his ankles pull taut. Cursing, he turned his body to the side, trying to pivot out of the way, but it was too late. Scorpion’s heel smashed into his chest.
Caine’s back slammed into the ground with a loud crack. Coughing and sputtering for air, he immediately assumed a defensive ground position. Covering his face, he rolled left and right, blocking blows where he could with his foot. The chain around his ankles made this almost impossible. He would have to get back on his feet if he hoped to survive.
To relax his spasming diaphragm, he took a deep breath. His instincts began to take over. Time seemed to slow down. He sensed the other prisoners circling them, cheering the fight on. They did not register as a threat, and his mind muted their bloodthirsty cries to a dull background roar. But the buzzing still tingled at the back of his neck…. There was another danger nearby.
Caine rolled to his left, towards one of the old battered picnic tables that dotted the courtyard. He allowed momentum to carry his body under the table. A blunt stick hit the dirt where his head had been a moment earlier. Another prisoner had joined the fight, this one tall but lanky and malnourished. After a few days on the prison diet, Caine could see why. The new attacker wielded a prison guard’s baton. He, too, had been freed from his leg irons. Lau must have paid the warden a pretty penny to arrange this hit.
Caine popped up on the other side of the table. He slid back into his defensive position: hands raised, legs apart, one foot farther back for balance. He stared down his attackers. His emerald eyes were calm, and he did not blink.
The two men split up, each moving around a different side of the table. Caine launched towards Lanky first, moving as fast as his leg chains would allow. He surprised his opponent with his reckless advance.
Lanky bellowed and raised his weapon over his head. As the baton swung down, Caine used his left arm to divert the force of the blow. He swung his right arm and landed a vicious punch on Lanky’s jaw. Before the stunned man could retreat, Caine grabbed his wrist and yanked him forward. He wrenched the baton from the man’s weakened grasp.
Stepping back, he swung the club up between Lanky’s legs. As the painful blow struck, he raised his elbow and dropped it with all his weight on the back of Lanky’s neck. The man hit the ground like a sack of flour.
Caine dropped to his knees beside him, slamming the baton into the small of his back. Lanky’s eyes popped, but instead of a scream, only a hissing breath escaped his lips. His fingers clawed at the dirt. He dragged himself away from Caine an inch at a time. Caine let him go. He stood up and focused his attention on Scorpion.
The big man charged towards him, his mouth open and rolling like a rabid animal. His meaty left fist launched forward in a punch. Caine stepped back, avoiding the powerful blow while rapping the man’s knuckles with his baton. The big man yelped and attempted a follow-up punch with his right hand. But the pain from Caine’s counterattack had thrown him off balance, and Caine dodged the clumsy strike with ease.
Scorpion shifted his weight, and Caine saw the signs of another left-right combo. He didn’t have to plot his next move. It was like listening to music. He simply knew which notes should finish the tune.
Sure enough, Scorpion launched forward again with his left fist. Caine whipped his left arm in front of him, knocking the blow wide and leaving his attacker open. Stepping forward, Caine slammed the baton into Scorpion’s gut. As the big man gasped and bent over, Caine clubbed him on the back of the neck and the giant crumpled to the ground.
Caine hesitated for a second, staring at the now-defenseless inmate. Get it done! the voice in his head roared. If you don’t make him an example, these guys will never stop coming. He knew what to do, knew it was necessary. Still, he waited.
Scorpion groaned and began to pick himself up. Caine blinked, and the voice in his head took control. He straddled Scorpion’s head. With a quick jerk of his ankle, Caine wrapped the chain between his legs around his enemy’s neck.
Caine threw himself to the ground and pulled with his legs. Scorpion gasped as the chain grew taut around his bulging neck. He thrashed his body, struggling to loosen the chain. Caine threw all his weight into the stranglehold. Strong, fat fingers clawed at his ankles, but Caine grit his teeth and ignored the pain. After a few moments, the man stopped moving. Caine heard the death rattle leave his enemy’s throat, a last gasping wheeze.
Caine relaxed his legs and let go. He staggered to his feet and surveyed the crowd that had gathered around him.
The other prisoners were cheering. They exchanged money, cigarettes, and drugs as they paid off their bets on the fight. Judging by the amount of money changing hands, Caine guessed he had not been expected to win.
He looked down at Scorpion’s bloated corpse. He thought of how different a dead body looked from its living, breathing incarnation. After a person died, the stillness of death became like a new state of reality. The memories of it walking, talking, and living were like echoes, whispers in the wind that grew fainter with every passing second.
He looked around and saw Lanky had managed to drag himself under the picnic table for shelter. He wasn’t moving, but Caine could tell he was still alive.
That’s okay. One is enough. This time.
As the crowd parted, he saw Narong, still standing by his table, still holding the rusty pair of pliers. The old man grinned, raising the old tool in a jaunty salute. Caine could just make out the small, white tooth in the pliers’ grip. His emaciated patient nodded and clapped his hands. Blood and saliva dripped from his mouth.
That was the last thing Caine saw before the guards forced their way through the crowd and began pummeling him with their batons. He made no move to resist. He sank to the ground and let the blackness fall over him like a blanket, numbing the pain of their blows.
When he fell unconscious, he was smiling.
CHAPTER FIVE
Rebecca sighed and leaned back in her office chair. As she massaged her temples, the plastic clicking of computer keys filled the a
ir. It sounded like the mocking chatter of a high-tech rodent.
She returned her attention to the pile of dossiers spread before her. Assassins, mercenaries, disavowed agents … a grim cast of unsavory players covered her desk, a collage of dark, bloodstained history. Each sheet of paper detailed the secret career of a highly trained killer. These assets were used discreetly by the CIA, but never appeared in official agency records. They were independent contractors in the world of espionage.
Across from her, Ethan’s fingers scurried over the keyboard of his custom PC rig. Twelve liquid-cooled processing cores sifted through mountains of data. Every now and then, a promising dossier filled his screen. These were printed and added to the ever-growing pile of paper on Rebecca’s desk. But each time she read them over, something wasn’t right, some element was missing. What Allan was asking for, the timeframe he had given her … only the perfect candidate would have any chance of success, and so far, that candidate was proving elusive.
“Ethan, at the very least, I need someone who can speak Japanese, for God’s sake!”
Her information specialist didn’t even look up from his keyboard as he printed up another batch of options. “Hasn’t exactly been a hotspot for us lately, you know? Speak Arabic, welcome aboard, pop the champagne. Speak Japanese? Enjoy your tentacle porn. Know what I’m saying?”
She threw several useless dossiers in the trash.
“Uh, aren’t you supposed to shred those?”
“Let’s just burn the office down. It will be easier in the long run.”
The problem, she thought, was that Ethan had it exactly right. For at least the last fifteen years, CIA asset recruitment had focused on the Middle East with a laser-like intensity. True, they had successfully infiltrated cells of Al-Qaeda and similar extremist groups. But the agency now found it difficult to rapidly mobilize elsewhere in the world.
She stood up and stretched her arms above her head. “This operation is going to crash and burn. And Allan set me up to take the fall. The Extra Departmental Assets Group is bullshit…. This whole thing is a big red bullseye painted on my ass.”
[Thomas Caine #1] Tokyo Black Page 3