by Glen Robins
Chapter Twelve
Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia
June 18, 2:35 a.m. Local Time; June 17, 11:35 a.m. Pacific Time
“Sir,” said the foreman as he stood and bowed. “Your driver has returned. He will take you to the airport now.”
Pho Nam Penh checked his watch again. “Very well. It appears we’ve done all we can with the cloned drive from Mr. Cook’s computer, have we not?”
“Yes, sir. We have run every test and used every method at our disposal to obtain the missing data, but have not been successful. It is not on this drive. Of that, we are certain.”
Penh stood and straightened his coat and tie, then asked for an update on the location of the team who had abducted Rob Howell.
“They are at the hotel in El Centro, sir. Mr. Howell is being prepared, as are all the necessary documents.”
“Very well,” Penh said. “What is their timeline?”
“Final preparations have been made. They will be leaving the hotel shortly.”
As he turned the handle on the door, Penh paused. “They need to expedite their departure. Remind them that the NSA is involved. They can’t be too careful.”
“Yes, sir. They are aware and are taking extra measures.”
“Also, be sure to give them the address in Mexico City,” said Penh as he stepped toward the exit. “Have them bring the hostage to me there. I have special plans for him.”
“I will inform them of your request, sir. Shall I instruct them to drive all the way there?”
“Absolutely. It is too risky to fly. Besides, it will take me twenty-four hours to get there, anyway. No need to take unnecessary chances.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are tracking the movements of Collin Cook?”
“Yes, sir. Using the app we planted on his laptop.”
“Good. I want to know where he is at all times.” Penh pulled out his cell phone, tapped on it a few times, then turned to the man, showing him the screen. The man rattled off a series of numbers that Penh punched into the phone. A moment later, a beep sounded and a red dot appeared on his screen. “Very well. Carry on.”
He swung the door open and marched down the hallway, the familiar cadence of his loafers striking the concrete fading as went.
****
Econo Lodge Motel, El Centro, California
June 17, 11:36 a.m. Pacific Time
The beautiful Asian girl with the full lips, perfect teeth, and large coffee-colored eyes, leaned in close and touched his cheeks, chin, and nose with a triangular sponge pinched between her fingers and thumb. With only a slight accent she said, “So handsome. So dignified. You look perfect,” as she smiled at him.
If she hadn’t shot him with that tranquilizer dart, Rob thought he would be flirting with this girl right now and maybe getting somewhere. She seemed to enjoy working on his face and touching him. Under normal circumstances, that may have led to something more, like a passionate kiss or an invitation to a romantic dinner. He probably would have touched her face with equal amounts of tenderness and adoration and smiled at her and said, “Perfect.”
But maybe he was just imagining things. It was hard to tell. Realizing that he had unknown chemicals in his system, maybe his reactions to her were a little too dramatic. How could he know what his response to her would have been under normal circumstances?
At the moment, Rob Howell found himself in circumstances that were far from normal. Held captive in a cheap motel in the middle of the desert with heavy doses of some sort of sedative running through his veins and his wrists and ankles taped to the arms and legs of a wooden chair definitely qualified as unusual in his book.
The drive from Huntington Beach had been long and slow. He had woken up in the backseat of his rental car in a chemically induced fog. When he opened his eyes, the sun was peeking over the hills, so he knew he had been out of it for a while. Not knowing where he was, it had been impossible to orient himself until he saw some overhead signs through the side window, as he lay inert on his side, that told him they were in Temecula. All he had known up to that point was that they were on slow-moving surface streets, not highways, so he had figured his captors were doing everything possible to avoid detection. He also realized the motorcycle guy was sitting in the front seat, checking on him periodically.
Now strapped to an unyieldingly hard wooden chair in the darkened motel room, Rob was barely coherent, but enough so to know he liked having the pretty Asian girl work on his face. Her hands were soft and her touch delicate as she applied makeup and a fake goatee. She had smeared some sort of putty on his cheeks, forehead, and temples. With a black makeup pencil, she had fussed around his jowls and the corners of his eyes. Then she had smoothed it all down with her delicate fingers. Yes, he liked her touch even though he had no idea how much she had altered his appearance over the course of the last hour or more.
Despite the drugs that kept him immobile and placid, Rob knew what was going on. He just couldn’t do anything to stop it. His energy was so drained that the kidnappers had had to fashion a brace for his head so it wouldn’t keep flopping down. The board behind the chair and the tape around his neck were not comfortable, but it made it possible for him to maintain visual contact with both the girl and the dude who drove the motorcycle. Motorcycle guy mostly kept quiet as he either paced the room or sat on the edge of the bed. Every so often he would ask the girl questions that Rob couldn’t understand. His tone reflected impatience. Best guess was, like any boyfriend or husband, “How much longer until you’re ready to go?”
She stood and spoke to the motorcycle guy as she walked to the sink at the far end of the room and stood in front of a large mirror. Rob watched her shapely hips sway as she went. She washed her hands and dried them with a towel, then inspected her own makeup. Pointing at Rob, she asked the motorcycle guy something. He walked in front of Rob, blocking his vision of the pretty girl. He crouched down and studied Rob’s face for a moment, then made some sort of positive comment. The nod and the tone said it all.
The guy turned and faced the girl and the two conversed for a moment. It sounded like they were going over a set of instructions, a list of some sort. The girl agreed and began to unzip her leather pants. The guy walked to the side of the bed and tore off his shirt, showing a tattoo that spread across his upper back, touching each shoulder. It was a bird of some kind with its wings spread out. He stripped down to his boxers and walked over to the girl who, with some effort, had finished peeling off the tight pants. The guy spoke in a sultry tone, but she shook her head and gave him a gentle push backward. He returned to the bedside, smirking and talking in a playful tone, and opened a large garment bag that lay there. It contained a long-sleeved shirt and a pair of slacks for him and a business pantsuit for the girl. They changed into their professional attire, including high-end shoes for both, then turned their attention to Rob.
The guy pulled another suit out of the bag and laid it out. There was another pair of shoes, too. Again, the motorcyclist crouched in front of Rob. The girl came around behind him and ripped the tape off his neck and pulled the board out from behind him. The skin that had been under the tape instantly burned and stung. What happened to the gentleness? Rob wondered. She came around, smiling, and said, “It’s less painful that way.”
Motorcycle boy produced a knife and clicked it open. He waved it in from of Rob’s face, then cut the tape from his wrists, midsection, and ankles. Working together, he and the girl pulled him to a standing position, angled him toward the bed, and let him drop backward. The guy worked on his shoes and socks while the girl worked on his pants and shirt. They undressed him as he lay on his back. Then, with some cooperative effort, they put the suit coat on him. They completed the ensemble with cuff links, a pocket square for his breast pocket, and a silk tie.
Once they had him standing again, they maneuvered him in front of the mirror. The girl whispered in his ear, “See? You like what I’ve done to make you into my handsome, wealthy father?”
Rob could only admire her work. He looked like a sixty-year-old Asian businessman. That could only mean one thing: they were taking him to Mexico, posing as one of the many wealthy Asian families that owned a factory of some sort or other just across the border. It was a perfect ruse.
****
Interstate 5 Southbound, Orange County, California
June 17, 11:40 a.m. Pacific Time
Traffic had loosened up somewhere just south of San Juan Capistrano, allowing them to eventually hit the speed limit. Camp Pendleton Marine Corps Base stretched for miles on their left, presented as a vast, relatively barren collection of hillsides and canyons separating two thriving metropolises. It didn’t catch their attention, per se, but it marked an important geographical milestone and spelled at least temporary relief from the snarled Orange Country traffic. But Reggie Crabtree and Spinner McCoy were too wrapped up in conversation to pay attention, lost in a brainstorming session that felt like pulling the bow off the package.
“There must be a way to find that plane,” Spinner started.
“Not if his helper at the NSA doesn’t want him to be found,” rebutted Reggie. “They’re flying low to avoid detection. They’re using obscure places that they figure must be off the grid. No flight plans. Dark landings. A virtual path cleared for them. He and that plane could be anywhere. We got lucky getting any information at all.”
Spinner gazed out the window, watching the dried, brown hillsides and the occasional glimpse of the ocean go by, but not paying them any attention. “We know what we know because of Nic’s contacts, not because of our brilliant detective work. If we’re going to get another break in this hunt, we’re going to need outside help. Nic explored his entire network to find that guy in Belize. Your friend Tom is our best chance of getting the intel we need.”
“It sounds like he’s invested in finding out what he can. He seems to be in a position where it makes sense for him to be asking these questions and getting some answers,” said Reggie. He paused, tapping his thumb on the steering wheel as the thought some more.
“There would have to be a compelling reason for the NSA to keep us out of the loop, right? It must serve some purpose. At least, I’d like to believe that,” said Spinner, scratching the golden stubble on his chin.
“The NSA must be working the case from another angle because they have some sort of jurisdiction. That’s what we have to figure out—the angle. Why would they have jurisdiction?”
“Well, let’s think,” said Spinner, swinging his gaze back toward Reggie. “NSA is primarily focused on cybersecurity and intel. Their job is to source threats to the US coming from anywhere in the world. They don’t usually do ground operations. Or, I didn’t think they did.”
“That’s what I thought, too,” said Reggie, drumming his thumb harder against the steering wheel. “They must be hunting Penh.”
“Makes sense. That means they’re using Collin as bait.”
“What did you say?”
“You heard me. That’s the only explanation that makes sense. If they suspected Collin was involved in this thing, they’d have us go in to apprehend and extradite him. They’d have us do it because they don’t do law enforcement kind of stuff.” Spinner paused and stared at Reggie as the thoughts continued to take form.
“Go on.”
“They’ve kept the Bureau out of this investigation for a reason.”
Reggie furrowed his brow. “But they know we’re working the case. They must.”
“Yeah, probably. But instead of sending us to arrest Collin, they’re rescuing him and flying him through Central America under the radar. Which begs the question: what are they planning and where?”
Reggie thought on that for a moment. “If they’re doing all this—protecting and hiding Cook—what are we doing?”
Spinner raised his eyebrows and cocked his head to the side. “They’re using us, too.”
“How do you figure?”
“We’re a decoy, a smokescreen.”
“A smokescreen?” Reggie’s voice pitched upward. “For what?”
“For whatever they’re cooking up, pardon the pun.”
“Wait, I see what you mean. We’re being played to make Penh think that we’re chasing Cook, which we are, so that Penh can then follow us and find Cook.”
“And when he does, the NSA is right there to get their man.”
“Cook is the bait.” Reggie sighed.
“And we’re the bird dogs.”
“We must look like a couple of Keystone Cops bumping around in the dark,” Reggie fumed.
“We’re doing our job, Reggie, like the trained professionals we are. We’re trying to solve a puzzle while someone else holds a handful of the pieces.”
“That someone else is supposed to be on our side.”
“They are on our side and they know exactly how we operate,” Spinner continued, almost as if talking to himself. “Are we being played? It looks that way. But are we being mocked for it? I doubt it.”
“There are a million questions at this point. But no answers. I’d rather not be somebody else’s pawn, know what I mean?”
“I expect we’ll be stonewalled if we try too hard—”
Reggie’s phone began to play a musical tone from somewhere in the console area between the two seats. Reggie reached for the charge cord, plugged into the outlet under the radio, and followed it until he found the phone lying on the floor between the driver’s seat and the console. “Crabtree here.”
“Reggie. It’s Tom Sanders. Listen, friend, I’ve been making some calls and asking questions about this Collin Cook and Pho Nam Penh, trying to get a few answers for you. Of course, I got nowhere.”
“Thanks—”
“Until a few minutes ago, when I got a call from the deputy director of the NSA. Know what he told me?”
Reggie’s eyes went wide and it took him a few seconds to shake off the shock of that revelation. “To back off?”
“Not quite in those words, but essentially he told me that the agency is involved in several active operations ‘to protect American interests and lives in the region.’ He explained that he couldn’t go into details, but assured me that he had knowledge of those operations and had sanctioned them ‘for the benefit of the individuals involved and the nation as a whole.’” Tom inflected his voice to show that he was quoting the deputy.
“That’s interesting. You must’ve really stirred things up there, Tom,” joked Reggie. “A call from the deputy director?”
“You’re the one stirring things up, not me. The deputy did inform me that they ‘do this kind of thing all the time,’ I guess in an effort to appease me and lead me to believe that everything’s just fine.”
“You didn’t buy it?”
“I do and I don’t. I get the sense that there’s a big picture that they’re not sharing with us. He knows more than he can tell me, that much I’m certain of. And, with my position on the Intelligence Committee, that concerns me.”
“Well, you’ve answered some questions and raised a few new ones. I appreciate your help.”
Tom breathed in, then continued. “I didn’t pick up on anything in his voice that leads me to believe he’s bluffing or trying to cover something. I think having these questions raised by a member of the Intelligence Committee is at least partly to blame for the way it got sent up the flag pole. I’ll keep you up to speed with what I learn. Sound good?”
“That’s more than I thought I could ask for. I appreciate it, Tom.”
“Well, at this point, I need to know for myself what is going on. That big picture that they are seeing has got to have some implications for my group here in Naval Intelligence as well as your group at the Bureau. I did a quick search of our database and brought up a report of a search that one of our navy vessels performed in the Caribbean a little over month ago. They were looking for your guy, Collin Cook. Eyewitnesses said he had boarded a sailboat named Admiral Risty. Our crew tracked that boat down, boarde
d it, searched it, but did not find your man. Then again, two weeks ago, our vessels, in cooperation with the Coast Guard, were searching for him again after Hurricane Abigail and came up with nothing. So my group has been called into the hunt, only to come up empty-handed—twice. Plenty of reason for me to snoop around and get a few answers.”
“Please don’t get yourself into any trouble over this.”
“I find the lack of interagency communication stunning and perplexing. There’s been some needless spinning of wheels in the hunt for this Cook guy. I think we deserve some answers based on the resources that have been wasted, don’t you? Plus, doesn’t the FBI deserve to be brought in to a situation like this where you’re pursuing a case and they have information about that case?”
“Seems logical to me, but—”
“That’s my point. If it’s logical, why isn’t it being done? That’s the whole purpose of the committee. I’ll contact you when I know something.”
“Thanks, Tom.”
After ending the call, Reggie shot Spinner a curious look. Spinner was drumming his knee with one hand, and rolled his cell phone around in the other. “I don’t know what to make of that, chief. This case just got more convoluted when I thought that wasn’t even possible. The deputy director? That’s a long way up from where we started.”
“That’s what makes me nervous.”
“Let’s find out what the Cook family knows and see if we can fill in a few more puzzle pieces,” said Spinner.
Chapter Thirteen
Airstrip in Villahermosa, Mexico
June 17, 1:41 p.m. Local Time; 11:41 a.m. Pacific Time
Collin tried to pull the nose up, just like he’d seen the bush pilot do in Colombia a few weeks earlier, while the plane was in the air. Sweat continued to stream down Collin’s face and forehead. He was light-headed and dizzy to begin with; the impact only made it worse.
Miriam was rattling off instructions that he could barely comprehend, but he heard her say to push the throttle all the way in and press on the foot controls to brake and steer. He did as he was told, but the plane was not slowing fast enough. The boulder at the end was fast approaching.