by Brad Taylor
Which would cause a rehearsed battle drill to be performed, with all teams starting a search pattern to pick up the signal again, focused on the park.
I pulled up a map of Fort Canning on my phone, the time slipping away. It was fairly large, crisscrossed with multiple roads that could be used for pickup, along with a hotel and some bunker from the loss of Singapore to the Japanese in World War II, now a museum.
I was formulating a plan of attack when Knuckles elbowed me.
“Pike. Take a look directly across the street. There’s an Arabic-looking guy on a bench, and he’s swiveling his head around like crazy. Looking for something.”
I focused on him and saw Knuckles was right. He was all by himself at the base of a set of stairs, and he wasn’t acting relaxed at all, like someone who’d decided to take a seat for a break. He was twitching around like he was on crack.
I ran through the possibilities, spinning what I knew around in my mind, looking for connections. Like staring at the spot on a 3D poster, the truth sprang out of the mishmash.
“Jesus. He’s one of the Iranians, and he’s pulling countersurveillance. Contact the Taskforce. Get a picture of Dr. Sakchai Nakarat. We’re following the wrong guy.”
32
Inside the bunker at Fort Canning Park, once the final British holdout in the fight for Singapore and now known as the Battle Box museum, Malik wandered about, looking at the various exhibits. It reminded him of the bunkers he had fought in during the Iran-Iraq War. He couldn’t help but be intrigued by the displays, a soldier again, and like all soldiers, he was interested in a way that others would never understand.
The rooms were frozen in time, with some walls even bearing the Morse code marks of the Japanese from after they had assumed control. He entered a chamber full of mannequins, incredibly lifelike in the gloom, peering at maps in an effort to stave off the inevitable defeat. He found it prophetic. No amount of military might would halt what he was about to unleash. Just like the British depicted in this room, the West would not be able to stop the onslaught.
He glanced at his watch and saw the next tour was a mere five minutes away. The tour with the doctor in tow.
He meandered through the maze of various displays, having seen them all before on his reconnaissance. Eventually, he reached a hallway that was not illuminated, with the arrows painted on the floor directing him to continue on past. He did not.
He walked down the length of the hallway until it dead-ended into a ladder. It was the escape corridor for the bunker. Created in World War II to allow the command to flee if the enemy breached the entrance, it would serve the same purpose here.
Not a part of the tour, and having nothing to see besides a rusty iron ladder at the end of a musty hallway, it would allow the final layer of security for the meeting. If the doctor had somehow planned a trap to ambush him, if his men alerted him in any way, he would climb the ladder from deep underground and escape—away from the known entrances and exits of the museum out front.
Prudent always, he would have taken the same precautions no matter what, but now it seemed especially vital. The original police contact with Dr. Nakarat would have been bad enough, but it was compounded by the fact that he couldn’t reach his team in Thailand.
He wasn’t overly concerned yet, since this very thing had happened a few times in the past, but it did cause him to raise his caution level. At the least, he would have liked concrete knowledge about the fate of the doctor’s son. Not knowing left a gap that didn’t sit well. Intelligence that could be used against him in the coming meeting.
He looked above him to the hatch leading outside, making sure he could still see daylight around the rim, meaning someone hadn’t replaced the lock he’d cut.
Satisfied, he was turning back into the museum when he got the call from Sanjar saying the doctor had exited the metro and was now heading into the park.
* * *
As Knuckles and I were speed-walking across the street, both of us studiously ignoring the man on the bench, Decoy called.
“We’re in the park. West side near the reservoir. Need a lock-on.”
We reached the far side of the street and went east down the sidewalk, away from the man on the bench. I’d already given the team an update on what I thought was happening, along with a photo of the suspected countersurveillance. Now we waited on the photo of the rabbit.
I said, “He entered from the north, right off of Penang. He’s not too far ahead of us. Close on the Fort Canning Hotel.”
Continuing east, we reached a tunnel that looked like it led into the park, underneath another road. I relayed the location to Koko and Retro, who were seconds behind us, and started sorting out the search to prevent duplication of effort.
“We’ll take the buildings to the east of the museum. Looks like some sort of shopping area. Decoy’s got the hotel. You guys check out the tourist shop at the apex of the traffic circle.”
Moving steadily uphill, I began to sweat profusely in the heat and wondered if just that alone would wash the isotope off our target. The R & D guys said ordinary perspiration would have no effect, but I wasn’t sure if they’d tested it in the humidity that was Singapore. Ordinary perspiration here was like a shower.
We reached a sign cut from stone that said FORT CANNING CENTRE and saw a long, two-story building full of shops and restaurants fronted by a tree-lined stone promenade full of western tourists. Some type of photo shoot was occurring, with multiple women dressed in various historical costumes roaming the grounds, followed by guys with lights and cameras.
We had begun slowly walking through the complex trolling for a signal, just two more tourists out on a stroll, when Jennifer called.
“Pike, I’ve got a hit.”
* * *
Dr. Nakarat continued up the path and reached a roundabout. Ahead of him was a small one-story building, an arrow pointing the way to the ticket counter for the museum. His instructions were not to enter alone, but to wait for the tour that left every thirty minutes. He bought a ticket and joined a group he presumed was also taking the tour, a mix of Asians and westerners. Within minutes, a guide rounded them up and they were walking down a tree-lined path to the entrance of the bunker.
He felt light-headed, clutching his shopping bag with both hands as he stumbled along, last in line.
They passed through the entrance, and the guide began talking. Dr. Nakarat heard not a word, focusing on when he was supposed to break from the group.
They went through exhibit after exhibit, all full of startlingly lifelike mannequins dressed as World War II British soldiers. He counted the rooms as they left, waiting on number eight. Eventually, he lost track of where he was, the bunker a maze under the ground.
When they reentered the conference room depicting the surrender, he began to worry. Was he supposed to count this as a room again, or was it just a pass-through?
He felt claustrophobic, panting in the dank air, the glaring bulbs hanging overhead leaving sinister shadows everywhere. A lady next to him asked if he was okay. He took a deep breath, remembering the words about his interactions with others. Remembering what was at stake if he failed. He told her he was fine and gave what he hoped was a sincere smile.
The tour guide pointed down a dark hallway and described the escape way, snapping him out of his funk.
That’s the meeting location. But the tour guide isn’t supposed to take anyone down there.
He began to panic, believing he would be blamed. He backed up, preparing to follow the arrows on the floor to the exit. Preparing to run.
The tour guide waved them forward, and the mass began walking toward an area with multiple televisions replaying history on an endless loop, away from the escape corridor.
He waited until the entire group was in the television room and out of sight, then began walking down the hallway with trepidation. He couldn’t see in the gloom and placed one hand on the wall as he slid along. Toward the end, a dim light appeared from above. Su
nlight, from some sort of opening, creating a halo around a shadow. He stopped and peered intently.
A voice came forward from the darkness.
“Hello, Dr. Nakarat. I presume you’re alone?”
33
Hearing Jennifer’s call, I pulled up short, finding a little nook in the building where I could talk freely and waving at Knuckles to keep searching.
“Koko, say again?”
“I’ve got a signal here. It’s weak, but it’s beating.”
“What’s your location?”
“Right outside the souvenir shop, around the corner from the ticket office.”
I could see the entrance to the bunker just down the path, but the ticket office was too far away. All I saw was a small group of tourists heading toward the Battle Box.
Jennifer said, “I’m losing signal. He’s moving away. If you don’t have a hit in a minute or two, he’s got to be going to the sculpture garden on top. Break, break, Decoy, he might be headed toward you.”
Decoy came on. “No signal yet. Blood and I will troll east and west.”
I thought for a minute, then said, “Okay, Blood and Decoy, continue with the lost contact. Jennifer and Retro, hold up. Knuckles and I have the east, you guys have the north. He can’t get out without running into one of us. I’m afraid of him slipping through while we search. Let’s make him come to us.”
After twenty minutes of waiting, me on one end of the shopping promenade and Knuckles on the other, without any alerts from the team, I was beginning to second-guess my decision.
Maybe he’s already slipped through.
I was about to break down our box and launch into a full-on grid search when my phone buzzed. I opened the message and saw a picture of an Asian man with glasses, peering at a test tube.
The doctor.
He looked vaguely familiar, as if I’d seen him before, but I knew that might just have been my overactive western prejudice. I was in Singapore, after all. Everyone was Asian. And they all looked alike.
“All elements, take a look at the photo. Anyone seen him before?”
Jennifer came on. “Pike, Pike, he was just here! He bought a ticket to the Battle Box. He’s in that tour group.”
I looked at the time, then the map. Twenty minutes.
He’s still in there.
“Decoy, Blood, lock down the exit to the bunker. It comes out on your side.”
I saw Jennifer and Retro jogging up the walkway. Over the Bluetooth I heard, “We got tickets. What do you want us to do?”
“Get inside. Locate him.”
They stopped running and veered toward the entrance, handing their tickets to the custodian manning the door. To my right I caught hurried movement and saw a man who’d been hidden before by the shrubbery, now leaning over the railing to the coffee shop he was in and holding a cell phone to his ear. An Arabic man.
Or Persian. Holy shit! The general’s in there. That’s the meeting site.
I started running immediately, hoping to knock him down before the cell signal connected and the alert went out, shouting into my Bluetooth, “All elements, all elements, the general is inside the bunker. I say again, the general is inside the bunker. Watch yourself. Knuckles, on me. I’ve got the other Iranian.”
I approached from the man’s blind side, seeing he was intently focused on the bunker entrance and wasn’t talking. No cell connection yet.
I got within five feet before my movement alerted him. He whirled and I charged, hitting him full in the chest and punching the hand that held the cell phone, sending it skittering away. We fell forward and he began shouting a single word over and over in a language I didn’t understand.
We landed in a jumble sideways on the ground and I started to battle for dominance. I managed to wrap up one elbow to force him face-first into the ground and made the mistake of assuming he couldn’t fight. He immediately rotated completely around onto his back, relieving the pressure on his elbow and opening me up. He kicked my shoulder, breaking free, and began scrambling for the cell just as Knuckles rounded the corner.
I shouted, “Get the phone!”
He had his hand on it when Knuckles kicked him full in the face, just like he was trying for a forty-yard field goal. The man’s head snapped back, and he went limp. Knuckles picked up the cell.
He shook his head and stabbed the “end” button.
34
Malik could almost smell the fear coming off of the doctor. He pointed at the shopping bag.
“I assume that’s the material?”
“Yes, yes. The virus and the first vaccine. I also have the second, untested vaccine. I know you said you didn’t want it, but you can have it as well. Just let my son go.”
“Don’t worry about your son. Once I’m sure you haven’t tried to trick me, he’ll be fine. Hand me the bag and catch up with the tour. Continue on, then return to the hotel. I’ll contact you there.”
The doctor hesitated, trying to show bravado but failing miserably. “No! I want to speak to my son. Call him now, from here.”
Leaching false charm, Malik said, “I’ll do no such thing. I’ve been very reasonable. You must do the same. Don’t cause trouble in here. Don’t create a scene, or your son will surely die.”
Malik watched the confidence erode and waited. The doctor’s shoulders slumped in defeat, and he handed across the shopping bag. Malik was reaching to take it when his cell phone vibrated. He put it to his ear but couldn’t make out what was being said, the call sounding like an accidental dial, with muffled words and noises. Then he heard a single word, shouted from a distance.
Snatching the bag from the doctor’s hands, he pulled out a suppressed pistol and snarled, “So you brought some friends?”
Dr. Nakarat appeared completely confused. “What? No, no! I’ve done exactly what you said! There’s been a mistake! Nobody is with me! I didn’t do anything! Don’t hurt my son!”
Malik snarled, “Your son is already dead. And so are you.”
He raised the pistol, expecting the scientist to cower. Instead, the doctor wailed and attacked, a futile whirling of arms straight into Malik.
Malik got off one shot, into the wall, then hammered the doctor above the ear, sending him to the ground. He heard footsteps and whirled to the ladder, shoving the pistol in his belt and taking the rungs as fast as he could. He slammed open the hatch and clambered out onto an expansive green, groups of people staring at him curiously. He began sprinting.
* * *
I finished tying up the Iranian, using the thick foliage to cover his body, and began running through options. Things were breaking fast and we needed to stay ahead of the curve. Stay ahead of the flex that was coming.
Decoy called first. “I got the doctor. He came running right out of the exit. He’s a crying mess, but no question he was at the Marina Bay Sands. My iPod is about to vibrate apart.”
“Where’s the general?”
“I don’t know. I’ve got to get the doc under cover before we draw a crowd. Koko and Retro are inside.”
Jennifer came on. “Pike, this place is clear, but there’s an open hatch in the back. He’s on the surface and running.”
Damn it.
“Blood, get moving. Up top. Run him down, but watch for weapons.”
He said, “You want a unilateral takedown? Without Omega?”
I had no authority for a capture and in fact had been explicitly given my left and right limits, but the Iranian countersurveillance had forced my hand. This was turning into a mess.
I said, “We’re already halfway through Omega right now. I’ve got an Iranian on the deck, and we’re compromised. Get him. We’ll sort it out later.”
I heard, “Roger,” and knew we stood an even chance of capturing the general. Blood was something of a freak when it came to moving on foot. He could run faster than anyone I had ever seen.
* * *
Ignoring the people around him, Malik continued running to the back of the park, pulling u
p the message system on his phone and hitting a prestaged alert. When he entered the tree line next to the reservoir, he slowed to a jog to get his bearings. It would be better to be right the first time than to get lost and have to backtrack.
He found the path from his map reconnaissance earlier and veered southwest, following it down the hill toward a bus stop on River Valley Road, where Sanjar would be meeting him.
He dialed Roshan’s number again and got nothing but voice mail. He slammed the phone shut.
From the high ground, he could see River Valley Road to his front, about two hundred meters away. He picked up his pace, being careful not to fall on the slope. He heard crashing above him, turned toward the sound, and felt his heart in his throat.
A black man was bounding down the hill like a billy goat, trying to intersect him on the path by coming straight down. More leaping than running and covering enormous ground with each hop, the man was hooking his arms around trees as he came on in a controlled fall.
Malik began sprinting again, trying to match the man’s speed but seeing he wouldn’t make it out by staying on the safety of the path. He needed to intersect River Valley Road much quicker than the dirt track would.
He turned ninety degrees and followed the pursuer’s example, leaping down the hill. In seconds, he was going faster than he could ever recover from, fighting now to simply stay on his feet with the use of only one arm, the other clutching the shopping bag in a death grip.
His legs caught something in the underbrush, and he went face-forward through the air. He tucked his arms around his head and began rolling down the slope, the shopping bag slapping him on the back at every rotation. He slammed into the trunk of a tree sideways, miraculously unhurt.
He heard the noise of his pursuer and saw he had closed the gap to less than fifty meters, if anything moving faster than he had before. In a panic, he swiveled about, searching for the shopping bag. He found it four feet away, snatched it up, and sprang out onto the four-lane road, desperately looking left and right for the bus stop, unsure of his exit point in relation to the plan.