by Ken Goddard
“I can’t tell you much about your three primaries,” Smith said after sending Rightmore out for some fresh coffee and telling him to take his time, “other than the fact that all three of them were in the Australian Special Air Service Regiment for a few formative years — where they performed their assigned tasks with what we might describe as a great deal of competence, intensity and enthusiasm — before they decided to free-lance their skills.”
“With you folks?” Bulatt asked.
Smith shrugged as if to say he wasn’t taking the question seriously. “They worked a few assignments in Afghanistan — long range recon and as a four-man hunter-killer team — came close to nailing bin-Laden with a long-shot at least once, possibly twice, before they lost one of their team to a lucky Taliban ricochet; and then, in some manner that we still don’t fully understand, they tripped across Gregor the drug smuggler.”
“Are you talking about Gregor the infamous Chinese Medicinal smuggler?” Bulatt asked, his eyebrows rising in surprise.
“Among his many side operations,” Smith acknowledged. “Gregor was a highly-regarded specialist in the movement of merchandise across unfriendly borders with minimal losses, and at a reasonable cost.”
“Was?”
“His operation suffered a collective fatal accident,” Smith explained. “Every one of his associates died in a sudden and extremely violent aircraft explosion. And Gregor himself; well, let’s just say he died more slowly and painfully.”
“How do you know this, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“We had an asset on the plane,” Smith said matter-of-factly.
“Ah.” Bulatt was thoughtful for a moment. “You knew about Gregor, and probably used him to move things from ‘A’ to ‘B’ on occasion; so you couldn’t have been all that concerned about his other extracurricular activities.”
“Individuals or agencies who hired Gregor for a job would quite naturally assume he always had other irons in the fire,” Smith said obliquely.
Bulatt suddenly blinked in understanding.
“So your asset was actually looking for them — the three Australians, not Gregor and his men?”
Smith nodded silently.
“Stupid question, I’m sure, but I’ll ask it anyway. Why?”
“I assume you’re familiar with the means by which an internal affairs division keeps an eye on full-time permanent government employees?”
Bulatt nodded slowly. “I understand the basic process.”
“Then I’m sure you can also understand why — and how — a similar but substantively different division might be set up to deal with the hired help; which is to say, the extremely dangerous hired help?”
“Sounds like a tough way to make a living,” Bulatt commented.
“It can be… but there are two things you need to understand about these men, Agent Bulatt… excuse me, Ged,” Smith said. “The first being that we consider them to be terribly dangerous, because they are quite good at killing whoever or whatever gets in their way; which they will do without the slightest hesitation or emotional concern. Secondly, that in any civilized context, their leader would be categorized as a brilliant, ruthless and amazingly stable sociopath who also happens to care much more about his men than he does himself. That makes him — if possible and from our perspective — even more dangerous.”
Bulatt thought about the patrolling Rangers — led by Colonel Kulawnit’s son — who’d had the misfortune to run across these three professional killers, and shook his head sadly.
“And finally,” Smith finished, meeting Bulatt’s gaze squarely with his dark eyes, “you need to understand that you and your Interpol associates are in our way; and that’s not going to be acceptable.”
Bulatt thought about that for a few moments.
“I don’t doubt what you said is true: that these men are perfectly capable of hurting or killing a goodly number my Interpol friends and associates if we try to confront them; and that it makes perfect sense to have them hunted down by some of their peers,” he finally said. “I’m assuming, of course, that you have capable people available for such an assignment.”
Smith shrugged noncommittally.
“And I’ll admit I am tempted to just step aside and let your internal affairs team, or whatever you call it, move in and take over our job of bring them to justice. I’d do it in a heartbeat if I had any way of knowing for sure that justice — in terms of a very dear friend of mine — had been served. But the reality is, if I did step aside, I’d never know if you dealt with these malicious assholes in some appropriate manner; or simply brought them back into the fold, so to speak… would I?”
Smith’s silence provided Bulatt with his expected answer.
“More to the point,” Bulatt went on, “I’m not even convinced you’ve brought your ‘A’ team to the game; because your two clowns out in the parking lot lost their cool and blew your surveillance on this place — not to mention my cover — like a couple of rank amateurs.”
“Actually, those guys were walk-ons, auditioning for a full-time role, which they certainly aren’t going to get,” Smith acknowledged. “But what makes you think they blew anything at all, other than the way they dealt with you?”
“I’m guessing you weren’t using a new green truck rigged with an over-the-cab camper unit, parked across the street at an odd angle, and looking just a little out-of-place among the rest of the cars and trucks in the warehouse parking lot; mostly because your people seem to like the ‘new van’ look, and a camper-rig’s pretty much old school in terms of surveillance,” Bulatt said. “On the other hand, that upper bunk would make a real nice staging point for a team of extremely dangerous sociopaths who don’t mind taking medium-range shots at people who get in their way; such as nosey internal affairs teams.
“But I could be wrong,” Bulatt added as he watched Smith lunge up out of his chair, pull the cell phone out of his jacket pocket, and walk a few feet away before making a hurried call. “It could still be over there — green, parked at an odd angle — but I doubt it.”
Thirty seconds later, Smith cursed, snapped his cell phone shut, walked back to the chair, sat down and stared contemplatively at Bulatt.
“Gone?”
Smith nodded silently, still staring.
“You owe me something,” Bulatt said after a long moment. “Will you at least tell me their names?
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Even if I did, their real names wouldn’t give you anything to go on. You’d just be wasting your time. They stopped using them a long time ago.”
“What about their military or paramilitary records?”
“Don’t even think about going that route,” Smith advised. “Those files are out of reach, if they even still exist in the first place; too many cross-links to events that never happened.”
“What about our latent print hit? Can you tell me anything at all about that?” Bulatt pressed. “I’m guessing the fingerprint search engine our lab folks stumbled into had to have been yours. Who else would be looking for those guys with that kind of technology?”
Smith hesitated, and then said: “Look, you now know there are three individuals involved in all of this: the team leader, a second man who is basically a very talented hunter-killer and long-range shot, and a third who possesses certain technical skills useful to a hunter-killer team.”
“But who occasionally forgets to wear gloves when he’s changing the batteries in their remotes?” Bulatt guessed.
Smith nodded his head slowly. “We appreciated the latent submission. It was comforting to know these guys can actually screw up every now and then.”
“But, in any case, based on that latent print, you’re absolutely certain these men you described are our subjects? No chance we might be talking about a misidentified latent?”
Smith hesitated again, and then nodded. “We’re certain.”
“Can you give me anything else to go on?” Bulatt asked. “Anyth
ing else at all?”
“I can give you a piece of tangential information,” Smith said after a moment. “Before he was killed, our asset reported that Gregor was doing something with a group of Russians who immigrated to the U.S. several years ago; he didn’t know who, what or why.”
“Surely Gregor kept some kind of records.”
“We presume so; but, after his plane disappeared, we tracked him back to a hide-away office. That’s where we found his body and a couple of empty file cabinets.”
“What about the office itself?”
“It was professionally torched,” Smith said. “Anything in the way of useful information that might have still been there went up in smoke and ash.”
“And the plane?”
Smith hesitated again. “Let’s just say the debris situation is being looked into,” he finally said. “But don’t get your hopes up; it’s not likely we’re ever going to find anything useful. The plane was at twenty-five thousand feet when it blew, and it was one hell of an explosion.”
“So now, presumably, all you’ve got to go on is a green camper-rigged truck,” Bulatt said as he stood up, “and me, of course; which probably means you’re going to make an effort to monitor my movements — try to use me as bait if you can.”
Smith stared silently at Bulatt, not bothering to answer.
“Normally, I probably wouldn’t care; as long as your people kept their distance and stayed low profile, like they’re supposed to be able to do,” Bulatt said. “But based on what I’ve seen of your ground surveillance techniques so far, and what you’ve told me about these characters, all your surveillance is going to do is blow my cover again, and possibly get me or one of my partners killed; and I’m not going to stand for that.”
“Oh?” Smith’s right eyebrow rose skeptically.
“So,” Bulatt went on, ignoring the sarcasm, “we can continue to play grab-ass with each other, see if my game-playing trumps yours; or we can go on about our own business, and try not to trip over each other again. I’d prefer the latter, but I don’t mind the former; whatever gets the job done. Fair deal?”
Smith shrugged in what might have been an agreement.
“Okay, I’m done here,” Bulatt said. “Anything you want to ask me before I go?”
“Actually, there is one more thing,” Smith said with some hesitation.
“What’s that?”
“The twins.”
Bulatt smiled. “You’d like our lab staff to have them to stop doing whatever it is they’re doing?”
“That’s right.”
“Are they really that good?” Bulatt asked, finding it difficult to believe that a pair of fourteen-year-olds could be having any significant impact on the secretive entity that ‘John Smith’ and his associates presumably worked for.
“’Good’ is a relative term; I think the appropriate descriptors are ‘inventive,’ ‘persistent’ and ‘unpredictable,’” Smith replied with a discernable edge to his voice. “At least that’s what I’m told by our tech chief, who would dearly like to throttle their little necks personally. He seems to think their baby spider egg sac disguised as a happy face was a dirty trick.”
“Baby spider… egg sac?”
“Apparently technical terms,” Smith said. “At least I hope the hell they are. I don’t know what spiders have to do with computers, and I don’t particularly want to know. But, in any case, I’ve been asked to tell you that our techies have stopped digging at your lab’s firewalls; and they would appreciate it if the kids would do the same.”
“They got through, didn’t they?”
Smith’s glaring look was all the answer he needed.
“But you do know that their mother will be seriously pissed if one of your people actually tries to cause them grief,” Bulatt reminded, trying very hard not to smile. “And I have a feeling she could be a lot more dangerous to your ongoing operations — not to mention your personal set of balls — than any of us bunnies-and-guppies agent-types.”
“We’re all aware that Linda seems to have developed some maternal instincts following childbirth, although God alone knows why,” Smith acknowledged. “The appropriate warnings have been issued at the directorate level. The kids will be left alone, provided that you stop them — ” Smith glanced at his watch “- soon.”
“You could always give them an audition,” Bulatt suggested as he got up out of the chair, and walked over to the swinging doors. “Bring them onto the team; you know, keep your friends close and your enemies closer, that sort of thing.”
“And actually let those little bastards inside our building?” Smith blinked, his expression implying that Bulatt had finally said something completely absurd. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”
CHAPTER 29
Hidden underground trophy room at the Graystone Fields Ranch
The dining table had been set so that Michael Hateley’s three guests all had a clear view of the centerpiece section of wall that was the focus of his luxurious, underground endangered species trophy room.
The dinner — consisting of a truffle salad, Szechwan green beans, glazed Georgian yams, and young Alaskan Moose steaks easily cut with a fork, followed by an almond creme brule and savory fresh-ground Brazilian coffee, all served by Hateley’s personal chef from a heated stainless steel cart- provided a pleasant distraction from the issues yet to be discussed; and an easy topic of muted conversation among men who had known and engaged with each other for almost two decades.
But finally — after Hateley’s butler had filled each crystal sniffer with a generous portion of rare French Brandy, distributed fine Cuban cigars all around, placed the carafe in the center of the South African yellow-wood table, and then quietly departed — Dr. Stuart Jackson Caldreaux raised his glass in salute.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “once again, thanks to our host this evening, we have been privileged to indulge ourselves with the best that life has to offer. If I may be so bold as to offer a toast: to Michael Hateley, a man who savors life to the fullest and graciously shares that life with his friends.”
The three men facing the empty centerpiece all raised the brandy sniffers in salute. Michael Hateley acknowledged their appreciation with a brief nod of his head.
“And, having said that,” Caldreaux went on, “I would like to start the evening’s discussion off with a serious question to our esteemed host.”
Suddenly, the underground room grew silent.
“Why is it, do you think, Michael,” Caldreaux said quietly in his deep Louisiana drawl, “that my friends and I were recently informed that we are no longer welcome to hunt rare game in the wildlife preserves of Thailand; and that if we persist in our amusements, we would either be taken into custody or shot on sight?”
“I’m told…” Hateley began, but then stopped when Caldreaux held up his hand in a pausing gesture.
“To further focus my question, Michael, could it possibly have anything to do with the empty centerpiece on your wall that Max, Sam and I have been staring at for the past two hours?”
Michael Hateley briefly closed his eyes, took in a deep steadying breath, and then locked his gaze on his accuser, annoyed because he’d already explained the Clouded Leopard situation to Caldreaux; which meant his chief competitor in the trophy stakes was taking the opportunity probe deeper into his affairs, and to gain a useful edge in their annual competition.
Fine with me, Stuart, Hateley thought, your rooster tail’s going to be drooping sadly by the time this dinner is over.
“When I originally made plans for this dinner,” he began, looking around at all three men, “it was my intent that all of you would dine under the gaze of a trophy Clouded Leopard, the likes of which have not been seen on this planet for at least five hundred years; and that you would all be envious of my accomplishment for at least a few weeks — until each of you could book a similar hunt to bag a similar trophy.”
The other three men around the table briefly favored each other with amu
sed glances. The idea that this was a highly motivated group of cut-throat competitors determined to win at any cost had never been in question.
“It was a reasonable intent, because I recently shot that animal in the Khlong Saeng Wildlife Preserve of southern Thailand.”
This time, the exchanged glances among Hateley’s three guests were longer and more meaningful.
“So you were involved in the Phuket incident that got us tossed out of Thailand,” Sam Fogarty said accusingly.
“I’m not sure the word ‘incident’ accurately describes the situation,” Max Kingman added. “I understand two helicopters were shot down, and a number of Thai Rangers were killed.”
“I don’t know anything about helicopters being shot down, or anyone getting killed; certainly not during our hunt,” Hateley said emphatically. “We did have a brief confrontation with some Rangers on patrol that night, but I believe everything was resolved amicably with an appropriate exchange of cash. They drove away and we continued on with our business. However, some kind of unfortunate event apparently did happen at a checkpoint later on — after I’d left Thailand — which resulted in the loss of my Clouded Leopard; and, it seems, our Thai hunting privileges being revoked, at least for the time being.”
The other three men looked at each other uneasily.
“Let me assure you, I regret that as much as anyone in this room; and I promise you that I’m going to do whatever it takes — and pay whatever it costs — to get that situation turned around as quickly as possible,” Hateley went on forcefully. “But, in the meantime, I also want you to know how much I value our friendship, and our little club; so much so that I am going to do something tonight that I never thought I would ever do.”
The three men were watching Hateley intently now.
“What I’m going to do is offer to share my next hunt with all three of you,” Hateley said. “A once-in-a-lifetime hunt that, if all goes well, will provide each of us with a trophy beyond our wildest dreams.”
“As you well know, Michael, ’beyond your wildest dreams’ is a mighty big mountain to climb, especially where my dreams and aspirations are concerned,” Caldreaux drawled before taking a sip from his brandy sniffer. “What exactly are you talking about?”