Conspiracy of Fire

by Tony Bulmer

  Karyn smiled. “Yes, perhaps some other time.”

  Calista Johnston nodded, paused then leaned forwards in her chair, placing her bony hand lightly, lingeringly on Karyn’s knee. “There is going to be a fundraising event tonight at The

  Fountainhead Country Club, it promises to be quite the most glittering occasion the Islands have seen in years. Anyone who is anyone will be there, perhaps you would care to join me as my guest?”

  “I am flattered, but my work schedule is kind of hectic.”

  The boney hand remained on Karyn’s knee, caressed it lightly then withdrew slowly,

  reluctantly. Calista Johnston cracked her sun bleached smile. “Very well then my dear, it is decided. We shall see you tonight at eight.”

  16

  The parking garage was dark, much darker than Karyn remembered it. As she emerged from the private lift, and stepped out onto the cold hard concrete, the dark subterranean world closed in immediately. She reached for her gun right away, her senses moving on instinct.

  “Hey, keep your maws where I can see them Kane.”

  Karyn made a half turn.

  “Hold it right there, sweetheart. No sudden moves, or I am liable to pop you right here and now.”

  Karyn turned around anyway, a look of displeasure twitching across her face, and there he was—Detective Kibishi from the Honolulu Police Department.

  “You are some kind of cold bitch Kane, locking your little boyfriend in the trunk of the car like that. He could have smothered, or suffocated, or some damn thing, am I right? How would you like to be slammed in the trunk of some car, like that—end up all croaked out, like a little lap dog on a summers day—because that is what you are Kane, a government lap dog, sticking your nasty little broken snout into business that doesn’t concern you.”

  Karyn looked Kibishi over. “You begging me to crack you on the other side of your face Kibishi? Because you ask me real nice, I will.”

  “You got a smart mouth Kane, considering it’s just you and me alone in this dark parking lot. You ever figure what could happen to a smart-­‐

  assed bitch like you, thousands of miles from home and all on your lonesome?”

  “Where is Verner?”

  “We picked up your little enviro-­‐weenie chum, don’t you worry about that. You should have seen his purple face when my boys pulled him out the trunk. That little prick was mouthing off about you fit to burst, let me tell you. I had to bust him in the chops, just to get a word in edgeways.”

  “I bet that made you feel all tough, huh?”

  “Don’t smart mouth me Kane, Maybe you think Big Chief Mālama’s is going to come running to your rescue? Be advised he isn’t. You are all by yourself now. I could crack you in that smart little mouth of yours and chalk it down to you tripping over a shoelace or something, who’s to know?”

  Karyn nodded. Letting the comment waft past like an ugly smell. “You are a real piece of work Kibishi. Tell me, how did you find us so fast? I am guessing here, but due diligence isn’t exactly your style is it?”

  Kibishi gave a derisive snort. “Are you kidding me? We got ourselves a tracking device in Verner’s little weenie mobile—that’s right sweetheart, you are dealing with professionals now—not some beltway schmo’s who just dropped out of the goombah tree.”

  “So you figured you would just swoop in, did you Kibishi? Make a big gesture for idiocy, while the real criminals who killed the senator are still running around out there.”

  “You just don’t get it do you? You and your little boyfriend Verner are the real criminals. I mean really—how dumb do you gotta be that you can’t figure this thing out already?”

  “You got nothing and you know it Kibishi.” “On the contrary, we got witness’ who will

  testify that your little boyfriend shot down two police detectives in cold blood, then escaped at high speed holding a leading investigator from the Department of Justice hostage—it may not be clever like you are used to Kane, but I am betting even a dumb bitch like you can figure how this one works out.”

  “Let me guess, you are going to spell it out in words as big as your ego?”

  “Shut up Kane, you are only making things worse for yourself, now turn around real slow and get down on your knees—and keep those hands high, because I got myself a hair-­‐trigger action on this 45. of mine and I would just as soon like to see your brains splattered all over this parking lot, as I would some lonely industrial wasteland, so play nice and you get to live a little longer.”

  Karyn had the angles down just as soon as she heard Kibishi’s voice. The second after her SERE training kicked into high gear—survival, evasion, resistance and escape. She had spent a thousand hours or more at The Farm training for just such an eventuality. Camp Peary near Williamsburg Virginia was where all CIA operatives started out—working out scenarios—every kind of scenario, for clandestine deployment in the field. Karyn had found the training perfunctory. The Agency had pulled her from the Office of Naval Intelligence, where she had seen more field experience than most—brutal close quarters combat of every kind—guns knives and hand to hand. There was a time when memories of those times filled her nights, but not any more. She had

  killed so many people now the number had been lost to time, like the cold dead faces of her enemies.

  And now, here she was again. Kibishi was a low level operator, from his attitude he was certainly ex military, but so low down on the totem pole it almost didn’t count for anything. Karyn turned a feint, and came back low and fast, with a spinning back kick that caught Kibishi hard on the left temple. The brutal impact would have taken down a normal person no question, but Kibishi was an iron-­‐headed homunculus of bone and muscle. Karyn spun in, trapped his gun arm and elbowed him lightning fast in the face. Then, with seamless fluency, she delivered a scything open-­‐handed blow to his neck. Kibishi sagged to his knees, a horrible inhuman rattle escaping from his lips. Karyn twisted the service issue M9 out of his slow melting fingers and clubbed him in the face with it three fast times.

  He was down then, blood trickling out of every orifice in his head.

  Karyn looked at him lying on the floor.

  She fingered the M9, thoughtfully, thinking about what Jack Senegar had said—no collateral damage—especially in local law enforcement.

  Karyn bent down, put the gun against Kibishi’s temple. He was dirty—that was confirmed now. He had intended to murder her, and frame Brad Verner for the hit, along with the deaths of the goons she had whacked down outside the bar. Karyn hesitated. If she let Kibishi live, there would be bounce back implications.

  She moved the M9 away from his temple then held it on his eye, while she checked for a pulse—it was there all right, faint, but there. Karyn

  went through his pockets, found nothing of interest except car keys. She stood, assessed the situation then pulled the magazine on the M9. She examined it carefully,
as a fast plan ran through her mind.

  People would come—she had to leave. Karyn tossed M9 on the floor, disgusted. Then pressed the door remote on Kibishi’s key fob, turning to see a midnight blue BMW flashing to the wake up call. Orders were orders. Detective Kibishi would have to take his chances. Maybe he would make it, maybe it wouldn’t. Karyn turned, walked towards the car. As she walked away a voice assailed her.

  She turned to see Kibishi propped on one elbow, holding the M9, pointing it at her. “Where are you going Kane?”

  Karyn said nothing.

  “This thing is too big to walk away from. You have no idea what you are dealing with, no idea at all.” Kibishi grinned, a bloody smile. “I am going to kill you—you know that don’t you?”

  “I figured you would,” said Karyn.

  Kibishi’s grin faded. He pulled the trigger, a soft click then nothing.

  “Army issue,” said Karyn. “Always prone to stoppages, especially when some one crimps the lips of your magazine.”

  Kibishi fumbled with the gun, trying desperately to clear the breech.

  Karyn sniffed. “What you need is special forces reliability.”

  Kibishi made a squealing noise, trying to scuttle backwards now, scrabbling away into the darkness, but it was too late, Karyn eased up the barrel of her SIG, the long bulbous silencer reaching

  out towards the target. She gave Kibishi a two tap finish—phut-­phut. She paused, feeling her teeth grind together with sudden anger. She lowered the gun, pointing it at the body and let loose on full-­‐ auto, riddling the corpse with bullets. Then, as the last cartridge case jangled on the cold, hard concrete, she turned through the gun smoke and walked away.

  17

  The Pacific First Officer Frank Buchanan sat under the halide lights on the rear deck of the Nautilus, with the gearbox from the winch motor in a hundred pieces or more. The way he figured it, the steel hawser that had sheared off when they pulled the last buoy aboard had either cut through the gearing, or damaged the pull through bearings, causing a catastrophic stoppage. Trouble was, now he had the damn thing in pieces, it was none to clear how exactly the misalignment in the winch motor had happened. Sure, he could always fit the damn thing together again and trust the outcome to dumb luck—but that would never do—he had to figure this thing out, because if the winch fritzed out whilst they were towing one of those garbage can DART buoys aboard Álvares. Would get his pants in a bunch and start mouthing off, like he was Captain Bligh or something.

  Buchanan angled the Robusto stub in the corner of his mouth and felt the reassuring bitterness of the soft Cuban tobacco flow over his gums. Two weeks, three days, and fourteen hours since he had had a drink, and he was starting to feel the burn. Usually he would be in the clear now, his system flowing free of the poison. But that damn Kellerman chick had been eating into him, with her constant bullshit—Always on his case, always mouthing off, always running to the captain with her squealing little complaints, damn her—like she was trying to prove she was better than everyone else or

  something. Why couldn’t she just knuckle down and play her part like every other crewman? Buchanan laughed quietly to himself. The Kellerman chick had something to prove—had to make like she was better than everyone else so she could feel she was equal—some kind of messed up feminist logic no doubt. The whole thing was just too crazy to even contemplate—what sort of chick would want to be cooped up for months at a time with a bunch of sea going misfits anyway? The boat was like a floating psych ward for Christ’s sake—everyone aboard from the Captain down had their issues. What kind of prima donna would actually chose to work in a nut house like this? It just didn’t make sense. It was like the girl was just trying to make trouble for herself, so she could prove some crazy assed point.

  Buchanan felt his flesh crawl, felt the aches and the nausea building. The fear was coming— harder than before, much harder. He wiped off his oil-­‐slick hands on his singlet, feeling the tremors run through him. He paused, not wanting to touch the gearing until the shaking passed. All this was down to Kellerman. The woman was a goddamn Albatross. Buchanan thought of the bottle of bourbon he had stashed for emergencies in the engineering room storage locker. The dry anticipation of possibility ran through him, his pulse building speed until he could hardly bare it. No way he could risk it. Not until the damn winch was fixed. The Kellerman chick had a nose on her, like she was a one-­‐woman temperance movement or something. He had seen her twitching about like she was trying to snout out the smell of hard liquor, a regular little sheriff’s bloodhound that girl, ever

  eager to go running to the captain and blab her findings.

  Running his tongue across his dry, sea-­‐ chapped lips, Buchanan drew a breath and looked down at the mess of gears. He could handle this, handle it like he had done a thousand times before, bolt this baby together and have her spinning cable like she had just sailed out the factory.

  On the bridge of the Nautilus ENS Mooney stared with fascination at the Automatic

  Identification System as the course of the North Korean trawler Wonsungi changed once again, like it was following them. “I cannot raise them Captain,” said Mooney, “Perhaps their systems are down, a navigation failure or something. You know what those san-­‐pan sailors are like.”

  “Correct terms at all times please Mooney.” “Sorry sir I mean I just meant to say…” “I know what you meant to say sailor. As

  long as we are flying the flag of the Federal phony navy, and I am running the helm, you will keep your salty-­seadog expressions in check are we clear?”

  “Aye-­‐aye sir.”

  “Good. Now alter course by two degrees and keep trying to reach our Korean friends would you?”

  Science Officer Kellerman looked up from the radar screen. “We make a two point alteration it will throw our schedule off by hours. I don’t know how much longer we will be able to sustain a signal on the missing buoy. If we add a couple of hours to the schedule the signal could go black before we are in recovery range.”

  Captain Álvares. Nodded. “I realize that

  Science Officer Kellerman, but I am sure you will

  understand that if we maintain our current course,

  we will converge with the Wonsungi in slightly less

  than four hours, so with your permission, it would

  perhaps be for the best to adjust our course—if we

  want to avoid having 800 tonnes of rusting North

  Korean sea junk impacting our starboard beam,

  right about breakfast time.“

  “If we give it two, maybe three hours longer

  at full speed, we can move into a new sector by

  dawn, avoid them altogether and still maintain our

  course.

  “No doubt we could Kellerman, but there

  are mission parameters to consider. If we were to

  do as you suggest, the increased fuel bur
n would

  force us to cut short our mission. And one thing you

  will grow to understand about me Science Officer—

  after you have sailed with me for rather longer than

  you have to date—is that mission objectives take

  precedence over everything. You might also know

  that our new heading will see the prevailing

  conditions run in our favor—by my calculations we

  will run down that buoy of yours ahead of time,

  which is why incidentally I run this goddamn ship

  and you will reserve your expert opinions to

  matters regarding the technological aspects of our

  mission. Are we clear?”

  “Aye-­‐aye Captain.”

  “Splendid.”

  As the Nautilus began to change course, the

  power of the ocean caught hold of the ships great

  hull, pitching it violently up then sucking it

  inexorably downwards into the horrible swirling

  darkness. Looking out over the ocean, Álvares

  noted that he could no longer see the reassuring sparkle of the distant shipping lanes. All was blackness. Nothing but the undulating night and the hiss of the ocean swell to remind them how very far they were from home. The night took hold of the ship now and with each slow passing minute the Nautilus sailed ever farther into the enveloping darkness. It was then that the call came, an automatic signal on the international distress frequency—An SOS.

  Somewhere, out there in the endless Pacific night, a dire and unprecedented emergency was taking place.

  18

  Oahu, Hawaii Lush, verdant and manicured beyond perfection, The Fountainhead Club was an Eden perched on the very edge of the world. A country club retreat for the super rich, set against an endless panorama of slow rising ocean breakers that reached deep into the night. As Karyn drove the snaking, palm-­‐lined driveway, leading to the clubhouse, a history of Art Deco glamour rose up to greet her. The place was a regular three-­‐reel movie, old Hollywood in a nouveau setting. And yet, as the dark silhouettes of the jungle foliage reached out towards her, there was something more than a latent glamour to the place, something standoffish and unsettling, looming over the island like an ancient affliction.