“I have many friends,” Arroya replied and patted his belly. “Not to mention all the restaurateurs I keep in business.”
Tanner laughed. “Now, let’s see about Pulau Sekong.” The man Arroya felt could help was a distant cousin named Segung. Segung, he said, was something of an adventurer—part smuggler, part charter captain, and part Robin Hoodesque pirate. “Can I trust him?” Briggs asked.
“Can you pay him?” Arroya countered.
“Yes.”
“Then yes, you can trust him. But,” he added, “you might want to put some fear into him. If he thinks he can take advantage of you, he will do so.”
They found Segung at his slip in the Kalepa, polishing the handrails of his sixty-six-foot cabin cruiser. The Tija was sleek and white, with a sharp bow and a swept-back pyramidal superstructure covered in charcoal tinted glass.
The Indonesian smuggling trade must be lucrative, Tanner decided.
“Segung!” Arroya called.
Segung looked up. He was Arroya’s complete opposite: tall and sinewy, with a full head of wavy black hair. “Ah, cousin, how are you! Come aboard!”
They stepped onto the afterdeck and Arroya introduced Tanner. “A good friend of mine, Segung. He’d like to hire you.”
Segung grinned, displaying a gold tooth. “At your service. As luck would have it, I’m free.”
“Glad to hear it. With a boat like this, I’m surprised you weren’t hired by the Chinese.”
“Ah, well, Trulau has his own yacht, you see, and he is the delegation’s unofficial host during their stay. I considered sabotage, but decided against it.”
Though he said it with a smile, Tanner got the impression he wasn’t kidding. “Why’s that?”
“Trulau is an unforgiving sort. If he found out I damaged that barge of his, my business might suffer. And business, my friend, is everything.”
“If Trulau’s yacht weren’t available, yours would be the next logical choice?”
“Oh, yes. Next to his there is no finer vessel in Java than the Tija. So, how can I be of service?”
“How much for the day?”
Segung frowned. “Oh, is that all you want? One day? Perhaps you might be more comfortable with a more modest vessel.”
“If I like what I see, I may want to hire you for the week.”
“You have cash?”
“Yes.”
“American?”
“If you prefer.”
“Five hundred for the afternoon.”
Tanner reached into his pocket, peeled off five one-hundred-dollar bills, and handed them across. “Since you’re Arroya’s cousin, I’ll overlook the fact you’re charging me double the going rate. If we continue to do business, I trust you’ll rethink your fees.”
Segung locked eyes with him, then grinned. “Of course. Anything for a friend.”
Once they cleared the harbor’s breakwater and were away from shore, the ocean became glassy and calm. The sky was an unblemished blue save for a few cotton ball clouds. After an hour’s sailing, Segung called from the flying bridge, “Pulau Sekong dead off the starboard bow.”
From his spot on the foredeck, Tanner raised his binoculars. Five miles distant he could see Solon Trulau’s island, two great spires of jagged rock joined together by a saddle of rain forest. Nestled between the spires was a cove surrounded by the churned white line of a coral reef. Arroya was right: If this wasn’t the island from the Bond movie, it was a close match. The only thing missing was Herve Villachez trotting down the beach carrying a martini on a silver platter.
Arroya said, “Trulau’s estate is halfway up the slope, near the spire.”
Briggs scanned up the mountainside until he spotted the white, plantation-style mansion. “That must have been quite a task to build,” he said.
“He has the money. There’s a helicopter pad at the top of the access road.”
That could complicate things, Tanner thought. Timing and stealth were going to be vital. If he failed to grab Soong without being detected, their escape would be short-lived. Movie portrayals notwithstanding, trying to outrun a helicopter at sea was a losing proposition.
“Segung,” Tanner called, “how close can we get without attracting attention?”
“A mile, no closer. Throw out a couple fishing lines. We’ll troll for mahi.”
They spent the next hour circling the shore as Tanner studied the terrain, picking out promising entry and exit points and working through scenarios until he had settled on a rough plan. Much would depend on what he saw when the delegation arrived, but he felt better now having a direction.
He ordered Segung to head for home.
Reeling in his line, Arroya asked, “What do you think? It can be done?”
It was feasible, Tanner knew, but as with most operations, the gap between feasibility and success was wide indeed. Everything can work flawlessly on paper, only to go to hell once you were on the ground. Then again, he thought, there was something to be said for positive thinking.
“It can be done,” Tanner answered.
The first step was to get Segung hired. Trulau’s yacht had to become unavailable.
As the afternoon began to wind down, Tanner sat on the dock beside Arroya’s rowboat, dangling his feet in the water and brainstorming. By dusk he’d settled on a plan. He jotted down a list of what he heeded and gave it to Arroya, who looked it over. “I can have it within the hour.”
“Thanks. After you’re done, pick up Segung and go out to dinner. Make sure you’re noticed.”
“Why?”
“Alibi. Stay out until midnight, then meet me back here.”
Trulau’s yacht was anchored a half mile south of the Sekunda Kalepa in the middle of the Ancol Marina. Tanner studied it through his binoculars until night had fully fallen and the marina’s traffic tapered off. Light clouds had closed over Jakarta, partially obscuring the moon and dulling the reflection of the city’s lights on the water.
He packed his materials into the watertight rucksack Arroya had purchased, donned the swim fins and mask, slipped into the water, and started stroking toward the marina.
When he was a hundred yards off the yacht’s port side, he stopped. Under the glow of the amber deck lights he counted two guards, one stationed on the fantail, the second roving between the forecastle and afterdeck. He watched for another ten minutes until certain the rover wasn’t varying his route or timing, then took a breath, ducked under, and stroked toward the bow.
The white keel slowly emerged from the gloom before him. He groped until his fingers found the anchor chain, then surfaced beneath the bow. He went still and listened.
A few seconds passed before he heard the click of footsteps on the deck above. The footsteps grew louder, then stopped. Feet shuffling. He smelled cigarette smoke. After a minute, the guard turned and walked off.
Moving fast now, he shed his mask and fins, hooked them to the anchor chain, then shimmied up the chain, chinned himself level with the deck, and crawled under the railing. The deck was empty. From the ruck he withdrew a towel, dried himself off and mopped up any telltale puddles from the deck.
He sprinted across the forecastle to the cabin, opened the sliding-glass door, and slipped inside.
He was in the main salon: Furnished with walnut captain’s chairs, leather couches, and thick shag carpet, the space oozed luxury. Everything was dark and quiet except for the hiss of the air-conditioning. Briggs felt goose bumps on his skin.
Outside, a guard strolled past the cabin windows and disappeared onto the foredeck.
Tanner crossed the cabin and trotted down the aft companionway steps.
Ahead lay five doors, two on each side of the passageway and one at the end. Engine spaces, Tanner guessed. As he neared the door he could hear the hum of machinery. He eased it open. The hum was louder now. A set of metal stairs led downward. At the bottom he found a long catwalk bordered by a pair of diesel engines. Tucked into
the corner beside the starboard engine he found what he’d come for: the main generator.
He knelt down, unzipped the rucksack, and withdrew a wax ball about the size of an apricot. Filled with a mixture of common household cleaners, the ball was not only the fruition of Arroya’s shopping list, but also a crude “binary bomb” designed to detonate when the fuel in the generator’s tank eroded the wax and reached the core.
While the explosion would not be enough to sink the yacht, it would certainly destroy the generator and perhaps the starboard engine as well. With no mechanical bomb components to be found in the wake of the explosion, the yacht’s demise would hopefully be written off as an act of God.
Tanner dropped the ball into the tank, then retraced his steps into the main salon, where he waited until the guard had passed by and disappeared from view. Briggs opened the door, sprinted to the bow, lowered himself over the side and back into the water.
Arroya was sitting in his rowboat under the glow of a lantern when Tanner swam up. Startled, Arroya clicked on a flashlight and shined it in Tanner’s face. “Oh, good lord, it’s you.”
“Give me a hand.”
Arroya took his fins and mask then helped him aboard. “Everything went well?”
“So far. Now we find out how good my chemistry is. Where’s Segung?”
“Out dancing. He met a woman. I doubt he’ll be going home tonight.” Arroya opened a cooler at his feet. “I thought you might be hungry, so I brought you leftovers: Capi cai udang.”
“Pardon me?” Tanner said, accepting the carton.
“It’s a mix of fried rice, vegetables, and shrimp. Very good. Cold beer, too.”
Tanner took a gulp of beer and sighed. “Thanks.”
They talked and ate until Tanner got drowsy. He settled back and drifted off to sleep.
Some time later they were jolted awake by what sounded like distant thunder echoing across the water. Tanner sat up and grabbed the binoculars and focused them on Trulau’s yacht Smoke was pouring through a jagged tear in the starboard side.
“Good lord,” Arroya murmured. “Do you see the guards?”
“No, I—wait. There they are. They’re okay.”
Arroya chuckled. “Goodness, Briggs, you put a hole in Trulau’s boat.”
Tanner shrugged. “Too much pepper in the recipe.”
“Indeed. Now what?”
“Now we wait and pray Segung gets a job offer tomorrow.”
27
White House
“Bottom line, Dick: how’s Irkutsk going to affect the election?” asked President Martin.
Flip a coin, the DCI thought. When it came to elections in Russia, projection polls could be dead-on one day and out the window the next, which had as much to do with the multitude of pollsters in Moscow’s circuslike political scene as it did with the vagaries of public opinion.
“It’s still ten days away, Mr. President,” Mason replied. “A lot can happen. Initially, however, this can only help Bulganin. He was speaking out before the Kremlin even acknowledged the incident. In fact, given Bulganin’s tone, I wouldn’t be surprised if he tries to ride this all the way to election day.”
“How?”
“Speeches, news conferences, public rallies, special editions of the RPP newsletter.”
“Anything from the Kremlin?”
“They’re being drowned out. From a PR perspective, they’re in the unenviable position of having to not only deal with the problem, but also refute Bulganin’s accusations. The public is swarming to his version of events—true or not.”
“I agree,” said Bousikaris. “Regardless of why, Federation soldiers gunned down over fifty unarmed citizens. There’s no making that disappear, and the current president is going to have a tough time taking the high ground away from Bulganin.”
“Have we learned anything more about this guy? He can’t be that big a mystery.”
“Bulganin is an icon, Mr. President—a representation of what Russian voters think is missing from their government,” Mason said. “That’s Nochenko’s touch; he knows what moves the people.”
“Are you trying to tell us there’s nothing to Bulganin?” Bousikaris asked. “I don’t buy that.”
“There’s something to him—probably quite a lot, in fact. The rub is, what exactly?”
It was the same question many people had asked about Hitler in the 1930s, and compared to Bulganin, Hitler was downright chatty. By the time the Wehrmacht invaded Poland, Hitler had told so many lies his neighbors didn’t know which way was up. If anything, Bulganin’s PR skills were more in line with those of Stalin: Say nothing, and when pressed for details, say less.
“In fact, it’s Bulganin’s caginess that’s making a lot of the Federation’s neighbors nervous,” Mason continued. “Every time he gains ground in the polls, the EC markets twitch.”
Martin’s intercom buzzed. Bousikaris picked it up, listened, then hung up. “Call for you, Dick.”
Mason walked to the coffee table and picked up the phone. “Mason. Yes, Sylvia … ” Mason listened for several minutes, asked a few questions, then hung up.
“What is it?” asked Martin.
“There’s been an accident in Russia. The cause is still unclear, but it sounds like the reactor in Chita vented some gas into the atmosphere.”
“Where’s Chita?”
“About nine hundred miles east of Irkutsk and three hundred miles north of the Chinese border.”
“Any word on a cause or severity?”
“No. Same with casualty figures, but we should be ready for the worst. It was a MOX reactor.”
Martin said, “Explain.”
“MOX is short for mixed-oxide,” Mason replied. “A lot of European and Asian countries are using it to dispose of old radioactive cores—called pits—from disassembled nuclear weapons. The process takes the cores, turns them into a powder, then mixes that with standard feedstock uranium.
“The stock burns efficiently, but the problem is, plutonium is just about the deadliest toxin on earth. A single grain inhaled into the lungs can cause cancer; worse still, the half-life of the stuff is twenty-four thousand years. If it gets into the high atmosphere … Well, you can imagine.”
“God almighty,” Martin said.
“First thing’s first, we need to confirm all this, then we need to find out what Moscow’s doing. We’ll want to put Energy on alert, have them prep some NEST teams,” Mason said, referring to Nuclear Emergency Search Team. “Even if Moscow doesn’t ask for help, we need to be ready to offer it—hell, force it on them, if necessary. This is not a time for piecemeal measures. It wouldn’t take much of that stuff to kill a whole lot of people.”
“Be specific, Dick.”
“That’s a question best answered by Energy. It’s going to depend on the size of the leak, the type of gas vented, weather conditions … We have very few facts right now.”
“Then get some,” Martin said. “Quick.”
The Chinese Embassy’s request for an audience reached Bousikaris’s desk just hours after Mason’s news. As the PRC had already called for a meeting of the UN Security Council, Bousikaris was unsurprised by the request, but was nonetheless wary as the ambassador was escorted into the Oval Office. Their first and only meeting with the ambassador had proven—was proving—costly.
Ever the politician, Martin walked from behind his desk to greet the ambassador. “Mr. Ambassador, a pleasure to see you again. The circumstances are unfortunate, of course, but such is life.”
“Indeed it is, Mr. President. I thought it important we talk before the Security Council meeting.”
“Certainly. Please sit down. We’re still gathering facts about the accident, so we don’t have much more information than a few hours ago.”
“Nor do we. Which brings me to the reason for my visit. As you may know, there is a significant Chinese diaspora in southern Russia, much of which is located in and around Chita.
With the Federation’s blessing, our people emigrate to the Siberian republics to live and work with the native Russians there.
“Early reports indicate there are Chinese citizens employed at the reactor site in question. We think it’s safe to say they will be among the casualties.”
“We’re sorry to hear that, Mr. Ambassador,” Martin said. “We’ll keep them in our prayers.”
“Very kind. If only prayers were enough. You see, this is the fourth accident in eighteen months in which Chinese lives have been lost.”
“Mr. Ambassador we don’t yet know if any lives were lost—Chinese or otherwise.”
“Given the type of reactor, I think it likely.”
“Perhaps. You mentioned three other accidents …”
“Two mine cave-ins and an ammunition depot explosion. In all, nearly twelve hundred Chinese citizens have lost their lives on Russian soil in the last two years.”
Martin glanced at Bousikaris, who said, “We know of those incidents, but we weren’t aware any of your citizens were involved.”
“The ever-efficient Russian propaganda machine at work. You see, our citizens have become a valuable part of their workforce, accepting many jobs native Russians don’t want.”
Where’s this going? Bousikaris thought. The ambassador was clearly leading up to something, and he doubted it was a lesson in international labor issues. “Are you saying the Russian government has conspired to cover up the deaths of over a thousand Chinese citizens?” he asked.
“I am.”
“That’s a harsh accusation. I hope your government exercises discretion before making any formal charges.”
“Whether we level formal charges or not will depend entirely on the Security Council meeting. Of course, we will be demanding the Federation take steps to ensure the safety of our citizens. In Moscow’s eyes they may be immigrants, but to us they are family—regardless of where they live.”
“What kind of steps do you have in mind?” asked Martin.
“We’ll leave that to them. Too many Chinese have died because of Russian negligence, and it is high time Moscow address the issue.”
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