Wall of Night

by Grant Blackwood

  Now it’s negligence, Bousikaris thought. In a court of law, charges of death by negligence and conspiracy add up to murder. The ambassador had just taken a very dangerous leap. Bousikaris could see the trap looming before them.

  “I’m sure the Federation will do everything it can to help,” President Martin said. “But, I have to ask: If, for whatever reason, their response doesn’t satisfy your concerns, what will you do?”

  “We’re hopeful the Federation will be properly responsive.”

  “With respect, sir, that doesn’t answer my question.”

  “Mr. President, I can tell you this: The People’s Republic is committed to ensuring the welfare of its citizens. To this end, we will do whatever is necessary.”

  “Are there any measures you will not consider?”

  “Given the seriousness of the situation, we will consider every option.”

  In failing to rule out military action, the ambassador had just put the option on the table.

  “Again,” the ambassador said, “We hope this will be settled in a reasonable manner. We have no reason to think otherwise.”

  Ask the question, Phil …

  “I assume your counterparts in Great Britain and France have paid similar visits to those country’s respective leaders?”

  “No.”

  “Then why have you come to us?”

  “I’ve been instructed by my premier to make clear his hope that China can count on your help should this situation escalate any further.”

  There it is, Bousikaris thought. They’re coming back for a second drink at the well. Diplomatic niceties aside, this was another ultimatum.

  Martin said, “Define what you mean by ‘help.’”

  Ignoring protocol, the ambassador stood up, ending the meeting. “We’ll let tomorrow take care of tomorrow, Mr. President. If we need to talk again, I’ll contact Mr. Bousikaris for an appointment.”

  USS Columbia

  ​Three days out of Pearl Harbor, Columbia was nearing the Kent Seamount, four hundred miles northeast of Midway Island. Captain Archie Kinsock was standing beside one of the blue-lit plotting tables when Jurens walked into the control room. Kinsock waved him over.

  “We lost?” Sconi said with a smile.

  “Not so far.”

  Jurens had gotten to know Kinsock over the last few days. Though often gruff, Kinsock knew his job and didn’t take himself too seriously, which showed in not only how smoothly the boat ran, but in the demeanor of the crew.

  “Where are we, Captain?” Jurens asked.

  “Make it Archie when we’re alone?”

  Jurens nodded. “Call me Sconi.”

  “Interesting name.”

  “Born and raised in Wisconsin. We’re nearly famous—not a whole lotta black dairy farmers in Wisconsin.”

  Kinsock laughed. “I can imagine. To answer your question, we’re near Midway. From here we’ll keep heading northeast until we reach the Intersection.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s the nickname for the point where the Emperor and Chinook troughs meet south of the Aleutians.” Kinsock flipped through several layers of charts until he found one showing the ocean floor. He pointed to a groove nestled inside what looked to Jurens like the spiny back of a giant lizard. “From there we head north to the Aleutian Trench.”

  “The big deep.”

  “Four miles and twenty thousand feet worth. Of course, we’d be long dead before we saw the bottom of that. Red paste in a can.”

  “Thanks for the imagery.”

  “Don’t worry about it—you’d never feel a thing.”

  “Is this why you wanted to see me, Archie? A navigation lesson?”

  “No. It’s our orders. I’m not trying to talk you into anything, but I’ve got a few concerns.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as why I’m being told exactly where to launch my missiles.”

  “What do you mean ‘exactly’?”

  “Down to a GPS lock—a few meters either way.”

  This was unusual, Jurens admitted. While submarine commanders were usually given a LZ, or launch zone, the precise launch point was traditionally left up to the captain. Given how close Columbia would be to the Russian coast, a tight LZ made sense, but to micromanage the launch point like that … He understood Kinsock’s worry.

  “Any explanation offered?” Jurens asked.

  “None.”

  “What do you want to do? It’s your boat.”

  Kinsock sighed. “Play it by ear. Hell, tight LZ or not, it won’t matter. From periscope to missile launch, we can be in and out in two minutes. Ain’t nobody gonna sneak up on us in that short a time.”

  28

  Jakarta

  Tanner was pulling the VW into the airport’s parking lot when he heard the whine of a jet engine overhead. He looked up in time to see the broad belly of the 747 cross the terminal buildings and disappear toward the runway. When it passed, he caught a glimpse of Chinese tail markings.

  As he got out and started across the loading lane, a convoy of three limousines and two charter buses surrounded by motorcyclists from the Jakarta Police Satgasus traffic squad roared around the corner and stopped beside the curb.

  Tanner walked into the terminal and took the escalator up to the second level, where he found a seat in the lounge overlooking the runways. Four commercial aircraft were taxiing about, either waiting for a gate or waiting for clearance to lift off.

  After five minutes the Chinese 747 rolled into view following the hand signals of a ground director, who steered it toward a trio of gate slots. Tanner walked down the concourse to a café near the gate area, ordered a beer, and sat back to watch.

  There was no mistaking which gate belonged to the Chinese delegation. A dozen POLRI—or Indonesian National Police—in dress-white uniforms stood at attention along the lounge’s perimeter, while nearer the gate a cluster of city politicians milled about.

  First off the jetway was an elderly Chinese man who Tanner assumed was the delegation ambassador. He shook hands with the politicians, smiled through the introductions and photographs, then allowed himself to be led away by a phalanx of POLRI and Chinese security men.

  The rest of the delegation began disembarking. Tanner scanned faces, looking for Soong’s until the last passenger was off the jetway and the delegation began moving down the concourse. Briggs felt a jolt of panic in his chest. Soong wasn’t aboard.

  Tanner ran through the possibilities: bad information from the CIA’s Beijing contact; a last minute cancellation from the Guoanbu; Soong was coming via another route … or a trap.

  No, the chances of that were—

  He heard voices from the jetway. He turned.

  Two beefy-looking Chinese men in charcoal suits stepped off the jetway, paused a moment to survey the lounge, then turned and nodded to someone behind them.

  The man that came out next was short and stooped, with silver hair and a heavily creased face. The eyes, though, were exactly as Briggs remembered: sad and wise, but somehow good-humored, like those of a grandfather who’d seen the worst of life and yet made peace with it.

  Tanner felt like a stone was sitting on his chest. Han …

  He’d imagined this moment a hundred times, and suddenly here it was. He felt the sting of tears and suddenly realized how tightly he’d been holding on to the hope of seeing Soong alive again.

  He forced himself to wait five minutes, then took the escalator down to the concourse. He wandered into a gift shop and started browsing while keeping one eye fixed on the windows. At the curb, the last of the delegation was boarding the buses.

  When the lead vehicle started moving, Tanner started walking. By the time he hit the doors, the rear guard of Satgasus motorcycles was pulling away.

  An hour later he pulled into the Grand Hyatt’s parking lot. Across Kebon Street he could see the last of the limousines pulling to a stop beneath
the Melia’s canopied turnaround. Engines roaring, the Satgasus riders raced ahead to seal off both entrances. Traffic on the Kebon slowed to a crawl. Horns started honking.

  The VW’s side door opened and Arroya got in. “Everything okay?”

  Tanner nodded. “He’s in the third limousine.”

  “I have good news and bad news. First, the good: Segung’s yacht has been chartered by the Chinese. They’ve ordered him to be at Ancol Marina at six o’clock for inspection. The bad: Trulau has demanded a kickback from Segung’s charter fee. Segung is demanding that you pay—”

  “That’s fine.”

  “It will be three thousand U.S., Briggs—”

  “Tell him he gets half now, half when it’s over.”

  “Very well. I rented our boat; it’s at the Kalepa.”

  “Good. What else?”

  “My bellhop friend says there will be a welcoming ceremony for the delegates from four until six, then cocktails and dinner until nine. If your friend is going to the island, it will likely be after that.”

  Tanner nodded. “Tell Segung to be ready between midnight and two.”

  Arroya ran the boat at full power until he was three miles from Pulau Sekong, then doused the navigation lights and turned off the engine. On the forecastle, Tanner listened to the waves lap at the hull. The sky was bright and clear, with stars sprinkled across the blackness.

  “Anything?” Arroya whispered.

  “No. If anyone’s interested in us, we’ll know soon enough.” However unlikely, it was possible Trulau and/or the Chinese would have boats patrolling the coastline. “Take down the canopy; if they’ve got a navigation radar worth a damn, they’ll spot it.”

  Arroya rolled back the bridge’s cover and tied it off. “How long do we wait?”

  “Another half-hour should do it.”

  The time passed without incident. Briggs waved to the flying bridge. Arroya fired up the engines and throttled up. “The north side of the island?” he called.

  “Yes. With any luck, there’ll be less chance of being spotted there. I’m going to check the gear. Call me when we’re a mile out.”

  Twenty minutes later he heard a double stomp on the cabin ceiling and stepped onto the deck.

  Arroya said, “Two miles.”

  “Okay, shut of the engines and let her drift.”

  Arroya did so, then joined him on the afterdeck. Tanner sat down on the gunwale and donned his fins as Arroya slipped the rucksack’s straps over his shoulders. “What’s in here?”

  “Blankets and dry clothes.” If in fact Soong had spent the last twelve years in a laogi, his immune system was probably shot. “By the time we reach the raft, he’s going to be cold and wet. Spending the night like that could kill him.”

  “Yes, I see. You care very much for him, yes?”

  Tanner nodded. “I do.”

  “He’s lucky to have a friend like you.”

  We’ll see, Tanner thought.

  Arroya walked into the cabin and returned with the patched-over zodiac raft they’d purchased earlier in the day. The accompanying trolling motor had been absurdly expensive, but its noiseless engine would be invaluable. The downside was the battery: At its full output, it would last only five hours. They’d need every bit of that to get away before Soong’s watchers discovered his absence.

  “Long way to swim towing a raft,” Arroya said. “I can get us closer, you know.”

  “This is close enough.” Tanner spit into his mask, then dipped it into the water. “Besides, I want you far away from here by the time the Tija arrives.”

  “Briggs, I can help—”

  “Thank you, but no.”

  Once this was over, Tanner knew, Arroya would still have to live here; the less involvement he had, the better. Tanner had come to like Arroya, and the last thing the Javan needed was the Chinese and Indonesian security agencies interested in him.

  Arroya said, “You know, with my belly, I am probably a better swimmer than you.”

  Tanner smiled. “I believe it.”

  He checked his watch: Nine-twenty. The Tija would just be leaving Ancol Marina.

  He turned around on the gunwale and lowered himself into the water. Arroya slid the raft overboard and handed him the painter line.

  “I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow morning,” Arroya said. “Be safe.”

  “You, too. Don’t forget to bring breakfast.”

  Once the boat had disappeared into the darkness and he could no longer hear the engines, Tanner checked his wrist compass, then started toward the island in an easy, energy-saving sidestroke. The sea was calm, with only a slight chop, but he could feel the surge of the current beneath him.

  Thirty minutes later the spires of Pulau Sekong emerged out of the darkness. Around the base of the cliffs Briggs could see foam breaking against the rocks. To his left, hidden by the curve of the headland, would be Trulau’s private cove.

  He picked up his stroke and before long he was treading water at the foot of the cliffs. The roar of the surf was thunderous; great plumes of spray crashed off the rocks. He turned parallel to the cliff and swam until he spotted a pocket of beach, then spent ten minutes negotiating the tide until he was able to drag himself ashore. He flipped the raft onto its back and pushed it into the shadows under the cliff.

  Suddenly, from above, a beam of light swept over. He froze. The beam glided along the waterline and over the rocks, then blinked out. Briggs craned his head until he could see the top of the cliff and the silhouetted figure standing there. After a few minutes, the guard walked on.

  Tanner began picking his way over the rocks, wriggling through nooks and crannies until finally the cove came into view.

  Tija was already at anchor, and drifting gently around her chain. Her exterior lights were lit, and under their glow Tanner could see four figures: one each on the forecastle and afterdeck, and another two walking along the port and star-board railing. Inside the cabin, a single yellow light glowed.

  Tanner checked his watch. Come on, come on …

  After a few minutes a lone figure stepped out of the cabin, strolled to the railing, and lit a cigarette. The figure smoked for a few minutes, then stooped to tie his shoe and returned inside. Atta boy … Segung’s signal told Tanner everything he needed to know: The guards were posted and Soong was asleep in his cabin.

  Tanner began donning his fins. Time to see an old friend again.

  29

  Washington, D.C.

  Mary Tsang’s ad ran in the Post’s Saturday edition.

  Paul Randall and Janet Paschel spent the morning sharing surveillance duty on her apartment. At noon, Tsang stepped out her door wearing sweatpants, sweatshirt, and running shoes, then got into her car and drove off. Paschel called Latham. “She’s moving, Charlie. I’m passing Florida and Q. I don’t know if it means anything, but it looks like she’s dressed for a workout.”

  “Maybe something,” Latham replied. In the ten days they’d been watching Tsang, the most exercise she’d performed was carrying grocery bags from her car. However subtle, this was a change in behavior. Better safe than sorry, Latham thought. “Where’s Paul?” he asked.

  “Went to grab some lunch.”

  “Call him and see if he can rustle up some sweatpants, then have him meet you.”

  As it happened, Randall was only five minutes from his own apartment when Paschel called. He changed clothes and began heading toward Paschel’s location. “Passing the Spectrum Gallery on M Street,” she reported. “Looks like she’s trying to find a parking spot.”

  “Good luck,” Randall replied. “I know that area. Finding a spot there on a Saturday morning is going to be a trick.”

  Latham asked. “Doesn’t a jogging trail start around there—the one that goes to the zoo?”

  “We’re passing Thirty-first,” Paschel announced.

  “Yeah, you’re right. It starts on Prospect.”

  �
��You may have called it,” Paschel said, “She’s turning toward Prospect … slowing down now … yep, she’s looking for a spot.”

  “I’ll be there in five minutes,” Latham said. “Paul?”

  “Less than that.”

  Whatever aversion Tsang had to exercise, it wasn’t apparent as she parked her car and started jogging northeast toward Rock Creek Park and the National Zoo.

  Following Paschel’s directions, Randall took a few shortcuts and found a parking spot on P Street, then got out and started stretching. A few minutes later Tsang jogged past him.

  “I’ve got her,” Randall called over the cell phone. “Damn, she’s moving fast.”

  “Stay with her,” Latham said. “Dinner’s on me if you do.”

  “I’ll hold you to it.”

  Tsang headed down Q Street to where it crossed the jogging path bordering Rock Creek, then turned north, following the trail into the park’s half-mile-wide forest of spruce and pine. She never once looked over her shoulder, Randall noted. In fact she seemed to be in a hurry, so focused was she on the path ahead.

  A mile into the park she turned east onto a narrow path. The wooden sign at the intersection read “Steep trail—For experienced hikers and joggers only.”

  “Just great,” Randall muttered, and pushed on.

  Tsang began to slow as the grade increased. Randall adjusted his pace accordingly. The trees crowded the trail until branches brushed his arms and the canopy blotted out the sun. He took a bend in the trail and found himself on a straightaway. Fifty yards ahead, Tsang was rounding the next corner. Randall sprinted ahead and made the turn: another straightaway, this one downhill …

  What’s this? He stopped and backpedaled out of sight.

  Tsang, barely ten yards ahead of him, was emerging from the trees along the path.

  Randall waited five seconds, then peeked around the corner. She was gone. He started out again, studying the underbrush as he passed it. He saw nothing.