He sat out on his patio watching the sunrise as he drank his coffee and read the news of the world on his iPad. It was a little brisk so early, so Jeff had pulled a sweatshirt on over his boxers and T-shirt. His wife, number three, was still fast asleep upstairs. Unlike wives one and two, this one was strictly an eye-candy purchase who would look good escorting him to important events around DC once he was a cabinet member. She was fifteen years his junior, with her own ambitions. The Mercedes convertible Jeff had given her when they had only been dating for four months had opened the negotiations on their future together.
Jeff was so close now he could taste it. Though he didn’t like Danielle Reynaud any more than anyone else in DC, he understood her. She was power hungry and focused, just like him, and wasn’t afraid to do whatever needed to be done to accomplish her goals. In his view, this was called leadership, and he would be joining her team in the White House next year. Getting rid of the few obstacles had been an enjoyable task, overall.
First, there was the Democratic challenger that posed a real problem in the primary. It had cost hundreds of thousands of dollars to get the dirt on him. The man had been so damn careful, and he was intelligent. But he had also purchased a home in the Caymans that no one knew about. With enough money to the right people, Jeff was able to figure out the home was actually purchased by a pharmaceutical company for almost three million dollars, and then sold at a two-point-nine million dollar loss to the senator a month later. That home on the beach was literally “the steal of the century.” It was three hundred thousand dollars well spent from the campaign to make him “go away” before the primary.
Then there was the Republican opposition next fall. Jeff and his staff had carefully chosen the man they thought they could beat, and used all of their influence to make sure he was given the most television coverage by the media companies they had on their payroll. The one candidate who posed the largest threat in a general election had enjoyed a colorful childhood and college experience. It only took a hundred thousand dollars to find pictures and old friends who swore that Steve had sold them pot at Cornell, and had huge parties where several women came forward and said they had been groped or sexually assaulted. One of them claimed a rape from twenty years ago, which had cost Jeff a hundred thousand in cash, but also, money well spent.
The biggest problem had been Director Wallace Holstrum of the CIA. That bastard had been investigated the goddamn secretary of state of the United States! It was nothing short of treasonous. The fact that he found out the secretary was purchasing artwork stolen from countries that were listed as officially off-limits was beside the point. The secretary loved art, and she was merely saving it from those animals who would otherwise destroy it. What was the actual crime? Someone was going to pay ISIS for it, in any case.
Getting the kiddie porn on to Holstrum’s computer had been expensive. That was a half-million-dollar job. He’d needed someone good—really good—who could keep his mouth shut. He found a twenty-one-year-old college student named Stephen Burstein living in Washington, DC, who had applied for an internship at the NSA. The young man was brilliant. Jeff had convinced him that they were testing cyber-security on the CIA’s personnel to make sure foreign governments couldn’t get into the nation’s best-kept secrets. The young man was a patriot, which is why he wanted to work for the NSA in the first place. He was thrilled to have been chosen for this exciting, top secret assignment.
Jeff had written out almost twenty pages of documents for the kid to sign. It was legalese mumbo-jumbo that an Oxford professor would have a hard time understanding, never mind a young computer geek. Mr. Dennis had told Stephen it was standard for such top secret work, and basically just meant that divulging any part of the work could mean federal charges ranging from treason to espionage. While that terrified the kid, it also reinforced just how important the work was to the country. He signed and initialed it, in ten places, and then began his work. Although he didn’t understand why such picture files were being used for the security testing, that decision was above his pay grade. He did as he was told.
One month later, when he read about the CIA director being under investigation, he was horrified. He immediately called the number he had used in the past for Jeff Dennis, a man he knew only as Mr. Kompy. The number was disconnected. He had no one else to call. The police? FBI? CIA? The documents he signed had been very specific. Any acknowledgement of his involvement in the top secret operation would land him in federal prison immediately. Stephen immediately went through his computer, his server, and his phone and deleted everything related to his special project. He emptied his bank account of the five hundred thousand dollars, dropped out of school, and moved to California while he tried to figure out what to do.
Chapter 30
Beirut, Lebanon
Carl arrived at the warehouse with his truck at the appointed hour. He was armed and prepared for anything. If Ali Sawaad decided he was taking the statue without paying for it, Carl wouldn’t go down without a fight.
Sawaad was waiting for him at the warehouse when he pulled in, and Carl was relieved to see the man was alone. He pulled his truck back into the warehouse and cut the engine and climbed out. Sawaad greeted him in the traditional formal fashion, which Carl returned.
“I have a buyer and your money,” said Sawaad with a smile. He leaned closer and asked, in a quiet yet dramatic voice, “You have more where this came from?”
Carl smiled. Greedy bastard. “You understand the risks involved, but yes. If you keep paying, I’ll keep coming back.”
Ali walked to a cabinet and pulled open a closet. Inside, there were two large duffle bags full of wrapped stacks of hundred dollar bills. Carl couldn’t help but wonder if the US government had been ripped off somewhere down the line in Iraq, Afghanistan, or Syria for all this US cash to make its way here to Lebanon.
“Half a million dollars. A lot of money,” said Sawaad.
“And a priceless treasure has a price,” replied Carl. He opened the rear of the truck and showed Ali the goddess again. “For a half million, you get the truck, too. I can take your car and leave it at my hotel.”
Ali smiled. The truck would make things much easier. “Excellent,” he said. “The keys to my car are in it. Just tell me where to find it.”
Carl gave him the name of the hotel where he was staying and left with the cash. He didn’t drive to the hotel, however. He went as fast as he could to a safe house in Ramlet al-Baida, west of the city on the water. From there, he’d be on a boat the moment the sun went down, headed south to Israel where a Mossad contact would help him to a private jet headed halfway around the world.
Ali Sawaad smiled at the gorgeous goddess. He opened his laptop and typed the message to his American customer.
Payment received. Shipment leaves tomorrow for New Jersey. Will send freight tracking numbers when I have them.
Ali hit the “send” button and then called for two of his workers who would help him make the crate and transport the heavy cargo to the pier for international shipping.
***
Cheryl Cook’s computer lit up to tell her she had another e-mail intercept from Ali Sawaad in Lebanon to the secretary of state’s computer. She began reading her e-mail while at the same time, not far away in the same building, Darren Davis watched a GPS locator begin moving from a warehouse in Lebanon to the port.
Chapter 31
Oil Platform Sunrise
Apo and Bruce stood with the rest of the team on the deck looking at Jon on the monitor when McCoy back in the control room radioed over to Moose.
“Radar contacts heading this way. Looks like three ships in battle formation, skipper.”
Moose and Ripper looked at each other. Moose’s face turned red. “What the fuck? Seriously? Now? Someone get Hodges topside and get his ass up in the crow’s nest to see what’s going on. I doubt they’re here to sink an oil rig.
”
Ray Jensen took off at a run to get their sniper. Ten minutes later, Hodges was at the top of the 450-foot-tall tower with his spotter scope.
“I swear I can see the curve of the earth from up here,” he said in amazement as he scanned the azure water. “Skipper, I see three military ships. Looks like they’re flying Chinese flags. They’re red, anyway. I’m guessing destroyers or cruisers or something. Definitely military warships, and definitely on a beeline for us in military formation. Maybe two and a half klicks out. Not sure I can sink all three from here,” he said, probably only half-kidding.
“Very funny. Keep an eye on them,” said Moose. “McCoy, you copy?”
“Roger, skipper.”
“If they make contact on the radio let me know. Out.”
Ripper leaned into the monitor so he could see Jon’s face. Jon was trying his best to find the torch that had been knocked off the arm of his suit, hoping it was underneath him or within reach, but wasn’t having any luck. All he could do was move his arms in the cumbersome suit and hope he bumped into something, but he couldn’t really feel anything through the thick padding of the insulation.
“How ya doing down there, buddy?” asked Ripper.
Jon blinked twice.
“Listen, you’re doing fine. I called the president and got permission for you to pee in the suit.”
Jon smiled, which made Ripper smile.
“We’re waiting to hear back from a US Navy submarine. They’re going to help us get you out, but it’s going to take a while. I know you’re probably hungry and thirsty and maybe even cold, but you just relax and sit tight. Maybe try and sleep to pass a few hours. We’re monitoring you every second of the day, brother.”
Jon mouthed “thank you” and Ripper continued to reassure him as best he could.
Hodges popped in on the radio. “Those three warships are closing fast. One and a half kilometers, skipper.”
“McCoy!” barked Moose on the radio.
“Yes, sir!”
“Send a message to those ships. Tell them we’re a Canadian oil crew from Interglobe Oil Exploration, and we’re concerned they are getting too close.”
“Aye, aye, skipper.” McCoy tried channels ten and sixteen, and kept repeating the same message. “This is Canadian oil platform Sunrise to approaching ships. Please change your course . . .”
The Chinese ships remained silent and on their same heading.
Back on the lower deck, Ripper turned to Moose. “Ya know, skipper, with those three ships out there, our sub can’t surface. How are we gonna tell them about Jon if they can’t surface?”
Moose nodded with an angry expression. “Exactly. They’re flexing their muscles and there ain’t a damn thing we can do about it.”
Bruce interrupted. “Hey, Moose. I speak Mandarin. Let me try and get someone on the radio.”
“Go!”
Bruce and Apo jogged up to the command center of the ship, where McCoy was still on the radio getting no response. Bruce motioned for the headset. “Hey, how about I try in Chinese, okay?”
McCoy smiled and handed it to him. “Have at it!”
Bruce tried channel sixteen, barking out in Mandarin. His radio call was immediately answered, also in Mandarin. McCoy looked at Apo and shrugged. They conversed back and forth in what sounded like a hollering match. After a few minutes, Bruce signed off the radio and nodded at Apo and McCoy.
“Okay. I think I talked some sense into them. This platform wasn’t here on their last patrol, so they were coming to check us out. They thought maybe we were a new radar installation, but I convinced them we’re drilling for oil. They’re still coming through here, mostly just to piss off the Brunei government.”
“They said that?” asked McCoy.
Bruce laughed. “No, I’m paraphrasing. They’re on patrol, making sure they maintain free passage through this area that China claims as their territorial waters, even though the World Court in The Hague already said it isn’t.”
Apo shook his head. “It always seemed sort of insane, fighting over invisible lines on land, but out in the open ocean? Insane doesn’t even begin to describe it.”
“Yeah. Let’s build an island so we can stick a flag in it.” He shook his head. “The human race is whacked, my friends.”
“In the meantime, with these idiots cruising so close by, our sub can’t surface. We got a man down trapped at six hundred feet, and the John Warner is his only hope,” said McCoy.
“Yeah, we know. He’s gotta hang in there until the Chinese finish their patrol,” said Apo.
“Easy for us to say from up here,” lamented McCoy.
Chapter 32
Unnamed Tributary near Kampong Aht
The boat slowed, quietly chugging through the fast-moving brown water. They were going against the current, moving at less than ten knots as they tried to keep their engine noise quiet.
“There!” exclaimed Val, pointing to a body tangled in a fallen tree at the water’s edge.
Wie steered the boat toward the body, slowing the engine to almost a stop. Their boat glided through the narrowing river until they grabbed branches from the fallen tree and cut their engine.
Val and Kevin quickly began photographing the body.
“Let’s get a quick video,” said Val. Kevin took the cover off of his small video recorder and Val sat on the gunwale of the boat with the corpse in the background.
“Rolling in 3 . . . 2 . . .” said Kevin, pointing at her instead of saying “one.”
“I’m here in the Labi Forest Reserve in Southern Brunei, where reports of a mass murder—”
Wie jumped across the boat at Kevin. “No! No! You can’t record this without government approval!”
“Wait! It’s cool!” said Kevin, his camera still rolling to an uplink in his video “cloud” that went directly to a shared Dropbox folder with NatGeo. “I’ll just tape it now and wait. If the government says no, I can delete it. But we have to take the pictures as we find them! We won’t get a second chance!”
This led to arguing between Wie and the two other rangers in Malay that Kevin and Val didn’t understand. They went back and forth, obviously nervous about allowing any video that could make Brunei look bad. All media was controlled by the government, and any criticism of the ruler could lead to capital punishment.
“Look, we’re just gathering facts and evidence. Your government is going to want to see this!” pleaded Val.
“That’s right!” said Kevin. “Your own government will need this! We won’t release any film without your approval, okay?”
Wie spoke again to the other rangers, and they reluctantly decided it would be okay to record the facts as long as they didn’t share it with anyone before receiving government approval. Wie felt slightly more important now, having actual evidence to prove his patrol quickly responded to a report of danger.
With tacit approval, Val hopped back to her spot and Kevin kept filming.
“This is Valerie Jean Kozak reporting from the forest near Aht, Brunei. Aht is a kampong, or small village, just off the river here in southwestern Brunei, in the Labi Forest Reserve. This part of the country is isolated by thick jungles, and only a small population of indigenous people live here, in much the same way as they’ve existed for thousands of years. I’m here with cameraman Kevin Israel, accompanying three park rangers who are following up on a report of a mass murder. The three natives, who live in their own kampong near Aht, came across the carnage a couple of days ago, and we’re here to see if the people responsible are still here, and if so, what their motives could have possibly been.”
Kevin panned his camera and zoomed in on the body. It had been a young woman who had been shot at least five times that he could see through his lens. Mercifully, her long black hair covered most of her face.
“I’ll be back with mor
e information as we delve deeper into this ominous jungle.” She paused.
“Cut!” shouted Kevin. “Great—that was great. Goddamn, Val. This is real reporting!” He gave her a quick hug and kiss, careful not to show too much public display of affection in such a conservative country. Even so, the others looked at them disapprovingly.
“Sorry, mates—just a little excited,” Kevin mumbled.
The rangers didn’t share their enthusiasm and looked anxious. The three natives spoke quickly amongst themselves and to the rangers. They didn’t understand the camera concept and it was too difficult to try and explain. The Penan people were a primitive group, and even the concept of an engine on the boat was fairly amazing to them. They, like the rangers, were nervous.
After more discussion, it was decided to cut the outboard and paddle further up the river. The Penan knew a place where they could get out and follow a trail, which was getting close. The rangers and natives paddled with wooden oars, and Kevin kept his film rolling as he videoed their surroundings. They past several more bloated bodies in the water as they slipped through the brown river, Kevin getting close-ups of each one.
He could practically smell the Pulitzer.
He could definitely smell the bodies.
They paddled for another twenty minutes, tough work for a heavy boat against the current, and finally pulled the boat up into the muddy shoreline. The eight of them climbed out of their boat and followed Zyy into the unknown.
Chapter 33
Elizabeth Seaport, New Jersey
Chris and Julia sat in the parking lot of an abandoned factory near the seaport. Julia had a laptop open, watching the yellow dot on her GPS map. Chris sipped his coffee, suppressing a yawn.
Dangerous Ground: The Team Book Five Page 10