The Mac Ambrose Series: 1-3 (Boxed Set)

by HN Wake

Anatoli’s chair creaked, the roller balls squealed, and his head popped up over the wall. “Are you kidding me?”

  “I’m just saying, what if? We have no idea who the owner is because that information was not included. Why not? Why all the subterfuge?”

  “I think you’re pulling strings here.”

  “That’s what we do, Anatoli. We research. We scurry down black holes.”

  He shrugged in agreement. “Yeah, good point.”

  “So help me out, how do I find out more about this company?”

  “You call the guys down to IT and have them run a search. They can access company listings in a lot of countries.”

  She picked up the phone and called the IT number.

  “IT, Isaac Messenger.”

  She scribbled down his name. “Hi, Isaac. This is Joyce Tattle up in DO, Southeast Asia Branch. I’m wondering if I can put in a request.”

  “Sure, shoot.”

  “I need some background on a company out of Malaysia.”

  “Sure, I can help. Who’s signing off on this?”

  She blinked. “You got time for a coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  “See you at the Starbucks in twenty.”

  Joyce saw the IT guy, Isaac Messenger, coming up across the cold tile. He carried himself with a slightly frenetic energy: fingers wiggled, face wrinkled, eyebrows jiggled, and nose sniffed. His blond hair was in an odd, unstylish bowl cut that swept across his brow. Here was a young thirty-ish nerd.

  “Isaac Messenger.” His fingers were bony, but his handshake was firm.

  They both ordered coffee, then decided to head outside to soak in the summer’s heat.

  “How long have you been with the Agency?” she asked, breaking the ice.

  “Five years. So still new. You?”

  “This is my first year. Super new.”

  “Far out. Well, welcome. You’re up in SouthEast Asian unit of DI, right?”

  She nodded. “So, where you from originally?”

  “Texas.”

  “No shit.” That surprised her.

  “No shit.”

  “You lost the accent,” she said.

  “You bet I did. It was an imperative.” His grin grew. “You?”

  “New York city.”

  “Nice.”

  “You like DC?” he continued.

  “It’s okay. I ended up in Foggy Bottom—”

  “Far out. Me too.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. You drive in?” he glanced sideways at her.

  “Are you kidding? Of course! The metro is a pain in the ass.”

  “We should carpool.” His own suggestion made him blush.

  “That’s a super idea.”

  The windows of the building shimmered in the sun. There was a long awkward pause as two introverts ran out of small talk.

  She started. “So, I’ve been looking into a shelf company in Malaysia.”

  “Okay.”

  “And I can’t find out anything about them. Like nada. ”

  He nodded and the bowl cut fell across his brow. He brushed it back. “Okay?”

  “So, now I’m wondering, what kind of sniffing capabilities you guys in the IT department have?”

  He considered this. “Can you get your boss to sign off on an official IT search?”

  She shrugged sheepishly. “Here’s the thing, like I’m pretty new—as you know—and he’s had me on shit detail for a long time. Pretty much since I got here. Then he handed me this thing in Malaysia and no one else is looking at it and it’s kinda exciting—or I’m making it exciting—I dunno, maybe I’m just making it exciting and it really isn’t.” She breathed in, stammered, “Oh god, I do that.”

  He was staring at her. “Do what?”

  “I kinda talk too much.”

  He grinned. “Nah, it’s good. Keep going.”

  “Yeah? Okay, so my boss O’Dore hasn’t really given me interesting stuff. I think he’s kinda been testing me. So then one of our assets brings in this stuff, and I start going through it and find this Malaysian shelf company that somebody paid too much for and there are no details about the new owner in any of the official paperwork. Now for all I know, this could be totally nothing. But, Isaac, what if it’s something and I just moved on from it? Like, what if I wrote some ridiculous cover note that said ‘don’t look here, move along, nothing to see’ and it turned out this mysterious new owner was, like, Al Qaeda or something?”

  He was nodding at her.

  “I’m not saying it’s a sexist thing. I think O’Dore is actually okay on that score, you know what I mean?”

  He nodded.

  “I think it’s an ageist thing. I think he doesn’t think I’m up to the task of being an intelligence officer.” She took a deep breath and looked at him. “So I’m wondering, how much capability do you all have down in IT to sniff around?”

  He looked out over the parking lot. The heat made the asphalt appear moist.

  “We have amazing capabilities. It’s all about approvals around here.”

  Her shoulders dropped. She’d lost the debate. “Yeah, I guess I figured you’d say that.”

  “But I see so many lost opportunities.” His voice lowered but he kept his eyes on the parked cars. “This place, it’s funny you know?”

  She followed his gaze, intentionally not looking at him. “It’s so funny.”

  “They don’t really like new blood.”

  “Or innovation.”

  “Or innovation,” he agreed.

  “It’s too bad.”

  “It’s too bad,” he agreed.

  She smiled.

  He smiled. “Just out of curiosity, what’s the name of the company?”

  “Purely FYI, it’s called Malay Petro Reliance.”

  “I have some down time tomorrow. Just saying. Purely FYI.”

  They grinned at each other, turned, and started back toward the building.

  Isaac glanced sideways at her a few more times.

  He’s checking me out, she thought. I wish I’d blown out my hair today.

  Isaac stepped ahead of her to get the door, held it open for her. She smiled at him. They crossed into the cool lobby and he cleared his throat.

  She turned to him, hopeful. “Yeah?”

  Isaac stumbled, “Well…uhm…so I’ll chat with you tomorrow?”

  She grinned broadly. “For sure.”

  His face lit up. “Awesome.”

  Joyce set her coffee cup down on the desk and looked around the cubicle at the strewn documents from the supermarket bag.

  Anatoli asked, “What did IT say?”

  She leaned over the cubicle wall and eyed him. “I used my feminine wiles and got them searching for info on the shelf company.”

  “Seriously?” he asked with disdain.

  “Hey, you gotta use what you got, Anatoli. Don’t bust my balls.” She sat down. “Anyway, the IT guy is cute.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “No, he’s got that sexy nerd look going. I’ve always said I wanted a computer nerd. Can you imagine how helpful they would be around the house?”

  Anatoli grunted. “In the meantime, how’s that cover note coming along for O’Don’t?”

  She leaned back in her chair, assessed the piles, leaned over, and started cleaning up the first one. Halfway through the pile, she noticed two things she hadn’t before. First, three of the cover letters submitted with the applications had been addressed to a Mr. Hassan Talib at the commission. Second, ten of the submissions had been accompanied by formal letters from the same accounting firm, Noordhadin Accountants.

  This gave her pause. Was Hassan Talib the agent in the commission? Why was Noordhadin Accountant so popular?

  She sat up and pulled up the website for the commission. Hassan Talib was listed in the directory. She stared at his professional photo. He was a young, soft guy with a round face and a full head of black hair. In his professional photo he was unsmiling.

 
She typed his name into a second internet search and got an immediate result. Hassan Talib was listed as a participant in a conference over at the Washington Hilton, the grandiosely named Annual Strategic Global Government-Business Resources Management Conference.

  The internal meter kicked up to seventy five percent.

  She quickly printed off the photo of Hassan Talib, grabbed her bag off her desk, and scooted back her chair.

  Anatoli looked up, “What are you doing?”

  She waved the printed photo of Talib over her shoulder as she marched off across the Hive. “Writing a cover note!”

  10

  Dupont Circle, DC

  Despite it being the middle of the day, Joyce found a parking spot on 19th Street, squeezed the old Toyota sedan into the space, and set off down T Street for the hotel. The thick humidity felt like cellophane wrapped around her skin. She could almost feel her hair curling back on itself and cursed her DNA.

  The hotel’s official name was the Washington Hilton, but everyone called it the Reagan Hilton because it was the location of John Hinckley Jr.’s assassination attempt on President Ronald Reagan. As she walked under the covered lower level lobby entrance, she remembered the news images of reporters and secret service agents swarming Reagan after the shooting. Hinckley had claimed he wanted to prove his love to Jodie Foster by shooting the president. But he ended up hitting Reagan’s Press Secretary, James Brady, instead.

  As she stepped over the threshold she thought, does anyone else wonder what happened to the blood? Her second thought was, I’m at a historic location on assignment—kind of—for the CIA. Eighty-one percent.

  The hotel was enormous. It was also confusing. The hotel’s reception desk was on the second floor. But the Annual Strategic Global Government-Business Resources Management conference was well signed and she found the check-in table at the beginning of a long hallway on the first floor.

  “Hi, sorry I’m late,” she said, dramatically handing over her business card to the woman behind the table. “Joyce Terrell Tattle, CIA. We’re here on the quiet to help out with some of our international partners. Don’t worry, you don’t need to sign me in. Just let me have a name tag. I’ll only be here a few minutes.”

  The woman—probably an intern—responded exactly as expected. She smiled, wrote out a name tag, and handed it to Joyce.

  Joyce cracked open the outsized door and peered inside the ballroom. The main hall was in full session over lunch. The speaker on stage was standing before a slide show, talking about business licensing. His voice was shockingly dull and monotone.

  She slipped inside, leaned against the back wall, and scanned the faces sitting around crowded round tables. Waiters moved noisily through, picking up utensils and filling water cups.

  She spotted Hassan Talib at the third table from the left, four tables back from the stage. He looked exactly like his photo from the commission website. She gauged which door he would use to exit after lunch and stepped into the hallway. She settled down in a chair opposite the door. She didn’t have to wait long: lunch broke ten minutes later and the ballroom doors swept open. The crowd streamed out.

  Hassan Talib stepped through alone and she quickly sidled up next to him. “Mr. Talib?”

  He turned hesitantly. “Yes?”

  She reached out her hand. “Can I have a word?”

  He was startled but smiled. “Sure, sure.”

  She thought, this has to be the Agency asset. He accepted her approach without question, hadn’t even asked who she was. “Let’s head out here, there is some nice outdoor seating.”

  The patio was mostly empty due to the heat of midday. They sat on huge, red lounges among planted flowers and fruit trees. Bees buzzed around an orange tree in a square planter.

  She said, “They say the bees are disappearing.”

  Hassan Talib gave her a questioning look, pulled out a kerchief and blotted his forehead.

  “That’s what they say, anyway.” She shrugged. “So, thanks for your recent files. I’m the one in charge of them.”

  This startled him again, but he tried to appear calm. “Yes. Sure.”

  “Any troubles getting them out?”

  Recovering from her bluntness, he said, “No, no. Paperwork is not so protected at the office. I can walk in and out. These are not stiffly protected.”

  She gave him a smile. “Well, we’re sifting through it. Thank you again.”

  “Yes.”

  She wondered what it must be like to be an asset for a foreign government. Did you do that out of disillusion with your own country’s rulers or did you do it purely for the payments? She wondered how much he got paid by the Agency.

  “Well, Mr. Talib. Some records appear to have come from an accounting firm called Noohadin Accountants.”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “Those records in particular are quite detailed. More than the others.”

  He dropped his head, whispered, “Noodhadin is my brother-in-law’s company.”

  “Ah, okay. I see. So how does that work?”

  “When a company registers and needs an accountant, I refer them to Noohadin Accountants. They know the system. They are used to working with the commission.”

  Good ‘ole nepotism was alive and well in Malaysia, she thought. He must have been doing this for the money. “Understood.” She stared off into the distance, pretending to come up with a serious request. Building up the weight of the issue, she sighed and looked over. “Well, here’s the thing. I believe we have a particular interest in a particular shelf company that was registered last year. So first, thank you for that. Very helpful information. I am sure this will be a large contribution to our ongoing relationship.”

  He nodded, the talk of money was diminishing his fear.

  “So, I wonder if you couldn’t persuade your brother-in-law to pull some records on this particular company?”

  He waited for her to explain the request.

  “I would simply need you to go to a private office somewhere - away from your office - and fax me copies. It’s as if Noodhadin’s files were never touched.” She let a shrewd smile emerge. “As you can imagine, Mr. Talib, we are quite discreet. And we would reward you. Well.”

  He made up his mind. “Yes, I can do that.”

  “I’ll make sure our accounting office takes care of your expenses.”

  He nodded quickly. “Yes. I am sure I can ask my brother-in-law.”

  She handed him a business card. “That fax number there is the one to use.”

  He took her card. On the back she had written, Malay Petro Reliance. He blotted his forehead and nodded. He understood this was the company of interest.

  She watched the bees circle a distant tree. “When do you fly back?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Ah, good.”

  “I can get you the files by end of the day tomorrow.”

  “Even better.” She stood and held out her hand. “Well, Mr. Talib, I won’t keep you from the conference. Safe travels.”

  11

  Outside Miri, Sarawak Province, Malaysia

  Nestled in a palm tree grove, the idyllic Miri Beach Resort was set back ten feet from a sleepy bus stop on a solitary dirt road. Beyond the palms and over the ocean, the sky was clear and bright blue. The open-air lobby was a building of darkened wooden logs supporting a thick, thatched roof. Tropical birds chirped loudly as they flew under the reception’s ceiling. A simple counter, manned by a teenage girl, displayed colorful pamphlets and brochures.

  Mac held up her phone with the photo of Josh, explained she needed to find her friend. The receptionist nodded and easily gave up Josh’s room number: 3.

  “When did he arrive?” Mac asked.

  “Two weeks ago.”

  “How long is the room rented for?”

  Without checking, she said, “He put down USD 500.”

  Mac figured he might be the only guest. “How long is that good for?”

  “Another three weeks.”
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  “Do you have internet?”

  The receptionist shook her head no.

  “Can you dial international from the rooms?”

  The receptionist shook her head again and explained, “You have to come here and use a credit card with the international operator.”

  “Did he ever do that?”

  The girl shook her head again.

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  The girl pinched her face as she thought, “Maybe five days ago?”

  “You haven’t seen him in five days?” Mac’s heartbeat spiked. Five days was a long time. She pushed away the clawing fear.

  “No.”

  “Did you give away his room?”

  “No, it’s paid for, so it’s still his.”

  Mac’s shoulders tensed. “Is he alone?”

  The teen nodded and Mac felt herself relax. “Is the beach that way?” she asked, pointing past the reception.

  The teen nodded.

  Mac followed the steps off to the side. The resort was ringed with narrow, sand paths outlined painstakingly with white, smooth stones. Birdbaths were hidden within the greenery. Lush flower beds were bordered in the same white stones. The attention to detail hinted at an earlier optimism of this area flourishing as a tourist destination. But now everything was slightly run down, overgrown, and faded as if the original owners had long since abandoned their rich hotelier dreams.

  Ten thatched roofed bungalows with wide porches lined both sides of the path leading down to the ocean. Bungalow 3 was the second one off the beach. She passed it: she needed to steel her nerves.

  She reached the beach and stared out over the blue horizon. This was an ‘end of the world’ type of place.

  She kicked off her shoes and walked down to the water’s edge. The chilly water swirled around her ankles as a small wave broke on the white sand. Her feet sunk into the sand as the wave receded. Goosebumps spread up her legs.

  She thought she understood why Josh had chosen this remote hotel. It was hidden and off the grid—the perfect retreat to either prepare for an operation or decompress from one. He would have felt safe here.

  Across the blue sky, a cloud passed in front of the sun.