“Fluid resistance?”
“Yes. This shoe, or perhaps more accurately specialized slipper, would be used in an environment where there might be fluids on the floor, such as a hospital, nursing home, kitchen, workshop, prison, factory—that sort of place. These shoes are too expensive to be onetime disposables, but too cheap for long-term wear. And they present a couple of other curious aspects.”
“Which are?”
“The SMS upper is attached to the slip-resistant sole by contact cement: very inexpensive. The bonding line is hidden by this bit of piping, here.” And with the tool, Quarles pointed to a thin ribbon of material, slightly darker than the sea green of the slipper, that ran horizontally along its surface just above the sole. “We tested it and it’s nothing but simple polyester. On a more expensive shoe, its use might have been decorative: a stripe to conceal the joint between the upper and the outsole. But these are of shoddy manufacture, and the stripes are not of contrasting color. They are also especially sloppy.” He indicated spots where the ribbon was hanging loose from the base of the slipper or had fallen away entirely.
Pendergast nodded. “Interesting. And the other detail you can’t account for?”
“It’s an odd one. When we analyzed the upper, it tested positive for antibacterial treatment. That’s a common feature of ‘safety shoes’ you’d find in a surgical bay, a lab, a clean room—even a hotel kitchen. But such shoes almost always have EVA uppers and tend to be expensive.”
“EVA. I assume you mean ethylene-vinyl acetate rubber.”
“I see you’ve studied chemistry. Quite right: water resistant, flexible, but heavy and sturdy for protection. As you can see, this slipper isn’t sturdy. And it certainly isn’t heavy—the samples weigh from forty to forty-four grams. And it’s not EVA.”
“So why bother to protect such shoddy workmanship with antibacterial treatment?”
“Exactly.”
“Very interesting, Mr. Quarles.”
“That’s about it. Any questions?”
A silence ensued as Pendergast became lost in thought. At last he shifted in his chair. “You’re familiar with the details of the case?”
“I read the covering folder, sir.”
“And there’s nothing remotely like this in the NCAVC database.”
Quarles nodded.
“You mentioned they were probably made in China. Can you elaborate?”
“With pleasure. There are three or four shoe-manufacturing regions scattered across China, and each specializes in a certain kind. There’s Jinjiang, in Fujian Province. It’s known as the ‘shoe capital of China’ and has facilities that are technologically advanced. Then there’s Wenzhou. They have the greatest number of manufacturers but are geared toward the domestic trade. Also Dongguan, in Guangdong Province. Their factories tend to be smaller, more specialized, niche producers.”
“I see,” Pendergast replied. “And have you been to these places?”
“Before I joined the FBI, I was in the jobber market for three years. I was the middleman for moving overruns on big orders. Or buying and selling odd lots.”
“Excellent. That familiarity, along with the remarkable knowledge of footwear you’ve just displayed, makes you the logical choice.”
“Choice?” Quarles asked, face blank. His expression changed to one of surprise. “You don’t expect me to…go to China and locate the manufacturer, do you?”
“Who else, if not you? We must find out who made these shoes.”
“But that’s impossible! China’s footwear revenue is nearly seventy billion dollars a year. Why, Dongguan alone has fifteen hundred factories—many of them no bigger than a restaurant.”
“Nevertheless, you must try. Take these samples and show them around. Make use of your local contacts—without giving away any details, of course. Nĭ huì shuō Zhōngwén ma?”
“Pŭtōnghuà,” Quarles replied absently—then looked startled, realizing he had unconsciously switched languages. “You speak Mandarin?”
“As do you, it seems. Most excellent! You’ll leave immediately.”
Quarles’s lips worked silently a moment. “This is rather short notice—”
“I have ADC Pickett’s authorization,” Pendergast went on. “This won’t be a shoestring operation: think of it more as a junket. I’ll make sure you fly first class, stay in the hotels of your choice, have a generous expense account. Discovering the manufacturer of these shoes could be crucial in solving the case.”
Quarles did not reply. But his eyes betrayed what he was imagining: a promotion and dramatic leap up the GS pay scale.
“I’ll need to go back to Huntsville,” Quarles said. “Pack a few things.”
“Of course. Come back here—shall we say this time tomorrow?—and we’ll discuss the operating parameters of your investigation. And then we’ll get you on a plane from Miami. Until then, thank you once again for your invaluable—and ongoing—aid.” With this, Pendergast got up and walked toward the door. When he reached it, he turned. “And, Mr. Quarles?”
Quarles, who was gathering up the evidence bags, turned toward him. “Yes?”
“Remember to pack your, ah, boxers.”
15
COMMANDER BAUGH STOOD on the bridge of the USCGC Chickering, staring at the hazy northern coast of Cuba through a pair of binoculars. The officer at the con had brought the cutter’s speed down to four knots, cruising just outside the twelve-mile limit, parallel to the low shoreline.
“Mr. Peterman, throttle down to two knots,” Baugh said. “Maintain the same heading.”
Baugh could feel the diesel engines slackening slightly, more a change in vibration than an actual sound. The handheld binoculars were no damn good. He laid them down and moved to the navigation bridge station, where the XO stood before an array of electronic charts, transceivers, and radar screens.
“Mr. Rama, I’d like to take a look at the prison through the electronic telescope.”
“Aye, sir.”
The XO busied himself with the controls and an image of the shore sprang into view on a screen. It was a muggy day and the image was blurry, wavering in the heat. A gigantic gray prison sprawled along the shore, off the port side of the cutter. El Duende. The entrance to Mariel Bay lay a little farther on, where fishing boats could be seen coming and going, along with a small Cuban Navy warship, entering the mouth of the bay and disappearing around the point of land.
Baugh peered at the image. There was something happening on the shore in front of the prison—a group of men were clearly occupied. Inmates, it seemed, at least judging from the universal orange uniforms. And guards in green. But it was all a blur in the hazy afternoon light, the images of the people merging and blending with each other like ghosts.
“Mr. Rama, can you sharpen the image?”
“Yes, sir. I’m working on it.”
The image jumped around a little bit. Whatever this group of men were doing, it didn’t look ordinary. There were a bunch of people, prisoners surrounded by guards in a tight group.
“Jesus, Mr. Rama, did you see that?” Baugh couldn’t believe what he had just seen. Or was it his imagination?
“I did, sir.”
“Play it back in slo-mo. On screen two.”
The recording jumped back a minute and then crawled forward on a second screen.
“There! Stop it!”
Good God, it looked like a decapitation. But it couldn’t be—could it? “Mr. Rama, can you tell me what you think is going on?”
“Sir, I’m not sure. It looked…violent.”
“A decapitation, maybe? Play it again.”
They went through it, frame by frame. The men were moving about, fast. A man seemed to be brought up to a blurry object or wall—and then, with a jerking motion, his head appeared to separate from his shoulders, even as a man near him swung his arm around. It was too blurry to see what kind of weapon the second man might be holding—everything was still shimmering and hazy—but Baugh saw the head
separate from the body and tumble to the ground: that much at least was clear.
“It could be a decapitation, sir.”
“You saw the head come off, right?”
“I believe so, sir. A little hard to tell.”
Baugh felt his blood pounding. What the hell was going on? The Cubans were long known for torture. But decapitations…that was more like ISIS. Could this be some sort of terrorist alliance, right here, ninety miles from the U.S.? They’d better get some serious IMINT on this, satellite and whatever. Christ almighty, it could be another Cuban Missile Crisis.
Baugh took a deep breath. “Is there anything you can do to get a better image?”
“I am doing everything possible, sir.”
Rama worked the controls and called in another officer. The image continued to focus and blur, jiggle, zoom in and out—but nothing made it better. The haze and heat shimmer overwhelmed the image. They had to get closer.
“Double the watch,” Baugh ordered. “I want OS Atcitty up here on the double, along with First Lieutenant Darby.”
The orders were given.
“Mr. Rama, turn off AIS and all transponders. Initiate radio silence.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Okay, now paint ’em with hi-def radar.”
There was a hesitation. “Sir, that may be construed as provocative,” said the XO.
“Carry out the order.”
The high-definition radar showed nothing more than a green smudge on the beach, worse than the visual. They were still too far away, and the heat waves were throwing back return. There was no immediate response.
Atcitty arrived on the bridge and gave the CO a smart salute. A moment later Darby, Baugh’s chief of staff and overall right hand, followed.
“Look at this, Mr. Darby.”
Darby, leaning his plump form forward, stared at the screen where the activity was taking place.
“What are they doing?” he asked.
“You tell me.”
“There’s a big crowd, it looks like. Bunched up. Moving around. Prisoners in orange, guards in dark green. But it’s just too blurry. I can hardly make out individual people.”
“Could it be…an execution ground?”
Darby stared. “Could be, sir. Or maybe a riot. I mean, it looks like they’re fighting.”
Baugh turned to the helmsman. “Mr. Peterman, rudder ten degrees to port, maintain present speed.”
“Sir, our turning radius will take us inside the territorial limit.”
“Make it so, Mr. Peterman.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
There was a silence on the bridge. Baugh turned to the XO, who was staring at him. Baugh flashed him a reassuring smile. “Don’t look so alarmed, Mr. Rama. We painted them with radar. No response. Someone’s asleep at the helm. They won’t even notice.”
“Aye, sir.”
The ten-degree rudder would give them a turn of two-mile radius, bring them within eight miles of shore. Baugh turned to the operation specialist. “Ms. Atcitty, prepare to launch a surveillance drone at closest approach. Mr. Peterman, continue turning the ship through two hundred and seventy degrees. When a heading of zero-zero-zero is achieved, accelerate to forty knots and exit Cuban waters.”
More shocked silence.
“I gave an order!”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Baugh felt the cutter begin to turn. He understood the hesitation of his staff, but he also knew they didn’t have his experience. There were times when standard procedures didn’t apply; when unusual, even heroic, measures had to be taken. Something terrible was happening on the shore in front of the prison, and by sheer chance they had hit right on it. It might well be part of a complicated military strategy, of which the feet were an early component. If so, Washington had to be informed. They couldn’t wait for sat imagery; that might take hours, if not days. He needed to document this right now. The cutter was fast—damn fast—and if the Cubans gave chase, she could outrun almost any tin-can Cuban warship.
The Chickering continued its slow turn. The activity on the beach continued, and Baugh swore he saw another decapitation, but it was too fast and blurry to be sure. But slowly, slowly, the picture grew clearer as they edged closer to land. As the cutter came parallel to the shore on the starboard side, still turning, Baugh said: “Ms. Atcitty, launch drone.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” She relayed the order and a moment later said, “Drone launched.”
Baugh heard a buzzing sound and saw the drone—a helicopter type—shooting out over the water, staying low, heading toward shore. By now the cutter’s bow was swinging northward.
“Sir,” said the operation specialist, “if we accelerate to forty knots, we will put ourselves out of the drone’s range. It won’t be able to return to the ship.”
“Destroy it over water, then, after transmission of footage is complete.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The bow was swinging through the compass, nearing true north.
“Increase speed to forty knots,” Baugh said as the boat stabilized on its new heading.
A warning sound went off, and a moment later the cutter surged forward as the massive 4,800-horsepower twin jet diesels powered up.
The XO suddenly said, “Sir, I’ve got a Cuban warship at two zero nine at thirteen nautical miles, proceeding at twenty knots—diverting to intercept us and increasing speed.”
“What the hell?”
“My guess is she was returning to Mariel from a routine patrol. Our bad luck, sir, that she happened on us.”
“Stay the course, increase speed to max. We’ll be out of territorial waters in four minutes.”
“Sir, we’re being painted with fire control radar!”
“General quarters, battle stations!” Baugh barked out. “Evasive maneuvers. Jamming. Prepare to launch chaff!”
All hell broke loose on the bridge—organized, focused hell. The general alarm went off. Baugh could just see the Cuban warship now, a wavering dot on the horizon at 265 degrees off the port bow. It had been coming in from the northwest and their radar hadn’t picked it up—was it employing Russian stealth technology?
The Chickering was now moving at forty-five knots, close to full speed. They’d be back in international waters in two minutes. The son of a bitch wasn’t actually going to fire on them, was he?
“It’s a fast Komar-class missile boat,” said the XO, peering into the scope.
“How fast?”
“Top speed rated at forty-four knots, but this one’s moving at thirty.”
“Armaments?”
“Two twenty-five-millimeter guns, two Styx anti-ship missiles.”
At Baugh’s shoulder, Lieutenant Darby swallowed loudly and painfully upon hearing this.
The Chickering was weaving now, executing evasive maneuvers. Baugh gripped the console rails. The Cuban missile boat was a lot smaller than their cutter, but it had those damn Styx missiles. Christ, one of those would obliterate his ship and no amount of chaff could chase it away. But the Chickering couldn’t fire first, especially while in Cuban waters.
“Still painting us with fire control, sir.”
One minute. If they were going to launch a missile, it would be now. He hoped to God this was a bluff.
He heard a small explosion behind him and almost jumped out of his skin, then swung around. He spied a puff of smoke in the sky several miles to the rear. “What the hell was that?”
“Drone self-destructed, sir,” said the OS.
“We’re out,” said the XO. “In international waters. Still painting us.”
“Maintain evasive maneuvers.”
But the Cuban boat was not pursuing. It slowed and began to turn, resuming its heading toward Mariel Harbor.
“Radar illumination ceased, sir.”
The bastards had just been trying to scare him. It was a bluff after all. Maybe he should’ve fired on that little wise-ass and turned it into floating matchsticks. In any case, there was going to
be a shitstorm over his incursion into Cuban territorial waters. But he’d let Darby handle that—the lieutenant, truth be told, was good at placing smoke screens where they’d do the most good. Besides, they had the drone footage. And the Cubans knew it. This was going to be big.
“Cease evasive maneuvers,” he said. “Make course zero one zero at thirty knots. Stand down general quarters.”
The alarm went silent and the bridge began to return to normal. Baugh realized he was sweating like a pig. He turned to the operation specialist. “Ms. Atcitty, did the drone footage come through?”
“Aye, sir.”
“What can you see? What were those bastards doing?”
There was a long silence. “It appears, sir, that the prisoners and guards were playing volleyball on the beach.”
16
THE LARGE SCREEN showed a detailed map of the Indian Ocean between Australia and Réunion Island east of Madagascar, bounded on the north by Borneo and Sumatra and on the south by nothing. Stretching across the center of the map was a rat’s nest of pink, red, and burgundy threads, as dense and tangled as Day-Glo steel wool, surrounding a thicker black line that arced from the coast of Java to a spot in the southern Indian Ocean many thousands of miles from land.
Gladstone, standing behind Wallace Lam, stared at the image. “What makes you think this is going to help us?” she asked.
“Because this was the most expensive and sophisticated ocean drift analysis ever performed.”
“Yeah, and it failed.”
Lam sighed. “Lord spare me from fools and numbskulls.”
“Watch out, or I’ll cut your salary.”
“What salary?” He sniffed. “Look. It only failed because the searchers didn’t interpret it properly. But I was able to take their data and perform a different calculation.”
“You’re saying you know where Flight MH370 went down?”
“They spent a hundred and fifty million dollars searching this area here, and here, and over here—and were wrong every time.”
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