“The guy likes to remind himself what happens to giants who don’t adapt,” Herbert mused.
Worse than that, Darling was a beloved big shot. He was the Australian dream made flesh.
The hours raced by as Herbert sat in his little cubicle in the heart of the plane. As the engine roared and the sky brightened, Herbert consumed data as if he were a pigeon at an outdoor bake sale. He flitted from file to file, snagging a crumb of information here, another there. Everything Herbert read confirmed his initial suspicion: that this kind of trade was something in which a man like Darling would involve himself.
After the intelligence chief finished an initial read, he sat back in his wheelchair. “So how do we find out for certain whether you’re behind this disgusting little transaction?” he wondered aloud.
They would continue to look for the people who had actually made the presumed trade. But Herbert knew they might not find the radioactive bread crumbs they were looking for. Already, one boat had been destroyed and another had vanished. For all they knew, they could be dealing with submarines or aircraft as well. Perhaps the materials had been dropped somewhere else for pickup at some later date. The canvas of possibilities was huge.
“No,” he said. “Lowell had the right idea.”
They had to go after Jervis Darling himself. Directly and quietly. If he had been in a movie, Herbert would have put on thick glasses and pretended to be a paleontologist with a rare fossil to sell. FNO Loh would be his assistant. Darling would be suspicious, of course, and quiz them about dinosaur genera. Herbert would have boned up on his prehistoric animals, and what he did not know, his erudite aide would. They would win Darling’s confidence.
But this was real, and they needed a quick, comprehensive solution. One that would identify Darling as a participant. It would also, he hoped, stop the trafficking itself.
As the TR-1 banked into the light of the new day, Herbert saw a flash of orange on his computer monitor. A moment later he felt the delightful heat of the sun on the back of his neck.
And he got an idea. One that would not require him to pronounce pachycephalosaurus.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Washington, D.C. Friday, 7:44 P.M.
Paul Hood stepped into the parking lot. It was a dreary and overcast evening, but the cool air tasted sweet. It always did after he spent a day in Op-Center’s windowless, forced-air underground offices. He walked to his new Toyota Maxim for the forty-five-minute drive to his apartment. An apartment that was as empty as hell without the sounds of video games and ringing phones and the distinctive thumping of Alexander holding the handrail and wall and leaping down half a flight of stairs. But it was feeling a little more like home now. As much as leaving dirty shirts on the couch or renting the DVDs you wanted to see or eating chicken salad directly from Styrofoam take-out trays could make a place feel like home.
Hood was just getting into the car when his cell phone beeped. It was Mike Rodgers. The two men had not spoken since Rodgers met with Senator Debenport. The general had spent the day interviewing potential field operatives as well as intelligence personnel who might be able to help him put together his new HUMINT unit. Rodgers had wanted to see all four candidates in public instead of in his office. It was important to see how they blended in with crowds, how anonymous they could appear when they were not part of a group.
“How did the interviews go?” Hood asked.
“They were informative,” Rodgers replied.
“Hold that thought,” Hood said. Rodgers would know what that meant. As Hood sat behind the wheel he put his headset on. At the same time he tucked the cell phone into a scrambler built into the dashboard. It looked like a typical hands-free setup. However, the frame contained a chip that sent a loud screech along with the conversation. Only a phone with a complementary chip could filter out the sound. The chip in the car only worked with numbers that had been specifically keyed into the cell phone’s memory. “Ready,” Hood said. He started the car and drove toward the sentry post.
“I just want to say up front that this is not like putting together a military special ops team, where someone can demonstrate marksmanship on a firing range or hand-to-hand combat in the gym,” Rodgers told him. “The entire process is a bit of a boondoggle.”
“How so?”
“Because good intelligence people, by nature, don’t talk. They observe and listen,” Rodgers said. “As I sat there, I kept wondering if the silent interviewee was more suitable than the one who volunteered information.”
“Interesting,” Hood said. “Guess you go by your gut.”
“Pretty much,” Rodgers admitted. “Silence and disinterest have pretty much the same sound. On the other hand, David Battat talks a lot. Maria Corneja doesn’t. Aideen Marley is somewhere in the middle. Falah Shibli speaks five languages but says less than Maria. It is all in what your gut tells you.”
“How is Shibli?” Hood asked.
“Very well,” Rodgers replied. “He’s agreed to serve as needed, though he’s decided he would prefer to remain in the Middle East. I got the sense that he’s doing undercover work for the Mossad.”
Falah Shibli was a twenty-nine-year-old Israeli of Arabic descent. He had spent seven years in Israel’s tough Druze Reconnaissance unit, the Sayeret Ha’Druzim, before joining the police in the northern town of Kiryat Shmona. Shibli had worked with Op-Center in the Middle East. He would be a valuable resource for Israeli intelligence, since he could move freely among Arab populations.
Hood waved at Sergeant Ridpath in the booth. The non-com waved back and pushed the button that raised the heavy wooden bar. Hood drove from the lot. “So how did the new people impress you?”
“There’s one guy I really liked,” Rodgers said. “Sprague West. Fifty-five-year-old former Marine, Vietnam vet. He put in a quarter century with the NYPD, the first ten of those undercover. He infiltrated the Black Panthers, drug rings, broke up prostitution. My kind of guy. And cool, Paul.”
“Silent?”
“Yeah,” Rodgers admitted with a chuckle.
“Where is he based?”
“Here,” Rodgers said. “He moved to D.C. when he left the force to be near his mother.”
“Does he have other family?” Hood asked.
“Two grown daughters and three ex-wives,” Rodgers said. “They weren’t happy with what he did for a living.”
“Great. We can start a support group,” Hood said.
“The nontalker and the man who loves to listen,” Rodgers said. “It could be interesting.”
“Incredibly dull, more likely,” Hood said. “What’s your game plan with Mr. West?”
“I’ve invited West to come to the office on Monday,” Rodgers said. “We’ll talk more about specific assignments. His mom died last year, and he would like to get back in the field.”
“Sounds perfect,” Hood admitted.
“Meanwhile, what’s happening with Lowell?” Rodgers asked.
Hood brought Rodgers up to date. When he was finished, the general was silent for a moment.
“Any thoughts?” Hood asked.
“Only about the Aussies and Singapore,” Rodgers said. “They’re tough nuts. Good partners to have in a big game.”
“How big a game do you think this is?” Hood asked.
“I don’t think there’s a global conspiracy with Darling at the head, if that’s what you mean,” Rodgers assured him.
“Why not?”
“Men like Darling are autocrats, not oligarchs,” Rodgers said. “Defenders band together for mutual protection. Aggression is a solitary activity. Even during World War II, Germany and Japan stayed a world away from each other. And they would have gone toe to toe eventually.”
“So what’s the scenario you envision?”
“Apart from the perverse challenge?” Rodgers said. “I see world capitals being attacked and crippled, economies paralyzed. You want to see where the targets may be? Look at where Darling has the fewest investments.”
&n
bsp; “I have,” Hood said. “He’s still invested heavily at home and in South America. But he’s shifted a lot of his assets from Europe and the United States to the Pacific Rim.”
“There you go,” Rodgers said. “He’s looking to rough up a London or Washington, Paris or Bonn. Change the financial and geopolitical dynamic. Does he have any children?”
“A young daughter.”
“The heir to his efforts,” Rodgers said. “What father doesn’t want to give his daughter the world? You were ready to resign from Op-Center for your kids, for your family.”
“True. But I would draw the line at killing millions of people,” Hood said.
“Would you?” Rodgers asked.
“I don’t follow.”
“We’ve gone to war to protect our way of life, to preserve our view of the future for our children,” Rodgers said.
“When we’ve been attacked,” Hood said. “That’s an important distinction.”
“Maybe Darling believes that his world has been attacked, or at the very least threatened,” Rodgers said. “He may feel that Australia has been minimized by the United States and the European Union. He may fear the growing political, financial, and military strength of China. Maybe the states around China are also afraid, and he has rallied the oligarchy to fight back. Maybe Beijing is their target. We just don’t know.”
“All good points, though instinct tells me this is more of a challenge to Darling than a political issue.”
“That could be,” Rodgers agreed. “It doesn’t change the fact that he has to be stopped. Fortunately, as I said, the people on site are probably the best we could ask for. And we’ve got good ones in reserve, if needed. It won’t come free, or even cheap, but we’ll fix this.”
Hood thanked Rodgers for the assessment. Then he hung up and cracked the window slightly. After being inside, he wanted to feel more of what his son Alexander called “real” air.
This was not a job for people who had families. Or liked to be able to sleep nights. It was one thing to worry about a corporate bottom line or a project deadline. It was far different to worry about lives, whether it was one life or ten thousand. Then again, Hood was inevitably encouraged, even inspired, by people like Mike Rodgers and Bob Herbert. Men and women who had vast experience, perspective, and something else. Something easily misplaced in the day’s slush of ominous data and frightening theory.
Hope.
Optimism.
And the resolve never to let them go.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Cairns, Australia Saturday, 9:45 A.M.
Jervis Darling had gone to bed after receiving a signal that the transfer had finally been made. It was three rings on his cell phone, twice in succession. Because Darling had installed an FDS, a file-disabling security chip, there was no record of who had called. If someone had been watching the yacht, there was no way they could triangulate the call. Ordinarily, communicating with the yacht did not concern him. But there had been disturbing news reports about the sampan attack in the Celebes Sea. There were unconfirmed reports that radiation was detected on the wreckage. If that were true, naval patrols might be monitoring communications in the region. They could be searching for radioactivity as well as looking for anyone who might have heard or seen the explosion. If the Hosannah were picked up for any reason, his nephew knew to play dumb. Marcus would say that he had been hired to run the radio shack by the yacht owner. Period. Jervis would then telephone the person in charge. He would protest the presumption that his nephew was in any way involved with nuclear trafficking. Peter Kannaday would take the fall for it. Yachts were easy enough to acquire. Blame was what Captain Kannaday was being hired to carry.
The Hosannah was not coming directly back to Cairns. It would sail the coast for several hours after dawn, like any pleasure boat. When Kannaday was sure they were not being followed, he would bring her in. That should happen around ten in the morning.
Darling spent the early part of Saturday morning as he always did: having breakfast with his eight-year-old daughter. The meal of salmon, scrambled eggs, and raisin toast was Jessica-Ann’s favorite. It was served in a large atelier adjoining Jervis Darling’s bedroom. The room had been built for Darling’s wife to pursue painting. It was too bad Dorothy did not stick to that as her principal hobby. As John Hawke put it after investigating her activities, “Your wife has been working with a new brush.” Because a man is occupied, that does not give his wife license to amuse herself with someone less busy. Jervis and Dorothy Darling had exchanged vows, not contingencies.
Dorothy’s wooden easel and tray of paints were still stored in a corner of the sunlit room. There was an untouched canvas stretching in its frame. Jessica-Ann said she wanted to paint on it one day. She liked coming here. The blond-haired girl had been one of her mother’s favorite subjects. She said the smell of the paint made her feel as though her mother were still here. Darling could not deny his daughter that comfort.
Despite the loss of her mother four years earlier, Jessica-Ann was an outgoing, cheerful, and open young lady. Darling had seen to it that she did not want for companionship or activities. He also made sure that they spent as much time together as possible. Darling had no reservations about taking her to meetings at home and abroad. If he were leaving the country, he would simply pack up a tutor or two to travel with them.
Darling did not want to push his daughter into any of his businesses. For all he knew, she might want to be a painter, like her mother. She already liked to draw. She enjoyed sketching birds and insects. She imagined what the faces might be on the butterflies and fireflies she saw around the estate. That would be fine with Darling. He wanted to expose Jessica-Ann to all the possibilities. When the time came, she alone would decide what to do with her life. And she would make that decision in a world that did not revolve around Europe or America.
Jessica-Ann came to the table in a brilliant yellow jumpsuit. Her long hair was piled under a cap sporting the name of the latest boy band she was into. Darling had a permanent skybox at all the arenas and stadiums in Australia. Jessica-Ann got to see every concert that toured Down Under. Her high cheekbones had a healthy flush, and she wore her big, perennial smile. The young girl had just gone for a morning squash lesson at their private court. She took a moment to mime for her father the proper way to serve.
“Let me ask you something,” Darling said as she slid into one of the cushioned iron chairs. “Would you rather play with perfect form and lose or with bad form and win?”
“I’d rather win,” she said without hesitation. “It would be even better to do it with bad form, because that would show I had amazing talent.”
“I like the way you think,” Darling said as Mrs. Cooper served their breakfast. Smelling the fresh salmon, Jessica-Ann’s Siamese cat Spokane ambled over. The overweight cat was named for the first city outside of Australia that Jessica-Ann had visited. The cat moved aggressively along her leg, and Jessica-Ann slipped it a thin slice of salmon.
Darling and his daughter saw each other regularly during the week. But this was their special time. Business was not permitted to intrude. Thus, it was not until nearly ten A.M. that Darling took a call from the Hosannah. He was drinking coffee and having his first look at the on-line news services. Though it was not the call he had been expecting, it was not a surprise.
Peter Kannaday was not on the other end of the phone. It was Darling’s nephew Marcus. He was calling from a landline. The yacht was able to plug into it upon entering the cove.
“You received the signal?” Marcus asked.
“I did. Why are you calling instead of the captain?”
“He’s in his cabin,” Marcus replied.
“I repeat the question,” Darling said. He could tell when someone was being evasive. They tended to answer directly and quickly, as though the answer had been rehearsed.
“He had a run-in with Mr. Hawke,” Marcus said.
“Is Mr. Hawke with you?”
“No,” Marcus
replied. “Shall I get him?”
“That isn’t necessary,” Darling told him. “What happened?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” Marcus replied. “We made the rendezvous at the rescheduled time. As the launch was setting out, Mr. Hawke came below with several of his men. He asked me to tell Captain Kannaday that Hawke was in the radio room. I was to remain above deck until they came for me.”
“How long were you up there?” Darling asked.
“About ten minutes,” Marcus told him. “Mr. Hawke came up and told me it was all right to go below.”
“And the captain?”
“Hawke said he had retired and was not to have any visitors or messages,” Marcus told him.
“Are you sure Captain Kannaday is alive?” Darling asked.
“I went to the door and had a listen,” Marcus said. “I heard movement but nothing more.”
“He hasn’t asked for anything,” Darling said.
“Not that I’m aware of,” Marcus replied. “He hasn’t used the intercom.”
“So Hawke has been running the ship.”
“Apparently,” Marcus replied. “He brought us in. I was asleep most of the time.”
“Is anyone coming ashore?” Darling asked.
“Not yet,” Marcus said. “Mr. Hawke asked me to call in. I have no further instructions or information.”
Darling poured himself more coffee. It was already prepared to his taste, dark and sweet.
John Hawke was smart. Kannaday had obviously done what Darling had suggested. He had made noises like a real captain. Hawke must have threatened Kannaday in return. Perhaps they had tied him up or beaten him. But locked in his room, Kannaday was still the captain. If there were ever a fall to take, legally or with Darling, he would still have to take it. But that was Kannaday’s problem. Darling’s problem was that if he asked to see Kannaday, he would find out what happened. That Hawke had pushed him to the wall and won. Then he would either have to replace him or send him back to the Hosannah. If Darling left him in charge, then he himself would look weak. He could not knowingly leave a crippled captain in charge. Unfortunately, there was no one available to replace Kannaday except for Hawke. But if Darling asked Hawke to take charge, he ran the very real risk that Hawke would decline. John Hawke preferred the shadows to the light. His refusal would also make Darling appear weak. As Hawke had just demonstrated, he was not afraid to push back.
Sea Of Fire (2003) Page 20