by A S Bond
Dex finished the food and looked across at her. He seemed to sense her need for some answers, because he spoke without being prompted.
“There wasn’t much in the plane because I didn’t plan on being out here more than a few days. I was at Tasisuak Lake last night and I was on my way up to Umiakovik Lake this morning when I crashed.”
“That’s not too far from here.”
“Good. I need to see a map, because I’m looking for someone. “
“Missing?”
“Yes. Kyle, my little brother. Gets himself into all kinds of trouble - “
“He’s not the only one.”
“I guess not.” Dex laughed, the tension and tiredness falling away. Then his face became serious again. “Kyle’s been missing for a couple of weeks now. He flew out with his buddy, Max, to stake a claim out here around Labor Day and he’s not been heard from since.”
“Did he have a satphone? Flares?”
“Probably not a phone. The RCMP have flown over the area, but there’s no sign. So, I thought if I came out here and looked around the claim on foot, I might find my little brother holed up in a broken plane, with nothing more than a big story and an even bigger thirst.”
“I see.”
There was a lack of conviction in her voice. Brooke tried to hide it, but she was thinking that whatever the problem was, if it hadn’t started serious, it almost certainly was by now.
“Why are you here?” Dex asked to change the subject.
“I’m a reporter.” She realized he must be equally curious about her, but she couldn’t risk telling him the complete truth about her own little expedition.
“On a story?”
“Kind of. There’s someone I want to talk to, and I think he may be out north of here, near the coast.”
“Why not just fly straight in then?”
“Well...He’s kind of reclusive. He owns a mine out here and I wanted a chance to take a look around before announcing myself.”
“So you’re undercover? I thought reporters only did that in movies.”
Brooke laughed. “What do you do when you’re not crashing planes?”
“I’m an astrophysicist.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. Less than a week ago, I was in my observatory in Chile, watching star systems exploding millions of light years away, blissfully unaware of just how cold the water is in Labrador in the fall and just how many bugs live up here.”
“This is nothing; you should see it in June.”
“I’d rather not.”
Dex finished his food and put down the bowl. “Do you mind if I take a look at that map?”
“Sure.” Brooke handed it over and then collected their bowls, which she washed, crouching at the edge of the lake while Dex pulled a camp light close.
“I did have a GPS, but it doesn’t seem to be working, which is odd, because I tried to use the satphone to call for help while you were asleep, but that’s also frozen, or something.” Brooke came back with their dishes and picked up a case lying on the sand. She snapped open the waterproof seals. Inside was a satphone with a short antenna, about the size of an early cell phone. “Looks like it’s fried,” she said, pressing buttons in frustration. “I thought maybe I’d run out of juice, but the battery was fine this morning. Then I thought maybe there was some water in there somehow, but it seems like too much of a coincidence.”
Dex nodded, his eyes still fixed on the map.
“Do you have a tent in that pack?” she asked as she put their food into bags and sealed them, then put the bags into a canoe pack and threaded a rope through the top.
“I do...” Dex finally looked up. “What are you doing?” he asked, as Brooke walked some distance away and, throwing the rope over a high branch, hauled the pack twenty feet up from the ground, knotting it securely in place.
“Making sure we don’t attract any unwelcome visitors in the night. Didn’t you do the same last night?”
“No. What kind of visitors? Racoons?”
She looked at him, trying to see if he was joking. “More like wolverines...and bears, of course. They have an excellent sense of smell.”
Dex froze comically, his eyes swivelling around the darkening forest, and Brooke laughed.
“Let’s get this tent up,” she told him. “I’m beat.”
“I’ll get on my way tomorrow,” he said as Brooke said goodnight. “I won’t hold you up.”
“No you won’t - I mean, you won’t be getting on your way,” Brooke said. “You don’t have any supplies, you don’t where you are, and with the satphone down, you have no way of getting out of here. The nearest settlement is the mine at Okak and that’s where I’m heading, so you’re stuck with me until then.”
“But my brother...”
“Won’t benefit if you get lost, too. Fortunately, Umiakovic is between here and Okak - sort of - so we’ll make a detour on the way and check to see if the Adams boys are two for two for crashed planes.”
Chapter 9
BBC Online News
A British couple from Kent are reported to be the latest victims of escalating piracy in the Indian Ocean. Ted and Adele Mylor are believed to have been taken twelve days ago off the west coast of Mahe Island, in the Seychelles. The couple had recently bought a motor cruiser, the eighty-foot yacht Marie-Louise, and were sailing it to Australia, when they were boarded by pirates.
The bodies of their three crew, two of whom where Maltese nationals, and the third from New Zealand, have been found by officials on Mahe Island and a ransom of £10 million has been demanded for the release of Mr and Mrs Mylor, who, it is thought, are being held in Somalia. The location of the motor cruiser is not known. The pirates have threatened to kill the couple if the ransom is not paid, although there are suggestions that they may also want a prisoner exchange for members of Somalia’s Islamic extremist organization, Al Shebaab, now being held in prison in Tanzania on charges of child torture.
The Ministry of Defence has declined to comment on reports that a Royal Fleet Auxiliary Vessel was close enough to witness the attack. The vessel, which has only limited weaponry, failed to stop the abduction because its Commander feared killing the captives
It is UK Government policy not to negotiate with pirates, and the Foreign Office has declined to comment on the kidnapping. Friends of the Mylors have suggested the couple bought the yacht with a recent lottery win, and that there is no possibility of sufficient funds being raised by their family to pay the ransom.
The most recent figures released by the International Maritime Bureau show that pirate attacks worldwide in 2009 rose to record levels, the majority of which are attributed to Somalis.
A multinational force of warships has had little impact on the number or frequency of attacks. Critics of current UK policy have expressed hope that the successful rescue of an American cargo ship’s captain by the USS Bainbridge, during which three pirates were shot dead by Special Forces, could be the start of a new era of ‘zero tolerance.’ Yet with shipping companies willing to pay ransoms for the return of valuable cargoes, piracy remains a multi-billion dollar industry in what has been called the world’s most failed state.
Currently, at least ten ships and more than 250 crew members are being held in Somalia.
Chapter 10
Scott stepped from the evening cool of the street into the bar. The two rooms were sweaty and full of chatter as they filled up with the post-work drinkers who gathered between the dark wood tables to talk shop, swap gossip and cut deals. It was a white-collar, largely government crowd, and the eager interns, harried junior partners and most of the women sipped conscientiously on club sodas. Many of the men, especially the old hands, knocked back bourbon, their ties loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up.
Mike sat alone at one end of the crowded bar, nursing a beer that no longer looked cold. With difficulty, Scott caught his eye and nodded towards a table in the corner, away from the crush. Mike got off his stool and shouldered hi
s way towards the table. After a long day sitting at desks, many of the drinkers ignored the upholstered chairs, preferring to stand while they talked, their eyes sliding around the room, watching the door and who was drinking with whom.
Most, though, were watching for more prominent players than two back-room boys like Scott and Mike, so the two friends settled anonymously into the corner and Scott ordered beers from the waitress. Judging by the unfocused look in Mike’s eyes, Scott figured he had some catching up to do.
But when his friend spoke, Scott realized that Mike was simply tired, not drunk. At least, not yet.
“We’ve found a survivor in Afghanistan. One. Out of an entire patrol and an Apache.”
“Plus the British journalists.” Scott found himself craving the days when it was legal to smoke in bars. And for when he smoked. “But it’s better than none. Do we have anything on the captured woman reporter?”
“Not yet.” Mike shook his head. “And there aren’t many leads, although the British are looking too, of course. She’s probably in the Green Zone, but if she’s in ours, then we’ll find her.”
“Alive, I hope.”
They paused as a waitress put two bottles on the table and flashed a smile at Scott. Then Mike spoke again.
“This whole thing makes me sick, and the weapons situation is causing on hell of a stink at Langley.”
“I have it on the highest authority that you boys are all over it.”
“The hell we are.” Mike breathed heavily and stared across the bar. A guitarist climbed up onto the small platform at the other end of the room. The crowd ignored him, the roar of their own energy filling the spaces, squeezing out his timid tune-up.
“Vernon has ordered that all efforts and resources be put into tracing the hardware.”
Vernon was the CIA director, a man widely disliked in D.C. and better known for his rivalry with certain members of the Administration than for his own successes. Scott knew he was a better politician than he was a spy, and rumours whispered over alfresco lunches in D.C. parks said that his days were as numbered as the man who had put him into office: the President. But for now, Vernon was de facto head of all intelligence activities, with a seat on the NSC, along with Johnson, the secretary of defense, Shackleton, the chief of staff and others.
“That could be useful.” Scott finished his beer and, with a raised eyebrow to Mike, who nodded, he signaled to the waitress for two more.
“It is. But we’re chasing it from out in the field backwards; interrogations, bribes paid, threats made. You know the drill.”
“Sure.”
“But why just the one avenue? The person of interest to you and me has been kicked into the tall grass. Nothing said directly, of course, that’s not how it’s done with us, but I’ve been given my orders.”
“Where has it taken you?”
They paused again as the waitress put two bottles on the table in front of them and, in one smooth motion, picked up their empties and was gone. She clearly had been working there long enough to know not to linger, or listen.
This time, Mike waited until she was out of sight before he leaned in.
“Iran.”
There was a pause as they both drank deep, although the cold beer was not the only cause of a chill creeping through Scott.
“State sponsored?”
“As far as we can tell, no.”
“A freelancer?”
“Not quite. His name is Hassan, and he has ambitions to unseat a certain leader and take the presidency for himself.”
“Is he a popular rival?”
“Any alternative is popular, but he’s hard-core, Scott. There’ll be no working with him from our perspective, if he gets what he wants.”
“Which is?”
Mike sighed, weary of thinking about it all. “The usual: money, kudos, a greater Caliphate, but above all, power.”
“Of course.”
“By helping the insurgents succeed - or even hold the status quo - in Afghanistan against us and the rest of ISAF, he earns himself a lot of that, and it gives him a huge boost in the internal power stakes.”
“He’s trying to make a name for himself as a scourge of the American invader.”
“You got it.”
“I’m guessing he’s buying the weaponry, not building it himself?”
“Of course. We’re working on the supply chain - “Mike took another long pull on his beer as the guitarist finally found the courage to cut across the hubbub. “But we’re not there yet. What I want to know,” he said, lowering his voice even more, making Scott strain to catch the words, “what I want to know is, where’s he getting the money?”
“Heroin?”
“Could be, could be... the thing is, it’s taking us down one road, straight into the political situation in Iran that is not the focus of this inquiry.”
“An even bigger can of worms.”
“Exactly. And yet we’re neglecting other possible angles to it, other...questions.”
“I know. When I tried to raise the subject of Maynard, I got shut down.” Scott didn’t know if Mike was aware of what was going on over at the Pentagon.
“On whose authority?”
“The very top, apparently, but it was Waring who informed me in person that you guys were all over it and that I should step back.”
Mike raised his eyebrows and puffed out his substantial cheeks.”Well, he owes his job to Vernon, everyone knows that. If the CIA gets to the bottom of this, it’ll win Vernon a hell of a lot of points. Maybe save his job.”
“But Waring has to keep the NCIX Board happy, too, and Roberts is jockeying for Vernon’s job after the election.” Roberts was director of the FBI, and chair of the NCIX Board of Directors. As head of the CIA, and therefore all intelligence, Vernon’s position would be a massive step up for Roberts, but he was known for his political ambition.
Mike shook his head. “Like I said, this stinks.”
“But this is an ‘all source intelligence process,’“ Scott said, mimicking the robotic voice of bureaucracy.
“My ass,” Mike said, grinning. Then he sobered quickly. Relations between the different agencies were a complete mess, but this was no laughing matter.
“Was anything said about our unofficial meeting last week?”
“Not exactly,” Mike said. “There was a memo circulated, reminding us all of inter-agency co operational procedure.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, I think that’ll be it. Whoever is pushing this doesn’t want to attract too much attention to the lack of attention, if you know what I mean. “
The effects of the beer were obviously starting to kick in for Mike, but Scott, several drinks behind him, was too focused to relax. The news that progress was being made in the official investigation didn’t lessen his hunch about Maynard, and he was concerned about Brooke going out to the mine. He had never expected her to go that far. Not even Brooke. She must have found out something. But what?
Scott thought about telling Mike about Brooke and her investigation, but until he heard from her, there was nothing to tell, unless you counted illegally sharing classified information. They sat in silence for a few minutes, listening to the singer mangle “The Irish Rover,” and then joined in the desultory round of applause at the end.
“I’m not leaving this alone, Mike, but I’ll have to keep my head down, and call in a few favors.”
Mike nodded, knowing better than to ask from whom.
“Stay in touch.”
“I will.” Scott downed the last of his beer and threw some bills on the table. Mike was already weaving towards the bar. Tonight was Gail’s regular evening class; she was reading post-grad law at Howard University and the boys would be staying at their grandmother’s. Mike looked like he was going to make the most of his down time.
With a small smile, Scott sidestepped a pretty young intern who clearly hadn’t observed the unspoken ‘soda only’ rule, and he left the bar.
The street was dark, the air sharp, as Scott walked towards the Metro. It was late now, and the streets in this part of town close to the Capitol weren’t that safe, even in daylight. Scott hurried a block west, then jay walked north across an empty street, wondering why he felt so jumpy. His subconscious was telling him something was off. It was a feeling, no more.
Scott turned the corner and the Metro stop was in sight. A few late workers drifted down into the subway. A taxi crossed his path, and reflected in the window by the streetlight was a man, maybe a dozen yards behind him. That was odd; he hadn’t been there a moment earlier. Without looking around, Scott increased his pace and pretended to be walking past the station entrance, but he sidestepped at the last moment and walked casually down the ramp.
Standing by the ticket machines, Scott fiddled with the dollar bills, feeding them into the machine crooked, so they were spat out. From the corner of his eye, he saw the same man walk quickly past the Metro entrance. He was middle-aged, a dark overcoat thrown over a white shirt and dark slacks. Scott relaxed. Just another anonymous suit working late.
Telling himself to get a grip, he walked down the tunnel to the Red Line and waited for the next train going northwest. As it slid to a stop at the platform, Scott stepped on board with a handful of other passengers. None were in his car, though, until someone jumped onboard just as the doors were closing.
Scott looked up. The passenger was a middle-aged man in a gray suit and dark blue overcoat. Was it the same man from the street?
He couldn’t say for sure, so he simply watched out the window as the train moved off. Just one stop later, however, his fellow passenger stood up as the train was slowing. Moving towards the doors, he approached Scott and, just as he came even with him, he stumbled. He reached to steady himself on the back of the seat and put a hand on Scott’s shoulder instead. His fingers caught Scott’s eye for a split second; the index finger was missing.
“Sorry,” the man mumbled, and he was out of the door before Scott had time to react. Was that the smell of whisky?