by Glen Robins
“What did he say, exactly?”
“He asked if I had spoken with you since Collin was lost in the storm.”
Emily arched an eyebrow and paused momentarily. “Why would he mention me?”
“My thoughts exactly. Neither Sarah nor I remember telling the FBI anything about you or your involvement. It’s strange. It’s also strange that he didn’t confirm the FBI’s stance on Collin’s status. I have to believe that they think he’s still alive. They must have evidence that they are not sharing with us. Certainly, they wouldn’t contact me otherwise,” Henry said, motioning toward his sleeping wife. “Not at a time like this.”
Emily covered her mouth with her hand and cast her eyes to the floor as she mulled over her options. She knew the Cook’s didn’t need any distractions while Sarah fought cancer. On the other hand, Emily knew they were fully engaged in Collin’s saga and no amount of illness or medical treatment would replace the gnawing emptiness created by their son’s prolonged absence. It felt right, so she dived straight in. “Agent Crabtree and his partner showed up at my door shortly after six o’clock this morning and asked me all sorts of questions about Collin’s whereabouts, his plans, his money, our relationship, my involvement in his escape from Chicago. It was mind-numbing. In the end, I told them what little I know and gave them the cell phone Collin gave to me in Chicago.”
“Did you feel coerced into doing that?” Henry asked.
“Not exactly. I felt compelled, yet conflicted. Part of their story made sense. They need to try to find him, if he is alive―something they have not yet admitted out loud to me, either―and want whatever information I can provide since I was the last known friend or family member to have seen him. They said it was for his safety and mine. If Pho Nam Penh were to find him before they did, it could be disastrous for him and for the country. So, I told them what little I know since Collin didn’t tell me anything and handed over the cell phone. They cloned it while we talked. They think it will help them find him. I don’t know how. I had assumed his phone got ruined at sea because I haven’t heard anything from him since that day. I figured I would not be compromising him in any way to give them the phone.”
“They’ll track his movements and determine his last known location using the signal from the phone if it’s still working,” muttered Henry, almost to himself. “What good that will do them, I don’t know, but at least it shows them that you are willing to cooperate. I suppose that should work in your favor. And, who knows, maybe it will help them find Collin and bring him home.”
“That was my thinking, too. It can’t hurt. Oh, and by the way, they sent a pair of agents as protection for me. I guess they fear this Asian mobster will come after me next as leverage against Collin.”
Henry’s brow furrowed and the deep creases in his forehead reemerged. “Leverage,” he mumbled as he gazed at his sleeping wife.
****
Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia
June 15, 1:17 a.m. Kuala Lumpur time
“We must call him,” said one of the computer geniuses in the smoke-filled room as he clicked his mouse. He was one of only three men still awake. Two slept on cots in the corners of the room. Two more slept in their seats, heads resting on folded arms on the table. One of them stirred, repositioned, and went back to sleep.
“Are you absolutely certain? 100 percent?” asked the foreman.
“Yes, sir. 100 percent. The description of the car and the license plate matches. The CHP and local traffic cameras show a man and a woman in the car. Both faces match the photos we have. They are both there, inside the building. We need to call right now.”
“Let me see what you have first,” said the foreman, as he shuffled around the table to look over his teammates’ shoulder. After a thorough examination of the evidence, he picked up his phone and punched the number. “Yes, boss, I have some news for you . . . Yes, it’s very important . . . Yes, sir, we have confirmed that the mother and the father are in the San Diego area . . . Yes, sir, the Scripps Clinic . . . No, it’s a different building, but we believe she is there, too . . . Yes, sir, we will monitor the situation and report any changes . . . Yes, they are still in the area . . .Yes, sir, I will, sir. Thank you.”
He ended the call and ordered the other conscious man in the room to call the two operatives in La Jolla.
****
Scripps Cancer Research Center, La Jolla, California
June 14, 10:38 a.m. Pacific Time
Emily said her good-byes to Henry and Sarah in the darkened and sterile room, although Sarah slept peacefully through it, and made her way out the building to her shining white BMW. The sun overhead was doing its best to maintain Southern California’s image, bouncing its brilliant rays off the bright white paint and windshield, nearly blinding her as she drew near. She averted her eyes to the left to avoid the glare. That’s when she saw it. At first, nothing seemed unusual about a Sprinter van pulling into the parking lot, but as she watched it, she felt something peculiar. The two Asian men inside seemed to pay her close attention, as if they recognized her. Men often stared at her, but she felt greater discomfort than usual as the van moved closer.
As she chirped her car unlocked, Emily glanced around and noticed the van maneuver into a tight parking space next to what she later learned was Henry’s Cadillac. There were dozens of open spots nearby, but she shrugged it off and settled into the driver’s seat, parked a row behind and a dozen parking stalls to the left of the van. She couldn’t help but watch for a moment before she started the engine. She sent a quick text message to a co-worker giving instructions for the next step in the experiment he was working on.
Emily looked up and saw that the two Asian men remained in the van. Since there were no windows, it was unlikely that there were passenger seats inside. That meant they probably weren’t there to pick up a patient. The decals on the van’s side indicated that they were in the business of home entertainment, so it was equally as unlikely they were at the Scripps patient clinic to install the latest in theater quality surround sound equipment. She cocked her head, took a mental note, and fired up her 328i. She was in a hurry and had to get back to her lab, but the thought crossed her mind that she ought to call security.
The driver of the van watched her from behind dark sunglasses through his side mirror. Her unease grew but was soon quelled by the realization that the FBI detail starting up the Ford Taurus behind her was on the job. It was time to get away from the creepers in the van and get back to work. Her phone rang as she backed out of the parking spot. Soon she was involved in a discussion about her current experiment’s control group at the lab and forgot all about calling security.
****
After the white BMW and the gray Ford sped away and exited the parking lot, the tattooed driver squeezed out of the van into the narrow gap between his vehicle and Mr. Cook’s. The driver’s door banged into Henry’s passenger door, leaving a mark. His cell phone dropped, as if by accident, hit his foot, and skittered under the back bumper of the Cadillac. He strode to the back of the car and glanced in all directions before leaning down to pick up the phone. As he bent over, his hand slid deftly out of his coat’s pocket to a spot beneath the bumper. He tapped the spot, collected the phone, stood up, checked his surroundings, and climbed back in the van. His visit to the clinic’s parking lot, according to the security camera footage reviewed two days later, lasted approximately two and a half minutes.
Chapter Six
Los Angeles, California
June 14, 1:05 p.m. Pacific Time
Reggie let out a long, exasperated sigh as he leaned forward in his government-issued vinyl-covered swivel chair, and placed both elbows on the imitation wood grain-topped metal desk. He had just read aloud for his partner an email from Nic Lancaster, the Interpol agent in London they had been working with on the Cook case.
Spinner McCoy sat across from him and smiled that Texas smile of his. “Come on, Reg. You know you were just like that kid when you were starting out,�
� he said with a mile-wide smirk.
Head still shaking, Reggie looked up at his partner. The gray hairs at his temples and the wrinkles around his eyes seemed more pronounced after the all-night drive from San Francisco to San Diego the night before and the growing angst at all levels concerning the whereabouts of their quarry, Collin Cook. “I know. That’s what bothers me. He’s too impetuous, too heavy-handed, and too damn eager.”
“Rumor has it you were much the same as our friend across the pond, this Junior Agent Lancaster,” McCoy said as he stood and stretched. He turned to survey the view of L.A.’s West Side from the sixth-floor window of their borrowed office at the FBI’s Los Angeles Bureau. “Question is, Mr. All-Knowing Expert, how do we utilize his strengths without letting his bull-in-the-china-closet tendencies screw up another opportunity.”
“Exactly. He can be useful, you know. He’s bright. He’s familiar with the case. Lord knows he’s hard-working―it’s what, nine o’clock over there and he’s still grinding away. The kid is just dying to show someone what he can do,” Reggie said with a check of his watch.
“And don’t forget, he’s got those bankers in the Caribbean scared. Whatever he’s said or done, he’s got them working for him,” added McCoy.
“It’s just a matter of harnessing all that energy he’s got. We need to keep him in the loop and share information, but somehow prevent him from rushing in too early and too heavy again. You know, kind of like having him prepare the patient so we can perform the surgery.” Reggie was now smiling, too. “Everyone wins, right?”
“That’s what I’m saying, boss. Now, let’s look at that map again and see where that boat is headed.”
“My guess is Panama,” said Reggie before Spinner had time to pull up a map.
“Why do you think that?”
“I’d bet Penh knows Cook was there. Probably suspects he hid a bunch of money in one of the many underground banks in the city, one of those that is supposed to be unknown and unknowable except to a select few―the real movers and shakers of the financial underworld. Either he’s the one that directed Collin there in the first place, or he is directing him there now. Collin may be trying to get away from him or on an errand for him. We have no way of knowing, do we?” Reggie stopped and rubbed his face as he thought. “There’s one more possibility: If Penh and Cook were working together, it’s feasible that Collin got caught trying to double-cross Penh. If Cook hid the money so well that we can’t trace it, then maybe Penh can’t either. All outward signs indicate that Penh must not be able to hack into the bank to get the money. He’s going to force Collin to get the money for him, since he undoubtedly knows where it is and how to get to it.”
“Which means he’s going to double-cross Cook,” interjected McCoy.
Reggie nodded. “However you look at it, Collin loses. He’s in a heap of trouble with little chance of surviving, I’m afraid, unless we can get to him first.”
Spinner scratched the stubble on his chin. Neither man had shaved since early the previous morning. “What are you saying, Reggie, send in the Navy SEALs?” he said, turning again to the window.
“I don’t know, Spinner,” Reggie said. His voice dry and growing hoarse. Exhaustion seeped from every word as he spoke. “This whole scenario makes me nervous. It might already be too late for the SEALs. And even if it’s not, the whole thing could backfire on us.”
“How so?” asked Spinner.
Reggie balled his fists and leaned into them. “One hint of intervention, and Penh could put a bullet in every man on that boat. That wouldn’t bode well for us.”
“It wouldn’t help him, either.”
“Yeah, but I think he’d rather win the game, to show us how serious he is. The money is less important than maintaining control over his syndicate and trying to keep the upper hand against us and Interpol by proving to be merciless. Penh ain’t playing around.”
****
Scripps Cancer Research Center, La Jolla, California
June 14, 2:13 p.m. Pacific Time
It was after two o’clock before Dr. Navarro returned to Sarah’s room. The fact that Sarah had not yet awakened concerned him. His apprehension caused Henry a fair amount of consternation. The good doctor checked the read-outs on the machines and looked at the tubes running from the IV bag. He tapped his tablet’s screen and swiped and read and swiped some more. His facial expression changed only slightly as he let out a succession of “hmmphs” after each page was read. He turned to Henry and said, “I expected her to come around some time ago. Everyone reacts differently to these treatments and, being experimental, we don’t have a baseline established yet for patient reactions. Maybe we just need to alter our expectations. Either that, or we need to alter our approach to your wife’s treatment plan.”
“Is there something wrong, Doctor? You seem much more concerned this time around,” said Henry.
“My concern is that we find the proper balance between aggressively attacking the cancer, managing pain, and maintaining quality of life. Her body may not be ready for such a potent dosage,” said Dr. Navarro.
“But if we don’t treat the cancer aggressively, it could spread, right? We don’t want that. She very much wants to live, even if it means she has some setbacks in the short term,” said Henry.
“Very well. We will continue to monitor her condition very closely. Please page the nurse when she wakes up.” Dr. Navarro left with a promise to check back in another hour or two.
****
London, England
June 14, 10:55 p.m. London time
Nic Lancaster’s jaw dropped open in surprise. Things in the Caribbean rarely moved at the same speed as things in London. The people there were friendly and relaxed, and the island culture catered to vacationers looking for that very change of pace. So when the president of the Bank of George Town returned his phone call near the end of their business day, Nic was pleasantly surprised. When the head of the bank’s security promised to send him a clip from the previous day’s video footage, he was stunned. Now that a link to the footage showed up in his email just an hour later, he was nothing short of shocked. He pumped his fist and let out a triumphant, “YESSS!” when he opened the link. He jumped up from his seat and did a dance after reviewing the footage. “It’s him! It’s him! The little bugger’s alive!” he shouted into the darkened and empty cube farm.
Cutting his celebration short, Nic sat down at his computer, not wanting to waste any time, and forwarded the email with the link to Reggie Crabtree, then dialed his cell phone. “I found him,” he said when Reggie answered. “You were right. He went back to Grand Cayman and withdrew another half-million dollars. The link I just emailed to you shows him in the bank. Sure, he’s in disguise, but I know it’s him.”
“Have you run it through FRS yet?” asked Reggie, referring to facial recognition software.
“I haven’t yet, but I will,” said Nic, trying to maintain an air of professionalism. Overly enthusiastic rookies got mocked and he didn’t want that.
“Well, it may be a moot issue anyway. The cell phone he’s been using to communicate with the girlfriend places him nearly two hundred miles south by southwest of Grand Cayman as of one hour ago. We’ve also picked up reports of armed men boarding a sailboat in the harbor and heading out to sea.”
“Any description of these gunmen?” asked Nic, feeling somewhat deflated that his news was not the most earth-shattering of the day, but trying to assert himself.
“Nothing conclusive, just that they appeared to be Asians, dressed as tourists, and in a big hurry,” said Reggie.
“Is there video available? Or photos?”
“Nope. Neither. Only eyewitness accounts. The best thing we have is that cell phone, which will be very useful until the battery dies,” said Reggie.
“I’d imagine, though, that we’ll get a pretty good sense of where they’re heading before that happens.”
“We think they’re heading to Panama. We must try to intercept that
boat before anyone gets killed.” Reggie’s voice was grim and urgent and Nic could hear the tapping of a keyboard in the background as he spoke. “We’re working to get help from the US Navy on our end. See what you can do on your end. Once these guys have what they want, no one onboard stands a chance.”
Chapter Seven
La Jolla, California
June 14, 3:08 p.m. Pacific Time
The driver with all the ink on his neck checked his watch and nodded to his passenger. Speaking in his native Malaysian dialect, he rattled off the list of items to report to the boss. The young passenger stared at him and curled his lip.
“You want me to talk to the boss?” he asked, a thinly veiled tremor in his voice.
“I drive. You talk. If I drive and talk on a phone here, the police will pull us over. That would be a very bad thing. You talk. Tell the boss we are ready for either scenario.”
The passenger hesitated. He looked at the driver, then at the phone in his hand, then back to the driver, who nodded calmly, providing the assurance he needed.
The call lasted ninety seconds. The passenger sighed as he turned to the inked driver and said, “The boss says to go to Plan B.”
The driver nodded, his countenance ice cold as he continued to drive through the streets of La Jolla. “First, let’s make sure Plan A is still operational in case he changes his mind.”
“But what if we miss our chance to initiate Plan B?”
“We will have many opportunities to initiate Plan B, but we will have only one chance to set up the original plan. We will go there now,” the driver mumbled. He first checked the GPS on his phone, then dropped the shifter into Drive and pulled away from the curb.
The passenger shrugged and pulled the duffle bag onto his lap and began raking his hand through the bottom of it. He pulled out four similar packages, each containing a video camera no larger than the eraser at the top of a pencil. Next he searched for the right wires and the super-extended life batteries that would supply power for up to sixteen hours. He tore open the packaging and began connecting wires to batteries and transmitters.