Shadow Tyrants

THIRTY

Night had fallen, and the Oregon maintained a position thirteen miles off the coast of Jhootha Island, just beyond India’s territorial waters. The Indian Coast Guard now had no jurisdiction over the ship and its crew, so the Corporation was in a strong negotiating position for transferring the rescued prisoners over to the waiting cutters. Juan was awaiting Langston Overholt’s call in his cabin to finalize the arrangements.

Juan was finally able to take a shower after making sure all of their guests were cared for and the ship had moved into international waters. He toweled off and hopped over to his closet, where he kept an array of prosthetic legs for different occasions and fieldwork.

One prosthesis was his “combat leg,” reinforced with carbon fiber to withstand the rigors of battle and equipped with hidden weapons, including a .45 caliber ACP Colt Defender pistol, a ceramic knife, a packet of C-4 plastic explosive smaller than a deck of cards, and a single-shot .44 caliber slug that could be fired from the heel. Another leg was used for smuggling items inside an undetectable storage cavity. But since he would be staying on the ship for now, he chose his most comfortable prosthesis, a leg so realistic that it had hairs embedded in a surface that felt just like skin.

He carried the leg over to his desk chair and sat down, massaging the stump just below his right knee. The pain had always been there since his leg was blown off by a Chinese destroyer’s cannon shell, but now it was more of a dull ache that he stopped noticing once he got moving.

He put on the leg, cinching the straps down with a well-practiced rhythm. When he was sure it was tight, he stood and took his clothes out of the bedroom and into the office so he could watch the running lights of the cutters on the camera feed piped into his cabin. He was happy to see that the Indian Coast Guard ships were keeping their distance. The 4K monitor took up the entire wall of his office, and its resolution was so good that anyone else would swear they were looking out a window despite being in the center of the ship.

Like the other members of the crew, all of whom lived full-time on the Oregon, he received a generous budget to decorate his cabin. He preferred a classic 1940s style based on Rick’s Café Américain from the movie Casablanca. Humphrey Bogart would have felt right at home with the antique desk, dining table, chairs, and old-fashioned black telephone. Even the bedroom’s massive black safe was vintage. It held Juan’s personal weapons and the ship’s working cash, including the gold bar they’d used to take over the Triton Star. An original Picasso hung on the wall opposite the monitor. Although the Corporation owned pieces of art for investment purposes, most of them were kept in a bank vault when they weren’t on display in the halls of the ship. This small oil painting, however, held a special meaning from a past mission and would never leave the Oregon.

Juan was just pulling his pants on when the phone rang.

He picked up the receiver. “Yes?”

It was Hali. “I’ve got Langston Overholt on video for you. Should I patch him through on your screen?”

“Give me a minute.” He laid down the receiver and shrugged into a light sweater, wincing as he stretched his chest, which was still sore from where Lyla shot him in the ballistic vest. The nasty black and blue bruise was a testament to the fact that the body armor didn’t absorb the entire impact of the bullet. He picked up the receiver again and said, “Okay, put him through.”

He sat down and hung up the phone as Overholt’s craggy face replaced the ocean view on the monitor.

“You’ll be happy to know that the State Department has gotten the Indians to agree to our terms,” the CIA official said.

Juan was always impressed at how fast Overholt could pull strings in the government. “We’re free to go?”

“As soon as you deliver the prisoners from Jhootha Island to their Coast Guard. The Indians will accept the story that you were just Good Samaritans who happened to be sailing by when you saw something suspicious. In return for not having you involved any further, they’ll take the credit for rescuing the survivors of Xavier Carlton’s missing plane. Have you found out anything useful from the prisoners?”

“I don’t know yet,” Juan said. “I’m having the crew do subtle interviews while we feed them and provide clothing for them.”

“What do they know about the Oregon?”

“Only that we’re a cargo ship called the Goreno. They were hidden in a container when the shipboard weapons were being used. They’re currently being taken care of in the fake mess hall.”

“Then your cover is intact. Did you see anything on the island to connect the facility there to the Triton Star incident?”

Juan shook his head. “They blew it up before we could search it.”

“Well, we do know that there is some connection.”

“How?”

“The team investigating the Triton Star found a receiver and targeting computer inside the container that held the cruise missile. That’s how it was launched remotely by Rasul. The investigators determined that the attack on Diego Garcia was a last-minute change and were able to decipher the coordinates of the original target. Guess what it was.”

“Jhootha Island.”

“Exactly. Whoever paid Rasul wanted to wipe out the island with the Novichok, kill the Triton Star crew, and leave evidence for whoever found the ghost ship that would lead straight to that prison facility. Either that evidence was planted or the plotters were incredibly stupid. Given how complicated the plan was, I don’t think they’re incompetent.”

“So now we need to know who Rasul was working for. Do we even know his last name?”

“Now that the CIA has a good scan of his face, we do,” Overholt said. “His name is Rasul Torkan. Former Iranian special ops. He has an identical twin brother named Asad. They both left the service at the same time.” Overholt switched the video to side-by-side photos of Rasul and Asad Torkan. They were so similar that Juan couldn’t tell which one he’d killed.

“Do we know where Asad is now?”

“As a matter of fact, we do.” The video now clicked over to a view of an Indian man in his forties, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit. He was getting out of a Mercedes limo. The door was being held by one of the Torkans.

“That’s Romir Mallik,” Overholt said. “He’s an Indian billionaire. Owns a satellite design and launch firm, among many other businesses. He’s been called India’s version of Elon Musk. Most recently, he’s been responsible for putting up his country’s newest satellite communications network, called Vajra, though he had a setback a few days ago when one of his rockets blew up on launch.”

That jogged Juan’s memory. “Eric Stone mentioned that a rocket blew up in the Arabian Sea right before the cruise missile was launched. Interesting that they happened around the same time.”

The video feed switched back to Overholt, and he was frowning at the camera. “I agree that the connections are piling up. If Mallik is linked to the plan to wipe out Jhootha Island, then he could also be involved with taking out Diego Garcia’s electronics. We need to know if he is the target of the attacks or the culprit.”

“Maybe if we knew what’s been going on in that prison, we’d have a better idea about the motives behind all this.”

“You don’t have any more time to gently interrogate the prisoners. Our agreement with India states that you have to hand them over in an hour or the Indian Coast Guard will attempt to take the Oregon into custody for further investigation about the incident on the island. They’re not very happy that they’ve been protecting a group of kidnappers instead of a tribe of natives.”

“They probably also wouldn’t take too kindly to us accusing one of their most prominent businessmen of attacking a U.S. military base.”

Overholt nodded. “You can see our predicament.”

Juan stood. “I’ll see if Lyla Dhawan has been able to enlighten us.”

“All right. But don’t take too long. Oh, and one more thing. I did a little digging when Romir Mallik’s name popped up. He tends to do most of his work from a huge condo building that he owns in Mumbai.”

Juan knew Overholt well. He was bringing this up for a reason, so Juan went along with it. “Might be a good place to find some information if someone could get inside and tap into his computer system.”

“As it happens, he’s having a charity gala there two nights from now,” Overholt said, seeming to toss off this tidbit of info. “It’s in all of the Mumbai papers. One of the biggest social events of the year. Thought you might like to know.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Juan said.

It looked like the Corporation was going to have to get an invitation to the party.