Betrayal

Chapter 18

A rainstorm whipped the treetops near the large boulevard that fronted the mall Arthur liked to use as his getaway from Langley when things became too stressful, or he had to make some private calls and didn’t want to have them go through the CIA switchboard. He sat in a red vinyl booth at a retro-Fifties coffee shop, the waitresses dressed in sock hop garb in keeping with the theme. The soda fountain was already doing a good business even at ten a.m., a tribute to the quality of the shakes as well as the lack of concern over calorific intake that its patrons shared.

Arthur took a sip of his rich brew and glanced around the diner to confirm he was alone. The waitresses were used to him so nobody stared at the horror that was his face. A small thing, but one he appreciated, and he always tipped generously by way of thanks. He reached into his jacket and extracted a cell phone with a scrambler module incorporated in it.

The voice on the other end answered within moments. “So what’s the word?”

“The operative’s in place, and we’re waiting to follow the contact.”

“That’s great. Hopefully this will be over soon, and we’ll have our diamonds back.”

“Well, there’s also a wrinkle. I got a call a few hours ago that someone attacked them.”

“What do you mean, someone attacked them? Who? What was the result?”

Arthur took another sip, what passed for his lips drooling fluid onto the saucer — an eventuality he was prepared for with plentiful napkins. No matter how hard he tried he couldn’t get used to drinking hot coffee through a straw. It was just another of life’s plentiful challenges. “Information is coming in, but the good news is that the operative wasn’t harmed, so other than some logistical hurdles, we’re still all systems go.”

“And who mounted the attack?”

“Unknown at this time. One disturbing piece of information I’m thinking you can look into, though. I don’t want to use any agency assets — it appears we have a leak. It seems that the operative was tracked. That points to what we’ve long suspected — someone inside who has access to the positioning feed. It would also explain why our last two forays were unsuccessful. If they had the tracking data…”

“…they knew exactly where to find them. I got it. I’ll have my tech look into who has been accessing the feeds. That should be knowable.”

“When you find out…”

“I know. We’ll arrange for an accident.”

“Leave that to me,” Arthur said softly.

“Of course.”

“On the other front, we’re hearing that our customary suppliers are now in discussions with a Russian group about taking over distribution into the Eastern Seaboard and Europe. I won’t belabor how bad it will be for us if they get their hands on that much heroin. It would disrupt the entire pricing structure.”

“I don’t need to tell you how much product we are already committed to from Afghanistan. Any significant drop in the market price would be disastrous.”

“I have faith that this operative will solve the problem for us.”

“Let’s hope you’re right.”

Arthur sighed. “We may want to consider a backup approach if she fails.”

“There is no backup. She can’t fail. We don’t have any other options.”

“I’ll start thinking of some. While I believe she will be successful, I don’t want to bet the farm on it,” Arthur said.

“Do that.”

Arthur hung up. In addition to his formal role with the agency, he’d also been involved in the small circle of defense department and CIA personnel that controlled much of the worldwide narcotics trafficking for twenty-seven years and counting, eventually securing a central role in the scheme as his predecessors had retired or died. It had made him a very rich man, but also carried with it responsibilities. Like ensuring that no criminal syndicates stepped in and cut into the supply chain. Pricing on many drugs was as artificial as the value of most currencies, and if the Russians hit the street with heroin that was half the price of his, that would cause a disastrous downward spiral in profits as his network had to meet that pricing to move product.

He finished the dregs of his cup, wiped his face, put a five-dollar bill on the table for the two-dollar coffee, then stood and made his way to the door, ignoring the stares from the few interested patrons near the front entrance. He’d long grown accustomed to being a freak, a monster, the thing of childhood nightmares. There was nothing he could do about it but try to live as normally as possible. Assuming one believed that being one of the top CIA black ops managers was deemed normal.

Looking up at the sky from beneath the awning, he opened his umbrella and pushed out into the storm, his car and driver waiting for him in the red zone a scant twenty yards away.

A contingency plan was prudent, he knew. The attack on the woman was fair warning. Something more was in play than they understood.

And Arthur hated surprises.

Edgar sat with his back to the wall in the main dining room of an Italian restaurant, two hundred yards from the Nana complex, stirring his iced tea and watching the customers arrive for an early lunch. He checked his watch. Ten minutes late. He took a drink of the concoction and studied the menu absently.

Jet appeared out of nowhere and took the seat across from him, facing the window. Edgar’s face betrayed nothing, although she could tell he was again surprised at her arrival.

“Came in through the back?” he asked.

“Seemed prudent.”

He studied her. “What happened? I saw some reports on the news…”

“I won.”

“That’s it?”

“Pretty much sums it up, don’t you think?”

He didn’t respond.

The waiter brought her a menu, and she ordered a bottle of mineral water. Once he had departed, Edgar put his menu down.

“Who were they?”

“Don’t know. But they were tenacious. Amateur, but tenacious just the same.”

“You got away clean? No injuries?”

“I’m good to go. Rob?”

“He has a sore ankle from the jump on the roof, and he lost some skin on the fire escape, but other than that, tip top.”

The waiter arrived and set a bottle of water in front of her, then took their order and left them to their discussion.

“Why did you cut out the tracking chip?”

“Self-preservation. I was traced,” Jet stated flatly.

“That’s impossible…unless…”

“What?”

“There was a rumor. That’s all it was.”

“Are we playing twenty questions? Tell me.”

He rubbed his face, looking tired for the first time. “About Hawker. Nobody was sure about who could be trusted when he went rogue. But one of the rumors was that he had someone at headquarters…someone at Langley. Nothing ever came of it, but that would be the only explanation.”

“Assuming that it was him.”

“Who else would it be?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t like the way any of this is shaping up. Nothing is as it seems.”

“Welcome to Thailand. You get used to that in everything here. Wheels within wheels. A Russian doll. Always another layer.”

She fixed him with a hard stare. “Shit. Do you have a tracking chip?”

His eyes widened. “No. I’m not…I’m not active in that way…”

Jet nodded. “And Rob?”

“Yes.”

“Lose it. Bad idea. Maybe conceptually, it’s a positive for a control freak, but as you can see, in practice it’s just another way to get yourself killed.”

“Noted.”

“And what’s the latest with Lap Pu?”

“Surveillance says it looks like he’s wrapping up his business here. So we can expect him to make a move at any time.”

“Then I’m going to need to get some supplies. I made a list.” She slipped a piece of paper across to him. He opened it, read quickly, then nodded.

“I’ll need to check on the MTAR. What’s your second choice?”

“FN P90. Although I prefer the MTAR with a laser sight and suppressor. In 9mm.”

“I’m thinking I can get one flown in. It may take a day.”

“Then I hope we have one,” she said.

“Worst case, I know we have some M4s with laser sights and suppressors.”

“Bulkier. In a pinch that would work, I suppose. But if you want to keep a girl happy, get the MTAR and a few hundred rounds of ammo.”

“Hmm. No problem on the night vision goggles. Infrared might be tricky. Let me see what I can do.”

“I didn’t make out that list as suggestions. If I’m going into the jungle, then I’ll need to be properly equipped. Unlike the last teams, I have no intention of being road kill.”

“Which brings me to the part you’re not going to like.”

Jet’s eyes narrowed.

“Headquarters feels it would be a good idea for you to work with Rob when you go after Lap Pu.”

She took a gulp of water and frowned. “Absolutely not. He’s not in the same league as I am. Don’t get me wrong. He’s not bad, but he’s not me. And that could get me killed. So forget about it. I don’t work with a partner. Arthur knows that.”

“He sensed there might be some problems. Asked you to call today.”

“Arthur can screw himself.”

“Yes, well, perhaps. But he still needs you to get in touch.”

The food arrived, and they dug in. Her chicken picata was indifferently prepared with some traces of odd spices. The Thai version, she supposed.

“What else?”

“We may not have a lot of warning when Pu takes off, so I’d stay alert.”

She gave him a glum look. “Really. Stay alert. I’ll try to do that. But until you have my list in hand, I can’t go anywhere, unless you’re thinking I should go into the jungle with only a KA-BAR and a smile.”

“Point taken. It will be my top priority. In fact…” He flipped out his phone and typed in the list, pausing occasionally to take a bite of lasagna. “…There. By the time I get back to my office, I’ll have a line on all of it.”

When she’d eaten half of her uninspiring meal, she pushed back from the table.

“I’m going. Thanks for lunch. I’ll contact Arthur.”

“How will I get in touch with you?”

“I’ll call you at five. Let’s hope that Pu stays put one more night.”