Target Lock

Palau Piri Island Off the Northwestern Tip of Bali 0915 Hours, Zone Time: August 25, 2008

Mr. Lan Lo stared at the single line of decoded encryption on the computer terminal and the accompanying unquestionable authenticator. He was Chinese: His features maintained their disciplined stoicism and dignity even in the face of this statement of disaster.

He sat at the primary workstation of the communications center at House Harconan, the white-walled and windowless little room only he, Makara Harconan, and Lo’s two meticulously selected administrative assistants had access to. This was, or had been, the heart of Harconan’s “Special Consideration” operations.

It must end now.

Lo erased the message on the terminal screen with a tap of a key. Swiveling the silent office chair to face the room’s other two workstations, he spoke quietly. “There has been a problem. Execute the Vishnu Program, Variant B, immediately, please.”

His assistants, the young Cambridge-educated Hong Kong expatriate and the female Japanese business executive who had grown tired of battling the sexism within her own nation, lacked Lo’s depth of emotional control. An array of trace emotions played across their features: surprise, bewilderment, and a hint of fear. Yet, with the efficiency Lo required of them, they turned back to their terminals. Calling up their Vishnu crisis checklists, they began the liquidation of the Harconan empire.

Lo had other matters to attend to. Dialing up the security chief’s desk, he again spoke briefly. “This is Lo. Evacuate the island. Vishnu protocols. This is not an exercise.”

A second phone call went through to the seaplane hangar. “Launch immediately. Proceed to Halmahera Island base. Further orders will await you there.”

Rising from his workstation, Lo left the communications center for the outer business office. As the steel security door closed behind him, Lo paused for a moment and addressed the lock keypad inset in the door frame, inputting a code that sealed the door for entrance and exit both.

The four-person outer office staff was hastily making ready for their departure. The air became redolent of burnt plastic and ozone, and thin streams of smoke curled out of computer towers as “drive-killer” security modules incinerated their memory systems.

CDs and data-storage cards went into the degausser unit to the left of the door, hard copy into the shredder on the right. As each office person cleared his desk, a Nung Chinese security guard conducted a swift pat down, then handed over a sealed manila envelope containing an altered passport and identity papers, transport tickets, and a sizable block of cash, severance pay and getaway money both. Barring the guards who would be rejoining their special force unit, each of the island staff down to the masseuse would be receiving such an envelope.

Except for two.

Lo coded and opened the office safe and transferred the island’s liquid assets, some two and a quarter million dollars in various stable currencies and gem-grade diamonds, into a pair of aluminum-sided security brief cases. The imprint of his thumb on the electronic locking plates sealed the briefcases shut, and they were passed to the guard to be placed aboard the waiting helicopter.

Lo had no hesitation in turning this fortune over to the guard. He was Nung.

Lo removed an even greater treasure from the safe, a single CD storage disk in an aluminum security case, tucking it away in his inside coat pocket. This was the sole backup copy of the complete Harconan business files in existence. Even in death it would not leave Lo’s body, not if he had the strength to reach the case’s integral self-destruct mechanism.

A key from around Lo’s neck unlocked a second, smaller door set into the back of the safe. Yet another code was entered here, with a T-minus-twenty time designation.

The only thing remaining in the safe was a tiny Seecamps .32-caliber automatic pistol. Lo checked its clip, then slipped it in the side pocket of his coat.

He moved back through the now desolate and abandoned office to the door of the communications center.

Within he found that his assistants had done well in the limited time they’d had. Hundreds of prerecorded E-mail warning notifications had been flashed around the world to key Harconan personnel, instructing them to secure their positions against outside inquiry and to conduct other specific designated duties. Bank accounts had emptied, the funds starting through an automatic series of laundering transfers and cutouts that would render their tracking all but impossible. Brokerages had been instructed to execute an immediate mass sell-off of stocks, bonds, and futures at undercut prices, the liquidated assets also to vanish into numbered offshore accounts.

When the inevitable move was made to seize Mr. Harconan’s monetary assets, there would be none left identifiable to seize.

Lo stood beside the door, waiting as the last few crisis programs were initiated and the last points on the checklists were cleared. When they were, Lo’s assistants looked up, awaiting his further orders.

He had none to give. “Thank you,” he said simply. “Your performance has been admirable. I regret the current circumstances.” Then he drew the automatic from his pocket and killed them both. The man fell facedown on his terminal keyboard, a single bullet through the side of his head; the woman had the time to rise from her chair and scream before Lo walked a three-round burst across her chest, the blood spraying on her white blouse.

Lo returned the pistol to his pocket. Indeed regrettable. This last phase of the evacuation plan was Lo’s concept, undertaken on his personal authority. Mr. Harconan would likely disapprove of the act when he learned of it. He was a man of sentiment where his servitors and employees were involved. Unlike the other members of the island’s staff, these two individuals had known far too much about Mr. Harconan’s plans to permit them a departure. The risk of their falling into the hands of the authorities was too great. Such unpleasant details were Lo’s responsibility within House Harconan.

Lo made a last circuit around the communications center, tripping the drive killers and verifying that all removable memory media had been eliminated. In all probability this was a redundancy, but Lo was meticulous.

He even closed and locked the security door behind him as he made his departure.

Outside, the moan of aircraft engines broke the island’s peace. Out in the strait, the Canadair amphibian was lifting off. Turning to the east as it climbed, it sped away toward its distant rendezvous.

The Eurocopter sat on the helipad, its rotors turning, the pilot and the security chief waiting for Lo. In moments they, too, would begin their own evasive multistaged journey to the rallying point.

Lo paused to take a final look around the groomed estate grounds and the low, elegant buildings dozing in the palm shade. It was a sadness to be leaving this place of tranquillity and beauty. Lo had known that this day must come, as had Mr. Harconan. It had been hoped that it could have taken place under more controlled conditions so that an evacuation of the artwork and Harconan family memorabilia would have been possible. Fate had decreed otherwise.

“Regrettable,” Lo murmured.

The drone of the helicopter’s rotors had faded almost to silence when the first sequence of thermite incendiary charges exploded. Smoke climbed into the azure sky, thickening swiftly.