Brute Force (27 page)

 

“S
he’ll do thirty knots,” Gruber grunted around a new Scigar. He sat behind the wheel of the small Bayliner, his left leg stretched past a thick curtain that hung over the entry to a small cuddy cabin and V-berth in the bow. He’d told them he’d injured the leg in a shoot-out with the RCMP years before and it locked up on him sometimes. Thick smoke swirled in the dark cabin, combining with the ocean chop to make Yaqub feel as if he had swallowed a stone. He wished Gruber would just be quiet, but the man apparently believed it was his duty to explain every aspect of his movement—an odd thing for someone running an illegal operation.

“The trick,” the smuggler continued, “is to look like tourists instead of outlaws. If the boat is too slick, too fast, CBP are certain to want to board you. A bunch of Pakis got arrested in BC a while back before they were even able to make the trip. They were buying maps, hanging around, and generally looking suspicious—that’s what got them. Fools paid upwards of thirty-five grand each to get to the States and then got themselves picked up on the front porch. Damn shame too. They shouldn’t have tried to move when all the agents were in town.”

Ehmet slouched on the sofa behind the captain’s seat. He spoke without opening his eyes. “What do you mean by that? ‘All the agents in town’?”

“I keep tabs on who they send out on detail. I know the staffing pretty well.”

“What is a detail?” Yaqub asked.

“The Mexican border is more newsworthy than this one,” Jiàn Z
u said. “It is not uncommon for authorities to take agents from their postings here and move them to the southern border for weeks at a time to augment their numbers.”

“Cutting a foot off a board on one end and adding it to the other to make it longer,” Ehmet scoffed. “How witless.”

“Well,” Gruber said around his cigar, “their witlessness is good for us. Around a third of the Anacortes office and a quarter of the Bellingham agents are on detail or out on vacation. We’ll sacrifice a boatload of Malaysians and a duffel bag stuffed with BC bud.” He tipped his head at Jiàn Z
u. “Whoever you are, I guess you’re important enough to absorb the loss of income from eighteen illegals and write off the arrest of the jockey and his helper. Anyhow, this will tie up every patrol boat in the vicinity while they try to get a piece of the action. Shame about losing that good weed though.”

Yaqub took a sip of ginger ale to try to quiet his stomach. “How will the authorities know where to find the boat full of Malaysians?”

“That’s the brilliant part.” Gruber took out his cigar and waved it like a magic wand. “The CBP port director in Anacortes thinks he has one of my girlfriends on his payroll. The thing is, the government don’t pay nearly as well as I do—and like I said, she craves the expensive shit. Anyway, she gives him the information I want him to have—which includes the tip on the Malaysian illegals and the weed. It’s a big boat, so they’ll turn this into a major operation, give it a fancy code name, and use their record of astounding investigative success to get more money from Congress—while we slip across the border in our little Bayliner fishing boat.”

 

 

Just as Gruber predicted, there wasn’t a patrol boat to be seen. He took them as far as Deception Pass at the north end of Whidbey Island, where two Chinese men in a skiff motored out to meet them.

“Big Uncle’s men,” Jiàn Z
u said as the skiff pulled up alongside. It had stopped raining and the sun was just beginning to pink the eastern sky.

“You were going to release the remainder of the funds,” Gruber said, spinning his captain’s chair around so it faced toward them, away from the console.

“I will.” Jiàn Z
u nodded, reaching into his pocket.

“Nice and slow, now!” Gruber spat.

The curtain to the V-berth behind Gruber suddenly slid open, revealing a young blond woman with a shotgun pointed directly at Jiàn Z
u’s belly.

“Never fails,” Gruber said. “This is always the tricky part.” He held the cigar between two fingers and used the chewed end to point at the woman with the shotgun. “Remember those expensive girlfriends I was telling you about? Well, this one’s my favorite.”

“I am merely reaching for my phone,” Jiàn Z
u said. “To make the transfer.”

“We should have killed the bearded fool,” Ehmet said fifteen minutes later as they sat in the skiff with Big Uncle’s men. Gruber’s Bayliner gave a rumbling burble in the water as it motored away back to the north.

“It doesn’t matter,” Jiàn Z
u said, turning to Big Uncle’s man who sat at the outboard tiller, driving them back to the silver line of gravel that ran between the water and the dark line of old-growth forest. Dressed in olive drab Helly Hansen raincoats and matching sullen frowns, both men looked to be in their late twenties. “We are to take delivery of an important item. Do you know if it has arrived?”

The boat driver nodded, but said nothing.

The endless, mind-numbing uncertainty of the hours since their escape had worn Yaqub down to his last nerve. He just wanted all of this to be over, no matter how it turned out. “Is it in the car?”

The man at the tiller turned his head slightly to stare at him. He spat over the side, then shook his head. “Big Uncle wants to meet you.”

Yaqub felt as if he were the edge of a carpet that was coming unraveled at every turn. They were so close, and now this Chinese gangster was going to change the rules.

Ehmet sat at the bow, facing aft, his arms stretched out and running along the gunnels as if he owned the place. “We are in a hurry,” he said, peering out through narrowed eyes.

“So is Big Uncle,” the boat driver said, eyeing Ehmet as if he saw the latent danger there. “He has a big charity event tonight. We are to bring you by to pick up your item and get some food.” He turned to Yaqub, his look of respect falling into a sneer. “Don’t worry. You won’t be long.”

 

T
he British Airways flight from Charles de Gaulle touched down just after noon. They had booked the seats at the last minute, which could pose a problem. Quinn knew it was a sure way to be flagged for extra screening, but it couldn’t be helped. Song had used a credit card under the name on her passport, assuring Quinn that only her most trusted allies in the Ministry of State Security were privy to that particular identity. Quinn was glad to finally hear the engines wind down and the chime letting everyone onboard know it was okay to get up—even if it meant facing a humorless officer from Customs and Border Protection. Worrying and waiting didn’t make it any less dangerous.

They traveled as a couple so Quinn had filled out the single form required for entry into the US. He reminded himself that he was John Martin from Sydney, Australia, in the States on holiday. “Holiday” was one of those words that sounded slightly Australian, no matter who said it.

It took them nearly fifteen minutes to get off the plane and enter the cattle chute that fed them toward US Immigration.

Song yawned as they walked, slowing some to let a crowd of college-age boys hustle by as if they were in a race to see who would be interrogated first. She leaned in toward Quinn.

“Do you remember how I was your stylist at the hospital in Kashgar?” She kept her voice low as other passengers jostled by.

“The spit bath.” Quinn moved his neck from side to side, working to rid himself of the cricks and kinks from the ten-hour flight. “I wondered when you would bring that up.”

“What do you mean, you wondered?”

Quinn leaned down to Song’s ear, whispering, “I’m a US Marshals’ Top Fifteen fugitive. I don’t know much about you, but I can tell you’re much too skilled to chance facial recognition spotting us as we go through customs. I’m assuming that towelette back in the hospital had some sort of reflective makeup on it.”

“Exactly so.” Song nodded, apparently pleased that he’d figured it out on his own. “It is sensitive information, so I did not wish to divulge it if possible.” She looked away for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to go on. “Facial recognition software is far from perfect, but you are distinctive and, as you said, a wanted man. If you have been listed in any sort of rogues’ gallery, it would be a simple matter for such a program to match your passport photograph when it is scanned.”

“But your secret chemical towelette took care of that.”

“I believe so,” Song said. “The software focuses on areas like the cheekbone and the spot between the eyes. Long hair or heavy makeup applied to one side of the face has been shown to defeat the program.”

“But a clear reflective makeup is a lot less noticeable,” Quinn said, looking at the towelette Song took from her vest pocket. She dabbed it between his eyes and along his cheekbone. Passersby would think she was merely helping her husband with something on his face after the long flight.

“Correct,” she said. “It is a clear base, somewhat like sunscreen, that reflects the end of the infrared spectrum barely visible to the human eye. Many FR readers scan this wavelength. As I told you before, your Australian passport is authentic, complete with the biometric chip containing a digitized copy of the photograph I took in the hospital.”

“And you put the makeup on me in the same place when I was in the hospital in Kashgar.” Quinn rubbed a hand across his whiskers. She’d thought of everything. Theoretically, with the makeup reflecting the same large portion of light that bounced off the skin over his cheek and between his eyes, facial recognition software would not recognize him enough to match with any gallery of fugitives, but a scan of the passport would match a photographic scan of his face taken at screening.

“And you’ve tested this invisible makeup on passport scanners from the United States?”

“Most of them.” Song shrugged.

“That’s a tall order,” Quinn said as they walked along nearing the snaking queue to immigration for non-US citizens.

“Not really.” Song gave him an impish wink. “A surprising number of your machines are made in China.”

 

 

They made it through immigration with little more than a “Business or pleasure?” question. The young woman at the customs counter welcomed them to the US and admitted that she’d always wanted to visit Australia, before nodding them through with their luggage.

With a prohibition on cell phone use inside the screening area, Quinn had to wait to call Thibodaux until they’d made it out into the terminal lobby. He walked toward the Gold Streak counter as he punched in the number.

“We’re here and secure,” Quinn said when Thibodaux picked up.

“Glad to hear it,” the big Cajun said.

Quinn took a deep breath, afraid to ask the next question. “How’s Ronnie?”

“She’s sleeping now. Been through a hell of a lot.”

“The guys that had her?” Quinn asked. He’d run through a hundred different scenarios during the flight, none of them good. His jaw clenched so tightly he had to concentrate to keep from cracking a tooth.

“He’s taken care of,” Jacques said. “She already had one done when we showed up. Anyhow, I’ll tell you all about it when I get there. You get your package?”

“I’m going to the counter now,” Quinn said. “Thanks for doing that.”

“Don’t thank me,” Thibodaux said. “Kim and Camille needed something to do to work off their jitters anyhow.”

“You involved Kim?” Quinn said, loud enough to gain the attention of other passengers in the terminal and draw a quizzical look from Song.

“They were already involved up to their neck bones,
cher
,” Thibodaux said. “Long story. We’ll all laugh our asses off about it if we don’t die in a mushroom cloud. Anyhow, the boss is chompin’ at the bit to talk to you. I’ll let him know you’re on the ground.”

Quinn picked up the small duffel he used as a go-bag from the Gold Streak counter and took the escalator up toward the taxi stand in the parking garage. Song lagged a few steps behind him, talking to one of her contacts in frantic Mandarin. He could tell she was checking on any last-minute information about the triad boss known as Big Uncle. Quinn’s cell began to ring two minutes after he’d hung up with Jacques.

“We’re here,” Quinn said, knowing his boss would want to get straight to business. “What have you got?”

“We?” Palmer said.

“Long story.” Quinn glanced over his shoulder at Song, who was still locked in the rapid-fire conversation with her local contact—someone Quinn would have loved to identify for future reference. “I’m sure Jacques has already filled you in on the woman who saved my life—and the weapon.”

“You’re still with her?” Palmer said, stifling a cough. “That’s rich.”

“Turns out not everyone in that part of the world thinks war is such a hot idea. All indications put her and me on the same side—”

“Until she decides to put a bullet in your ear,” Palmer said. “Listen, a source in the IDTF tells me Drake and the Japanese Prime Minister will both arrive in Seattle later this evening. They have a ten a.m. event together tomorrow at the Japanese Cultural and Community Center where Drake is supposed to clarify US support for Japanese sovereignty over the Senkaku Islands. Drake’s assassination will provide the perfect first domino that will push us into war.”

“Perfect target,” Quinn said, half to himself.

“I’m thinking so too,” Palmer said. “Scout it out and get back to me. If you can’t locate the guys you’re after, we’ve got some serious decisions to make before tomorrow morning.” Palmer cleared his throat. Quinn heard the click of a cough drop against his teeth. “It goes without saying that this new friend of yours surely has an agenda very much her own.”

“Roger that,” Quinn said. The thought crossed his mind at least once every ten minutes. He hung up, checking the time on his Aquaracer. It was just after one. The last forty-eight hours had left him with fifteen stitches to close the wound on his chest, a pulled muscle in his hip, and a painful sprain in his right shoulder—not to mention the aftereffects of the ricin and surgical anesthesia. He was far from in his best shape and his only backup was a Chinese agent—and that wasn’t the worst part. He had to figure out a way to save President Hartman Drake, the man behind ninety percent of his woes.

Song caught up to him, phone in one hand, dragging her bag with the other. She bounced on the balls of her feet like a child who couldn’t contain important news.

“I have found Big Uncle,” she said. “I’m not sure where he is at this precise moment, but he’s hosting a formal reception and charity art auction beginning at five this evening.”

Quinn filled her in on the pertinent points he’d learned from Palmer as they walked. She shook her head when he was finished.

“This President is more vocal about your animosity toward my country,” she said. “But the truth is the United States has always had a problem with China’s claim to the Diaoyu Islands.” She called the islands by the Chinese name for the disputed rocks rather than Senkaku as the Japanese preferred. “From our point of view, the US has fought us over every inch of ground that has historically been ours.”

Quinn sighed. “Look,” he said, “there is an endless list of perceived slights, human rights violations, or other misdeeds either one of us could bring up regarding the stand our countries take on given issues. But now is the time to work, not talk. And when I work, I worry about the person who wants to kill me—or kill my friends. I look at his hands. His race, religion, nationality, or political philosophy don’t even get a footnote in my brain. Some . . . no, most things are beyond the vagaries of politics—and this is one of them.”

Song stood and looked at him, blinking slowly. “Hmm.” She shrugged, as if she’d just been baiting him. “I have never heard you say so much at one time. It is enlightening. In any case, we should go and make ourselves more presentable. You are in desperate need of a haircut and I would appreciate a shower. All I packed for us was an assortment of T-shirts and underwear so we should stop somewhere and pick up some more suitable clothes. Big Uncle is a dangerous man with dangerous associates. It is much better that we meet him in a public place like this formal reception.”

Quinn closed his eyes and gave a low groan. Not because he was worried about Big Uncle or his dangerous associates. If this was a formal reception, he was going to have to put on a tie.