The Widow's Strike (6 page)

S
oi Cowboy hadn’t
changed a
whole helluva lot since I’d been there last. A ribbon of dirty bars and strip clubs near the intersection of Sukhumvit and Ratchadaphisek Roads, it was famous the world over for its sex shows. At night it was full of colorful neon and was actually sort of attractive—especially after a few beers. In the daylight it looked worn down and sad, a tattered world the sunlight dared to expose.

Strangely, it reminded me of Christmas from my youth. Driving through our poor neighborhood at night, I would be amazed at how regal the houses looked with their icicle lights blinking and twinkling, knowing the poverty was hiding in the shadows, waiting for daylight to render the harsh truth behind the glitter.

It was still way too early for anything to be open, and the urchins sweeping up the garbage from the night before barely gave me a glance. It was all Thai right now, with men eating lunch from street vendors and women preparing the bars for the night ahead, waiting on the influx of fat westerners. Desperate middle-aged men and dangerous ones lower on the age scale, all willing to pay to have someone tell them they were worth the gift of life that God gave them. Like the telling would make it so.

Clearly, I wasn’t looking for a small boy to take home, so they let me be. I stopped, studying the hand-drawn map my friend at JUSMAG had given me.

When I’d mentioned the prison breakout to Kurt in DC, it seemed to be the perfect solution. He’d balked but then had given me a fully equipped Taskforce aircraft. I was fairly sure he knew what I would do with it. I’d still have to get his permission, but I thought I could. Especially given Knuckles’s current predicament.

I’d tried to keep what I was planning a secret from Jennifer because I knew she wouldn’t see it my way. At the end of the day, she believed in the nobility of the world and felt sure that the State Department would come through. Even with all she had experienced, she still didn’t understand that good was just a word and evil could—in fact mostly did—triumph no matter how virtuous the cause. I knew differently: Just because you were on the right side of things didn’t mean you would win. Sometimes you needed to be a little bad to ensure the good.

I was looking for a specific bar owned by an American known only as “Izzy.” Well, I’m sure he had a real name, but that’s all my buddy had given me. I hoped the name didn’t foretell who I’d find, some guy looking like the Situation or, given his age, a weathered Fonzie wearing a leather jacket in the Thai heat and covered in gold chains.

Izzy had flown for Air America, the thinly disguised CIA front used during the Vietnam War for covert operations in Laos and Cambodia. After the war, he’d stopped in Thailand for a visit and had never gone home. He’d married a Thai, had a few kids there, and, from what my buddy said, had been involved in all sorts of shady shit, both officially for the United States and unofficially for pure profit.

I had almost reached the end of the ribbon of asphalt when I saw the sign on the second floor, above a bar made to look like a speakeasy from the 1920s, the felt drapes hanging in the window showing their stains in the light of day, the bar stools outside upended on the tables.

I tried the door and saw it was unlocked. I entered, the darkness closing in when the door shut. A man stacking racks of glasses shouted in Thai that they were closed. I answered him in Thai, stating my business. Maybe it was the name, or maybe it was that I spoke the language, but his eyes widened and he left, scurrying up a stairwell on the right side of the bar.

Soon enough, I was met by a Thai man taller than most, about twenty or twenty-five years old, with a hint of half-breed in him. A Eurasian with one foot in Thailand and one somewhere else. I gave the bona fides I’d been provided, and we went up the stairs. I was shown into an area that looked like a living room, with old velour couches and overstuffed leather chairs. On one was a Caucasian man of about seventy, wearing eyeglasses and dressed in a suit. He was sitting with his legs crossed, relaxed, reading a spy novel.

He put the book down, saying, “A guilty pleasure. These novels are always so full of shit, but I can’t help myself. If only it were so easy.”

He stood and shook my hand. His grip was firm and up close his eyes seemed to penetrate through my head, as if he were intent on reading my mind.

“Please, have a seat. I’m Izzy.”

I sat and waited for the formality of tea being brought out, the tall Thai behind me over my left shoulder. A warning.

Izzy began with pleasantries designed to ensure I was who I said I was, although he never once asked me who I was working for, sticking solely to my background with my friend at JUSMAG. He’d been in the game for so long he wasn’t even curious and understood such knowledge could be dangerous.

I did the same thing, never saying anything related to my business, sticking with the workings of the bar downstairs. Eventually, the pleasantries trickled out, and I knew it was time when he asked the Thai man to leave the room.

I laid out my requirements, starting with the vehicle, then moved on to more valuable things, hoping he wouldn’t get skittish when I stated I needed two indigenous men along with the vehicle, both prepared to enter a prison. The request didn’t seem to bother him at all. I didn’t give him any operational parameters, but he was shrewd enough to see exactly where I was going.

“They won’t let whoever you’re after simply walk out of prison, even with an official vehicle. He needs a release from the bureau of prisons. And that is something I cannot do.”

“Let me worry about that.”

“I apologize, but I can’t. My men will be on the inside, possibly to remain when your charade is found out. I need more reassurance.”

I paused, wondering how to word this in such a way as to give him what he wanted without compromising Taskforce abilities.

“Let’s just say the man went to prison because he was facilitating a penetration for an organization. He got caught, but the penetration didn’t. I can get this done.”

He studied me for a moment, the wheels in his head turning, now beginning to wonder who I really was. He slowly nodded.

“Okay. You will have your men and the vehicle. Anything else?”

“No. I can handle the rest.”

“Then there’s the matter of payment. Your friend told you I’m not cheap, I assume.”

“Yes. I’ll have to redirect some funds, but I can put them wherever you would like. Just tell me where and how much.”

“I’m afraid it won’t be money.”

“What, then? I don’t have much else to offer.”

“I have a child. My youngest. I would like him to go to a school here. A private one that is very, very well regarded. The money is no object, but I’m afraid they frown on my business. They’ve denied him admission because of my past.”

The statement confused me. “What the hell can I do about that? You want me to rough up the headmaster or something? I’m sorry, but that sort of thing is off the table.”

He smiled warmly. “No, no. Nothing like that. Nothing violent, but surely a man who can get an official release transmitted to a Thai prison can bring pressure to bear in other ways.”

C
rossing the Key
Bridge, Chip
Dekkard couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He said, “Hang on, hang on. I gotta close up.”

He pressed the button that raised the glass shield between him and the driver up front. Once it was secure, he went back to the phone.

“What the hell do you mean a lab tech died? You guys assured me you could get this done in accordance with all applicable regulations.”

He listened a little bit more, the traffic in downtown Washington, DC, a low hum in the background. The mention of a date caused his blood pressure to rocket.

“Wait, wait. This happened three days ago? And I’m just now finding out? Jesus Christ! Shut it down. Shut it all down.”

The person on the other end started to protest, and Chip cut him off. “Shut it down, now. No more protocols. No testing, nothing. Destroy the virus and shut it down. And in the future, tell your boss that if he wants to keep his job he needs to understand a fundamental truth: Bad news doesn’t get better with age.”

Chip hung up the phone without another word, wondering how he could have been so stupid as to allow the project to start in the first place. The CEO of a major US conglomerate, he oversaw multiple companies producing everything from textiles to pharmaceuticals. Seven months ago, one of the firms in the portfolio, Cailleach Laboratories, had come up with an idea: a vaccine for the H5N1 avian flu virus. But not for the one that currently existed. A vaccine for a mutated virus.

The major health bodies, such as the World Health Organization and the US Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, were all petrified of H5N1, as it had upwards of a 70 percent mortality rate when contracted by humans. The good news was that while it could spread like wildfire in birds, killing them in the hundreds of thousands, it didn’t transmit human-to-human very easily. In fact it was nearly impossible. So far, almost all of the deaths related to bird flu were the result of someone working with infected poultry or other avian species.

The bad news was that viruses mutated continuously. All health organizations felt it was only a matter of time before this occurred with H5N1, creating a virus now transmittable human-to-human, bringing on a pandemic that would dwarf the 1918 Spanish flu due to the interconnected reality of the modern world and its proven lethality.

Cailleach Laboratories had proposed forcing a genetic mutation, in effect creating the killer, then developing a vaccine to combat it. It had already been done once for simple research purposes, raising a hue and cry from the US National Science Advisory Board for Biosecurity. They demanded censorship of the details to preclude someone with nefarious purposes from re-creating the study. The controversy had provided the genesis of the idea.

Cailleach had no intention of keeping the time bomb intact for potential abuse. Once the vaccine was created, they would destroy the virus and bide their time, waiting on the natural mutation. When it occurred, they’d make a proverbial killing, as it took upwards of six to nine months to create a new vaccine. While their vaccine would most assuredly not be perfect, as there was no telling how the virus would mutate, Cailleach would be head and shoulders above everyone else, getting a vaccine out much earlier and making an enormous profit in the panic from the onslaught of the pandemic.

The downside to this, of course, was the virus itself. They were playing with fire, and they knew it. They’d decided to set up shop in Singapore because of the stringent US requirements for inspections and licensing. Not to mention the litigious nature of American society. Vaccine production in the United States had dropped from twenty-seven producers in the 1970s to three today, simply because the cost wasn’t worth the risk. At the end of the day, you could prevent the disease, then find yourself on the short end of a thousand different lawsuits claiming everything from flat feet to deafness due to the vaccine.

Chip had been told Cailleach could handle the production safely, inside the Biopolis campus in Singapore, a biomedical complex that was fast becoming the world leader in such research. That statement had just been proven wrong. Instead of becoming the world’s savior at the onset of an outbreak, they had come close to causing it. He shuddered to think of the potential liability. The exposure.

He was brought out of his thoughts by the limousine’s stopping. He exited outside the southwest gate to the White House, wondering how he was going to maintain focus for the Oversight Council update, given what he’d just heard.

After clearing security, he went through the gate and entered the Old Executive Office Building, adjacent to the West Wing. He walked up to the conference room a little early and found Kurt Hale at the podium, ready to brief.

Being one of only two civilians on the council, he always felt out of place at these meetings and rarely said a word. But he’d played a significant role in President Warren’s reelection and remained a valued adviser, so he’d agreed to a seat on the council, only voicing his opinion when he felt he had something to offer.

In short order, the room became crowded with the other members of the council, a low murmur spreading as the officials talked among themselves, waiting on the president. He entered at the stroke of the clock, saying, “Let’s get this rodeo going, Kurt, I don’t have a lot of time.”

Kurt began with an overview of Knuckles’s status and the risk of Taskforce exposure. The discussion brought Chip back to his own near miss, and he let the voices drone on, thinking instead of what cleanup still remained in Singapore.

He returned to the conversation when he heard the secretary of state, Jonathan Billings, raise his voice.

“What do you mean, ‘exploring options’? Pike was supposed to go to the embassy as the president of Grolier Recovery Services. According to the ambassador, he hasn’t shown up yet and he’s been there for a couple of days.”

Kurt said, “I know, I know, but they’ve got Knuckles for a homicide now. It’s become more serious than Pike just solving the problem by walking into the embassy and waving some business cards. Maybe it’s time for official intervention.”

Billings didn’t respond, looking to the president, who said, “What’s coming out officially on that? Anything?”

Billings said, “No. Nobody has notified the embassy at all. As far as they know, Knuckles is still just another arrested American. Nothing on the death in the prison.”

President Warren said, “Okay, then we continue as planned. We can’t amp it up until they do.”

“But Knuckles is in trouble,” Kurt said. “From what Pike said, he’s in real danger. We wait, and it may be just to process a body back home.”

The president held up his hand, indicating the conversation was over. “We wait. This is the closest we’ve ever come to exposure of the Taskforce. You know that. Knuckles can take care of himself for a few more days.” President Warren looked at his watch, then said, “What else have you got?”

When Kurt didn’t respond, he said, “Look, have Pike keep an eye on him. I won’t let him get killed. We’ll pull out the stops if we have to. Just give it some time. I don’t feel we need to man the battle stations just yet.”

Kurt took a breath, then switched gears, putting on the screen the picture of a swarthy fiftysomething man with a jet-black mustache, looking vaguely like Saddam Hussein before he was jerked out of a spider hole with a Prophet Moses beard.

“The penetration of the metropolitan police bureau worked, although not like we thought. It turns out they’ve been following a Persian-carpet salesman from Iran, not our suspected Hezbollah facilitator. They’ve kept track of him because of the Iranian bombing there last year, only they don’t know what they’ve got. This man is Brigadier General Malik Musavi of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard’s Quds Force.”

He let that sink in, then continued. “Malik is a very, very big fish. He’s been on the US screen for a long time, conducting all sorts of external operations, including the attempted assassination of the Saudi diplomat here two years ago. He hasn’t been operational on the ground in years. His job is simply supervising external missions from inside Iran.”

President Warren said, “How sure are you?”

Kurt smiled. “Positive. We have his photo from years ago, and he’s traveling under his true name, just with a different occupation. Don’t know why he would do that, but it’s him. No doubt.”

The secretary of defense asked, “What’s he doing? What’s this mean?”

“That’s the million-dollar question. We have no idea.”

“And you want Omega for him? Is that it?”

“Well . . . that’s not my call. Just bringing it to the council’s attention.”

Hearing the discussion, Chip finally spoke up. “But he’s a state entity. An official Iranian general, not some substate whack job with a bomb. It’s outside of the Taskforce mandate.” He turned to President Warren. “Isn’t it?”

Warren took a breath and let it out. “What about that, Kurt? Chip’s right. Expansion of the mandate, isn’t it? You’re not allowed to mess with any official state activities. That’s CIA all the way.”

Kurt said, “Well, it’s not as black and white as taking out a Russian would be. It’s a hell of a lot more gray. The Treasury Department has already labeled the Quds Force as a specially designated terrorist group and frozen any assets they could find, and Iran is on the official US list of state sponsors of terrorism.”

Billings said, “That doesn’t make them a foreign terrorist organization. Your mandate exists within the State Department’s official FTO list, and they’re not on it.”

Kurt said, “Yet. You and I both know there’s a bill in Congress right now to force the State Department to call the Quds Force a foreign terrorist organization, making them on par with al-Qaeda.”

The secretary of defense spoke up. “Enough of the bullshit about lists. You don’t even have a mission. A reason to go after this guy.”

“That’s true, but I do know the guy’s a killer. Responsible for American deaths all over the place, from Iraq to Afghanistan. I don’t know what he’s up to, you’re right, but I do know how to find out.”

“How?”

“Give me Omega, and I’ll ask him.”