Wall of Night (16 page)

Cahil put his mug on the counter, slid it away, and stood to leave. “I'm done getting quizzed. If you don't know why Mike got out, it ain't my business to be telling you.”

Beard put a hand on his shoulder. “Okay, relax. Nobody's seen Mike for a few weeks. There's a woman, though—she might know. She's a stripper at Rhino's downtown.”

“Is she working tonight?”

“Every night. She's got a habit to feed. Name's Candy something … Candy Kane, that's it.”

Cahil nodded. “Thanks, maybe I'll look her up.”

​Jakarta,
Island of Java,
Indonesia

The plane's approach to Soekarno-Hatta International Airport gave Tanner a breathtaking view of the Pulau Seribu, or the Thousand Islands, an archipelago that stretches from Jakarta into the Java Sea. From this altitude the islands were mere emerald dots against the blue ocean.

Protected by Indonesia's Ministry of Conservation, the 250 islands of the Pulau Seribu are mostly uninhabited except for a handful of resorts, ecological preserves, and tourist attractions such as old pirate fortresses and diving caves. Those islands that are privately owned serve as luxury retreats for Indonesia's rich and famous.

The plane banked again, revealing Jakarta proper and the Kota, or the Old Batavia quarter. All cobblestone, canals, and Dutch architecture, the Kota was a throwback to Java's imperialist period when the English, Portuguese, and Dutch all fought for control of the Orient's trade routes.

To most, the name Jakarta conjures up images of colonial empires, Oriental warlords, and pirates, not an urban sprawl with nearly twelve million inhabitants rivaling that of New York City's.

Tanner had three days. Whatever plan he settled on, he wanted to be ready as soon as the delegation arrived. That's when Soong's security detail would be at its most vulnerable: Unfamiliar territory, arrangements to be finalized or adjusted, local authorities to deal with … Surprise was going to be his greatest, and perhaps only, advantage.

The twenty-mile taxi ride into the city took nearly an hour as the driver negotiated traffic on the congested expressway. Every few minutes he would turn and offer a sheepish smile. “So sorry. Traffic bad this time of day.”

“Is there a time when it's not bad?”

“Truly, no. Many people on Java. Almost one hundred twenty million.” His “million” came out “mellon.” “Which hotel, sir?”

“I haven't decided yet,” Tanner lied. In fact, Oaken had rented him a bungalow in the foothills below Bongor outside Jakarta. “You can just drop me in the Kota.”

“You will have trouble finding lodgings. Big conference soon.”

“I have friends I can stay with in Kebayoran if I need to.” Kebayoran, also known as Bloc M, was home to Jakarta's mostly British expatriate community. It was another lie, of course, borne of old habit. However unlikely the possibility, he didn't want to leave a trail for anyone to follow.

The driver stopped outside the Fatahillah Cafe. Tanner climbed out, waited for the taxi to disappear down the street, then walked four blocks to a Hertz office where he rented an old VW bus for a week and asked the agent to leave it parked at the Tanah Abang Railway Station.

Next he caught a taxi to the harbor and made another rental, this one an old Honda Express moped. He stuffed his duffle into the rear basket then took off down Martadinata, following the coastline east out of the city. He drove for fifteen minutes until Jakarta proper was behind him. To his left lay the Java Sea; to his right, the island's mist-shrouded jungles.

After another ten minutes he turned off the highway onto a narrow gravel road. A few more turns took him to a bungalow with a red, tiled roof and hibiscus bushes shading the porch. As advertised, he found a key under the mat.

The interior was all white stucco and wicker. He dropped his duffle onto the couch and wandered into the kitchen. On the table was a note: “Mate: Bungalow's yours as long as you need it. Fridge is stocked. Enjoy.”

Tanner smiled:
Just another friendly contact in the Walter Oaken Secret Friends Network.
Judging from the salutation, the owner was probably a Brit or Aussie expat.

He opened the fridge, found a beer, then headed for the shower.

Free of the sweat and grime of the flight, he climbed aboard the Honda and headed back into Jakarta, where he pulled off Martadinata and drove until he found the Batavia Café. He locked the Honda to a bicycle rack and started walking.

His destination was the Sunda Kalepa, the city's old docks. A full-service harbor serving Java's outer islands, the Sunda Kalepa is also home to the Jakarta's fleet of Makassar schooners—or
pinisi
—with their brightly painted hulls and rainbow sails.

Briggs paid his entrance fee at the Bahari Museum and walked onto the docks.

The air was thick with the smell of tar. Old men in row-boats glided along the pier, waiting to be hailed by tourists, and children darted about, pointing at the
pinisi
and waving to the crewmen, many of whom displayed ancient Javanese tribal tattoos on their faces.

The Kalepa's piers were a maze of slips and turnarounds, so it took him several minutes to find the right path, then followed it away from the tourist area. At the end, he found a man coiling rope in the stern of a red-and-yellow skiff.

“What's the farthest you've been out?” Tanner asked.

The man squinted at him. “Eh?”

Tanner repeated the question.

The man frowned for a moment. “Oh … yes. Let's see … I have tennis elbow; not very far.”

Good answer.
“You're Arroya?”

“I am. Do I dare ask your name?”

“Briggs.” If Mason's people were wrong about this man, he had a lot more to worry about than using his real name.

Arroya stood up and hopped onto the dock, a surprising feat, Tanner thought, given his physique. Barely five feet tall and pushing two hundred pounds, Arroya looked like a Javanese version of the Buddha, right down to the wispy moustache and cherubic smile.

Arroya extended his hand. “Welcome to Java. Care for a tour of the Kalepa?”

He rowed them into the harbor, then tossed a cinderblock anchor over the side. He handed Tanner a fishing pole, tied a sinker to the line, and plopped it into the water. “For cover,” he explained.

“Do we need cover?”

“Better safe than sorry.”

“Fair enough. How long have you been—”

“Working with your government?”

“Yes.”

“Seven years. For the last decade the Chinese have grown stronger and stronger here. Many people—people who still consider themselves Javanese and not Indonesian—do not like it. Since my government seems only too happy to sell our country to the PRC, I long ago decided I must do what I can, so I made myself known in the British expat community here.”

“You work for them as well?”

“So long as I'm not asked to do anything against my people, I am happy to help where I can.”

“Which brings us to why I'm here.”

Arroya smiled. “Indeed it does.”

“I'll do my best to use you as little as possible, but I may need a few favors.”

“Do not worry about that. I am very good at what I do. No one looks twice at me. Besides,” Arroya said, patting his ample belly. “I've cultivated a rather harmless image.”

Tanner laughed. “That you have.”

“So, how can I help?”

Tanner had to make a decision: Tell Arroya everything, the partial truth, or a lie—or a mixture of all three? If he followed strict tradecraft it would be the latter, which would make it harder for anyone—Arroya included—to discern Tanner's purpose here. On the other hand, Arroya's knowledge of the islands would be invaluable. Tanner went with his gut.

“It's pretty simple,” he said. “I'm here to help one of the Chinese delegation defect.”

Arroya chortled. “Oh, yes, very simple.”

“Perhaps ‘straightforward' is a better word.”

“Semantics won't help you here, my friend. What you're planning will be very difficult.”

“ ‘Very difficult' doesn't worry me.”

Arroya smiled. “Something tells me ‘impossible' would worry you only a little more.”

“What can you tell me about the delegation?”

“Security is very heavy. Rumor is that there is already an advance team here. The delegation will be staying at the Hotel Melia. I have a friend who is a busboy there. He's seen no less than two dozen Chinese security men in the hotel.”

“Is everyone from the delegation staying there?” Briggs asked.

“Officially, yes, but there is another rumor. Earlier this week, the advance team rented a fishing boat; they've been out to Pulau Sekong several times.”

“That's one of the Thousand Islands?”

“Yes. Privately owned. You have seen James Bond—
The Man with the Golden Gun
?
You remember the villain's private island—the crescent beach, the jungle, the rock spires?”

“Yes.”

“Rumor is, Pulau Sekong is where they filmed that.”

“No kidding.”

“No kidding. It is owned by Somon Trulau. Very rich importer, friendly with Beijing. I suspect he's offered them use of the island. The man you have come for … is he someone worth guarding?”

“Yes.”

“Then Pulau Sekong would be a good place for him.”

It made sense, Tanner decided. Letting Soong out of the country was a risk; separating him from the delegation and assigning him a private detail was one way to lessen that risk. Whether Soong was truly their prisoner or not, the less he was exposed, the better.

“First things first,” Tanner said. “We need to confirm the man I've come for will be staying on Pulau Sekong, and how they plan to get back and forth.”

“I can do that,” said Arroya. “What else?”

“Find a boat. I want to see this island.”

Arroya nodded. “I know just the man.”

Asheville,
North Carolina

Armed with Beard's description of Candy Kane's car—A white Trans Am with two candy-cane decals on the windshield—Cahil drove downtown and found Rhino's strip club. He walked inside, found a stool at the bar, and ordered a beer.

Candy, an early twenties platinum blond with impossibly large breasts, was in the process of removing her red-and-white striped cowboy boots. She strutted about the stage, robotically grinding her hips to a rock-a-billy version of “Baby Got Back.” Her eyes were vacuous black holes.
Meth or crack,
Cahil thought.

The crowd cheered and waved bills at her, and she moved down the line.

“She's popular, huh?” Cahil said to the bartender.

“She'd be popular with a pumpkin on her head.”

Cahil laughed. “How late is she here? I got a buddy from Durham who wants to see her act.”

“She'll be here to close. After that, it depends on who's got the cash.”

“That right?”

“Yep. You interested?”

“Nan, but maybe my friend. I'll be back.”

Outside, he followed the alley behind Rhino's until he came to a small parking lot he assumed was for employees. Candy's car was parked in the far slot. He memorized the license plate, returned to his truck, and dialed his cell phone.

Oaken picked up on the second ring. “Hey, Bear, where are you?”

“Asheville, outside a bar called Rhino's.”

“How nice for you. What's up?”

“I need a QMR.” In police jargon, QMR stands for Query Motor Vehicle Registration. Cahil recited the plate number. “She's Sheldon's girlfriend, I think.”

“Give me five minutes, I'll call you back.”

Three minutes later Cahil's phone chirped. “Hello?”

“The plate belongs to a ninety-six Trans Am, owner is a Amanda Johnson,” Oaken said.

“Also know as Candy Kane, exotic dancer at large.”

“Very catchy. Please tell me the candy cane thing isn't part of her act.”

“I didn't stay long enough to find out. You got an address?”

The address took him to a trailer park in a town named Stony Knob, north of Asheville. The park was deserted except for five trailers, most of which looked abandoned. Darkened streetlights lined the dirt road. He found Candy/Amanda's trailer and got out.

Penlight in hand, he walked to the front door and repeated the procedure he'd used at Blanton Crossing. Once the door popped open, he stepped inside and shut it behind him. The smell of cigarettes and rotting food filled his nostrils.

“Anybody home?” he called. “Hey. Mike, Amanda, you guys around?”

No answer.

He clicked on his penlight.

The trailer was a disaster: Clothes strewn about, empty pizza boxes and food cartons, garbage cans brimming with trash. The kitchen sink overflowed with dirty dishes, above which hovered a cloud of flies. Two recliners patched with duct tape and a rickety card table were the only furniture. On the bedroom floor he found a grimy mattress; beside it lay a half-empty twenty-four-pack of condoms.

“Christ Almighty,” Cahil muttered, and got to work.

His search left him wishing for a decontamination shower. Worse still, he'd turned up nothing he could connect to Skeldon. There were dozens of men's names and phone numbers scrawled on slips of paper and matchbook covers, but he assumed they were part of Candy's rolo-trick.

On impulse, he picked up the cordless phone and punched the Talk button. Instead of a steady dial tone, he got a punctuated one: She had voice mail. Doubting that Candy would have enough brain cells to remember her PIN, he rifled through the drawers, scanning notepads and scraps of paper until he found a Post-it note with “Phone: 9934” written on it. He punched in the code.

Candy had three messages. The first sounded like a former client trying to arrange a date; the second was her mother. The third, which had been left just an hour earlier, sounded promising:

“Mike, this is Lamar. Hey, I left you a couple messages last week, don't know if you got 'em … Wondering maybe, y'know, if you got my money yet. Gimme a call. You know the number.”

“I don't,” Cahil muttered. He punched star sixty-nine, retrieved Lamar's number, and jotted it down. He flipped open his cell phone and dialed the number. After five rings a voice said, “Yeah, what?”

“This Lamar?” Cahil said.

“Yeah, who's this?”

“My name's John. I'm a friend of Mike's; he asked me to give you a call.”

Lamar coughed. “Yeah? Where's Mike? I mean, is there something—”

“Nothing's wrong. Mike's out of town. You guys have some business to clear up, he said. He asked me to float you some cash until he gets back.”

“Oh, man, that would be great.”

“Where are you?”

Lamar gave him directions to his house in southeast Asheville.

“Twenty minutes,” Cahil said.

The house was indistinguishable from its neighbors: A whitewashed box home with a postage-stamp yard fronted by a chain-link fence. Cahil parked beside the mailbox labeled, “L. Sampson,” then pushed through the gate and walked to the porch.

Before he could knock, the door jerked open. He reached behind him, palm on the butt of the Browning. A man in a tattered gray robe stood in the doorway. He was in his early forties with receding brown hair and wide, red-rimmed eyes. His hand trembled on the doorjamb.

Alcoholic,
Bear thought. Mike Skeldon certainly knew how to pick his friends.

“You Jim?” Sampson asked.

“John.”

“Yeah, right. Umm … come on in.”

The living room was carpeted in a pumpkin-orange shag that hurt Cahil's eyes. A black-and-white TV flickered in front of a lime green couch. Sampson plopped down. “So …”

Up until this point, Cahil had been winging it, following the trail where it took him. Now he had to choose carefully. How much did Sampson know about Skeldon's work, and what was the best way to go at him? Judging from Lamar's demeanor, he was a timid drunk with an opportunistic streak a mile wide. “We got a problem, Lamar.”

“What?” Sampson squeaked. “What problem?”

“Mike thinks you're holding back on him.”

Sampson stood up. “That's crap! I did everything he asked! I gave him everything.”

Cahil growled, “Sit down.”

Lamar sat back down. “Hey, what about the other guy?”

“What other guy?”

“The other guy I hooked Mike up with! If anybody's holding out, maybe it's him.”

“Give me his name.”

“Stan Kycek!”

“Who is he, what's he do?”

“I used to work with him; he's a demolition guy—used to work mines.”

What's this
?
Cahil wondered. “Lamar, what do you do for a living?”

“I work in a grocery store. I'm a bagger.”

“Before that.”

“I worked for the USGS.”

USGS
…
? It took a moment for Cahil to place the acronym: United States Geological Survey. “You're a geologist?”

“Was.”

“And Kycek?”

“Him, too. Dammit, I gave Mike everything! Oh, man …”

“You're sure you didn't keep a little something for insurance?”

Sampson looked at him, puzzled, and Cahil thought,
Wrong path.

“He said that?” Sampson said.

“He wants to be sure. The people he's working for aren't exactly the forgiving sort.”

“Hey, I did my part.”

“Lamar, what do you say I tie you up, toss your place, and see what I find? If you've got something, you'd best tell me now. If you make me look for it, I'm not gonna be happy.”

Sampson stared at his trembling hands. “Jesus, Jesus …”

Cahil felt sorry for the man, but there was no other way to do this. “Time's up, Lamar.”

“Okay, okay, listen, I wasn't gonna do nothing with it. I just wanted to make sure Mike paid me, that's all.” Sampson got up and walked into the next room, where a light clicked on.

Cahil rested his hand on the Browning. “What're you doing, Lamar?”

“Just a second … hold on.”

He returned carrying a shoe box. Cahil could see papers sticking out from under the lid. Sampson handed over the box. “I made copies of everything. But like I said, I wasn't gonna use it. Talk to Mike, huh? Make him understand?”

“Sure,” Cahil said.

“Uh, you think maybe you could … you know. I need some groceries and stuff.”

Cahil pulled a pair of hundred dollar bills from his wallet. “I'll talk to Mike about the rest.”

Sampson smiled nervously. “Yeah?”

“We'll see.” Cahil turned to leave, then stopped and nodded toward the box. “What is all this?”

“The survey data. You know … all the stuff we collected.”

“You and Mike and this Kycek.”

“Kycek wasn't there. I got no idea what Mike's doing with him.”

“Survey of what? From where?”

Lamar barked out a laugh. “The asshole of the world, man: Siberia.”

Cahil got Kycek's address from Sampson, then warned him to stay off the phone, and drove to Kycek's apartment on Olny Road. Deciding he'd worn out his “friend of Mike's” routine, Cahil walked to the front door and pounded on the door. “Open up!”

Thirty seconds later the door opened, revealing a man in his mid-forties with a beard, a potbelly, and sunken eyes.
Soft,
Cahil thought. Like Sampson, Kycek was another man beaten by life.

Cahil flashed a counterfeit FBI badge at him. “Stan Kycek?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“FBI, Mr. Kycek, we need to talk.”

Wide-eyed, Kycek let him in. “What's … what's going on?”

“Do you know a man named Mike Skeldon?”

“Uh, no, I don't think so.”

“That's lie number one, Mr. Kycek. One more and you're going to jail.”

Kycek hesitated. “I know him through a friend.”

“Lamar Sampson.”

“Yeah. I've never actually met Skeldon.”

“The man hired you, and you're telling me you've never met him?”

“He didn't hire—”

“Careful,” Cahil warned.

“What I meant is, he hasn't paid me yet. What's going on? I don't want no trouble. Lamar said Skeldon needed a good blaster, and I'm … between work right now, so I figured, why not?”

“I'll tell you why not.”

Speaking off the cuff, Cahil rattled off a bogus laundry list of Skeldon's crimes: illegal possession and transport of explosives; the manufacture of methamphetamine with intent to distribute; and finally, suspicion of conspiracy to commit murder. “Murder!” Kycek cried. “Christ almighty!”

“You hired on with the wrong guy, Stan.”

“I told you, I haven't taken a dime from him. I've never even seen the guy.”

“Then what's the plan? Where're you supposed to meet? What's he want you to do?”

“I have no idea. I'm supposed to sit by my phone. He said he'd call between Tuesday and Thursday next week with the details.”

“That's it?”

“That's it, I swear. He told me to be ready to travel, but nothing else. Listen, I don't want no trouble. Whatever he's got going on, I'm out.”

Cahil stared hard at him. “Problem is, you're already involved. I think we can help each other, though. Would you be willing to work with us?”

“Doing what?”

“Pack a bag,” Bear ordered. “I'll explain on the way.”

After I figure out what all this means,
he thought.