Point of Contact

Rhodes stared at the cell phone on his desk, willing it to ring. What was the delay? He was certain that Paul Brown would’ve already installed the USB drive he’d given him. Did he just forget to call?

Idiot.

Against his better judgment, Rhodes snatched up the phone and hit the only speed-dial number programmed into it.

* * *

Paul slept with his head in a puddle of his own drool on the kitchen table until his cell phone rang. He rubbed his face and pulled his glasses back on. He stared uneasily at the digital readout. He nearly knocked the empty whiskey bottle off the table as he picked up the phone.

“Weston?”

“What the hell’s the delay?”

Paul winced. An old wound from a long time ago. The churlish, condescending Weston Rhodes he knew in Sofia was suddenly on the other end of the line. He fumbled for his words, trying to gather his wits.

“Uh, the ‘tea is brewing,’ but I haven’t had time—”

“Oh, forget the tea! We’re not doing that now. Just tell me why you haven’t installed that damn drive yet.”

“The drive?”

“Yes! The goddamn drive I gave you!”

“Oh, yeah. Sure. Uh, there’s a problem with Dalfan security—”

“A security problem? I sent you, Paul, because you’re a problem solver.”

“And I think I’ve solved it.”

“Good!”

“But I still need time. It should be done within the next twelve hours.”

“You only have twenty-four. You do understand that, right? Midnight, local. Your time, Paul. Not mine.”

Paul thought of Carmen. He wanted to cry again, but didn’t. “Yes, Senator. I understand. I’m doing the best I can.”

“You’re cutting it awfully close.”

“I won’t fail you.”

There was silence on the other end.

“Senator?”

“Paul, I apologize for losing my temper. You just have no idea about the pressure I’m under. You know how unreasonable those bureaucrats at Langley can be. They’re breathing down my neck.”

“I understand. And trust me, it will be taken care of today.”

“Without fail?”

“Without fail.”

“I knew I could count on you. And thanks again, Paul. You’re doing a helluva service for your country.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, and be sure to tell Jack hello for me.” Rhodes clicked off.

Paul shut his phone. Weston Rhodes was still a horse’s ass, but it was his country that needed him now. Paul put a beefy hand to his throbbing head.

My country might have to wait a few more minutes.

Paul used his arms to lift his unsteady frame from the chair, heading for bed. He limped up the stairs, leaning heavily on the handrail until he reached the landing. He shuffled past Jack’s bedroom. The lights were off, the door ajar. He pushed it open a little more. The bed was still made.

Paul frowned. He wondered if Jack was with Lian, having sex. They seemed close. But that wasn’t good, at least from an auditing perspective.

50

SINGAPORE

Jack approached the front of the north-facing warehouse. Two glass doors were locked and secured. A red flashing light told him they were alarmed. No one appeared to be inside, but he wasn’t prepared to try to defeat an electronic alarm system. He decided to check out the rest of the steel building. Like the other warehouse and storage facility, the property butted up against the bay for loading onto a vessel and no doubt had rear doors for access.

Jack double-checked to make sure he wasn’t being watched and stayed out of the sight lines of any security cameras he saw, pulling the bill of his Ravens ball cap over his eyes to further hide his identity. He made his way along the west side of the building, stopping at a steel door. It was padlocked. There wasn’t a window to look into. He pressed forward.

The full moon was covered by high storm clouds. He passed as quietly as he could along the rest of the seventy feet of steel wall, guided by the dim light of a sodium lamp high overhead. At least the wall gave him shelter from the windblown rain coming out of the east. When he reached the back, he squatted low with a grimace and looked around the corner. Rain pelted the bill of his cap.

A square of light beamed out of an open loading-dock door halfway down the platform. There weren’t any trucks or vehicles in the bays or any movement in or out of the open doorway.

But over the din of the pouring rain he heard voices. Talking, laughing.

In Chinese.

He approached the open bay, staying close to the shut loading-dock doors and careful not to bump into them. He knew they’d rattle if he did. When he reached the corner of the open bay door, he peered around the corner.

Three men, Chinese, sat at a folding card table, talking in normal voices and playing a game with plastic tiles. Dominoes, maybe, Jack told himself. More likely mah-jongg — hugely popular in Asia.

One of them, the oldest — with short-cropped silver hair and broad, sloping shoulders — puffed on a thick cigar wedged in his square jaw. The air was clouded with blue smoke.