Point of Contact

Paul stared after Jack, not at all sure he could trust him for anything anymore, especially the truth.

* * *

Jack stared at the billowing steam pouring out of the shower, his aching muscles begging to get in. But it suddenly occurred to him that he needed to contact Gavin with that plate number for the truck. Probably a dead end, but it needed to be checked anyway.

He ambled over to his dresser drawer and picked up his phone. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with Gavin at the moment, so he opted for a text. It was late anyway.

Jack typed in the license-plate number as far as he could remember it, SAM 00. He started to hit send, but his sore thumb wavered. Was that the plate number?

No.

He wasn’t sure where he got that from. The truck plate was six digits; he remembered that for sure. He saw the rear plate in his mind’s eye again, racing away from the crash scene. Yeah. It began with an X. He was certain of that. And then he saw the rest.

He smiled to himself, happy his brain was returning to normal. He deleted SAM 00 and typed in the correct plate number. He hit send and headed for the shower, hoping beyond hope that Gavin could find that truck.

* * *

Paul heard Jack’s shower kick on when he sat down at the table with a cup of hot coffee and opened his laptop, checking for e-mails. He thought about working on his other Hendley Associates project, but he was too distracted at the moment. Too much going on, too much at stake.

And a headache that still wouldn’t go away.

Rhodes’s stinging rebuke still rang in his ears. He had until midnight tonight to capture the Dalfan encryption code, transfer it onto his CIA drive, then load the CIA drive onto the Dalfan desktop without anybody noticing, especially Bai. He also had to find a way to sneak the CIA drive past Dalfan security. There was plenty of time. He just needed the opportunity.

He hoped the CIA program didn’t leave any traces behind. If it did, the Dalfan IT guys would be able to trace the upload directly to his drive — that was part of the security system, too. He couldn’t plausibly deny that he’d done it by blaming someone else for stealing it and using it because it was biometrically coded to him and him alone with the thumbprint mechanism. He doubted Rhodes was setting him up. What good would it do him or the CIA to let him get blamed for the upload?

No, Rhodes wouldn’t risk getting caught up in a scandal like that. He was, after all, a board member of Marin Aerospace. He risked losing everything if he was implicated in an illegal act of industrial espionage. Rhodes was also a vain and arrogant prick. If he got caught and implicated Rhodes, Langley would consider that a failure and would never call on his services again. Clearly, Rhodes was invested heavily in Paul’s success. That probably explained his rude behavior last night. The man had every reason to worry. There was a lot at stake for him. And when there was a lot at stake, Rhodes did what every cornered rat did — he lashed out.

Paul took another sip of coffee. The image of Rhodes, angry and anxious, triggered the memory of the senator when they were both much younger men. A memory Paul seldom allowed to surface.

A memory too terrible to forget.

53

JAKARTA, INDONESIA

She dashed toward the ten-story cylindrical building in the drenching downpour beneath her big black Nike golf umbrella. Her glasses steamed in the cool air. She was shrouded in a fashionably flowered purple hijab, the one immodesty the childless widow allowed herself. Beneath her rain gear and traditional clothing she cradled a small package wrapped in paper and twine. She had retrieved it from a post box just thirty minutes before. It came with instructions.

Sania Masood ignored the furtive glances of the men and Western-styled women entering and exiting the glass doors to the BMKG, the Indonesian Agency for Meteorology, Climatology, and Geophysics.

She wiped the steam from her glasses as she stood in the security line, careful to keep her gaze directed away from others, especially the shameless women. The line was longer than usual. Of all mornings, she told herself. The one morning she could not be late to work.

Inshallah.

When Sania neared the security desk, the uniformed guard recognized her instantly — they both attended the same mosque, just fifteen minutes south of here. She flashed a badge. The guard nodded slightly and with a nonchalant hand waved her around the magnetic metal detector so that she need not pass through it. This had been arranged.

Now all she had to do was get to the fourth floor.

SINGAPORE