Point of Contact

The wipers on his Toyota rental minivan slapped away the heavy monsoon rain thudding against his windshield as he turned toward Changi Airport. He followed the white arrows on the red asphalt lanes toward the pickup area outside the stunning glass-and-steel structure of Terminal 3.

While he made the run to the airport, the German left his Ukrainian and Bulgarian associates back at their posts in order to keep a close watch on Paul Brown.

The noise of the rain pounding on his roof suddenly stopped when his vehicle passed beneath the large steel overhang in front of the terminal. He spotted the lone figure with the smart leather satchel and flat driver’s cap standing by the giant number 4 gate marker, just where he should be. The German recognized the narrow-shouldered man instantly. He’d never worked with Wolz before, but knew him well by reputation. Everyone in the organization did. So did the foreign intelligence services. But no one knew Wolz better than his victims.

The German shuddered.

Wolz’s narrow face sharpened even further with displeasure, either because of the inclement weather or because of the fact he had to wait nearly two minutes before being picked up.

Or both.

The German pulled the silver Toyota minivan up to the curb and stopped, turning to make eye contact with Wolz, but the middle-aged man with the pencil mustache and angry blue eyes just stared straight ahead as if the van didn’t even exist.

Taking the hint, the German swore under his breath and crawled out of his seat and scrambled around to the other side of the vehicle. He opened the sliding rear passenger door and Wolz finally acknowledged him with a quick study of the German’s face and, finally, a curt, humorless nod.

Wolz stepped into the rear of the minivan and took a seat in the center of the bench, carefully setting his hand-tooled satchel beside him as the German dashed back around the Toyota and crawled into the driver’s seat, hurrying to avoid the airport police, who he knew circled the terminal in regular four-minute intervals in search of parking violations.

The German pulled away from the curb and eased into the departing traffic. They rode silently toward their hotel, where a special meal was being prepared for Wolz’s particular dietary needs by the Romanian woman the German had picked up two hours earlier from the same terminal. Wolz was the last member of the team needed to carry out the mission. Paul Brown’s movements had been carefully tracked and recorded, and both vehicles and weapons had been secured.

With Wolz finally in position, all they were waiting for now was the word to engage.

36

Jack made his way back to Clementi Avenue 6 and connected with the Ayer Rajah Expressway (AYE) heading west, then turned south on Pioneer Road, making the final turn onto the side street that dead-ended at the building he was looking for down near the port.

Jack wasn’t completely surprised to see that the building was surrounded by cyclone fencing and razor wire or that there was a guard shack and a barrier arm. What did surprise him was the fact that the guards, dressed in street clothes, were armed with weapons printing beneath their baggy shirts. They were hard and serious men — not your typical Asian rent-a-cops. His gut told him they were operators, but he couldn’t prove it. But a wolf always recognizes another wolf, even when he’s dressed like a lamb.

Jack pulled up to the guard shack and rolled down his window. The taller of the two guards stepped out of the shack and leaned over toward Jack’s window while the other one picked up a phone.

“Sir?”

“My name is Jack Ryan and I’m with Hendley Associates doing an audit on behalf of the Dalfan corporation. Here are my credentials.” Jack handed the man his Dalfan security pass and identity card.

The guard examined them briefly. “Wait.” He returned to the guard shack and conferred with the other guard, who now examined Jack’s credentials while still talking on the phone.

Jack drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. What the hell was the problem? A moment later a four-passenger golf cart pulled up to the gate and four more beefy security guards jumped out.

The tall guard came back out of the shack and handed Jack his credentials as the man on the phone hung up and stepped outside.

“Not permitted entrance.” The guards who arrived in the cart now surrounded Jack’s Audi TT on all four sides. None of them had unholstered their weapons, but none of them looked like they were shy about the possibility.

“What do you mean ‘not permitted’? I have access to every Dalfan property in this city.”

The guard scowled. “Leave.”

Jack pointed at the phone in the guard shack. “Pick up that receiver and call your boss, Lian Fairchild, or better yet, call her dad, Dr. Fairchild. They both know who I am and they sure as hell know why I’m here.”

The tall guard straightened and pointed at the road behind Jack. “You leave now.”