Beloved Enemy (10 page)

When he came to, his right shoulder was heavily bandaged, the pain was a red pulse behind his eyes. Dandy held his hand; her cousin had handed him the three bullets he had pried out of the flesh of Redbird’s right shoulder. Small caliber. Some minor muscle damage, that was all. Painkillers and a strong antibiotic. Lucky. Redbird had thrown the painkillers away. He’d be no good to anyone doped up, especially himself.

Redbird padded into the bedroom, the walls and ceiling a deep, glossy aubergine, the bed huge, a semicircle, like the moon. “What do you need to say?”

She was at his closet, pulling a shirt and trousers of Thai silk off hangers. She liked choosing his clothes. “I don’t understand why.”

He pulled on underpants. “Why what?”

“Why you did what you did.” She began to button his shirt after he had shrugged it on.

“Why do you ask me this question when I’ve answered it so many times before?”

“Because.”

He grunted. “That’s a child’s answer.”

“I am a child,” she said, “in some respects.”

He eyed her as he took his trousers from her. “In others, you’re older than I am.”

“Bangkok does that to you.”

He sat on the bed while he pulled on socks so thin his skin shone through the close-knit mesh. Midway through, he stopped, elbows on knees. When he patted the bed next to him, she came and sat beside him. Her hands were clasped in her lap, her back rigid, like a schoolgirl awaiting a test score.

Redbird looked out at the river and the golden temple beyond. Gongs announced the appearance of a line of saffron-robed monks. “I did it because of you.” He could not bear to look at her while he spoke of such intimate things. “Because a girl like you—no, that’s not right—because
you
shouldn’t have to bear the loss of your father, because he died alone and in darkness, because there was no justice in his death.”

“He crossed the wrong people.” Her voice was much softer than it had been in the bathroom, carrying with it the whisper of silk against skin. “My father was not a bad man, but nor was he a good one.”

“He needed money for you and your brothers. As you say, he got caught up with the wrong people.”

“He was foolish.” There was no anger in her voice, only regret.

“And why should you have to pay for his foolishness?” Redbird looked at her now, because it had become impossible for him not to. “This man did not get the money your father owed him, so he took his pound of flesh. But do you imagine he would have stopped there? He wanted your father’s death
and
his money. If we hadn’t stopped him, he would have come after your brothers and then you.”

“And you could not allow that to happen.”

“No.”

“And again I ask, why?”

“The brown loafers.”

Dandy went and fetched them, along with a shoehorn carved from a water buffalo horn.

Redbird slipped the shoes on. They felt good, like being reacquainted with an old friend. There was nothing left to do. He set the shoehorn aside, took a deep breath, and let it slowly out.

He stood, looking down at Dandy. Then he held out his hand. As she slipped hers into it, he said, “I can’t tell you what you already know.”

[Engage Electronic Encryption Protocol OA-71937]

CONFIDENTIAL MEMO - TOP SECRET - EYES ONLY

FROM: G. ROBERT KROFFT, DIRECTOR, CIA

TO: WILLIAM ROGERS, NATIONAL SECURITY ADVISOR
KINKAID MARSHALL, DIRECTOR, DCS
TIMOTHY MALONE, DIRECTOR, FBI
HENRY DICKINSON, ACTING DIRECTOR, DEPT.
    HOMELAND SECURITY

CC: ARLEN CRAWFORD, PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES GEN. LUCIUS FORD BRANDT, DEPT. OF DEFENSE

SUBJECT: OPERATION ATLAS UPDATE

Gentlemen,

Please be advised, in response to the security breach surrounding the murder of Dennis Paull, the following changes in our ongoing preparations for Operation Atlas have been instituted, effective immediately:

1. New encryption algorithms have been substituted for communications with all Atlas personnel on foreign soil.

2. Encryption protocols are changed on a daily, rather than a weekly, basis.

3. Agents-in-place are directed to procure and secure new safe houses in their respective areas.

4. Six new Arab and Iranian handlers have been dispatched to confirm the loyalty and security of all of Atlas’s agents-in-place.

5. J. J. Midwood, Chairman of Arclight, the black-ops security arm of the CIA, is given carte blanche access to assess every aspect of Atlas’s infrastructure and personnel.

Sincerely,

G. Robert Krofft

[End Electronic Encryption Protocol OA-71937]

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Henry Dickinson said.

“Think?” Krofft said. “I
know
what I’m doing, Dicky. I’m trying to clean up the mess you made. What are
you
doing? Where’s Jack McClure? Do you have him? Do you even know whether he’s in the country?”

Krofft had been on his way out of the office. Coat in hand, he had just stepped across the threshold when he’d been accosted by a raging Dickinson.

“You tried to hijack my crime scene and now you’re hijacking Atlas.” Dickinson stood spread-legged squarely in front of Krofft, blocking his escape.

“Let’s go into my office and discuss this rationally.”

Dickinson shook off the offer. “I’m not going anywhere until I get an explanation.”

Krofft glanced down the hallway, which was, mercifully, deserted. “First of all, the crime scene is being run by the FBI, which is as it should be. Frankly, Hank, homeland security’s forte does not lie in crime scene investigation. Why do I have to tell you that? Oh, yeah, you’re the
acting
director. Second of all, Atlas no longer belongs to DHS; it belongs to all of us. I’m just doing my job, which is more than I can say for you.” His face darkened as he swept Dickinson out of his way. “What the fuck are you doing here when you should be tracking McClure down?”

*   *   *

High over the Himalayas, Jack sat back and tried to relax. Easier said than done. He had lost his best friend and mentor, he was accused of killing him, and he was now an international fugitive without a home or visible means of support, and, frankly, very little chance of vindicating himself.

He had considered calling Nona Heroe with the satellite phone he had picked up. She was his one slim lifeline, but there was only so much she could do for him without endangering herself. He was now so toxic that any known contact with him was perilous and so he decided against it. The only bright spot was that Alli was on assignment and, consequently, wouldn’t have heard of his predicament. The last thing he needed was for her to come riding to his rescue, only to be targeted by the same person or group that had framed him for Dennis’s murder.

Thoughts of his forced isolation inevitably led him to Annika. The last time he had seen her was in the Syrian’s villa outside Rome a year ago. At that time, she had had a chance to escape with him. Inexplicably, she had refused, choosing to stay with the Syrian—a man Jack had been tracking, a man, as it turned out, with whom Dyadya Gourdjiev had been in business. What kind of business could Gourdjiev have had with a known terrorist? The kind of business that could have had him killed? Could Jack have misjudged Annika’s grandfather so completely? Did that mean he had misjudged Annika to the same extent? It was true that she was an inveterate liar when it served her purpose, but could any female, even Annika, train her body to respond to his the way hers did?

There was no doubt that she had the ability to break his heart. The question was, how many times? Endlessly? That he loved her was beyond question; but given all that had happened, how many times she had lied to him, he couldn’t understand why.

Then there was Annika’s half-brother, Radomil, who last year had helped him escape the Syrian’s villa. Since that night, Jack had had no contact with Annika or Radomil, though he’d tried several different ways to track their whereabouts. And then Jack’s busy life had overtaken him, and he had tried to put Annika out of his mind.

The truth was he could not bear to think of his link with her being broken. No matter what she had said, no matter what she had done, he simply could not let her go.

“This woman,”
Paull had said,
“is perhaps the most dangerous female on the planet. This is the woman you love.”

“Loved,”
Jack had said.
“Past tense.”

“You can turn it on and off at will.”
Dennis’s tone had made his skepticism clear.
“You’d tell me if it were otherwise, wouldn’t you, Jack?”

“I would,”
Jack had lied.

Dennis had been right to distrust Jack’s motivation when it came to Annika. He knew it, too, when he had said,
“If push comes to shove, Jack, would you be able to kill her, or would she kill you?”

Jack, staring down at the ice and snow-encrusted top of the world, wished he knew the answer.

E
IGHT

“N
ONE OF
us on your memo distribution list ever heard of Arclight,” William Rogers said.

Krofft smiled. “You mean
you
never heard of Arclight.”

The two men, hands in the pockets of their raincoats, strolled along the length of the Reflecting Pool. It was a visible measure of the importance Krofft gave to fishing the rotten apple out of their collective barrel that he insisted these meetings take place in public places, rather than in anyone’s offices. A spotty drizzle was falling, and they hunched their shoulders against it.

“I’m all for stronger security,” Rogers said. “I just don’t like being blindsided.”

“Couldn’t be helped, Bill. Time was of the essence.”

Rogers looked away, toward the National World War II Memorial. He was unclear whether he believed Krofft’s explanation. “Tell me a bit more about J. J. Midwood,” he said, after a time.

Krofft waited until a mother and her daughter passed by. A red-white-and-blue-striped balloon danced above the child’s head, tied by a string to her wrist. Three young boys on skateboards, whooping it up, went whizzing by.

“Jonatha is an exceptional agent,” Krofft said. “I recruited her; I trained her.”

“So, in effect, she
is
you.”

Krofft’s eyes glittered behind his lenses. “My eyes and ears, anyway. If there is a rotten apple, she’ll find him.”

“How do you figure?”

“She has a nose for stink, no matter how slight,” Krofft said. “That’s how I figure.” His flat tone made it clear that he was irritated with the national security advisor.

“But she’s a
female
, G.R. I don’t understand—”

“You don’t have to understand.”

Rogers blew air out of his mouth. “What I was going to say, is that I don’t understand what makes her so special.”

Krofft shot Rogers a withering look. “I just told you.”

“Pretend I’m thick. Tell me again.”

“She has an uncanny intuition.”

“What, like a human lie detector?”

“If you like.”

Rogers stopped and turned to Krofft. “What the hell is going on? Are you sleeping with her? And don’t give me that ‘I don’t shit where I eat’ crap. I know you better than that, even if your wife doesn’t.”

“You may be right about me,” Krofft said, “but you’re dead wrong about Jonatha.”

“You tried, or she looks like a Mack truck, which is it?”

“You think you have all the answers? She’s not the type to make a move on.”

“So you did try.” Rogers appeared genuinely taken aback.

“To be truthful, it never crossed my mind.”

“Why?’

Krofft smiled. “I’ll set up a meeting. You’ll find out for yourself.”

*   *   *

Chaat Pradchaphet’s restaurant was named Blue Lagoon, but the regulars invariably referred to it as Chati’s. It occupied a space more or less midway down a block in posh Soi Pichai Ronnarong, where, the later it got, the more packed the street was with young, wealthy Thais, Singaporeans, Russians, and Japanese.

The red and black lacquered interior was carved up into three spaces, sectioned off by bamboo and translucent glass-block dividers: the bar, the main dining room, and the exclusive club section in the rear, presided over by Chati himself. Sometimes, a guest or two would be invited to sit with him, at other times, a dark-haired bombshell drank and fondled him under the table. But, mostly, he sat by himself, smoking reeking cigarettes and poring over spreadsheets, like an accountant or a bookie.

Redbird was happy to let Dandy lead the way from the moment they stepped into the restaurant. She chatted a few minutes with the manager, blew the bartender a kiss, smiled at the waiters as they passed. Best of all, she was well known to the muscle Chati employed to keep the rowdies out, also to protect him from anyone who might seek to do him harm. She had even been known to stop on their way to buy a complicated-looking Transformers toy for one of the bodyguard’s sons, who was ill.

They were allowed access to the club after hugs and cheek kisses. One of the bodyguards must have alerted Chati via a wireless network, because he raised his head to look directly at them. The moment he recognized Dandy a smile broke out across his broad face. He dismissed the bombshell sitting next to him with a curt gesture, and she slid out, rose, and made her way across the polished rosewood floor, her buttocks rolling like the ball bearings of a well-oiled machine.

Chati was a big man, tall for a Thai, and by Redbird’s expert estimation, weighing somewhere between three hundred and four hundred pounds. He had small black eyes, like raisins sunk in a vat of suet. His lips were small, thick, bowed, and possibly rouged, like a girl’s. Dandy introduced Redbird as Ken Douglas, an agreed-upon legend, and the two men shook hands. Chati invited them to sit. As they did so, a waiter appeared as if out of thin air and took their drink orders.

The big man and Dandy made small talk for several minutes. Redbird listened with one ear while he checked out the patrons. He neither saw nor felt anything out of the ordinary.

“Dhandyamongko tells me you’re looking for a man by the name of—” He snapped his fingers.