Choke Point (27 page)

He found a semiprotected spot beneath a broadleaf evergreen, and carefully peeled off his clothes, no easy task with only one good arm. After hand-washing the mud from each item, he stood in the rain for a good five minutes, letting it pound away at his naked body until he felt completely mold-free. By the time he dressed and returned to the enclosure, he felt invigorated and ready for action, though he had no idea what they could do against such overwhelming odds. Maybe Atherton was right, negotiation was their only option, but something about the proposal felt wrong—something disingenuous about the man’s sudden bravery and willingness to walk into the hands of men who wanted to flood his lungs with seawater.

Even in the dim light, Simon could read the somber expressions, and knew what had happened. Atherton, in a lame attempt to redeem himself, had chosen that inopportune moment to propose; a proposal that had obviously been rejected.
Stupid, stupid man.
He almost said, “So, what’s the decision,” but realized that would not be the most auspicious question at such a moment. “What do you think?”

Kyra took a deep breath, calling on some inner reserve of strength, and pushed herself to her feet. “We need to get moving. They were going to start setting up their network at dawn. We need to stay ahead of them.”

Simon nodded. “Jim…?”

Atherton hunched his shoulders, a look of indifference. “Whatever you decide.”

“Then we go,” Simon said. “If we can’t find a decent place to hole up, we’ll try it your way.” He turned back to Kyra. “You still think the western end?”

“Absolutely. How’s your arm?”

“Good.” He flexed his elbow to demonstrate. “Better by the hour.”

“You should put it back in the sling. It’s at least a two-hour walk over slippery ground.”

“Yes—” He considered a “ma’am,” just to stoke her fire, but decided to save that for a better time. “Good idea.”

She picked up the cargo bag. “We should keep our eyes open for things to eat. We won’t be able to move around once those sensors are down.”

The two-hour walk turned into a six-hour trek through an unrelenting downpour. Exhausted, but unsuccessful in finding a good spot, they stopped to rest beneath a well-protected, but exposed, overhang along the coast. Simon lowered himself to the sand, being careful not to bump his arm, which was throbbing like a bad tooth, and leaned back against a large boulder. Kyra, who hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours, curled into a fetal position a few feet away and closed her eyes. “I just need a few minutes.”

“Works for me.” Now that he had stopped moving, he wasn’t at all sure he could get his legs going again.

Atherton found himself a smooth rock and sat down. “Any idea where we are?”

Simon glanced at Kyra, saw that she was already asleep, and nodded. “I think so.” He bent forward, picked up a stick, and drew a crude sketch in the sand. “About here, I think.” He poked a spot along the northwestern edge of the cigar-shaped outline.

“And where are they?”

Simon brushed the stick along the island’s underbelly, almost directly opposite their position. “Somewhere along here.” He planted the stick a few inches south. “This is where we came down.”

Atherton nodded, apparently satisfied that they were safe for the time being. “Good.” He leaned back and closed his eyes.

Within minutes he too was asleep, and Simon realized they wouldn’t be moving again until morning. He stared out at the rain, the sound like glass beads hitting the water, and tried to make some sense out of the puzzle and who was behind it. He worked for hours, moving the pieces around in his mind, analyzing their shape, turning them over, inspecting the edges, coming at them from every direction, until finally the answers started to come—at least some of them—before weariness finally overcame his brain, and he drifted off into a hard slumber.

Hours later, when the silence woke him, the rain had stopped and Atherton was gone.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-THREE

An Island in the South China Sea

Friday, 13 July 06:41:21 GMT +0800

Though the rain had stopped, the sky was still leaden and dark, and Mawl knew the lull wouldn’t last for long, the air so thick he could almost taste it. As he finished off his granola bar and washed it down with a gulp of warm UHT milk, he amused himself by reading the manufacturer’s valiant attempt to convince the consumer its packaged breakfast was something to be enjoyed, not just endured.

This Ready-to-eat meal (MRE) has been reviewed, evaluated, and assessed for its nutritional adequacy by the Committee on Military Nutrition Research (CMNR). The 3,600 kcal provided by the total ration was designed to meet the Military Recommended Dietary Allowances (MRDAs) for all nutrients.

Yeah, right,
nutritious as dog dump, and probably tasted worse. Of course they failed to add that important piece of information.

Shelf stable.

No kidding,
it contained enough preservatives to embalm an elephant.

May be eaten hot or cold.

True enough,
nothing could make it better. Thoroughly disgusted, he wiped his hands using the towelette, and dropped it into the cup of untouched fruit. There was a day, he recalled, when he actually liked field rations. How was that possible? Or was it the lifestyle? The adventure? Whatever it was, he’d had enough. Once he had his hands on whatever treasure the courier had in that case, he intended to live out his days in luxury. Tahiti or New Zealand. Maybe buy himself a little vineyard.

He pushed the carton away and pulled his laptop closer. Fourteen more sensors had gone active, but everything was taking twice as long as expected. At the pace the men were moving, it would take another day, maybe more, to finish the network.
Bloody fucking rain!
He leaned closer, checking everyone’s location, when he realized Blue-6, the designator for Robbie Kelts, was moving toward the camp, not away. Now what?
Damn kid,
you never knew what he would do next.

Ten minutes later Robbie came marching into camp, trying his best to maintain a look of professional nonchalance, but preening like a peacock in heat. “Look who I found—” He jabbed his forty-five between the man’s shoulder blades. “—stumbling around in the dark.”

Despite his filthy, wild-man appearance, Mawl recognized the man immediately: James Atherton, the chap who had been escorting Kyra Rynerson around Macau. Mawl kept his eyes fixed on the man’s face, trying hard not to show any special interest in the black case the man was clutching to his chest. “Good job, kid.”

Robbie’s proud glow deepened. “Yessir. He knew better’n to give me any trouble.”

Atherton turned, glaring at the kid. “I told you, I wasn’t lost. I was looking for you.”

Robbie gave a sarcastic yip. “Aye. Sure you were.”

But Mawl didn’t laugh. For some reason, the man showed no signs of intimidation or fear—and that wasn’t normal. “Looking for us, uh?”

Atherton turned back, speaking to Mawl as if he were a servant. “That is correct. And you would be…?”

“I’ll ask the questions.”

“Of course. Why don’t I just call you—” He paused, as if to pluck a name out of the atmosphere. “I know…you have an accent…I’ll call you English. Mr. English.”

Mawl tried to hide his surprise, the possibility that this might be the client reverberating through his nervous system like an electrical shock. Was it possible? The voice was different, but that could have been altered. It would explain so much: the abnormally long telephone transfers—around the world
and back!
—and the reason no one had answered that phone in three days. Oh, yes, it was possible. It would also explain the man’s inexplicable interest in Kyra Rynerson, and how he knew so much. And so fast. There would be no need for a second team in the wings, feeding him inside information. The man
was
inside. “And your name…?”

Atherton tilted his head back, a looking-down-the-nose smirk. “You may call me Joe. That has a nice Yankee ring, don’t you think?” He smiled, clearly amused with himself. “Trader Joe.”

Robbie yipped again. “Yeah, right! The guy’s name is Atherton. James Atherton. He’s the bloke been trying to shag Ms. Rynerson.”

Mawl nodded slowly, trying to fuse together what he knew about Atherton with what he thought he knew about Trader. “Leave us alone, kid. I’ll take it from here.”

“But, sir—”

“This man,” Mawl interrupted, but once he started the sentence, couldn’t decide where to go with it. “This man…”

“Works for you,” Atherton said, supplying the answer without hesitation.

Perfect! Bloodyfucking perfect!
“That’s right, kid. This man works for me. He’s our inside man.”

Robbie stared back, his expression a knot of confusion. “No, he was on the plane. This guy—”

“Stop your blabbering,” Atherton snapped, as he set the case on the ground. “That was a mistake. I couldn’t say anything to you—you wouldn’t have believed me.”

“But—”

“Now, listen up,” Atherton continued, not giving the kid a chance to think. “I’m going to tell you where to find Leonidovich and that Rynerson bitch. You’ll have to hurry or they’ll be gone.”

Robbie turned to Mawl. “Sir…?”

Mawl didn’t really care about the other two—all he cared about was getting his hands on whatever was in that case—and getting rid of Robbie seemed like a good first step in that direction. “That’s right, Jocko, you need to move fast.” He turned to Atherton. “Can you draw a map?”

Atherton shook his head. “But I know we were somewhere along the northwestern edge of the island. Less than twenty yards from the water.”

“That’s close enough.” Mawl turned back to Robbie. “I’ll send Chricher and Big Paddy around in a Zodiac. You link up with Catman, and double-time it over there. You should be able to pick up their trail if the weather holds.”

Robbie opened his mouth, but was apparently too stunned by events to put his thoughts into words.

“Go,” Mawl snapped. “I’ll monitor your progress from here.”

Robbie turned slowly, his feet apparently stuck in the quicksand of his thoughts, then he seemed to find his footing and accelerated into a dogtrot. The minute he disappeared into the trees, Atherton lowered himself into one of the canvas chairs. “So, English, we meet at last.”

He said it as if that had always been intended, but Mawl knew better. And he also knew that Atherton was too small a fish to be calling the shots on an operation of this scale. “Unfortunately for you.”

The man’s casual, I’m-in-control expression faded, his eyes suddenly wary. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means the principal is not going to appreciate the fact that their shield has been compromised.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you do. Everything was fine as long as a layer existed between the principal and the…let me think, how best to describe myself?” He paused, mimicking Atherton’s efforts to come up with a name. “I know…let’s refer to me as
the expeditor.
That has a rather nice ring, don’t you think?” A ring—if James Atherton had half a brain—that would leave no doubt about who was in control.

The man hesitated, then tried to bluff his way. “You let me worry about that.”

“Yes,” Mawl agreed, “you should worry about that. If the principal ever learns your identity has been compromised—” He ran a finger across his throat.

“Listen, you fucking asshole, if that’s an attempt at intimidation, you can stuff it. You’re the one who should be worried, you created this mess. You’re lucky I didn’t die on that plane. What the hell was that about? You were supposed to get Leonidovich at the hotel.”

Nice play, Mawl thought, stay on the offensive, but he wasn’t about to let the man off quite so easily. He leaned down, close enough to count the veins in Atherton’s bloodshot eyes. “You call me a fucking asshole again, and a man by the name of Big Paddy is gonna turn
yours
into the Grand Canal.” He smiled. “Get it?”

Atherton edged back in the chair, his Adam’s apple moving up and down in an involuntary swallow. “What is it you want?”

“I want to know what this is about. I’m tired of being played for a chump.”

The man hesitated, his eyes moving left and right, as if rummaging through his mind for an answer that wouldn’t get him killed. “You’re asking too much.”

Too much, Mawl realized, would be the identity of the client. “I’m not asking for a name.”
Not yet.
“Just tell me what this is about.”

The man hesitated again, still measuring risks, weighing options, searching for a way out, then apparently realized if he wanted to get off the island alive, he would have to give up something. “Okay, but no names.”

Mawl shrugged, promising nothing.

“It’s about a trade agreement between Taiwan, China, and the United States. I was hired to—”

“Now hold on,” Mawl interrupted. “I read the papers. I haven’t seen anything about any trade agreement.”

Atherton nodded forcefully, as if this fact validated his words. “It’s all very hush-hush. They’re still crossing the
t
’s and dotting the
i
’s.”

“And what’s this got to do with Rynerson? Why the hit? Why all the accidents at his hotel?”

“Jake Rynerson is the linchpin. He’s agreed to sell China oil from his fields in South America. In exchange, the Chinese have…”

Mawl barely listened as the man blabbered on about the Pacific Rim Alliance, and the possible reunification of Taiwan and China. It was true, he could see it in the man’s eyes, and there was nothing in it for him. “And you say this ceremony is to take place next week?”

“Saturday the twenty-first,” Atherton repeated. “At the Pacific Pearl.”

Mawl nodded to himself, everything starting to make sense. “So why stop the accidents? I could have turned that place into rubble if that’s all it took.”