Wall of Night (13 page)

New Zealand

It took most of the afternoon for Tanner and Cahil to traverse Mount Ada's southern spine and reach the pass. The trees along the path suddenly fell away to reveal a meadow of knee-high grass and wildflowers that curved out of sight around the mountain's lower slopes.

“Seems almost a shame to walk on it,” Tanner said.

“I think somebody beat us to it.” Cahil pointed at a wide groove in the center of the meadow.

“Horses.”

“Yeah. This high up, it's probably the preferred method of travel. The only question is, are they from Fong's watchers or not.”

Tanner sat down on his haunches, pulled out the map, and made a few quick calculations. “The ranch is in the next valley—seven miles, give or take. If they're patrolling this far out, it's a sure sign they're on the ball.”

The closer they could get to the ranch before having to go to ground, the easier time they'd have planning what Bear had come to call “The Great Kiwi Fong Snatch.”

“Any preference?” Tanner asked Cahil. “Lost hikers or daring botanists?”

“Lost hikers. I couldn't tell a daisy from a sunflower.”

A light wind swirled down the valley, making the meadow's chest-high grass sway like waves. They were less than two miles into the meadow when Tanner heard the distant clomp of hoofbeats over the swishing of the grass. “Company,” he whispered over his shoulder.

They both peered ahead, gazing over the top of the grass.

Closer now, the whinny of a horse. Thirty feet to their right, two horses materialized out of the grass. Sitting atop them were a pair of grim-faced Chinese men.

“Smile,” Tanner whispered. “Wave.”

Cahil broke into a grin and waved. “Hello, there.”

Neither man wore cowboy gear, Tanner saw, but they did look cowboy tough, with ruddy, weathered faces. Each was dressed in khaki BDUs. Hanging from each saddle was what looked like an oversized fanny pack. Tanner knew better:
Fastpacks.
Inside the pouches would be guns, probably H&K or Grenoir compact assault rifles.

“You are on private property,” one of the men said.

“Really?” Tanner said. “We thought this was the Medford Track.”

“You mean Milford—Milford Track.”

“Oh, right, sorry.”

“The track is that way, across the lake.”

“Are you sure?” Tanner pulled out his map. “I mean, it's right here.” Pointing at the map, he started walking toward them. The second rider eased his horse left and dropped his hand to the fastpack.
Very cool,
Tanner thought. “See. We're right here.”

The man didn't look at the map. “It is across the lake. You are on private property.”

Tanner and Cahil exchanged glances. Briggs walked over to him and they leaned over the map.

“Ideas?” Cahil whispered.

“I doubt we can take them. They'd have their guns out before we got two steps.”

“I agree,” Cahil said. “We might get one, but not the other.”

“Plus, who knows what'll happen if they don't check in.” Tanner turned back to the riders. “You're sure this isn't the Minifred Track?”

“Milford
Track. Yes, I am sure. You must leave now.”

Tanner shrugged. “Okay. Sorry for the trouble.”

He and Cahil shouldered their packs, turned around, and started walking.

An hour later they were crouched in the trees at the mouth of the pass, watching the riders retreat across the meadow until they disappeared from view. The wind had picked up and dark clouds roiled along the upper slopes as the sun dropped toward the horizon.

“Well, that answers a few questions,” Cahil said.

Tanner checked his watch. “We'll lay low and wait a few hours.”

“And then?”

“And then we find out just how good Fong's watcher's are.”

With nightfall came the rain, a steady downpour that soaked their clothes and chilled them to the bone. Lightning flashed along the foothills, casting the valley in strobe light.

They followed the trail south, skirting the meadow until the reached the opposite ridge, where they started climbing. The forest closed in around them until they were picking their way from trunk to trunk, wet branches swiping their faces as they went.

Tanner stayed parallel to the meadow, moving southeast until they reached the ridge overlooking Fong's valley. Below them he could see half a dozen yellow dots that he assumed were flashlights. Between claps of thunder he could hear the mewling of sheep.

“His men are probably trying to gather the sheep before the storm gets any worse,” Cahil said.

The weather could work in their favor, Tanner realized. In addition to masking their approach, Fong's men would be cold and tired by the time they finished gathering the flock. Hopefully, the last thing on their minds would be patrolling.

As if reading his mind, Bear said, “Nasty job in this weather.”

“Not as nasty as it could be.”

“What've you got in mind?”

Tanner briefly outlined his plan, then said, “With the storm, it should be quite a sight.”

Cahil broke into a grin. “Ah, yes, The Great Kiwi Fong Sheep Stampede.”

It took Fong's men another hour to corral the flock. As they headed to the barn to put up the horses, Tanner and Cahil crawling down the slope, moving from tree to tree until they reached the valley floor. They found a cluster of pines and settled down to watch.

To their right, two hundred yards away, lay Fong's home, a multilevel log cabin with dormer windows and gambrel roofing; to their right, the corral and barn. The barn's doors were open, revealing lantern light and shadowed figures moving about.

Finally the men walked out of the barn, shut the door, and started toward the cabin. One by one they mounted the porch and disappeared inside. Moments later lights glowed to life in three downstairs windows.

“What do you think?” Cahil whispered. “Six men, two to a room?”

“Makes sense.” If so, Fong's bedroom was probably on the second floor. That could either help or hurt them; while it isolated Fong, it also meant that unless they could find an outside route to the second floor, they'd have to walk past the guard's rooms.

“The big question is whether they post a watch at night,” Tanner said.

“How long has Fong been here?”

“Four years.”

“How many kidnap plots, you think?”

Tanner smiled. “We're probably the first.” Cahil's point was well-taken. After four years the guards had probably gotten comfortable. “Okay, we'll sit tight for a few hours, then move.”

They spent the next three hours lying perfectly still under the boughs of the pines as the rain pattered the leaves around them. One by one the cabin's windows went dark. Nothing moved except for the sheep milling about in the corral. They saw no roving patrols, no silhouettes in the windows, nothing to suggest a posted watch. With a mutual nod, they parted ways and got to work.

Forty minutes later they met back under the Pines. “Change of plans,” Cahil said. “I found a garage on the other side of the cabin; there are two Range Rovers inside. There's a road—and I use that term loosely—leading to the southeast.”

“Fuel?”

“Both tanks are full. I trashed the distributor cap on one of them; it's dead.”

“A Range Rover is better than a horse,” Tanner said. “The corral gate's ready.”

“Shall we?”

“Let the exodus begin.”

While Cahil made his way to the corral, Tanner sprinted to the cabin wall and crawled forward until he reached the edge of the porch. He pulled out his red-bulbed penlight, aimed it toward the corral, and blinked twice.

A moment later he saw Cahil climb over the fence. Almost immediately the sheep began mewling. Cahil ran to the gate, swung it open, and then charged into the herd, waving his arms. Lightning crashed. Two of the sheep squealed and trotted out the gate, followed by three more. The remainder of the herd broke and scattered into the meadow. Cahil climbed back over the fence and sprinted over to Tanner.

Above their heads, light burst from the bedroom windows. They heard muffled shouting. The front door crashed open and one by one men ran out, shrugging on coats as they ran for the barn.

“I counted four,” Cahil whispered. “That should leave two inside.”

With Cahil in the lead, they crawled onto the porch, stood up, and charged for the open door. A shadow blocked his path. He barely had time to lower his shoulder before he and the man collided and tumbled inside. Tanner was one step behind, scanning left and right for movement.

From the corner of his eye he saw a shadow rushing toward him, saw the glint of moonlight on blue metal:
Gun.
He pulled the sap from his pocket and whirled. Ten feet to his right, a guard skidded to a stop, shotgun dangling by his side. He started to raise it. Tanner took two bounding steps, slammed his foot down on the shotgun's barrel before it came level, trapping it against the floor, then lashed out with the sap, catching the man in the temple.

As the man dropped unconscious, Tanner snatched up the shotgun. Cahil was rising to his feet with a pistol in his hand. “Little guy tried to shoot—stairs, Briggs!”

Tanner looked up. On the second-floor landing, a figure spun and disappeared down the hall.

With Cahil on his heels, Tanner hurdled up the steps. He reached the landing, looked left, saw nothing, looked right. A long hallway stretched before him. There were two open doors on each side, and one at the end. It was closed.

Tanner gestured to Bear:
I'm gonna crash it.
Cover my back.

Cahil nodded.

Tanner took a breath and charged down the hall, forcing himself to concentrate on the closed door rushing toward him. If anyone was in either of the side rooms waiting for him to pass …

Bear's got you,
keep going
…

He hit the door and it crashed inward. Already stumbling, he dropped to one knee and spun.

To his right, a figure was trying to climb through the open window. Tanner ran over and jammed his heel into the man's Achilles' tendon. The man squealed and fell back. Briggs grabbed his collar and turned him around. “Clear, Bear!”

Cahil came through the door. “Is that him?”

Tanner pulled out his penlight, and shined it in the man's face. He was older, of course, but there was no mistake. Briggs said, “Good to see you again, Genoa.”

Moscow

Nochenko knew Bulganin to be an early riser, so he wasn't surprised to see his boss's entourage already posted at the entrance to the RPP's headquarters when he arrived. As he passed the receptionist, she gestured him over. “He's been here all night.”

“What's happening?” Nochenko asked.

“No idea. Everyone's been racing around like the world's on fire.”

“Okay, thanks.” Nochenko walked to Bulganin's door and knocked. He got an “enter” and walked inside. Bulganin was staring out the window. Uncharacteristically, he had the drapes drawn back and the room was flooded with sunlight. “Vladimir?” Nochenko said.

Bulganin turned. “Ivan! Ivan, my friend, have you heard?”

“What? What's happened?”

“See for yourself!” Arrayed across Bulganin's desk were half a dozen newspapers. Nochenko scanned the headlines: IRKUTSK MASSACRE … PROTEST TURNS BLOODY … SLAUGHTER IN SIBERIA …

Nochenko grabbed a copy of
hvestia
and scanned the story. “Good God! This is awful.”

“What? This is wonderful!” Bulganin countered. “It couldn't be more perfect. This … fracas in Irkutsk is perfect!
It
will be our watershed—just as you said!”

“Vladimir, people are dead!”

“Yes, of course, it's a tragedy. But, Ivan, think what it means for us!”

It couldn't be,
Nochenko thought. From a corner of his subconscious, another thought:
Coincidence is the mother of deception
… It had been one of his mentor's favorite maxims, embodying the essence of successful propaganda.
And what is coincidence,
Nochenko thought,
but the favorable confluence of timing and events
?

Could Bulganin have anything to do with this? No, of course not. How could he?

Vladimir was right: Tragedy though it was, the incident could turn the election for them. They must be very careful, though. All of Russia would be waiting to see how Bulganin reacted. One hint that he was anything but devastated and it could all backfire.

“You see, don't you?” Bulganin said. “You see the momentous opportunity before us.”

“Yes, Vladimir, but golden opportunity or not, we can't afford to come off as opportunists. Nearly sixty people are dead—sixty fellow Russians, including children—”

“Yes, yes,” Bulganin droned. “Citizens who simply wanted fair treatment, a better life for their children … and what do they get for their trouble? A rain of bullets.”

He's already rehearsed the speech.
“Vladimir, when did you hear of this?”

“Late last night.”

“From where?”

“Pyotr. He happened to be in Ulan Ude.”

Ulan Ude was less than fifty miles from Irkutsk. “What was he doing there?”

The phone buzzed and Bulganin picked up, listened, then said, “Put him through.” He hung up and turned to Nochenko.' “The dogs come to beg for scraps, Ivan.”

“Pardon me?”

“They're panicked, Ivan. Watch and learn.”

The phone rang and Bulganin picked it up. “Bulganin here … yes, good morning. Certainly, but be quick, if you would. I have a brunch engagement.” Bulganin listened for a few seconds then said, “Very well. I can make time for you … this afternoon at four. Please be prompt.” Bulganin hung up.

Nochenko asked, “What is it?”

“The president's domestic affairs advisor is paying us a visit.”

Now Nochenko understood. Aware of Bulganin's growing influence with voters, the president was hoping to blunt the RPP's attack before it began. “Irkutsk,” he murmured.

“Yes, Irkutsk! We have them, Ivan!”

Holystone

Within hours of Samantha Latham's accident, every member of Charlie's team had pledged their support. As Oaken arranged a safe house for Latham's family, agents shuttled between Washington and Williamsburg to help any way they could.

Hesitant to involve them in an endeavor that could easily end their careers, Latham ordered everyone back to work. Janet Paschel and Tom Wuhlford, the two that had been with him the longest, refused, and along with Randall they began rotating guard shifts at the hospital.

Latham was spending his days in Williamsburg and his nights in Washington, brainstorming with Dutcher and Oaken. The cornerstone of their plan was Latham's conviction that Baker had been killed by the
Guoanbu.
Everything flowed from that. Accordingly, their approach would be three pronged.

Oaken searched for a motive behind the murders. What was the connection between Baker and the
Guoanbu
!
If he'd been working for them, what had he been supplying?

Next, Latham and Randall would pursue the Mary Tsang and Hong Cho angle. However obliquely, Cho's methods in New York tied the Baker murders to the
Guoanbu
;
similarly, unless she was in fact nothing more than a pen pal, Tsang was Cho's link to the outside world.

And lastly, upon his return, Cahil would begin hunting for Mike Skeldon. To understand the whole picture, they had to know why Baker had hired him.

Somehow this disparate group of people were connected to a larger whole—something so important to the Chinese government that it had ordered the slaughter of an entire family.

Oaken felt certain Baker had had more on his place at Commerce than a simple hearing aid. To confirm this, he proposed a scheme that got an enthusiastic smile from Latham.

The next day Charlie returned to Commerce for another meeting with Baker's supervisor and the department's director. “So what brings you back, Agent Latham?” asked Jenkins.

“How common is it for your employees to take home classified work?”

“It's against regulations,” Jenkins replied.

“Closely monitored, I assume?”

“Of course.”

“Then maybe you can tell me why Baker's computer was full of Commerce material.”

“That can't be,” Knowlton said. “There's got to be a mistake.”

“At last count, Baker had material from twenty-three case files on his hard drive.”

“Do you have the case numbers?” asked Jenkins.

“They're being transferred to a warrant as we speak. If I don't start getting some cooperation, that warrant will be on the desk of the U.S. attorney within the hour. After that, I'm coming back with a couple dozen agents and start digging through your documents vault.”

“You can't—”

“Depending on what we find, I may start looking into obstruction charges.”

“Agent Latham, this is unnecessary—”

Latham stood up and started toward the door. “I'm done being nice, Mr. Jenkins. You've just bought yourself and your department a world of heartache.”

Jenkins bolted out of his seat. “Wait! Wait, please!”

“What?”

“You have to understand: This is very difficult.”

Time to let them breathe.
“Look, if Baker was up to no good, that's on him. Unless you were aiding and abetting him, the worst you'll face is some embarrassment. Be smart.”

Jenkins looked at him for a few seconds, then nodded. “I'll have what you need in ten minutes.”

An hour later Latham was back at Holystone with four large boxes of manila folders.

“Wow,” Oaken said, helping him carry them into his office.

“Baker was a workhorse,” Latham agreed.

“No, that's not what I meant. I figured it was a toss-up whether they'd fall for the bluff. I half expected him to pick up the phone to the Bureau. I was trying to figure out how we were going to post bail for you.”

“Very funny, Walt. Jenkins is a bureaucrat down to his socks. I just spoke his language.”

“Well, whatever you did, it worked.” Oaken reached into one of the boxes and pulled out a file. “Now, get outta here—I've got some reading to do. Time to see what the late Mr. Baker was up to.”