Tempest Page 3

  “And you think that’s solid?”

  “I think it’s the best lead I’ve had so far. My man’s sent his people to ask around. If Nakamura’s there, they’ll find him.”

  “And if they do?”

  “They’ll make sure he has an accident. He’s old. A person his age could easily slip on the deck.”

  “And if he isn’t there?”

  “Then I’ll keep looking.”

  “What about the tapes?”

  “No—”

  “I can’t even get my mind around what he could do with those.”

  “I know, Dwight. If he has them, I’ll find them.”

  Lincoln glowered at the camera. “You’ve already been there a month.”

  “Six weeks, actually, not that I’m counting.”

  “Six weeks, then. And still zip.”

  “Believe me, it’s not for want of looking. I want to get out of here about as much as you want this cleared up.”

  “I doubt that very much.”

  “I know you’re worried,” Navarro said, placating. “I get it. But we don’t even know that he’s a threat. It’s been forty years. We haven’t heard a thing since Dak Son. All we know is that he’s found out that he has a daughter and that he wants a passport so he can go home to see her.”

  “And I told you that I’m still not taking the risk. If the Army gets hold of him when he gets home, what’s going to happen? He’ll be court-martialled. All we need is for him to realise he could cut a deal if he spills what he has on me, and I’m fucked. And if I’m fucked, so are you.”

  “I know, Dwight. I know. I understand what’s at stake. I promised I’d find him. And I will.”

  “What about the daughter?”

  “We’re keeping an eye on her,” he said. “I put Mazzetti on it. Nakamura’s careful about when he emails, but she isn’t. Mazzetti thinks that he’s using internet cafés, but she’s replying from home, work, wherever she wants.”

  “Surveillance?”

  “Hook and Ramalhete are there. We have devices in her home, we have her phone, and we have her email. She’s in the pocket. Just relax and let me handle this. How many times have I let you down?” Lincoln pushed back in his chair. “I’ve never let you down, Dwight, not once, and I don’t mean to start now. Prepare for the interview. I’ve got this.”

  “You let me know when you have something.”

  “You’ll be the first to know.”

  “All right,” he said. “Same time next week.”

  “Or sooner.”

  Navarro killed the call and closed the lid of the laptop. Lincoln was impatient; he couldn’t really blame him, given what was at stake, but it would’ve been nice if he had a little more faith in him. What Navarro had said was true: his record was perfect, and he had never let Lincoln down. And, if Lincoln had listened to him back in Dak Son rather than choosing to give Nakamura a second chance, they would never have been in this mess in the first place.

  Navarro had preached the benefits of ruthless self-preservation back then, but Lincoln hadn’t listened. Lincoln hadn’t had the same background: he had never really been in the field, and he didn’t understand the hard choices that sometimes had to be made. That was then, though, and he knew better now. There would be no more second chances for Danny Nakamura. Navarro would make sure of that.

  5

  Beatrix and Danny watched the sunset and talked as he cooked. Beatrix had found the conversation difficult. The talk of Danny’s daughter inevitably sent her thoughts to Isabella, and the difference in their respective positions once again stirred the darkness that she had only been able to suffocate when she was high: Danny knew where his daughter was, but Beatrix had no idea about Isabella. It came to her now, the insistent whispering that she could forget everything, that she could lose her misery in a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke; all she had to do was make her way to the basement in Kowloon.

  Danny set up a wok on deck and stir-fried shrimp and mung bean sprouts for their dinner. The scent of the sizzling food soon caught the harbour breeze.

  The Jumbo Kingdom floating restaurant was opposite them on the other side of the channel. As the sun dipped down, the huge boat lit up like a Las Vegas casino. Neon reflections spread out across the gently undulating water, and the sound of music reached them. Beatrix looked across at the people on the promenade—couples having fun, enjoying their lives—and found herself thinking of Lucas and what their lives might have looked like if things had been different. It made her wistful and presaged the onset of more pain; again, she found herself itching to go back to the den and lose herself in the sweet fumes.

  Danny pulled a photo from his wallet and handed it to her. She looked down at it: the picture was of a woman with light brown skin, rich dark hair, and eyes that showed her Asian heritage.

  “That’s her?”

  He nodded. “She’s a teacher,” he said proudly. “Turtle Rock Elementary. Third grade. Says she likes it, but that she’s looking forward to doing something else.”

  “How did you find her?”

  “I found Collette’s obituary. Cancer. It said she’d left behind a husband and daughter. It was just Google from there—not many Melissa Nakamuras in Miami.”

  “She took your name?”

  “Didn’t get along with her mother. She knew about me before I got in touch. She said she’d been looking but couldn’t find me. I found her picture on the school website, and there wasn’t any doubt then that she was mine. I mean, she looks like me—right?”

  “She does.”

  Beatrix handed the photograph back. She felt a sting of bitter regret; it must be nice to know where your daughter was. Danny had that advantage over her. Isabella was never far from the surface of her mind, and the conversation had stirred the memories up once more. She remembered the smallest details of that afternoon in East London: the faces of the assassins who had come for her; Isabella’s terror; Lucas’s open, honest smile, as if absolving her for the fate that he knew she would not be able to prevent.

  She bit her tongue before the rancour could spill out.

  Danny noticed her discomfort. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m being insensitive.”

  “Forget it.” She reached for another beer, opened it and took a mouthful. “So, what happens next?”

  “I want to go home.”

  “She couldn’t come here?”

  “She can’t. Not with the way things are with Michael.”

  “He’s still angry with you?”

  Danny laughed bitterly. “Doesn’t want anything to do with me. I haven’t spoken to him for a month. You know what he’s like. If you’re out, you’re out.”

  “But you’ve known him for years. What did you say?”

  “I haven’t told you everything about that,” he said.

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “He’s not just angry with me. It’s both of us. He blames you for what happened with Wang, and he blames me for trusting you.”

  Jimmy Wang was the underboss who controlled the Aberdeen waterfront, skimming profits from the restaurants and bars, even requiring a tithe from the sampan drivers who eked out a living chauffeuring tourists around the harbour. He was a small fish, but Beatrix had been around the triads long enough to understand that it was the small fish, like piranha, who were often the most dangerous. The big fish—men like Michael Yeung—were careful; they made measured decisions for their long-term survival. The small fish grabbed chunks whenever they could. But Wang had been a little too avaricious, too ambitious, and the rumour had gone around that he was planning a coup. Yeung had found out and had told Beatrix to make him disappear.

  But it hadn’t gone exactly to plan.

  Beatrix started to protest, but Danny held up a hand. “I know it wasn’t your fault. I told him that. I defended you. He thinks—you know, with the opium and everything else, and what happened—he thinks you can’t be trusted.”

  She protested, but it was reflexive; she knew Yeung
had a point. She wouldn’t trust her if she were in his position.

  Danny spoke softly, trying to placate her. “I said it wasn’t your fault.”

  “Is that why he hasn’t given me any more work?”

  Danny nodded. “He says he’s going to use locals from now on.”

  Beatrix gritted her teeth. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I know,” he said. “We ended up arguing about it. Some home truths might have been exchanged—both ways. I ended up telling him that we were through and that I was going home. He said I couldn’t go—that he ‘forbade’ it. I told him I didn’t care what he said, he didn’t get to tell me what to do, that it was time I did something for myself… Well, you know what he’s like when you talk to him like that.”

  Danny looked down into the sizzling pan. He was suddenly a million miles away.

  “Look,” Beatrix said. “What are you waiting for? If you want to go, just go. Go to the airport, get a ticket and go.”

  “I don’t have a passport.”

  “So get one.”

  “I can’t. You’re not listening to me: I deserted. I left my post. I went to the consulate to see what I needed to do about getting a passport, and I lost my nerve. The minute they look into my background, they’ll realise that I went AWOL, and they’ll arrest me. They’ll bring out Article 85 and I’ll be court-martialled and then I’ll be put in jail.”

  “It’s been years, Danny. They won’t—”

  “It won’t make any difference. I met a Marine at the consulate. He was a chaser—they get sent to bring back Marines for punishment. He told me all about how they’re treating deserters now. They’ve got wars to fight in Iraq and Afghanistan, places sensible soldiers don’t want to go. They’re setting examples to keep everyone in line. I’m not kidding—I could get five years. He told me. And I don’t have the time.”

  “So what do you want me to do?”

  He looked at her hopefully. “You have a contact at the consulate.”

  That was true. Beatrix had done business with a CIA agent who worked out of Hong Kong Station on more than one occasion: the first time had been while she was working for the Group, years earlier, and then, most recently, she had acquired information on Jimmy Wang that had helped her plan the hit that had subsequently gone wrong.

  “You want me to get you a passport,” she said.

  “I don’t have anyone else to ask.”

  6

  Donald Miller was good at making it look as if he was busy.

  Lincoln put his head around the door. “You staying late?”

  “Yes, sir,” he said.

  “What are you working on?”

  “HOLLOWPOINT,” he said.

  That was partially true. HOLLOWPOINT was the CIA designation for the operation to locate Osama bin Laden. Miller was the analyst responsible for the paramilitary teams that had been deployed to Pakistan to that end. The Special Activities Division was running several of them, and the men for whom Miller was responsible were operating in the Hindu Kush, the lawless tribal badlands that had long since been suspected to be where bin Laden had gone to ground. It was a multi-agency brief involving agents from JSOC and SAD, with Miller acting as the liaison between the two departments.

  “Anything of interest?”

  “Nothing much,” Miller said. “We’ve had reports of more activity near the border. I need to get a drone overhead.”

  “Don’t work too hard,” Lincoln advised. “All work and no play… You know the rest.”

  “I do. Thank you, sir.”

  Miller waited for Lincoln to get into the elevator, and then waited for another twenty minutes. The SAD floor at the Farm was an open-plan space that had been divided into cubicles, with the leadership accommodated in larger and more private offices around the perimeter. It was never entirely deserted, but, as Miller waited outside the door to his office and listened, he could hear only the sound of a vacuum cleaner as a member of the cleaning staff took care of the sealed conference room where the morning’s briefings were held.

  He felt the same buzz of anxiety he always felt whenever he was preparing himself to go into Lincoln’s office. He walked the floor to the corner suite, paused to listen and, hearing nothing, knocked softly on the door for the sake of appearances. He let himself in.

  Lincoln was an arrogant man, and he had decorated his office with a series of photographs of himself with politicians at various events throughout his long career. He had been there long enough to have shaken the hands of five presidents: there were pictures of him with Reagan, Bush Forty-One, Clinton, Bush Forty-Three and Obama. Miller looked at the ostentatiously large desk, kept scrupulously clean, and at the neat rows of files that were slotted into the bookcases that lined the walls. He ignored all of them, crossing the room to the credenza that held the TV that was usually tuned to CNN during the day. There was a pot of pens and pencils in a nook beneath the television, and Miller reached down to take out a plain-looking ballpoint. He dropped it into his pocket and replaced it with an identical one.

  Miller made sure that the pen was left in the same position as the one that he had retrieved, and, satisfied, he made his way out of the office.

  Miller left the office and drove home. He went to his study, sat down at his desk and pulled out the pen. He put it on the desk and ran his fingertip over it. He had been given two of the units by Logan and had been impressed with their appearance and reliability. The top of the pen was twisted to the left to activate continuous recording and to the right for voice activation. Miller always set it to the latter mode; retrieving it from Lincoln’s office could only be managed sporadically, and Logan had explained how the capacity and battery life had to be carefully shepherded.

  Miller stared at it and thought about how he had found himself in a position where he had been forced to spy upon one of the most powerful—and dangerous—men in the whole of the CIA. The short version was that Logan had insisted upon it as the price for keeping him out of jail. He had busted Miller months ago for releasing a series of documents to a Beltway contact who was conducting opposition research into a Republican senator who was looking at a possible presidential run. The documents had confirmed that the senator was aware of and had approved CIA black sites in Eastern Europe where suspected terrorists were renditioned for ‘enhanced’ interrogation that would have been illegal in the States. It had only been a minor thing, Miller told himself, but it had been a win-win for all concerned: the senator’s views made her inappropriate for the highest office, and Miller had been paid enough to dig himself out of the debts he had amassed while playing online poker, and to pay off the mortgage on his house. Miller had also told himself that he was doing a public service, that he disagreed with the administration’s policy on ethical grounds. His conscience had been further salved by the outrage that had followed the publication of the exposé.

  The Office of the Inspector General had not seen things in quite the same way, and Miller had been taken to an anonymous room in an anonymous office block, hooked up to a polygraph and then given the third degree. He had folded, and Logan, who had conducted the interview, had made him an offer: be a snitch or go to jail.

  Miller had chosen to snitch.

  It was only when the identity of the man against whom he was expected to inform upon had been revealed that he had had second thoughts, but it was much too late by then.

  Miller unscrewed the pen, fitted an adaptor to the concealed connector and plugged that into the USB port of his computer. He downloaded the recordings and then dragged them into the secure online storage account that Logan had set up. The files started to upload. Miller left the computer; the Redskins were on Monday Night Football and he needed something to take his mind off the mess that he had found himself in.

  7

  It was eleven o’clock when Beatrix saw the lights of the sampan as it bounced across the waves toward them. She was in the galley, filling the sink to do the washing up, and she watched through the porthole wi
ndow as a young Chinese boy, shirtless and in ragged shorts, maneuvered the flat-bottomed wooden boat against the side of the junk.

  “Danny,” she called, “someone’s coming out to us.”

  “I got it.”

  She put down a plate and watched over the side as Danny dropped a hook over the rail and pulled up a big basket of groceries, saying something to the kid in Cantonese. The child shook his head, motioning for Danny to come down to him.

  Beatrix watched their fast conversation. Danny seemed insistent and the boy was defensive, but, beyond that, her Cantonese wasn’t nearly good enough to make out what was being discussed. Danny reboarded the Constance as the child eased the sampan back into the channel, opened the throttle and headed back toward the dock.

  Danny was pale when he came back up onto the deck.

  “Who was that?” Beatrix asked.

  “Sammo. His father runs the taxis on the dock.”

  “And?”

  “He says a couple of guys have been asking about me.”

  “‘A couple of guys’?”

  Danny swallowed, his larynx bobbing up and down. “Jimmy Wang’s guys.”

  Beatrix’s stomach sank. “What? Why?”

  “Why do you think?” he said. The colour had leached from his face.

  “He’s coming after you?”

  He slumped down onto the banquette. “Why else? After what Michael did—sending you after him? He can’t get to him.”

  She collected a fresh beer from the fridge and sat down again. A jet crossed the harbour, its lights winking. Beatrix had a headache. She was probably still dehydrated, and she knew the beer wasn’t going to help. She popped the top and took a deep pull anyway.

  “Did Sammo say anything else?”

  “Wang’s men have my picture. They’re offering a hundred thousand to anyone who can tell them where I am.”