Choke Point (29 page)

“So what do you think?”

“I think it’s under water at high tide,” he answered. “Now let’s quit screwing around and get out of here. We need to find a place to hunker down before the next downpour.”

“This is it. Look.” She focused the flashlight on a shelf about four feet above the opening. “The waterline is below that ledge. Check it out.” She ran the beam of light back and forth over the wall. “Dry. It’s perfect. They’ll never find us here.”

Probably, but he didn’t like the idea of being trapped in a cage like a rat. “But the opening is
below
the waterline. We’d be stuck in here when the tide comes in. That could be up to twelve hours.”

“That only makes it safer,” she argued. “We can sleep when the tide’s in. Our own private grotto.”

“Have I ever mentioned that I have slight problem with claustrophobia?”

“No.” She turned the light toward his face. “Really?”

“Really. This
private grotto
gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

She directed the light to her own face, giving him an affectionate and somewhat teasing smile. “I’ll hold your hand, Leonidovich.”

“Promise?” He was only half kidding.

“Absolutely. If things get too bad, we could swim out. It’s only twenty feet or so.”

That sounded good, but depending on the wave action, he doubted if they could do it. He reached out, took the flashlight, and scanned the walls. “I don’t see any way to get up there.”

“Simon…” She hit his name hard enough to make it echo, a kind of scoffing ping.

“What?” As if he didn’t know. The waterline was less than a foot below the ledge, and she was too smart not to realize they could simply float up when the tide came in.

“We can bring the tree in here. It’ll make a perfect ladder.”

Even better.
“Okay, okay, we can get up there. But—” But what? “But when the tide’s out, they could see the opening from one of those inflatable boats. We’d be trapped.”

“That’s true,” she admitted. “But do you really think anyone’s going to venture this far back? Would you?”

“I did.”

“Only because I’m not wearing a bra.”

He gave her chest a flash of light, just enough to acknowledge the point. “I hate it when you’re right, Rynerson.”

“You really think we’d be safer out there, looking for something better?”

He couldn’t see her face, but he heard the sarcastic tone clear enough.
Smartass!

“I know you love sushi,” she said. “You can eat crab three times a day.”

Somehow it didn’t sound so good when you had to murder the little suckers. “I like to eat ’em, not kill ’em.”

“I’ll do it for you.”

“So, if I agree to this, you’re going to hold my hand and feed me?”

“Absolutely. And you’re going to stay here and be a good boy while I’m gone?”

He knew it was coming, and didn’t need to ask what she meant by
gone.
“You can’t save him, Kyra.”

“I have to try.”

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-FIVE

An Island in the South China Sea

Friday, 13 July 22:36:51 GMT +0800

Chricher stepped out of the darkness, pulled off his Boonie hat, slapped it against his leg to remove the rain, and dropped it onto a box of field rations. Then, with unaccustomed neatness, he peeled off his rain poncho and very carefully spread it out over a line stretching between two of the enclosure’s corner poles. Mawl suppressed a smile, amused at the man’s obvious attempt to delay his mission. The men, Mawl knew, had been whispering among themselves, wanting to know about James Atherton—aka Trader Joe—and trying to decide who should ask the questions. With the exception of Big Paddy, Chricher had been on the team longer than anyone, and the obvious choice. Big was muscle, Chrich was brains.

Finally satisfied with his fastidious arrangement of rain gear, Chricher poured himself a cup of tea, then lowered himself into one of the fold-up canvas chairs, never once making eye contact. “I’m getting too old for this shit.”

“Yup.” Mawl didn’t like being questioned, and he wasn’t about to make things easy. It was a matter of respect—command and control.

Chricher leaned back in his chair, way back, eyes on the overhead canopy, and folded his hands over his chest, his fingers twitching in a nervous out-of-sync rhythm. Mawl let the man fidget, the quiet broken only by the relentless beat of the rain. After a few minutes of awkward silence, Chricher found his voice. “You get a weather report?”

Mawl reached over, clicked the weather link on his laptop, then rotated the machine around so the man could see for himself.

Chricher rocked forward, eyes on the screen. “Ahh…looks like this front is finally ready to move on.”

“Yup.”

Chricher glanced toward the night sky, as if he could see a parting of clouds through the darkness. “Might even get a few hours of sun tomorrow. The guys could use it.”

“Yup.”

He leaned forward over his mug, suddenly a reader of tea leaves. “Should be clear by Sunday.”

“Yup.”

“If we don’t find them by then, I could bring in the chopper.”

As if he hadn’t figured that out, Mawl thought, becoming extremely weary of the man’s shifty-eyed avoidance. “What is it you want, Chrich?”

The man looked up, making eye contact for the first time. “Want?”

“You think I’m a bleedin’ idiot? Spit it out.”

“Well, I…the men…we were wonderin’ about this…this Atherton chap. The kid says he was—”

“The kid!” Mawl hooted, wanting to immediately knock Chricher off stride. “You think I’d have bothered to put Catman on his tail if I thought Jocko could figure something out on his own?”

“No, but he was—”

“You think I’m stupid enough to share intelligence with him?”

“Well, no, of course you’re not stupid, Brick, but he
was
on the bird’s detail. He saw things.”

“That’s right, Chrich, he saw things. He saw someone trying to get close to Rynerson’s daughter. Beyond that, he
assumed.
You’re smarter than that. You know I have contacts inside the hotel. Just who do you think arranged all those accidents? How else—”

“Yeah,” Chricher interrupted, “but this is different. If he worked for you, why the bleedin’ hell did he get on that plane?”

Good question,
but obvious, and Mawl was ready for it. “Because the information went one way. I bought, he delivered. Everything by e-mail. I never met the guy till he walked in here and identified himself by his code name.”

“But…” Chricher paused, thinking about it. “How’d you find the guy?”

Mawl nodded to himself; another question he had anticipated. “Our old friend Madame Chiang.” A small fabrication, but one no one could dispute. “That’s one of the reasons we needed to take her out. She could connect us to someone inside the hotel.”

Chricher nodded, clearly buying the story. “That makes sense.”

Mawl waited, knowing there was at least one more question.

“What about that big briefcase? The one that courier chap hauled onto the beach. The kid said Atherton had it with him.”

Mawl cocked his head toward the case, which he had purposely left in plain sight; something hawkeye Chricher would have noticed the minute he stepped out of the rain. “It’s right there, Chrich. Check it out.”

Making an exaggerated effort not to appear overeager, Chricher took a sip of tea, then stretched out and pulled the case onto his lap. “Heavy bugger.” He ran his hand over the indentations along the side. “Bloody hell. No wonder he didn’t go down. What the bloody hell is this thing made of?”

“Kevlar,” Mawl answered. “Or something close to it.”

Chricher opened the fold-over double flap. “What the bleedin’ hell. Is this a joke?”

“If it’s a joke,” Mawl answered. “It’s on us.”

“Any idea what—”

“A worthless artifact, according to Atherton.”

Chricher scowled, a look of disbelief. “You believe him?”

“Nope.”

“How do you know he didn’t just stash whatever was in the thing?”

“We don’t,” Mawl admitted. “That’s why I’m not letting the bastard out of my sight until we’ve got Leonidovich. It’ll take Big about two minutes to make him talk.”

Chricher nodded approvingly. “Atherton’s sleepin’ in your tent, right?”

“Going on eleven hours,” Mawl answered. “Hauling that rock around must have tuckered the man out.”

Chricher chuckled and stood up, apparently satisfied that everyone was playing on the same team. “Bed sounds like a good idea.”

An hour later, during a lull in the downpour, Atherton came sloshing into the enclosure, his eyelids heavy from sleep. Though dressed in clean shorts and a T-shirt confiscated from Mawl’s locker, he looked like a street bum in clothes twice his size, his face drawn and stubbled, his blond hair disheveled. “What time is it?”

Mawl glanced at his watch. “Twenty-three, forty-two.” He could see the gears grinding, so offered up the answer before the man blew a sprocket. “Eleven forty-two.”

“Christ, twelve hours! You got coffee?”

Mawl cocked his head toward the two-burner propane stove. “Tea.”

“No coffee?”

“We drink tea.”

Atherton scowled, but poured himself a cup.

“What about food?”

Mawl kicked the box of field rations.

“That’s it?”

“Fruit,” Mawl answered, half tempted to shove a banana up the man’s ass. “Our chef couldn’t make the trip.”

Atherton nodded, finally getting the picture, and dropped into a chair. “So what happened?”

“We found where they spent the night,” Mawl answered, “but they were gone by the time we got there.”

“Shit! That fucking Leonidovich.” He mumbled the last, as if talking to himself. “So why aren’t your men out there?” he demanded. “You’ve got night-vision equipment.”

The banana, Mawl thought, was sounding better by the second, but he hadn’t yet decided what to do with Mr. James Atherton. “They’ve been out there crawling through the mud for three days. They’re not machines.”

“But you’ve got to find them before the storm passes. If they’re able to signal a ship, it’s all over.”

“We’ll get ’em,” Mawl answered. “After we found the spot, we blanketed that end of the island with sensors. That reduces our search area by two-thirds.” He turned the laptop so Atherton could see the grid. “I haven’t taken my eyes off that screen in eight hours. They fart just once and we’ll have them.”

Atherton leaned forward, scrutinizing the screen. “They were planning to stay near the coast.”

“And that’s the focus of our search.”

Atherton nodded, eyes thoughtful. “What if they go in the water? Try to move around that way?”

“Was that discussed?”

“No, but I don’t think we should rule out the possibility. That Leonidovich is a clever bastard.”

Mawl nodded to himself—he had learned that one the hard way. “I’ll put two Zodiacs in the water. If they—” Something Atherton had said, suddenly burrowed its way into Mawl’s consciousness. “How did you know we had night-vision equipment?”

Atherton snorted, the sound derisive and bitter. “Rynerson grabbed one of your cargo bags. She was here when you unloaded your equipment.”

Mawl almost laughed; the woman had balls, he had to give her that. “So that’s where it went. Why didn’t you mention this earlier?”

“Didn’t think about it,” Atherton answered. “It’s nothing to worry about, she won’t be back. When she heard what you were planning to do, she ran like a scared rabbit.”

“Do?”

“Your plan to dump the bodies where a ship would find them. She didn’t much like the idea of death by drowning.”

Mawl thought back, retrieving the time and place of the conversation. “She heard that?”

Atherton nodded, took a sip of tea, and grimaced. “Christ, this stuff tastes like boiled piss.”

Mawl ignored the gastronomical commentary. “That means she was here more than once.”

Another nod.

“Bloodyfucking hell! In our camp! You should have told me!” He grabbed his night-vision goggles and pointed to the lantern. “Put out that light.”

Atherton made no move to comply. “You’re overreacting. She’s not coming back here. You’ve got them trapped on that side of the island.”

Mawl knew the man was right, but it pissed him off and made him feel oddly violated that the woman had penetrated his camp. “Unless you want the pleasure, I intend to drown that bitch personally.”

“Me?” Atherton leaned back in his chair, apparently giving the idea serious consideration. Then he shook his head and smiled. “Nope. But I’d like to watch.”

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-SIX

An Island in the South China Sea

Saturday, 14 July 05:15:18 GMT +0800

Simon adjusted his position on the rock, his backside numb from sitting in one place for so long. He could only guess at the time, but knew it had been at least six hours since she had disappeared into the night.
Damn woman,
just like her mother: smart, beautiful, and stubborn as stone.

He took a deep breath—the moist air heavy with the odor of a large dead fish rotting in the seaweed—and tried to convince himself she was being careful, not careless. A few scattered stars were now visible between the clouds, and he tried to decide if the sky was getting lighter, or if it was just his imagination.

He closed his eyes and started to count seconds—a full two minutes’ worth—giving his pupils time to adjust, then looked again. No question, the stars were beginning to fade. He needed to make a decision. If they had her, it wouldn’t take them long to find him. Everyone talked, it was only a matter of…

She emerged out of the bluish-gray light, the morning fog curling about her bare legs. He saw it all, everything, all at once—in the slump of her shoulders and the way her feet pushed through the water—and knew exactly what she had seen. He crawled down from his rocky perch and hurried out to meet her. “You okay?”