The Orpheus Deception (39 page)
Read The Orpheus Deception Online
Authors: David Stone
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Good.
31
USMC Air Unit, U.S. Embassy compound, Sembawang Field
Goliad flared the Huey like a combat pro and settled it down with hardly a jolt on the concrete pad with the crosshair pattern, about fifty yards from a group of low, bunkerlike buildings. The Air Unit Compound at Sembawang held another Huey, a big Sea King, a partially dismantled Cobra Gunship, and a couple of fixed-wing craft, including a highly unusual gunmetal gray and completely unmarked sixties-era Lockheed C-140 JetStar, a midsized, four-engine jet transport that had been a favorite of the CIA during the seventies and eighties. Dalton had last seen one—or part of one—in the middle of a burned-out clearing in Colombia, where it had crashed under RPG fire from a FARC patrol, killing eighteen CIA mercenaries. The plane was a dinosaur now, having been retired in the early nineties. So, what was it doing here at Sembawang and why had its markings been painted over? Dalton figured he’d never know.
Holliday had radioed ahead, and an EMS van with USMC markings was waiting by the hut, men in fatigues, standing around by the van, watching Goliad shut the chopper down. The rotors slowed, and the airframe rocked with the descant rhythm. Hazlitt and Kuhn got Fyke onto the tarmac and stood by while the rest of their passengers hopped out as well. There was a moment of silence while everyone tried to figure out what had just happened and what was going to happen next.
Everyone except Fyke.
“Leave off, I tell you,” he said. “I’m through being an invalid. Away with you, and my sincere thanks go with you. I’ll be needing no further ministrations—I’ve been hurt worse playing rugby—so I set you all free to walk in the Singapore sun and leave me the
fook
alone.”
fook
alone.”
Fyke stagger-stepped backward, creating some symbolic distance, and then rounded on Dalton, his battered face cracking into a ferocious grin. “Mikey! You old crocodile, I always knew you wouldn’t hand me over to a couple of prancing catamites from old Virginny. The Uniform Code! That was brilliant.”
Goliad and the two medics looked uneasy, as if they were waiting for the Special Forces Captain to tell them what to do. Was Fyke a guest or a patient or a prisoner? Did he need the EMS van or should they call the MPs instead? Dalton had to keep control of the situation, at least until Major Holliday got here. After that, Holliday would be running the show.
“Goliad, is there a mess facility here? Maybe we could all just take a pew and wait for Major Holliday to get here?”
“Yes, sir.” He pointed to a low, aluminum-sided building. “That’s the general mess for ground personnel. Mixed ranks. We can wait there.”
They all walked across the hardpan together, Fyke struggling manfully, clearly deeply unwilling to be helped by anybody. Miss Lopez trailed along in his wake, looking nervous and trying to figure out where she fit into this situation. The Marines, suddenly released from their transport and medical duties, decided to be relaxed and happy. Mission accomplished: where’s the beer? Mandy was drawing a fair amount of attention from the ground crew Marines, but she ignored that, walking beside Dalton, matching his stride. “Okay, so far, so good,” she said. “What now?”
“That depends on the Major. This is his turf.”
“What are you hoping for?”
Dalton was formulating a reply when her shirt pocket began to shrill. She fumbled at the flap button and pulled out her cell phone, flipped it open, looked at the caller ID.
“Christ.”
“What?”
“It’s Langley.” She held up a hand, put the phone to her ear, listened for a time, managing to get in a couple of faint “Yes, sir”s now and then. Dalton could hear a strong male voice speaking forcefully at the other end. Mandy’s face went pale and then pink, and then she looked at Dalton.
“Yes, sir. He’s right here, sir. Yes, sir.”
She handed him the phone.
“It’s Cather. He wants to talk to you. He’s not happy.”
Dalton gazed heavenward, got no reprieve from that quarter, took the cell, watching Mandy’s eyes as he put the phone to his ear. Cather was already talking, a low, purring growl full of quiet menace.
“. . . intrigued to hear your explanation, Micah.”
“Explanation?”
“Your
reasoning
behind what has just occurred down there. I’ve just taken a call from Tony Crane in London. He tells me that you have failed to deliver the package to our people and that you have instead entangled the United States Marine Corps in a jurisdictional waltz that may involve the Uniform Code of Military Justice and some strangely named entity he’s calling the
JAG’s office.
I’m curious to hear your views in this matter, since I’m reasonably certain that Miss Pownall was adequately briefed on the purpose of your mission, the success of which would determine what, if any, relationship you might have with the Cleaners’ Unit, and Clandestine Services in general.”
reasoning
behind what has just occurred down there. I’ve just taken a call from Tony Crane in London. He tells me that you have failed to deliver the package to our people and that you have instead entangled the United States Marine Corps in a jurisdictional waltz that may involve the Uniform Code of Military Justice and some strangely named entity he’s calling the
JAG’s office.
I’m curious to hear your views in this matter, since I’m reasonably certain that Miss Pownall was adequately briefed on the purpose of your mission, the success of which would determine what, if any, relationship you might have with the Cleaners’ Unit, and Clandestine Services in general.”
“I have some questions of my own—”
“No doubt. And I’d be happy to address them once you’ve responded to mine. I’ll clarify it for you. A little over a month ago, your immediate superior and a dear colleague of mine, Jack Stallworth, was found dead in his greenhouse in the backyard of his residence in Virginia. It appeared that he had contrived to shoot himself several times in the body and once in the forehead, a demonstration of grit, will-power, and heroic dedication to the mission that should shine forth as an example to us all. A shadow fell upon
you
in this regard, and this shadow will remain, until it is dispelled by a directive from this office. So, as I have said, I await your views with an open mind and a sunny smile and the bluebird of hope perched upon my shoulder.”
you
in this regard, and this shadow will remain, until it is dispelled by a directive from this office. So, as I have said, I await your views with an open mind and a sunny smile and the bluebird of hope perched upon my shoulder.”
There was a stir at the compound gates as a tan Humvee with a .50 caliber on the roof came roaring up the entrance lane, coming to a sliding stop on the gravel in a cloud of dust. The gates were immediately pulled aside. The Humvee powered in and headed straight for them.
“Sir, you’re aware of a man named Branco Gospic?”
A slight pause.
“I am. A Serbo-Croatian gangster. How does this connect with—”
“Is the NSA monitoring his lines?”
“That’s classified matter, Micah. And beside the point. We were . . .”
Dalton’s attention trailed away as the Humvee pulled to a stop ten yards away. A tall, rangy-looking Marine got out before the Humvee stopped rocking, rigged out in BDUs and wearing a Beretta in a brown-leather shoulder rig. He had a sandblasted face and a long, vulturine beak, and dark eyes that contained a gleaming, crazy spark. He wore his hair in a Marine Corps high-and-tight, and carried the general air of a hungry raptor. He strode, heavy boots coming down hard on the tarmac, to where Mandy and Dalton were standing. Mandy moved in to intercept him while Dalton lifted a hand to acknowledge his arrival, pointing to the cell in his hand. “Major Holliday,” he called, “I have Langley here. One minute?”
Holliday frowned and settled, turning his attention to Mandy, who began to talk to him in a low tone, leaning in close, which had the effect she intended, as Major Holliday’s fight-or-flirt response kicked in fast. He gave her a large, predatory grin, glancing from time to time over at Micah Dalton with ferocious intensity mixed with curiosity. Dalton went back to the cell phone, speaking with restrained anger and a great deal of urgency.
“Sir, I’m sorry, that was Major Holliday, the Marine in charge here. Let me lay this out for you as I see it. Raymond Fyke’s tanker, the
Mingo Dubai,
a five-hundred-foot-long ship, was hijacked by a group of Serbians led by a man named Vigo Majiic. He was the third mate on the ship. I believe that Vigo Majiic may have been working for Branco Gospic.”
Mingo Dubai,
a five-hundred-foot-long ship, was hijacked by a group of Serbians led by a man named Vigo Majiic. He was the third mate on the ship. I believe that Vigo Majiic may have been working for Branco Gospic.”
“And what takes you there, Micah?”
“A Carabinieri major called me this morning. A woman who tried to kill me in Venice was found dead on the Lido beach. Brancati identified her as Saskia Todorovich. Her home town was Kotor, in Montenegro. Branco Gospic is based in Kotor. Brancati thinks the man who killed her was Kiki Lujac, also a Montenegrin. Lujac has followed me to Singapore. He’s here now. I saw him yesterday, at the hotel. I think it’s plausible, from the connections, to infer that he’s here on Gospic’s orders.”
“Yes,” said Cather, evenly, “that’s a reasonable inference. I still don’t see how this brings us to Mr. Fyke and his
allegedly
hijacked ship.”
allegedly
hijacked ship.”
“If Fyke is right and the ship really was hijacked by a Serbian outfit, Major Brancati says there are only two crime families in the Serbo-Croatian regions capable of mounting an operation like that.”
“Stefan Groz and Branco Gospic,” said Cather, his voice less remote.
“Yes. That’s right. When Fyke and I were together in Pristina, one of the outfits we were trying to penetrate was run by Stefan Groz. We knew of another but weren’t able to develop a name. But the DIA opened a file on Groz, and I’m willing to bet that, by now, we’ve got a FISA warrant on Branco Gospic too. Am I right?”
“That’s a security matter. I cannot comment.”
“I’ll take that as a yes. Have the Monitors picked up anything that connects Gospic to Vigo Majiic?”
“I have no reply to that. But I’m willing to follow your argument for a while longer.”
“Did you know that Gospic had sent a man to Singapore? To follow Mandy and me?”
“If I had, wouldn’t I have warned you?”
“Sir, you always said that a card is only useful if it’s in play. Let’s assume you did. Let’s assume that you got a packet from your automated surveillance of Gospic’s line that contained a reference to Micah Dalton. Why did you pick me to get Ray Fyke out of Changi? And why did you send Mandy Pownall along with me?”
A pause. Mandy and Major Holliday were both watching Dalton now, sensing the tension in his voice. Fyke and the others had gone on to the mess tent. A warm wind swept across the airfield, stirring the palms. It smelled of sea salt and rain. In the north, a huge green-and-black front was moving in. Cather’s silence stretched out. Finally, he said:
“I do not admire indiscretion. I trust you have not been indiscreet, Micah.”
“If Mandy and I were killed on this mission, that would solve a major security problem for you, wouldn’t it, sir?”
Clever lad,
thought Cather.
thought Cather.
“That’s not at all true. At any rate, that vulnerability has been addressed. The asset is being reconfigured—at no small expense, by the way. What once you may have known is now operationally irrelevant. And, I must say, I find it rather stinging that, in order to contain a security breach, you think me capable of sending two fine young agents out into the field in the hope that they might be killed.”
“The fact remains, sir, that our knowledge of it can be seen as a problem for the Agency. It doesn’t have to be. I had no objection to the program at all. Neither did Miss Pownall. We both approved of it. My interest lay in another direction, a personal one, and it ended when Jack Stallworth died.”
“I sense that all this is leading to a request, Micah. What is it?”
“I want you to let Mandy and Fyke and me try to find this missing ship. I want your permission, and I want your help.”
“Why would I want to help you in some quixotic and very likely
expensive
quest to hunt a chimera on the word of a drunken deserter?”
expensive
quest to hunt a chimera on the word of a drunken deserter?”
“I think Branco Gospic had the
Mingo Dubai
hijacked. I think he went to a lot of trouble to do it. Gospic trades opium base for weapons with the Taliban and al-Qaeda. That’s what they
do
in Pristina.”
Mingo Dubai
hijacked. I think he went to a lot of trouble to do it. Gospic trades opium base for weapons with the Taliban and al-Qaeda. That’s what they
do
in Pristina.”
In one detached part of Cather’s mind, he was recalling the first time that Branco Gospic had come to his official attention. It was in August 1998; U.S. embassies in Nairobi and Dar es Salaam had been attacked by al-Qaeda and President Clinton had just ordered retaliatory missile strikes on Khartoum in the Sudan and Khost in Afghanistan. Eighty cruise missiles—a
billion
American dollars’ worth—rained down on Khartoum and Khost, killing a night watchman at a pharmaceutical plant in Khartoum and five al-Qaeda trainees in Khost. Sadly, a more effective response was deemed not quite apropos, since the President’s moral authority had been rather undermined by a sloe-eyed young
houri
named Monica Lewinsky, who was, that same week, sitting in front of a grand jury and retailing her serial encounters with what Jack Stallworth had described at the time as
the President’s staff.
What brought Branco Gospic into it was that seven of the Tomahawks that hit Khost had failed to detonate, and bin Laden later sold five of the most intact ones to China for ten million U.S. dollars, which allowed China to reverse engineer them and thereby establish a solid basis for its own nascent missile program. The other two went to Pakistan and North Korea. Branco Gospic brokered the deal and pocketed fifteen percent. So, yes, he was professionally
interested
in Gospic. Dalton was summing up his case, the passion in his voice ringing out clear.
billion
American dollars’ worth—rained down on Khartoum and Khost, killing a night watchman at a pharmaceutical plant in Khartoum and five al-Qaeda trainees in Khost. Sadly, a more effective response was deemed not quite apropos, since the President’s moral authority had been rather undermined by a sloe-eyed young
houri
named Monica Lewinsky, who was, that same week, sitting in front of a grand jury and retailing her serial encounters with what Jack Stallworth had described at the time as
the President’s staff.
What brought Branco Gospic into it was that seven of the Tomahawks that hit Khost had failed to detonate, and bin Laden later sold five of the most intact ones to China for ten million U.S. dollars, which allowed China to reverse engineer them and thereby establish a solid basis for its own nascent missile program. The other two went to Pakistan and North Korea. Branco Gospic brokered the deal and pocketed fifteen percent. So, yes, he was professionally
interested
in Gospic. Dalton was summing up his case, the passion in his voice ringing out clear.
How brightly the young burned,
thought Cather.
thought Cather.
“So, I
know
you’re on Gospic. That’s why you have the NSA monitoring his communications. If you
didn’t
have the NSA watching him, it would be a gross dereliction of duty. He’s a terrorist, or an ally of terrorists. Now he
may
have acquired a five-hundred-foot tanker. What does an ally of terrorists want with a five-hundred-foot tanker? I think you need to know the answer to that question, sir. I think it’s your
duty
to know the answer.”
know
you’re on Gospic. That’s why you have the NSA monitoring his communications. If you
didn’t
have the NSA watching him, it would be a gross dereliction of duty. He’s a terrorist, or an ally of terrorists. Now he
may
have acquired a five-hundred-foot tanker. What does an ally of terrorists want with a five-hundred-foot tanker? I think you need to know the answer to that question, sir. I think it’s your
duty
to know the answer.”
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