The Widow's Strike (15 page)

D
r. Nakarat boarded
the train
and took a seat, glancing nervously at the people around him. All he saw were Asians. Packed around him like sardines, which did nothing but make him more suspicious.

One stop later, he exited and moved to the red line headed north. He nervously paced in a three-foot circle. When the train arrived, he watched everyone getting off, convinced some magical technology had allowed the man to meet him here.

When no one approached, he boarded and found one of the last seats available. He rode through the Raffles Place and City Hall stops, staring at everyone who entered. Nobody paid him the least bit of attention. His heart started to race when the train moved again.

The next stop was his.

* * *

Jennifer called after
the City Hall stop and said she still had a signal but no identity. Which, given the number of people inside the train, wasn’t that big of a problem. I was two cars back, and they were so full I was beginning to wonder if Singapore had a load limit. It reminded me of an old Army saying: How many Rangers can you get on a deuce and a half? Answer: One more.

We’d lost Decoy and Blood to the northbound line, but they would be only one train behind. I had Knuckles with me, and Retro was with Jennifer in the car with the signal, so we should have been able to sort it out once we were out of the crowds. The only thing that was concerning me now was that nobody had spotted anyone remotely Arabic. Well, Decoy had sent a picture of an Arab woman, but that was it.

I started second-guessing the entire operation. Maybe the frequent-flyer number was confused, or the hotel room was nothing but a false plant, or the whole thing was a setup to get us going the wrong way. You name it, they were all running through my mind. But at the end of the day there were too many things that lined up.

It was an Iranian carpet company. With the same number as in Thailand. Keep pulling the thread. Something’s here.

I looked at the metro map and took a breath. The next stop, Dhoby Ghaut, was a transfer for three different lines. Disaster.

“Everyone listen up. I think he’s getting off at Dhoby. We’ll have about fifteen seconds to identify where he’s going or we’ll lose him forever. Forget the ID. Focus on the signal. Keep it in play.”

I got a roger, and the train pulled into the station.

* * *

Dr. Nakarat exited
the train at a slow pace, unconsciously not wanting to begin the final walk to the meeting. He was jostled harshly by the torrent of people moving through the station, all intent on getting on or getting off. He got his bearings and headed to the Penang Road exit, feeling like he was walking to his doom. He broke into the sunlight and saw the signs for the park across the street, just as it had been described.

He crossed Penang and walked up a stairwell that zigzagged back and forth, traversing the hill. He didn’t notice the young man sitting on the bench staring at him intently.

He reached the top of the stairs, momentarily confused. There were more roads than he’d expected, along with a hotel to his right he hadn’t been told about. He saw a sign for the museum and followed it, walking steadily uphill, the heat sparking the first beads of sweat.

* * *

I waited on
the call from Retro or Jennifer, pissing everyone off in the car because I didn’t exit when the door opened. I stood like a statue, just inside the entrance, letting the mass of people flow around me.

If they don’t call, it’s not this stop. Everyone else on this train can kiss my ass.

“Dropped signal. I say again, dropped signal. He’s off.”

I immediately exited, now in a rush that confused the people around me. Knuckles followed, grinning his meth-addict smile and scaring the hell out of the smaller Asians exiting.

I said, “Koko, Retro, head to the connector lines. Knuckles and I will take street level.”

We started moving at a slight jog, and my receptor pinged for the first time. I glanced at Knuckles, and he nodded. He was getting it too.

We kept the pace, and the signal got stronger and stronger. We broke out into the sunlight and I paused, trying to figure out which direction the target was going.

Knuckles immediately went left and I went right, paralleling Penang Road. My iPod display continued to get weaker and weaker.

“Knuckles, it’s not this way. What do you have?”

“I’ve lost signal. He didn’t come this direction.”

Which meant he’d crossed the street.

I saw the last pedestrians jogging toward the station from across Penang, men in suits and women skipping, ungainly in heels, and knew I’d miss the light. I sprinted anyway, meeting Knuckles just as the cars started moving, blocking our way.

“Damn it! We’re going to lose him here.”

Without being told, Knuckles alerted the rest of the team. “Everyone, target entered Fort Canning Park off of the Dhoby Ghaut stop. Lost contact. I say again, lost contact.”

Which would cause a rehearsed battle drill to be performed, with all teams starting a search pattern to pick up the signal again, focused on the park.

I pulled up a map of Fort Canning on my phone, the time slipping away. It was fairly large, crisscrossed with multiple roads that could be used for pickup, along with a hotel and some bunker from the loss of Singapore to the Japanese in World War II, now a museum.

I was formulating a plan of attack when Knuckles elbowed me.

“Pike. Take a look directly across the street. There’s an Arabic-looking guy on a bench, and he’s swiveling his head around like crazy. Looking for something.”

I focused on him and saw Knuckles was right. He was all by himself at the base of a set of stairs, and he wasn’t acting relaxed at all, like someone who’d decided to take a seat for a break. He was twitching around like he was on crack.

I ran through the possibilities, spinning what I knew around in my mind, looking for connections. Like staring at the spot on a 3D poster, the truth sprang out of the mishmash.

“Jesus. He’s one of the Iranians, and he’s pulling countersurveillance. Contact the Taskforce. Get a picture of Dr. Sakchai Nakarat. We’re following the wrong guy.”

I
nside the bunker
at Fort
Canning Park, once the final British holdout in the fight for Singapore and now known as the Battle Box museum, Malik wandered about, looking at the various exhibits. It reminded him of the bunkers he had fought in during the Iran-Iraq War. He couldn’t help but be intrigued by the displays, a soldier again, and like all soldiers, he was interested in a way that others would never understand.

The rooms were frozen in time, with some walls even bearing the Morse code marks of the Japanese from after they had assumed control. He entered a chamber full of mannequins, incredibly lifelike in the gloom, peering at maps in an effort to stave off the inevitable defeat. He found it prophetic. No amount of military might would halt what he was about to unleash. Just like the British depicted in this room, the West would not be able to stop the onslaught.

He glanced at his watch and saw the next tour was a mere five minutes away. The tour with the doctor in tow.

He meandered through the maze of various displays, having seen them all before on his reconnaissance. Eventually, he reached a hallway that was not illuminated, with the arrows painted on the floor directing him to continue on past. He did not.

He walked down the length of the hallway until it dead-ended into a ladder. It was the escape corridor for the bunker. Created in World War II to allow the command to flee if the enemy breached the entrance, it would serve the same purpose here.

Not a part of the tour, and having nothing to see besides a rusty iron ladder at the end of a musty hallway, it would allow the final layer of security for the meeting. If the doctor had somehow planned a trap to ambush him, if his men alerted him in any way, he would climb the ladder from deep underground and escape—away from the known entrances and exits of the museum out front.

Prudent always, he would have taken the same precautions no matter what, but now it seemed especially vital. The original police contact with Dr. Nakarat would have been bad enough, but it was compounded by the fact that he couldn’t reach his team in Thailand.

He wasn’t overly concerned yet, since this very thing had happened a few times in the past, but it did cause him to raise his caution level. At the least, he would have liked concrete knowledge about the fate of the doctor’s son. Not knowing left a gap that didn’t sit well. Intelligence that could be used against him in the coming meeting.

He looked above him to the hatch leading outside, making sure he could still see daylight around the rim, meaning someone hadn’t replaced the lock he’d cut.

Satisfied, he was turning back into the museum when he got the call from Sanjar saying the doctor had exited the metro and was now heading into the park.

* * *

As Knuckles and
I were speed-walking across the street, both of us studiously ignoring the man on the bench, Decoy called.

“We’re in the park. West side near the reservoir. Need a lock-on.”

We reached the far side of the street and went east down the sidewalk, away from the man on the bench. I’d already given the team an update on what I thought was happening, along with a photo of the suspected countersurveillance. Now we waited on the photo of the rabbit.

I said, “He entered from the north, right off of Penang. He’s not too far ahead of us. Close on the Fort Canning Hotel.”

Continuing east, we reached a tunnel that looked like it led into the park, underneath another road. I relayed the location to Koko and Retro, who were seconds behind us, and started sorting out the search to prevent duplication of effort.

“We’ll take the buildings to the east of the museum. Looks like some sort of shopping area. Decoy’s got the hotel. You guys check out the tourist shop at the apex of the traffic circle.”

Moving steadily uphill, I began to sweat profusely in the heat and wondered if just that alone would wash the isotope off our target. The R & D guys said ordinary perspiration would have no effect, but I wasn’t sure if they’d tested it in the humidity that was Singapore. Ordinary perspiration here was like a shower.

We reached a sign cut from stone that said
FORT CANNING CENTRE
and saw a long, two-story building full of shops and restaurants fronted by a tree-lined stone promenade full of western tourists. Some type of photo shoot was occurring, with multiple women dressed in various historical costumes roaming the grounds, followed by guys with lights and cameras.

We had begun slowly walking through the complex trolling for a signal, just two more tourists out on a stroll, when Jennifer called.

“Pike, I’ve got a hit.”

* * *

Dr. Nakarat continued
up the path and reached a roundabout. Ahead of him was a small one-story building, an arrow pointing the way to the ticket counter for the museum. His instructions were not to enter alone, but to wait for the tour that left every thirty minutes. He bought a ticket and joined a group he presumed was also taking the tour, a mix of Asians and westerners. Within minutes, a guide rounded them up and they were walking down a tree-lined path to the entrance of the bunker.

He felt light-headed, clutching his shopping bag with both hands as he stumbled along, last in line.

They passed through the entrance, and the guide began talking. Dr. Nakarat heard not a word, focusing on when he was supposed to break from the group.

They went through exhibit after exhibit, all full of startlingly lifelike mannequins dressed as World War II British soldiers. He counted the rooms as they left, waiting on number eight. Eventually, he lost track of where he was, the bunker a maze under the ground.

When they reentered the conference room depicting the surrender, he began to worry. Was he supposed to count this as a room again, or was it just a pass-through?

He felt claustrophobic, panting in the dank air, the glaring bulbs hanging overhead leaving sinister shadows everywhere. A lady next to him asked if he was okay. He took a deep breath, remembering the words about his interactions with others. Remembering what was at stake if he failed. He told her he was fine and gave what he hoped was a sincere smile.

The tour guide pointed down a dark hallway and described the escape way, snapping him out of his funk.

That’s the meeting location. But the tour guide isn’t supposed to take anyone down there.

He began to panic, believing he would be blamed. He backed up, preparing to follow the arrows on the floor to the exit. Preparing to run.

The tour guide waved them forward, and the mass began walking toward an area with multiple televisions replaying history on an endless loop, away from the escape corridor.

He waited until the entire group was in the television room and out of sight, then began walking down the hallway with trepidation. He couldn’t see in the gloom and placed one hand on the wall as he slid along. Toward the end, a dim light appeared from above. Sunlight, from some sort of opening, creating a halo around a shadow. He stopped and peered intently.

A voice came forward from the darkness.

“Hello, Dr. Nakarat. I presume you’re alone?”

H
earing Jennifer’s call,
I pulled
up short, finding a little nook in the building where I could talk freely and waving at Knuckles to keep searching.

“Koko, say again?”

“I’ve got a signal here. It’s weak, but it’s beating.”

“What’s your location?”

“Right outside the souvenir shop, around the corner from the ticket office.”

I could see the entrance to the bunker just down the path, but the ticket office was too far away. All I saw was a small group of tourists heading toward the Battle Box.

Jennifer said, “I’m losing signal. He’s moving away. If you don’t have a hit in a minute or two, he’s got to be going to the sculpture garden on top. Break, break, Decoy, he might be headed toward you.”

Decoy came on. “No signal yet. Blood and I will troll east and west.”

I thought for a minute, then said, “Okay, Blood and Decoy, continue with the lost contact. Jennifer and Retro, hold up. Knuckles and I have the east, you guys have the north. He can’t get out without running into one of us. I’m afraid of him slipping through while we search. Let’s make him come to us.”

After twenty minutes of waiting, me on one end of the shopping promenade and Knuckles on the other, without any alerts from the team, I was beginning to second-guess my decision.

Maybe he’s already slipped through.

I was about to break down our box and launch into a full-on grid search when my phone buzzed. I opened the message and saw a picture of an Asian man with glasses, peering at a test tube.

The doctor.

He looked vaguely familiar, as if I’d seen him before, but I knew that might just have been my overactive western prejudice. I was in Singapore, after all. Everyone was Asian. And they all looked alike.

“All elements, take a look at the photo. Anyone seen him before?”

Jennifer came on. “Pike, Pike, he was just here! He bought a ticket to the Battle Box. He’s in that tour group.”

I looked at the time, then the map. Twenty minutes.

He’s still in there.

“Decoy, Blood, lock down the exit to the bunker. It comes out on your side.”

I saw Jennifer and Retro jogging up the walkway. Over the Bluetooth I heard, “We got tickets. What do you want us to do?”

“Get inside. Locate him.”

They stopped running and veered toward the entrance, handing their tickets to the custodian manning the door. To my right I caught hurried movement and saw a man who’d been hidden before by the shrubbery, now leaning over the railing to the coffee shop he was in and holding a cell phone to his ear. An Arabic man.

Or Persian. Holy shit! The general’s in there. That’s the meeting site.

I started running immediately, hoping to knock him down before the cell signal connected and the alert went out, shouting into my Bluetooth, “All elements, all elements, the general is inside the bunker. I say again, the general is inside the bunker. Watch yourself. Knuckles, on me. I’ve got the other Iranian.”

I approached from the man’s blind side, seeing he was intently focused on the bunker entrance and wasn’t talking.
No cell connection yet.

I got within five feet before my movement alerted him. He whirled and I charged, hitting him full in the chest and punching the hand that held the cell phone, sending it skittering away. We fell forward and he began shouting a single word over and over in a language I didn’t understand.

We landed in a jumble sideways on the ground and I started to battle for dominance. I managed to wrap up one elbow to force him face-first into the ground and made the mistake of assuming he couldn’t fight. He immediately rotated completely around onto his back, relieving the pressure on his elbow and opening me up. He kicked my shoulder, breaking free, and began scrambling for the cell just as Knuckles rounded the corner.

I shouted, “Get the phone!”

He had his hand on it when Knuckles kicked him full in the face, just like he was trying for a forty-yard field goal. The man’s head snapped back, and he went limp. Knuckles picked up the cell.

He shook his head and stabbed the “end” button.