Collision (17 page)

“How did you know where I lived?” Through the inch of space the green eye peered at him.

Ben swallowed. He was unused to lying; but then, he was unused to removing bullets from flesh and forging signatures and stealing cars, and right now a lie was necessary. He cleared his throat. “Homeland Security brought me in for questioning. The person who killed Adam had my business card in his pocket. They think I might be the next target.” He paused. “I saw your number on one of the Homeland agents’ phones when they were trying to reach you.”

“You were going to help him get his software business off the ground,” she said and he realized,
She bought it, she thinks I’m Pilgrim’s pretend version of me.

“I wanted to help him,” he lied. “Can we talk?”

“I don’t know . . .” She bit her lip, and now he had to convince her, lie if he had to, or she would shut him out, probably phone the police.

“Listen. Whoever hired that sniper to kill Adam, they could come after you if they suspect he confided in you.”

The door stopped. Now she frowned. “I’m a nobody.”

“Still. If you knew what he knew . . .”

“All I know is, all his ideas, his software he’d developed, Homeland Security took it all. But . . .”

“But what?”

“I don’t know what they’re going to do with his research. I don’t want them to steal his work. I want to protect it.”

He needed to know what this research was as well. He pressed his advantage. “That’s exactly what this group at Homeland might do. Access to his software is going to save them millions.” He hoped his bluff made sense. “But maybe I can help you get his property back.”

“Just a minute.” She shut the door and he stood, waiting, for thirty seconds until she opened it again. She was out of breath, as though she’d been running. “Come in.”

Ben stepped inside the house. The rich smell of cinnamon coffee hung like a perfume. Delia Moon gestured at Ben to walk first into the kitchen and he did, realizing she did not want her back turned to him. No sudden moves, he thought, don’t scare her.

She was pretty but her face seemed careworn, as though life had made her suspicious and cautious. “You want coffee?”

“Sure. I really am sorry to intrude upon your grief,” he said, and he was. He remembered how awkward people seemed toward him after Emily’s death. Murder paralyzed everything in your life.

She went to the cabinet and reached for an extra cup. She poured him a cup and refilled her own.

“I hope you don’t mind black,” she said. “I’m out of cream and sugar.”

“Black’s fine.” He took a sip of coffee. The taste sent a surge of heat racing along his bones. It was a moment of calmness, of normalcy, good coffee drunk in a sunny, bright kitchen.

She pulled a gun from the back of her jeans, from under her untucked batik blouse. “Please put your hands on your head.”

He thought:
She shouldn’t have given me a hot beverage, I could throw it on her, get the gun from her.
Funny how your mind started to work when you were afraid all the time. But he set the coffee down. “I’m not a threat to you.” Slowly he put his hands above his head.

She glanced at the remnant of the plastic handcuff on his wrist. “Lay down on the floor.”

He obeyed. “I don’t have a gun,” he said.

“I never thought I’d use this one. Adam insisted. Me living here alone.” She prodded at him with her foot, along his legs, along the small of his back.

“Delia, please listen to me. There was a man who stole my identity. He pretended to be me. He’s the one who approached Adam. He works for a secret group in the government. Adam found his false identities, the ones used in undercover work, and this man and this secret group came looking for Adam. To discover how he found them, when no one was supposed to be able to identify them.”

She stepped back from him, kept the gun leveled at him. “False identities—” she started to say and then stopped. And he saw the dawn of belief in her eyes.

“You believe me,” he said in shock and she nodded.

The sense of relief—after two days of not being believed—was vast. Someone believing him. He shivered, put his face in his hands. “Thank God. Finally. Thank you, Delia.”

She slowly lowered the gun, two sudden tears inching down her face.

Ben slowly sat up from the floor. “These people he discovered are sort of spies, but they’re not part of the CIA. They do the dirty jobs that the government can’t own. I need to know exactly how Adam found them.”

“Oh, God, he was stupid and brilliant.” She wiped away a tear. “He told me he had created a set of programs that would help track patterns used by people who are using fraudulent identities. He thought it would be useful in tracking terrorists. He wanted to do good. He kept saying we had to find them before they strike.”

“But terrorists aren’t the only ones who try to hide behind false identities and accounts,” Ben said. “It could also apply in finding covert operatives.”

She wiped at her nose with the back of her hand. “He talked about stuff like ‘common behavioral patterns’—false names, quickly established and deactivated credit and banking accounts, large cash withdrawals from those kinds of accounts.”

“Brew all the data together and it sounds like a Google to find bad guys.” Ben frowned. “But that wouldn’t work unless you could have access to a very wide array of unrelated databases. Financial, law enforcement, governmental, travel, corporate. The trail any of us leave in our lives is across a quilt of databases that aren’t sewn together.”

“Couldn’t the government get him permission for that?”

“Not without tons of warrants. But he did it. Someone got him the access.”

“Adam wouldn’t try to expose undercover cops or CIA agents or anybody working for good.” She shook her head. “Never. Not on purpose.”

“I don’t believe he knew he was searching for covert government agents. Maybe he was told they were bad guys. Did he ever mention to you that someone wanted to fund this software?”

“He mentioned once, a guy named Sam Hector—that Mr. Hector might fund his research. But this was months ago. I called him today when I realized the government had taken all of Adam’s ideas. I thought he could help me. He said he’d come talk to me about how we could get Adam’s research back from the government.”

“I know Sam.”

“Oh, good.”

“Not really. He dragged his heels on helping me. It wasn’t like him.” He wondered if Sam was feeling his own set of pressures from the government. Maybe Sam knew much more than what he was saying.

“Well, Mr. Hector’s coming here and he’s going to help me.”

And he would do nothing for me that wasn’t under his own terms.
What the hell was wrong with Sam? Bitterness rose into Ben’s throat. “Then he must see more value in helping you than helping me. Delia, this is huge. Have you told anyone, the police, about what Adam was doing?”

She made a face. “There was a Homeland woman here, but she acted like I was shit on her shoe.”

“Joanna Vochek.”

“You know her?”

“Yes. She might believe me.”

“She didn’t believe a word I said,” Delia said. “I’m supposed to call her if I remember anything else.” She pushed Vochek’s number at him; he opened the paper, memorized the number. He might need it soon.

He handed her back the paper. “But you believe me.”

She nodded. “Yes. I do.”

The doorbell rang.

“Is Sam on his way over here now?” Ben asked. Delia hurried to the front door.

“Yeah,” she said. She put her eye to the peephole.

Jackie had been sitting in the Mercedes, puzzling over how to get into Delia Moon’s house without a fuss when Ben Forsberg—the civilian from the parking garage last night—pulled up in a white Explorer.

He waited, watched Ben talk his way into the woman’s house. Interesting. He called Hector’s number. No answer. He left a message. Waited a few minutes and Hector called back.

“Her and Forsberg are here together.”

“Then why the hell are you calling me? Kill them.”

“I’m calling because you’re pretty freaking particular about how things are done,” Jackie said. He ended the call and walked out to the house. Rang the doorbell, bold in the daylight. Saw the peephole’s flick of light get eclipsed by whoever was answering the door.

Jackie fired his Glock through the peephole.

23

Indonesia, Ten Years Ago

Randall Choate had read through the Dragon’s files on Blood of Fire: a new group, disorganized, usually crippled by internal squabbling. Suspicion linked them to several murders in the Muslim community in Sydney, to two killings in Lebanon, to a bombing in Cairo. Very bad guys.

Clearly the man had done his research, thought out the possibilities, analyzed the risks and minimized them.

But the Dragon’s network of informants was gone, destroyed in less than a day. Which meant . . . what? A single source had betrayed the whole network? One informant knew about the rest? That did not seem likely to him. The Dragon, the legend, had made a mistake along the line and now Choate was stuck with him as a partner.

But he liked the plan; he would do the dangerous work with a computer and a keyboard; the Dragon could do the dirtier work of killing Gumalar and his terrorist liaison, once located.

Four hours after Agency hackers in a small lab in Gdansk, Poland, launched a 3 A.M. cyber attack on Gumalar’s bank, Randall Choate sat down at a bank computer wearing a suit, a tie, and a visitor’s pass. His ID indicated he was with Tellar Data.

“You can clean up from the attack?” The bank’s information technology manager stood behind him, arms crossed. The thin sheen of a sweat mustache shone on his lip. It had been a most stressful morning.

“Yes. The problem is the hackers.” Choate was supposed to be an asshole.

“I would like actionable insight, please,” the manager said.

Choate began a long, technical run-on sentence about repairing the databases, with atomic-level detail about checking field integrity before repopulating the records, operating seamlessly with front-end enterprise transactions, and other murmurings of reassurance. All would be well and they could restore any damaged records from the backups. The IT manager asked pointed questions and Choate gave correct responses. When he was done (the manager had begun to fidget), Choate jerked his arms, so the cuffs of his shirt and his sleeves went up, a maestro ready to work.

The IT manager left him to his labors.

Choate started the search, loading a program that would not leave a trace of its passing, hiding behind a series of protocols to check the database integrity. In addition to searching for corrupted records, the program hunted for the five aliases Gumalar used to funnel money to the suspected Blood of Fire terror cell.

He found four of them; the fifth returned a null result. He funneled the aliases’ financial transactions and addresses to a log file. The IT manager came in halfway through the operation and watched the screen as millions of transactions in the database were inspected.

“Hacker bastards,” Choate said conversationally.

The IT manager agreed and inspected a network problem on another terminal, talking softly into a phone. The program finished its run, and as Choate removed a program CD from the system, he surreptitiously slid a blank CD into the drive, burnt the file of suspect transactions to the CD. When the IT manager went to take a phone call, he slid the CD into a pocket in the back of his suit jacket.

Done. Gumalar’s financial trail that could expose the Blood of Fire cell in Jakarta was now within reach.

The IT manager brought him tea, and it would have been noticeably rude not to accept. He sipped the hot beverage and his cell phone rang. He expected it was the Dragon, calling to check if all was well. He was two minutes past his deadline.

“Daddy?”

“Sweet pea.” He loved the sound of Tamara’s voice. He didn’t even know what time it was back in Virginia. Twelve- or thirteen-hour difference. It was ten in the morning now in Indonesia; she was up late.

“Are you coming home by next week? Because I’m going to cook you a birthday cake.”

“It’s your birthday, hon, not mine.”

"’S okay. I’m cooking two. Vanilla for me, chocolate for you.”

“Perfect, Tam. I already got you your present.”

“Really, what?”

“Gonna be a surprise.” He’d bought her and her mother matching red silk jackets.

“Not a doll. Jenny’s dad went to Europe and brought her back a doll, it’s ugly.”

“No dolls for my doll.” He finished the tea, spoke softly. “I got to go, sweet pea, but I’ll call you tomorrow when it’s morning there, okay?”

“Okay, don’t forget to get on the plane.”

“Never in a million, baby doll. Can I talk to Mommy?”

“No, she’s busy.”

“Um. All right. I love you and I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Bye, Daddy.” Tamara hung up. Well. Kimberly didn’t want to talk to him. Probably because the rates were so high. Yeah, sure.

Tamara’s voice made him ache, made him ready to go home. He did dirty work but she was his treasure of all that was good. Strange how a kid could make you conscious of the innate need to be a better person.

“I need to double-check this data before we do the data restore,” he told the IT manager. “I’ll go to our office, review this with my analysts, and I should have a report for you within a couple of hours.”

“I am pleased,” the manager said. He followed Choate into the elevator; two other men in suits stood there. His skin prickled, but they were thin and slight, dressed like mid-level managers hoping to make a solid impression. Choate reached for the ground floor button but it was already lit. He turned to make small talk with the IT manager. Strong hands grabbed his arms. He slammed his head backward, felt a nose break against his skull, heard a scream of pain. Hands jammed his head against the elevator wall, a needle slid into his neck.

The lit buttons of numbers whirled and danced, grew smeary as though he viewed them through rain. He was instantly drowsy and happy. The strong arms tightened their grip, hustled him toward a door.

He laughed and told them about Tamara’s red jacket before the darkness shuttered his eyes.

Randall Choate still had both his hands.

They were bruised and beaten, his knuckles purpled. He had lost two teeth in the back of his mouth. Every rattling breath told him two ribs were broken. One earlobe was torn and he had not slept in two days—every time he began to drowse, Gumalar’s thug threw icy water in his face.

He woke up in a room of plain cinder block, with a high window letting in a soft, cloudy gleam of light. He was tied to a wooden chair; his interrogators had a table and a lamp and a chair. The room had nothing else but the rubber hose, the pliers, the bucket, a trash can, and a leaky faucet; its slow drip played a maddening tune.

He had started to doze again; the ice water slapped his face. He opened his eyes to see Gumalar sitting across from him, eating a banana, frowning.

“Let us try again. I am an optimist.” Gumalar chewed, gestured with the half-eaten banana. “I have a contact who tells me that you are CIA.”

Choate’s stomach was as empty as a waterless well, but the smell of the banana made bile rise in his throat. “No . . . please, mister . . . I work for a database consulting firm . . .”

“Your work for Tellar Data is a lie.” Gumalar held up the CD that held the financial transactions of the aliases. “Why did you have this CD?”

“Please let me go.” The words were out of his mouth before he realized it, and a curl of shame unfolded in his chest.

“Your name is Randall Choate. You live in Manassas, Virginia. You have a wife and a daughter.” Gumalar lowered his voice. “My reach is long, Mr. Choate. If I want to reach out and touch your family”—he tossed the banana peel into the trash can—“I will. Now. You are CIA, sent here to spy on me.”

“No, no, no.” It was no struggle to put fear into his voice; they were threatening his family. The terror he’d felt for himself faded like the dusk, replaced by a darkness that thrummed in his chest. Kim and Tamara, Jesus, no. How did they know so much about him?

“Tellar is a CIA front.”

“No. No, sir. Please, whatever this misunderstanding is, you got to let me go. My company will pay you, is that the problem? They’ll pay to get me back.”

“I’m not going to give you back. You’re going to tell me what sort of operation is being mounted against me.”

“I don’t know anything . . .”

“This Englishman they call the Dragon,” Gumalar said. “Where do I find him?”

“I don’t know . . .”

More water, more torture, more ripples of pain shuddering under his skin. Gumalar’s thug clicked a pair of pliers in front of Choate’s face and made a grand show of removing his sock and his shoe.

Choate stayed silent, gritted his teeth, told himself not to scream.

With a deft yank the thug wrenched out one of Choate’s toenails. The thunderbolt of pain made Choate dry-heave and piss himself. He screamed and the thug hit him with the pliers, cracking his cheek. The thug kicked the chair over in a rage and beat him senseless.

Time passed, he did not know how long. The slant of light through the high window was different when he awoke. He was alone.

Suddenly from the next room, voices drifted through the wood:
Let us see if this Dragon breathes fire.

Then Choate heard a scream. A man.
No, no, you got the wrong guy, man
. . . A voice with a soft rural English accent. The voice revved to a scream.
Bloodyhellbloodyhellahhhhhh—God no God no . . .

They’d found the Dragon. Someone had betrayed them both.

Are you the one they call the Dragon?

I, oh, please don’t . . .

And then a horror, the sound of a sharp chunking into wood and a scream that would have unsettled the demons in hell. The scream lasted half of forever and then devolved into sobs and a moan. Slaps, mumbled questions about CIA operations in Indonesia. More screams. More.

The door clanged open, Choate opened his eyes. Men dragged what was left of the Dragon into the room. His wrists were bloodied stumps loosely wrapped in pillowcases, sodden red, his eyes wide with terror, his chin smeared with vomit.

“Who is this man?” Gumalar yelled, and for a moment Choate didn’t know if he was yelling at him or the Dragon.

“I never saw him before in my life,” Choate said and the Dragon hung his head.

“We will kill him if you do not talk.”

“You’ve already done half the job,” Choate said, and he spat at Gumalar. A fist started hitting him in the head, and after the seventh blow and a brutal kick, the chair he was tied to toppled to the floor and he fell with it. The world went hazy and gray.

Time meant nothing. He jerked his head up at the roar of a gunshot. Men mumbling, arguing, one saying in Indonesian,
We can’t learn anything from him now, you stupid ass.
For a moment he thought he’d been shot; but he wasn’t, he was alone.

He heard doors opening and closing. But his stayed shut. They would come for him now, kill him now. Voices grew louder, arguing in Indonesian. He heard the distinctive, soft grind of a body being dragged across concrete.

“Hey. We talk again in a few days. When you very thirsty, you very hungry, we talk some more.” The thug’s voice was thin through the heavy door.

Leaving him here. Leaving him here to die. To starve to death or die of dehydration in the middle of a huge, teeming city.

Footsteps walking away, a door shutting.

The Dragon must have given them what they wanted; if not, the torture would have started on him. Maybe they were going to negotiate for his release. No. He had seen Gumalar’s face. He choked down the hope that he was going to get out of here. They had no reason to keep him alive.

Choate barely dared to move. The ropes binding him to the chair were as tight as they ever were . . . but the chair felt strange. The back of its frame moved as he struggled. Wood grated against wood. He closed his eyes and collected his thoughts. Slowly he began to move his bound hands. Thinking of nothing else, ignoring the agony in his foot, in his face.

Crack. The back of the chair, already damaged from one of his attacker’s kicks, parted from the seat. He tried to pull loose from the ropes but they remained too tight. Still tied, now just to two broken chunks of furniture, his arms to the chair’s back, his legs to its seat.

Nothing to do but wait for them to come back and kill him.

When he woke up, the room was still in darkness, the tall window that had provided gray light was black with night.

I will touch your family.

He tugged on the ropes. Tight. He scooted the damaged chair against the concrete wall and began to pound his back against the hardness. Again. Again. Again.

The chair’s back splintered further. He pulled with his fingertips, wriggled his back, and eased out the damaged wood. The ropes loosened as more pieces of chair slipped free. Finally, after what felt like hours, he wrenched his left hand free from the coils. Then, slowly, his right hand. Pain throbbed up both arms as he tried to move them for the first time in two days. After a while he pulled his feet clear from the ropes.

He stood on unsteady feet. Stumbled until he reached a wall. Felt along for the door. Locked. He tried the light switch. It flickered on.

In the distance, he heard a door opening. They were coming back. Lied about staying away for days; they’d probably just left to dump the Dragon’s body.

He glanced around the room. A table, a high window just to let in light. He pulled the table under the window. He picked up the chair the thug had sat in while interrogating him. He put it on the table and grabbed one of the chair legs. It was the only weapon he had. He stuck it down the back of his filthy shirt and he jumped up and grabbed the window’s ledge. He held tight and used his other hand to unlock and raise the window. He fell back down to the table, then climbed back on the chair and jumped up again. He swung a leg up to force himself through the window and dropped onto an alleyway. The night sounds of Jakarta—the purr of endless traffic, honking, the wind carrying the wail of music—hummed in his ear.

He ran for the road.

“I don’t understand,” Choate said. The bedsheets were scratchy, and despite his exhaustion he had little interest in rest now.

“You’re going home,” the station chief, Raines, said. He was a scarecrow of a man, as though the heat and humidity of Indonesia had winnowed away much of him. He smoked
kreteks,
clove cigarettes, and the sweet smell knotted Choate’s guts.