Читать книгу Fight Fire With Fire - Amy J. Fetzer - Страница 8

Sungei Kadut, Singapore

Jason Vaghn III was the Jeffrey Dahmer of weapon designers.

A silver spoon in the mouth, “daddy pay his way out of trouble” genius that had military contractors begging for his talent—until they witnessed his macabre skill at work. His weapons didn’t kill, they maimed. Now, all banned by the U.S. military.

Vaghn’s very existence bit a raw nerve that hadn’t deadened with age.

Riley didn’t take a life easily, but for Tripp Vaghn, he’d make an exception.

He should be satisfied, but a five-year prison sentence for two deaths wasn’t enough. Riley knew Vaghn; the attitude bred into the spoiled boy had created a man who thought his genius put him above the law. While he’d been clean since his release, he had virtually no assets (the guy didn’t even own a car), and he’d lived on a trust fund from his great-grandfather that barely kept his electricity on.

To the FBI, he wasn’t a flight risk. Oh yeah, that was good Intel.

Taking surveillance off him was their first mistake. The second was believing that his sentence to not design or recreate any weapons or fuels of any kind, permanently, would matter. Not only was he too egotistical to think rules applied to him, he wouldn’t even try.

He’s already put something out there.

Vaghn wasn’t in Singapore in the hopes of disappearing. He had help getting this far, Riley thought, rubbing the back of his neck and watching the surveillance screens. Vaghn was privileged to reams of classified material. The judge warned that if he disclosed even one word, she’d charge him with treason, a death sentence. Why she didn’t sentence him adequately years ago was more political than handing down justice. Vaghn had been an employee of Noble Richards, a government contractor, and the projects were top secret. The company had influence in Washington. Riley would bet half of congress didn’t know how much classified R&D work the National Intelligence Council farmed out to “outside resources.” The secrets of the super power in shaky hands, as far as he was concerned.

Vaghn was proof of genius run amuck.

The door opened suddenly behind him and he scraped up the gun and turned.

Max put his hands up as best he could with a sack of groceries in his arms. “Jeez! No wonder your sister cut you a liberty pass off her ship.”

“She had enough people to boss around.” Riley laid the pistol aside.

Max chuckled as he set the bag down and pulled out bundles. Riley turned back to the camera feeds.

A breeze barely moved the torn bamboo shades. The paddle fan spun in a crooked thump overhead, and they were lucky to have some electricity. The unending humidity kept the air heavy and odors from the street fermented, occasionally masked by a whiff of frying bean curd or hokkien noodles. Somewhere tinny music played. They were positioned on the third floor of a row house, and high enough to have a wide vantage point. Like tired souls leaning on each other, the narrow homes were destined for demolition, most already uninhabitable, he thought with a glance left at the six-foot gap of missing floorboards. But people stayed, refusing progress until it was forced on them.

On the off chance that Vaghn might recognize him from their past, Riley stayed out of sight. After a month of Intel, cornering the guy was the plan. He didn’t doubt Vaghn would run. He was hunted and the squalor he was living in said as much. From inside the small flat, he watched the feed from mini cameras positioned around Vaghn’s last location. A DS agent gathering information on another case had spotted him after the FBI flooded U.S. agencies with his photo. Pinpointing it had taken a week. They’d been here twenty-four seven since then and still no sign of him.

Riley expected Vaghn to have changed his looks, a little dye, some facial hair so he could blend in.

“Any clue what that guy saw in the jungle?” Max asked.

“Bridget thinks it was an iguana. Jim says bigger.” He’d believe the archaeologist’s version. The man was too much of a detail nut not to be accurate. “He said he was spooked, fell, then claws swiped at him. He got up and ran.” Screaming into the walkie-talkie. He’d lost that and his bag. Dumbshit, he had a weapon, the spade. But his sister reminded him in that superior tone of hers that most people didn’t respond well under duress. Maybe he’d call Jim in a couple days to see if he remembered anything new.

“The assistant?”

“He didn’t encounter it. But said it was like something big behind a curtain.” He shook his head and remembered the jungle shivering. “Bri won’t bother with it. It’s not on her expedition budget program, and that he was injured will make her more stubborn.” That he was glad to avoid. “Besides, she was too damn eager to dive the Yonaguni ruins off the coast of Okinawa.”

“Man, I’d kill for the chance to get wet there.”

He glanced up. “I think I can arrange that after this is secure.” He waved at the screens on the desk.

“You’re on.” Max handed a paper wrapped lump.

He found a fried bean curd wrap filled with steaming meat. It was probably wise not to ask after the species, but it smelled great. He chowed down, his attention on the three laptops. Each had four views in a grid on the screen. They covered a four-block radius from where Vaghn was last spotted. Sebastian was on the streets. His dark hair and perpetually tanned skin coupled with the right clothes let him blend in easier than any of the team. He was getting to know the locals by now, turning down dinner invitations.

Riley wanted out there to search for the little prick, but the whole idea of surveillance was not to be seen. “What do you think he’s doing?”

On the screen, he watched Sebastian stop a teenager with a package, slip him money and head this way. “ He has a delivery, ” came through the speaker.

Sebastian gave the address and Riley glanced at the street map, then keyed in the correct camera. So, there’s your hideout.

“He’s going by Wang Chung, by the way. I thought he was smart?”

He was. So what’s with the giveaway? Riley took a bite of the sandwich, his gaze flicking to each picture. “Something’s not right.”

Just as Sebastian entered the building, movement at the far edge of the roof caught Riley’s attention. Thinking it was birds, Riley went to the window, pushing back the bamboo shade. “Heads up! He’s using the fire escape. West side!” He dropped the food, then scooped up the gun and radios. “Max, direct me.”

“You got it.”

He didn’t take the door, exiting out the window and using the fire escape. He hit the ground in a crouch and straightened to hear Max say, “He’s on the roof heading to the north end, but he’s not running.”

Excellent. He was still blind to us. “Tell me when he’s on the ground. Sebastian?”

“Headed west, I’ll try to cut him off before he gets to the markets.”

If Vaghn reached the crowded food kiosks, their chances would quickly thin.

Riley hurried to the end of the building, knocking aside trash in the alley. At the edge, his gaze slid over the crowds of patrons and vendors, then jerked back to a man with shaggy hair. The light shade stood out against the throngs of dark haired people. Just as the awning shadowed him, the man looked over his shoulder.

“It’s him.” Riley was already advancing. “Sebastian, watch my flank. I’ve got him.”

“He made you?”

“No, not yet. Come east. He’s cutting through Kopi tiam s.” The two-acre mall of food vendors was impressive, the entire complex covered against the blistering sun. Even in the late afternoon, the crowds were heavy. He moved left, careful not to get too close. Steam shot up from cookers behind the counters, orders called out in Malay and Mandarin. Riley saw Sebastian hanging back when Vaghn stopped at a vendor and handed over money for Ngo Hiang ; spiced pork and prawn rolled inside a bean curd skin and deep-fried. Everything around here was fried, he thought, stooping a little when Vaghn looked around before taking a bite.

He was between them, along with five aisles of tables, chairs, and forty vendors serving over a thousand people. Riley paralleled Vaghn, a few yards behind. The guy was afraid, stopping to look behind himself and using the reflection in windows to do it. He had the fugitive life down well. Vaghn walked to the entrance on Woodlands Road, around the pillars supporting the roof of the two-acre food court squashed between high-rise housing complexes.

Riley noticed he had a satchel and a backpack. He wasn’t coming back. He nodded to Sebastian. Riley was within earshot of him, then within reach. Sebastian came around from the east to the front, cutting Vaghn off.

Riley moved up behind him.

E ring

Pentagon

Colonel Hank Jansen kept a brisk pace down the corridor. To those who were aware, his presence on this floor spoke of trouble. Today was no exception. He glanced at his watch. He’d have to cancel dinner plans, but disappointing his wife came with the job.

A Marine guard snapped to attention and he paused long enough for security, then turned the next corner and opened the large oak door. Few looked up or stopped their discussion as he entered, yet he noticed that at least three were already answering their phones. The word was out.

He went directly to the screen controls and typed, linking the feed from his operation, then stepped back and picked up the remote. “Gentlemen.”

The room quieted.

“Delta class intelligence. Direct your attention to the screen.” Chairs swiveled around, but Jansen didn’t wait. He keyed in the satellite feed. “This is an air strip in Britain. Eighteen minutes ago.” It showed a glimpse of the runway, but focus was on a gray building, small and heavily fortified with two-stage security. He drew the image back a few feet, exposing the surrounding grounds and the bodies tumbled like pillars.

“Good God. The count?” someone asked above some colorful curses.

“A detachment of fifteen. Ours.”

“I’m not familiar with the target,” an admiral said.

“The shipment of RZ10 stored and bound for R&D Ordnance.”

The joint chiefs murmured among themselves.

Once the shipment was turned over for storage, Americans guarded it, but it was the British military’s responsibility to see it to ordnance specialists from both countries—and Jansen’s job to keep track of it. All was well until about a half hour ago.

“This is thirty minutes prior.” Jansen watched the attack that was so carefully executed he’d have thought it was one of his own teams. The men standing guard dropped like rags, no force, no gunshots. They simply collapsed. Gas? he wondered. A moment later, two men in full black ops gear approached, set charges and broke through to the container, a building created to protect the RDX fuel to the degree that a tornado or even an earthquake wouldn’t harm it.

The thieves quickly passed through without explosives, using a composition that smoldered yet didn’t blast. From what he could see, it cut through the titanium door and one man simply pulled off the lock and tossed it. His fury pushed up his blood pressure. America had billions in Research and Development and analysts to anticipate different types of attacks, and some slipper faction gets in without trouble? And what the hell did they use?

He waited till the escape was apparent, then turned it to live-mode so the joint chiefs could see that British Royal Marines had arrived and the MI5 investigation was underway. “I will contact MI5 in thirty for a report. Diplomatic Security is in the area to assist.”

He moved to the head of the table near the screens linking them to major movement across the globe.

“We have ascertained this. The British knew when we did. The alarms tripped after the first blast.” He played the long-range video, drawing back to before the guards fell. “We’ve learned in this frame,” he froze it briefly, “the shots were fired out of range of surveillance cameras. All but one camera, intentionally concealed, were taken out simultaneously. Prior to that, sensors picked up no more movement than a squirrel. Not a single pressure sensor went off. That means the weapons were not only silent, but had a tremendous range. The building was fifty yards from the nearest solid marker, a military motor transport section of vehicles recently repaired and awaiting transport to Iraq.”

“So what did they do? Drop out of the sky?” a three star general asked.

“I haven’t had time to speculate, sir.”

“How much did they take?” the Secretary of the Navy asked.

“One canister.”

“Only one?”

“Yes, sir.” It confused him too. They’d passed the opportunity to steal mass quantities of the most highly explosive liquid component created. One question loomed over all others. How did anyone know it existed? Getting it to Britain was a logistics nightmare, and Hank thought the fuel should be destroyed. It was too unstable, and the reason it was kept in two binary agents. They were still volatile, but manageable. A canister was one half liter, unmixed.

“We’ve never seen anything this tightly executed,” an officer said, watching the replay.

“Looks like one of ours.”

“I agree,” Jansen said. “They could be ours turned mercenary.” Blackwater had already coaxed their highly trained military away, paying them more than the government could even consider.

Discussion tripped around the long polished oak table as Jansen’s phone vibrated softly. He glanced at the text message and immediately crossed the room. His aide waited on the other side. The lieutenant handed him a printout from MI5. Hank scanned it, then looked up.

“Puzzling, isn’t it, sir?”

“It certainly is.”

He turned back into the room, striding to the front and attention came with him. “Gentlemen, we have a surprising development. MI5 tells us that all the sentries are alive.”

A stir of shock rippled around him. In an age when hundreds of people were being blown up at once, this was unexpected. He grabbed the remote and with his eye on the counter, he drew the image back and rewound the stream. “MI5 reports the men were struck with darts.” He froze the image, the needle-like barbs only light streaks on the screen. “The area is locked down and British Intelligence has the ball.” He turned to the joint chiefs, his attention on Major General Al Gerardo. “I’d like to hear your opinion, sir.” Gerardo was the JCS expert on the latest weaponry.

“I don’t have one yet. But the man that steals one container of RZ10 is a thousand times more dangerous than a few IED’s and some militants.”

No one asked for more explanation, waiting.

Gerardo leaned forward, hands clasped over a small stack of files. “RZ10 is a highly explosive composite fuel. Thermobaric. Ignited, its oxidizing flash point is so high that it results in a vacuum. Everything collapses. Special Forces used it in the Afghan caves, but it didn’t leave enough debris to sift.”

Good lord. Who thinks up this stuff? “What can one container do?” Jansen asked.

Casually, Gerardo dipped his coffee spoon into his mug and lifted out no more than a taste. “With the right detonation, this alone would destroy this building.”

Jansen experienced a familiar tremor shoot down his arms to his fingertips. He clenched his fist, waiting for the general to continue.

“That makes it highly cost effective and powerful enough to need only small quantities. It’s used in enclosed spaces, but one half-liter container detonated, say inside an aircraft over land, would create a massive pressure wave of sonic magnitude, and depending how low it was when it ignited, would crush everything for…well…about the size of Texas.” The general glanced at his colleagues. “Over water, it could cause a tsunami that’d make the one in 2006 look like a surfer’s day out.”

Gerardo leaned back in his chair. “In the vacuum, nothing survives. Nothing.”

48 hours earlier

Satellite surveillance post

Mariana Islands, U.S.

Western Pacific

“I graduated summa cum laude for this?” Owen said, leaning back in his office chair, his headset cockeyed.

“So did I,” the voice on the other side of the divider answered. “Get over it.”

The frosted glass partition was more for toning down glare than privacy. “Didn’t you think when you were recruited, you’d end up doing something remotely James Bond?”

“No,” his partner Greg said, leaning back and pulling the headset aside.

Owen was listening with half an ear too. The satellite wasn’t in range for another three minutes. “That’s because you like eavesdropping too much, perv.”

“You don’t think the Farsi and three dialects are doing it for me?”

“Not till you find the Farsi word for lap dance.” Owen snickered to himself as he turned back to his screen, adjusted his headset, then checked the countdown.

Time to go to work.

He watched the timer trip and adjusted his frequency wave. He’d been instructed to focus on five sets of coordinates—at the same time. The range decreased, and he worked to isolate each one, assigning them names. He sifted through each, holding for a few seconds, then onto the next. He’d record and store if the chatter was too fast, but the system would pop open a window when it heard a key word. It didn’t happen as often as people would think, but these five points were of vital interest or he wouldn’t be tracking them. It wasn’t in his pay grade to know why.

He glanced at the counter and watched the animated replica of the satellite moving into position to do its job. He hit record one minute prior to zero. It was down to ten seconds when the words came.

“Ee…ine,” he caught and scrambled to replay. The satellite was in full range rolling through the first promenade, but the stream dropped off.

“Greg, did you get that stream?”

Greg leaned back. “The burst just before range? It was too short to get a lock, why?”

Teasing faded, the pair were all business. “I’ve got a flag on it.” In his section, Owen’s responsibility.

“No shit. What level?”

“Just a three.”

Greg frowned. “What did you hear?”

“I’m not sure.” Owen tuned the sound up and hit replay while keeping an eye on the tracking that was sweeping across the Pacific back to the points of origin.

Greg listened, then played it twice more. He looked at Owen. “We can’t track that for another twenty-four hours.” And that’s if it comes again.

“God, it was just barely on the edge before the satellite came in range,” Owen muttered as he typed. “I’m alerting Australia, see if they have anything on it. It should be a full stream on their part of the world.”

Dotted like bugs across the globe were American and ally listening posts along with their dangerous counterparts of China, Russia and a few others with the budgets to do it. We all listen, but few act, he thought, sending the message down under, then relaying it back to the U.S. where analysts better than him would be the first to see it and understand his suspicions.

Ee…ine…. He tumbled it over in his brain, trying to match it to full words. “Geez, can I buy a consonant?”

Spinning to another computer, he accessed the data bank and the search brought up twelve languages and about three thousand possibilities. It might be just radio backwash or another satellite out of kilter, but he had to be sure. He set search parameters, narrowing by category, then filtering casual conversation from eerily listed words like timer, device, slaughter, conspiracy. The computer did most of the work to match up common words that usually preceded suspicious conversations. But for the life of him, he couldn’t pinpoint the grouping.

Vigilant, he glanced at the relay, waiting for Australia to reply.

Marina Bay

Singapore

The entire purpose of standing on her feet all day waiting tables was to get close to table number eight. It was on a dais, shielded from the sun by a conical roof and perched out over a man-made lagoon. But the private dining gazebo wasn’t her station and the waitress who had it was protective.

Beyond, the sea view was spectacular, but Safia didn’t have time to enjoy it as she served a woman from the right, then delivered meals around table six. The patrons barely spared her a glance, deep in conversation. The hired help were nonexistent to the few elitists. Finished, she held her tray and kept her head bowed, asking if she could bring them anything else. Even her question was subservient. The more submissive, the better the tip, and considering the men wouldn’t give the hired help a glance, it kept her in the background. Just where she wanted to be.

She was filling in for Miya, a waitress and an asset with a shrewd eye for oddities in people. Singapore was full of them so picking out something non-indigenous was a skill Safia needed and Miya offered. The woman worked too hard for too little pay, and Safia was more than willing to fund her and her four-year-old daughter. Tax dollars well spent, she thought, because putting her in danger was out of the question. When the “golden skinned man,” showed again, Miya called in sick and sent a replacement. The boss barely gave her a glance when she showed at the height of the lunch hour.

She stopped at each of her assigned tables to be certain all were happy little diners. She had a half hour left on the shift and needed to get closer to the dais. Two of her tables were vacated recently and the busboy was clearing the dishes. She grabbed the freshly pressed linens and crossed the restaurant, waiting till he’d removed the dirty dishes and swept up the soiled linens. She snapped out a fresh cloth and let it sail down over the table, her position offering a clear view of her objective. Table eight.

Cale Barasa enjoyed a meal with the casual grace of a king. His light brown skin glowed like polished copper in the glare of the sun, the carefully manicured goatee added a dash of piracy. She’d give him props for looking suave. But if he didn’t want notice, he shouldn’t have worn a thousand dollar suit to a seaside Polynesian restaurant. She couldn’t see his eyes, hidden behind sunglasses and he didn’t take them off when a bodyguard hopped up from a nearby table and lowered the sunscreen. She caught a whiff of his Cuban cigar as the busboy returned with fresh dishes and set the table. She folded napkins precisely as Miya taught her and set them in the wine glass to resemble a coral flower. Hers looked a little limp.

In her line of vision, Barasa answered his phone, then sat up a bit straighter.

His lunch date was a slim black haired woman perched on the edge of the chair in a practiced pose designed to get attention. Gorgeous woman. Did she know the company she kept? Safia doubted it. The woman questioned him, and he waved her off rudely, then shifted away. Conveniently toward Safia. A quick glance to the next table told her his bodyguards were more interested in their meals than watching his back. The piglets had requested a male waiter, and she was happy to oblige. They were ugly when they ate, a fact that put them apart from their boss.

She moved to the next table, a step closer, and tried to read his lips, but she hadn’t heard him speak to know his accent. Her sources couldn’t pinpoint it beyond maybe Congolese or African. He had a Euro look going on, yet even before intelligence made the connection of arms to Barasa, she knew he was a scuzbag in designer duds. He’d crossed her path one too many times, often followed by people dying.

It was the company he kept that brought more attention. A deal maker, he put elements together. Like Hezbollah and necessary weapons. He didn’t have a conscience or a cause. While he was very careful to never be seen in a country the U.S. or Britain could extradite him from quickly, he’d slip up. She wanted to be there when it happened.

Safia felt an odd tremor to be so close to this man.

She could liquidate him right now, but that wouldn’t get who was pulling his strings. Barasa might be careful about his conduct, but he had deadly friends who could turn on him at any moment—a threat that ruled his actions with ruthless paranoia. She’d tracked him a month ago and he’d hopped countries so fast it was like trying to follow a fly. Plus, his past didn’t exist. Point number forty-four in the suspicious behavior manual, she thought making it harder to understand him and catch him in the act. He was rarely close to his own hardware, and knew which rock to slip under and be protected. On the surface, he was sophisticated, but he didn’t flaunt his wealth with the ease of someone who’d grown up with it.

People didn’t die around Barasa, they disappeared. Proven a moment later when his bodyguard hopped from his table, a phone to his ear as he went to the dais. It wasn’t the same man as three days ago, nor was he as refined as the last. This guy’s like a farmer in a suit, she realized. His walk was too stooped for his age, yet with a broad back and shoulders. It was the hands that cinched it. Leathery with thick white calluses. Not a guy accustomed to the high life and firing a weapon. She could tell when his holster jabbed him as he sat and he had to adjust it. Anyone familiar with carrying a weapon would have made allowances. He did it again when Barasa waved him back.

So who was on the phone that changed his mood?

Forced to turn her back on him for the job, she backed up, hoping to catch some conversation. She’d have saved herself the trouble and bugged the reserved table if Miya hadn’t warned her his people check it for just that before he entered the restaurant. She finished refilling glasses, then moved to the ice machine outside the dining area and a bit down the hall. She had a clear view.

Barasa checked his watch, then suddenly stood and tossed a wad of bills on the table. He said something to the woman, then turned his back on her. The woman pouted, grabbed some of the bills and left. The bodyguards jumped up and followed. Barasa came toward her, head down, still on the phone. The guards went out the front. When he passed her, Safia followed him through the restaurant.

He was mad and in a hurry. It delighted her no end. His long legs overtook the distance. She hurried after him, keeping back just enough that he wouldn’t make her till she remembered she was supposed to be here, not him. He went in the kitchen.

She stopped short. Who are you running from? Or to?

The door swung closed. Through the frosted glass, she saw him move away from the door and she pushed through. He shouldered workers out of his way and she glimpsed him stop near the dishwasher station, then continue through to the back door. Stopping about thirty feet behind him, she pinched the hem of her tropical print apron, flicking on the microphone.

“He’s coming your way.”

“Got him. Just exiting now.”

Agents were her eyes on the perimeter. “His ride is marked?”

“Tagged and running.”

“Tail him just the same.” She’d blow her cover if she followed him in her uniform and quickly turned back into the kitchen, moving around the chaos of cooks, dishwashers, and busboys to where Barasa had stopped briefly. She glanced around. To the left was the dishwasher station, steam coiling up as a young boy sprayed the racks. Across from it were four lined trash cans, no lids, brooms, mops, and a large slop bucket sold to local farmers.

She looked down into the pail of vile brown muck.

“Oh no he didn’t ,” she said softly.

The cell phone sank beneath a day’s worth of restaurant leftovers. Gross.

A busboy stared with wide eyes as she rolled back her sleeve and plunged her hand into the slop. I deserve extra pay for this. She swished her hand and found the phone, shaking off glop, then grabbing a rag. Wiping it down, she prayed the moisture hadn’t ruined the memory. She turned it on, and scrolled to the last number.

The prefix said it was the other side of the island.

She hurried to the locker room, stripped, washed off the foul smell of spoiled food and Chinese five spice, then dressed in her street clothes. Removing the mic, she tossed the uniform in a laundry bin, and before she left, she slipped an envelope into Miya’s locker vent. The day’s wages and tips were a payback for Miya’s keen eye.

She zippered her tight fitting jacket and left. Outside, she hurried to the far corner of the lot and threw her leg over her silver motorcycle. She twisted her hair up to put on her helmet, then started the bike and left the lot at a moderate speed till she cleared the next street. She urged the machine faster. Two blocks away, she turned on the small GPS screen on the dash. Her mic relay went through her helmet.

“I’ve got him. Damn, he’s passing Changi and heading to Seletar airport.” And not in the direction of his last phone call. She followed and Barasa’s car took the Central expressway, gaining speed. “Get me some SAT info, now, Base.”

“Yes ma’am. We have imagery of the field. A plane is landing.”

“Check for clearance of his jet. He can’t leave till I tag it.” Tracking Barasa was a lesson in international hopscotch. He paid bribes to get in and out of countries without notice, but most often, he was welcomed by the latest regime.

She spotted the dark blue town car that was larger than most of the vehicles on the road and slowed, keeping at least a hundred yards back. She leaned, taking a turn that put her on the other side of the runway. It was a private air strip, reserved for those who could pay the fees to land. Three hangars located at the far end were open, a helicopter shadowed inside one. She stopped the bike near a park bench off the highway, her position secluded enough by trees and shrubs someone took the time to trim. The runway was off Seletar’s 747 traffic, yet further up the road the highway split, dividing smaller towns and villages on the edge of the water. A stone’s throw would land on the poorest of Singapore.

She left the bike, bringing her backpack and digging out her binoculars.

She sat on the metal table with four chairs permanently attached and flipped up her visor. She focused on the field. The town car was just making it around the long drive to the airstrip. Tires are a little low, she thought, waiting for the show to begin. Too often, he was legit, magically producing the right papers for his cargo. Interpol hadn’t given up on catching him, but Safia knew that letting him have some rope would get them more. He’d been in very bad company lately and following the money trail didn’t get her enough. While his accounts were modest enough not to draw the attention of the international banking community, recent increases in the millions said otherwise. Whatever he was up to, was big.

The roar of engines whining down for a landing made her swing the glasses left. Too fast to be safe, the Gulfstream jet touched down. Barasa left the car and stood next to it, his bodyguards at the rear looking like Secret Service in bad suits. She noticed several feet to the right of him was a shade cabana, a table and—oh you’ve got to be kidding—linens and set for a tea?

She swung her attention to the jet as it powered down and the door opened, lowering the steps. A figure moved in the dark interior and Safia was surprised when a woman stepped out. That explains the tea set.

The woman wore a pale gray suit, cut close, the skirt longer than fashion but her shoes were the bomb. Bright red. She sighed, wishing for playtime to be a girl. The woman descended the jet’s stairs and walked straight to Barasa before he could meet her. She didn’t offer her hand nor did he. Red shoes went to the shade and sat. Barasa was slower to follow, his attention on the woman’s rear. Clearly, he’d other plans for her, but Safia was interested in Red Shoes.

Women didn’t fit in the world of arms dealers. Aside from the fact that half the buyers seeking weapons were Muslims and therefore still in the dark ages, she thought snidely, most men had ego problems with strong women. They felt threatened. Barasa didn’t. He seemed amused.

She needed to get closer and hopped on her bike, riding it to the fork, then doubling back to the airfield. She stopped the bike behind a tall chengal pasir tree. They were sitting at the table, a servant who must have come from the jet, pouring for them. A sharp breeze battered the cabana, taking away a piece of linen. The woman didn’t notice nor acknowledge the servant chasing after it. Was she the money?

Safia raised the cell phone and snapped a picture of the two, then hailed Base. She worked the slideout keyboard. “Base, I’m sending you a photo. Run everything.”

“Confirmed jpeg and running.”

“Ya know, you can drop the military speak, Ell.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Safia shook her head, and sighted through the monocular, using its digital camera to get a full face shot as she watched the pair converse. The woman was beautiful, her black hair twisted up to show off her slender neck and reminding Safia a little of Audrey Hepburn. Way out of place. The suit was designer, the shoes…fifteen hundred easy. Though this was Singapore; knock-offs were sold on every street corner.

She studied the unlikely pair.

Who are you Red Shoes, and what are you doing with that nasty arms dealing trash?