False front, p.21
False Front, page 21
Nathan jumped in. “Which means, there is the distinct possibility that someone smuggled an engineered biotoxin or some sort of pathogen out of Detachment 731 that, if properly contained, could still be viable.”
Ren took the volley. “And judging from the rumors of testing done for months since the discovery, we have to assume that whatever was in that package, stuffed in the jacket of a dead man, and buried in the middle of Manchuria, was something extremely valuable and extremely deadly.”
“I talked to one of the original construction workers who discovered the remains.” The group looked up at Nathan’s announcement. “Cerberus sent me. After the chatter that a bioweapon was going up for sale, he wanted to know exactly what was in that package.”
“Any good intel?”
“Not much. The one guy I tracked down was nervous to talk to me. Said the package felt solid. The writing was Japanese. He was the guy who found the body, mentioned there was a bullet hole in the skull of the remains. They never opened the package, and they were happy to hand it over to the first person who showed up wanting it. When I asked him how big it was, he said probably the only English word he knew, ‘Xbox.’”
“So, yea big.” Tox held his hands about eight inches apart.
“That it?” Chat added, seeming to sense there was more to the story.
“Small detail. After I left, two guys in a Humvee ran me off the road. Flipped my Jeep. When I fired at them, they took off.”
“That worker’s got someone watching his back. Explains why the bad guys didn’t just kill him.”
Nathan pointed at Tox in agreement.
“Maybe it didn’t even go down the way he said. Maybe he knew someone who might want the package. It’s not a big leap to think this construction worker might have a friend or relative with criminal ties. Doesn’t really matter. All I got from the trip was a tidbit of information and a bad case of road rash.”
Twitch took over, her cheery disposition lightening the despondent mood. “Here is the good news. Well, ‘good’ in a glass-half-full kind of way. Our contact at the Port Authority in Savannah noticed a couple of the dockworkers driving shiny new decked out pickups. That’s a big red flag that some palms have been greased.”
“Or they won the lottery,” Tox theorized.
“Which they did not. They play the same numbers in the Georgia State Lottery every week and, to date, they have not won more than thirty bucks. A quick, eh hem, peek at their finances shows both men made five separate cash deposits of nine thousand dollars.”
“Deposits of ten thousand dollars or more automatically get flagged by the IRS,” Ren clarified.
“Meanwhile, and here’s my big cliffhanger, so that bait shop in South Carolina? I think it’s an outpost of some kind. The NSA or Homeland has been monitoring electronic communication and intercepted instructions from an IP originating in Paramaribo, Suriname, for a $90,000 wire transfer to be used as a cash payment.”
“The bribe for the dock workers,” Nathan surmised.
“So, we have a Middle Eastern kingpin with an Armenian right-hand man living in South America.” Jack rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes.
“Believe it or not, that will narrow it down considerably. Can’t be too many of those.” Twitch never looked up as she tapped away on her keyboard.
“Twitch, before you start digging, get in touch with Steady. I want him down at the Savannah docks keeping an eye on things.”
“And whoever is moving this bioagent is also involved in this mess with Emily.” Jack shook his head in confusion.
“And whoever is manning that bait shop knows it now too,” Nathan confirmed.
“Maybe the good people at . . .” Twitch checked her screen, “. . . Royal Beach Fishing and Tackle have some intel.”
Nathan looked up suddenly. “Royal Beach?” Twitch nodded in affirmation.
Tox stood and began pacing. “What the fuck is the connection between an eight-year-old girl and a bioterrorist?”
“Technically, this person is an arms dealer. He is the outfitter, not the executor,” Ren corrected.
Tox returned a flat look. “I stand corrected. What the fuck is the connection between a fifteen-year-old abduction of an eight-year-old girl, an ongoing vendetta, and a fucking arms dealer?”
Chat chimed in for the first time, “That is the question.”
“We need to go to Royal Beach.” Nathan looked directly at Jack Webster while clinging tightly to Emily’s hand.
“Charlie? Impossible.” Jack paled. “Your uncle would never be mixed up in this mess. He’s a former Secretary of Defense, for heaven’s sake.”
“He’s not the shark, Mr. Webster,” Twitch clarified. “He’s the suckerfish.”
“And he always has the most valuable thing any terrorist or arms dealer or alphabet agency needs,” Nathan added.
“What’s that?” Emily queried.
“Information.”
Charlie Bishop was known around the small coastal town as The Tinker. Though he stood at only five feet, ten inches, his comportment, close-cropped gray hair, and lantern jaw made for an intimidating presence. He had appeared in Royal Beach, seemingly out of nowhere, more than a decade ago, lived in a modest but well-maintained cottage, and drove a wood-paneled Wagoneer that predated his arrival. He could fix just about anything, and the locals relied on his expertise for everything from boat engines to children’s toys. He hadn’t tried to conceal his identity, but he certainly didn’t announce it. Turns out the small fishing hamlet neither knew nor cared who the former U.S. Secretary of Defense was, much less what he looked like. Only the nearly clairvoyant owner of the local diner, Maggie Malloy, recognized him, but to this day rarely mentioned it. Not even to Charlie himself. It was one of the many reasons why he’d married her.
Maggie Malloy-Bishop turned sixty this year and had the energy and demeanor of a woman half her age. Her three children, all boys, from a relatively brief and disastrous first marriage, were grown and off living productive lives. The grandson she had raised after her oldest boy had gotten his high school girlfriend pregnant, her little strong man, was off saving the world. Her other grandchildren, three girls that belonged to her middle son and his doctor wife, visited twice a year. Most of the time, she and Charlie had the place to themselves. Her hair had remained a glossy copper, and her pale gray eyes glimmered with a knowledge that belied education. When they had first met, Maggie had joked that with his love for gadgets, his surprising sewing skills, and his military background, Charlie was three of the four men described in the title of John le Carré’s classic espionage novel. The only thing missing, or so she thought, was the spy. When the mysterious, dark-suited men began appearing at their door—and disappearing into the back room of the cottage—she reevaluated. She loved Charlie Bishop with her whole heart, and she didn’t need or really want to know the secrets that room held. She knew in her soul he was a good man, and that was enough.
Charlie would have scoffed at Maggie’s assessment. He wasn’t a good man. He had sent young men into deadly circumstances, not that different from the ones he had been ordered into as a soldier. Same shit, different war. He had let evil men walk free in exchange for worse men or vital intelligence. His list of sins was long, but this last leg of his journey to Calvary was without moral ambiguity. He never acted without knowing the whole story. He, more than anyone, knew that people were not always what they seemed. When he was both satisfied he was doing what was right and had the means to do so, he interceded.
This mess with Emily and Jack Webster had plagued him for as long as he had lived in South Carolina. He knew more than most, and what was relevant he shared. When the man he suspected of abducting Emily disappeared from their lives for more than a decade, Charlie had thought the matter closed. Dario Sava had found a new career for himself, a much more volatile career, and a very peculiar choice for a man poised to step into a powerful political position. With a man inside and some discreet surveillance, Charlie had concluded Dario Sava was the arms dealer he sought. Then, out of the blue, there was another attempt to snatch Emily Webster just weeks ago. The timing could not have been more perplexing. Dario Sava was on the verge of pulling off an unprecedented exchange. Why on earth would he complicate such a delicate, intricately timed event with the abduction of a young woman? Was Emily Webster a distraction? A red herring? Or was this something else entirely? One thing was certain: now that Sava seemed to have reignited his interest in Emily, it was time to disclose as much information as he could to Emily and Jack Webster. It was that thought distracting him from the Homeland Security report on his screen when Maggie, quite uncharacteristically, knocked on the door.
“Charlie? There are some people here.”
Her announcement conveyed no other information, but Charlie knew by the tone of her voice that this was not a typical visitor. Not a local needing a winch repaired on a trawler, and certainly not one of the laconic men who called themselves Mr. Jones or Mr. Brown. Yet still, when Charlie opened the door to his office, he couldn’t contain his surprise. A phalanx of four men and a woman stood behind his nephew, his old friend, and the daughter his friend prized above all else. Nathan Bishop, Jack Webster, and Emily Webster. It seemed they had brought the proverbial mountain to Mohammed. There was no hesitation as Charlie rushed to embrace the group, his broad smile conveying his exuberance. The trio returned his affection in kind.
“God damn, it’s good to see you.” Charlie held them tight. “Saved me a trip to that rat trap up north.”
That comment had Nathan’s head shooting up. “You have information?”
Charlie’s natural response was to assess the room. Jack commenced introductions.
“The big guy is Tox, that’s Chat, Ren, and Finn, and the redhead is Twitch. And you remember Emily.”
“Last time I saw you, you socked me in the nose with a sippy cup. Glad to see you’re just as feisty.”
“Good to see you, Charlie.” Charlie didn’t miss Nathan’s possessive hold on Emily’s waist. As if to convey the same attachment, he held out his hand for Maggie, who had been observing the interaction from the kitchen doorway. “This is my Maggie.” There was no need to elaborate. After handshakes and hugs, Maggie said, “I’ll whip something up. You must be hungry.” Ren’s eyes lit up. “I’ll help. I’m pretty good in the kitchen.”
Maggie smiled. “A man after my own heart. Amazing how this one,” she cocked her head toward Charlie, “can build a motorcycle out of spare parts but can’t crack an egg. I suspect some intentional incompetence.” Charlie pinked and chuckled, quickly ushering the group into his inner sanctum.
Twitch eyeballed the electronics like a child on Christmas morning. The room seemed to be divided into two different centuries. On one side, a tech set-up rivaled Twitch’s at Knightsgrove-Bishop. Monitors dotted the semicircular desk and a mainframe hummed quietly. A satellite phone was on the desk and a collection of disposable cell phones filled the open drawer below it. A digital lock marked the door of what was certainly a weapons closet, and a workbench held a variety of gadgets. The other side of the room looked like the office of the owner of a bait shop. A rutted desk held a landline and some homemade fishing flies. Paper files, with receipts and accounting records poking out, sat in a precarious stack. A bizarre-looking striped burrfish with bulging eyes and a rectangular body was mounted on the wall behind the desk. Mirroring the tech workbench was another. This one held a small motor, the work surface stained with grease and covered with a smattering of sawdust. Nathan, Charlie, Jack, and Emily settled in a small sitting area. Twitch sat at the computer desk out of habit. Chat, Finn, and Tox stood at various spots around the room.
Charlie slapped his thighs with both hands. “No sense beating about the bush. Let’s talk about Dario Sava.”
Twitch read as she researched. “Dario Sava is the oldest of eight children of Surinamese mining magnate Rodrigo Sava and his wife, Nasarra. He was raised in Paramaribo and educated in England. Withdrew from Oxford in his second year to undergo treatment for testicular cancer. Looks like he made a full recovery. MBA from Wharton. After that, he returned to London to work on the commodities exchange. Huh.”
“What?” Nathan urged.
“He left the London job when the Emir of Qatar appointed him to a coveted Defense Ministry post.” The group waited as Twitch worked her magic. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Sava’s mother was Nasarra al-Malik, a member of the Qatari royal family. She met Rodrigo Sava in Riyadh at a symposium on oil exploration. According to this bit in a London tabloid, her family initially forbade the courtship, but Qatar is fairly progressive as Muslim monarchies go, and at Nasarra’s insistence, they reconsidered. The family lived in Suriname but remained close to the Qatari side. The Emir, Dario’s great uncle, accurately pegged him early on as a brilliant strategist and born diplomat.”
“Plus, it wouldn’t hurt to have a government official with ties to another potentially oil-rich country,” Finn theorized.
“Good point,” Nathan echoed.
“I met him,” Jack spoke softly. “At a diplomatic event, the opening of a collection of artifacts at the museum in Doha. He and his wife were there as representatives for the Emir. We exchanged a few words about the exhibit I believe, then moved on. I remember because that was the night I collapsed. It was the beginning of the end of my appointment at the Embassy.”
Twitch continued to type. “The story gets weird after that. Sava’s behavior became increasingly erratic. He had to be forcibly removed from a summit with OPEC after insisting that Qatar would become a nuclear power. Within a year he had been removed from his government post. He moved back to Suriname and has since become one of the most clever and elusive arms dealers in South America.”
“What about his wife?” Emily asked.
“His wife, Tala, is the daughter of an American horse breeder from an old-money Baltimore family and a Jordanian diplomat who died of a heart attack when Tala was a child. Tala met Dario Sava when his Qatari uncle purchased a racehorse from Tala’s family. They married quickly, and she went with him to the Middle East and then to Suriname when he burned his bridges in Qatar. No kids. They lived together in Paramaribo until she died . . .” Twitch searched the screen, “. . . ten years ago. Complications from lupus.”
“So, he goes from being a high-level government official to a ruthless arms dealer in a year,” Tox recapped.
“And not just any arms dealer,” Nathan continued the story. “He’s notorious for leading law enforcement on wild goose chases and conducting transactions right under their noses. He once offloaded a truck full of stolen Russian AKs at an open-air market in Damascus in broad daylight, while a SEAL platoon raided an abandoned house outside the city. Smug bastard.”
“You’re saying he has a bioweapon in some form, and he’s going to try to smuggle it into the country using smoke and mirrors?” Emily asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe. I mean, there’s no better way to make the U.S. look incompetent than turning it into ground zero for a biological attack.”
“You’re sure they had no children?” Jack asked. Twitch double-checked and nodded. Jack rubbed his jaw, searching his memory. “When I met Tala, I think she was pregnant.”
“Hold on a second.” Twitch was scrolling through something on her screen. “Two weeks after you left your post in Qatar, Tala Savo was hospitalized. She had a D and C.”
“What’s that?” Tox asked.
“Dilation and Curettage,” Ren offered. “It’s performed after a miscarriage.”
“Confirmed,” Twitch added. “She suffered a miscarriage at seventeen weeks gestation.” She looked up at the room through her glasses. “The cause is listed as complications from the Varicella Zoster virus. She had chickenpox.” The same chickenpox that had waylaid Jack Webster.
You could have heard a pin drop.
Nathan scrubbed his face. “I think we know why Savo wanted Emily.”
Ren added, “Between his cancer and her health issues, her chances of carrying a baby to term would have been slim. There’s no way to know for sure chickenpox was a contributing factor.”
“True, but with all the frustration and helplessness that comes with infertility, that was an obvious focus for his rage,” Tox spoke with uncharacteristic sensitivity.
“An eye for an eye,” Ren nodded.
“Between his testicular cancer and her autoimmune issues from lupus, that pregnancy was probably their only shot,” Twitch added.
“Oh God, I feel awful.” Jack Webster cupped his face in his hands.
“Dad, you couldn’t have known. Should we blame me for giving them to you, or my friend Lizzie for giving them to me?”
“Not to mention that lots of people have fertility issues, and very few turn to international terrorism. You bear no responsibility for Dario Sava, Jack.” Nathan stroked Emily’s back as he reassured her father.
“Thank you, Nathan. It’s just such a shame.” Jack Webster looked around the room at the men who had probably seen more human suffering than anyone should and collected himself.
Charlie took over. “The CIA has had a man inside Dario Sava’s organization for eighteen months. Spent a year doing shit jobs for suppliers and lieutenants. About a month ago, he was moved into security on the Sava compound. That’s a crucial time for maintaining cover—everybody watches the new guy. Nevertheless, he did confirm a lab on the compound, but no actionable intel, and nothing to indicate the presence of a level three or four biohazard. My source is due to check-in,” he glanced at his watch, “at the top of the hour. I’ll have him update you as well, North.”
