with your pipettes and probes, I will see how many of the little ones I can save with my tools.”
“And those would be?” Draganov asked, raising one tired eyebrow.
“The same one our forefathers have always used against far more powerful invading forces,” Tsarovich answered, “Russian stubbornness, guile, deceit and treachery.”
At the Khlong Preserve shooting site — later
It had started raining again, and the air was filled with the muted sounds of Hornbills, Bamboo Rats, tree frogs and insects all watching uneasily as Narusan and the professor finish mounting the laser-transit onto the re- assembled shooting platform.
Then, as Narusan and two Rangers headed out into the brush, Captain Achara Kulawnit stretched out on the platform and began to stare through the transit scope at a distant clump of trees. She was covered by a long waterproof poncho.
After several minutes of slow and methodical searching, the image of recent impact damage to a distant tree filled the transit scope view-field. After activating the transit’s laser beam and setting the beam-point on the damaged area, she began calling out instructions to a Ranger who relayed them to the naval chief.
As Narusan began to climb the tree, Achara followed his progress with the scope. At the first impact point, she watched him pull out a belt knife and begin digging at the damaged area. Then, a few moments later, he held something up in his hand.
“Captain Kulawnit,” Narusan found a bullet,” the communications Ranger reported.
Smiling tiredly, Achara pushed the laser-transit aside and reached for her cell phone.
CHAPTER 31
San Francisco International Airport
The Eva Airways flight from Bangkok via Taipei was scheduled to land at San Francisco International Airport at three-forty-five in the afternoon; but the ever-unpredictable San Francisco fog had already forced the controllers in the tower to shut down one of the too-close-together SFO runways once that morning — thereby delaying and diverting landings — and it looked like the fog might be rolling in again at any moment.
“I should have had her land in Seattle,” Bulatt said into his cell phone. “If things get any worse out here, they’re either going to have her plane circling for an hour, or diverted to another airport.”
“I suggested that to her, Pete Younger said, “but the storm fronts in the northwest are growing in strength, which could have made SEA-TAC a worse choice. And, in any case, the airport switch would have added at least another eight hours to her flying and ground times, and she wasn’t willing to wait that long. She’s very anxious to get that bullet and cartridge case they found scanned into your NIBIN system. A very stubborn young woman. Reminds me a great deal of her father.”
“Speaking of whom, is there any more word on his condition?”
“Still in critical but stable condition, as before,” Younger said. “The bullet that pierced the side of his vest is lodged against his heart and aorta, and the surgeons are reluctant to go after it. If they can keep the internal bleeding stopped, they want to wait and go back in later when he’s stronger.”
“How’s Achara taking it? Did she say?” Bulatt asked, saddened by the vision of his Interpol friend lying helpless in an ICU ward.
“She’s convinced her father is strong, and that he will survive. She sounded groggy, and with bloody good reason. I understand she and the Chief spent the entire night digging through rainforest mud and vegetation at their two Phuket crime scenes; and that she only had a few hours to clean up, fly back to Bangkok, pack and get to the airport in time to catch her flight.”
Bulatt looked down at his watch. “That was a little over seventeen hours ago. I’m not sure if she’s still fourteen hours ahead of us out here, time-zone-wise; or if a few hours of sleep on a plane, over a forty-eight hour period, actually re-sets her body-clock back to zero.”
Younger laughed. “If you ever manage to figure that out, bloody well let me know. I’m guessing she’s going to be tired and grumpy when she finally lands; and in no mood to put up with anything that further delays her arrival to your forensics lab.”
“Good point.” Bulatt looked out the window at the gradually moving fog bank. “As things stand right now, we’re looking at a three-hour delay for our connecting flight to Medford. I think I’m going to make other arrangements.”
The International Terminal, San Francisco Airport — Customs and Immigration Arrivals
Captain Achara Kulawnit waited behind the designated line until the Customs Officer — a heavyset man in his late fifties with long graying hair combed back over his ears and a healthy paunch threatening the lower buttons on his white Custom’s shirt — motioned her forward.
“Welcome to the United States,” he said as he accepted her passport, opened it, compared her fatigued but still exquisite facial features against the photo imbedded in the passport, and then ran the open-faced document across his scanner. “Are you here for business or pleasure?”
“I’m here on official business,” she replied.
The Customs officer glanced at his screen, blinked, and then refocused his gaze on the young woman’s face.
“I see you’re listed as an international law enforcement officer. May I see your credentials, please?”
“Yes, of course.” Achara reached into her purse and handed over her badge case and credentials, which the officer examined closely before looking back up.
“Are you carrying any weapons with you, in your carry-on or checked luggage?”
“No.”
“Is this your first trip to the United States?”
“Yes, it is.”
“I understand you’re carrying items of evidence in your carry-on luggage?”
“Yes, I am.” She reached into her carry-on bag, and pulled out a shipping box bearing red Thai Forestry Division evidence tape wrapped tightly around all of the cardboard edges.
The Customs officer stared first at the box, and then at his computer screen before turning his attention back to Achara.
“I’m going to have to take that box into custody for inspection.”
It was Achara Kulawnit’s turn to blink. “I’m sorry, officer, but I am not authorized to release this evidence into anyone’s custody except the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service’s crime lab,” she said emphatically. “And they specifically told me not to open it under any circumstances, for safety and security reasons.”
The Customs officer started to say something, hesitated, then reached for his phone. For approximately two minutes, he and someone at the other end of the line engaged in a serious if not heated discussion. Finally, the Customs officer hung up the phone and turned his attention back to Achara once again.
“I understand your concern about the chain-of-custody of your evidence,” he said, “but there are specific rules and regulations about potentially dangerous materials entering this country that must be observed.”
“Yes, I understand all of that; I was a customs inspector in my country. But — ”
The Customs officer turned and motioned to an armed and uniformed officer who was standing near the exit to come over to the booth.
“I’m going to ask this officer to escort you and your evidence package to the U.S. Marshall’s Office,” the Customs officer said as he stamped her passport and handed it back.
“But — ”
“I’m sure they’ll be able to assist you with your problem, Captain Kulawnit,” he said firmly, and then motioned for the next person in line.
U.S. Marshall’s Office, Customs and Immigration Arrivals, San Francisco Airport
Fifteen minutes later, under the watchful eye of the armed Customs officer, fatigued, and now more than a
