WMDs rather than a shipload of gold?
Maybe.
Other things pulled at Mac’s mind. Who did the gold belong to?
What was it doing on Brani? How did they heist the whole thing?
An inside job? Pretty big inside job – Diane had said there was thousands of tons of the stuff. He wondered what that looked like.
Mac joined the hook-up to Don as Brani Island came into sight. Don had satellites, AWACS, Unmanned Aerial Vehicles and the US Navy sweeping for the stolen ship, but fi nding it was not proving easy.
They couldn’t get a proper ID on the thing and the Singaporeans were proving cagey about why it was unmarked, who owned it and who was operating it. Basic stuff but no response.
‘Can you get the State Department to insist?’ asked Mac.
‘Already asked,’ said Don.
‘Have you told the Singaporeans that it’s transporting a stolen cache of VX nerve agent?’
‘Sorry, McQueen. That’s classifi ed. It’s not the kind of thing we discuss.’
‘Well, around in circles we go again. Just like nine-eleven, huh?’
‘Oh, come on, McQueen.’
‘Looks like it to me. The Singaporeans won’t tell you about the ship.
You won’t tell about the VX. Same old same old. Just like the Agency and the Bureau.’
There was a pause. Mac leaned over, pointed out the southern point of Brani where he wanted to land.
‘Look, I’m about to talk with them again,’ said Don.
‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Mac. ‘Tell this Singers bloke, tell him from me that that’s the last time I show my arse on global television to save his crummy container port.’
Don laughed, wearily. ‘Think it’ll work?’
‘Chinese sense of humour, mate. Might do the trick.’
Mac felt the Black Hawk descending. To the right, Golden Serpent was still in port, bio-hazards swarming her like an army of white ants.
The portainers removed containers – probably to work out what else was on the ship. It’s what the Twentieth were known for. They’d take that thing apart like they were watchmakers, and the delay would be driving the Singaporeans nuts.
Mac had been thinking more and more about how and where the Chinese fi tted into this. He was leaning towards the Indonesian interpretation and decided to twig Don to a possible Chinese angle.
‘Don, mate, have a good think about this: is there an alternative you can talk to in the Singapore government?’ asked Mac.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you may be dealing with someone who’s stonewalling, perhaps on behalf of the Chinese.’
‘What, you mean that whole conspiracy about whether CIA or MSS is running Singapore?’ said Don.
‘Well, yeah,’ said Mac. ‘The Singapore power structure is split between being generally pro-China on security grounds, and totally anti-China on Commie grounds. When it comes to this ship, I’d be trying to speak with someone who doesn’t trust the PLA as far as you could spit them. Reading me?’
‘Copy that. I know just the man.’
The security building was partially sunk into the ground, like a bunker
– as if the thirty metres it rose into the air had been pushed up out of the surrounding quay apron.
Mac, Paul and Sawtell walked the perimeter while the troopers stayed by the Black Hawk. After one full circuit Sawtell stopped at the front, said, ‘Well that’s it, ladies. Two entry points: security vehicular roller door – high-tensile steel, custom fabricated by the looks of it.
And a security pedestrian entry which looks like one of those Austrian vault doors.’
‘Security building,’ said Paul.
‘Locked down tighter than a Q-store,’ added Sawtell, smiling.
Mac looked at the concrete driveway, saw faint dirty tyre marks in a line between the roller door and the rear of where the roll-on/roll-off ship had berthed. He looked at Sawtell. ‘Gotta get in there, John.
Can do?’
Sawtell shrugged, called to Jansen, said he wanted guys on the roof too, checking any entries through the air-con or a ceiling window.
All around the island the thromping sound of helos fi lled the air. The DIA and Twentieth were still looking for their VX in the most obvious places: in a line between Golden Serpent and Brani Island.
They dangled huge alloy pods below the aircraft and fl ew at about ten miles per hour along the top of the water. They’d be picking up every old anchor and car wheel that had ever gone to the bottom, but that was going to have to be part of the process.
Jansen and his sidekick started on the pedestrian door. Spikey made quick work of getting onto the roof and came back almost immediately, looked over the roof line, and said, ‘Ducted air-con.
Send up the jockey.’
Special forces spent a lot of their time training to get into places they weren’t supposed to be in. For that reason, most units had their unoffi cial ‘jockey’ – a smaller man who could pull the kind of break and enters someone like John Sawtell was not built for.
A sinewy little bloke Mac recognised as Fitzy ratted up the rappel rope in three strides and hauled himself over the edge sideways like he was on a pommel horse.
Sawtell looked up. ‘Make it fast, Spikey. I’m running a watch on ya.’
The other troopers abandoned the security door, tied Spikey’s canvas gear bag to the rappel rope and it was pulled up to the roof.
Almost immediately the sounds of renovations fi lled the air.
After nine minutes there was a clunk, and a jerk. And then the roller door was rising. It went up very slow, obviously heavier than your average warehouse door. As it came up, Fitzy was exposed, standing with one hand on the door control knobs, wearing nothing but undies and axle grease.
Paul and Mac pulled their guns and checked for load as Sawtell beckoned Fitzy out and stationed one of the troopers with the Black Hawk. Then they moved forward into the building.
It was eerie and warm inside. The air-con had been off for a while and the heat and lack of air made for a musty smell.
Mac looked up and saw Fitzy’s rope dangling from a duct in the ceiling. Someone was hauling it back out.
Stretched out in front of them was a standard concrete-slab warehouse. In the middle was a down-ramp to a sub-level. To their left was an admin offi ce. The offi ce closest to the in-door was a controller’s desk. Then there were three other offi ces behind it. And behind those offi ces was a large white demountable.
They moved along the demountable, passing tubs and gas cookers and underwear hanging out to air. People lived here.
Sawtell pushed the door to the demountable with his M4 carbine, leaned back and poked his head round. He leaned back again, and motioned with his head for Paul and Mac to take a look.
Paul walked in fi rst. Hit the light. Froze. Mac looked over his shoulder. There were four cot beds down each side of the demountable.
Wood-veneer fi nish on the inside. You could see clothes trunks fi tted beneath each bed. On the beds were fi ve men in various states of dress.
Dead. Pools of dark blood, set and dried.
Paul stepped forward, making a show of avoiding the blood.
Stowing his SIG, he knelt beside one of the men, who looked about twenty-one. Chinese, probably southern coastal provinces, his eyes open, tongue slack and face still lively, except where the slug had exited below the right cheekbone. Paul pushed the man’s face back, twisted it slightly, found what he was looking for. The entry hole was just behind the left ear.
Paul gently parted the dead man’s hair around the entry wound.
There was a dark charcoal-like marking on the scalp around the hole.
Paul scratched at it and the dark stuff came straight off.
