luck drifted to such havens in Asia and stayed. Many would become bent into commas from spending too many hours leaning on bars and drinking away their dreams. Life could be quite pleasant, but those with get-rich-quick schemes always learned the hard way that the poet Kipling did not lie in warning Occidentals of the fate that befell those “who tried to hustle the East.”
Most of them were merely part of the human flotsam and jetsam on the Pacific trade routes, pushed about by the tides of centuries until they eventually were washed away. Nevertheless, generations of
He knew all about the negatives of living in Asia and did not care. After all, he had to live somewhere and there were not many choices left; certainly none as pleasant as being in this rambling house that overlooked the ocean on one of Indonesia’s more than 13,000 islands. Maybe he had gone troppo himself.
HERE ON THE ISLAND, the scarred man was known as Hendrik van Es, a reclusive Dutch entrepreneur, and seemed to be a rather mild person. He stood just under six feet tall, weighed a lean 150 pounds and his full head of hair had turned completely white, although he was still relatively young. His intelligence, generosity, and quiet kindness had won over the inhabitants of the nearby village. Girls who came occasionally to spend the nights would confide to their friends the next day that the lonely man was a good lover, once they closed their eyes, pretending sexual ecstasy but in reality avoiding looking at the awful scars.
He existed in near seclusion, with a Javanese staff running his house and technicians handling his various enterprises out of an attached office complex. He hired only Muslims, although he had long ago rejected the tenets of any religious faith.
The perception of gentleness was inaccurate. He had another name, Juba, and he was once the most wanted terrorist in the world for killing thousands of men, women, and children with biochemical attacks in both London and San Francisco.
Juba lay in his comfortable bed, knowing that sleep would not come. It never did without the aid of narcotics or alcohol. The dreams arrived, however, the pages always turning backward to memories of the man who had turned him into a hideous hermit who lurked on this Indonesian mountain. The thoughts flooded back, unbidden and unwanted.
As a young man, Juba had been a master sniper in the British army, decorated for bravery and promoted up the ranks to color sergeant ahead of his peers. He had worked hard and believed no one was better, a belief that came to a bitter end when he met Kyle Swanson, the best scout-sniper in the U.S. Marines. Worse, Swanson did it more than once, always one step faster, one thought ahead. What had begun as a once-friendly rivalry eventually became fierce combat duels with many lives at stake.
After the biochems, Swanson had hunted him down and left him for dead beneath a destroyed house in Iraq. Juba, a legend among Muslim fighters, had been dug out by villagers, barely alive. At that point in the voyage of dreams, Juba could allow himself a smile. He had endured the pain and re-created himself, almost as if he had risen from the dead. Eventually, some day, somewhere, he would repay Kyle Swanson in full.
The time would come. He would make certain of that. Meanwhile, the burning desire for revenge had become secondary to his resurrected career. Once he had regained his health, Juba organized a private network with a global reach and fielded teams that would provide specialist services for terrorist groups and nations. London and San Francisco had been his high points; now he could reach even higher. It was good to be back in the game.
HE CLOSED HIS ONE good eye and breathed deeply, sliding into meditation. There was no hurry. He would take the next step later, maybe even waiting until after a nice dinner before pushing a button on his computer in Indonesia and making something happen in Riyadh.
The e-mail would hurry through a meet-your-true-love Web site to an address in that troubled country, a warm and flirty message that would raise no curiosity. On the other end was supposedly a woman in Medina, but she did not exist. The true recipient was a soldier who had created the account with a false resume, complete with the comely photograph of a young woman that he had pirated out of Photobucket.
12
KYLE SPRINTED FOR THE front entrance of the clinic, with Sybelle on his heels. A large police sergeant stood in the doorway, arms outstretched and three stripes on each sleeve. “Here now!” he bellowed. “Stop right there! You cannot go inside!”
Swanson raised the FBI credentials.
The cop stood his ground, barely glancing at the wallet. “Sir, I must point out that I don’t take orders from you. Would you step back, please?”
Kyle brought the big Colt.45 up and leveled it at the policeman’s nose, the smell of burnt cordite still oozing from the barrel. “Get out of my fucking way,” he said.
The man still was not budging, despite the pistol. Kyle lowered the weapon. A rugby player, with muscles that bred confidence, he thought, and used the hard metal barrel of the gun to punch him in the solar plexus, folding the sergeant up like a shopping bag. Another guard moved to help, and Sybelle raised her Glock and said, “No.” The second policeman stopped.
Kyle put away his Colt and rolled the guard on his side as the man gasped for breath. “We don’t have time for this, sergeant. The clinic was just attacked by a suicide bomber. Have your men block every road with their cars and then call for support. Get your SWAT teams, Scotland Yard, or the military, and the sooner the better. I don’t think this attack is over. More terrorists may be on the way.”
The husky sergeant stared blurry-eyed at the two Americans, then grunted that he understood.
Kyle nodded in sympathy and helped the man to a sitting position. “I’m sorry about hitting you. We are going upstairs to Sir Geoffrey Cornwell’s room and set up some interior security. Really, friend. Please. Take this seriously. You absolutely must get some armed security in place, and do not let any unarmed policemen come rushing inside if they hear gunfire. We will handle it.”
The second guard protested. “We have two dozen officers protecting this site!”
“This is a war, officer, not some traffic disagreement on a roundabout. That ambulance went right through your police cordon and almost blew this place to hell. My friend and I are standing here holding weapons and you can’t do a damned thing about it. How much more proof do you need that your security is for shit? Call now and get some help, for God’s sake. Get help!” Swanson and Sybelle left them and barged through the heavy glass doors.
The sergeant sucked air to fill his lungs, then picked up his radio. “Lad seems a bit touchy,” he observed to the other officer.
In the distance, they heard the faraway buzzing drone of an approaching small plane.
“WHERE ARE SIR GEOFFREY and Lady Pat Cornwell?” Sybelle had stuffed her weapon into her belt and flashed the FBI credentials as she spoke with a courteous lady at the reception desk at the main entrance. She had moved to the front because she didn’t want Kyle blowing away some snotty orderly.
The middle-aged receptionist wore a starched white uniform, buttoned to the neck, with silver hair pulled back in a tight bun. She was polite, but frosty. She had seen what had happened just beyond the glass door and rubbed her hands together in worry. Violence was quite unnecessary, in her opinion. “I cannot reveal any information about our guests, but I have already summoned the clinic administrator. You may speak with him.”
