Wall of Night (11 page)

Washington,
D.C.

Latham had met the current director of the FBI several times, either at formal functions or in passing at the Hoover Building, but had never had reason to speak with him at length. Until now.

With a nod from the secretary, Charlie knocked once, then opened the door and walked through. Owens was already there. The director stood to shake hands. “Special Agent Latham. Thanks for coming. Please sit down. It's Charlie, isn't it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Charlie, I'm going to get to the point. The Baker case is being put on hold for a while.”

“Pardon me? Why?”

“I'm not at liberty to say.”

“Sir, this is my case. If it's being jerked out from under me, I deserve to know why.”

“The decision's been made, Special Agent Latham.”

The hell with it,
Charlie thought. “That's unacceptable, sir.”

“Charlie …” Owens said.

Latham pushed on: “This is an active case; it's moving forward. If the decision's been made, fine, I'll deal with it, but I'll say it again: I deserve to know why.”

The director stared at him and then, to Latham's surprise, he smiled. “You know what? You're right. You
have
earned the right.”

Well,
I'll be damned
…

“Surprised?” the director asked.

“Frankly, yes.”

The director chuckled. “I know my strengths, Charlie, and telling agents how to do their jobs ain't one of them. Here's the short answer to your question: The Justice Department has asked us to back off. Certain sections of the Commerce Department are under investigation for corruption, and Baker was one of the employees under the microscope.”

“What kind of corruption?”

“The JD believes that several U.S. computer manufacturers were bribing Commerce employees to approve overseas sales of restricted processor components.”

“These components are on the NCTL?”

“They are.”

“How much money are we talking about?”

“Perhaps millions. If so, that might explain Baker's bank account.”

But not the slaughter of his family,
Latham thought. “And the murders?”

“Hard to say. Maybe Baker broke. Stress, remorse, guilt …”

Latham didn't buy it; he knew who was responsible. “We've still got a lot of holes,” he said.

“I know. And you'll get your chance, but for now I've agreed to put our investigation on hold until Justice can wrap up theirs. I don't like it either, Charlie, but that's where we stand.”

Latham nodded. “Okay.”

The director stood and extended his hand. “Thanks, Charlie. Harry.”

Latham and Owens headed for the door.

“You know,” the director called, “it just occurred to me: Too bad there's not a way to keep our plate warm while Justice does it's thing.”

Latham smiled at him. “Yes, sir.”

“Loose ends … background stuff—that sort of thing.”

“Yes, sir.”

The director shrugged, gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Oh well, just thinking out loud.”

Back in the Owens's office, Charlie said, “What the hell was that?”

“That,” Owens replied, “was everything and nothing.”

Translation:
Dig if you want to,
but stay away from Commerce.
“What do you think?”

“Your case, Charlie. It's got to be your choice. I can run some interference, but not for long.”

“I know.”

“On the other hand, we shouldn't count on Justice to wrap up any time soon. If we're right about the
Guoanbu
—and I know we are—every day that passes, the colder the trail gets.”

“I keep thinking about those little girls—taped up, tortured, watching their mother shot dead … My own girls were that age once. I want to get the sons-of-bitches, Harry.”

“When was the last time you took a vacation?”

“Last year, I guess.”

“Might be nice to get away for a while.”

“It might at that,” Latham replied.

Three hours later, Latham was sitting on his patio grilling some chicken when Bonnie poked her head out the screen door. “You've got a visitor.”

“Oh?”

Paul Randall stepped through the door. “Nice apron, boss.”

Latham looked down at his “Kiss the Cook” apron. “Bonnie's mother gave it to me. It's sort of grown on me.”

“Where's your chef's hat?”

“At the cleaners. Can I get you a drink?”

“I'll take a beer if you've got one.”

Latham dug into a cooler and handed across a plain, brown bottle. Eyes narrowed, Randall removed the top, sniffed, then took a sip. “Not bad.”

“It's straight from the Latham Basement Brewery.”

“I like it. So, what's going on with the Baker case? We're off it?”

“For the time being.”

“And suddenly you're on vacation.”

Latham shrugged, said nothing,

“Want some company?”

“No, Paul.”

“Too late,” Randall replied with a grin. “Harry's already signed off on it.”

Latham stared at him.
It.
would be nice to have some backup
… “Should I bother arguing?”

“I wouldn't.”

Latham reached over and clinked Randall's bottle with his own. “Welcome to the club. Now we just have to figure out where to start.”

“I think I've got that covered. I got an abstract of Skeldon's service record.”

“And?”

“About half of it was blacked out, but I know what he did for the army: He was a Lurp.”

“A what?” Latham asked.

“LRRP—Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol. The name is different now, but Skeldon was a Lurp through and through. Sixteen years' worth.”

“Which means?”

“He's got some pretty scary talents. Lurps are trained to go deep into enemy territory, stay hidden for months at a time, gather intell, then get back out again.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Latham said. “I doubt Baker was paying him for his raking skills. The question is, Why did Baker and the
Guoanbu
need a former U.S. Army commando?”

College of William and Mary,
Williamsburg,
Virginia

It was almost eleven p.m. when Samantha Latham left Swem Library and began walking toward her dorm. She had an early morning study group and another hour of reading before she could go to bed. She stifled a yawn and kept walking.

Dew was forming on the grass and she could feel the dampness seeping through her canvas sneakers. In the distance she could see the lighted windows in Rogers Hall. What she wouldn't give to have a room in Rogers; instead of having to trudge all the way back to Chandler, she'd already be in bed.
Well,
maybe next year
…

She reached the path bordering Rogers, followed it to the end, then around the corner to Landrum Road. To her right, a couple hundred yards away, she could see the lights of Chandler.

Almost home.

She looked down the road, saw no cars coming, and started across.

Samantha would never remember which sensation registered in her brain first, the sound of the engine revving, or the glare of headlights washing over her, but in those last few seconds, as she saw the dark shape rushing toward her, she thought,
He doesn't see you.
Run,
Sammie,
quick
…

She was taking her first running step when the front bumper touched her.

Fort Greely,
Alaska

Even before they set foot in the water, Smitty dubbed it Lake Shriveljewels in anticipation of the effect the water was going to have on their anatomy. If not for their dry suits, he'd be right, Jurens decided. Even so, he could feel the cold pressing in on him, a watery glove encasing his body.

The goal of tonight's exercise was to simply get past the guards waiting for them and wreak some benign havoc. The coming nights would bring increasingly difficult exercises that more closely matched the mission's goals.

Jurens checked his depth gauge: twelve feet. One of the drawbacks of their LAR VII rebreathers was that it fed them pure oxygen, which quickly turned toxic at pressures below twenty feet. The beauty of LAR was that it created no bubble stream for enemy eyes to spot.

Jurens depressed the chin button inside his mask, then called, “Everybody with me?”

He got three double
clicks
in return.

Jurens resisted the impulse to glance back. The water was pitch black, visibility less than four feet. Under such conditions it was all too easy to lose someone. Here it was forgivable, but in real life, when one man made up a quarter of your team, it could be disastrous.

He checked his compass against the map on his diveboard. “Rally on my chemlite.”

He plucked the tube off his harness, crushed it to release the phosphorus, then dropped it. One by one the rest of the team swam forward out of the murk. They formed a ring and clasped forearms for what was jokingly called the “dead check”:
If you were there,
you weren't dead.

“Going up,” Jurens said. “Standby.”

He clipped his diveboard to his harness, peeled back the glove covering his index finger, then flicked his fins until he felt his finger break the surface. The relatively cold air felt like an electric charge on his skin. He gave another flick of his fins. The top of his mask came clear.

The ice-rimmed shoreline lay fifteen feet away; beyond that, fifty yards inland, lay their Quonset hut and the three storage sheds, all illuminated by pole-mounted spotlights. Jurens knew the sentries were there, but not where and how many.

A flicker of movement near the corner of the Quonset caught his eye: A darker shadow against the blackness.
There's one.
Sconi hovered still for the next five minutes, until sure he'd spotted all of them. There were eight guards—five on roving patrol and three hunkered down in the shadows.

Jurens let himself sink, then finned down to the team.

“How's it look, Boss?” Dickie asked.

Jurens explained what he'd seen. “Let's go play a little hide-and-seek.”

Loosening the ice along the shoreline was the easy part, since all they needed was a gap through which they could squeeze. The hard part was moving each chunk aside then replacing it behind them without making any noise. As it was, the roving guards periodically strolled along the shore, shining their flashlights into the water as Jurens and his team waited, mere shadows beneath the ice.

Once onto the beach, Jurens led them inland, following the shore to the tree line, where they slipped into the under-brush.

Sconi pulled out his binoculars and scanned the beach. All guards were accounted for. He watched for a few more minutes until sure the rovers hadn't altered their routes, then set out again.

Giving the huts a wide berth, they slipped east through the trees along the ridge then across a field to the main road, where they found an irrigation ditch overgrown with scrub brush.

Jurens felt a tap on his shoulder. Smitty pointed toward their three o'clock: A hundred yards away, a Humvee sat blocking the road. Smitty gestured:
Two inside,
two outside.

That's a mistake,
Jurens thought.
Better to sit back in the trees and wait for us to stumble onto them.
He keyed his headset. “Anybody feel like taking a ride?”

Twenty minutes later they pulled the humvee to a stop in front of the Fort's administration building. A pair of soldiers armed with M-16s stood on either side of the entrance. Jurens climbed out, followed by Smitty, Zee, and Dickie. One of the guards stepped forward, his gun coming up slightly.

Jurens flashed his temporary ID. “Son, go get your duty officer.”

The soldier eyed the ID. His eyes went wide. “Uh, yes, sir. Hold on.”

He trotted inside. Sixty seconds later he returned with a sleepy-eyed major wearing pajama bottoms and slippers. “What the hell is going on here?”

“Just wanted to return your property, Major,” Jurens said, then walked to the rear of the Humvee and opened the hatch. Inside, bound and gagged, were the four soldiers.

“Christ,” the Major muttered. “Are they—”

“They're fine, Major. A little embarrassed, probably a lot pissed off, but fine. Now, if you don't mind, could you point us to the chow hall? We've got some thawing out to do.”

Beijing

Guoanbu
director Xiang was enjoying his first cup of tea of the day and scanning the overnight reports when he came across a flagged message. He punched the intercom button. “Eng, come in here.”

His aide, Eng, was there in seconds. “Yes, sir?”

“This is a routine contact report,” Xiang said. “Why is this flagged?”

“Check the name, sir.”

Xiang scanned the message. “Officer Myung Niu—”

“The contact's name, sir.”

“Chang Moh-Bian. So?”

“Bian's an official at the Ministry of Agriculture. He's on a watch list.”

Well,
that doesn't narrow the field much,
Xiang thought. At any given time, the
Guoanbu
's watch list contained thousands of names. “Regarding what?”

“General Han Soong. We've long suspected Bian of being an underground supporter of his.”

That got Xiang's attention. “And what is he suspected of now … Fiddling with a fence post?”

“The next day the PSB checked it. It looked like it had been hollowed out. Could be a dead-letter drop. Add to that Bian's demeanor and history, and I thought it might be worth your attention.”

Xiang considered this. It was probably nothing, but still, anything to do with Soong warranted caution. “Assign a detail to watch him. Might as well give it to this … Officer Niu.”

Williamsburg,
Virginia

Two hours after a jogger found Samantha lying in the street, the phone rang in the Latham home. Whether from mother's instinct or simply coincidence, Bonnie answered instead of Charlie. Hovering on the edge of sleep, he heard her say, “Oh, God. Where? Okay … yes, we're on our way.”

He sat up. “Bonnie, what?”

She turned to him; her face was pale. “Charlie, it's Samantha … She's hurt.”

One call to Owens was all it took to get a helicopter dispatched to the Germantown airstrip near Latham's home. As they were boarding the helicopter and heading south, Owens placed another call that cleared them for landing at the Newport News/Williamsburg airport, where a James City county sheriff was waiting to take them to Williamsburg Community Hospital Trauma Center.

They were met by the ER's attending physician. “Agent Latham, Mrs. Latham, she's still unconscious, but aside from a concussion, we haven't found any head trauma. The CAT scan looked good, and she's showing all the reactions we would hope to see—”

“You said she was unconscious,” Bonnie said. “What does that mean?”

“Her pupils are equal and reactive, and she's reacting to pain stimulus. Those are all good signs. Her legs, however, worry us. Both of her femurs were fractured—the left one pretty badly.”

“Oh, God,” Bonnie cried. Charlie put his arms around her.

“Define ‘bad,'” Charlie said.

“We're concerned about her distal pulse—the one farthest from the point of injury, in this case, the ankle. It's weak, which might suggest artery damage. She'll be heading to surgery shortly. We'll know more in a couple hours.”

“And if there's artery damage?” Bonnie asked.

“Let's just cross that bridge if we come to it.”

Irreparable artery damage,
Latham thought.
Amputation.

Bonnie asked, “Can we see her?”

“Sure, I'll take you to her.”

Latham felt like he was in a fog.
Somebody hurt my girl
…
my God,
somebody hurt my child.