WHATEVER THE COST: A Mark Cole Thriller (8 page)

PART TWO

1

‘Destroyers?’ Jeb Richards asked in disbelief. ‘DEVGRU? A whole fucking Ranger battalion?’

As Secretary of Homeland Security
, Richards had overall responsibility for America’s domestic safety, and was unable to understand why the kidnapping of three – only three, for crying out loud! – US citizens was resulting in such a large scale commitment of American military forces.

‘Hey,’ warned Vice President Glen Swain, ‘watch your language Jeb, okay?’

Richards merely nodded his head in answer to the rebuke and continued his tirade to the rest of the National Security Council, who sat around the huge table wedged into Conference Room One, deep within the White House Situation Room.

‘What if we’re hit at home by something else?’ he said. ‘We’ve got Islamic terrorists coming out of our ass, this
whole shit sandwich with Korea, things happening everywhere which could seriously – and I mean
seriously
– affect our national security, and we’re wasting millions of dollars on recon, surveillance, intelligence and military staging on finding a damn Chinese boat?’

Ellen Abrams eyed Richards directly across the table. She supposed she should have expected such a response from Jeb; a violently conservative Senator from the Texan heartlands, he believed that money not spent directly on domestic security was money wasted. Unless it was being spent on operations abroad which had direct benefits to domestic security, which he could just about tolerate.

In a way, this vehemence is what made him such a good Secretary of Homeland Security; he fought like a tiger for what he believed in, and America was safer place because of it.

However, such a blinkered approach could sometimes cause problems when it came time to look at the bigger picture; and then it was up to Ellen Abrams to remind him how it worked.

‘I understand your feelings on the matter Jeb,’ she began steadily, her gaze level with Richards’. ‘However, there are some niceties here that perhaps you haven’t considered. Like our relations with the Chinese government, who we’ve pledged to help as part of the Mutual Defense Treaty. It’s a long-term game, remember. We help them here, they help us with something later.

‘And then there’s the fact that three of the crew are Americans, and our citizens expect us to do something. If we don’t respond, what kind of message does that send to our people? To put it in your own terms – from a domestic security point of view – imagine if we do nothing, and three of our people end up being tortured and killed. How would that play out on the streets of American cities?
Demonstrations, riots, who knows? And what forces would we need to commit to sorting that out?’

All eyes around the table watched as Abrams calmly attacked Richards’ arguments, gutting him with a smile. It was a skill which had taken her from
a Boston lawyer’s office to a United States Senator from Massachusetts, to the 45
th
President of the United States of America, the first woman in history to ever hold that position.

She was a fighter, but a smooth one.

‘And then there’s our reputation to think of,’ she continued, still with the voice of reason. ‘If we give in to demands, or are seen to not act when the security and safety of our citizens is directly threatened, then when message does that send other criminal groups, other terrorists? Think about that, Jeb. Do we want that message being broadcast? I don’t think it will make domestic security easier, do you?’

There was a pause, and all eyes turned to Richards, whose own were facing down towards the briefing papers on the table in front of him.

‘Jeb?’ Abrams asked again. ‘I asked you a question.
Do
you?’

Richards looked up at last and met the president’s eyes. ‘No ma’am,’ he said, beaten.

‘Good. Then we will proceed as planned. Pete?’

Abrams handed the ball back to Pete Olsen, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, who had been halfway through his briefing when Richards had started complaining.

‘Thank you ma’am,’ Olsen said. ‘As I was saying, we have one DEVGRU squadron now located at Subic Bay, under Commander Ike Treyborne, where they’ll be making preparations to re-take the cargo ship when its found.’ Olsen continued detailing military dispositions and strategies until everyone around the table had a clear picture of what was being done.

‘Thanks Pete,’ Clark Mason said, turning then to address the table. As US Secretary of State, Mason was the third most important person at the briefing, just under Abrams and Swain.

‘Although Jeb was perhaps a bit offhand in his manner,’ he began reasonably, ‘and we are all agreed that we have to respond to this situation in the way we are, we shouldn’t forget other pressing issues. Korea, or example. I understand that there has been a spike in terrorist communications warning of a new attack on the south? Cat?’

Catalina dos Santos was the Director of National Intelligence – like the president, the first female to hold the position – and was the immediate replacement for the notorious – and still missing – US traitor, Charles Hansard. It was a tough role to take on after the scandal left by her predecessor, but the general consensus was that dos Santos was doing a pretty good job so far.

As she started to give a breakdown on what was known about the situation in South Korea, Jeb Richards looked across the table and nodded his head imperceptibly towards Mason in a gesture of thanks.

Even though Mason
had been subtle, Richards recognized the fact that the Secretary of State had supported him.

So, Clark Mason thought that it might be dangerous to concentrate too much on the hijacking incident too.
Interesting.

As the meeting wore on, Richards considered the fact that he might have an ally in Clark Mason. And there weren’t too many better allies to have than the Sec State, a man of enormous power and influence, backed up by huge personal wealth.

And – seeing the potential opportunities – Richards wasted no time in starting to make his plans.

The cold hard stare was enough to seriously unsettle Major Ho Sang-ok; he had used it enough times himself, and knew what it meant.

It meant his career – if not his life – was over.

‘My dear friend,’ Lieutenant General U Chun-su began gently, ‘would you be so kind as to update me on the current situation?’

Ho cleared his throat. ‘As you know, demands have been made by the pirates directly to the Tsing Tao Shipping Line, in the order of a fifty million US dollar ransom. The Chinese government has vetoed the paying of this ransom, and President Abrams was also clear that there would not be a payout. The intelligence services and military of both China and the US have
been working overtime to locate the vessel, presumably with the intention of retaking it by force.’

‘The cargo?’
U asked, eyes narrowed.

‘We believe that the most likely scenario is that the pirates will sell the cargo off to cover their costs
and raise some capital. We’ve got agents in the area right now, trying to find out any information about who’s selling what to whom.’

‘My friend, this does not fill me with confidence. What is the status of our own cargo?’ The façade slipped suddenly, and U’s hand crashed down onto his desktop. ‘Do you have
any
fucking idea where our cargo is, you fucking incompetent? Do you realize what’s riding on this?’

Ho kept his gaze level, standing rigidly to attention.
‘No, sir. We do not have any information about the location of our cargo. Captains Jang and O are no longer in communication with us, and we have to assume that they were killed or captured while defending the ship.’

U looked down at his desk, reorganizing the scattered papers, regaining control of his emotions.
‘President Kim is not happy, as you might well expect. Someone’s head will roll for this, Major Ho, and – I assure you – it won’t be mine. Do we understand each other?’

Ho nodded his head. ‘Yes sir.’

‘Good. Now what do we know about these pirates?’

‘Our intelligence in that region is limited, but we have identified a group calling itself Liang Kebangkitan as the most likely hijackers.’

‘And what do we know about these people?’

‘Not a lot, I’m afraid sir. Apparently it’s led by a man called Arief Suprapto, a career criminal. But nobody knows where they’re based, or how to contact them.’

‘This doesn’t sound promising, Ho.’

Ho smiled for the first time during the meeting; he was about to play his only trump card, the only thing which – if it came off – might save him.

‘We have learnt that the pirates source their weapons through a well-known local arms broker based in Jakarta, Wong Xiang. We think that he might be able to help us locate their lair, and the hijacked ship.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘My men tell me he’s at home in the city, sir. They’re getting ready to move in. Special agents from the Third Bureau’s Singapore field office.’

A smile also broke out on the face of Lieutenant General U Chun-su. The Third Bureau’s special agents were possibly the most highly trained killers in the world.

‘Very good, Ho,’ he conceded, before his smile turned to a scowl. ‘But you’d better hope that our cargo is still on board that fucking ship, or I’ll be sending those agents to see
you
right away afterwards. And they won’t be after information my friend,’ U teased with a gleam in his eye, ‘they’ll be after your fucking heart.’

2

Vietopia
was located in an early twentieth century Dutch colonial storefront on Jalan Cikini Raya in central Jakarta. Cars were parked haphazardly right out front, and a second floor balcony ran the length of the block.

Cole observed the building
from the shadows which covered the other side of the street, his first look at the place a simple walk-by.

He had researched Vietnamese restaurants in the city on the internet back in Cambodia, ensconcing himself in an internet café in Phnom Penh for a couple of hours before flying out to Jakarta on a fake passport. He was glad he’d kept his false documents and papers, credit cards and cash from his previous life, and was again forced to admit that he’d only bee
n hibernating these past months; he had always known that he would have to reemerge at some stage.

Vietopia was the only such place in the city, and although information was scant, there were some pictures he memorized, as well as online maps of the area. He had been trained to quickly pick up on key areas on maps – public transport locations, points of interest, major streets and travel routes – and was able to build a mental picture of the city with incredible speed. He knew
from experience that sometimes his life could depend on it.

He had also managed to worm his way into the secure computer files of the Office of t
he Director of National Intelligence. He knew – like Charles Hansard before her – that Catalina dos Santos, as DNI, would have access to the combined intelligence of the CIA, DIA, DEA, Secret Service, ATF and NSA. Her office was a clearing house for the intelligence services; and what was more, Cole knew how to break into her system.

He had been pleased to see that security hadn’t measurably improved from when he’d hacked into Hansard’s system on a previous occasion. In fact, it turned out to be an easy job for a
man of Cole’s skills; skills which had been taught to him by the top experts at the National Security Agency, and had actually – and ironically, as it turned out – been insisted on by Hansard himself, who had believed that cyber hacking was a vital skill for an independent operative.

He had scoured the system for information on both Liang Kebangkitan and Wong Xiang, but it was woefully thin on the ground. The only thing he learnt about the pirate group was that it supposedly favored northern Sumatra, and was led by a charismatic lifelong pirate named Arief Suprapto, who apparently believed that he was the reincarnation of the famous fifteenth century pirate king Liang Dao Ming.

There was a little more in the files about Wong Xiang, including a set of black and white surveillance photos from an ultimately aborted attempt to arrest him on arms smuggling charges in the late 1990s. He would undoubtedly look different now, but the ATF had kindly supplied a few computer-enhanced images of how he might possibly look after aging twenty years.

Wong’s
file described he had been an officer in the army of the PRC, before absconding with an entire tank regiment, which he subsequently sold to African warlords to make his first fortune. He had subsequently been arrested and tortured by the Chinese, but had somehow managed to escape before being executed.

The incident seemed to have tempered his ambitions som
ewhat, and he continued in the trade as a broker instead of supplying direct, playing the middleman being a much safer line of work – and only slightly less lucrative, once he’d bumped up his percentage.

Cole noted that there was no information in the files on his current whereabouts, or what groups he was involved with, nor any other up-to-date intelligence on the man. He had fallen through the net, and was now ignored by agencies with much bigger fish to fry.

Still, Cole now had a picture of the man and – whilst undoubtedly inaccurate – it would still enable him to make a rough identification if he was to enter the restaurant.

Cole was aware that he was on the clock, but his experience back in Siem Reap had been a harsh reminder to him of the all-important ‘seven Ps’, as he’d been taught by his British colleagues in the elite Special Boat Service, the UK equivalent of the Navy SEALs – proper planning and preparation prevents piss poor performance.

He hadn’t planned his last operation, and his performance had indeed turned out to be piss poor. Alright, he’d got the information he’d needed, but he’d almost been killed doing it; not to mention aiding in the wholesale destruction of a thousand year old world heritage site.

And so he wasn’t going to take any chances here – he would play it by the book, perform proper recon and make sure his kidnapping of Wong Xiang went without a hitch.

It was only a few hours later when Cole – situated on the roof of an old tenement block directly facing the Dutch colonial storefronts, staring through a recently purchased pair of high-powered Zeiss binoculars – saw Wong Xiang for the first time.

The age-enhanced computer images from the ATF were surprisingly accurate, as it turned out, and Cole had no trouble recognizing the man.

Wo
ng had arrived on foot with another man, a shifty-looking, swarthy Indonesian dressed in bright blue shorts, pink t-shirt and sandals.

Won
g himself was tall and lean, and was dressed in a tropical-weight suit, white shirt open at the neck. He looked poised and confident – the kind of confidence which came from money, and also undoubtedly from the gun he carried in the shoulder holster slung underneath his left arm.

Before returning to the restaurant, Cole had hired a car which he had then parked directly outside the Vietopia. This would give him the option of following Wong on foot if he decided to walk, or by vehicle if he took a cab.

He would shadow Wong’s movements for a while, get to know the man’s routines – even hopefully discover where the man lived – so that he could decide on the best place to take him.

A part of him wanted to follow Wong inside the restaurant, but he didn’t want to show himself too soon; after all these years, Wong probably had a sixth sense about close surveillance. Cole was exceptional at tradecraft, but he was uncomfortably aware that he was alone, which made spotting him an easier job.
And he knew that in such a situation, patience was a virtue.

As Wong and his loudly-dressed companion were greeted by the staff and escorted to a table inside, movement out on
the street caught Cole’s attention.

Four Asian men were approaching the restaurant, jackets on despite the heat. Cole immediately remembered why Wong was wearing
his
jacket –to disguise the gun under his armpit. The guns weren’t so obvious on these men, but Cole nevertheless knew they must be there.

It was the way they moved – smoothly, assuredly, the masters of their bodies and their minds. They were professional men, on a mission; Cole could see it on their faces, in their eyes.

Cole’s blood ran cold as he recognized the men for exactly what they were; for they were like Cole himself, and it took one to know one.

The four men approaching the Vietopia were trained killers, and Cole remembered another military truism – plans rarely survived contact with the enemy.

Rolling off his shooting blanket and gathering his things, Cole prepared to move.

‘What the
fuck
was that?’ shouted Jeb Richards.

The rest of the room was silent, having just watched the horrific beheading of Brad Butler with a mix of shock and utter helplessness.

The group consisted of James Dorrell, Jeb Richards, and John Eckhart. They were in Eckhart’s office in the far corner of the West Wing, getting a first look at this horrific video before Eckhart briefed Abrams in the Oval Office.

‘Wait,’ Dorrell said. ‘There’s more.’

It had been one of CIA’s technicians who had first come across the video circulating on various extreme websites, and Dorrell knew that action had to be taken immediately, before it went viral and was appearing across the mainstream media. His contact at Al Jazeera was agreeing to give him twelve hours before broadcasting the tape, but that was all.

The three men watched as the menacing hooded figure, drenched in blood and holding Butler’s severed head as the corpse lay in a deep scarlet river, began to talk calmly to the camera. The words were Arabic, and had been digitally altered to disguise the voice and thwart electronic recognition systems, but the calmness of the voice – straight after carrying out such
an horrific, bloodthirsty act – was disturbing beyond all measure.

‘What does it mean?’ Eckhart asked, and Dorrell passed around translated transcripts of the speech.

‘Let the death of this infidel,’ Richards read from the transcript, his voice dull with shock,  ‘this disgusting pawn of the Western disbelievers, be a warning to America and any nation that sides with the Great Satan in the ongoing battle of good against evil.’ Richards choked on the last words, disbelief on his face; he screwed up the paper and threw it across the room. ‘Son of a bitch!’ he shouted, hurling the ball of paper across the room. ‘Son of a
fucking
bitch! Who the fuck do these rag-heads think they are? They can just kill a man, hack off his fucking head, and then threaten us? They –’

‘Calm down Jeb, please,’ Eckhart
urged, hands up. ‘We need to keep cool heads on this one. There’s more.’ Eckhart pulled up his own transcript and started to read. ‘Arabian Islamic Jihad takes responsibility for the merciful killing of this vile pawn of American propaganda, and hear this, my people – the day will soon be here when the Great Satan is brought to its knees, and a glorious Islamic caliphate will triumph once and for all.’

Dorrell nodded.
‘Yup.’ He sighed. ‘That’s what it says.’

‘Have Butler’s family been notified?’ Eckhart asked. ‘The last thing we need is them to hear it on Fox News.’

‘His wife and kids are being brought in as we speak,’ Dorrell confirmed.

‘Okay, so just who in the name of holy fuck
are Arabian Islamic Jihad?’ Richards asked. ‘Have we heard anything about them before? Do we know anything about them?’

Dorrell shrugged his shoulders. ‘Not much on the radar, no,’ he admitted. ‘But you know those rumours of a well-funded al-Qaeda off-shoot, responsible for those attacks in Muscat, Riyadh and Dubai?’

Richards and Eckhart nodded their heads in unison. The attacks on Western interests in the Arabian Peninsula had been spectacularly violent – a car bomb at a football game, a casino machine-gunned, and a five-star hotel levelled by a dozen suicide bombers – and no group had yet claimed responsibility.

‘Some of my boys think that they’re related, they think this AIJ
organisation is just getting started, but the signs are that they’re planning something major, those attacks in the Gulf are just the prelude.’

‘Should we be worried?’ Eckhart said.

‘Well John, you know Islamic terrorism’s been dying down over the past few years, and a lot of that’s been due to a weakening in the leadership of key groups, especially al-Qaeda. But that doesn’t mean extreme beliefs aren’t there anymore, and it’s left a power vacuum that needs to be filled. Now,’ Dorrell stated, hands spread wide, ‘what we have are rumours about a new group we need to watch out for, one with a lot of money behind it – maybe from rich oil families, maybe from somewhere else – and this video, the first concrete evidence we have of Arabian Islamic Jihad’s existence. But now we have a name, we should be able to find out more. Once we’ve left here I’m on my way to brief Bud in on the situation and ask for his help identifying AIJ message traffic.’ Bud Shaw was the Director of the National Security Agency, America’s incredibly powerful electronic surveillance organization.

‘Good,’ Eckhart said. ‘Good. When I brief Ellen, I’ll keep it simple. When this gets out, the public will freak out, but I guess that’s her problem.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t envy her.’

‘Hey,’ Richards complained, ‘nobody asked her to apply for the job. She knew what it meant when she put her name forward.’

‘Do we know the provenance of the recording?’ Eckhart asked
, ignoring Richards’ barbed comments. ‘Can we trace it?’

‘I’ve got my people working on it, and that’s another thing I’m going to ask Bud to help with,’ Dorrell answered.

Eckhart nodded. ‘Okay, that’s good enough for me for the time being.’ He sipped from his cup of coffee, then looked back at the two men. ‘Do we have anything else?’

‘Other than the Fu Yu Shan?
Just the rumours about an attack on South Korea,’ Dorrell said.

‘Details?’
Eckhart asked.

‘Not yet, but I’ll keep you posted.’

‘Damn rag-heads,’ Richards grumbled. ‘Korea’s welcome to ‘em if you ask me. In fact, they can keep ‘em. If they’re blowing shit up over there, that’s less work for me here. Am I right?’

Dorrell and Eckhart exchanged glances.

Unpalatable though Richard’s words were, neither man was able to argue with them.