The Jungle of-8 Page 9

  Juan found the concierge desk and told the attractive Malay girl that she had an envelope for him. He gave his name, and she asked for identification. Inside the envelope was a credit-card-style room key and one of Roland Croissard’s business cards. Scrawled on the back was the financier’s room number.

  They needed to show the armed guard near the elevators that they had a proper room key. Juan flashed it, and they gained entry. They took the car up to the fortieth floor with a Korean couple who were arguing the entire way. Cabrillo imagined that the man had gambled away the family kimchi money.

  The hallways were muted and somewhat dimly lit. Unlike the layout of some of the megacasinos they had been in, the three-tower design meant they weren’t left walking forever to find the right room. Cabrillo knocked on Croissard’s door.

  “Moment,” a voice said, dropping the t like a French speaker.

  The door opened. The man standing there nearly blocking the door from jamb to jamb was not Roland Croissard. They’d seen photographs of him while researching his background.

  In that first half second Juan noted that the man’s jacket was off, his hands empty, and his expression wasn’t overtly aggressive. This wasn’t an ambush, and so he relaxed his right arm, which was about to deliver a karate strike to the man’s nose that more than likely would have killed him. The man grunted. He’d seen how quickly the Chairman had perceived and then discounted a potential threat.

  “Monsieur Cabrillo?” the voice called from farther in the suite.

  The gorilla who’d opened the door stepped aside. He was nearly as big as Franklin Lincoln, but where Linc’s face was normally open and easygoing, this one maintained a permanent scowl. His hair was dark, cut unfashionably, and looked like something from a 1970s adult movie. He had hooded, watchful eyes that tracked Juan as he stepped into the opulent two-room suite. He had shaved that morning but already needed another.

  Hired muscle, was Cabrillo’s assumption, and too obvious about it. The good bodyguards were the ones you never suspected. They looked like accountants or entry-level CSRs at a bank, not hulking wrestler types who thought their size alone was intimidating enough. Juan resisted the impulse to put the guy down for the fun of it. The guard indicated that Juan and Max should fan open their coats so he could see if they were carrying concealed weapons. To get things moving along, the two men from the Corporation indulged him. He didn’t bother to check their ankles.

  Cabrillo wondered if this guy was really that bad or if he’d been told these were expected guests and should be treated accordingly. He decided the latter, which meant the man had overstepped his authority by asking them to open their coats. His abilities went up a notch in Juan’s mind. He took protecting his boss more seriously than his orders to let them enter unmolested.

  “Could you button your shirtsleeves, please?” Juan asked him.

  “What?”

  “Your sleeves are down but unbuttoned, which means you have a knife strapped to your forearm. I’ve already noticed you aren’t wearing an ankle holster, and yet somehow I don’t think you’re unarmed. Hence the unbuttoned sleeves.”

  Roland Croissard rose from a sofa on the far end of the room. A briefcase and papers were strewn across the coffee table. A glass with ice and a clear liquid sat in a puddle of condensation. He wore suit pants and a tie. His jacket was draped across an overstuffed chair that was part of the same furniture cluster.

  “It’s okay, John,” he said. “These men are here to help find Soleil.”

  The guard, John, scowled a little deeper as he buttoned his cuffs. When he bent his elbow, the cotton of his shirt bulged against a low-profile knife sheath.

  “Monsieur Cabrillo,” Croissard said. “Thank you so much for coming.”

  The Swiss man was of medium height and starting to show a paunch, but he had a handsome face and penetrating blue eyes. His hair, an indeterminate shade, was thinning and combed straight back. Cabrillo’s estimation was that he looked younger than sixty-two but not remarkably so. Croissard plucked a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses off his straight nose as he came across the room with his hand extended. His grasp was cool and professional, the shake of a hand that did it for a living.

  “This is Max Hanley,” Juan introduced. “My second-in-command.”

  “And this is my personal security adviser, John Smith.”

  Cabrillo held out his hand, which Smith begrudgingly shook. “You must get around a lot,” Juan said. “I’ve seen your name on a lot of hotel registrations.”

  The man gave no indication he got the joke.

  “Why don’t we sit down. May I get you gentlemen a drink?”

  “Bottled water,” Juan said. He set his briefcase down on an end table and popped the lid. Smith had positioned himself close enough so that he could see inside.

  Cabrillo pulled two electronic devices from the case and shut the lid again. He flicked one on and studied the small screen. Gone were the days when he had to sweep a room with a bug detector. This handheld could check a hundred-foot radius instantly. Croissard’s suite was clean. In case there was a voice-activated listening device someplace within earshot, he would leave it on. He then went to the window. In the distance were the silver spires of the skyline, made somewhat indistinct by the heat haze that was forming as morning burned into afternoon.

  He peeled an adhesive backing off the cigarette pack-sized device and stuck it to the thick glass. He hit a button to turn it on. Inside the black plastic casing were two weights powered by a battery and controlled by a micro random generator. It set the weights in motion, which in turn vibrated the glass. The electronic generator would guarantee that no pattern would emerge that could be decoded and nullified by a computer.

  “Qu’est-ce que c’est?”

  French wasn’t one of the languages Cabrillo spoke, but the question was easy enough to understand. “This shakes the windowpane and prevents anyone from using a laser voice detector.” He took one last look at the beautiful view, then closed the sheers so that no one could see into the suite. “Okay. Now we can talk.”

  “I have heard from my daughter,” Croissard announced.

  Cabrillo felt a ripple of anger. “You could have told me that before we flew halfway around the world.”

  “No, no. You do not understand. I think she is in more grave danger than I first thought.”

  “Go on.”

  “The call came through about three hours ago. Here.” He pulled a sleek PDA from his pant pocket and fumbled through a couple of applications until a woman’s voice, sounding very tired and very scared, came through the speaker. She said no more than a few words in French before the call abruptly ended.

  “She says that she is close. To what, I do not know, but then says that they are closer. She then says that she will never make it. And I do not know who the ‘they’ she references might be.”

  “May I see that?” Juan asked and held out his hand.

  He fiddled with the PDA for a moment and hit play to repeat the recording. Croissard talked him through it, and once again they heard Soleil’s breathless voice. There was a noise in the background, maybe wind through leaves, maybe anything at all. Juan played it a third time. Then a fourth. The background became no clearer.

  “Can you send this to my phone? I want to have the recording analyzed.”

  “Of course.” Juan gave him the number on the phone he was currently carrying, one that would have its SIM card pulled when the mission was over. “Were you able to get her GPS coordinates?”

  “Yes.” Croissard unfolded a map that had been lying in his briefcase. It was a topographical map of Myanmar done before the country changed its name from Burma. Faint X’s had been marked with a fine-tipped mechanical pencil, and the longitude and latitude numbers added next to them. Cabrillo was familiar with them, having seen a copy of Croissard’s map already. But there was a new notation about twenty miles northeast of Soleil’s last-known location.

  “You’ve tried to call her
back?” Juan asked, knowing the answer.

  “Yes, every fifteen minutes. There is no reply.”

  “Well, this is good news,” Cabrillo said. “It’s proof of life, even if it sounds like she’s in trouble. As you must understand, we need some more time to get everything into position. An operation of this nature must be carefully thought out so it can be precisely executed.”

  “That has already been explained to me,” Croissard replied, obviously not liking that simple truth.

  “We’ll be ready in three days’ time. Your daughter has already passed effective helicopter range, which will make our jobs a little tougher, but, mark my words, we will find her.”

  “Merci, monsieur. You have a reputation for success. There is one final piece to this affair,” he added.

  Juan cocked an eyebrow, not liking the tone in the financier’s voice. “Yes?”

  “I want John to accompany you.”

  “Out of the question.”

  “Monsieur, this is not a negotiable request. I believe the expression is ‘my charter, my rules,’ yes?”

  “Mr. Croissard, this isn’t a fishing trip. We could be facing armed guerrillas, and I simply can’t allow an unknown man to come with us.” Cabrillo planned on bringing MacD Lawless, who was a bit of an unknown himself, but the financier didn’t need to know that.

  Wordlessly, John Smith unbuttoned the cuff where he didn’t carry the knife. He pulled up his sleeve to reveal a faded blue tattoo. It showed a flaming circle above the words Marche ou Crève. Cabrillo recognized it as the emblem for the French Foreign Legion and its unofficial motto, “March or Die.”

  Juan looked at him levelly. “Sorry, Mr. Smith, all that tells me is that you’ve visited a tattoo parlor.” It would explain Smith’s generic name, though—Legionnaires often adopted noms de guerre.

  “About fifteen years ago, by the looks of it,” Max added.

  Smith didn’t say anything, but Cabrillo could see the anger building behind the man’s dark eyes. Juan also recognized that he was between a rock and a hard place because ultimately he would have to cave if he wanted the contract.

  “Tell you what,” Cabrillo said, and lifted up his trouser leg. Croissard and Smith were startled at the sight of his prosthetic leg. Cabrillo had several that had been tricked out by the wizards in the Oregon’s Magic Shop. This particular one was called the Combat Leg Version 2.0. He opened a concealed area behind the flesh-colored calf and pulled out a small automatic pistol. He popped the seven-shot magazine and cleared a round from the chamber.

  He showed it to Smith for just a second, and said, “Eyes on me.”

  Then he handed it over.

  Smith knew what the test entailed, and, without moving his gaze from Juan’s eyes, he quickly disassembled the small pistol down to its basic parts and then just as quickly put it back together again. He gave it back butt first. It took him about forty seconds.

  “Kel-Tec P-3AT,” he said. “Based on their P22 but chambered for .380. Nice gun to fit in a lady’s purse.”

  Juan laughed, breaking the tension. “I tried fitting a Desert Eagle .50 cal in this leg, but it was just a tad obvious.” He slipped the gun and magazine plus the loose bullet into his coat pocket. “Where have you served?”

  “Chad, Haiti, Iraq of course, Somalia, a few other Third World hot spots.”

  Cabrillo shifted his attention back to Croissard. “You’ve got your deal. He passes.”

  “Good, then it is settled. John will accompany you now back to your aircraft and then you will find my Soleil.”

  “No. He’s going to meet up with us in Chittagong. In case you aren’t aware, that’s a port city in Bangladesh.” Smith wasn’t going to be aboard the Oregon a second longer than necessary. “And that, I’m sorry, is nonnegotiable.”

  “D’accord. But if you do not pick him up as promised, do not think you will get my money.”

  “Mr. Croissard,” Juan said solemnly, “I am many things, but a man who backs out on his word isn’t one of them.”

  The two men studied each other for a moment. Croissard nodded. “No. I don’t suppose that you are.” They shook hands.

  As they exchanged phone numbers with Smith, Max pulled their laser defeater from the window and packed up the bug detector. He snapped the briefcase closed and handed it to Cabrillo.

  “If you hear anything from her, no matter the time, call me immediately,” Juan told Croissard at the suite’s door.

  “I will. I promise. Please bring her back to me. She is headstrong and stubborn, but she is my daughter, and I love her very much.”

  “We’ll do our best,” Juan said, because he would never promise something he couldn’t deliver.

  “Well?” Max asked as they were striding down the hallway heading for the elevators.

  “I don’t like it, but what choice did we have?”

  “That’s why the face-to-face. To spring Smith on us at the last minute.”

  “Yeah. Pretty cagey of him.”

  “So, are we going to trust him?”

  “Smith? Not on your life. There’s something they’re not telling us, and he’s the key.”

  “We should back out of this whole thing,” Max opined.

  “No way, my friend. If anything, I’m more interested than ever in what the lovely Miss Croissard was doing so deep into Burma.”

  “Myanmar,” Hanley corrected.

  “Whatever.”

  They exited the elevator and started crossing the busy lobby when Cabrillo suddenly hit himself on the head as if he’d forgotten something and grabbed Max’s elbow to turn them around.

  “What is it, did you forget something?” Hanley asked. Juan had picked up his pace ever so slightly.

  “I noticed two guys hanging around the lobby when we first entered. Both look local, but they’re wearing long coats. One of them noticed us when we got into view and quickly turned away. Too quickly.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Don’t know, but they’re not with Croissard. If he wanted us dead, he would have had Smith shoot us as soon as we entered his room. And he knows we’re going back to the airport, so what’s the point of following us?”

  Max saw no flaw in Cabrillo’s logic, so he just grunted.

  They approached the express elevator for the SkyPark. By feel, Juan was able to insert the magazine back into his Kel-Tec automatic. He even managed to cock the weapon against his hip bone without taking it from his jacket pocket. The two men were making their move, coming across the lobby without taking their eyes off the Corporation duo.

  The elevator door pinged open. Juan and Max didn’t wait for it to empty before shouldering their way in, all but ignoring the looks of indignation thrown their way. It wasn’t even going to be close. The men had waited too long, and now the elevator doors were closing. It was too public out in the lobby to pull any sort of weapon, so Juan threw them a taunting smile as the doors met with a hiss.

  “Now what?” Max asked as they were carried skyward.

  Juan took the opportunity to load the ejected bullet into the pistol. “We get to the top, wait about five minutes, and then head back down again.”

  “And what will they be doing, pray tell?”

  “Splitting up to cover the lobbies of the other two towers. They’ll never think we’d stay in this one.”

  “And if they decide to follow us up?”

  “Never happen,” Juan dismissed with a shake of his head.

  “I still wonder who they are,” Max said as they neared the fifty-fifth floor and the SkyPark.

  “My money’s on the local secret police. Something about our plane’s registration or our passports sent up a red flag, and these gentlemen want to ask us a few questions.”

  “So how’d they know we’d be here at the—” Max stopped asking his question and then answered it: “They talked to the car service that brought us to the hotel.”

  “Elementary, my dear Hanley.”

  The doors opened, and they stepped
out onto one of the greatest engineering marvels in the world. The hundred-thousand-squarefoot platform sitting atop the three towers was like Babylon’s famous hanging gardens, only these weren’t the exclusive environs of Nebuchadnezzar and his wife, Amytis. Trees provided excellent shade, while the flowering shrubs perfumed the air nearly a thousand feet above the streets. The long swimming pools, with their dizzying infinity edges, were sparkling blue and surrounded by sunbathers.

  To their left was an eating area cantilevered off the third tower so that it hung suspended in space. Diners were lounging under bright umbrellas while waitstaff danced between the tables, bearing trays of food and drinks. The view over Singapore Harbor was absolutely breathtaking.

  “Man, I could get used to this,” Max said as a woman in a bikini passed close enough for him to smell the coconut in her tanning lotion.

  “You ogle any harder, your eyes are going to pop out.”

  Juan led them away from the elevator and took up a position so they could see it on the off chance that the two secret policemen had followed them up. He was pretty sure they wouldn’t, but he hadn’t stayed alive in such a dangerous profession for so long by not being cautious.

  A moment later the elevator doors parted again. Cabrillo tensed, his hand in his pocket, his finger resting along the trigger guard. He knew he wouldn’t shoot it out with these guys—Singapore had the death penalty—but, if need be, he could toss the pistol into a bush to his right and avoid a major weapons violation. Provided they didn’t find the second, one-shot gun embedded in his artificial leg.

  A family dressed for a little time under the sun emerged, the father holding the hand of a little pigtailed girl. An older boy immediately rushed to look over the railing at the miniature cityscape so far below.

  The doors started to close. Juan blew out his breath and was about to make a snarky comment to Max when a hand appeared between the gleaming elevator doors and stopped them from closing entirely.

  Cabrillo cursed. It was them. They looked out of place with their long dark coats and their darting eyes. He backed a little deeper into the trees. They would have to sneak along the back side of the restaurant to get to the elevator housing for the third tower. To do that they would need to scale a concrete retaining wall and that might attract the attention of one of the servers or pool attendants. It couldn’t be helped.