the Agency—as they did, in him—then, by God, they wouldn’t have his comm plan someplace where it could be sold off to the highest bidder.”
Dukas stared at a rain-spotted window. “So how did it get into this file?”
She had no answer.
“If you’re right,” he said, “then the cover sheet and the document history and all that about Long Shot are forgeries.” He rubbed his eyes. “Somebody’s planted this stuff on me. And I’ve sent my best friend off to check it out.”
Fantasy Island Park, Jakarta.
To Alan, the park seemed empty. The night’s rain had left a faint gleam over the stones in the early morning light, but the only people in the park with him were the grounds crew and a few Chinese tourists and a school group of local girls in white shirts and ties and plaid skirts. Alan smiled, thin-lipped and tense, and moved on, heading for the first performance of the park’s Javanese dancers.
The dancers performed in a kiosk across from the looming concrete and glass of the Orchid House. Alan tried to see inside, but the fog of condensation on the walls of the greenhouse was impenetrable. It was hot already, with the heavy air of full humidity complicated by massive smog, but the lithe girls danced smoothly despite the early hour. The performance didn’t last long, and Alan was one of five members of the audience. All the rest were Asian, and Alan wondered if any of them was his target.
Bobby Li lingered where he could watch the front entrance to the Orchid House, knowing the American would go in there. Andy had said so. He was trying to cut down the variables in this horror, even though seeing the man, being able to recognize him, wouldn’t help matters much unless Bobby could get inside and get to him before Qiu did. It wouldn’t work. Nothing would work. He leaned back in the shadow of a pillar and gave a murmured whimper. A hand closed over his arm.
“Aaah—!” He spun, eyes wide, found himself inches from the face of Loyalty Man.
“Very nervous,” Loyalty Man said. “No reason to be.”
“Th-this Qiu makes me n-nervous.”
Loyalty Man spat and lit a fresh cigarette. “Your job here has nothing to do with Qiu. Qiu knows nothing. Qiu is like the wooden duck you put on the water to bring in the real ducks.” He pulled something from his lower lip, spat tobacco flakes. “You are to find if the person who makes the meeting with Qiu is either the American Shreed or Colonel Chen. You know both. That is all.” He inhaled smoke and looked at Bobby. “Orders from very high up.”
“But—” He started to say, But Shreed is dead, and remembered in time that he had learned that only from Andy and so wasn’t supposed to know it. “But,” he said instead, “it has been so long since I saw either.”
“I am told you knew both well. Do your job. Call me to report.” He walked away.
Bobby’s face screwed up as if he was going to weep.
Jerry had brought a piece of nylon parachute cord, which he tied across the rickety stairs to Treetops. He didn’t want any early tourists stumbling over him. Up on the viewing platform, he drew on a pair of gloves and located the gun and dragged it out, unrolling the mat to lie on. It was nice up there, a feeling of airiness and light, that tantalizing mixture of greenhouse odors in the nostrils. He looked through the scope of the SKS, unloaded it, checked the trigger pull, decided that it would do well enough. He reloaded it and laid the weapon next to him and looked down into the green and flowery target area.
“Report,” he said into his handheld. “One here. Report.” Bobby was Two. He should have said “Two,” but he didn’t. “Two?” Jerry said. After a silence, he said, “Three?” Three reported—that was the big ox, Ho—then Four, Five, and Six. “Two?” Jerry said again. Was Bobby out of range somehow?
It was eight forty-eight. Dukas should be in the park. “Anybody see our target?” He said it again in dialect, or as much dialect as he knew. An answer came, too fast, too local. “Say again?”
“Got a white man at the dancing thing. Not same as the photo.”
Shit. Maybe he wasn’t going to make the morning time. Maybe he was waiting until later in the day—overslept or got the trots or got laid. Or maybe he wasn’t coming. Or maybe he’d sent somebody else. “Two?” he said. “Two, answer up. Two?”
Bobby could see only one white in the dance kiosk, and he was young; his hair was dark and he had his left hand in bandages, none of which matched Andy’s description of the man he called Dukas. It suddenly struck him that perhaps the target wasn’t going to come, and his heart leaped. It was eight-fifty-three.
Qiu watched the American enter the Orchid House from twenty meters away, leaning over the railing of one of the reconstructed Sumatran houses, the long eaves shading the sun above him so that he could snap his first picture of him. He didn’t trust local people to do such things. And the American was carrying The Economist, so he was the man. Qiu checked his watch and saw that the man was four minutes ahead of schedule. Most unprofessional.
Bobby saw the American cross to the Orchid House, and he saw the copy of The Economist under his arm. And he was going in early!
Alan saw one of the Asian men on the platform to his right raise his camera, and his heartbeat rose to a quick march in his chest. This wasn’t a fake, Mike. That guy works for somebody else and he knows who I am. He just took my photo. Suddenly, Alan’s world changed, and the beautiful morning, the lithe dancers, the good coffee were all erased. He was in a foreign place, and he was alone.
Jerry settled himself on the platform. He had plenty of time to arrange the matting and lie flat so that only a foot of the barrel protruded over the edge, and two small dead shrubs served to camouflage his body. The mat smelled of rice and curry and sweat and dog shit.
Dukas would appear there, and he worried about how little time he would have to shoot. Plus, now he would have to identify the guy. Then the main door opened, and he saw a furtive movement. Then the west door opened, and he saw another movement. Jerry brought the rifle around slowly and settled it on a half-hidden figure. The head was turned as if the man was speaking to someone just outside the door, but Jerry knew him before the face turned, clear in the crosshairs, and Jerry’s lips moved.
Jesus.
Jerry Piat had worked Jakarta long enough to know most of the Chinese embassy watchers by sight, and he certainly knew the team leader when he saw him.
What the fuck were the Chinese embassy goons doing here?
Alan entered the Orchid House too fast, minutes early, and forced himself to slow down. He realized that he had not really expected this meeting to happen at all. Now it was real because of the man with the camera he had seen outside, and he felt exposed. He felt a wave of vertigo. He slowed his pace still further and forced a smile to his face. He began to smell the orchids, and he forced himself to stop and read the cards, admire the rich colors and marvelous shapes. He was so early that he would have to smell every flower on the path to get to his appointed spot at the right time. He dawdled, nervous and bored at the same time.
It
