Both men began shouting at once; one of them flashed a badge and produced a large Glock, which he began brandishing at the end of a noodle arm. The rank-and-file Indonesian police officers carried Taurus revolvers, so these had to be from a special unit — not tactical, just special.
They reached him quickly. The one without the gun snatched his phone away.
“What did that man tell you?” he asked in clipped, accented English, pointing to the outhouse. He held the phone aloft next to his face, a parent looking for an explanation. “Did you make a call?”
West shook his head, hands up, putting on his naïve-bystander act. Pretending to be incredulous would only infuriate men like this. Citizens often called the police crocodiles—buaya—and referred to themselves as geckos—cikak—a David-and-Goliath thing. It did no good to anger the crocodile.
“I never met him before this morning,” West said. “He’s here for the Hash run. That’s all.”
The man who’d taken his phone slapped West hard, his voice rising an octave. “You lie! You were on the phone!”
The priest flushed, white-hot anger welling up in his gut. He bit his lip in an effort to control himself. Even at his age, he could have killed these two before they realized they were in well over their officious heads. But the Chinese man with thinning hair had already started uphill. He was the one in charge, and he would surely have a gun. The taller one had yet to emerge from behind the outhouse. Geoff Noonan was in serious trouble.
Hands raised in defeat, West blinked. He took stock of where both policemen stood, their backs downhill, slightly off balance. Amateurs. The one with his phone struck him again. He was ready this time, and recoiled with the blow, robbing it of any real power.
“What do you want from me?”
“Your friend,” the policeman barked. “What did he tell you?”
“He’s not my friend,” West said, rubbing his face. “I said that already. Now please stop hitting me. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
The policemen looked at each other, then down the hill for guidance. They appeared to have no plan beyond yelling and hitting. The tall Chinese man emerged from behind the outhouse — wiping blood off his hands on a white handkerchief. Noonan was nowhere to be seen. West took a half-step forward, as if to go investigate, but the bullish policeman cuffed him in the back of his head.
Both Chinese men arrived at roughly the same time, the taller eyeing West like he was a piece of meat. The one with thinning hair — the boss — had more of an uphill climb. He stood for a moment to catch his breath.
“Did they speak?” the taller one asked, looking at the policeman but gesturing to West.
Both Indonesian men nodded.
The tall man hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward the jungle behind the outhouse. “Bring him,” he said in Bahasa Indonesian.
Another blow to the back of the head sent West staggering forward. The policemen began to herd him along the hillside toward the outhouse. All for turning the other cheek in most circumstances, West decided he would kill the tall Chinese man before the others killed him. The two policemen were such bumbling idiots, he would probably have a chance to take one of them.
The boss raised a hand.
“No,” he said.
The tall man looked back, obviously surprised. “What are you doing?” he asked in Mandarin.
West was conversant enough in Mandarin to understand it if not to speak fluently, though he saw no need to let them know that.
The boss released a slow breath through pursed lips. “Every death leaves a ripple,” he said. “Too many ripples cause a storm. There is no need to march through Indonesia killing everyone who crosses our path.”
“I beg to differ,” the tall one said. “We do not know what he has been told.”
“Then we will keep him incommunicado,” the boss said. “Too many have seen us. Do you expect to kill them all?”
“That is not up to us,” the tall one said. “General—”
“Stop!” the boss snapped. “You assume a great deal in thinking the man does not understand you.”
The tall one gave a humble nod. “That is my mistake,” he said. “I only wish to point out that we are to leave no evidence of this… matter.”
“There is still work to be done in that regard,” the boss said. “But not here.” He focused directly on West. “May I have your name?”
“Father Patrick West. I am in charge of Catholic relief and charity efforts on Java.”
The man took a handkerchief from the pocket of his slacks and mopped his high forehead, staring at the ground for a moment in thought. “It would seem,” he said, peering up at West without lifting his head, “that you have been preaching Christianity to the Muslims. We have heard reports.”
“Who are you?” West said. “Are you even—”
The tall man gave a curt nod to the policemen, earning West another half-dozen punches and slaps.
The boss didn’t want West dead yet, but wasn’t averse to having him beaten. He waited for the policemen to tire enough that they slowed, then said, “You are under arrest for proselyting Christianity until we get this sorted out.”
“That is ridiculous,” West said, face placid, though he wanted to drive his fist through the smug man’s teeth. “Everyone around here knows I respect my Muslim neighbors, too—”
“Bring him,” the tall one barked. The Chinese men turned to walk downhill.
“And the young man?” Father West said. “Do you plan to arrest him, as well?”
“Do not worry over others,” the boss said over his shoulder. “You are in enough trouble yourself.”
“Please—”
“Silence!” the nearest policeman said, doling out another smack to West’s head.
West played through the scenarios, lost in thought, slowing a half-step to earn another sickening punch to the kidney. He clenched his teeth and allowed himself a moment of fury as he regained his balance. The gravity of his situation fell on him hard. He’d need all his training and study — both secular and spiritual — to keep from being crushed. The text he’d put in his phone would send the moment the device was turned on and in range of a signal. It was impossible to know when that would be. West knew the message would arrive too late to save him, but at least someone else would know that China now possessed next-generation AI. Fortunately, that someone happened to be the most powerful man in the world.
5
Jack Ryan met Mary Pat Foley at the top of the staircase on the second floor of the White House Residence, diagonally across from the Lincoln Bedroom. It was early, too early for breakfast, really, but both had such full schedules that they had to start work at the proverbial zero-dark-thirty if they hoped to put any kind of a dent in their days. Ryan embraced Foley as an old friend, brotherly, but close enough to smell her rosewater shampoo. She wore an expensive-looking A-line wool skirt befitting the director of national intelligence and a fashionable silk blouse that she’d probably describe as camel or taupe but Jack would have said was tan.