Finn didn’t reply; the only noise was his sandals’ soft sucking in the mud.
The stream was low, hedged in on either side by thick emerald vegetation and slashes of brown. The two walked with hunched backs, their wool blankets drooping heavily on aching shoulders. They were the tail end of the patrol, four more Muj strung out ahead. Charlie had point. He wasn’t military like the rest, but it was time to break him in. He’d been a golf pro at the Turtle Bay Resort, once a star player for Wake Forest University but never making it past the Nike tour level. Finn had served with Charlie’s older brother Aaron, the three of them going out drinking whenever Aaron visited on leave. The Muj had used Charlie’s apartment as a hide site two months back, and he had demanded to go with them. Charlie had said that his big brother had kicked his ass bad enough when they were little, and he wouldn’t survive what happened after the war if Aaron found out he hadn’t been in the fight.
The cuts and scrapes on their legs attested to the night’s hike almost to the top of a nearby peak. They had pulled up a hundred and fifty yards short of the summit to avoid highlighting their position along the ridge line, and Conan had disappeared for an hour while the rest set a security detail below. Conan would not tell Finn or any of the others why they’d had to go there. They knew she kept it from them for operational security, but it still made the whole trek a sullen expedition.
Now, after a long hike back down, it was raining. Finn splashed into the swollen stream behind Conan and trudged on through the water. Going that way, they left no tracks and erased their movement signature in case they were being monitored from above, but really, he’d have chosen to go the stream route anyway. He had an infected cut on his heel that felt better in the water.
They arrived at a small pedestrian bridge they had hidden the bicycles under. It was a motley mix they’d picked up along the way, just like their array of weapons. Finn had scored the best, a 27.5-inch wheeled carbon downhill mountain bike with motorcycle-like suspension they’d stolen from a vacation villa whose owners were unlikely to come back until the war was over. Conan rode a three-speed faded green beater with a narrow white racing seat that they’d found unlocked by the side of the road. Their guess was that it had been a drunk-cycle, a bike used to pedal from bar to bar, before it was pressed into wartime duty.
They left in ones and twos, going out through Hidden Valley Estates to California Avenue. Movement in the open like this had to be carefully choreographed because of the Directorate’s tracking algorithms, which pored through aerial and satellite-sensor footage. Over time, any unusual patterns would become distinct and therefore targetable. The trick was to find patterns that were part of the standard ebb and flow but also had slightly random components that could explain away any anomalies. Patterns like the daily rhythms of kids biking to and from their elementary school.
As the flow of children heading into Iliahi Elementary School, a few on their own, others dropped off by their parents, started to slow, Conan nodded at Finn. Like on patrol, they staggered their arrivals. They’d go in with the latecomers and then swing toward the back, where there was an outbuilding used for storing athletic equipment. For the past four months, Coach Moaki, the gym teacher, had allowed the Muj to stash a few boxes of grenades, stims, and ammunition there. The insurgents also slept there from time to time. It was one of many caches they used in the area. They knew a few of the other teachers were likely aware of what they were doing, but not a single one ever made eye contact with them.
“You know, before all this I used to do triathlons,” Finn said to Conan as they waited in the vegetation by the road. “Get up at oh-five-hundred for a trail run and then go twenty miles on the bike. Oh, and camping. For fun. That’s pretty much what we’re doing now, right? Well, screw that. When this is all over, I’m going to move to New York City and never go outside again.”
They had just mounted their bikes when a shot rang out.
“Pistol,” said Conan. “At the school.”
Moana Surfrider Hotel, Waikiki Beach, Hawaii Special Administrative Zone
He had been to the old hotel many times before. Never to sleep; the place felt too much like a target for a truck bomb. He came every so often just to swim and drink fresh pineapple and guava juice. The beach was perfection, perhaps worth the invasion for just this stretch, Markov thought. If they had let him, he would have slept on the beach; he would have preferred it to the cheap motel by the airport that the Chinese had turned into barracks.
At the moment, he was in the wrong company for a day at the beach. Jian, as ever, dutifully followed behind.
Markov wore his Russian army fatigues, which were getting more and more faded with each day in the Pacific sun. He would rather have worn local clothes, but the few times he had done that, it had only brought him grief with General Yu.
The two men crossed the lobby, slowing their pace to take advantage of the air conditioning. As they weaved through groups of Directorate sailors, soldiers, and marines, Markov noticed that Jian had taken to walking five meters behind him. The bastard was trying to act like he was simply going in the same direction, embarrassed at his peers’ seeing him with the Russian.
As they passed one of the bars, Markov almost stopped, stricken by a sudden thirst. Then he pushed past the temptation and moved on to the intended destination.
“Hi, boys,” said the woman behind the surf desk. “I’m sorry, but your teammates took them all. No boards left.”
He was struck by the banal tone of her voice. In his whole time in Hawaii, he had never heard a local speak without some fleck of anger. But this woman sounded as if she were talking to a sunburned family of four from Chicago. Either she was on quite a cocktail of drugs or she was an utter idiot.
“It’s too bad, you know,” she said, “because today there’s a perfect swell for beginners.”
Markov walked closer to the desk and locked eyes with her.
“Regrettably, this is work,” he said. “We’re looking for information about a Directorate officer whose body was found on the beach.”
“I heard,” she said. “It’s so sad.”
The nameplate on the desk identified her as Carrie Shin. Markov walked his eyes down Carrie’s body, passing over her breasts but looking closely at her arms, searching for signs of needle tracks that might explain her demeanor. Maybe a little makeup on her forearm, but he couldn’t be sure without looking at the skin up close.
“It is sad. How did he get possession of one of the hotel’s boards?” said Markov.
“We think he took it after hours. We didn’t think we had to lock them up anymore,” said Shin. Her voice lowered and her shoulders sagged, as if even the possibility of theft saddened her.
“When did he last rent a board here?” he asked.
“I saw him once,” she said. “Maybe two weeks ago? I think that was his first time surfing. He was really excited. He asked about a lesson but I couldn’t do it then. I wish I had. Sandy Beach Park is one of the most dangerous places on the islands to surf — not a good place for a beginner.”
Markov studied the way her tanned skin seemed to give back some of the sun’s warmth. He leaned in closer for his next question, wondering just how dark the circles under her eyes were when the makeup was washed away.
“Are there any other employees whom I should talk to?” he said.
She smiled and leaned away, arching her back in a subtle stretch. “This hotel is the safest place in town, for everyone. That’s the point, isn’t it?” she said. “Why would anyone do anything to upset that?”