She bolted for the front door, her rubber rain shoes scuffing on the granite floor tiles.
Jack went back to his office and grabbed his stuff, too. No point in going down with the ship — at least, not this one.
More important, he needed to find Paul.
In his office, Jack pulled on his coat and gathered his things. He noticed he was almost the last person on the floor. For a moment, he seriously considered rifling through Yong’s office, maybe even Lian’s and Dr. Fairchild’s, too. If he had the run of the place, it would be the perfect time to nose around. But there were still security cameras working and Lian’s security team was probably still on the property, even if they weren’t standing on the floor. And what would he find, anyway? Paul was the key.
Time to find Paul.
The traffic heading home was even worse than it was coming in. Jack wondered if he would have been better off walking home. Or maybe swimming.
The security receptionist was right. The BBC report he was listening to said that Typhoon Ema was now a category 2 storm, heading north from the Java Sea toward Singapore, but at its current rate of speed wouldn’t reach landfall until three a.m.
“However, a spokesman for the Indonesian Agency for Meteorology, Climatology, and Geophysics stated that computer models have proven wrong so far, and that it’s equally likely the storm will resume its westward track. Dr. Paolo Pratesh of the University of Melbourne claims that global climate change is wreaking havoc with ocean temperatures, causing the erratic behavior of storms like Typhoon Ema, and called for an emergency climate summit to address the crisis of manmade global warming.”
Jack snapped off the radio. Why did everything have to be political? He pushed his irritation aside and concentrated on the traffic in front of him. The water level in the street had certainly risen in the last few hours, hitting the bottom rim of the tires on most of the cars around him. Nothing to worry about, but he knew that underpasses and other low-lying roadways would be more difficult to navigate — maybe even impossible. But no such hazard awaited him between here and the guesthouse. He was glad he was staying close by and not across town, where his hotel had been booked.
Jack watched a low-flying passenger jet zoom across his windshield, crabbing wickedly against a stiff crosswind, heading for nearby Changi International. He wondered how soon until they closed down the airport and canceled all flights. The BBC newsreader said that wind gusts of up to 125 kilometers per hour could be expected by tomorrow morning — no way a plane could fly in that. Judging by the way the trees were bending in the wind, he was surprised they were flying now.
By the time Jack finally made it to the guesthouse, the driveway was covered with an inch of water. His boots splashed as he dashed for the front door. He fumbled with his key but finally unlocked it and stepped into the tiled hallway, where he shook off his raincoat and hung it up. He thought about calling out to Paul, but if he was sick he might be asleep and Jack didn’t want to wake him. Paul seemed a little rough around the edges this morning; Jack assumed it was another hangover, but maybe he was wrong and Paul had picked up a bug.
Jack kicked off his soaking-wet boots before planting his feet on the carpet and heading upstairs, not quite jogging, but at least he wasn’t limping. He was still stiff and sore as hell, though. When he got back downstairs to the kitchen he’d scarf down some more Advil.
He walked down the hall to Paul’s room. The door was open. The bed was made and the room empty.
No Paul.
Jack sped back downstairs to the kitchen, calling out, “Hey, Paul! You around?” as he yanked open the drawer with the Advil. Jack tossed a couple tablets into his mouth and took another swig out of the kitchen faucet to wash them down.
“Paul?” Still no answer.
Where the hell was he?
57
Jack headed for the living room, searching for Paul. Maybe he was passed out on the couch.
Jack turned the corner and stopped in his tracks.
The glass coffee table, lamps, mirrors — all smashed. Pictures were knocked off the walls, sofa pillows scattered everywhere, chairs overturned.
It must have been one helluva fight.
“PAUL!”
Jack dashed through the living room and back into the kitchen, then out the back door and into the pouring rain toward the garage. He kept calling out Paul’s name, but there wasn’t any response.
Jack ran back into the kitchen, socks soaking wet, water dripping onto the floor from his jacket. He pulled out his cell phone. No texts from Paul, no e-mails, no voice mails, no missed calls.
Jack punched the speed dial for Paul. The phone rang. It went to voice mail.
“Paul, where the hell are you? Call me as soon as you get this. You all right, buddy? I’m worried.” Jack hung up.
What to do? His phone rang.
“Paul?”
“Sorry, just me,” Gavin said. “You want me to call back?”
“No, Gav. Sorry. What’s up?”
“Those photos you sent? The fingerprints? Man, what have you got yourself into?”
“What did you find out?”
“Three of the guys came up zilch. I think I know why. The fourth I found — but it wasn’t easy. In fact, it was a real bitch. I don’t know how many DoD alarms I might have tripped getting it, either.”
“If it wasn’t easy for you, Gav, it would’ve been impossible for anybody else.”
“That’s nice of you to say, Jack. It’s totally true, of course. But still nice.”
Jack bit his tongue. “So, what did you find?”
“The one hit I got was for a character named Wang Kai, age fifty-one or thereabouts. He’s a colonel in a PLA SOF unit, currently attached to Department Fifteen in the Ministry of State Security. His last known location was in Damascus as a so-called diplomatic liaison to the Assad regime.”
“How in the hell were you able to hack into the PLA and MSS databases?”
“I wish I could, but I didn’t. I just used my NSA back door to access the DoD mainframes. Turns out this Wang Kai guy attended a U.S. Army training program in 1998—an officer-exchange deal, back when we were trying to cozy up to the ChiComs. Anyway, the DIA guys were lifting fingerprints and DNA samples from cups, towels, silverware, and anywhere else they could get them from all of those visiting PLA comrades in the exchange programs. Photos, too. Of course, your guy was a lot younger then. He’s a real badass. Or at least he was — until you wasted him.”
“I didn’t tell you I killed him.”
“He looked deader than a doornail to me, and I doubt he would have voluntarily given you any of his fingerprints unless they were attached to a large-caliber bullet.” Gavin chuckled. “Unless you’re claiming you just found those four dead guys.”
“You should’ve been a detective.”
“It’s not hard to guess that Wang’s three friends were either PLA or MSS as well. They just weren’t in any of our databases.”
“Good work, Gavin. I appreciate it.”
“Oh, there’s more.”
“Shoot.”
“That license plate you sent me? On the truck?”
“A rental, stolen, or both.”
“Why do I even bother.”
“Because you care so deeply.”
“Well, you asked for it.”
“And I appreciate it. I just wanted to confirm what I suspected.”
“So back to my other question, Jack. What have you gotten yourself into?”
“I’m handling it.”
“Four dead Chinese spies can only lead to more live ones, and pretty pissed off. They’re not exactly the forgiving types.”
“Anything else you can tell me?”
“Maybe we should read Gerry in on this.”