Thirty-two rent-a-cops guarded the facility, probably in three shifts of eight, if they were working at full strength. But that implied they were all working seven days a week, which Moreno doubted, since one had to add in days off. He guessed a guard shift was at most six, possibly four. There were several hundred U.S. military personnel on the island, but they were scientists and supply officers and clerks – not infantrymen. He had to assume those people had access to weapons, but he hoped to be on the island before an alert could be issued.
And then it would be too late.
Royce sat in the clearing on top of David's truck, staring aimlessly to the north. He had no doubt the Organization had killed David and all the others on the plane. Not being a fool, Royce also could extrapolate that eventually he would suffer the same fate, probably under a different guise and at a different time.
Knowledge was power. And for the first time in his career with the Organization, Royce was thinking about how little he knew about it. He had contact points laterally. Orders from above via secure encryption on a computer from an unknown source. And below him, those he recruited. He was a piece of a machine that he had little idea of the true nature or extent of, and like any piece, he was sure he was replaceable.
He had a strong suspicion that David had been replaced because of some aspect of the current mission. It had been David's mission, and to pull him off it and "retire" him before it was completed was a sure sign of that. So there was more going on with this mission than appeared. The Tai angle wasn't good, but he didn't think that had been enough to cause David's death.
Royce blinked, bringing his attention back to his immediate surroundings. Action. When in doubt, take action. But very, very careful action. Because the wrong action could bring the wrong attention.
First, he needed to know more about David's death, and in the process, more about the Organization.
Second, he needed to know more about this mission against Abayon of the Abu Sayef. What was the real goal? Because the Hong Kong angle meant this was much bigger than just a terrorist leader on Jolo Island of the Philippines. He doubted very much that the Organization would launch this mission simply in retaliation for the botched rescue mission. The Organization, in his experience, did not react to such things. The Organization acted.
And thus, he had to act. But very carefully.
The Japanese woman met the team from Australia planeside, standing next to a stretch limousine with heavily tinted windows. The Learjet in which they had flown from Okinawa to Hong Kong was unmarked and parked far from the main terminal. There were no customs officials in the area, and she silently directed the team into the limousine.
No words were exchanged as the long car drove away from the airport. The woman pointed at a pile of gear stacked in the middle of the passenger compartment. The team leader pulled off the blanket covering it. Weapons, body armor, explosives – all that had been requested was there.
"When do we go?" the team leader asked, speaking first as they approached the city.
"When I tell you to, if I tell you to," the woman replied.
Abayon was in pain. There was nothing unusual about that. His life had been full of pain ever since his encounter with Unit 731. But today he felt it more deeply than usual. And he knew it was not a spike, but the heralding of even more pain to come. The doctors had given him six months. But that was only a guess.
He leaned back in his wheelchair, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, trying to expel the agony with the air. It did not work. He closed his eyes for several moments, then opened them and reached for the piece of paper that had been brought to him several minutes earlier. It detailed the money made and disbursed the previous evening in Hong Kong. The numbers lessened the pain. If tonight's auction did the same, his group would have gone a long way toward funding the war against the rich for many years to come.
There was, of course, no word from Moreno. Security dictated that. The only way to know if he was successful would be to watch CNN and wait for the news.
CHAPTER 15
"I have a job for you."
Royce stared at Foster and waited.
The scientist in charge of the Sim-Center avoided his eyes.
"I'm doing the job I was given."
"Multitask," Royce said simply.
Foster glanced into the control room where the military people were changing from day shift to evening shift.
"Did that person really die in the parachute drop?" He nodded his head toward the control room.
"They think it's part of an obstacle in their exercise, losing half the recon element. But you and I know better, don't we? I didn't program it in. That was a real message from real people."
Royce folded his hands in his lap.
"You think you know better? Than what? You don't have a clue."
And neither do I, he thought.
"You're doing all this for deniability," Foster said.
"You're using me as a cutout – don't think I don't realize that I take the fall if the shit hits the fan on this."
Royce had read Foster's file. The man was not stupid, that was certain, although he had been rather indiscreet years ago. Royce briefly wondered how many people worked for the Organization simply going around and gathering blackmail material on people the Organization might eventually use someday. And not for the first time he wondered what the Organization had on him.
"You know what happens to you if the shit hits the fan?" Royce asked.
"What?"
"You die."
Foster blinked, then ran his tongue over his lips.
"Who are you? That other guy said he was NSA. But you're not NSA, are you?"
"No."
Royce said nothing more.
Foster fidgeted in his seat for several moments.
"All right," he finally said.
"What do you want me to do?"
"I want you to hack into Space Command's tracking records."
He gave Foster the time period and estimated location in which David's plane had gone down.
"I want whatever they have on it. I want to know exactly when and where it went down. I know they track every goddamn thing moving in the sky now with their satellites."
Ever since 9/11, keeping an eye on the skies had become a much higher priority.
"Who was on this plane and why do you think it crashed?"
"That's not something you need to know," Royce said.
Foster was confused.
"But why don't you send a request – "
"I want you to do this without anyone knowing you're doing it. Between me and you. Are you capable of that?"
Foster slowly nodded.
"I should be able to get in there. I have access to the government's secure system, so that helps a lot. The hard part will be leaving no trace of my visit."
"I recommend you don't," Royce said.
"Or else you'll get visitors who won't be as nice as me."
Moreno knew he should stay on the submarine. He'd even promised Abayon that he would, though at the time they both knew it was a promise that would not be kept. Since their first days together as teenagers fighting the Japanese, they had always held the belief that a leader led from the front. Moreno knew that a major reason why the Abu Sayef had not been as active as it might have been was Abayon's confinement to the wheelchair. While it had been a politically prudent move for the group to lay low for many years, it was also partly because it took Moreno a long time to convince his old friend that even though he could not personally lead his men, he could – and had to – issue orders for others to go out and kill and die.