“It certainly would. What about Chris and Tran?”
“They’re keepin’ it fluid,” the Marine replied. “They’ll buzz us on the pager net when they jump off. I’ve already got the exterior security mapped. Nothin’ we didn’t expect.”
Amanda glanced toward the headquarters building. “We can’t say the same about the inside yet. Are the emergency extraction protocols in place?”
“Oh, yeah. We got a real nice little terrorist bomb all set to go off if we need it. Out in the trees on the north end of the court. Just cover your face with that special hanky I issued you and head for the boat dock. I’ll see Miss Rendino and Mr. Tran get clear okay.”
“Uh, Stone,” Amanda asked cautiously, “you didn’t get too enthusiastic with the bomb, did you?”
She felt the rumble of laughter in Stone’s broad chest. “Oh, hell, no. Just a little old radio detonated flashbang in a Baggie full of CS teargas powder. Everybody likes a good cry now and again.”
“But not if we can avoid it.”
“That part’s out of our hands, ma’am.”
The dance came to its end, and Stone released her and stepped back with a degree of visible relief.
“Was it really that bad?” Amanda inquired archly.
“Purely the circumstances, ma’am.” He grinned down on her. “You come back to Georgia sometime. We’ll get us some decent music and this ol’ boy will show you some dancin’ that is dancin’!”
Amanda returned the grin. “Consider it a date, Captain.”
Letting the Marine return to face the amiable ridicule of his table mates, Amanda drifted along the edge of the dance floor, acquiring and pretending to sip from a glass of champagne. Unobtrusively she scanned for the golden sheen of Christine Rendino’s dress and hair. So far their counterforce operation against Harconan had worked quite well. Shortly, her intel would be executing the most audacious facet of the night’s game plan. The most risky as well.
Lost in that consideration, she was startled by the deep and resonant voice that spoke from behind her. “Good evening, Captain.”
Turning swiftly, she found herself face-to-face with the enemy.
“I’ve been remiss as a host,” Harconan continued soberly. “You are my guest of honor, and yet, I’ve been able to devote almost none of my time to you. l apologize.”
Amanda’s voice caught in her throat for a moment, then she continued smoothly. “No apologies are required Mr. Harconan. It’s a lovely evening and a wonderful welcome to this part of the world.”
“A gesture.” He shrugged. “I’ve noted you on the dance floor, availing yourself of our entertainment. I trust the music has been to your liking?”
“Excellent,” she replied. You may be a pirate, Makara Harconan, she added silently, but you do know how to throw a party.
“I’m pleased.” He held out his hand to her. “Then, shall we enjoy it together?”
The silent pager clipped to the inside of her skirt waistband vibrated a three-ring burst. Chris’s signal her op was starting.
Amanda smiled and set her glass down on a table. “I’d love to,” she replied, moving into Harconan’s arms.
With the action notification sent over the silent pager net, Christine Rendino tapped a second number into her phone. Keying the call into the local cellular system, she waited.
The call was picked up on the first ring. “Yes?” A guarded voice answered.
“Authenticator Victoria George,” Christine murmured. “Execute. T minus two. Duration five.”
“Acknowledged. T minus two. Duration five.” The connection broke.
Christine snapped the phone shut, tucking it away in her evening bag. Glancing up into Inspector Tran’s face, she stated. “I have a sudden overwhelming urge to go tinkle.”
“And when one has to go…” Tran deactivated the miniaturized “bug sniffer” he had used to ensure their concealing pocket of shadows had been free of security microphones. Together they started toward the courtyard entrance of the Makara Limited headquarters building.
Makara Limited was a decisively security-conscious firm. They had hired a major Singapore-based private security agency to wrap their operations in multiple layers of high-tech corporate defense. Literally the best money could buy shielded the Makara headquarters building.
But that was its vulnerability as well. What could be bought once could be bought again, and Christine and Tran were eager purchasers.
The “acquisition of cooperation” is an art form in Asia, and Christine Rendino and Nguyen Tran were artists each in their own medium. For Tran, it was in the deft use of his National Police identification card and the hinted-at power of the all-encompassing Singapore national government. For Christine, it was in the deft use of a smile and access to NAVSPECFORCE’s “special contingency” funds.
During the days before the Carlson’s departure from Singapore, they had mapped out the Makara security network, bit by bit and contractor by contractor.
Layer one would be building access. After business hours, all exterior doors in the climate-controlled building were locked and alarmed. Access was possible only through the use of both an employee’s computer-coded key card and clearance through the internal security station.
Oddly enough, the reception itself breached this first barrier. One simply could not ask the wife of the French ambassador to use a port-a-potty. The courtyard entry of the headquarters building had been left open to permit access to the ground floor rest rooms.
A stolid Nung Chinese security guard stood at parade rest next to the open courtyard doors. As Christine and Tran brushed past him, he nodded politely, then refocused his attention to the outside building approaches. What happened inside was someone else’s responsibility.
The entry lobby and the corridor beyond it were done in muted tans with framed batik panels intermittently adding flares of dramatic color. The indirect lighting had been toned down and their footfalls were silent on the fitted carpeting.
Directly ahead at the T intersection with the central building corridor, a small dark glass dome had been inset into the ceiling. Christine felt another set of eyes regarding her.
Harconan’s interior defense line would present a far greater obstacle. Low-light-capable security cameras, like the one at the intersection, monitored every hallway, stairwell, and public area. Every interior office door was alarm-locked and every office space blanketed by radar-type motion sensors.
Multiply redundant, with an independent power backup instantly available, this was no Hollywood movie security system that could be deactivated by the snipping of a few convenient wires.
Christine and Tran had concluded the system to be almost impenetrable by conventional means. Fortunately, they had far more than conventional means available to them.
Seven kilometers away, at Benoa Port, Commander Ken Hiro returned the cellular-linked interphone to its cradle. He’d passed on the reception tonight, preferring to personally oversee a different round of “festivities” from shipboard. Turning, he crossed the screen-lit dimness of the Cunningham’s hexagon-shaped Combat Information Center, passing from the radio shack, starboard side forward, to the electronic warfare bay, portside aft.
Beneath his rubber-soled shoes, the Duke’s deck trembled lightly. Down in the power rooms, one of the cruiser’s three massive turbine/electric generator sets was spooling up to feed the upcoming load demand.
In the EW bay, the systems operators looked up from their workstations with anticipation. Tonight was going to be an interesting challenge. They would be applying the awesome power of their electronic arsenal in a way not exactly intended, or ever before used.