She hit him. “I saved your life tonight.”
He lowered his head to his chest. Damn. Now she’d have that to hang over him for a while.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Cambodia. Don’t ask. I’ll explain later. Right now we need to get tickets and get through security.”
“I could use a beer,” she said.
“That too.”
19
Kurt Jenkins sat in the exclusive dining facility inside the Central Intelligence Agency headquarters where he had eaten lunch for years as the director. The dining area was designed to accommodate only the top-level at the Agency — a refuge from questions from underlings and a place to relax for an hour in an otherwise hectic day. With the wood paneled walls and Berber carpets, it was designed to resemble some of the finest of the old men-only clubs from the past. But, of course, women who had reached the executive level at the Agency were now allowed in this room as well.
Now Jenkins sat at his old table drinking a cup of hot green tea, his gaze set on a tremendous landscape photo, a black and white western scene by Ansel Adams. He mused for a moment at the thought of the great photographer and if he was in any way related to Jake Adams.
The main door opened and the current CIA Director, John Bradford, came in, stopped to speak with a waiter, and then rushed over to the table.
“Sorry I’m late,” Bradford said.
The two of them shook hands cordially and then sat down.
“I hope you ordered the salmon,” the director said. “It’s normally fantastic. But I guess you know that.”
Jenkins raised his tea and said, “I went with the Singapore street noodles.”
“An homage to your man in Asia?”
Shrugging, Jenkins said, “Perhaps.”
“Have you heard from Adams?”
Jenkins had heard. “Jake called me a few hours ago.”
Both men said nothing for a minute as the waiter brought Bradford a glass of iced tea.
“Should we have met in my office?” Bradford asked.
Jenkins had specifically asked to meet in this dining facility. Perhaps his departure from the Agency was still not far enough in the rearview mirror. “This is fine, John.”
“Well, what did your man have to say?”
Taking a sip of tea, Jenkins wasn’t sure if he should just rip off the bandage or work into the news. “You want the good news or the bad news?”
“Both.”
“Okay. Bill Remington is dead.”
“What? How?”
Jenkins explained as much as Jake had given him in the short phone call, even though there had to be more to the story. Jake had always been good at only giving what he needed to in any given situation.
“So, Adams didn’t actually kill Remington,” Bradford said.
“No. But he got some information before the man died.”
“The name of Remington’s contact from China.”
“And that is?”
Shaking his head, Jenkins said, “Jake didn’t say.”
“Why didn’t you force him to give it up?”
Jenkins laughed out loud. “Are you serious?”
Bradford obviously didn’t get the joke.
“I could barely compel him to give me information when he actually worked for me,” Jenkins explained. “Once he struck out on his own, he tells me what he thinks I need to know when he thinks I need to know it.”
“I know the type,” Bradford said. “Remember, I was a cocky jet jock and knew far too many pilots who thought they were invincible.”
“Good point. But it’s one thing to drop bombs from thousands of feet while getting the occasional ground fire coming your way. Adams has been in the line of fire up close and personal for decades. He’s killed men with his bare hands. I think the man might be immortal. He’s got more scars from knives and bullets than an entire SEAL team.”
Bradford let out a heavy sigh and shook his head. “Sounds like we sent the right man. The entire world had been looking for Remington for a month and Adams found him in a week.”
Their meals came and the two men ate in silence, Jenkins thinking hard about how much more he wanted to divulge about Jake’s mission. There might come a time when Jake still needed a helping hand from Uncle Sam, especially if he got caught with a gun in one of those Asian countries.
Finally, Bradford finished his salmon, potatoes and mixed veggies, setting his knife and fork on his plate. “You mentioned good and bad news,” he said. “I’ll assume the death of Bill Remington, however tragic, was the good news. What’s the bad?”
Jenkins poured himself another cup of green tea. Then he said, “Jake wants to continue in Asia.”
A confused look on his face, Bradford said, “Why? He did what we hired him to do. He found Remington. Case closed.”
“Jake thinks there’s more to it than just Remington.”
The former fighter pilot shifted his eyes around the near empty room and then leaned in closer. “Like what? We have more problems in the Agency?”
“We’re not sure.” Jenkins explained how Remington had told Jake that he had been working undercover to ingratiate himself with the Chinese. Of course Jake didn’t believe a word of it. But more was going on and he would try to prove it. “China is making big moves, John.”
“Tell me about it,” Bradford said. His expression had changed from relieved to have Remington behind them, to the angst of knowing China would define his tenure at the Agency. “China is on the brink of war with Taiwan. Japan’s navy is on the move toward the disputed islands. We’ve positioned a carrier air group near the Straits of Taiwan. And South Korea is threatening war with its neighbor to the north and China. Russia seems to be the only level force in the area, but that will likely change soon. Those bastards like to take full advantage of a crisis. We’re on full alert in the region, Kurt. What more can go wrong other than an all-out shooting war?”
Jenkins wished he had the answers to all of those questions. Jake didn’t mention any more, but his disposition had been dour to say the least. Adams was concerned. And when Jake was concerned, that should scare the crap out of anyone.
20
Jake and Alexandra had gotten in late the night before and found a hotel in the heart of the small city, just a block from the trendy ex-pat area of Pub Street, where fine restaurants sat next to massage parlors and bars with fifty cent Angkor beers.
When they woke the next morning, they showered and wandered downstairs to eat breakfast at the hotel restaurant, a broad patio surrounded by tropical trees that blocked a view to the busy main street. The air was already thick and steamy, like the early stages of a sauna.
The two of them had spoken German to each other ever since the flight from Bangkok to Cambodia. They continued to do so at breakfast, only switching to English to tell the wait staff what they wanted. Although the restaurant was nearly empty, Jake guessed not many close by would understand German.
“What’s the plan for today?” Alexandra wanted to know.
“We need to find the general.”
“Could we at least drive out to Angkor Wat? It’s on my list of places to see before I die.”
“Sure. I’ve never been there either. I set it up with our taxi driver from last night to drive us around today. He should be out front by now.”
“Well, let’s go.” She got up and headed around toward the front of the building.
Jake followed her, his eyes concentrating on the sway of her hips. He shook his head. Her beauty shouldn’t have surprised him, but he was constantly reaffirming his opinion of her.
Vibol was a man in his mid-fifties. Short with a little paunch, the driver was of Khmer origins. He was taller than most Cambodian men, but would have been just average in the western world. His intonation of English seemed somewhat effeminate to Jake.