In Hari’s photographs of Yegorov disembarking from the Pishan in Singapore, and in the smaller photo of him that had been attached to his application form for the US Marine Corps, his Russian ancestry had not been apparent. In person it was. His face was unnaturally pale, and his eyes and his features were those of a man not given to smiling and who had practised concealing his emotions. He also looked a good deal younger than he did in the photos.
The same could not be said of the brigadier. In his television appearances, Shriver had benefited from make-up that had hidden the liver spots on his cheeks and on the backs of his hands. In real life he looked his age. The silver-grey hair that on camera had added to his presence was thinning badly at his temples, and he had blotches on his face, giving Coburn the impression that his stars had been earned not in combat, but from behind a desk.
Unlike Yegorov whose face had remained expressionless at the sight of Coburn and O’Halloran, Shriver was making no attempt to disguise his contempt.
Instead of standing up or bothering to introduce himself, he stayed sitting, holding a thick white envelope and waiting for his visitors to join him in the booth before he spoke.
‘This won’t take long,’ he said. ‘Before we start, should you be foolish enough to pretend you don’t know what this is about, you should see this.’ Opening his envelope he took out a photograph and slid it across the table.
The photo showed a partly melted and distorted fragment of a propane cylinder, at the side of which lay a twisted section of one of the braided hoses Coburn had used to feed gas into the munitions store.
‘The picture was taken at first light this morning,’ Shriver said. ‘It prompted me to make some phone calls — which is how I obtained a description of two men who yesterday bought propane cylinders from the sporting-goods store in John Day. The owner of the store is a family friend who was able to supply the name on the credit card that had been used to make the purchase. Once I had a name, of course, finding out where you’re staying was equally straightforward.’
Coburn was smarting, knowing how stupid they’d been, and at the same time irritated by Shriver’s attitude and tone of voice.
O’Halloran was more interested in recovering lost ground. ‘You need to remember who you’re talking to,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you know who I work for, and in case you’ve forgotten, Coburn works for the International Marine Bureau in London. So, seeing as how it was you who wanted to see us, why don’t you cut out the crap. Whatever it is you have to say, let’s hear it.’
‘If that’s what you want.’ Taking more photographs from the envelope, Shriver placed them face down on the table in front of him. ‘I have no idea what it is you think you may have learned,’ he said. ‘But since you insist in meddling in affairs that are not of your concern, this is a warning. After the explosion in Mr Coburn’s Singapore apartment, I hadn’t expected a warning to be necessary, but the last twenty-four hours have put a rather different complexion on things, haven’t they?’ He selected two of the photos and handed them to O’Halloran. ‘In the interests of protecting the FAL from just this kind of interference, I went to the trouble of obtaining those some time ago. You should study them with care.’
Coburn had seen one of the pictures before. It had been in a frame, standing on a bookcase in O’Halloran’s Maryland apartment — a snapshot of the American holding his children on his knees. The other photo had been taken more recently. The children were two or three years older, playing together in a garden somewhere while they were being watched over by a slim African-American woman who, Coburn presumed, was O’Halloran’s wife or ex-wife.
The American’s body language was giving him away. He was doing his best to stay calm, but gripping the photos hard enough to have creased them, and willing himself not to reply.
So he wouldn’t have to, Coburn answered for him. ‘You listen to me, Shriver,’ he said. ‘You’ve taken out insurance against the wrong guy. I haven’t got any kids, and I don’t have a wife. That means I don’t have to give a shit who you are, or how much influence you think you have in Washington. I know what your agenda is, so make all the threats you want. Whichever way you look at it, you’re fucked.’
Shriver’s expression remained the same. ‘Have you finished?’ he said.
‘No, I haven’t. I was at Fauzdarhat when your sick friend here ran down those Bangladeshi kids in the shipyard. I was on board the Pishan when his men opened fire and started dropping hand grenades over the side. And I was at the village in the Panjang estuary when he handed out my photo to a bunch of fishermen and half-stoned pirates who’d been told they could make a quick twenty thousand ringgit for one night’s work. He might’ve got away with it in Bangladesh and Indonesia, but he’s not there now, is he? And you’re not either. Try the same kind of stunt in the US and I’ll make sure you, Yegorov and your precious FAL end up in shit so deep you’ll never get out of it.’
‘I see.’ Shriver produced a further two photos. ‘Before you go on, perhaps you should look at those.’
‘What are they?’
‘Satellite images of the village you mentioned. The detail they show is quite surprising, don’t you think?’
It was an understatement. So good was the resolution that Coburn could identify individual huts, see the intersection of drainage ditches and pick out shadows of radio aerials on the shipping containers. Out in the estuary, the number of launches and the position of the Selina told him roughly when the shots had been taken, and by looking at the length and direction of the shadows he was even able to make a guess at the time of day.
‘Where did these come from?’ he asked.
‘Since my influence in Washington is of no interest to you, I won’t bother to answer that. What I can do is show you a sworn affidavit that Mr Yegorov was able to obtain from the Captain of the Pishan — the freighter you attempted to raid on the night of July 7th. I’m sure you remember him.’
‘Celestino,’ Coburn said. ‘Juan Celestino.’
‘He’s been most helpful. Would you care to see his statement?’
‘Not particularly. What does it say?’
‘It says that during the raid, after members of your boarding-party started complaining about the difficulty of off-loading the zinc ingots, Captain Celestino overheard several of the men discussing whether travelling so far from their base on the Panjang river was a worthwhile way for them to fund their fight against the Indonesian Government.’ Shriver paused. ‘Understandably, the captain reached the same conclusion that anybody else would have done — that his ship had been boarded not by pirates, but by terrorists who’d come from what he could only assume was some kind of training camp in the Panjang estuary.’
‘Like the village in this satellite picture,’ Coburn said slowly.
‘Precisely.’ Shriver placed his hands on the envelope. ‘In the event of the Indonesian Government being given this information, I think you’d agree they’d find it of the greatest concern — especially now al-Qaeda are known to be moving in to Sumatra and attacks by Aceh insurgents have started up again in the region.’
At the mention of terrorism, Yegorov elected to offer an opinion. ‘You understand what that could mean, don’t you?’ he said.
‘Yeah, I understand.’ A knot in Coburn’s stomach had got worse.
Yegorov swept his hand low over the table. ‘If the Indonesians ask for US help, think F16,’ he said. ‘Single aircraft, single pass — twenty millimetre cannons, cluster bombs and napalm. After that, all you’re gonna find is ash.’
Shriver looked at Coburn. ‘Easy way for you to finish your job for the International Marine Bureau, I suppose,’ he said. ‘I’m sure they’d welcome one less rats’ nest of pirates in the Malacca Strait. But, of course, you and Mr O’Halloran must make that decision for yourselves.’ He stood up. ‘While you’re doing so, there are numerous attractions around Canyon City for you to visit. If you like to fish, you’ll find good spots further down the river.’ Without taking the trouble to say goodbye he turned to go. ‘You may keep the photos. I can’t say this has been a pleasure, but then I didn’t expect it to be.’