‘Good. Now what do we know about these pirates?’
‘Our intelligence in that region is limited, but we have identified a group calling itself Liang Kebangkitan as the most likely hijackers.’
‘And what do we know about these people?’
‘Not a lot, I’m afraid sir. Apparently it’s led by a man called Arief Suprapto, a career criminal. But nobody knows where they’re based, or how to contact them.’
‘This doesn’t sound promising, Ho.’
Ho smiled for the first time during the meeting; he was about to play his only trump card, the only thing which — if it came off — might save him.
‘We have learnt that the pirates source their weapons through a well-known local arms broker based in Jakarta, Wong Xiang. We think that he might be able to help us locate their lair, and the hijacked ship.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘My men tell me he’s at home in the city, sir. They’re getting ready to move in. Special agents from the Third Bureau’s Singapore field office.’
A smile also broke out on the face of Lieutenant General U Chun-su. The Third Bureau’s special agents were possibly the most highly trained killers in the world.
‘Very good, Ho,’ he conceded, before his smile turned to a scowl. ‘But you’d better hope that our cargo is still on board that fucking ship, or I’ll be sending those agents to see you right away afterwards. And they won’t be after information my friend,’ U teased with a gleam in his eye, ‘they’ll be after your fucking heart.’
2
Vietopia was located in an early twentieth century Dutch colonial storefront on Jalan Cikini Raya in central Jakarta. Cars were parked haphazardly right out front, and a second floor balcony ran the length of the block.
Cole observed the building from the shadows which covered the other side of the street, his first look at the place a simple walk-by.
He had researched Vietnamese restaurants in the city on the internet back in Cambodia, ensconcing himself in an internet café in Phnom Penh for a couple of hours before flying out to Jakarta on a fake passport. He was glad he’d kept his false documents and papers, credit cards and cash from his previous life, and was again forced to admit that he’d only been hibernating these past months; he had always known that he would have to reemerge at some stage.
Vietopia was the only such place in the city, and although information was scant, there were some pictures he memorized, as well as online maps of the area. He had been trained to quickly pick up on key areas on maps — public transport locations, points of interest, major streets and travel routes — and was able to build a mental picture of the city with incredible speed. He knew from experience that sometimes his life could depend on it.
He had also managed to worm his way into the secure computer files of the Office of the Director of National Intelligence. He knew — like Charles Hansard before her — that Catalina dos Santos, as DNI, would have access to the combined intelligence of the CIA, DIA, DEA, Secret Service, ATF and NSA. Her office was a clearing house for the intelligence services; and what was more, Cole knew how to break into her system.
He had been pleased to see that security hadn’t measurably improved from when he’d hacked into Hansard’s system on a previous occasion. In fact, it turned out to be an easy job for a man of Cole’s skills; skills which had been taught to him by the top experts at the National Security Agency, and had actually — and ironically, as it turned out — been insisted on by Hansard himself, who had believed that cyber hacking was a vital skill for an independent operative.
He had scoured the system for information on both Liang Kebangkitan and Wong Xiang, but it was woefully thin on the ground. The only thing he learnt about the pirate group was that it supposedly favored northern Sumatra, and was led by a charismatic lifelong pirate named Arief Suprapto, who apparently believed that he was the reincarnation of the famous fifteenth century pirate king Liang Dao Ming.
There was a little more in the files about Wong Xiang, including a set of black and white surveillance photos from an ultimately aborted attempt to arrest him on arms smuggling charges in the late 1990s. He would undoubtedly look different now, but the ATF had kindly supplied a few computer-enhanced images of how he might possibly look after aging twenty years.
Wong’s file described he had been an officer in the army of the PRC, before absconding with an entire tank regiment, which he subsequently sold to African warlords to make his first fortune. He had subsequently been arrested and tortured by the Chinese, but had somehow managed to escape before being executed.
The incident seemed to have tempered his ambitions somewhat, and he continued in the trade as a broker instead of supplying direct, playing the middleman being a much safer line of work — and only slightly less lucrative, once he’d bumped up his percentage.
Cole noted that there was no information in the files on his current whereabouts, or what groups he was involved with, nor any other up-to-date intelligence on the man. He had fallen through the net, and was now ignored by agencies with much bigger fish to fry.
Still, Cole now had a picture of the man and — whilst undoubtedly inaccurate — it would still enable him to make a rough identification if he was to enter the restaurant.
Cole was aware that he was on the clock, but his experience back in Siem Reap had been a harsh reminder to him of the all-important ‘seven Ps’, as he’d been taught by his British colleagues in the elite Special Boat Service, the UK equivalent of the Navy SEALs — proper planning and preparation prevents piss poor performance.
He hadn’t planned his last operation, and his performance had indeed turned out to be piss poor. Alright, he’d got the information he’d needed, but he’d almost been killed doing it; not to mention aiding in the wholesale destruction of a thousand year old world heritage site.
And so he wasn’t going to take any chances here — he would play it by the book, perform proper recon and make sure his kidnapping of Wong Xiang went without a hitch.
It was only a few hours later when Cole — situated on the roof of an old tenement block directly facing the Dutch colonial storefronts, staring through a recently purchased pair of high-powered Zeiss binoculars — saw Wong Xiang for the first time.
The age-enhanced computer images from the ATF were surprisingly accurate, as it turned out, and Cole had no trouble recognizing the man.
Wong had arrived on foot with another man, a shifty-looking, swarthy Indonesian dressed in bright blue shorts, pink t-shirt and sandals.
Wong himself was tall and lean, and was dressed in a tropical-weight suit, white shirt open at the neck. He looked poised and confident — the kind of confidence which came from money, and also undoubtedly from the gun he carried in the shoulder holster slung underneath his left arm.
Before returning to the restaurant, Cole had hired a car which he had then parked directly outside the Vietopia. This would give him the option of following Wong on foot if he decided to walk, or by vehicle if he took a cab.
He would shadow Wong’s movements for a while, get to know the man’s routines — even hopefully discover where the man lived — so that he could decide on the best place to take him.
A part of him wanted to follow Wong inside the restaurant, but he didn’t want to show himself too soon; after all these years, Wong probably had a sixth sense about close surveillance. Cole was exceptional at tradecraft, but he was uncomfortably aware that he was alone, which made spotting him an easier job. And he knew that in such a situation, patience was a virtue.