Jeff Abbott - Collision

Jackie fired his Glock through the peephole.

Indonesia, Ten Years Ago

Randall Choate had read through the Dragon’s files on Blood of Fire: a new group, disorganized, usually crippled by internal squabbling. Suspicion linked them to several murders in the Muslim community in Sydney, to two killings in Lebanon, to a bombing in Cairo. Very bad guys.

Clearly the man had done his research, thought out the possibilities, analyzed the risks and minimized them.

But the Dragon’s network of informants was gone, destroyed in less than a day. Which meant… what? A single source had betrayed the whole network? One informant knew about the rest? That did not seem likely to him. The Dragon, the legend, had made a mistake along the line and now Choate was stuck with him as a partner.

But he liked the plan; he would do the dangerous work with a computer and a keyboard; the Dragon could do the dirtier work of killing Gumalar and his terrorist liaison, once located.

Four hours after Agency hackers in a small lab in Gdansk, Poland, launched a 3 A.M. cyber attack on Gumalar’s bank, Randall Choate sat down at a bank computer wearing a suit, a tie, and a visitor’s pass. His ID indicated he was with Tellar Data.

“You can clean up from the attack?” The bank’s information technology manager stood behind him, arms crossed. The thin sheen of a sweat mustache shone on his lip. It had been a most stressful morning.

“Yes. The problem is the hackers.” Choate was supposed to be an asshole.

“I would like actionable insight, please,” the manager said.

Choate began a long, technical run-on sentence about repairing the databases, with atomic-level detail about checking field integrity before repopulating the records, operating seamlessly with front-end enterprise transactions, and other murmurings of reassurance. All would be well and they could restore any damaged records from the backups. The IT manager asked pointed questions and Choate gave correct responses. When he was done (the manager had begun to fidget), Choate jerked his arms, so the cuffs of his shirt and his sleeves went up, a maestro ready to work.

The IT manager left him to his labors.

Choate started the search, loading a program that would not leave a trace of its passing, hiding behind a series of protocols to check the database integrity. In addition to searching for corrupted records, the program hunted for the five aliases Gumalar used to funnel money to the suspected Blood of Fire terror cell.

He found four of them; the fifth returned a null result. He funneled the aliases’ financial transactions and addresses to a log file. The IT manager came in halfway through the operation and watched the screen as millions of transactions in the database were inspected.

“Hacker bastards,” Choate said conversationally.

The IT manager agreed and inspected a network problem on another terminal, talking softly into a phone. The program finished its run, and as Choate removed a program CD from the system, he surreptitiously slid a blank CD into the drive, burnt the file of suspect transactions to the CD. When the IT manager went to take a phone call, he slid the CD into a pocket in the back of his suit jacket.

Done. Gumalar’s financial trail that could expose the Blood of Fire cell in Jakarta was now within reach.

The IT manager brought him tea, and it would have been noticeably rude not to accept. He sipped the hot beverage and his cell phone rang. He expected it was the Dragon, calling to check if all was well. He was two minutes past his deadline.

“Daddy?”

“Sweet pea.” He loved the sound of Tamara’s voice. He didn’t even know what time it was back in Virginia. Twelve- or thirteen-hour difference. It was ten in the morning now in Indonesia; she was up late.

“Are you coming home by next week? Because I’m going to cook you a birthday cake.”

“It’s your birthday, hon, not mine.”

"’S okay. I’m cooking two. Vanilla for me, chocolate for you.”

“Perfect, Tam. I already got you your present.”

“Really, what?”

“Gonna be a surprise.” He’d bought her and her mother matching red silk jackets.

“Not a doll. Jenny’s dad went to Europe and brought her back a doll, it’s ugly.”

“No dolls for my doll.” He finished the tea, spoke softly. “I got to go, sweet pea, but I’ll call you tomorrow when it’s morning there, okay?”

“Okay, don’t forget to get on the plane.”

“Never in a million, baby doll. Can I talk to Mommy?”

“No, she’s busy.”

“Um. All right. I love you and I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Bye, Daddy.” Tamara hung up. Well. Kimberly didn’t want to talk to him. Probably because the rates were so high. Yeah, sure.

Tamara’s voice made him ache, made him ready to go home. He did dirty work but she was his treasure of all that was good. Strange how a kid could make you conscious of the innate need to be a better person.

“I need to double-check this data before we do the data restore,” he told the IT manager. “I’ll go to our office, review this with my analysts, and I should have a report for you within a couple of hours.”

“I am pleased,” the manager said. He followed Choate into the elevator; two other men in suits stood there. His skin prickled, but they were thin and slight, dressed like mid-level managers hoping to make a solid impression. Choate reached for the ground floor button but it was already lit. He turned to make small talk with the IT manager. Strong hands grabbed his arms. He slammed his head backward, felt a nose break against his skull, heard a scream of pain. Hands jammed his head against the elevator wall, a needle slid into his neck.

The lit buttons of numbers whirled and danced, grew smeary as though he viewed them through rain. He was instantly drowsy and happy. The strong arms tightened their grip, hustled him toward a door.

He laughed and told them about Tamara’s red jacket before the darkness shuttered his eyes.

Randall Choate still had both his hands.

They were bruised and beaten, his knuckles purpled. He had lost two teeth in the back of his mouth. Every rattling breath told him two ribs were broken. One earlobe was torn and he had not slept in two days-every time he began to drowse, Gumalar’s thug threw icy water in his face.

He woke up in a room of plain cinder block, with a high window letting in a soft, cloudy gleam of light. He was tied to a wooden chair; his interrogators had a table and a lamp and a chair. The room had nothing else but the rubber hose, the pliers, the bucket, a trash can, and a leaky faucet; its slow drip played a maddening tune.

He had started to doze again; the ice water slapped his face. He opened his eyes to see Gumalar sitting across from him, eating a banana, frowning.

“Let us try again. I am an optimist.” Gumalar chewed, gestured with the half-eaten banana. “I have a contact who tells me that you are CIA.”

Choate’s stomach was as empty as a waterless well, but the smell of the banana made bile rise in his throat. “No… please, mister.. I work for a database consulting firm…”

“Your work for Tellar Data is a lie.” Gumalar held up the CD that held the financial transactions of the aliases. “Why did you have this CD?"

“Please let me go.” The words were out of his mouth before he realized it, and a curl of shame unfolded in his chest.

“Your name is Randall Choate. You live in Manassas, Virginia. You have a wife and a daughter.” Gumalar lowered his voice. “My reach is long, Mr. Choate. If I want to reach out and touch your family”-he tossed the banana peel into the trash can-“I will. Now. You are CIA, sent here to spy on me.”