Authors: Ken Goddard
“What are we looking at?” Younger asked.
“A hidden file for four clients listed as ‘A’, ‘B’, ‘C” and ‘D.’ Our suspect’s recent flights match client ‘A.’”
“Exactly?” Bulatt whispered.
“Yes.
The dates are different for each client, but the flights are the same – same locations and five days apart.
And all pay in cash.”
“So what are we looking at, a hunting and poaching club?”
“If they are a club,” Prethat said, “why don’t they hunt together?
These clients are hunting in synchrony but apart, as if they’re —”
“Competing?” Bulatt suggested.
“Three wealthy clients competing against each other?”
Bulatt and Younger looked at each other and smiled.
“Achara, do you have access to those landing and take-off records?” Younger asked.
“I’m running our dates against the Bangkok landings now, but Singapore International is being difficult.”
Prethat grunted, stepped away from the group, and was soon talking heatedly with someone in Mandarin.
“The same private plane arriving in Bangkok and then departing five days later from Singapore on the right dates.
Can we be that lucky?”
“Don’t hold your breath,” Bulatt commented. “Everything about this set-up so far smells of big money and aggressive smarts.”
Prethat rejoined the group and turned to Achara.
“You have access for one hour.
The pass-code is Panther.”
“Excellent!”
Achara began typing furiously again, and then paused to watch the computer screen flash through blocks of data.
“Come on, one of you bastards be stupid for once in your bloody lives,” Younger muttered.
Achara’s eyes suddenly widen in amazement.
“Yes, the same private plane — a G-five — matches the last two flight data sets at Bangkok and Singapore for client ‘C.’”
Bulatt smiled.
“It looks like somebody got tired of suffering in first-class.
Younger pulled out his Blackberry and moved behind Achara.
“Do we have a registration number?” he asked.
Achara pointed at the screen.
“Yes ... there.”
Younger began typing on his Blackberry as Achara turned to Bulatt.
“If we get a hit on that plane, you and Pete can track it down while the Chief and I overfly the Khlong Preserve with his new toy.”
“Is that thing really going to work?”
“He thinks so.
We’ll have plenty of power from the plane’s engine, but the trees may be —”
“Well, folks, according to the Interpol computers, it looks like we have a winner in the category of upper-class arrogance and stupidity.”
Prethat, Bulatt and Achara all turn to stare at Younger.
“Our G-five luxury aircraft,” Younger continued, “is registered to a corporation owned by a Mr. Samuel Houston Fogarty.”
“And just what, exactly, do we know about Mr. Fogarty?” Bulatt asked pointedly.
“Not much, at the moment; but that’s about to change.”
“I like the way this is going,” Preithat smiled.
“Colonel Kulawnit was correct about the value of your organization; I should have listened more carefully.
Perhaps we do have more evidence than I thought.”
“In that regard, Major Prethat,” Bulatt said, “would you mind if I take the remains of those two Clouded Leopards and a few of the items we found at the Tanga Island scene and send them back to our wildlife forensics lab in Oregon?
Our scientists may be able to find some additional evidentiary links that we’re not aware of at this point.”
“Of course,” Preithat said.
“I’ll have them transferred to you immediately.
And while you are doing that, I will have Captain Kulawnit and her Rangers continue their search for additional evidence and information about our illicit hunters and killers here in Thailand.”
“The team approach. Works every time,” Younger smiled broadly.
“Yes, it does,” Bulatt agreed as he brought his palms together in a polite
wai
, and then extended his right hand to Preithat.
“Major, if you’ll please excuse us, and pass on our congratulations and good-byes to Khun Achara, I believe Peter and I have some work to do.”
CHAPTER 22
In the suite of a modest and very remote Phuket hotel
Yawning tiredly, Pete Younger finally looked up from his laptop computer screen, stretched, and then surveyed the darkened living room of their two bedroom suite.
There wasn’t much to it.
A pair of old desks and chairs — the second set requiring an extra bribe to the maintenance man — a cheap dresser bearing an old CRT television and a desk phone, two additional stuffed chairs, three doors leading to the two small bedrooms and the shared bathroom, and a service cart bearing plates of half-eaten food and four empty coffee pots standing by the locked and bolted door.
They’d been working well into the evening, each digging relentlessly at their available data-sets while intermittently reaching out to the internet.
“Well,” Younger muttered, “I think it’s safe to conclude that our Mr. Fogarty is not a very nice chap.”
Bulatt looked from his computer hopefully. “Find something we can use?”
“No, unfortunately, it’s not illegal to play cut-throat politics in the exporting small arms industries.
Pretty much SOP for that group.”
“Any long-standing partnerships?”
“Not so far.
Looks like he back-stabs everyone pretty early in his deals.
Classic predatory lone wolf behavior.
You finding anything?”
“Residence in Bend, Oregon.
Current Oregon and Idaho hunting licenses, but no active tags.
I’ve got messages in to both fish and game agencies.”
“Any violations on file?”
“Several in Washington State prior to five years ago resulting in a life-time hunting ban,” Bulatt replied. “Nothing after that.”
“Think he learned his lesson?”
“A predatory lone wolf with a taste for blood and money to burn?
I doubt it.”
“Sure, why hunt among the riffraff when you can form a competitive killing pack with some like souls?”
“Precisely.”
“Find anything else?”
“I’ve got an interesting lead,” Bulatt said. “The likely manufacturer of those flashers is located in Redmond, Washington.
I used to work that area as a field agent, so I’m going to check it out personally.”
“So, at least we’re making some progress.”
“Yeah, but not much.
Let’s hope that Achara is having a little better luck at her end.”
CHAPTER 23
In the break room of the Draganov Research Center
Sergei Draganov and Aleksei Tsarovich had returned to the sanctuary of the Center’s lockable break room, and were now back to drinking vodka and arguing passionately.
Both men were physically and emotionally exhausted.
“They will be here in one week,” Draganov pointed out for the second time. “We
must
have everything arranged by then.
We have no choice in the matter.
None whatsoever.”
“But would you let them come here, on our clinic grounds?”
Draganov’s blurry eyes widened in shock.
“No, certainly not!
We can never let them see the early mistakes – the creatures at MAX.
If word got out to the research community, we would be finished.
At best, we would never receive financial support again from anyone … at worst, we would be arrested.”
“I tell you again, we should have destroyed them at birth, Sergei Arturovich.
We never should have let them live.”
“But there is so much we can learn from their development, even if it is ... abnormal development.”
“There’s a big difference between learning and keeping evidence that can be used against us.”
“Yes, I understand that now,” Draganov acknowledged. “After the hunt is over, and Marcus and his men are gone, we will deal with the animals in MAX.”
*
*
*
In the Phuket hotel suite
Gedimin Bulatt had just drifted into a blissful sleep when the phone on the lamp table near his head began to ring loudly.
He fumbled for the phone, listened intently for about twenty seconds, reached for his Blackberry, quickly checked his e-mail listing, and then said “okay, we’ve got it.
Thanks!”
He was starting to type with his thumbs on the Blackberry’s small keyboard when Pete Younger stumbled into the doorway of his small suite room.
“What the hell’s all that bloody racket about … and what time is it?” Younger demanded, trying to blink himself awake.
“That was Achara, and it’s four-thirty in the morning.”
“Achara? What’s she doing up at this hour?”
“Apparently working harder than we are,” Bulatt replied as he continued to type.
“Chief Narusan found a latent print on the battery of that remote transmitter when he took it apart. She sent a photo of it to me, and I’m forwarding it to you right now.”
Younger’s eyes snapped wide open. “Christ, one of those bastards may be on file somewhere.
I’ll get our Interpol lads on it ASAP.” He whirled around and ran over to his desk, indifferent to the fact that he was still in his underwear, sat down, activated his satellite-linked laptop, and quickly began calling up screens.
Bulatt pulled himself into a pair of jeans and then followed Younger into the living room where he collapsed into one of the stuffed chairs.
“Hell of a bloke, that Narusan. Sounds to me like you created yourself a CSI monster to go along with your princess warrior,” Younger said, his eyes now completely focused on his computer screen, “who, by the way, is an absolute doll, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“I noticed,” Bulatt said with a discernable edge to his voice.
“And?” Younger said, looking up from his laptop quizzically.
“And nothing.
She’s Kulawnit’s daughter, for Christ sake.”
Younger smiled.
“Feeling a little predatory, are we?”
“She’s a family friend, and a kid who’s deeply upset about her brother and father.
I’m not going to take advantage of her emotions.”
“Good on you, mate,” Younger nodded approvingly as he went back to his computer. “Try to keep those noble thoughts in mind when she gets tired of waiting for you to be properly consoling, knocks you silly, and drags you off to a nice cozy cave.”
Bulatt blinked, starts to say something, and then hesitated as Younger visibly recoiled from his laptop screen.
“Bloody hell!”
“What’s the matter?”
“My latent query.
I got a negative hit – no match to any of our linked databases.”
“In thirty seconds?
That was fast.”
“Not just fast.
Absolutely bloody impossible.
My input generated an automatic full database scan, but there’s no way in hell our computers could have searched —”
The desk phone on the lamp table next to Bulatt’s chair suddenly rang loudly.
Bulatt glanced curiously at Younger, who shrugged, and then picked up the handset.
“Hello?”
“Agent Bulatt?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Agent Smith.
We need to talk.”
“About what?”
“Your recent latent query.”
“You mean the recent query we made approximately one minute ago?” Bulatt asked, his voice turning cold and dangerous.
“That’s correct.
The Phuket Mariott coffee shop in one hour.
Be there.”
CHAPTER 24
In the Phuket Mariott coffee shop
Ged Bulatt and Pete Younger sat quietly at a small, isolated table at the rear of the coffee shop and watched as a broad-shouldered and tough-looking Caucasian man entered and walked straight to their table.
Two similar-looking men followed, taking seats near the front door.
“I’m Agent Smith. May I join you, gentlemen?” the tough-looking man asked.
“Do we have a choice?”
“There are other options.
This one is easier for everyone concerned.”
Bulatt gestured Smith to one of the empty chairs.
For a long beat, the three men stared at each other.
“And who might these other ‘concerned’ people be?” Younger finally asked.
“People who are interested in the origins of that latent print.”
“Why would they care?” Bulatt asked.
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Which actually tells us a lot,” Younger pointed out.
Smith shrugged as if to acknowledge the obvious.
“You’ve been monitoring us for a while, aware of our investigation into the Khlong shootings, waiting to see what we found,” Bulatt said matter-of-factly.
“Actually, we’ve been monitoring the two of you ever since you took down the Captain of the Muluku.”
Bulatt snorted derisively. “Are you suggesting that incompetent idiot was involved in the Khlong killings?”
“I can’t talk about that.”
Younger stared at Smith for a long moment, and then smiled.
“Of course, it’s the Russians, isn’t it?”
“What Russians?” Bulatt asked.
“We had intel that a Russian drug smuggler named Gregor was using the Muluku as a cut-out for some of his transactions,” Younger said, “but we never got a lead on the guy.”
“And you never will,”
Smith said, “because he’s dead … along with his entire crew.”