Vochek closed the file.
The CIA either knew that Choate was still alive, and his death a decade ago had been a cover story to pull a screwed-up agent out of jail, or they didn’t—in which case it would be easy to ascribe sinister motives as to why Choate faked his own demise.
The plane dipped into the northern stretches of urbanized prairie, and to Vochek’s surprise the runway appeared, stretching along a row of high-end houses, in a square formed by four busy thoroughfares, lined with shopping centers and restaurants.
“What airport is this?” she asked the pilot.
“Plano Air Ranch Park,” he said. “Private air park, with a runway right alongside the homes. Buy a house, get access to the runway, park your plane in your backyard. Got built before Dallas boomed this far. Homeland bought a house here a couple of years back. More private for our comings and goings than flying into Addison or DFW. Ms. Pritchard said you could stay at the house. I got a key for you, and we’ve got an extra car we keep there you can use.” He paused. “I’ve flown a few bad guys out from there, flown ’em to Mexico or the Caymans and I don’t know where they get shipped to after that.” He paused. “Sometimes them bad boys cry during the flight, knowing they don’t know where they’re going.”
“Uncertainty’s not a good feeling,” she said. The plane landed and the pilot drove the plane to the Homeland house, parked it under a covered hangar, and handed her a set of car and house keys.
“Holler at me whenever you’re ready to fly out your bad guy,” the pilot said. “I’m on call.”
“I won’t be bringing back a really bad guy,” she said. “I just have people to question.”
“The day is young.” The pilot smiled. “You never know what you’re gonna find.”
7
Indonesia, Ten Years Ago
The man they called the Dragon hadn’t shown up for the rendezvous. Fine, Choate thought. He hated working with a partner and particularly disliked one being forced on him.
One more hour, he decided. Night began to fall on the park. The pond turned a hazy purple as the sun began to dip below the smoggy rooftops of Jakarta. Choate sat near the gazebo; a trio of young musicians, slightly drunk and out of key, sat on the steps and picked out Beatles covers on their guitars.
Choate’s orders from the CIA chief in Jakarta had been clear: We have a freelancer working for us. He has information on a financial trail to a terroristgroup here. You’re going to help him. Meet him at this park at seven this evening.
Choate waited as the park’s sunny-day crowd began to thin, just him and the musicians left and a couple of old sisters tossing scraps of bread into the water for the ducks.
He got up as the trio started on an off-key rendition of “Hey Jude.” Done. He walked past the gazebo, scattering a few coins into the open guitar case.
“He’s not coming,” a voice behind him said and Choate turned. The trio of musicians stood, smiling, one of them pulling a gun from behind his guitar, the other pulling one from a weathered knapsack.
Choate froze. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said.
“Your friend the Dragon,” the guitarist said. He laughed. “Stupid name; is it supposed to make him sound fearsome? Dragons are false, they’re nothing. He’s gone into hiding. For good reason.”
“I don’t understand,” Choate said. “What do you want?”
“You’ll come with us,” the guitarist said. “Only to talk.”
Choate took a step back. One grabbed his arm. The shot rang out and the guitarist’s chest gashed a red fog and he collapsed onto the stairs. The crack of the shot was as loud as a whip.
The two old sisters at the pond screamed. They fell behind a bench, still screeching.
Choate slammed a fist into the second man’s face, spun him around. Choate closed hands over the man’s wrists; they grappled for control of his gun. Choate could smell the man’s breath, reeking of fish and garlic. Another shot echoed across the parkland. It caught the man’s head, a bare two inches from Choate’s, jerked him off his feet and spattered Choate with gore.
Choate yelled and dropped the corpse.
One left, the tallest musician. He turned and ran. No avenging shot from the distance rang out, so Choate grabbed the gun from his attacker, steadied his aim, and fired. Missed. His second shot caught the man square in the calf. He collapsed with a choking howl, clutching his leg.
Choate heard running feet behind him. He spun, leveled his gun at a man hurrying toward him, a sniper rifle in his hands. The man had a shaved head, was about ten years older than Choate, big-framed. He spoke with a British accent.