The Citadel Read online

  "Killed you," Royce said as he turned for the door.

  MacIntosh tried to get to his feet but couldn't move. He tried to speak again but the muscles wouldn't respond. Royce paused at the door and looked over his shoulder. MacIntosh's eyes had lost their focus and his chest wasn't moving. His head slumped forward.

  Royce pushed open the door and left the dead man behind.

  Philippines

  An hour was not much time. Fatima made a couple of calls as she gathered her gear and left the room. She knew she would not be coming back to it.

  Weapons, especially M-16s, were not hard for her to get her hands on. The Abu Sayif had numerous stores of weapons. She had called to find out the closest location for these specific guns.

  The drop site she'd been given was in a storage unit. Fatima unlocked the combination padlock and pulled up the door. Two crates and one small box lay just inside, in front of other boxes containing various equipment. The Abu Sayif was efficient. She didn't know who had put the guns in there, and she was sure that whoever had didn't know she was taking them out. The storage unit was a good cutout between operatives and support personnel. The Filipino government took a hard line with the Abu Sayif, especially right in Manila.

  Fatima uncrated the ten M-16s and the ammunition. The M-16s were brand new, probably stolen from a government warehouse or even bought right out of government soldiers' hands.

  Fatima worked on one of the M-16s, secreting a small transmitter inside the hollow of the pistol grip; a place no one would have any reason to look. Then she broke each gun open, removed the firing pins and then reassembled them. She tied the guns together, then wrapped plastic bags around them, waterproofing both them and the ammo. The package was bulky, but she managed to stuff it into a large rucksack.

  Fatima relocked the door to the bin. She just barely had time to make it to the designated meet site. She put the rucksack on the passenger seat of her old Chevy and began driving through the streets of Manila.

  By the time she arrived at the old American naval base in Subic, she was shifting into her action mode. There was some activity, but nothing nearly as it used to be when the Americans ran their fleet out of it. She drove past the empty guard shack and toward the piers.

  When she got close to the designated pier, she parked the car and looked around. There was indeed an old, rusting tug moored at the designated pier. But all its lights were off and it looked deserted. To her left there was an old ammunition bunker, built like a small fort, with a gate entry wide enough to take a truck. The steel gates were wide-open, and she could see a light inside with flickers of shadows, which indicated people moving.

  Taking the rucksack full of weapons, she left the truck. Fatima felt almost naked walking across the street toward the ammo bunker, and she had a feeling she was being watched. She noted that there were no other vehicles about. As she entered the brick archway, she sensed someone behind and spun around. Two dark figures stood there, blocking her way out.

  "Come in!" someone who spoke English said, his voice echoing in the courtyard. Fatima turned and walked forward. The small courtyard was surrounded by the bunker's walls, two stories high on all sides, with brick arches opening to the ammunition mezzanines. She couldn't see who had called out. The voice could have come from one of dozens of arched openings on any side, from any floor.

  Fatima walked directly to the middle and put the rucksack down. She folded her arms over her chest and waited. The two men who had followed her were now standing inside the entrance, also waiting.

  A shuffling sound drew her attention, and Fatima turned to her right. Two other men were walking out of the shadows from the north wall.

  "You have the guns?" one of the men asked, again in English, which most Filipinos knew. As he cleared the shadows, Fatima finally got a good look at his face. Japanese. There was no mistaking the facial features. But too young to have been alive during World War II.

  "I have them."

  The man gestured, and the man at his side came forward and opened the rucksack, checking the weapons and ammunition.

  "Where is Shibimi?" Fatima asked.

  The man was breaking down one of the weapons, his hands moving expertly over the metal pieces despite the lack of light.

  "It is functional," the man called out to his leader in Japanese. Fatima realized they didn't know she understood their language.

  "Where is Shibimi?" Fatima repeated.

  "He will be here shortly," the leader said in English. "Kill her," he called out in Japanese to his men.

  The man with the M-16s near Fatima was sliding a magazine into one of the weapons. Fatima considered it a fundamentally unsound business practice to be killed by her own merchandise. She turn-kicked toward the man with the M-16, only to see him sidestep the strike, grab her leg and twist, dumping her on her back. The Japanese put the stock of the M-16 into his shoulder and aimed down at her. He pulled the trigger, and nothing happened.

  In his moment of confusion, Fatima drew her silenced pistol and fired twice, both rounds hitting him in the head and knocking him backward. A second man came running forward, a silenced submachine gun at the ready, and then abruptly halted as sparks flew off the concrete floor near him. Fatima could feel the presence of bullets flying by, although she heard no sound of firing. She rolled and looked up, spotting the muzzle flash of a weapon being fired high up on the south wall. The Japanese who had been about to shoot her jumped right, out of the way of the unexpected firing, grabbing the duffel bag with the other weapons and getting behind the cover of one of the large crates.

  Fatima didn't stop to savor her reprieve. She scuttled on her back, the concrete ripping through her shirt, managing to get behind a large pile of boxes. At least she was concealed from the Japanese, she realized. Whoever the gunman on the wall was had a perfect shot at her, but he'd had a perfect shot at her earlier and hadn't taken advantage of it, so she felt she had to take the chance.

  The second Japanese man let loose a sustained burst of fire up at the wall, but the man was firing blindly, not sure where his target was. The gun battle was eerie, played out in almost total silence, only the flaming strobe of the muzzle flashes and the sparks of rounds ricocheting giving any hint as to what was happening.

  Fatima peered around the crates, keeping low. The Japanese leader had joined the gunman. While the leader provided cover, the other ran with the duffel bag toward the archway where the other two waited. And was cut down in mid-stride by a burst of automatic fire from the unseen gunman. The leader took that as a hint to escape and sprinted for the exit, grabbing the duffel bag as he went by the body. And then he was gone. Fatima twisted toward the entrance where the last two Japanese had been, but there was no sign of them now, and she assumed they were most likely leaving with their leader.

  She turned toward the wall behind her, pistol at the ready, and waited, but spotted no movement. "Who is there?" she finally called out in English. Her words echoed off the wall with no reply.

  Silence reigned, and Fatima did nothing to break it. She gave the surviving Japanese and unknown gunman plenty of time to escape, then stood. She didn't hear any sirens. Time to be going. First, though, she went to the closest body. She checked for tattoos, and as she had suspected, found the mark of the Black Tentacle on it. She then cautiously made her way to the entryway and slipped through, ran to her Chevy and jumped in.

  As she drove away, she opened up the GPS tracker and turned it on. She drove slowly and carefully, in no rush, wanting the Japanese to think they had escaped her. The unknown gunman bothered her, a wild card, and she had no clue who had played it.

  Fatima glanced at her cell phone, considering whether it was time to call in more firepower. That's when she noticed that the bug had stopped moving. It was about two miles ahead of her, still inside the sprawling Subic Bay compound. She cut her lights and drove closer, coming to a halt when she rolled to a stop close to the flashing green dot on her GPS screen.

  She looked a
head. A trawler was tied to the pier in front of her. She reached down, retrieved a set of night vision goggles and put them on. Through them she could see the boat clearly.

  * * *

  Two hundred meters away a stranger watched Fatima watch the boat. She sat cross-legged on top of a warehouse, a silenced submachine gun across her knees. She knew who the extra shooter was on the wall during the ambush. So even though her main focus was on Fatima, she also checked out the surrounding area, trying to find if the shooter was still after the same scent.

  While she was searching the shadows through a night vision scope, her attention was distracted by movement on the boat.

  * * *

  Through the night vision goggles, Fatima watched four men come down the gangplank. They did not have the duffel bag of weapons with them, but she didn't care about that. What she did care about was the man who appeared to be in charge: he was old, definitely with enough years to have served in World War II. She observed as the Japanese got into an old model Ford LTD and a newer Camaro parked nearby. As they peeled out of the lot, she followed. When they cleared the old Navy base, traffic got heavier. Checking her rearview mirror, she noticed a black van following farther back and made a note to keep an eye on it.

  The procession continued until they were heading into the mountainous countryside surrounding Subic Bay. Glancing in her rearview mirror, Fatima could tell that the black van was holding its position. The two cars were ahead in the far right lane and scrupulously staying at the speed limit.

  She didn't like her position between the Japanese and whoever was trailing. She was too close to the Japanese Yakuza, and there was a good chance they would detect her presence. She didn't want to take a chance, though, and go behind the van, since she didn't know who was at the wheel of that vehicle. For all she knew, there were other Japanese.

  They approached a point where the road cut a tunnel through the knee of a mountain. Fatima was a hundred feet behind the Camaro, which was right on the bumper of the LTD. Both cars slipped into the mouth of the tunnel, and she kept her distance. She glanced in her rearview mirror; the van was also keeping its place.

  As Fatima returned her attention to the front, she automatically pulled her foot off the gas pedal. The brake lights on the Camaro were bright red in the tunnel ahead. She heard the squeal of rubber as the Camaro spun about. A car in the other lane narrowly avoided collision, swerving out of the way. Fatima slammed her foot on the brake as the headlights of the Camaro fixed on her windshield.

  She halted, but the other car didn't. The front bumper of the Camaro smashed into the left front grill of the Chevy, jolting Fatima forward against her seat belt, then snapping her head back, bouncing it against the headrest. The Camaro pinned the Chevy against the wall of the tunnel, the right front side hitting concrete.

  Two men jumped out of the Camaro, M-16s at the ready. Fatima ducked before they fired, the bullets shattering the windshield above her, showering her with broken glass. Either the M-16s weren't those she had given them or the missing firing pins had been replaced.

  She unbuckled her seat beat and slithered between the front seats into the back, where the backseat was down. Bullets continued to stream by over her head. She added a few rounds with her pistol, shooting out the right rear window of the car.

  Gathering herself, she dove out through the opening she had just created. She bounced off the right wall of the tunnel, grunting as she felt pain jar through her shoulder. Hitting the pavement, she rolled, pistol at the ready, peering underneath her Chevy. She could see the legs of the Japanese on the near side of the Camaro. She fired twice, both rounds hitting the man in the ankle, tearing his leg out from under him. Fatima fired again at the prone figure, this time a head shot, killing the stunned man instantly. All of four seconds had elapsed since the accident, and the only noise had been that of the collision and the bullets shattering glass.

  Now there was the sound of another car coming to a hurried halt, and Fatima took a chance, popping her head up over the trunk to see what the tactical situation was. She expected the LTD to be there, disgorging more gunmen, but was surprised instead to see the black van twenty feet away and a man leaning out the passenger's side, a silenced Steyr automatic rifle in his hands. He hosed down the second Japanese, blowing blood and guts all over the right side of the Camaro. Fatima froze an image of the man in her memory: Oriental, mixed, although more Japanese features than Korean, short and thin, and from the way he handled the gun, a professional at the job of killing.

  Her visual inventory was brought to an abrupt halt as the man turned the smoking barrel of the Steyr in her direction. For the second time, she dove for cover as bullets tore chips out of the concrete above her head. Fatima fired underneath, but the man was inside the van, and all she could shoot at were the tires.

  The firing abruptly ceased, and she heard a vehicle accelerate away. She carefully edged her head around the rear of the Chevy. The van was gone. Two smashed vehicles and two dead bodies. She watched the van disappear down the tunnel to the east.

  "Fuck," she said, standing up and dusting off broken glass from her clothes. There was a bottleneck of frightened motorists in their cars to the west, but no sign of police yet. Fatima reached into the front of the Chevy and pulled out her homing device. There was nothing else in the vehicle that could identify her.

  She brought the muzzle of her weapon up as a white van wove its way through the halted cars and raced up to her. She had a perfect sight picture on the driver, who leaned over and threw open the passenger door. "Get in!" the woman yelled.

  Another Japanese person, Fatima noted, keeping her weapon steady. She heard sirens in the distance.

  "Get in!" the woman repeated. The sirens were getting closer.

  Fatima hopped in, keeping her weapon trained on the driver. The woman took off, heading west. They passed through the tunnel and out into the night air on the other side of the mountain.

  "I don't see them," the driver said, peering ahead.

  "And you are?" Fatima asked. The woman appeared young, somewhere in her mid-twenties by Fatima 's best guess. She wore gold-rimmed glasses and a very nice dark gray outfit. Fatima pressed the barrel of her pistol into the side of that suit and repeated her question. "Who are you?"

  "My name is Araki," the woman replied. She appeared not to notice the gun poking into her side.

  Fatima spared a glance out the windshield. There was no sign of either the van or the LTD. "And you are with?" Fatima asked.

  "Japanese CPI," the woman said. "I assume you are with a Filipino government agency," she added.

  "Why do you assume that?" Fatima asked. She knew what CPI was: Central Political Intelligence, a secret arm of the Japanese government formed after the Tokyo gas attacks a few years back.

  "You were following the Japanese Yakuza," Araki said.

  "And?"

  "Who else would be following them?" Araki asked. "Other than police or other Yakuza. And you do not appear to be Japanese, thus I deduce you are police."

  Fatima wasn't sure whether to take Araki for what she claimed to be, but since she had the gun in the woman's side, she wasn't overly concerned at the present moment about the veracity of her claim. If Araki wanted to think she was police, that was fine with her. With her right hand, Fatima flipped open the cover on her direction finder and turned it on.

  Araki glanced over as they wound into the jungle between Subic and Manila. "You have a fix on them?"

  Fatima nodded. "They're southeast."

  Araki accelerated.

  "Coming up on due east," Fatima reported.

  Araki took a turn onto a dirt road in that direction.

  "Do you know of a man named Shibimi?" Fatima asked.

  "Yes. He was in the Ford LTD. He is a senior member of the Black Tentacle Yakuza." Araki slowed as the road narrowed. "Do you mind?" she asked, pointing at the gun that Fatima still had poking into her side.

  "Actually, I do mind," Fatima replied, keeping
it in place. "I have no proof you are who you say you are, and I just had two different groups of people shoot at me for no reason that I know of. So forgive me if I'm not exactly in the most friendly mood."

  "I understand your concerns about my identity," Araki said. Her English was precise, and she enunciated each word clearly. "But you must know that I do not carry an identification card. I am working in your country on a mission of deep concern to my own country."

  "Pretty weak," Fatima said, checking the direction finder. The small dot indicating the Japanese had stopped less than a kilometer ahead. "Unfortunately, I really don't have the time to have a deep discussion with you about all this. There is someone I have to catch up with."

  Araki nodded. "Shibimi. Why are you following him?"

  "Why are you?" Fatima asked.

  "I am not following Shibimi," Araki said. "I am following a man who is following them."

  "The Japanese guy in the black van with the Steyr AUG," Fatima said.

  "Correct."

  "And who is he?"

  "That is my concern," Araki said.

  "He tried blowing my head off back there in the tunnel," Fatima said. "That makes it my concern. Also, in case you haven't noticed, you're in the Philippines now. I could have your ass thrown in jail," she bluffed.

  "As you threw me in jail, would you also admit to selling the Japanese Yakuza those weapons back at Subic?" Araki asked in a level voice.

  Fatima pushed the barrel harder into Araki's side, evoking a surprised grunt of pain. "Do not fuck with me. I could also just make you disappear."

  "I imagine you could," Araki said.

  Fatima could see her swallow, trying to control her fear. The woman was doing a reasonably good job of remaining calm, but Fatima sensed that Araki wasn't a seasoned agent. She didn't have the hard edge that people in the world of covert operations gained after only a few years in the field-if they survived that long. Of course, she could also be better than most and a good actor. That made Fatima wonder exactly what Araki's role here was.