The Jungle (Oregon Files 8)

“All kinds and then some. We should be there in twenty minutes.” Juan cut the connection and handed back Max’s phone. A pair of ambulances screamed past in the opposite lane, their lights flashing and their sirens going full bore.

“Are you going to answer my question?” Hanley asked.

Cabrillo closed his eyes, picturing the scene when they’d first spotted the suicide bombers. He concentrated on the people around them, not on the gunmen. The picture firmed up in his mind, and he studied the faces of the hotel guests and staff who had been in the lobby at that instant. It wasn’t an innate skill but rather something drilled into him during his CIA training so that when all hell broke loose he could distinguish additional threats or identify accomplices. Oftentimes in assassinations or bombings there was an observer nearby to report back on the operation.

“I think,” he finally said, “that we happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Hanley was incredulous. “You honestly think that was a coincidence?” he demanded.

“Yes,” Cabrillo replied, hastily raising a hand to stave off Max’s next remark. “Hear me out. As I mentioned earlier, if Croissard wanted to set us up, he could have had his goon, Smith—nice name, that, by the way—shoot us as soon as we were in the suite. Stuff our bodies into some big trunks, and no one would ever be the wiser. With me so far?”

Max nodded.

“That puts him in the clear, which means it’s unlikely he told anyone about the meeting since he really does want us to find his daughter. Right?”

“Okay,” Hanley said, drawing out the word.

“Now, who was around us when the bombers made their move?”

“Hell, I don’t even recall what they were wearing,” the Corporation’s number two admitted.

“Overcoats, which in this heat should have tipped me off that they weren’t Singapore security forces. Anyway, you and I were the only two Caucasians in the lobby when they started after us. Everyone else was Asian. I think this attack has been in the works for a while, but it was seeing our white faces that triggered them into executing their plan.”

“Seriously?” Max asked, his voice dripping with doubt.

“Just because there has never been a terrorist attack in Singapore doesn’t mean it isn’t a target. The casino’s brand-new, a shining example of Western decadence. Any jihadi worth his salt would be drooling to blow up the place. We just happened to be there when it happened.”

Hanley still didn’t look convinced.

“How about this,” Juan offered. “If by tonight some group hasn’t laid claim to the attack, we’ll assume we were the targets and we’ll back out of our deal with Croissard, since he was the only person who knew we were going to be at the hotel. Would that satisfy you?”

More emergency vehicles went barreling by, followed by a pair of SUVs painted in jungle camouflage colors.

When Max didn’t say anything, Juan caved. “Fine, I’ll call Croissard and tell him we’re out and that he needs to find someone else to save his daughter.”

Hanley shot him a look. “That is the feeblest attempt at manipulation I’ve ever heard.”

“Is it going to work?”

“Yes, damnit,” Max spat, angry at himself for being so predictable. “If some group claims responsibility, our mission’s still on.” He crossed his arms and stared out the window like a petulant child.

Cabrillo felt no qualms about using his friend’s emotions like this. Hanley had done it to him a million times before. And it wasn’t that either needed to be nudged to do the right thing. It was that they needed to be in total agreement. Their relationship was the foundation on which the Corporation was built, and if they didn’t see eye to eye on nearly everything, the entire team would lose its edge.

Juan had the driver drop them about a quarter mile short of the General Aviation area. Just because Tiny had said everything aboard the plane was all right didn’t mean that the area was secure. The pair approached cautiously, using cars parked along the access road as cover. The cement building, with its row of green-tinted glass windows, looked normal. There was an armed guard out front with a valet, but he’d been there when they had first arrived.

Planes were taking off and landing normally, meaning the airport was still operational. That, coupled with the fact that the uniformed rent-a-cop didn’t look particularly wary, told Cabrillo that the authorities had yet to issue any sort of alert.

They were eyed as they entered the building. Juan’s suit had stopped dripping but was still soaked, and Max’s was scuffed-up from the attack.

“Our taxi hit a fire hydrant,” Juan explained as they passed.

Moments later they were escorted by a pretty Malaysian hostess to their Gulfstream and were entreated to return to Singapore soon.

“What happened to you two?” Tiny asked as they mounted the stairs. Despite the cabin’s ample headroom, Gunderson had to stoop over to keep his flight cap atop his blond head. His shoulders seemed to brush both sides of the fuselage.

“Later,” Cabrillo said. “Get us the hell out of here.”

Tiny ducked back into the cockpit and set about following the Chairman’s order with his copilot. Juan got on the aircraft’s satellite phone and dialed Roland Croissard’s cell. It rang eight times, and he was sure it would go to voice mail when the Swiss financier picked up.