Hostile Contact. Gordon Kent

a white man at the dancing thing. Not same as the photo.”

      Shit. Maybe he wasn’t going to make the morning time. Maybe he was waiting until later in the day—overslept or got the trots or got laid. Or maybe he wasn’t coming. Or maybe he’d sent somebody else. “Two?” he said. “Two, answer up. Two?”

      Bobby could see only one white in the dance kiosk, and he was young; his hair was dark and he had his left hand in bandages, none of which matched Andy’s description of the man he called Dukas. It suddenly struck him that perhaps the target wasn’t going to come, and his heart leaped. It was eight-fifty-three.

      

      Qiu watched the American enter the Orchid House from twenty meters away, leaning over the railing of one of the reconstructed Sumatran houses, the long eaves shading the sun above him so that he could snap his first picture of him. He didn’t trust local people to do such things. And the American was carrying The Economist, so he was the man. Qiu checked his watch and saw that the man was four minutes ahead of schedule. Most unprofessional.

      Bobby saw the American cross to the Orchid House, and he saw the copy of The Economist under his arm. And he was going in early!

      Alan saw one of the Asian men on the platform to his right raise his camera, and his heartbeat rose to a quick march in his chest. This wasn’t a fake, Mike. That guy works for somebody else and he knows who I am. He just took my photo. Suddenly, Alan’s world changed, and the beautiful morning, the lithe dancers, the good coffee were all erased. He was in a foreign place, and he was alone.

      Jerry settled himself on the platform. He had plenty of time to arrange the matting and lie flat so that only a foot of the barrel protruded over the edge, and two small dead shrubs served to camouflage his body. The mat smelled of rice and curry and sweat and dog shit.

      Dukas would appear there, and he worried about how little time he would have to shoot. Plus, now he would have to identify the guy. Then the main door opened, and he saw a furtive movement. Then the west door opened, and he saw another movement. Jerry brought the rifle around slowly and settled it on a half-hidden figure. The head was turned as if the man was speaking to someone just outside the door, but Jerry knew him before the face turned, clear in the crosshairs, and Jerry’s lips moved.

      Jesus.

      Jerry Piat had worked Jakarta long enough to know most of the Chinese embassy watchers by sight, and he certainly knew the team leader when he saw him.

      What the fuck were the Chinese embassy goons doing here?

      Alan entered the Orchid House too fast, minutes early, and forced himself to slow down. He realized that he had not really expected this meeting to happen at all. Now it was real because of the man with the camera he had seen outside, and he felt exposed. He felt a wave of vertigo. He slowed his pace still further and forced a smile to his face. He began to smell the orchids, and he forced himself to stop and read the cards, admire the rich colors and marvelous shapes. He was so early that he would have to smell every flower on the path to get to his appointed spot at the right time. He dawdled, nervous and bored at the same time.

      

      It was a nightmare.

      Qiu had a hand around his left biceps. Qiu had a copy of The Economist in his other hand, also the side on which he wore his watch, which he now raised to read. He held Bobby in place, watching the seconds tick off. Bobby wanted to scream at him—he was wasting time that Bobby could use to find the American inside the Orchid House!

      “I will go inside in precisely two minutes and twenty seconds,” Qiu said to the watcher by the door. He gave Bobby a shove and let go of his arm. “You stay out of my way!”

      Bobby ran for the south entrance, all the way around the building.

      Now he was in for it.

      

      Jerry saw the man with the bandaged hand framed in the bright sunlight of the east door.

      Jesus, this thing is fucked.

      Jerry’s mind was racing through the ramifications of a Chinese surveillance team. Now he had to think who the man with the bandaged hand was. Not your typical NCIS special agent. Military. Fairly recent wound—from the dustup when they’d brought down Shreed? It must be Craik. He checked the face against his memory of the old squadron photo. Where was Dukas? Why were the fucking Chinese here?

      They could have followed Bobby Li, but his tradecraft made that unlikely. They could be here for another reason entirely. Or one of his own could have brought them. Like Ho. Or—he hated the idea, but he had to consider the possibilities—Bobby Li.

      What didn’t occur to him, nonetheless, was that it was his own signal, which he had used to draw Craik and Dukas to Jakarta, that might also have drawn the Chinese. It didn’t occur to him then, because, if it had, he would have had to consider that George Shreed had actually been a traitor.

      

      Qiu entered on the second and hurried down the path, wondering where his team was, why none of them was supporting him. He stopped to photograph an orchid, allowing himself twenty seconds of the three minutes’ time he had scheduled for the approach to the site. The other man would be doing the same. He was suddenly scared. These tough CIA Americans were legendary—beautifully organized, skilled, always dangerous. Where was his team, now that he thought of it?

      He looked around. Leaves and flowers were everywhere, like a nightmarish wallpaper; then, glimpsed through them, he saw faces, a hand, an ear. One of his own people? The other side’s? He moved more slowly.

      

      Jerry saw somebody flash in and out of his chosen killing ground, and he hesitated. His crosshairs registered on the back of Craik’s neck and his finger took up the slack of the trigger, but he hadn’t decided.

      Somebody seemed to step toward Craik—a dark shape, hanging back on the left side of the bench. Jerry saw black hair. Bobby.

      Alan got to the edge of the clearing in the center of the maze. A man in a windbreaker was there just ahead of him, panting as if he had been running. He had The Economist. Alan shifted his own copy to make sure it would show.

      The other man’s eyes were wide, almost crazed. His first meeting, Alan thought.

      “You ever go AGIP party?” the man croaked at him. That was not quite the code. “AGIP Christmas party” was the code.

      Oh, shit.

      Bobby Li had reached the edge where panic becomes madness. Qiu was inside by now, and the American was standing across the space that Bobby knew was Andy’s window on the meeting. If Bobby took another step, he would be visible to Andy. Shoot, he thought. Shoot the American! His life, his family, his future hung on a gunshot. All because of—not because of Andy. Not because of George. Because of these two outsiders in this Orchid House in this foreign place—these interlopers, these meddlers, these oppressors—

      “Did I see you at AGIP Christmas party?” he cried, realizing he had said the code words wrong.

      The American across the open space looked relieved. He, too, was carrying The Economist. He gave the reply signal: “I was with a Dutch girl.”

      Shoot! Bobby screamed inside his head. Did he say it aloud? No. And then he saw Qiu coming up behind the American. Bobby had the envelope full of newspaper in his hand and he stuck it out, shaking so hard the paper inside rustled and crackled. “Take it!” he cried. “Gift—for you—take it!”

      The American put out a hand, but didn’t take it.

      And Qiu, eyes horrified, backed against the wall of plants as if to sidle around the American, but what he was looking at was The Economist in Bobby Li’s left hand.

      Bobby went over the edge.

      It was Qiu. It was all Qiu’s fault.

      Bobby