East London, South Africa
November 12, 10:07 A.M.
As they made their way through the yard, Williams felt the phone in his back pocket vibrate. He took it out. It was a text from Matt Berry.
East London cops on Foster payroll gave up address of likely accomplice. STF you are likely on-site for Gen. Krummeck. Caution.
God bless TAC-P, Williams thought.
The Timely Alert Circulation Protocols were designed to be an electron-fast, laser-sharp interagency program designed to prevent what just happened—the delay of information reaching those who most need it.
Black Wasp might not end up being the security secret weapon the military wants, Williams told himself, but when it comes to field-testing flawed systems, we are right on the front line.
He would share it with Breen later. Right now, the major was busy texting a location for Vic Illing to come and get them.
“I told him the lot at the corner of Logan and Beach, just east of here,” Breen said, pointing.
The men started out, Breen working on his tablet.
“We should be able to spot her from the air,” Williams said.
“That, plus I have an idea where she may be headed.”
Williams didn’t pressure Breen to explain. As they walked, Williams noticed the major looking up information on the East London Web site—a public site. In the end, what intelligence work really needed was not lightning-fast strikes of data but the right mind looking in the right places.
The helicopter landed just as the men arrived, and Illing’s smile was as bright as the sun on the big windows. His relief was also apparent.
“We just got the all clear,” he told the men as they boarded, “so your timing was perfect. Everything work out?” He pointed at the radio. “There’s a lot of talk between the pilots and dispatch, and on the news channel—”
“A big piece of the problem was solved,” Williams told him.
“Wow. And I know it before all those reporters I saw rushing over. Can’t wait to tell my wife.”
The chopper lifted off as the two passengers were still pulling on their headsets.
“Where we headed?” Illing asked.
Breen was looking at his digital map. “We’re going in the same direction as the R72 but to the shoreline side. Somewhere a scooter or bicycle could travel.”
“That would be Old Transkei Road, coming right up!”
“No, another way,” Breen said. He switched to private mode and said to Williams, “She might avoid that. MEASE is there, so the roads are likely buttoned up.”
“Galway Road,” Illing said. He cocked his head to the right as they rose. “We’re actually right there.”
“Good,” Breen said.
“Destination?”
“We’ll keep a lookout but let’s head toward Church Street,” Breen told him. “We’re looking for a woman driver with a backpack or large parcel.”
“The accomplice,” Illing said knowingly. “The wife will never believe!”
“Vic, keep your height and follow my instructions,” Breen cautioned. “This accomplice may be more dangerous and determined than her boss.”
What little traffic there was seemed to be headed away from Katinka. Police, paparazzi on motorcycles, probably reporters rushing to the sites that were newly notorious: her home and the MEASE complex.
“My home,” she said, a sense of profound loss having given way to a rising sense of violation. For all his faults and crimes, Foster had been welcome. The men with the guns were not.
“They could have talked to him, like those first two,” Katinka said. She believed those Americans were as surprised to see the police as she was. “How did they know? Claude Foster was so careful!”
That didn’t matter now. Nothing did. Her new plans, her old plans, all her plans were finished. She could not even go home and—
“I will be hunted,” she said knowingly.
Katinka did not want that. She only wanted one thing right now. The police had done nothing to the Kettle family except harass her father and then her boss before finally executing him.
“They’ll be hailed as heroes, those eight who cut down one man trapped in the back of a van.”
The more she thought the angrier she got until all Katinka wanted was to send those men and women in uniform after Claude Foster one more time.