Nusa Kambangan was off the southern coast of Central Java. Part prison island, part ecotourist attraction, it was often called the Alcatraz of Indonesia — or, more fittingly, Execution Island. Capital punishment for drug offenses was not a foregone conclusion in the Indonesian justice system, but it was far from uncommon. Two of the so-called Bali Nine, arrested for smuggling heroin, had been executed by firing squad just a few years prior, along with six convicted narcotics smugglers from other cases in a lighted field behind Besi prison.
“Have they already moved him?” Ryan asked.
“I have assets checking now,” Foley said. “As does Adler. I’ll let you know as soon as I do.”
Ryan picked up the phone to call the communications office. He had a flight to catch, but it wasn’t exactly leaving without him. President Gumelar was expecting him, but he wanted another word with this new information. As Ryan expected, the president of Indonesia was “indisposed” at the moment. It was just as well; Ryan needed a few minutes to calm down so he didn’t come across like he was ripping the ineffectual guy a new asshole. He’d call again once he was aboard Air Force One, and he’d keep calling until Gumelar picked up the phone or Ryan was knocking on the front door of Merdeka Palace.
Ryan looked at his watch, if not calming, at least getting a handle on his anger. His late father had called it “putting a point on things.” Unfocused fury could be terrifying — and had a place once in a great while — but coherent wrath was exponentially more powerful. Aimed at the right target, it was a magnificent and terrible thing.
“Cathy will be on her way soon,” Ryan said. “I’m going to say good-bye to her in a few minutes. I’ll be right down.” He stared out the window into the distance, beginning to nod unconsciously.
Foley gave him a wary eye. “Jack… What are you thinking?”
Van Damm threw up his hands. “Well, hell,” he said. “That look always scares the shit out of me, Mr. President. You’re planning something.”
Ryan put the flat of his hand on the desk and spoke deliberately, like this was something to which he’d given a great deal of thought. “As much as I hate to make this a personal matter,” he said, “it’s time to pull out all the stops, to use whatever means we have available to get Father Pat out of prison. I think it’s time I bring in a heavy hitter to give me some help once we touch down.”
“I see what you’re doing here, Mr. President,” van Damm said. “I’m going on record as being against it. This could have some serious blowback. If it gets out, this single event could be what your administration is remembered for.”
“Oh, I’m well aware, Arnie,” Ryan said.
“You have to say bye to Cathy,” Foley said. “I can make the call.”
“I’ll do it,” Ryan said. “I’m the one who’ll have to live with the aftermath.”
Ten minutes from the airport, John Clark checked his phone for the first time in an hour and a half. He had three messages. One was from his wife — who wouldn’t call again until he called back, unless the house was burning down, and maybe not even then. The last two were from the same number. He recognized it, and was mildly surprised. He called back, listened intently, then said, “Of course, sir. I’ll meet you wherever and whenever you say.”
Clark pulled up several airline websites on his phone the moment he ended the call. There was a flight to Jakarta in a little over an hour.
“Drop me off at Departures,” he said.
Ryan glanced sideways. “Okaaay?”
“You guys okay up there, Ding?” Clark asked over the radio.
“Outstanding,” Clark said. “I’m going to need to leave you to it. Just got an interesting telephone call, and I need to bug out.”
It did Clark’s heart good that Chavez didn’t ask for more details. Clark would give what he could, when he could, and Chavez knew it.
“Ryan’s going to make a quick detour and drop me off so I can catch this flight. You guys go on to the rendezvous point and turn our little friend over to the F-15s. I’ll give you a call when I get inside.”
Clark ended the call and began to divest himself of all his weapons so he could make it through security. He’d be able to get more where he was going. Midas passed him a box of wet wipes from a backpack at his feet. They’d all fired their weapons enough to be covered in microscopic — and not-so-microscopic — gunfire residue. A swab of Clark’s hands in the airport could stop him in his tracks while they sorted things out.
“Hit the dome light,” he said when he was finished with the spit bath, then leaned back in his seat with his arms and hands open. “Any blood on me?”
Midas and Ryan both gave him a once-over, shaking their heads.
Ryan caught his eye, quizzing him without words.
“Better for you if I keep this close to the vest,” Clark said. “It’s a need-to-know thing…”
Ryan scoffed. “And I don’t need to know.”
