Читаем Code of Honor полностью

Noonan had described the men who’d surprised him in his room as Indonesians and an Asian. Chinese? Maybe. Ethnic Chinese got blamed for everything here, like some countries used Jews as scapegoats, blaming them for their woes — because they were generally prosperous and owned so many businesses. Still, Indonesia did a lot of business with mainland China. Mistrusted or not, they had a real presence in the country. West nodded absentmindedly to himself — a subconscious trait his instructors at The Farm had trained out of him decades before. China was the real threat. The Chicoms—Did anyone call them that anymore? — were all over artificial intelligence. He’d read somewhere that they were supposed to be the world leader in AI by 2025. They would certainly want to get their hands on the kind of next-level tech Noonan’s software apparently provided.

West groaned, repenting for letting himself get caught up in the game again. That life was behind him. He needed to get off this mountain. The moment he got a signal, he’d make a call to tell someone with the authority to follow up. Maybe it was nothing. Either way, he’d do his duty and make the call — then wash his hands of the entire thing.

The old woman finally gave up and shuffled sullenly back to the shadows, squatting down in front of her shack — like a spider, situating herself to rush out and meet the next passerby.

“I gotta hit the crapper, Padre,” Noonan said, looking around.

West really hated when people called him that. “There’s an outhouse of sorts just beyond your car.”

He didn’t have the heart or patience to explain that there wouldn’t be any toilet paper, just a bucket of water and a dipper.

Other Hashers mingled slightly uphill for down-downs — punishments for bad behavior or “crimes” during the run. It involved a toilet seat and chugged alcohol — all in good fun, but West refused to get too crazy doing something that could end up on social media, so he was generally immune. He could push it only so far, though, and ignoring the closing ceremony to make a phone call was a sure way to get called out — even as a priest.

He chanced it and moved down the hill with Noonan, stopping halfway to check his phone again. Two bars. He stopped and tried to make a call, but it didn’t connect. West stared at the cell phone, watched Noonan trot toward the wooden structure. Two Indonesian men got out of a battered Toyota that was parked beside Noonan’s car. Then two more, probably Chinese, got out of the same car. Seemingly oblivious to them in his urgent condition, Noonan ducked around the outhouse to locate the door.

Keeping his phone low, West began to type a text message with his thumb. His stomach fell as the taller of the two Asians left the car and disappeared around the outhouse after Noonan. The stockier of the two, with thinning hair and a quiet demeanor, remained by the vehicle. Certainly Chinese, he was probably from the Ministry of State Security, the MSS, China’s version of the old KGB. West had a knack for spotting intelligence officers. The stocky man said something to the two Indonesians and nodded up the hill toward West. They’d obviously seen Noonan speaking with him. West typed faster, surely misspelling words, but not taking time to edit. He hit send when the men were twenty feet away. Still no signal. He hit the send key again, then held down the power button to turn off the device.

Both men began shouting at once; one of them flashed a badge and produced a large Glock, which he began brandishing at the end of a noodle arm. The rank-and-file Indonesian police officers carried Taurus revolvers, so these had to be from a special unit — not tactical, just special.

They reached him quickly. The one without the gun snatched his phone away.

“What did that man tell you?” he asked in clipped, accented English, pointing to the outhouse. He held the phone aloft next to his face, a parent looking for an explanation. “Did you make a call?”

West shook his head, hands up, putting on his naïve-bystander act. Pretending to be incredulous would only infuriate men like this. Citizens often called the police crocodiles—buaya—and referred to themselves as geckos—cikak—a David-and-Goliath thing. It did no good to anger the crocodile.

“I never met him before this morning,” West said. “He’s here for the Hash run. That’s all.”

The man who’d taken his phone slapped West hard, his voice rising an octave. “You lie! You were on the phone!”

The priest flushed, white-hot anger welling up in his gut. He bit his lip in an effort to control himself. Even at his age, he could have killed these two before they realized they were in well over their officious heads. But the Chinese man with thinning hair had already started uphill. He was the one in charge, and he would surely have a gun. The taller one had yet to emerge from behind the outhouse. Geoff Noonan was in serious trouble.