Decision Point. Don Pendleton
Tigers of Tamil Eelam, were one of the few remaining hopes for the Tamil revolution. When Kumaran Pathmanathan had disappeared at the hands of the Sri Lankan Secret Police, it had been left to him to find a way to continue.
Vengai had immediately moved his forces into a new area and modified the immediate mission to piracy on the high seas. Much of the work his men had done was blamed on other groups, and the ransoms paid were an excellent way to raise funds. They simply weren’t enough, the Daniels girl notwithstanding. Using contacts he developed in the technology field, he’d groomed a new contact over the past year and the moment of delivery had finally arrived.
Unfortunately his contact had yet to put in an appearance.
He moved away from the bar and began making his way across the room. He paused from time to time to talk with someone or to answer a question. About halfway, he felt a light touch on his arm and looked down to see the executive director of TPAC, a dark-haired woman in her early thirties, hired for her lobbying skills, staring at him. She was Tamil, but only in the most remote sense. Her grandparents had been from there, but she had no real idea what being from Tamil meant.
“Mr. Vengai?” she asked. “A moment of your time, please.”
Seeing that she had someone in tow, he softened his gaze and allowed a faint smile to pass across his features. “Of course, Ms. Nilani. What can I help you with?”
“I’d like you to meet someone,” she said. “This is Mr. Borelli. He’s quite interested in our cause, and wanted to be introduced.”
“Ah, Mr. Borelli,” Vengai said, offering his hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”
Borelli was a stout figure, almost portly, with thinning hair and an off-the-rack suit that fit improperly. His hands were soft. “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Vengai. I’ve been looking forward to this since USTPAC announced you’d be in attendance. How goes the battle?”
“Not as well as we would like,” he said, “but it’s not over—what is the saying?—until the fat lady sings.”
“Well put,” Borelli said. “Well put, indeed.”
The man affected a near-British accent, but he obviously was American. “So, Ms. Nilani says you have an interest in our cause?”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “I’ve read about the situation quite extensively as part of my job, and I must say, it seems that the Tamil people have been very shabbily treated.”
“I see,” Vengai said. “And what do you do, Mr. Borelli?”
Borelli smiled then, and for a split second, a very different person was standing in front of him. “I work as an analyst, Mr. Vengai. In Langley.”
So, he was CIA. Interesting that he’d be so direct in his approach. “How goes the battle for you, then?” he asked.
The man laughed. “Don’t misunderstand, sir. I’m not here in any official capacity! I’m just an analyst. I don’t make all that much, but I’d like to contribute—provided that my contribution is completely anonymous.”
“That can be easily arranged,” he said. “Simply make your contribution with cash.”
“And should that go to you or to Ms. Nilani?” he asked quickly.
Damn the man. He knew that TPAC was a front. If he told him to give the money directly to TPAC, she’d have to deposit the funds in the main account; if he said to give it to him, she’d have a lot of questions. “Ms. Nilani can handle that for you,” he said with barely concealed ire. He wondered if Borelli were playing some kind of game, for his own amusement, or for more serious purposes.
“Very good, then,” Borelli said. “I’ll bring it by the office on Monday.” He offered his hand once more. “I won’t take up any more of your time, Mr. Vengai. Thank you.”
Vengai nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Borelli. Drive safely tonight.”
Recognizing the vague threat, Borelli grinned once more. “And when you return home, you do the same. Travel safely, that is.” Then he turned and walked into the crowd.
Ms. Nilani, who’d been silent the entire time, shook her head. “That was strange,” she said. “I’m not sure I understand what he was doing here.”
“Neither do I, Ms. Nilani, but I expect that you could find out. Why don’t you make a phone call and see what you can learn about Mr. Borelli?”
“Right now?” she asked. “In the middle of the fundraiser?”
At that moment Vengai saw his contact come into the room and linger near the kitchen doors. “No, but make no mistake, people like him come to events like this for two reasons—one, he wants to upgrade his contacts and has something he wants to sell, or two, he’s here to tell us that he’s watching. I have a feeling that it was the latter,” he said, waving her off. “But I want that information by Monday at the latest.”
“Of course,” she said, then turned and resumed her role in working the room. Briefly, he watched her go. She was good at her job, but not a very observant person. On the other hand, a person who did what he or she was told without asking too many questions was perfect for his uses.
Before he could be engaged again in a lengthy conversation, he moved quickly across the room to where his contact, a computer programmer named Tim Wright, was waiting for him. Wright’s appearance matched his profession: dark hair, cut short in a functional style, a short-sleeved, polyester dress shirt, khaki pants and loafers. He stood almost six feet in height, but wasn’t in great physical condition. The spare tire around his midsection suggested a life spent sitting, and not on the ab-cruncher machine at his local gym.
Vengai offered his hand in greeting when he got close enough. “Mr. Wright? It’s good to meet you in person.”
Nervous, Wright nodded. “Yes, I’m…it’s good to meet you, too.” He held up his attaché case. “Should we go somewhere to talk?”
“Yes, let’s get out of sight before you disappear into a puddle of sweat.”
The nervous man pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his brow as they ducked out of sight. Like most conference hotels there were any number of places that seemed to be in view of everything and yet completely secluded at the same time. Vengai led him to an unoccupied conference room that was set up for the next day. The dark room was illuminated only with light spilling in from a small break in the air wall that separated the one larger room into two.
“You are not used to this kind of…work, are you, Mr. Wright?”
“No, I’m usually as loyal and patriotic as they come, but I need the money.”
“Your words do not reassure me. How do I know that we won’t complete our business, and then I’ll step outside to find myself surrounded by federal agents?”
“Mr. Vengai, they may set up elaborate schemes in movies, but if I were caught trying to steal this software from the office, I wouldn’t be here. They don’t set up stings, just deal with what’s in front of them. I just want to get this done, get my money and get out of here.”
Vengai watched as Wright shifted his weight back and forth, carefully holding the case in front of him as if it were an explosive. He grabbed the handkerchief and mopped his brow once more but then immediately readjusted the case so it was away from his body.
“Show me,” Vengai said.
“There’s nothing to show, really. Your guys know how to upload satellite data, I presume?”
“Yes, of course.”
Wright popped open the case and pulled out a small box. He opened the box and displayed a portable hard drive.
“This contains the software to get me into military satellites?”
“Yes. This is a new program that I wrote. The software