“Where? What time?”
“Eight o’clock.”
The sirens are really close now. I can hear policemen on foot shouting to each other on the street beyond the alley entrance. They’ll be here any second.
I crouch, pull the man’s head up by his hair, and ask again, “Where?”
He mutters a number.
“Is that a terminal?”
He nods and coughs. Blood spurts out of his mouth.
“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?” I ask.
His eyes flutter, he coughs again, then chokes on the blood and mucus in his throat. I know he’s a goner. He won’t last more than a few seconds longer and I’m not going to get much else out of him. I stand and begin to run down the alley just as two policemen appear at the entrance behind me. They shout for me to stop but I’m in the shadows now. They can’t see me. When I reach the end of the alley, I dart into the street, run across traffic, and duck into another dark alley. I repeat this strategy three more times and by then I’ve lost the cops. The only thing to do now is go back to my hotel and wait until morning. I just hope my late Triad friend was telling me the truth.
16
“SOMEONE set me up, damn it!” I shout to the empty hotel room in Kowloon.
Colonel Lambert, Frances Coen, and Anna Grimsdottir are all online with me through my implants. I’ve given a full report on what went down at the warehouse and I’m hopping mad.
“Calm down, Sam,” Lambert says. “Why do you think you were set up?”
“Because they knew I would be there. They brought along that contraption that screwed with my implants for that very purpose. The Triad I interrogated in the alley confirmed it. Someone told them to expect me. They knew I was a Splinter Cell and that I had those communication implants. I was set up!”
Grimsdottir speaks up. “This device, Sam, what did it look like?” She has a soft voice but one can sense intelligence behind it.
“Kinda like a boom box. There was a tiny satellite dish they pulled out of it and set on the floor.”
“I think I understand how it was done,” she says. “They would have had to understand the technology behind the implants and how they work. If you’re right, then they must have had inside information from Third Echelon. It’s the only way.”
“Mike Chan again?” Lambert asks.
“Possibly. If he’s the traitor.”
“Of course he’s the traitor,” I say. “He killed Carly, didn’t he? Have you caught that bastard yet?”
“No, the FBI is on his trail,” Lambert replies.
“Well, it still doesn’t answer how the Triad knew I’d be at the building. The only person who knew what I was doing was Mason Hen—”
That has to be it. Hendricks.
“Um, I think I need to pay a little visit to Hendricks, Colonel.” I look at my watch. There are a few hours left before I have to be at the Kwai Chung container port.
“Mason Hendricks has been one of our most trusted field agents, Sam,” Lambert says. “His record is impeccable.”
“Then maybe he knows how there might have been a link. His source was bad or something. It’s worth pursuing. Besides, I gave him a piece of evidence that needs to go to a lab. Some blood I found at the Triad’s nightclub. Who knows, it might belong to Jeinsen.”
“All right, Sam.”
“Anything else, Colonel?”
“Yes. We’ve finished the analysis of General Prokofiev’s materials you found in his house.”
“Yeah?”
“You know that list of missing nuclear devices? The notes he scribbled next to some of them?”
“Uh-huh.”
Frances Coen continues. “It’s a code, all right. And it’s very strange.”
“Well?”
“When the code is broken, it’s a recipe for Russian borscht.”
“What?”
“Well, that’s a guess. The words specifically decode as ‘Formanova Cylindra beets, beef stock, water, vinegar, butter, cabbage, and tomato sauce.’ Those are the ingredients of borscht. It leaves out a few spices and perhaps some other vegetables, but that’s what it is.”
“What the hell does borscht have to do with nuclear bombs?”
“We don’t know. That’s just what the code says when it’s broken.”
“I think you guys have gone loony,” I say.
“We were hoping you might know what it means,” Lambert says. “Was there anything in Prokofiev’s house that might give us a clue as to what it’s all about?”
“I can’t think of anything, unless that battle-ax of a wife puts plutonium in her cooking. Which I wouldn’t put past her. Look, I’m going back to Hendricks’s place before the sun comes up. I’ll let you know what he has to say.”
“We’ll talk later, Sam,” Lambert says, and then we sign off.
DRESSED in my workout clothes and carrying my uniform in a gym bag, I take the ferry to the island, grab a taxi, and go back to the Mid-Levels just as the sun begins to rise. But the driver can’t get through to Hendricks’s street. A policeman tells us that only local traffic is allowed in.
“What’s the problem, Officer?” I ask in Chinese.
“Fire,” he replies.
I pay the cabbie and get out. Once I’m on the street I can see the thick smoke billowing up ahead. A couple of fire trucks, an ambulance, and two police cars are blocking the middle of the road. And they’re in front of Hendricks’s small house.
I walk up the pavement and take a look. Sure enough, his place is black, still smoldering from what was apparently an intense blaze. I move closer to the policemen who are talking with the fireman in charge. Even though they’re speaking in Chinese, I’m able to catch a few words and phrases.
“Firebomb . . . through the front window . . . one in the back . . . possible Triad work . . . two bodies . . .”
I observe in fascination as firemen bring out two covered corpses on stretchers. One charred, black-and-red arm sticks out from under a sheet. I catch the words “man and woman in bedroom” before the corpses are loaded into the ambulance.
Hendricks had boasted about expecting female companionship for the night. Well, he got lucky, all right. Lucky as in Lucky Dragons. And I guess his lady friend got more than she bargained for as well. It’s a shame.
Now I’m at a loss as to how I was set up at the warehouse. Apparently Hendricks was betrayed too. The Triad must have found out what he was up to, somehow intercepting the information he got from his source. Maybe it was the source who tipped them off.
And so much for the piece of evidence I took from the nightclub. It’s probably long gone now.
I walk away, realizing I must disengage myself from Hendricks, finish what I came to Hong Kong to do, and get the hell out. As the new rising sun bathes the island in warmth, I make my way back to the ferry so I can get to my appointment at the container port on time.
17
FBI Special Agent Jeff Kehoe sat in the Empress Pavilion Restaurant enjoying somewhat authentic dim sum as he kept an eye on Eddie Wu, the brother of wanted fugitive Mike Wu, aka Mike Chan. Kehoe had arrived in Los Angeles a day earlier and, with the help of the local FBI branch, had tracked Eddie Wu to L.A.’s historic Chinatown. Kehoe had staked out Wu’s apartment on Alameda and had seen the man come and go twice. The first trip Wu made was to the Phoenix Bakery on Broadway, the main drag through the district. The second outing was to the Wing Hop Fung Ginseng and China Products Center, also on Broadway, where Wu purchased tea and a few other groceries. So far the Triad had displayed innocuous activity. But it was still early in the day.
Alan Nudelman, the FBI chief in Los Angeles, had briefed Kehoe upon his arrival in the city. Nudelman confirmed that Eddie Wu was a known Triad member but had never been tied to any of the more serious crimes connected with the Chinese gangs operating in southern California. The L.A. branch of the Lucky Dragons was a small organization consisting of less than a dozen members. Wu was either the top man of the clan or
one of the enforcers. He had been arrested twice for narcotics possession but he had a very good lawyer who got him off with fines and short jail time. Intention to distribute wasn’t proven but the L.A. police were sure that Wu was dealing the drugs for the Triad. A more serious charge cropped up involving stolen property, including weapons, for which Wu served three years in the nineties. Since then he had stayed clean, although he was on the FBI watch list. Nudelman suspected Wu of being an accomplished thief, smuggler, and killer. Currently Wu was unemployed, yet he lived in a very nice apartment building, drove an expensive car, and always had cash to spend.
The Triads in southern California operated much like small-time Mafia families. They specialized in protection rackets, mostly among the Chinese populations in the city, ran gambling and prostitution houses, and trafficked in illegal arms and drugs. Most gangland violence that occurred was between rival Triads and rarely spilled out into the mainstream. Nevertheless, the Chinatown district’s police precinct was kept very busy escorting the gang members in and out of its justice system. Most of the Caucasian officers could care less if the Chinese criminals killed each other; their main concern was for the innocent families trying to make an honest dollar in democratic America.
Kehoe finished his meal and sat with the Los Angeles Times in front of him, pretending to do the crossword puzzle. Eddie Wu was with two other men who had come in together to meet him. They, too, appeared to be rough types wearing black leather jackets and sunglasses. The Triads in America didn’t dress as fashionably as their counterparts in Hong Kong and China did. In the United States they looked more like street punks. As for Eddie Wu, he was purportedly thirty-eight years old, which was old for a common thug.
After a while, Wu paid the bill and he and his two companions stood. Kehoe paused a moment, paid his own bill, and followed the trio onto Hill Street. The restaurant was in Bamboo Plaza, home to a variety of shops. The men turned onto Bamboo Street and headed toward Broadway. Kehoe casually tailed them, trying his best to be just another Caucasian tourist admiring the Chinese souvenirs along the way.
They passed Central Plaza, where the sounds of clicking mahjong tiles from upstairs windows and open doors mixed with authentic Chinese music being played in shops. A popular place for filming, the plaza was known for its distinctive Gate of Maternal Values, a statue of Republic of China founder Dr. Sun Yat-sen, and a wishing well dating to 1939.
Wu said goodbye to his companions at the Cathay Bank at the corner of Broadway and Alpine. The two men left, walking east on Alpine. Wu went inside the bank. Kehoe lingered outside the impressive building, which was supposedly the first Chinese-American-owned bank in southern California.
Ten minutes passed and Wu bounded out. He walked east on Alpine, past Dynasty Plaza, to his apartment building on Alameda, a block east of the array of bazaars. It was one of the more modern, upscale structures in the area, certainly not the norm for low-to-middle-income Chinese immigrants. After Wu disappeared into the lobby, Kehoe got into his rented Lexus to sit and wait.
Tracking Mike Wu westward had been easy. When a state policeman in Oklahoma had been found shot to death near Oklahoma City, evidence quickly pointed to Wu. The patrolman had stopped the Honda Accord for a traffic violation, called in the license plate, and learned that the plate was stolen. Before catching a bullet in the chest, the patrolman had informed his headquarters that he was investigating the suspect vehicle. Ballistics comparison of the round that killed the patrolman and the bullets that slew Carly St. John proved to be identical.
Nearly thirteen hours after the discovery of the patrolman’s body, Wu’s blue Honda Accord was found abandoned behind a convenience store in Oklahoma City. Whatever Mike Wu was driving after that was a mystery.
Kehoe was certain that Wu would come to Los Angeles to see his brother. After all, Eddie Wu knew about his brother’s false identity as Mike Chan. Perhaps Eddie was going to help Mike leave the country. It was what Eddie was good at, according to Nudelman. Thus, it was only a matter of time before Mike showed up at Eddie’s door. All Kehoe had to do was never take his eyes off the Triad.
At midafternoon Wu emerged from his apartment. He went to his car, a BMW 745i sedan, obviously another indication that Eddie Wu earned his money illegally. Kehoe figured the BMW to cost in the upper range of sixty thousand dollars. The BMW drove west and got on the 110 freeway, heading south. Kehoe cautiously followed him.
Traffic was surprisingly light for a weekday afternoon. The rush hour hadn’t begun in earnest quite yet and Kehoe actually enjoyed driving on L.A. freeways. He considered them to be the best in the country. Unlike other big cities in the U.S., it seemed that the freeways in L.A. were planned from the beginning to hold a lot of traffic. Other places he’d been, such as Chicago and Washington, D.C., had experienced painful crowding when the population had outgrown the highways.
The BMW got on the Santa Monica Freeway and sped west. Wu opened up the car and Kehoe had to push the speedometer to stay a safe distance. No problems arose, though, and eventually the BMW reached the intersection with the 405. Wu took the northward exit and headed over the hills. It wasn’t long before the BMW got off at Sunset Boulevard and turned west into Brentwood.
Following the car became tricky. The BMW took odd side streets up into the area around Crestwood Hills Park. Kehoe was worried that he would either lose his prey or Wu would make him. On many of the roads they were the only two cars moving. After nearly thirty minutes of this kind of driving, the BMW turned onto a hilly road called Norman Place. Wu eventually took a hard right onto a gravel road and disappeared into the trees. Kehoe stopped at the intersection and looked at a map. Where the hell was he?
The Getty Museum wasn’t far away. It was a couple of miles to the northeast. The area was sparsely dotted with expensive homes and a few isolated businesses.
Kehoe decided to take a chance and drove onto the gravel road. After moving slowly for about a mile, he came to a gate and wire fence blocking further access. A sign read: GYROTECHNICS, INC.—PRIVATE PROPERTY—NO TRESPASSING. There was Chinese script beneath the English words; Kehoe figured they said the same thing.
The FBI agent got out of the car and looked through the steel mesh gate. Fifty yards beyond the fence was a two-story modern building that was unremarkable save for dark windows of different geometric shapes. It was similar to a 1950s sci-fi movie production designer’s bad idea of what a futuristic building might look like.
He got back into the Lexus and drove back to Norman Place. He pulled over and called Al Nudelman on his cell phone.
“Nudelman.”
“Hi, Al, it’s Jeff Kehoe.”
“Yes, Jeff.”
“Ever hear of a company called GyroTechnics Inc.?”
“Uh, no. What’s that?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. I followed Eddie Wu from Chinatown to this building. It’s in the hills near the Getty Museum. Private property.”
“I’ll check it out and get back to you.”
“Thanks.”
Kehoe drove down the hill and parked in a more unobtrusive spot. He could see the unnamed gravel road in his rearview mirror, so if Eddie decided to leave he’d be seen. Twenty minutes later, Nudelman phoned back.
“GyroTechnics is a brand-new Chinese company. Electronics, circuit boards, that kind of thing. Says here that their specialty is guidance systems for aquatic vehicles, namely boats and ships. Been incorporated in California for three months.”
Kehoe asked, “What’s Eddie Wu got to do with them?”
“That’s a good question,” Nudelman replied. “I seriously doubt he’s on the payroll.”
Kehoe chuckled. “Not officially anyway. Well, I’m just going to have to camp out and wait for Eddie to leave. Or wait for his brother to show up. One way or another I’m going to find out what this company is really up to.”
ANTON Antipov opened the antique shop door and let Andrei Zdrok in.
“This had better be good,” Zdrok gr
umbled. “The sun isn’t even up yet. Decent human beings are still asleep at this hour.”
“You’ll be happy when you see what we unpacked,” Antipov said.
He led Zdrok through the dark Hong Kong-Russian Curios shop and into the back room. Like the Shop’s director, Antipov knew how to manipulate the Shakespeare and Marlowe books on the shelf and open the secret door. Together they went down into the Shop’s headquarters, past Zdrok’s private office, and into a main receiving area.
In the middle of the floor sat an opened crate the size of a large television. Straw had been pulled out and now littered the floor. Antipov directed Zdrok to a worktable next to the crate, where the unpacked item lay horizontally under a bright lamp, dramatically lit as if it were on display in a museum.
It was silver in color and cylindrical in shape, much like a giant bullet in its casing. Two cushions on either side of the device kept it from rolling. On the cylinder’s side facing the ceiling was a compartment that had been opened, its inner mechanisms exposed.
“Direct from Mother Russia,” Antipov said, smiling. “It arrived last night after you left. Ironically, delivered by Federal Express.”
Andrei Zdrok’s jaw dropped and he momentarily forgot having been awakened too early. The device’s beauty mesmerized him. It shone like a polished precious metal but it was worth far more than any gold or silver.
“It’s too bad Prokofiev isn’t conscious to hear that it arrived safely,” Antipov added. “The poor guy is still in a coma.”
“Screw the general,” Zdrok said. “He’s of no use to us now. At least he was able to have this shipped to us before he became a permanent tube sucker.” He approached the device and gently placed his palm on the cone-shaped head. It was smooth and cold to the touch.
“It’s magnificent,” he said. “I have never seen one before, have you?”
“No. Well, yes, some of the earlier kinds. Not one like this,” Antipov replied.
“Well. We have to get this to our customer in China right away,” Zdrok said. “You’ll take care of the arrangements?”