“It might.”
“Sam, what is so important about your job?”
“I can’t tell you, Katia.”
“You do work for the government.”
I figure there’s no harm in her knowing that much. If we’re going to have a relationship . . .
“Yes. I do. But I can’t tell you what I do. Please don’t ask. All right?”
She considers that a moment and then says, “Okay. As long as you promise you’re not going to drop the Krav Maga class now.”
I laugh. “Of course not.” I hold out my hand and help her out of bed. “We can still take that shower if you want.”
“You bet. I don’t want to go home smelling like sex. My cat will go nuts.”
I precede her into the bathroom to turn on the water. I see her reflection in the mirror and notice that she’s writing something on the notepad I keep on the nightstand. She joins me in the shower and we spend a luxurious five or six minutes soaping each other and getting all hot and bothered again. We do it one more time, standing up in the shower stall as the hot water rains down on us.
Afterward, when we’re dressed, I notice what she wrote on the notepad. It’s her cell phone number and the words, I don’t give this number to just anybody. I smile and lead her downstairs.
“You let me know if you have to leave town, will you?” she asks.
“I promise,” I say. It’s the least I can do.
11
IT’S begun to snow. Winter in Maryland is always unpredictable. You never know if it’s going to be blizzard conditions, wet and icy, or just plain cold. The temperature isn’t so low today but the snow is falling heavily. The weather boys predict six inches. Joy.
I crank up the heat in my 2002 Jeep Cherokee and drive down to D.C. on I-95. The vehicle is one of the Overland models, a rugged 4×4 with a potent 265-horsepower V8. For the city, it’s way too much car, but there are times when I like to take it over more rugged territory. I happen to enjoy road trips but I don’t get to take them very often. I’ve often fantasized of being a truck driver after I retire from the intelligence biz. I could go “searching for America,” just like all the other folk heroes.
Lambert and I usually find a public place to meet. I avoid the government agency buildings in and around D.C. just in case someone’s tailing me. Seeing me enter an NSA or CIA building would certainly be a tip-off that I work for the feds. Currently Third Echelon’s actual headquarters is nowhere near the National Security Agency, which is housed on Savage Road in Fort Meade, Maryland, halfway between Baltimore and D.C. Third Echelon proper resides in a small, nondescript building in the nation’s capital, not far from the White House. Every couple of years they move HQ to a new location for security reasons. Even though I try to steer clear of HQ, I occasionally have business there. Lambert and I decided long ago that it was best to rendezvous elsewhere. We used to vary the locations, usually meeting in shopping malls. He knows I hate shopping malls so I think he picks them on purpose just to annoy me. Lambert has a sick sense of humor. Lately we’ve been using the same one, located in Silver Spring, because of its convenience.
I take the exit off I-95 and follow the directions to City Place Mall on Colesville Road, park the Jeep, and go inside. The food court is easy to find and there’s Lambert waiting for me at one of the tables—he’s always the first to arrive—but I’m surprised because he’s not alone. Frances Coen is sitting with him. I know her as one of the Field Runners that Third Echelon uses. She’s in her thirties and is fairly attractive for a tomboy type. Slim with close-cropped dark hair. She’s wearing professional, close-fitting rugged clothes. Lambert is dressed in a black turtleneck sweater and khaki pants. He never wears his uniform when we meet in public. It appears he’s munching down on his favorite fast food, a Big Mac Combo Meal. The woman is eating a salad. I make eye contact with Lambert and then I go to the court to pick up something for myself. Breakfast was hours ago. After all that heavy lovemaking and champagne, I need something substantial. I end up buying a plate of chicken and broccoli from the faux Chinese joint.
I join Lambert and Coen at the table and see that the colonel is already finished with his meal. He has a funny habit of rubbing the top of his crewcut when he’s nervous, and that’s what he does when I sit down. Lambert appears to be more stressed than usual. The bags under his eyes are especially prominent today and I don’t remember them being that bad. Lambert’s usually a very energetic guy. He’s ambitious and smart, and I’m not sure if he ever sleeps. He drinks more coffee than he sucks air. Lambert’s the kind of guy who’s always busy and never relaxes. From the way he looks today, I’d say his lifestyle is going to send him to an early grave.
Coen eyes me silently. For the first time I notice a large scar on the side of her neck that disappears into her collar. Possibly ex-military?
“You okay, Colonel?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “Carly St. John is dead.”
I feel my stomach lurch. “What?”
He nods. “Shot in the back of the head. At our office.”
I can’t believe it. Carly is—was—my friend, the one person other than Lambert with whom I enjoyed a meaningful relationship.
“Do you know who—?”
“Not yet,” the colonel says. “But Mike Chan is missing. There’s every indication that he’s the perpetrator. He’s all over the cameras.”
“Mike Chan? The analyst?”
The colonel nods. I met Chan once and only briefly. A quiet Chinese-American, he seemed to be on the ball, a real team player.
I look at Coen. Lambert notices my circumspection and says, “Sam, you know Frances Coen, one of our Field Runners.”
“Yes.” Field Runner. I remember discussing this program with Lambert. He wants to send not one, but two people into the field. A Field Runner is supposedly responsible for coordinating transportation and equipment for a Splinter Cell. I made my objections to the concept known, loud and clear. The main disadvantage, in my opinion, is that it’s dangerous enough having one agent vulnerable to capture and torture. At least a Splinter Cell is trained to withstand rough treatment. What happens if a Field Runner is caught? How is this woman—Frances Coen—going to react when the bad guys try to extract information from her with hot irons?
I save the argument for later. Right now I’m more concerned about what happened to Carly.
“Whoever killed Carly is responsible for our leak to the Shop,” I suggest.
“You’re probably right,” the colonel replies. “If it really is Chan . . .”
“What’s being done about it?”
“We had to bring in the FBI. This is a federal crime. We couldn’t have the D.C. police in our offices. We don’t exist, remember?”
“Yeah.”
“So we have to sit on our hands while the Bureau sniffs around.” I can see that Lambert isn’t happy about this.
“When did this happen?” I ask.
“Last night sometime. Carly was working late. Her computer was destroyed as well. All the progress she’d made on plugging the leak vanished with it.”
“We do have backup tapes,” Coen says. “We’re starting to go through them now. We just don’t know if Carly backed up her work in the past day or two.”
“I’ve asked that Anna come back from psych leave immediately. Until then we’re operating on thin ice,” Lambert says.
Anna Grimsdottir is just as smart as Carly, but I have—had—a special attachment to Carly. It will be difficult to replace her. “So I guess the reason you called me here today is to go after Mike Chan?”
“No. I’m afraid it isn’t.”
Huh? What the hell? “Sir, I want to go after Mike Chan.”
“It’s not your job. It’s not Third Echelon’s job. It’s the FBI’s job. Sorry, Sam. I want to avenge Carly’s murder as much as you do. We have to let the political wheels turn the way they’re supposed to.”
“Then what am I doing here?”
“It’s unrela
ted. I’m sending you to Hong Kong, Sam. You’ll need to leave tonight.”
“Tonight? Damn it, Colonel, I just got home from Russia! I haven’t been here a week. And aren’t I supposed to have mandatory psych leave?”
“I know, but you’re the only available operative right now. Remember—we lost our Far East agent last year and have had to fill in with subs when we needed someone. I have the Committee breathing down my neck about budget cuts. For some reason, Third Echelon is on Washington’s shit list. We have to prove our worth and soon. That’s why I need you, Sam. I don’t like to say this because I don’t want you getting a big head, but you’re the best we’ve got.”
It’s nice to hear but I’m too pissed off to respond appropriately. I sure as hell don’t want to go to fucking Hong Kong.
“What the hell is so goddamned important in Hong Kong?” I ask.
Lambert slides a large envelope across the table. “You’ve heard of SeaStrike Technologies?”
“Yeah, I’ve heard of ’em.”
“One of their top scientists went missing a week ago. We were afraid he’d been kidnapped because he was the project leader of one of our most important defense programs.”
“The MRUUV,” Coen says. “Do you know it?”
“No.”
“All the info you need is in that envelope,” Lambert says.
“So, I’m supposed to find this scientist?” I ask.
“No. He’s been found. He was murdered in Hong Kong. His body turned up in Kowloon. It took the Chinese authorities twenty-four hours to identify him.”
“Who was he?”
“Gregory Jeinsen. Former East German physicist, defected to the U.S. in 1971. He’s worked for the Pentagon ever since.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“I want you to find out what Jeinsen was doing in Hong Kong. If Jeinsen turned or was indeed kidnapped, he may have handed over MRUUV secrets. If that’s happened, let’s just say that the Pentagon is not going to be very happy.” Lambert rubbed his crewcut again.
“You want me to go investigate a murder? Colonel, with all due respect, I’m not a homicide detective. Isn’t that a little out of Third Echelon’s jurisdiction?” I ask.
“No, that’s not what I want you to do. You’re going to Hong Kong to do what you always do—extract intelligence. Gregory Jeinsen was there for a reason. I want to know why. If MRUUV secrets were sold or given away or pried out of him, then your job is to follow the trail and see where they went. If, in finding that out, you discover who killed him, then great. We’ll beat the FBI and CIA at their jobs. And that’ll be a feather in our cap when the Committee starts making budget cuts.”
“So this is all about funding, is that it?” I’m really becoming angry now.
“Stop it, Sam. Just read the file. You’ll understand why this is important once you do.”
I stew for a moment and everyone at the table is quiet. Finally I take the envelope and say, “Fine.”
“Thank you, Sam,” Lambert says.
I wave him off. “What about the stuff I found in Prokofiev’s house? Have you had time to look into that list of missing nukes?”
“Our analysts are decoding the general’s notes as we speak. I should know more in the next day or two. That was a good find, Sam.”
“Thanks. So what can you tell me about that security breach Carly was working on? I think it’s gotten worse. Look what happened to me in Russia. Someone knew I was following General Prokofiev in Kyiv. He got wise and destroyed his car because he knew it was bugged with a homing device. How did he know? And from all accounts it looks like he came home unexpectedly in Moscow because he may have known I was in his house. Colonel, you can count on one hand the number of people who knew what I was doing in Russia.”
“I realize that, Sam. As soon as Anna is back in place, that will be her first priority. There’s no question in my mind that an insider compromised Third Echelon. Maybe it was Mike Chan. Maybe he wasn’t working alone. Maybe there’s another insider that’s not a Third Echelon employee. Maybe the traitor is one of the few people in Washington that know of our existence. I don’t know at this point, Sam, but I’m keeping an open mind. I’d like you to as well.”
I nod my head toward Coen. Lambert catches the subtext behind the move. “Sam, the Field Runner operation—”
“I work alone, Lambert. You know that.”
“That may not be the case in the future, Sam. For now, yes, but we’re here to tell you we’ve got Frances here on the fast track to become your personal Field Runner. For this assignment she’ll stay in Washington and monitor you remotely. Next time, well, we’ll see. The kinks in the program still have to be worked out. I understand your concerns; you’ve voiced them enough.”
I look at the woman and say, “No offense, Frances, but I can’t see how your presence in an enemy zone would make my job any easier. I have enough to worry about just looking after my own butt. I don’t need another butt to watch.”
“You won’t have to watch my butt, as you put it,” Coen says. “I’m thoroughly trained. I can handle myself in a threatening situation.”
“How about torture?” I ask. “Can you handle that? Can you handle your fingernails being ripped out one by one, or electric prods shoved up your—”
“Sam!” Lambert almost shouts. Other people around us look up to see what’s going on. He lowers his voice and says, “That’s enough.”
I fold my arms and sit back. “Whatever.”
Coen waits a beat and then starts to talk. “You’re to meet me tonight at Dulles. An army Osprey will take you to one of our bases in the Philippines and from there you’ll get a commercial flight to Hong Kong. I’ll have some last-minute documents for you then. Your flight information is there in the envelope. I’ll see you tonight, Mr. Fisher.” She holds out her hand.
I don’t want to be a dick so I reach out and shake it. “Call me Sam,” I say.
KATIA isn’t too pleased that I have to leave the country again so soon. But she didn’t make a big deal out of it. If she had, I’d think twice about becoming more involved with her. The last thing I want is a needy girlfriend. I could tell that Katia was ticked off about my leaving but she said for me not to worry about it. She understood. She explained again that she was going to California anyway so maybe we’d both be back at the same time.
I like her, damn it. Against my better judgment, I’m looking forward to us both being back at the same time.
So now I’m in Dulles Airport and I meet Frances Coen in front of the magazine shop she’d designated. We walk to an empty gate, sit, and she gives me another envelope.
“I have all your transportation arrangements in here,” she says. “Instructions for picking up your equipment are in there as well. You shouldn’t have any problems.”
“That’s what you think,” I mutter.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Look, Mr. Fisher, I know—”
“I said to call me Sam.”
“—Sam—you’re not fond of this idea of Field Runners. But I’m good at what I do. You’ll have to make a leap of faith. Can you do that?”
I shrug. “I’m not a very religious person.”
She frowns at me.
“Okay, I’m willing to give it a try,” I finally say.
“I’m not over there with you this time around. For now you’ll work just like you always have. The only difference is that you’ll be dealing with me on most things. Colonel Lambert will of course be giving you instructions. Anna will be back soon. But I’m your main contact now.”
“Okeydokey,” I say and grin. The sarcasm is not lost on her but she holds out her hand.
“Good luck, Sam.”
I shake it and nod.
At that point an army sergeant enters the gate and approaches us. “Mr. Fisher?” he asks.
“Yeah?”
“I’m to escort you to the Osprey.”
“Right.” I take my duffel bag
and follow the soldier outside. I don’t look back at Frances Coen. I don’t look back at anything.
12
I’VE been in Hong Kong a number of times, both before and after the momentous handover in 1997. Before the Brits left the colony, there was widespread speculation that the capitalistic society that Hong Kong had enjoyed for over a century would disappear. Communist China would ruin what was up to then known as “the Pearl in the Crown.” So far it hasn’t happened. I can’t see that much has changed except perhaps there are fewer Brits walking around. The Chinese promised to keep Hong Kong in its current state of economic enterprise for the next fifty years. Who’s to say what happens after that? Are they simply going to say, “Okay, folks, no more free enterprise, that’s it, you’re done, now it’s share and share alike”? I don’t buy it. Hong Kong is a well-oiled machine and I believe it’s going to continue functioning the way it always has well into the twenty-second century.
My trip to the Far East was uneventful. The Osprey flew to Hawaii first and made a stop. I had a two-hour layover at Pearl Harbor and then we continued on to Manila. By the time we arrived in the Philippines it was too late to catch the commercial flight to Hong Kong, so I spent the night in the barracks. It wasn’t bad. Since I can usually sleep on demand I didn’t have any problems with jet lag. Jet lag never has bothered me much. Only after I return home does it seem to catch up with me. I guess you could say I’m the master of my internal clock.
After I land the next morning in Hong Kong, I consider renting a car but decide against it. As in London or New York, cars in Hong Kong are more of a hindrance than an advantage. I’ll get around much faster taking public transportation and walking. If and when I need to get to some remote spot, I’ll take a taxi. I can always rent a car later if I need one.
Frances Coen’s instructions say I have to seek out Mason Hendricks, a former intelligence officer stationed in the Far East. Hendricks, an American, is ex-CIA and, like Harry Dagger in Moscow, is retired but still has his nose to the ground. I’ve never met him although I’ve had plenty of opportunities to do so. Back when I was in the CIA he was certainly around, but our paths never crossed. He’s reputed to be a good man, very smart and resourceful. Coen tells me that my equipment was drop shipped from Manila to Hendricks. I’m not sure what the logistics are and how he goes about retrieving the stuff; I leave that to my so-called Field Runner.