A door opened at the end of the lobby, and a man approached and bowed. “Con Ma, welcome. It is good to see you again. It has been too long.”
Con Ma smiled. “And good morning to you, Mr. Zheng,” he answered. “Yes, too long. I believe it was in Brussels, early last year, during the international trade show. Such good pickings.”
Mr. Zheng nodded. “Yes, and profitable as well. Please join me in my office. There is much to discuss.” Zheng turned and walked down the hallway, and Con Ma followed. The two chaperones remained behind.
“The Chairwoman is running late,” Zheng said. “She knows you’re here. We have had a busy morning. Tea?”
Con Ma nodded, and Zheng poured tea into exquisite porcelain cups—Fifteenth Dynasty, surely.
“It’s been a few years since I was here last,” Con Ma said. “Beijing is becoming too big.”
Zheng handed him the teacup. “I can’t disagree, but we are here because this is where the center of the world is. And I believe that the air is getting better. The government is doing everything it can to make Beijing inhabitable.”
“Ship twenty million citizens to the communes,” Con Ma said after taking a sip. “That would help.”
“Maybe. Please sit. I must bring you up-to-date. There are troubling developments.”
Con Ma walked from the window and sat across from Zheng.
“It seems that we were misinformed about the data in the Saigon technology facility,” Zheng began. “After you sent us the plans for the drone, we were told about the management and operating software. That was why you were sent back to Saigon: to acquire that software. We were told that it would be the complete data files. It was not.”
“Are you implying that I failed, Mr. Zheng?”
“No. We are certain that what you transmitted was all that was in the server. But our technicians now believe that there are five parts, plug-ins if you will, required to complete the file. It’s worthless otherwise. We were, as I said, misinformed.”
“Or misled.”
“Possibly. I understand that the first Como employee you dealt with had an unfortunate accident.”
“Yes. After the man provided the plans for the drone, he slipped and fell into a canal. If he hadn’t demanded more money, I could have probably saved his life.”
Zheng looked at Con Ma over the top of his teacup. “Yes, I’m sure you would have. Our contact inside Como Motors says that he will acquire the remaining parts of the file. They cannot be combined until they are all together at the same time. Our techs say that if we try to piece them together separately, they will destroy each other.”
“I understand. If I may be so impertinent as to ask, what is this software? What does it do?”
“We have been led to believe that the software was initially developed to help motorbikes avoid each other.”
“Motorbikes?”
“Yes,” Zheng said, “but the Chairwoman, in her wisdom, believes that its real purpose is to manage defenses against swarm attacks of weaponized drones and smart munitions. That makes the software critical to our artificial-intelligence program. Have you seen those videos of starlings flying in massive formations like black clouds twisting and folding in on each other? The mathematics are similar to those in this software.”
“Yes, I think I understand. I can imagine a thousand small and lethal weapons, manned and unmanned, all converging on a location. Obviously, some type of management or defense system is required. But the software is in Saigon because . . .”
“We don’t know. One of our people believes that because of the density of high-speed motorbikes on Saigon’s streets, they may be testing the software and its related hardware under the guise of their new motorbike assembly plant.”
Con Ma thought for a moment. “Five parts, you say?”
“Yes, you transmitted one of them from the tech facility,” Zheng said. “We don’t know which one it was. The next piece will be delivered in Dubai. You will be informed when we know where.” A soft burr came from the cell phone on the desk, and Zheng looked at its screen. “The Chairwoman needs you now. I have been asked to give you this. Please read it now.”
Con Ma took the envelope, opened it, and read the enclosed note. He looked up and met Zheng’s eyes before returning the paper back inside the envelope and setting it on the desk.
“Do you understand?” Zheng asked.
“Are you insulting me?” Con Ma replied.
Zheng smiled. “Shall we?”
Together they left Zheng’s office and crossed through a complex of smaller cubicles. They stopped at a door that Zheng opened, and he allowed Con Ma to enter before him.
Along each side of the conference room’s long central table sat five men, ten total. At the head was an elegantly dressed woman. When she saw Con Ma, she immediately stood and walked past the men and took him by the arm. Zheng walked around the table and took a seat. Three attendants stood at attention to one side of the entry.
“Come, my friend,” the Chairwoman said. “Sit next to me.” She led Con Ma to a seat near her. “Please, here.” She waved her long, elegant fingers to the tall, black-leather chair. “There, this is much better.” She turned to the attendants. “You may leave. Please return with lunch at precisely twelve forty-five.”
Con Ma studied the three as they left, looking for any sign from them that something was out of the ordinary. Seeing none, he turned back to the Chairwoman. She was busily clicking buttons on a control panel that had risen out of the table. At one point the windows turned opaque, and he heard a nearly imperceptible hum in the air—eavesdropping, even by laser microphone, was now impossible.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” the Chairwoman said. “Welcome to this year’s first quarterly meeting of Dark Star Security. Thank you all for attending. I would like to introduce Con Ma, one of my, and our, most trusted operatives.”
He looked at the men flanking the table.
They were all ruthless businessmen. Some ran their own international corporations, some steered powerful regional gangs, and others were senior members of the Red Army. The Chairwoman had brought them all together by, as it was said in an old American movie, making them offers they could not refuse. Through Dark Star, their diverse business interests had profitably expanded across China and the world.
“Gentlemen, Con Ma was responsible for successfully retrieving documents in Zurich last year. Mr. Chin is now using them to modify his products.” She nodded to one of the men. “Our return on this investment is twenty percent and will be an ongoing return through the product’s life. Mr. Chin, we of course hope that it is a long life. Con Ma has been primarily responsible for many of your various companies’ products and their technological advancements.”
She looked down each side of the table, and each of the men acknowledged her attention.
“I will not bother you with many of the other successes of Con Ma,” the Chairwoman went on. “Be assured he is working diligently on all of our behalf.”
Con Ma kept his eyes focused on the far wall and Zheng. In his periphery, however, he could feel the men glancing at him but avoiding direct eye contact. They knew he was an assassin.
“As per our bylaws,” the Chairwoman said, “your lists of leads and acquisition opportunities are due in three weeks. Please submit them through your secured email accounts.” The men nodded in assent, and, satisfied, the Chairwoman moved on. “Last year your various needs required us to expend over fifty-three million yuan in research, materials, and transportation costs. Our profit was just over one hundred and thirteen million yuan, an excellent margin. At midnight, profit shares will be wired to your designated accounts.”
Con Ma continued to sit stoically as the Chairwoman looked again down the table. While not privy to the details, he knew that the profits the Chairwoman referred to were accomplished through the application of stolen information, designs, products, and technology—much of which Con Ma himself had procured—that had been licensed to the compan
ies these men controlled or influenced. Each member’s profit share was linked according to the product or technology acquired and its value. These men were parasites living off the work of others. Con Ma didn’t care. He lived off that work as well. Theirs was a symbiotic relationship—why kill the goose as long as it still laid golden eggs?
The Chairwoman opened a folder, removed a small piece of paper, and handed it to Con Ma. He read it and with no expression stood and took a step back from the chair and waited.
“Gentlemen, we have a problem, an extremely vexing one. It seems that one of you has decided to circumvent our contracts and enlist the services of another security firm. They are an excellent company and have, within their own circle of business interests, competent personnel and resources. I admire them. They are exceptional. Unfortunately, you and I have contracts between us, and I do not accept one-sided terminations. Proper procedures must be followed, and you all know there are no exceptions. Isn’t that correct, General Liu?”
The general jumped. His chair flew backward and slammed against the wall. Before he could say anything, Con Ma had walked up behind him, seized him across the shoulders, and driven a thin, six-inch blade of razor-sharp steel upward into his head just below the hairline on the back of his neck. In one motion, Con Ma grabbed the dead man by his collar, pulled the chair back to the table, and sat him in his seat. He left the blade, with its jade-green handle, where he had implanted it. He then returned to his seat.
The men around the table were stunned. Each, in turn, looked at the Chairwoman, Con Ma, and the deceased general. None moved.
“The general and I disagreed on this point,” the Chairwoman said. “I do not like violations of our business arrangements. We have contracts; I expect my partners to honor them. The next item on my agenda is General Feng’s request”—she nodded to the man seated immediately to her right—“for information and designs about the latest drone technology being developed for NATO. As you know, NATO does not have its own military, or its own weapons, but relies on its state partners to provide such men and facilities as required. The exception to this is their new drone program, which is a derivative of the United States’ Predator program. NATO is making modifications to this system and adapting it as their own. General Feng has requested this information and has offered an excellent percentage once he has the data and plans. I have decided to accept this request on your behalf, General. I will, when the time is right, pass on information ensuring that you understand the magnitude of the contract. This technology is different from the system we acquired earlier in the year that allowed the development of the cycle-drone.”
She looked at the man seated next to General Feng. “Mr. Deng, after viewing the prototypes, I am pleased. You have created a beautiful machine. And thank you, Con Ma, for actions in regard to that acquisition.”
The Chairwoman smiled at Mr. Deng, then looked at Con Ma and nodded. He rose from his chair, and the room grew quieter. As he walked to the door, the four men to his immediate right twitched one after the other. When he reached the door, he was certain he heard a collective sigh. He quietly closed the door behind him.
CHAPTER 10
Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam
Detective Tran Phan stood on the riverfront overlook that had a sweeping view up and down the Saigon River. He finished his cigarette and crushed it on the paving stones.
With a dozen active cases on his desk, his most troubling was over the intransigence of Como Motors and their lack of assistance. Two dead Americans, a fire-damaged property, and probably something valuable stolen, and still the Italians and Americans were not forthcoming. He was also disappointed by his own department’s inertia. The dead were not Vietnamese and as such fell into an investigative limbo. When these dead became important for political reasons, they would become important for legal reasons. He’d seen it before, and it did not make him happy. But then again, he could not remember the last time he was happy on the job. He wanted to find this vulture—as he called him—and throw him in jail. Close the case and move on. It gnawed at him.
All he had were the victims’ names; the name of the facility owner, Como Motors, a business connected to a new motorbike manufacturing plant in Vietnam; and the website of the American security company, Teton Security and Defense. TSD had eventually handed over fifteen minutes of poor surveillance film and grainy photographs of the thief and murderer, whose face was hidden behind a motorbike helmet. The partially melted device found in the pot of plastic flowers was a dead end. His people could make nothing of it. One of his technical staff said it had a Chinese appearance about it, but then again most everything nowadays was made in China. Phan could not directly connect the device to the murders, and the warehouse owners declared it was theirs. At their insistence, he returned it to them.
He lit his third cigarette. He had other cases: a couple of murders in District 3 that looked gang related, an unidentified body found a few weeks ago in the river with a fatal knife wound on the back of his head, and a dozen others assigned to his office and staff. Each day new folders were added to the pile on his desk. Why the warehouse case irritated him more than the others, he wasn’t sure. Maybe it was the fact the dead men were tâys—the old term for Westerners or Europeans—and he was half-Western himself. Or maybe it was because this TSD had thrown a blanket over everything. How to pull that blanket off had become as much an issue as the case itself.
His phone vibrated. It read Jess. He smiled and answered. “Good morning. Sorry I had to leave so early.”
“Is everything okay?” she asked. “I wanted to make you breakfast.”
“Nothing but the usual. Admin has dumped a few more cases on my desk. You can make me breakfast tomorrow.”
“You’ll be fine. Don’t forget that Kha has his recital tonight. You promised to be there.”
“I’ve not forgotten, but if I hear that Vivaldi piece one more time—”
“Don’t say it. He loves the violin, and besides, it’s all your fault.”
“I should have gotten him drums,” he said. “Will Kim be there, without that weird boyfriend of hers?” He looked at his watch.
“Yes, and probably yes. He’s okay. You don’t like him because he’s studying ecology.”
“There’re better jobs.”
“She likes him. Be thankful he doesn’t have tattoos up and down his arms.”
He took a drag of his cigarette, exhaled. “Small victories. I should be home at six. We can go together.”
“Good, love you. And stop smoking so much.”
Phan clicked off, took one last drag, and crushed the cigarette butt with his heel next to the others. Twenty-six years married, he thought, almost as long as he’d been with the HCMC police department. Jessica Nguyen was, like him, an Amerasian. Her father, an American GI from Montana, had been killed a month after he’d promised to marry Jessica’s pregnant mother. Like Phan, Jessica had grown up in the tough times of racial hatred after the war, but nevertheless they were lucky: they had strong mothers and support from the local Catholic church. And a cop on the beat in Phan’s neighborhood had taken an interest in him, kept him out of the local gangs. When he was old enough Phan had joined the police. His ability to speak three languages—Vietnamese, French, and English—had helped.
His phone vibrated again. It was a text; the coroner would call him in twenty minutes.
The drive along the Rach Ben Nghe canal took Phan past the new high-rises under construction across the waterway. Throughout HCMC, gleaming new residential towers emerged from the middle of the old districts. To him, the massive complexes spelled trouble. The city’s character was being pushed away, ripped down, or subsumed by this new development. Indiscreet and intrusive, these complexes did not look like Vietnam. They looked more like the exploding coastal cities of China. And the glassy surfaces of HCMC’s rivers and canals were now bridged by bizarre concrete structures, beneath which were moored wooden houseboats that were old—ancient, even—before the war. He d
id not like any of it.
His phone rang: the coroner. “Phan.” He clicked to the speaker.
“How are you this morning, Detective?”
“Grumpy.”
“Good, normal for you. I’ve analyzed the wounds from those two Anglo killings in the warehouse district. Very interesting. Can you stop by later?”
“Interesting how?”
“The residue and fragments. Haven’t seen anything like it. Hard to explain over the phone. You need to see it.”
Phan looked at his watch. “Two o’clock?”
“See you then.” The coroner clicked off.
Now what? Some exotic poison? Secret death-ray stuff?
He parked the Toyota police cruiser in front of a favorite pho noodle joint across the street from the police station and sat at a small table. The incessant buzz of motorbikes filled the canyon of buildings on Tran Hung Dao. It was like every other street in HCMC—an annoying burring that never quieted. He treated himself to a midmorning beer with the noodles. The restaurant, which was really just a few tables along the street, was smaller than his mother’s noodle joint on the other side of the city.
At precisely two, Phan stood in the tiled hallway of the Center for Forensic Medicine and waited. The coroner’s assistant had said he would find the doctor.
Ten minutes later the double doors at the end of the corridor opened, and a small man in a white lab coat appeared, peeling latex gloves off his hands. When he stopped before Phan, he extended his right hand.
“Good to see you again, Detective. Sorry I’m late. The wagon dropped off two bodies; I had to log them in. Unfortunately, they were not recently departed.”
Phan thought he’d noticed a distinct odor that arrived with the doctor.
“I understand. What do you have on the two Americans?”
“I need coffee. Follow me to my office—we can talk there.”
The two men walked through the forensic center, the largest in HCMC. Two of the side corridors were lined with gurneys and mounded sheets. It was no mystery what lay underneath. The doctor pointed to a chair in the corner of his office, then popped a Nespresso pod into the machine behind his desk.
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