LOCKED DOWN: (A NICOLE GRANT THRILLER, BOOK 1)

by Ed Kovacs

  The spacious mall never felt crowded like the sidewalks and MTR stations. No one invaded your body space or used sharp elbows to beat you to a ticket machine. Grant walked along at what felt like a casual pace toward the Marriott as the catchy rhythm of a World Beat tune played from hidden speakers. She suddenly felt exposed and naked, like some obvious fraud in the open spaces of the shopping mecca.

  Were killers really after her? Could this all somehow be a cruel hoax, was she being punked by members of the intelligence community for some reason, maybe to re-recruit her? God only knew. Nicole felt angry, confused, and scared. She was slightly sick to her stomach with anxiety. She needed to check the flash drive Hernandez gave her, so she ran a fashion gauntlet, passing Chanel, Fendi, Celine, Gucci, Chloe, Lora Piana, Botega Veneta, a. testoni, and Salvatore Ferragamo, all selling the real deal at prices that were tres cher. Quite a switch from her earlier excursion this afternoon.

  In a beautifully appointed ladies room rich with huge mirrors and blonde wood carved to create an undulating effect, she dumped the hijab into one of her shopping bags and donned a cotton mask, the kind commonly worn in public by Asians when they have a cold. She added a red St. Louis Cardinals baseball cap and in seconds was back out on the mall floor. An overhead sign indicated the entrance to the JW Marriott Hotel down a small corridor. With a sigh of slight relief, Nicole hurried along the corridor. No one appeared to be the least bit interested in her, unless she was being clocked by the security cameras.

  Hernandez had said to meet in fifteen minutes, but she was running late. A glass of wine sounded like a pretty good idea, and if his flash drive contained what he said it did, she'd need more than one glass. A physical pang of fear suddenly gripped her; not only was her vacation in ruins, but her perhaps her life as well.

  ###

  The spectacular Marriott lobby opened downward toward The Lounge and upward toward dining options and the Q88 Wine Bar. A massive two-story glass curtain provided phenomenal views of the Hong Kong skyline, giving the impression that the entire lobby area, several stories above the traffic on Queensway, was floating in the sky. Often rooms with a lot of glass have a cool feel, but the lobby's golden color scheme lent warmth that felt inviting to Nicole and made her actually gawk for a few moments. At least that was the internal excuse she used as she paused to regulate her breathing and collect her thoughts.

  But she couldn't shake the newfound anxiety that bordered on panic. She needed to speak with Hernandez and get more information. All problems have solutions and with his help she intended to find one. They needed a plan, a logical, coherent plan. Then they could fix things.

  She'd already removed the baseball cap and cotton mask before entering the lobby, so she willed herself to get on with it and climbed the marble staircase. Within moments she found herself in Q88. It was a large wood-paneled room with glass and metal wall sconces, leather club chairs and banquettes. Two dozen patrons were quietly drinking as a combo on a small raised stage played mellow strains of a John Coltrane jazz standard.

  It was four minutes past four o'clock and Hernandez wasn't present. The beautiful room didn't seem like the kind of place he'd choose for the serious talk they needed to have. Then she remembered he said “small” wine bar—this place was not small.

  She spotted an entrance to Riedel Room @ Q88, and entered a darker, somewhat narrow and winding space. Polished hardwoods blended the look of traditional Chinese furniture with a modern feel. A couple sat in hushed conversation at a candlelit table, and a young woman slouched in a corner working on a tablet computer. Hernandez must be running late, thought Nicole.

  A sommelier, not a bartender, tended the room. This intimate space was geared for serious wine drinkers or wine tastings and featured expensive Riedel stemware. It wasn't a place to just order a glass of wine, so Nicole splurged on a nice bottle of Bordeaux and asked for two glasses.

  Until the age of twelve, Grant had been a military brat. While the family was stationed at Aviano Air Base in Italy, she'd gotten into the habit of drinking red wine, as most Italian children do. Her father was essentially fired by the air force—he wasn't allowed to re-enlist—and that's when the family moved to northern Nevada, where her dad promptly sank them into debt with pie-in-the-sky prospecting endeavors. How did she get from there to sitting in some rich man's wine cave in Hong Kong with killers on her tail?

  The sommelier returned with the bottle of Bordeaux.

  “May I sit in the private room? I'm expecting a friend.”

  “Yes, miss. The room isn't reserved, so you may have it.”

  Nicole moved into the tiny, swank space that could only hold about six people. The entire ceiling was a glowing light fixture of dangling crystals and featured banquette seating along three walls with a rectangular cocktail table in the center. She asked for the door to be left open since she didn't want to miss Hernandez, but she scrunched herself into a corner so she couldn't easily be seen by any passers-by. She connected her tablet computer to the free Marriott Wi-Fi, but used a VPN—virtual private network—to keep her Web surfing private.

  After the serving ritual, Nicole sat alone. She tried to savor a few sips of the wine, but her taste buds weren't working. Probably from fear. She took a long quaff, hoping it would calm her down, and then retrieved the flash drive Hernandez had given her. She retrieved a velvet pouch from her fake Celine bag and dumped the contents: micro- mini- and regular-sized SD cards, adapters, connectors, short cables, memory sticks, SIM cards, batteries, an external power supply, and earbuds. She plugged the flash drive into an adapter which she then connected to her tablet.

  The first file was titled: Berns, Frank David. She found a short dossier indicating Berns was a master sergeant in Task Force Orange, a super-secret military unit that operated under JSOC. He specialized in communication intercepts often conducted in extremely hazardous conditions. He had a wife and two young children in Fort Belvoir, Virginia. A newspaper article indicated he died in a one-car crash seven days earlier on U.S. Route 1, just a few miles from his home. No use of alcohol or drugs was suspected as being the cause of the accident. He was thirty-one.

  Tears came to Nicole's eyes and she bit her upper lip. She had seventeen more files to look at. She vaguely remembered Frank David Berns. He'd worked a different shift than her at the Pomona warehouse, so she only saw him briefly at shift changes. She remembered he'd always been smiling. And the people who'd killed him had almost killed her earlier this afternoon. She scanned the bar again; had they gotten Hernandez?

  Grant fought her anxiousness and had gotten through five more files when her tablet computer pinged. It was the alarm from the motion-sensing clock-radio in her hotel room. Her hands trembled as she opened the security camera app. What she saw almost made her heart stop. Four armed Chinese, three men and a woman, were searching her room at the Conrad. How did they get in? Who were they?

  Grant's stomach muscles tightened. If Hernandez hadn't gotten her out of the room, she'd be dead. Her head was spinning, but not from the wine. Should she call the front desk at the Conrad? Hong Kong police? Should she...?

  God help me. Help me think. The files had been depressing. And sad. Unbelievably sad because each case was so much more than just the murder of a person, an innocent person, no less. It was the destruction of a family unit. Young children lost fathers. Mothers lost daughters. Wives lost husbands.

  Where was Hernandez? Why couldn't they have just left her room together, why'd he have to run off like that? He'd told the truth, they were the only two left alive from the drone op team in Pomona. And here she was sitting with no disguise because she'd fooled herself into thinking she was safe.

  “You look like you could use a drink.”

  Startled, Nicole looked up. It was the young woman who'd been sitting by herself, writing on a tablet computer with a stylus. An olive-skinned brunette with full lips, a slightly large nose, and who couldn't be a day over twenty-two, stood in the open doorway. Her wavy brown hair was pu
lled straight back from her face. Finely arched eyebrows tented big brown eyes that radiated youthful energy, confidence and intelligence. She wasn't smiling, but somehow her eyes made it seem that she was. Her accent sounded British, but her exotic looks suggested some other ethnicity.

  Nicole was still reeling, but had to fake it. “I already have a drink, thanks,” she said as she turned off the tablet screen.

  “That's what I mean. You've got a nice bottle of red but you look totally stressed.”

  Nicole forced a smile but didn't say anything.

  “I think I've been stood up,” confessed the young woman, whose eyes darted to the second empty glass on the table next to Nicole's glass.

  “My friend is running late,” said Nicole in response to the unasked question.

  “Then we have something in common. Two things, since we both like red wine.”

  It suddenly occurred to Nicole that sitting with the pretty young lady might not be a bad idea, since the killers wouldn't be looking for two females together. Years ago she'd read a few books on espionage and remembered that in the spy business it was known as having a “beard.” Since it would draw attention to put the headscarf or ball cap back on, the only other disguise she had right now was this young woman.

  “You're welcome to have a seat until my friend arrives,” said Grant.

  The girl sat down smiling. She lifted her glass, which was about a quarter full. “Well cheers, then. I'm Rena Musaad.”

  “Nicole—” Nicole quickly stopped herself, smiling. “Nicky. Nicky Johnson.”

  They clinked glasses and drank. Having just made the mistake of revealing her first name, Nicole decided her chat with Rena would be an exercise in the careful parsing of words. “You're too pretty to have been stood up. How long have you been waiting?” asked Nicole. Focusing on talking with Rena made her feel a bit better by getting her mind engaged in something other than abject fear. She quickly calculated that she'd wait for Hernandez until five o'clock. If he didn't show by then, she'd call her old boss Ernest Normann at NSA and enlist his help. There had to be a way out of this.

  “Oh, I haven't been waiting long,” said Rena, checking her watch. “About twenty-three hours now.”

  “What? You're joking.”

  “No, I'm not. I was supposed to meet a gentleman here yesterday. He's not answering my messages.”

  “Sorry. Not my business to ask,” said Nicole.

  “It's okay, I don't mind. It was a business meeting, not a romantic one.”

  Nicole nodded distractedly, working to keep up the patter. “So why keep waiting here?”

  “I’ve nowhere else to go.”

  “This is Hong Kong. There are lots of places to go,” said Nicole.

  “I'm trying to stay focused. It was an important meeting.”

  Nicole nodded even though she didn't understand. She suddenly felt a pang of suspicion about Miss Rena Musaad. “Your accent sounds British but you're so exotic-looking.”

  “Well, thank you.”

  “And Musaad is what, Middle-Eastern?” Nicole fidgeted and then absentmindedly wiped her sweaty hands on her slacks.

  “Egyptian. I'm a Coptic Christian. Fortunately, my father sent me to boarding school in England when I was fourteen. I've been in London ever since. Cairo's not such a safe place to be these days.”

  Nicole nodded politely, trying to listen over the roar of thoughts that refused to die down inside her head. She'd keep chatting with the woman and establish a rapport. If Hernandez didn't show perhaps she could use Rena to help her get clear of Pacific Place.

  “What about you? Here on business?” asked Rena.

  “Um, yes. A few more meetings and then back to... St. Louis.”

  Rena smiled as she took in the sight of Nicole's SD cards, adapters, cables, and other accessories. “A Girl Scout were you? Looks like you're ready for anything.”

  “It's called life in the digital world. I travel with what I might need.” Aware that Rena was watching, she tried to appear calm as she unplugged the adapter from her tablet and dropped it and Hernandez's thumb drive into her purse. “I saw you writing in longhand on your computer using a stylus.”

  “I'm a writer. Well, at least I'm working at it. I haven't gotten a by-line yet.”

  Nicole stiffened a bit. “You're a journalist?”

  “That's my dream, but I work as a researcher.”

  Just as Nicole was forming a response, a soft knocking sound interrupted them. The sommelier entered the private room holding a smartphone.

  “Excuse me, are either of you ladies Nicole Grant?”

  Nicole failed to hide her surprise. Was that a question she should even answer in front of the Egyptian? She and Rena exchanged looks. “Why do you ask?” asked Nicole. “Is there a phone call?”

  “No. A Mister Hernandez told me that if he wasn't here by five o'clock, to give this cell phone to Nicole Grant. And it's right now five o'clock.”

  “That's for me.” Nicole reached out and grabbed the phone, surprising Rena. “Can you bring the check, please?” she asked hurriedly.

  The sommelier nodded and walked off as Rena stared at Nicole in complete shock.

  “You're waiting for Mister Hernandez? Ron Hernandez?” asked Rena, incredulously.

  There was no hiding the fact that now it was Nicole's turn to be shocked. “I... don't know what you're talking about.”

  “The man who stood me up is Ron Hernandez!”

  “I don't know any Ron Hernandez,” said Nicole quickly.

  “Your name isn't Johnson, you're Nicole Grant,” insisted Rena, with a newly found sense of recognition.

  Crap. Nicole wanted to run right out of the wine bar. Instead, she began gathering up her electronic accessories and putting them back into the velvet pouch. “No, my name's Nicky Johnson.”

  “No... I see it now... I recognize you from your dossier photo.”

  “Please leave me alone,” snapped Nicole, who stood up and tossed the velvet pouch into her purse. Her hands shook as she searched inside for her wallet.

  Rena stood and leaned in toward Nicole. “We have to talk.”

  “No, we don't.” She found the bundle of cash Hernandez had given her and peeled off two one-hundred-dollar bills. “Check please!” she called out nervously, but there was no sign of the sommelier or a waiter.

  “I'm from WikiLeaks!” exclaimed Rena in a whisper.

  Nicole's jaw almost dropped. What was it Hernandez had said? Beware of imposters from WikiLeaks. “If you're from WikiLeaks, then you're some anti-American misguided do-gooder revealing secrets that have been stolen and don't belong to you. Isn't that right?” Nicole tossed the money on the table—she wasn't going to wait for a check.

  “Hernandez contacted me. Well, not me, but our London office. He sent files: dossiers and news clippings about a series of deaths he claims are linked to a super-secret U.S. government operation.”

  “I wouldn't know.”

  “Helen Bennet was supposed to meet him, but she had an accident and... died.”

  Nicole blanched. Another death from another “accident.”

  “No one else could come,” continued Rena, urgently, “so I volunteered. I'm just an intern, but—”

  “Excuse me,” said Nicole as she moved to step around Rena.

  “Don't you care about this kind of illegal behavior?”

  “I care about living.”

  As Nicole tried to push past, Rena grabbed her arm. “I'm a Coptic Christian originally from Egypt. Do you know what that means? It means I know a lot about fear. From living in a majority Muslim country where our churches are burned down, we're discriminated against, beaten, raped, and murdered as a matter of course, all because we're not Muslims. As children, we learn to use sign language codes.” Rena made a cross by putting her index finger over her thumb.“We try to show visiting Westerners that we're Christians, too. To find some solidarity.”

  “Sorry, you've made a mistake.”

  “But
Westerns tourists could care less about our plight. They go to Egypt to see the Pyramids or the Sphinx and don't want to know about the truth of daily life.”

  “Let me go,” said Nicole softly, not wanting to be obvious as she tried to pull herself free.

  “I can see the fear on your face.”

  “You have no idea,” said Nicole sharply.

  “Really? You know about fear? Have you ever been stripped, beaten, gang-raped, and left for dead by a mob of men? Like I was at age fourteen?”

  Nicole went still and tried to catch her breath.

  “Do you know why no one else would come from London? Because they're afraid that Helen's death wasn't an accident. So I came, because someone has to be brave enough to look for the truth in this unfair world.”

  Nicole stood there reeling. My God, what do I do? Rena's words resonated with her, but...

  “Maybe you won't help me, but I want to speak with Ron Hernandez.”

  Nicole clutched the smartphone given to her by the waiter. Where was he? Regardless of what was going on with Rena, Nicole had to get out of that wine bar.

  “Look, I'm sorry for you, just like I'm sorry for myself. In my experience, the governments of the world aren't too concerned about what's legal or not. And as the Japanese say, 'The nail that sticks up gets hammered down.' So if you're as smart as you look, you'll take a taxi straight to the airport and fly back to London, right now.”

  Nicole broke free. Rena thrust a business card at her. “Please, take this. My Hong Kong cell number.”

  Grant threw it into her purse and hurried out through the rear entrance of Riedel @ Q88, past some restrooms, toward a bank of elevators. She had never felt so alone in her life.

  CHAPTER 7