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

by Ed Kovacs

  “I like those wigs. How much are they?” Nicole asked, her anxiety now overshadowed by a flinty determination.

  She stood near the cash register and eyed several racks of merchandise. The clothing line this season featured attention-getting bright colors, but there was also a selection of black cocktail dresses. The wigs she referred to graced eight different mannequins—five in the display windows and three elsewhere in the shop. The wigs were either blond or black but otherwise identical: short, straight hair in a blunt block cut that curtained both sides of the face as it curved in toward the corners of the mouth, so the cheeks were covered by hair all the way below the jawline. The bangs fell down to the eyebrows and met large dark sunglasses that masked the eyes. The wigs and eyeglasses were a look she'd seen in other shop windows and was a perfect disguise for super-trendy Hong Kong.

  “The wigs are for display, they're not for sale,” said the store manager, a short-haired Hongkonger about forty, wearing bright red lipstick.

  Nicole pressed her lips together and turned away from the woman. She quickly grabbed a couple of items from racks and then returned to the counter. “I'll take this black dress, this blouse, this sailor's cap, a pair of the sunglasses, and two wigs. One black hair, one blond.”

  “The sunglasses and wigs aren't for sale, but I can help you with the other things.”

  A week ago Nicole would have taken no for an answer. But a week ago she wasn't on a hit list in Hong Kong, a city where making money was the primary religion. “You're the only employee here right now?”

  “Yes, I'm the manager.”

  “Well, you have eight wigs on display here and I only want two. I'll pay one thousand U.S. dollars for both of them. To you, not to the shop. And I'll give you two hundred for the sunglasses. To you. I'm sure you could go out tonight and buy new wigs and sunglasses to replace what I want. And you'll pay a lot less than twelve hundred American dollars. Meaning you'd get to keep all that extra money. When you come to work tomorrow, you just replace what I'm going to buy right now. The money for the dress, blouse, and cap you put into the register.”

  She had the manager's attention. But the woman wasn't biting, yet. “I could get into trouble for that. Lose my job.”

  “No one will know except you and me,” said Nicole, pulling the money Hernandez had given her from her purse. “Here's your cash right here.” She counted out $1200. “But let's make it a lucky thirteen hundred U.S. dollars.” She topped off the stack with another C-note, and then built a new stack of hundreds. “And here's the money for the other purchases, with a little extra thrown in as a tip for your help.”

  The manager looked around and outside the shop to see if she was being watched. She pursed her lips as if trying to make a decision. “Make it a lucky fifteen hundred.”

  “No. Thirteen hundred, plus the tip, and that's only if you give me the tube of red lipstick you're using. You're going to throw that in as a gift to me.” Grant smiled inwardly; her reticence to negotiate hard in a Hong Kong business deal had vanished.

  The manager hesitated for a moment as she looked at the mounds of cash. She reached into her purse for a tube of lipstick and handed it to Nicole. “Deal.”

  Nicole took the lipstick, scooped up her purchases, and darted into a changing room. The transformation only took moments. The black wig radically narrowed Nicole's slightly round face, and the sunglasses hid most of the rest of it. She topped the wig with the inside-out red and blue sailor's cap that matched the new blouse. The LBD, or little black dress, was a just-in-case purchase—just in case she needed another disguise, probably to be used with the blond wig.

  As she regarded herself in the mirror in the changing room, she felt a jolt of hope, if not confidence; she had a solid disguise. She rearranged her belongings in the shopping bags, threw open the changing room curtain, and strode out of the shop without looking back at the manager.

  Almost immediately she turned a few heads as she strolled through the mall. With her fear momentarily at bay, a plan had wormed its way into her consciousness. She'd go to the Island Shangri-La hotel, walk out the main entrance, and take a taxi. There couldn't be that many people looking for her—there were too many ways in and out of Pacific Place, and why would they be looking for her in the Shangri-La? It seemed reasonable, so she picked up her pace.

  But thoughts of Hernandez's cell phone invaded her consciousness with a raw urgency. She knew it held more bad news. Still, news equaled information, and she desperately craved more information. So she stepped onto an up escalator toward Level Two, fished out the phone, turned it on and examined the contents. No numbers saved to the contact list, no call log entries, no texts, no downloaded files, no text files... but then, there it was. A single video saved in the gallery.

  Her stomach churned as she plugged in earbuds and tapped the play icon. The screen showed... sheet metal? She heard an engine, traffic noise. Okay, it was inside a vehicle, maybe a van. Driving, but the view was dim. He must have recorded the video with the phone lying flat, so she was seeing the inside roof of a van.

  She got off the escalator and pretended to window shop as she moved deeper into the mall, before riveting her eyes back onto the phone screen.

  “I can only imagine that you're even more scared than you were when I left your hotel room.” It was Hernandez's voice, but the cell phone video view of the van roof didn't change. “I didn't show up at the wine bar with some plan that would save the day and give you hope. The truth is, I don't have any hope to give. After all my years working in Special Operations and then for the Company, I know exactly what I'm up against. The only real hope I have is that I can kill Zhao and spoil everyone's party. So the question for you becomes, 'What to do now?' If you want to stay alive, that is.”

  Nicole's knees buckled slightly. Her breathing quickened. She glanced around to see if she was being watched.

  “If I were you I'd get to the harbor and hire a boat with enough fuel to reach the Philippines. If you make it—a big if—then what? It's not like you have enough cash to start a new life. Sometimes running isn't so easy.

  “I don't have any answers for you. Our government gave Zhao Yiren that drone to help him become the next president of China. He's America's guy, he's in our pocket, and they can't let anything screw with that. So you and me and a bunch of other folks have to die. It's a simple, easy decision for a D.C. suit sitting behind a desk to make.

  “Anyway, for what it's worth, I'm very sorry.” There was a long pause, then, “If you're watching this video that means I didn't show up at the bar, and that probably means I'm dead.”

  Grant stopped in her tracks and almost dropped the phone. She retched, gasped for breath, and touched the glass pane of a display window at Jean Paul Gaultier for support. No! It can't be. This can't be happening!

  Her head was spinning. After a few moments, she started to walk. She had to keep moving, had to appear normal. Follow the plan. Stick to the plan! She looked around, not remembering which floor she was on.

  Okay, she needed to get to Level Three. Concentrate. Level Three, one floor up. There was an escalator up ahead. Get to the Shangri-La, get a taxi, and get out of Pacific Place. Stick to the plan. Her hands shook as she willed herself to take another step.

  CHAPTER 9

  17:12

  Zhao Yiren, one of four vice premiers of the People's Republic of China, was two weeks away from becoming the next Chinese president when the National People’s Congress held their elections in Beijing. As such, he now traveled with a significant entourage and his movements were closely scrutinized. He was officially in town to attend the Kids First charity fundraiser. Kids First had gone into several earthquake-ravaged Chinese cities and lent enormous help rescuing children from collapsed schools, all the while giving credit to local officials to make the efforts go more smoothly. There was goodwill between the Chinese government and Kids First.

  While in town for the charity event, Zhao also filled his time with business meetings,
like the one he currently hosted in his Pacific Place condo. Officially, there were no condos at Pacific Place, only furnished apartments. But when your family is worth billions and you're the son of one of the “Nine Elders” of the Communist Party and have been a privileged “Princeling” for most of your adult life, well, you can make things happen that mere mortals can't. Princelings like Zhao were the children of senior communist officials who've had everything handed to them on a silver platter through nepotism and cronyism.

  Being a Princeling, Zhao had been coming to Hong Kong long before the changeover in 1997 when the Chinese took back control of the territory from the British. He'd bought his condo in the Island Shangri-La tower before the tower had been built. A few select others had done the same. Hotel rooms occupied the upper floors while offices and condos were mixed in on the lower floors.

  So this was an official trip, as all of his overseas trips now had to be. His staff of twenty stayed in various rooms throughout the hotel. Four bodyguards were posted inside the huge condo and two out in the hallway, while six others were off duty. Whenever he went out in public, an additional six Chinese security agents supplemented his private security detail. This visit would generate Zhao some good PR back on the Mainland, since he traveled with a PR secretary and a personal photographer.

  Unofficially, though, Zhao came to Hong Kong for sex. That was one reason his bedroom area was completely soundproofed. Years ago he'd become addicted to “riding the white horse.” He'd become obsessed with having sex with Caucasian women. He was the opposite of all the Western men who went to the Far East looking for Asian girlfriends. There was one Western woman in particular who'd long ago become his primary Hong Kong gal pal.

  But now, it was time for business, and so Zhao Yiren and Conner Green sat in the condo's library on comfortable cushioned chairs with floor-to-ceiling glass windows providing the usual stupendous view. A superstar Canadian architect, Green reigned as the most in-demand architect in the world. His attachment to a project meant guaranteed funding, positive press and a lot of cachet. The Canadian had been about to commit to a two-year project in France, but Zhao was determined to steal him away from the French. Green simply needed a bit of wooing, and that's what this meeting was about.

  Conner Green had a slender build, narrow face, gray eyes and long silver hair tied back in a ponytail. A perfectly tailored herringbone suit by Canali looked dashing on him. A blatant egotist, he thought so highly of himself that he was actually making Zhao work to bring him into the fold—as if the overly generous money offer alone wouldn't do it. Green had spent many minutes expressing his concerns about Hong Kong's future, as if he feared the militant Chinese military was going to swoop in and ruin everything.

  Zhao thought Green was beyond naive. The truth was, he didn't need Green to help raise money—money wasn't a problem for the Chinese. He just wanted the man's brand name attached to his project—well, it was his girlfriend's project. His secret girlfriend. Zhao could care less if Green actually designed the building, as long as he could legally say he did. So as big as Green's ego was, Zhao trumped him.

  And while Green possessed a playboy reputation and cut a sharp figure, Zhao loomed larger than life. The Chinese politico stood six-two and spoke with a clear, deep voice that simply resonated. Dark, brooding eyes seemed to draw people in on unspoken secrets. Thick black hair was always perfectly coiffed. His nose was a little too fat, his ears a bit too large, but that was all overshadowed by that thing called machismo.

  For Zhao Yiren simply dripped masculinity, oozing a smooth charisma reminiscent of film star Robert Mitchum, especially with his deep voice and the mannerisms he used when smoking a cigarette. Zhao was simply “cool,” and how could a politician be cool?

  A cursory look at the last several Chinese presidents made it clear that they didn't get elected based upon their Q Score or sex appeal. They could pass for technocrats, bureaucrats, or mobsters, but would be lucky to get elected dog-catcher if looks-obsessed America had anything to say about it. Even raffish Hong Kong box office king Andy Lau was quoted as saying that Zhao was like an Asian Lee Marvin, and that he had studied him for one of his tough guy roles. That kind of compliment can't be bought.

  There certainly was nothing metrosexual about Zhao. Just watching him light a cigarette or tie his tie and you knew he was a man's man, a rich guy maybe, but he could probably change a flat or handle a sledgehammer or breakdown a 9mm in the dark. Smart, cagey, and wary, he knew how to play to the huddled masses even though he was a cozy insider.

  Coming from a politically powerful family that in 1966 had been labeled “revisionist,” Zhao had been imprisoned and tortured as a teenager during Chairman Mao Zedong's Cultural Revolution—a ten-year spasm of violence, chaos, and upheaval that killed at least 45 million Chinese, all to purge Mao's political enemies and solidify his power base. Zhao's mother and sister died in a “re-education” camp, and while he never forgave Mao, he later studied the way Mao wielded raw power to neutralize his competition.

  When his family eventually returned to prominence, Zhao became a true Princeling. Anyone who saw the scars all over his hands and arms from the burns his female captors branded him with knew he had actually lived that Cultural Revolution horror. The scars helped establish his bona fides, and made him appeal to the common man. They also functioned as a daily reminder, spurring him to climb the ladder of Chinese political power into the same pantheon Mao Zedong himself haunted. Once his power consolidated, massive payback would be brought to bear upon countless families and institutions indelibly etched into Zhao's mind.

  On the surface, Zhao would bring something to the Chinese presidency it had never had: celebrity. Genuine celebrity, that is. Below the surface lurked something else entirely.

  And although Zhao came off as suave and sophisticated, film star Andy Lau had it right: Zhao was a tough guy. The dirty little secret was that he'd not only ordered men and women killed, but he'd killed them with his own hands. Many years ago Zhao had been reunited with his Cultural Revolution oppressors. The event was secretly held in a warehouse late at night and Zhao used a white-hot poker to maim and then kill his female torturers, one at a time. He wasn't the least bit squeamish about the gruesome work.

  Early in his career, Zhao had shot others in cold blood: people who stole from him, cheated him, or plotted against him. He'd earned the respect of henchmen like General Ma because he hadn't been afraid to get his hands sullied. But even Ma didn't completely understand the fire in Zhao's belly for revenge, flamed by his vivid memories of the starvation and degradation he'd endured at the hands of Mao's Red Guards. “Getting even” with the top cadre and beating them at their own game was the driving force in Zhao's life. He had little interest for his wife and children and seldom saw them. They were simply necessary accoutrement for his rise to the top and his quest for comeuppance.

  As a young Princeling life had been simple. Now, he found himself locked in a cutthroat race for the mantle of Chinese Supreme Leader. The complexity and level of treachery he currently dealt with was mind-boggling. He'd even chanced using the help of the Americans two years earlier to ensnare his chief rival, Wang Hongwei. The risks he now ran were huge, and maybe that was the reason his drinking had increased so greatly.

  Regardless, as much as he'd prefer to be focusing on the finishing touches to sewing up the presidency, he instead turned to the spoiled superstar architect sitting across from him in his private library.

  “Conner, many people were worried that the Hong Kong economy would dive after the change-over in 1997, but, on the contrary, Hong Kong boomed,” said Zhao, who then took a healthy gulp of champagne.

  “Why was that?” asked Green, as if he were trying to make the simple question sound incisive.

  “Chinese immigration began allowing Mainlanders with money to come and visit, and there were lots of them. Hotel demand skyrocketed, and so did the price for a room. A hundred-dollar hotel room became three-hundred. Restaurant and shopp
ing centers did great business, and that created employment and wage increases.”

  Zhao put down his empty champagne flute and stood. “Care for a cigar?” He crossed to a standing humidor made of elegantly patterned burl wood.

  “I don't smoke,” said Green, a little smugly, as if not smoking were a badge of honor. “It's bad for your health.”

  “I have acupuncturists and doctors for my health,” said Zhao smiling. He knew Green didn't smoke cigarettes or cigars, but loved to puff on Thai sticks and pack his nose with Peruvian flake cocaine. What a politically correct hypocrite. Zhao selected a rare Gurkha Black Dragon cigar that cost over $1000 USD. He expertly cut the tip, used a wooden match to “toast” the cigar, and then lit up, savoring the first puff. “Smoking cigars is very relaxing. Why don't the doctors ever mention that?” he asked.

  Green didn't respond.

  “Anyway,” said Zhao, looking out toward the Bank of China building that very intentionally dominated the skyline with an artful menace, “Hong Kong has come to rely on China, and the Chinese want to continue spending their new wealth here. Mainland Chinese in Tsim Sha Tsui used to be easy to spot—they weren't dressed as fashionably as Hong Kong people, but carried lots of shopping bags, like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.”

  “Yes, that's true,” said Green as he chuckled.

  “But now that Mainlanders have earned all of this new wealth for some years, it's harder to tell the difference between them and Hong Kong people. The Chinese have become more cosmopolitan, but forget about Shanghai, because Hong Kong,” he gestured with his cigar to the city below, “has become the most prized shopping mall in all of China.”