by Ed Kovacs
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With the sexual tryst finished, Zhao Yiren had retreated back up the secret stairway to his own condo. Kate Rice showered and rinsed off the exudates of their lovemaking, watching as his semen circled the drain. Hopefully for the last time. She dried off, entered the master bedroom, and looked into a full-length mirror. Zhao had taken to calling her pangzi—fatty. Yes, she was carrying some extra weight, but maybe only ten pounds more than when they'd met over a decade ago. She put on weight easily now and tried to make up for it with dieting and exercise, but it just kept getting harder to stay slim.
She also knew not to stay too late at a party. She was ready to turn Zhao over to the new handler, scale back her work in the field, and accept light duty once she was inducted into SIS. She fully intended to keep running Kids First for no other reason than the adoration it afforded her and the million bucks a year she pocketed.
Rice accepted just how ruthless and amoral she was. What Barry Bergman had hinted at was correct; there was blood on her hands from unsanctioned kills, but if it meant the difference between winning and losing, there would be more. She'd figure a way to finesse things. But that didn't make her evil, did it? It just made her—willing to go the extra mile to make sure her operations, righteous operations, succeeded.
Yes, she was ready to come in from the cold. As long as she went out on top. And that's what worried her right now. It was as if Hernandez and Grant were some kind of monkey wrenches thrown into her smoothly oiled machine at the worst possible moment.
CHAPTER 11
17:38
The small hallway off Level Three of Pacific Place that led to the Island Shangri-La was just up ahead, right where Nicole Grant's pamphlet map said it would be. She was still reeling internally from the upheavals of the last few hours and from Hernandez's cell phone video informing her that she was on her own and needed to make a run for it. Still, each step she'd taken since viewing the video had made her a bit more physically composed. She was trying to stay focused on her plan: get to the Shangri-La lobby, make her way outside to the taxi stand, and head for Central Station.
She gained confidence as she walked. The wig and sunglasses from Kate Spade made her reflections in the shop windows unrecognizable. In fact, with the black wig and super dark glasses, she could pass for an Asian. As she neared the turn leading to the hotel, her confidence got tweaked when she noted from her peripheral vision a man in a sport jacket angling toward her. He was holding an 8 X 10 photograph.
Nicole's heart raced and her chest tightened, but she didn't miss a stride. She forced herself to reach into her fake Celine bag, retrieve her cell phone, and hold it to her ear. “Wei?” she said loud enough for the man to hear. She launched into a fake one-way conversation in flawless Beijing-accented Mandarin about how great the shopping was.
The man eyed her closely from about six feet away. She turned away from him, into the hallway, and kept chatting as she walked toward the doorway at the end of the short hall. She listened in between her words. With great dread, she heard his footsteps, following her. Is it my shopping bags? Crap, I've changed my disguises, but I'm carrying the same three shopping bags since I left my room at the Marriott! Maybe they have me on video with all the bags.
Her body went clammy, her mouth dry, her stomach queasy. She hated herself for being so frightened, but she did have slightly better control over her movements than she had earlier when she'd first gotten scared. Maybe she was getting used to it. She was almost to the door but the footsteps behind her grew louder and more frequent.
She reached out for the push bar with her trembling hand that was holding the three shopping bags, when the man's hand suddenly thrust forward...
...and opened the door for her.
She managed to give him a glance. He was smiling. She somehow smiled back, gave a slight nod, and walked through the door with no footsteps following. After a few steps into the swank hotel, she allowed herself to take a breath. She'd made it to the Shangri-La.
Nicole spotted a ladies room. She ducked inside, rushed into a stall, and promptly threw up. She looked at her trusty old Timex and allotted two minutes to pull herself back together. At the sink, she washed her hands and quickly ditched two of the shopping bags and their contents, including the ball cap, headscarf, and cotton mask, into a trash bin.
Back outside she took a couple of deep breaths, and the first thing she heard were strains of soft jazz. As she moved forward into the Shangri-La's lobby, she saw it lacked the Marriott's openness and sense of space, but was tastefully elegant. To her right was a wide marble staircase carpeted in green and gold and abutting a stone wall displaying museum quality paintings and oriental tapestries. Above her, gigantic chandeliers, like waterfalls of crystal, hung down from octagonal recesses gilded in gold. Across the room, a trio of classically uniformed bellmen stood at attention next to the main entrance where a highly-polished black Rolls-Royce Phantom sat parked just beyond the tall glass doors.
With a sense of relief she saw taxis idling outside. Portraying a sense that she belonged in this rarefied atmosphere, and wanting to get this over with, Nicole moved across the white marble floor in the direction of the doorways. But she didn't get far.
A phalanx of Asian security men wearing earpiece comm-links suddenly emerged from the elevator area and bifurcated the lobby. One of them drilled Nicole with his eyes and held his hands out for her to stop. At first, she thought she was being detained, then realized this must be some kind of security detail for a big-wig. As she stood there, however, she drew the stares of other security men.
Was it because she looked good, or was it something else? Grant didn't feel like waiting for the answer. Just a few feet to her left was the Lobby Lounge. It was fairly full of well-heeled patrons enjoying cocktails. A quartet played the bossa nova background music she'd first heard a few moments earlier.
As if she knew them, Nicole impulsively waved toward a table where two older ladies were sitting, then stepped away from the security blockade and moved into the Lobby Lounge. A hostess sat her immediately next to the two women, whom Nicole quickly sized up as well-off Hong Kong tai tais, or married ladies of a certain age, getting sloshed.
“Do we know you, darling?” asked Vivian Chu, the one in a pale green silk blazer, speaking English with a crisp, although slightly slurred from alcohol, British accent.
The accent made Nicole think. She'd spent years living in Italy when her father was stationed at Aviano. She spoke fluent Italian and could mimic a northeastern Italian accent. Feeling the need to remain hidden, she instantly morphed into an alternate identity.
“Sorry, I was mistaken. But you're both lovely and it's my loss that we're not friends,” purred Nicole, sounding authentically Italian.
“Then let's become friends, at least for the next hour or so, if not longer,” said Vivian. “You're Italian, perfectly gorgeous, and I should introduce you to my grandson, except he's a complete cad and I already like you far too much to foist him upon you.”
They all three shared a laugh at that. Nicole ordered an espresso and they introduced themselves, with Nicole calling herself Ariana Faccioli, the name of a childhood friend. Nicole noticed the eyes of several security men lingering on her, so she casually checked her cell phone as a way to mask her nervousness.
“Why does the hotel have so many police? Is there some problem?” asked Nicole.
Eleanor Chow, the second tai tai heavy with diamonds, leaned forward conspiratorially. “Security, darling. For the Prime Minister of Malaysia or some other boob.”
“Eleanor, the Malaysian PM is indeed staying here, but he's trumped by a Chinese Princeling, Zhao Chow, or something like that. He has more security than the Sultan of Brunei. My husband says he'll be the next President of China, poor chap.”
“Do you mean Zhao Yiren?” asked Nicole, remembering that Hernandez had said the man had a condo here at Pacific Place.
“Yes, that's the fellow. He's a bit long in the tooth, but is a
ctually quite... magnetic,” said Vivian, as if she were sharing a bedroom secret.
Magnetic isn't the word Nicole would have chosen. Despicable? Vile? Murderous? To think that he was about to walk past made her blood run cold.
“Yes, yes, Zhao will be at the reception tonight,” said Eleanor, fingering her diamond necklace, “I could introduce you to him if you'd like, but didn't you know that Prince Harry is in town? Staying at the Peninsula, of course.”
“He's so dashing, why aren't we drinking there?” asked Vivian. “But I did notice that Conner Green is staying here.”
“Who's that?” asked Nicole, not really interested but wanting to stay in the conversation. She glanced to the musicians as they segued into a rendition of the Brazilian classic “Corcovado.”
“I'd venture to say he's the most famous architect in the world,” said Vivian. “Perhaps a bit old for you, but he's quite wealthy. He has long silver hair in a ponytail so you can't miss him. He dresses impeccably.”
“Conner Green is friends with Zhao,” said Eleanor conspiratorially. “My friend spotted them together late last night in a club at the Ritz-Carlton. They are both quite the lady killers, so watch out.”
“They'll both be at the Kids First reception tonight. If you're coming, we can introduce you to whomever you'd like to meet.”
“Perhaps I'll see you there,” said Nicole, noncommittally.
The conversation drifted. Since more security men appeared, Nicole sat tight. As the tai tais leaned in close to gossip with each other, Nicole used her tablet computer to make some notes regarding her immediate future. A simple list wasn't exactly a strategy, but it was a start.
1. Call Ernest Normann.
2. Taxi to Lan Kwai Fong.
3. Walk to Central Station.
3. Train to Kowloon side.
4. Avoid taxis, use crowds, walk to a hotel.
Grant understood that she couldn't use her passport or any other ID for anything. Getting a hotel room was questionable, unless she could find a real dump that didn't require a passport. Nor could she use credit or debit cards. She'd have to stick with Hernandez's cash.
She tapped the tablet screen, reconsidering. This was nothing more than a short-term escape plan. Fine for right now, but in the larger scheme of things she needed solutions. As an engineer and penetration tester Nicole not only discovered a system's weaknesses, she proffered solutions to patch the problems. That meant becoming proactive and engaged. Running away wouldn't render any kind of permanent fix.
She looked up to see a short, swarthy-looking VIP escorted out of the hotel by the security detail. That had to be the Malaysian prime minister. The coast was clear for her to leave, but Nicole hesitated. She'd call Ernest Normann right now from the Lobby Lounge, then pay the check, move to a safer location, and strategize how to attack the problem. Every problem has a solution and she was highly motivated to find one.
She attached an earbud / microphone combination to her cell phone, found Earnest Normann's name in her CONTACT LIST, and called. She was using the Hong Kong SIM card in the phone for the first time and had paid cash for it, so it wasn't connected to her name in any way. She calculated that it was about 7 AM East Coast time on Sunday morning. On the eighth ring, a man's voice, obviously stirred from sleep answered gruffly, “Normann.”
Nicole whispered with her mouth close to the small microphone. “I used to work for you. My code phrase was Spike Vector.”
There was a terribly long pause at the other end of the line. Ernest Normann had been a fatherly boss and had made it clear to Nicole that if she ever got into trouble to call him and use that phrase. As she waited for a response, she wondered if he'd forgotten. Just as she was about to ask if he was still there, he said, “Are you on a secure line?”
Her heart sank. “No, but—”
“Don't call back until you get to one.” The line went dead.
Secure line? She was fresh out of those. Crap. The rest of her list had suddenly become meaningless. There was now only one To Do item: find a secure phone. As she sat there pondering that, she saw something that made her practically jump out of her skin.
CHAPTER 12
17:53
Ron Hernandez sat above the Shangri-La's lobby at the grand piano at the top of the marble staircase, playing a muted, passable homage to Papo Lucca's version of Bambeando. The song brought back a flood of sweet childhood memories and for a moment filled the gaping hole that had been ripped open in his heart when he'd heard the horrible news. A bittersweet smile formed on his lips, and then quickly melted into a frown of sorrow. He glanced down to check his watch, and then focused on the keyboard as his father had taught him.
His parents had immersed their children in Latin Jazz from a young age, particularly Salsa, Pachanga, Cha cha cha, and Guaracha. Hernandez had fond memories of watching them dance to a mambo beat in the basement of their Texas home when he was a kid. His mom got him to learn to dance when he was just a boy, and he tried to mimic his hero, the legendary flutist and bandleader Johnny Pacheco, who quite simply had the smoothest moves ever. But Hernandez didn't study the flute, he studied the piano. His younger brother Willie had been outgoing, a little on the chunky side, and always smiling as he learned to play congas while hamming it up, pretending he was Tito Puente. They'd had a lot of fun as kids dancing and playing music, even though they were just amateurs.
A mix of Spanish, Dominican and French bloodlines, Hernandez had come a long way from growing up lower-middle-class in Fort Worth. At the moment, he looked downright snazzy, dressed in an expensive light brown suit. A brown briefcase sat upright atop the piano on the Shangri-La mezzanine. A tablet computer instead of sheet music was in front of him. He wore the facial recognition-defeating eyeglasses and a salt-and-pepper toupee with matching goatee.
Hernandez knew that his dad back in Fort Worth would laugh if he could see his eldest son right now. But his parents weren't laughing much these days. His dad had been a lowly janitor in a high-rise when Ron was born. By the time he was a teenager, his father had opened his own janitorial service and was struggling with business challenges. They were far from poor, but Hernandez joined the army to help ease some of the family's financial burden. He never intended for it to become a career, but the military gave him a college education and appealed to his sense of order.
Because Hernandez was driven to excel, early on he attended the U.S. Army Ranger School and fought overseas as a member of the 75th Ranger Regiment. As he made rank he gravitated to intelligence and graduated from the army's intelligence center in Fort Huachuca, Arizona, becoming an officer along the way. Amongst other units, he served with the 513th Military Intelligence Brigade in support of challenging CENTCOM operations in the Middle East. He was eventually drawn to return to special operations and survived the rigorous selection process to be accepted into 5th Special Forces Group. He didn't become a Green Beret until his late twenties, making him an old man in his outfit, even though many Delta operators are in their thirties or forties. Hernandez had six overseas deployments by the time the CIA's SAD—Special Activities Division—heavily recruited him. He left military service and joined the Company, swiftly becoming one of the more elite covert paramilitary operators working for SAD's Ground Branch. Long bloody years of stressful, intensely dangerous assignments took a heavy toll. Hernandez had become physically exhausted, emotionally spent, and the endless deployments had cost him his marriage. In spite of the personal costs he felt deeply committed to protecting his country. So he came in from the field and went to work in the, Counter Terrorism Center, the CIA unit that oversaw their drone operations and had over 2000 personnel. He'd spent the last two years on drone ops, mostly working as a supervisor on agency teams that located, identified, and terminated BGs—Bad Guys—in the Middle East and South Asia.
The burnout from endless drone operations was a different kind of animal. Waxing BGs up close while deployed in the field, on the ground, was one thing. But when tracking an individual
for days or weeks while building a video dossier, operators like Hernandez got to know the target intimately. He watched them leave their house to go to work, knew when they would stop for tea. He watched targets make love to their wife on the roof of a mud hut, watched them relieve themselves in a field. He saw the poverty, and he sometimes also saw the utter evil of what they did.
And Hernandez had done it all from the air-conditioned comfort of a mock cock-pit at a U.S. military base on American soil, working nine-to-five. It was a bizarre way to conduct a war, he thought. What had at first seemed like a low stress posting turned out to be psychologically challenging, because when he ordered the button pushed that sent a Hellfire missile to execute the kill, he was terminating someone he'd gotten to know a little bit. And strangely, that was harder to do than to just shoot a BG in the back of the head in the dark of night in an unfriendly place.
And now, here he was, a highly trained elite operator more at home in the hardscrabble killing fields of the Third World, sitting in the glamorous Island Shangri-La Hong Kong preparing for yet another kill, this one not quite up close, but not so far away, either.
The placement of the piano, right at the edge of the glass rail on the mezzanine overlooking the front entrance, was perfect. One of Zhao's security pukes stood only thirty feet away, covering the high ground for when his boss emerged from the elevator and headed for the Rolls parked outside. Hernandez knew Zhao was being driven to a dinner meeting and would return to the Shangri-La later for a children's charity reception. Regardless, he intended to wipe him now, as soon as he crossed below. And Hernandez, sitting with his back to his target, couldn't have looked any less threatening.
Even the briefcase didn't look threatening. Snugly held inside was a specially-rigged .40 caliber suppressed pistol, canted for an overhead shot. Thin brown vinyl matching the brown leather covered the hole where the bullet would exit. After he fired, Hernandez would place a new vinyl sticky strip over the exposed hole. The pistol was loaded with custom-made “chemically enhanced” ammunition that would insure every shot was a kill shot. Special optics aligned with the barrel provided a video feed to his tablet, meaning he could aim the weapon by watching the tablet screen and by slightly panning or tilting the briefcase using only one hand, while he played piano with the other. The bottom of the briefcase was specially weighted to help mitigate recoil. The remote switch to fire the weapon was on the floor, next to the three piano pedals, so he only had to step on it to shoot. He'd designed this with the help of his old friend Jaffir, who was right now waiting in a box truck somewhere in the parking lot.
