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

by Ed Kovacs

  ###

  Rena Musaad had yielded the private room in the wine bar to a party of four and returned to the table she'd had before joining Nicole Grant. The couples in the private room had already polished off two bottles of Chilean Shiraz, while Rena still nursed the bottle of Bordeaux left over from her run-in with Grant. London had responded to her breathless message: they would not be sending more money to extend her stay. This obviously meant they didn’t believe that she was on to something. The cost of remaining for even one extra day was beyond Rena's means, so she had little choice but to make her midnight departure on British Airways. Meaning it was time to go to her room, pack, and get a taxi.

  The sommelier entered and was heading her way when she signaled to him. He placed a black leather bill presenter in front of her which she assumed contained the guest check. But when she opened it she saw a note:

  “I PAID YOUR CHECK. I HEAR YOU WANT TO TALK TO ME. GO TO THE LOBBY AND ASK A HOTEL STAFF MEMBER TO ACCOMPANY YOU TO THE JW BALLROOM. I'LL FIND YOU THERE. R.H.”

  Rena sat up straight with a jolt of shock and worked to contain her excitement. As she was about to leave, with failure knocking on her door, Ron Hernandez had contacted her! She might get the story after all. She quickly gathered up her things and left using the same route Grant had used some hours earlier. She glanced all around the busy lobby area. She found a young female staff member whose job was to provide basic assistance, mostly directions, to guests. The staffer immediately agreed to accompany Rena to the JW Ballroom. They got into an elevator car with a twenty-something Chinese couple. After a brief ride, they all got out of the car and the young staffer pointed Rena in the direction of the ballroom.

  ###

  William Snedeker was still not responding to any of the emergency contact protocols he and Ron Hernandez had established. Meaning they'd gotten to him and possibly killed him. Snedeker had been Hernandez's father-in-law during his five-year marriage. Hernandez was the son Snedeker never had, and the men remained close friends. They'd often gone hunting and fishing together, and either smoked and cooked what they'd killed or donated the meat to homeless shelters. They spent long hours talking philosophy, politics, and world history. Hernandez had taught his father-in-law how to make Dominican-style longaniza, as well as the joys of eating mofongo with an ice-cold Presidente beer.

  Snedeker had had a lot to teach, too, since his title was Deputy Director of the National Clandestine Service. He provided wisdom regarding tradecraft and acted as an unofficial sounding board, adviser, and mentor. Now retired and widowed, Snedeker's daughter—Hernandez's ex-wife—had remarried and moved to California. The old spook was left all alone, but Hernandez visited frequently, especially during the last three years when he'd joined the CTC and held a 9-5 job just outside D.C.

  It had been William Snedeker who, ten days earlier, had smuggled him out of A-Town Bar and Grill, Hernandez's favorite stop for a happy hour drink and free appetizers in Arlington. Chinese killers had been literally waiting in cars outside on North Fairfax Drive. It was Snedeker who'd given him the news that Willie had been murdered earlier that day. Hernandez had practically gone to pieces as they'd driven out to Snedeker's cabin in rural Virginia. Later that night, his father-in-law gave him cash, multiple access codes to multiple CIA databases, weapons and other gear, since going home had been out of the question. It was still out of the question.

  Would his death be the only way this nightmare would end? Losing both sons would destroy his parents, and that angered him as much as anything else. He'd called in favors and spent money to provide for a private security cordon around his mom and dad at all times. He wished there was something he could do for Snedeker, a man who'd gone operational at age 77 while carrying an oxygen bottle in a special pack on his back. He'd done it to save Ron's life. The old man almost never left his house anymore, and the doctors had given him less than a year to live.

  Snedeker refused to say how he found out that all the Omega Team members from the drone operation were being killed. “It's better if you don't know so it can't be tortured out of you,” was the sobering excuse he'd given him that last night they'd spent together. “I'm going to blow the lid off of this one myself, and I don't care who goes down with the ship,” were the last words Snedeker had spoken before a humbled Hernandez had disappeared into a chilly Virginia night.

  Right now, Hernandez sat in the foyer adjacent to the JW Ballroom in the Marriott hotel, once again wearing the eyeglasses featuring special textures that defeated the best facial recognition software. His heart felt heavy. First his brother, now maybe his father-in-law. Except for his dad, Hernandez had lost the two men in the world closest to him. He owed it to both men and to the families of all the dead, to make amends.

  A large wedding reception in the ballroom had ended earlier. Cleanup of the stemware, silverware, and china was complete, but since the ballroom wasn't booked to be used for the next few days, the on-duty staff had not yet broken down the elaborate red-themed decorations for the Chinese-style wedding. The hotel staff was busy with other doings on the other side of the elevator bank, so the decorations wouldn't come down until the morning.

  The ballroom wedding reception had been a major soiree, and the foyer here was extensively decorated. Red bunting draped the walls and crisscrossed parts of the ceiling while dozens of tall, fat red candles like the kind found at Taoist temples sat in clusters throughout the entrance hall. Eight large individual red draperies hung from the ceiling, each one bunched and tied with red ribbons and forming a sort of flowing colonnade of crimson that seductively led into the ballroom as if one were entering a forbidden inner sanctum sanctorum for induction into a great mystery.

  Hernandez sat with his back against a marble wall of the now dim foyer, his straight-back chair covered in shiny red silk. He sat behind three long tables placed end-to-end, also draped in red silk. The tables had probably been used for guests to sign the guest book and to drop off gifts. He caught sight of his reflection in his dark cell phone screen. The silver ponytail and glasses made him appear different than he'd ever looked in his life, but he was anxious to ditch the itchy wig. He was about to scratch the back of his neck when shards of sharp laughter from the far off salon rooms down the hall sliced the quiet. He looked and listened for something sinister. Nothing.

  As he sat waiting, he used one of the access codes given to him by Snedeker to confirm the identities of Rice, Ma, and Tang. By cross-referencing his searches with Zhao Yiren, he came up with Major General Ma Ju, Director of the Second Department, People's Liberation Army General Staff Department—China's top military spook. After reading the general's CIA dossier, he decided this was the guy whose phone number was in Roberts' cell. Ditto for Director of Special Projects Tang Jie of the Ministry of State Security. Both men were heavy hitters and their careers intertwined with Zhao.

  Rice was the unknown quantity. Dozens of people named Rice populated the CIA personnel database. He puzzled over the type of agent who would be Wheeler and Roberts control on such a sensitive, bloody op, but came up with too many variables. Maybe this Rice person wasn't even CIA or maybe Rice was a nom de guerre. The easy way to find out would be to call.

  But he wasn't ready to do that.

  He'd listened to the audio file Grant had sent him of her conversation in Conner Green's hotel suite. Amazingly, she'd soon be attending the big charity function at the Shangri-La and seemed likely to meet Zhao. A logical play would be to get into Zhao's condo using some kind of ruse, but could she really do that? She must have some kind of plan—she always did. Whatever it was, he didn't want to see her get hurt. Yes, she'd lied to him, had spied on his op, was clumsy in the field, didn't take orders well, but... he kind of liked her.

  Grant was making her own play alone, so in the meantime, he'd take steps to increase their odds of surviving. This is why his gun hand rested inside his backpack as he waited for Rena Musaad.

  And whoever was following her.

  ###
<
br />   As Rena Musaad entered the foyer area just to the east of the elevator bank, a chill went up her arms. Dim lighting cast long shadows from hanging bunting and giant candles. Except for the decorations, the hall in front of her stood eerily empty. The dramatic red ornamentation took on symbolic malice to her in the faint light and she suddenly felt uneasy. Was Hernandez waiting behind one of the billowy red drape shapes?

  She forced herself to keep walking. It made sense, after all, that the man was lying low. Being careful.

  Unless, it wasn't Hernandez who sent her the note, but instead, some killer looking to scratch another WikiLeaks reporter. Rena flashed on Nicole Grant's earlier admonishment: “If you're as smart as you look, you'll take a taxi straight to the airport and fly back to London right now.” Her gut tightened, her throat constricted, and she felt pressure in her chest. These were panic symptoms and she'd felt them before, had surrendered to them. But she was older now, determined, and hopefully smarter. She took a few deep breaths and consciously fought back the fear.

  Still, Rena was wondering just how smart it was to be down here alone, when she caught movement from the corner of her eye. She turned and saw a pony-tailed gentlemen sitting behind a long row of red-draped tables. He dramatically held a finger to his lips and motioned her to keep walking down the hallway. Was that Hernandez?

  She was about to speak up, when he emphatically gestured for her to be silent and to keep moving through the pillars of red draperies and into the ballroom. She saw him silently drop down below the line of sight of the tables, hidden by the red bunting. Shivers ran up her arms. She felt the danger in the air and knew without a doubt she faced big trouble right here and right now. She swallowed hard, remembering walking down narrow dark stone passageways alone in Cairo when she was a teen. She'd lived through that, and she hoped to live through this. So she whispered a nearly silent prayer as she melted away into the sea of red cloth.

  CHAPTER 22

  20:29

  The 400-person reception in the Island Ballroom of the Island Shangri-La Hong Kong was due to officially begin soon. Meaning that Kate Rice had been running around like a force of nature making last-minute split-second decisions, mediating disputes, berating staffers over mistakes, and sometimes holding hands with the offended.

  The black-tie event tonight was an exclusive, invitation-only private adjunct to the Kids First charity conference over at the Convention Center, and was designed for the richest donors to have adult fun. Titled “Bet on Us,” the reception featured a tasteful casino theme that prevailed throughout the hall. Roulette, pai gow poker, pan 9, blackjack, craps, and other tables with games of chance were salted throughout the ballroom, the whole shebang decorated with silver and gold accents. All guests would be given 100 HKD worth of chips and be encouraged to have at it.

  Rice had intended to do some serious schmoozing with six potential mega-donors tonight, but that was now unlikely thanks to that prick Chuck Wheeler. She'd confirmed that he had a contract out on her with the Wo Shing Wo that would become active should he be killed. Then she spent time making arrangements for how to use Wheeler to get to Hernandez. She expected Wheeler to show up any minute, but events had taken such a sudden turn for the worse she might have to go operational herself. What bad timing.

  Almost as if on cue, Rice looked up from an easy chair and saw Wheeler standing in the entrance to the partitioned-off area of the ballroom that served as her private lounge, with plush chairs and sofas and a full bar set-up. Wheeler's eyes darted around the room, taking in the layout. He didn't look impressed and pulled out his cell phone.

  “Hernandez hasn't called. Whatever you got, I hope it's smart, because I can't be wired, I can't have a tracker—no electronics of any kind. He's too good to miss anything like that. And tailing me won't work either. He'd spot it.”

  Rice held up a pack of Marlboros and a stainless steel Zippo lighter. “You smoke, right?”

  “Occasionally.”

  “Tonight is one of those occasions. Nothing special about the pack of cigarettes, but when you meet Hernandez, light up. The Zippo works, but when you use it, it sends out your GPS coordinates, and then shuts off. Use it again, same thing.”

  “So it's passive unless I light it?”

  “Correct. If he checks you for electronics, it won't register as anything but a dumb lighter.”

  He nodded and took the lighter and cigarettes.

  “I've mobilized a dozen very dependable contract agents. Not Americans and not CIA. They’re your back-up, but not for close surveillance. Use the cigarette lighter and they'll be there in minutes.”

  “Theoretically,” he said, skeptically.

  “I’m also swapping out your phone.” She held up a cell phone that resembled his. “Put your SIM card in here. That way I can listen in on the conversation and track you. Even if he checked, there's no way he could know this was anything except a regular phone.”

  “Chances are he'll have me dump my phone and pick up a different one along the way.”

  She shrugged. “If you dump it, you dump it. You'll still have the Zippo.” She apprised him carefully. Wheeler oozed confidence, but he wasn't cocksure. The man was a total pro and had Hernandez's scent. Without taking her eyes off him, she slid a thick, plain manila folder across the table toward him. “Hernandez's personnel file. I didn't want the Chinese to know everything, but it's all here for you, unredacted.”

  He nodded.

  She was surprised that he didn't reach for the file. “Tell me about the kill plan.”

  “I have a couple of discreet weapons. If I get close to him, I can kill him.”

  “You sure as hell better. Last thing: you have to wear a vest.” Rice reached into a gym bag and brought out a bulletproof vest.

  “I don't need or want a vest,” said Wheeler, emphatically.“It's going to get physical. A heavy, cumbersome vest is the last thing I need to be wearing in a fight.”

  “It's probably some kind of lawyer nonsense designed to absolve the Agency of negligence in case Hernandez shoots you dead. If you don't wear the vest, my orders are to have you escorted to the airport and fly you to D.C. right now. I'll deal with Hernandez and Grant myself if I have to.”

  Rice watched him carefully. He should have killed me in the conference room when he had the chance. But he was cautious, and smart. Smart, but not brilliant, not a big, strategic thinker. Yes, he could be counted on for your garden variety wet work—he'd killed low-level terrorist assets, mid-range Iranian agents, and highly-trained North Korean operators who were hard targets. Wheeler acted either alone or with a team. He'd performed black bag jobs, surveillance, intelligence collection, and support roles. A competent jack-of-a-trades.

  But he remained a contract player only. Maybe she hadn't personally killed as often as Wheeler, and didn't have his extensive field experience, but she'd founded and built a multimillion dollar organization from the ground up, all as an espionage platform. She ran with the jet set, Wheeler haunted open-air bars full of bitter, drunken expats in Southeast Asia. He was an expendable pawn used in the endless grand games of people like her. After all, a human life was the cheapest commodity on planet Earth.

  “All right, I'll wear the vest,” he said, reaching for the file that contained the secrets of Ron Hernandez.

  ###

  Zhao Yiren's private jet and a helicopter were made ready for an estimated 11:00PM departure. He was back in his Pacific Place condo, sitting in the library where he'd always been comfortable, but tonight he felt troubled and wasn't sure he'd ever be relaxed in Hong Kong again. For the first time in his adult life he pondered a future without Ma Ju. The General right now sat across from him in an overstuffed leather chair engrossed in his smartphone. Zhao selected a cigarette from the box of Huang He Lou 1916 smokes on the table next to him and lit it with a solid gold Dunhill lighter.

  Unlike General Ma, Director Tang was easily replaceable, and in fact, his replacement had already been chosen. The fact Tang had lasted
more than fifteen years was perhaps poor judgment on Zhao's part. But unlike Tang, Ma had been his great friend since they were teenagers together. Over forty years had passed since they'd become blood brothers. How could he dare replace General Ma?

  But he must dare. The three pinnacles of power in modern China were within his reach! Zhao was poised to be elected General Secretary of the Communist Party of China, Chairman of the CPC Central Military Commission, and President of the People's Republic of China at the next CPC National Party Congress in a mere two weeks. He'd grasp the brass rings of power and forever rehabilitate his family name. Those factions and institutions which had so wronged his family would be held accountable, one way or another, in his Great Reckoning, a dream living and breathing inside of him since his teenage days as a torture victim.

  Nothing must stop him, so General Ma would have an accident, a terrible, tragic accident. As head of Chinese military intelligence, his death would be seriously investigated, so the hit would have to be done right. And he had just the man to do it: Chief Lin, the head of his personal security detail.

  Zhao looked up at his old friend Ma and they exchanged slight smiles. He felt a rush of exhilaration from the decision to get rid of old baggage no longer needed.

  ###

  General Ma smiled at Zhao Yiren. Ma had minutes earlier seen to the addition of the twenty men sent over to beef up the vice premier's security detail. There was no way Zhao could be feeling good about the way things were going, but he hadn't complained. And that troubled Ma, because he was a complainer and whiner. The rich and powerful usually are. He knew his old friend very well, knew he was up to something, crafting plans in his mind.

  Ma covertly arranged for his own helicopter to be prepped for flying and had it standing by at the Peninsula over in Kowloon, the only hotel in Hong Kong with a helipad, a leftover regulation from those damn British who ran the territory for one hundred years. The general wanted to put distance between himself and any more failures. Better if he went to Guangzhou to see Oi Lam. He'd have to secure her safety and the safety of the boy she carried in her belly. His son! Zhao himself had ordered her death, but Ma would not allow that to happen.