by Ed Kovacs
“Don't get smart with me!”
“Screw you, Rice. My loyalty to you is exactly zero. I’m hearing whispers on the street that you’re going down. And I’m not going with you,” said the voice with a quiet intensity and a hint of malevolence.
She was on the verge of losing control of her mercenaries when she needed them most. “Look, forget about the bomb. I’m tripling your fee, okay? Does that up your loyalty quotient? Can you make your way to that cabana? Maybe check the rear, see if you can hear something.”
Rice switched the phone to speaker and set it down so she could rub her temples. It was never easy to win the big prize. The world was mostly made up of failures and quitters. The meek, the little people with small dreams. The wannabees who never had a clue. Navigating to the top of the top took cunning, courage, perseverance and ruthlessness. She had them all in spades, but it didn't make the fight easier, it was still a bruising battle with no prisoners taken, no quarter given. The closer to the top of the mountain, the more treacherous the terrain. The damage control for this action in Hong Kong was going to be something. She absentmindedly bit at her nails as she waited for the man to report.
“I’m in the cabana,” said the voice over the speakerphone. “The back was slit open. Wheeler's shoes, his clothes, the vest, the phone and lighter are all on the floor. But he's gone, there's no one here.”
Rice's jaw went slack. They'd lost Chuck Wheeler before he'd even left Pacific Place! She flung her drink into the array of liquor bottles on the buffet table creating a shower of crystal shards and a spray of alcohol that spewed forth like a poisonous hiss. Why was everything suddenly falling apart in Hong Kong?
“Rice, advise,” said the man.
The sound of the South African’s voice jolted her. “Did you say Wheeler left the bulletproof vest in there, too?” she asked.
“Affirmative. The swimming pool is almost at ground level with all the vehicle traffic. Wheeler must have dropped down to the driveway. Do you want me to look, or not?”
Rice's attention was drawn to her smartphone which beeped very softly. “Standby,” she said. The CIA database had a match on the blonde in the photo with Zhao taken a short time ago. Rice picked up the smartphone and then blinked out of pure shock. She was staring at an NSA identification photo of Nicole Grant.
Suddenly, Rice's world was spinning around her. She reached out with one hand and held onto the table. Everything was topsy-turvy; everything seemed to be coming unglued. Years and years of hard work, planning, sacrifice, and her own personal debasement had gone into reaching this point, where she was less than two weeks away from installing an asset, her asset, as the president of all of China! Her feat would be the greatest espionage achievement in modern times, sealing her place of honor, granting her respect, acceptance, adulation. She was simply too close to fail now.
She flashed on something Zhao had said in the emergency meeting. He wanted to know why Pacific Place couldn't be evacuated. General Ma said it would take a real event, a quasi-catastrophe to make that happen and pull it off without getting caught. A spark reappeared in her eyes: the vest. Perhaps there was still a way to net them all.
With the cell phone firmly in one hand, she grabbed the orange bomb detonator with her other hand.
###
Dozens of candles cast a warm golden glow in the outdoor area called The Lawn on the 6th floor of the boutique hotel known as Upper House. About fifteen well-heeled trendoids had been sipping crafted cocktails and making muted small talk as Ron Hernandez, wearing khaki slacks and a navy blue sport coat, had shuffled his way across the open space toward a high hedge. He was favoring the leg, but the limp was barely noticeable. Jaffir had provided antibiotics and Naproxen, relegating the stab wound to nuisance status.
Minutes earlier, Hernandez had gazed down through an opening in the hedge onto the swimming pool of the Conrad Hotel, just across the way. He'd used Wheeler's own binoculars to watch the man as he worked to swim the length of the pool while fully clothed and wearing shoes. Any trackers or electronic bugs Wheeler had been carrying were now worthless. The smart assumption was that Wheeler was bait for a trap, so Hernandez hoped to trap some of the trappers and then beat the truth out of whomever he captured.
Hernandez had noted that Wheeler was in damn good physical condition for a guy in his fifties; he'd have to keep that in mind. He'd watched as Wheeler climbed out of the shallow end, and then he lost sight of him as he ducked into the cabana where written instructions awaited.
That was all some minutes earlier. Right now, Hernandez had the Bushnell binoculars recording video of what he was observing. Wheeler sat placidly on the outdoor patio of Domani on the ground level of One Pacific Place. He wore the outfit Hernandez had stashed in the cabana: black sweat suit, black baseball cap, black sneakers, and sunglasses. Hernandez had also left a cheap cell phone which Wheeler held in his hand.
Casually panning the binoculars back to the Conrad pool, Hernandez saw a man move through the trees, approach the cabana from the back, and enter. He kept watching for about a minute, but the man still hadn't emerged. Hernandez was about to pan back to Wheeler and give him a call, when...
...An explosion ripped the very fabric of the night. The cabana, all of the cabanas simply disappeared. So did the twenty-four chaise lounges and the guests, including children, who'd been in the water or lounging poolside.
Since he was trained to kill and observe death through an optic sight or a drone video camera feed, he didn't lower the field glasses but instinctively zoomed out. Hernandez saw water and blood rise like a fountain of death, a massacre conjured by the devil himself. Trees and shrubs summer-salted in all directions and slammed into vehicles on the drive below the pool that connected the four towers, causing multiple traffic accidents. Debris and body parts flew across the drive and tore into the wedding party on the outdoor plaza just across the way, cutting down dozens of guests where they stood.
The entire pool area then collapsed in a massive cloud of concrete dust and twisted rebar onto the level below as if falling through a chasm straight into hell. The man in the cabana had been vaporized.
Hernandez's mind desperately tried to compute what had just happened when the delayed explosive sound and percussive blast force hit him like a punch to his solar plexus. It was only then that he lowered the binoculars, allowing himself a moment of shock. He immediately raised them to his eyes again and found Wheeler, on his feet now next to his cafe table, staring at the carnage. Hernandez zoomed in; Wheeler looked shocked, panicked even, and then started to walk away.
Hernandez lowered the binoculars, ashen, trying to comprehend the ramifications of this heinous act of carnage. He hoped Grant was safe, wherever she was. Then screams of horror and cries from the wounded punctuated the devastation like an aria of death.
He pulled out his phone but wasn't sure who to call.
What kind of people would do this? Innocent men, women, and children had just been blown to pieces. Children! Was the explosion an accident, a mistake? Had the CIA intentionally killed their operative? If it was intentional, then how in the world could he hope to defeat an enemy willing to destroy anything and everything that stood in the way? Hernandez felt sick to his stomach.
Screw Grant and her frigging files! If he'd ignored her and had just killed Zhao when he had the chance, this wouldn't have happened. Those people would still be enjoying their holiday on a beautiful spring night.
If he hadn't brought Wheeler to that cabana, those people, those kids would still be... Jesus, sweet Jesus. Hernandez wasn't responsible for the dead and wounded, but was connected to their fate in a way that would make for more nightmares and guilt in a life that already had plenty, starting with his dead brother Willie. His brother would still be alive if he hadn't... Ron Hernandez stood there for several moments fighting emotional riptides that threatened to tear him apart.
He'd seen enough of death, but apparently death hadn't seen enough of him.
Time
to go back to the original plan and just kill every one of these pieces of human garbage he could find. Every single one: American or Chinese or whatever. And there was no way in hell he'd let Grant or anyone else stop him this time.
CHAPTER 27
22:32
Chuck Wheeler walked at a normal pace toward The Petit Cafe at the base of Two Pacific Place tower. The long outdoor escalator just beyond it would take him up to Hong Kong Park. Panic-stricken cafe patrons stood holding each other and making cell phone calls. The really smart ones were paying their checks so they could get the hell out. A pall of smoke blowing in from the bomb site sent some into coughing fits. The normally welcome sea breeze had become a pariah, the bearer of bad tidings carrying plaintive moans, horrific screams, acrid-smelling fumes, and the stink of death.
For once, Wheeler didn't feel superior to by-standers at a crime scene. He didn't scare easily, but he was shaken to his very core. He didn't think Hernandez had anything to do with the bomb, he knew it was Rice, but all bets were off now. He was going to ground. He needed cash, which would be his first chore tonight, after activating the contract to assassinate Kate Rice. He'd pay for a boat to Hainan Island, and then make his way to Vietnam.
The cell phone rang. The one Hernandez had left for him in the cabana. His head swiveled as he checked for threats, and then took the call. It was a good reminder to throw away the phone, and fast.
“So that was meant for me?!” Hernandez's voice was low, barely above a whisper, but he sounded livid. “You saw the people at the pool. Innocents. Kids. You waxed one of your own men.”
Wheeler struggled to maintain a neutral demeanor as he skirted a group of on-lookers. The customers at Petit Cafe were now leaving en-masse, perhaps unconsciously fleeing from the sounds of approaching sirens which filled the terror-stricken night.
“I had nothing to do with that. They must have rigged the bulletproof vest.” Wheeler spoke softly so no one could hear. And he didn't want to say the word “bomb” on an unsecured line.
“Keep talking,” said Hernandez, as if trying to reign in his anger.
“I had guns to my head,” he lied. “They forced me to call you and set up a meet. I wasn't lying about my partner, the redhead—they whacked her inside a safe house in the Shangri-La tower.”
“Go on.”
“They gave me a cigarette lighter. Lighting it would activate a GPS tracker so a snatch team could grab you. I also had to wear the vest. Supposedly because they thought you might cap me. I didn't want to wear it, but then I figured it might be a good idea. But I'll bet you anything the ceramic plates weren't ceramic and that the whole damn thing was full of you-know-what.” Wheeler looked up as he stepped on the long escalator that would carry him out of Pacific Place and into Hong Kong Park. “They were going to take out both of us. Two birds with one stone.”
“So why wait until you took it off?”
Wheeler turned and looked out upon the unfolding havoc. “No idea. They've created pandemonium and panic, so maybe they wanted that. But I swear, that bitch is history.”
“Who? Who's your control?”
“Kate Rice. Her cover is CEO of Kids First charity. They're having a huge conference this weekend over at the Convention Center. Right now there's a party in the Shangri-La ballroom. Rice was in the Songshan room at the Shangri-La less than twenty minutes ago.”
The line went dead. Wheeler tossed the phone from the rising outdoor escalator. Hernandez hadn't held up his part of the bargain to provide some means to get out of town, but the whole meet had been a ruse to kill him, so Wheeler couldn't really complain. He'd wanted to erase Hernandez and Grant, but as he stepped off the escalator and into the park, he decided to root for them, instead.
###
A cheer went up in the computer room in another part of the building that housed Tianhe-2 at Sun Yat-sen University in Guangzhou, China. Oi Lam had just announced to the group of hackers from the 57th Research Institute that the encryption used on the American woman's laptop had been broken. The timing was only seventeen minutes off from her estimate on the digital countdown clock, which was now zeroed out.
The programs and files from the computer were quickly divided up between the hackers to speed the process of understanding what had been going on and what information was contained therein. All of the hackers could read, write, and speak English at a very high level.
Oi Lam shunted aside all thoughts of her pregnancy and whether General Ma was going to be financially generous or not. That would become clear soon enough. Her pulse quickened as she concentrated on examining a group of Grant's files. After opening a file named TRAM, she found nine letter and number configurations. Code? Keys? Bank accounts? Now that the puzzle box had been opened, the challenge was to put the pieces together.
“It's the Darknet!” exclaimed Oi Lam. “I suspect the American wrote this software program herself. It has been randomly submitting keys daily to the Darknet to obtain files, but never downloading them. Quickly, let's submit these keys and download the files.”
###
Nicole felt the movement and anticipated the roll of Zhao's body, so she reached up and just managed to stash her tablet computer back into the fake Celine bag. She'd broken out into a sweat, but not from sexual heat. She was scared silly that at any second the future president of China, the man who wanted her deader than a doornail, would realize what she was up to. He was straddling her now and pulled her dress up to her shoulders. With one incredibly strong jerk he tore her bra open revealing her small but pert breasts. The same thing then happened to her panties. Penetration was moments away unless she fought or unless...
“Please, let me wash for you, first,” said Nicole tenderly, as she held his face. “I have to take out the tampon. I want to be clean for you, not dirty.”
This last remark stopped Zhao cold. She hoped the idea that she had a dirty tampon inside her might turn him right off.
“Please do it quickly,” he said, and drunkenly moved off of her.
Grabbing her dress and purse she hurried into the bathroom, where she closed and locked the door. She used a towel to mop beads of sweat from her forehead as she took deep breaths. The breathing exercise helped calm her but didn't change the fact she had only minutes to act. She stood naked at the vanity and checked her tablet. The files documenting the secret drone operation were downloading! She reached over and turned the tap water on strong as a masking sound. She took another deep breath as she opened the audio file of Wang Hongwei and Zhao Yiren in the panel van, which had finished downloading.
No! NO!
The file was corrupted. It was incomplete. She checked another file; same result. She'd kept the files alive on the Darknet but they wouldn't be of any help in this defective condition. Nicole closed her eyes and exhaled. She refused to accept this had all been for nothing, but felt like a fighter who'd been fighting valiantly against a stronger opponent and had now been knocked down with such force that maybe she wouldn't be standing up again. She listlessly pulled on her dress. Perhaps the problem was that the files simply couldn't be kept whole after two years on the Darknet. She wasn't sure.
A pounding on the door jolted her back to the reality of her tenuous situation. “Ariana, I have a plane to catch tonight,” said Zhao, sounding drunk and insistent.
“Just two more minutes, darling. You'll be happy you waited,” said Nicole, shocked at how easily she now shifted into a persona created out of thin air. Two minutes to come up with an escape plan, because now it was time to run.
###
Even though he knew Zhao should be disturbed due to the window-rattling explosion next door, General Ma had kept Chief Lin and the security team from entering the master bedroom. Ma knew his old friend was having a tryst with the blond girl and there would be hell to pay if he were interrupted, bombing or no bombing. The general stood at one of the windows, craning his neck to take in the devastation at the outdoor pool of the Conrad Hotel tower just next door.
; Ma had just learned that additional bomb threats had been called in and that the Hong Kong police had just launched a mandatory evacuation of all of Pacific Place.
Had Zhao Yiren secretly arranged this? Zhao had advocated an evacuation of the facility just a few hours earlier, and now it was happening. Ma crossed to the closed master bedroom door. An evacuation meant he had to risk the ire of the man and interrupt. Even if, as he suspected, Zhao was behind it all.
###
Director Tang could barely hear himself think. His thrown-together CP at the JW Marriott buzzed at an extra high frequency with incoming reports of the bombing at the Conrad—an explosion that they had heard and strongly felt in this very room. In addition to himself and his aide Choi, four people in the room worked for him at the MSS. The other ten personnel in the room were military intelligence members of the Second Department.
Tang and Choi stood together in the open door to the bathroom where they spoke quietly, in semi-privacy.
“I have very bad news. We've found our people. All four are dead,” said Choi, his drawn face now taking on an almost grayish pallor. “Two shot, two stabbed.”
Tang couldn't believe it. “Chang is dead?”
Choi nodded. “All four bodies are hidden under tables next to the ballroom downstairs.”
Tang fumed inside, but his face remained neutral. “And the WikiLeaks reporter?”
“We've lost her.”
“Ai ya.” Tang rolled his eyes skyward as if looking for divine guidance from the spirits of deceased Taoist masters to whom he sometimes prayed. He blinked several times and started tugging his ear as he thought. He had now lost six members of his twenty-person team in Hong Kong. All six of them had been involved in the killings in America. Could Hernandez have known that? Was he exacting retribution?
To lose six people out of twenty was a staggering loss percentage, almost one-third of his team. And his people had not only failed to find and kill Hernandez and Grant, but had now failed to kill a lone woman reporter. It must have been Hernandez who'd killed his people, but it didn't matter. This failure would not be tolerated. That chunky bastard General Ma would have him shot, absent some dramatic reversal of fortune in the next few hours. Tang faced a grim fate, but he didn't want his remaining people to also suffer.
