Locked Down

by Ed Kovacs

“Only me. I was trying to cover your butt. I thought it was important information that someone would want to listen to. You were on the phone, preoccupied.”

  “Your orders were to destroy everything.” He pressed his lips together hard, biting back anger.

  “I thought it was the right decision at the time,” she said, meekly.

  He exhaled, willing himself to calm down. His nerves were fried from lack of sleep so he had to work hard to control himself. “Did you listen to any of it, what you'd recorded?”

  “No. I don't even know if the quality was any good. It might have been incomprehensible.”

  He knew the NSA was adept at filtering out non-verbal vibrations from such recordings and separating the wheat from the chaff. Grant was answering his questions, but she was holding back. Hiding something.

  “That night as it went down, I was waiting to ask you about the audio file, to tell you what I'd been recording. But you were on the secure phone, meaning it was an important call, so I didn't interrupt you. Then when the pilot said he'd lost control of the drone, I kind of panicked and just sent it.”

  He digested her explanation with a neutral expression. “You retrieved that file?”

  “No,” she said emphatically. “I think you can imagine I was scared for my career. I didn't want to touch it. And you know how Darknet works. After about thirty days, if no one enters the key to request the file, all those thousands of pieces just kind of go away. Is that file I sent the reason you're here now?”

  She was deflecting, and she was good at it. “Damn it, you disobeyed my orders.”

  “Yes, I did!” she snapped. “The orders of a traitor. You're the traitor, Hernandez, not me!” she practically shouted as her cheeks flushed and she drilled him with a contemptuous glare.

  “Traitor?” He looked at her, taken aback by the accusation.

  “I'm a lip reader. I saw what you said into the phone when the pilot confirmed the drone was in Chinese control. You said, 'Objective effected. They've got it.' The Chinese were supposed to get that drone. Wang Hongwei was supposed to get arrested. Your job was to see to it, right?”

  “Traitor, huh?” His tone was not one of protest, but of resignation. Sadness clung to his words like stink on a rotting carcass. He thought back to the moment. Could Grant know what his true role had been? If she did, what should he do about it?

  “So who is the guilty party here?” she demanded, as her hands shook. “Who should be getting a bullet in their brain?! The only thing I'm guilty of is running away from all of your dirty business.”

  He shook his head. “Well, you've got some balls, I'll say that. If I hadn't had a reason to kill you before, I do now,” he said, leveling his pistol at her heart.

  Grant looked like a terrified deer ready to bolt up from her prone position on the bedroom floor of her suite in the Conrad. It irritated the hell out of him that she thought he was a traitor, but the fact she believed that actually signaled her innocence. And if she were innocent, well, then he had a whole different set of problems.

  After a moment, he lowered the gun and held up his hand. “I'm declaring a temporary truce. I need time to think.” He stared off into space for several long seconds, and then pursed his lips. Grant had figured out what his mission had been on the drone operation, but that didn't worsen his already dire predicament. No, her knowledge of his true role didn't alter his disposition matrix. He'd kill her only if she was in bed with the Chinese, and that was now looking less likely.

  “When did you leave on this trip... your departure from the States?”

  “Seventeen days ago. One week in Japan, one week in Korea, and I've been here for three days. Check my passport, it's in the other room.”

  He didn't go for the passport, but retrieved her tablet computer from the bed and re-checked her Facebook page. He found her first posting from Japan—seventeen days ago. Grant had left on vacation before the killings in America had begun. That's why she was still alive, and that's why the hit team had been positioned on Tung Choi Street. She'd been the target today, not him.

  “Damn, I almost wiped you on the street while you were shopping.” He exhaled a sigh of relief. “For three reasons. Number one, the fact you'd secretly sent that audio file made you look like a spy—a mole for the Chinese is what I figured. Secondly, you're here in Hong Kong at Pacific Place the same time Zhao Yiren is here, also staying at Pacific Place. That's not the kind of coincidence I like.”

  Grant blanched. “Zhao Yiren is here!?”

  “He's got a condo in the high rise across the way, right over there,” said Hernandez, gesturing at the window. “With Wang Hongwei out of the picture, Zhao is a shoe-in to be elected president of China in two weeks.”

  She gawked out the window, obviously wracked with confusion. “But, what does that have to do with me? I've done nothing to—”

  “The third reason is, you're still alive, which didn't make sense, unless you were working for Zhao.” He stuck the gun in his waistband, and then offered his hand to help her up. “Sorry I had to put you though all of this. What say we go bust your mini-bar budget?”

  She ignored his extended his hand and looked like she was about to burst into tears. She composed herself, stood up on her own, snatched her tablet from him and gathered her cell phone from the bed. She wouldn't look at him as she wiped at her eyes.

  He felt bad for having put her through such a stressful ordeal and wanted to show her she had a lot to be grateful for. Beyond that, he needed to bring her up to speed if she was going to have a chance to live through this. “I've got something for you,” he said, opening the drone surveillance video on his tablet computer and offering it to her. “It's a movie from your shopping trip today.”

  She turned away from him. “Not interested.”

  He grasped her shoulder and thrust the tablet into her hands. “You're going to watch this whether you want to or not. Because you need to understand.” His eyes bore into her with an intensity that offered no compromise. He released his grip on her shoulder and moved toward the doorway, knowing there was a hotel phone in the bedroom and bathroom. He stopped at the door and turned to face her. Grant had become a different type of problem. He now felt a responsibility for her, but some mutual trust would make things a lot easier.

  “Please watch the video. If you want to call the police or hotel security after you see it, all I ask is that you give me a five minute head start to get out of here.”

  She gave him a long hard look. “I want you to leave, so I'll watch your video. But then you get out,” she said sharply.

  Hernandez nodded and shuffled into the living room. He looked disassembled, like a Joan Miro painting where a person doesn't quite fit together right. He opened the mini-bar and took out two small bottles of Jack Daniels and a can of Coke. He poured bourbon and cola into a glass, used his index finger as a cocktail stir, and took a sip. He rubbed his eyes and then looked around the room, unhappily. Grant was a complication, but it felt good to save an innocent. And he needed some small victory right now to help him keep going. His thoughts drifted to his parents and his eyes misted. He immediately exiled these personal thoughts, shutting down all sentimental lines of thinking, an indulgence he couldn't afford. He glanced over to the windows.

  Hong Kong.

  He'd succeeded here before and he intended to do so again. A local man, his good friend Jaffir Khan was already assisting him. Probably not a good idea for Jaffir, but the man was loyal to the bone. With luck and with Jaffir's technical assistance Hernandez hoped to land a big fish in the coming hours. In the meantime he'd attempt to contact William Snedeker once more. Maybe his old friend was somehow still alive. Hernandez checked his black-faced Suunto Core wristwatch, and that seemed to snap him alert. He threw back the rest of the drink.

  “That woman with the red jacket was going to shoot me, wasn't she?” said Grant, in something of a bewildered daze as she moved into the main room from the bedroom while holding his tablet. “You saved my lif
e.”

  He turned to face her. “Don't give me too much credit. It wasn't the original plan.” He watched her closely now. If she fell apart and panicked, she'd be useless and he wouldn't be able to help her.

  “You said the third reason you wanted to kill me was because I was still alive. Can you explain that?” She slowly moved into the room and sat on the sofa.

  Good, she's thinking, she's engaged, trying to suss out the situation. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he said, ignoring her question. “Don't talk to anybody who says they're from WikiLeaks. There are impostors floating around. There's a lot I still have to tell you.”

  “So tell me!” She sprung up from the sofa and crossed to face him. He saw that she'd gone from being scared to death he was going to kill her, to just being scared to death. Scared was okay, scared was normal.

  He poured the other Jack Daniels and offered it to her. His mind raced as he calculated the rough draft of a course of action. “You don't trust me a hundred percent and I don't trust you a hundred percent, but we are in some deep kimchee, Grant. I can tell you that. Here, take a drink.”

  She accepted the glass, took a tentative sip, and then coughed.

  “Don't tell me,” he said, “you're a non-drinker.”

  She shook her head. “Red wine.”

  “We'll have one together at the Marriott.” He checked his watch again. “Meet me there at four. That's fifteen minutes from now. Disguise yourself. Put your essentials into one bag and bring it with you. Leave everything else.”

  He moved toward the door, and then turned to her. “As a good faith gesture, and to generate a little trust between us, I'll tell you this: yes, my orders were to make sure China got that drone, and that Zhao Yiren got credit for stealing it. I hated like hell to do it, but I followed my orders. And that was the biggest mistake of my life.” He saw the confusion written on her face. “Four o'clock, don't be late. I'll explain everything.”

  “Wait! Shouldn't we stay together?” she asked, in a tone verging on panic.

  “We've got to move you to a safe place, but I have something to do right now and you can't tag along. The Chinese will come for you, so be out of here in five minutes. Three would be better. Here—” He fished out a stack of hundred-dollar bills from his backpack and pressed them into her hands. “Five thousand dollars of 'Just in Case' cash.”

  Hernandez checked the peephole. “Avoid the lobby. Make your way down to the shopping mall and then cross over to the Marriott Tower. There's a small wine bar off Q88. We'll meet there.”

  “Can't we call the U.S. Consulate and—”

  “Oh, hell no. Don't even think about doing that. Don't talk with anyone. Don't answer the phone, don't open the door. Be out of here in three minutes, okay?”

  “Okay.” Grant nodded, but she didn't look okay, she looked ready to come unglued. Before he could take a step, she darted in front of him and blocked the door. They stood just inches apart and she took one of his hands in hers. “You're not leaving until you explain the third reason why you wanted to kill me. You said it was because I was still alive. What does that mean?”

  He looked into her exotic green eyes; saw her intelligence, her steely determination. He decided on the spot he'd do everything he could to help her. After the briefest of moments, his countenance softened. He hadn't wanted to tell her this until later, but maybe there wouldn't be a 'later.'

  “Everyone's dead but us,” he said in a cottony whisper. “There were twenty personnel staying in that warehouse in Pomona. Myself, four security contractors, and three shifts of five crew members. In the last two weeks, the other eighteen died from poisonings, a carjacking, an 'accidental' fall, armed robbery, car accidents, a home invasion, a freak explosion, 'suicide,' and outright murder.” He reached into a pocket and handed her a USB flash drive. “All documented on this.”

  She swallowed, as if trying to take in the magnitude of his words. She hesitated, and then took the flash drive.

  “Why?”

  “Because dead men tell no tales.”

  He watched her eyes flash as the heavy realization hit her. “Someone wanted to go public about the drone,” she said in barely a whisper.

  He nodded. “It wasn't me. But a couple of days ago, I did approach WikiLeaks in London to hedge my bets. So I've got good news and bad news. Good news is, I'm not going to kill you. I believe you're one of the good guys. The bad news is: the Chinese government and the United States government have sanctioned my assassination. And yours, too.”

  Nicole's mouth opened, but no words came out.

  “Three minutes, Grant, because, trust me, they're coming for us.”

  CHAPTER 5

  15:36

  Seven million people call Hong Kong, Special Administrative Region, People's Republic of China, home. The city isn't choked with high-rises because they're fun to live and work in, but because there isn't enough land. So when the Hong Kong Convention and Exhibition Center decided to expand, there was no choice but to “create” land from Victoria Harbor. In four short years, the ever-busy Cantonese built an artificial island and completed the ultra-modern, light and airy expansion project. Now, the six-story Convention Center with breathtaking views of the water boasted five exhibition halls, two convention halls, theaters, and over 50 meeting rooms. Convention centers were, after all, about business, and the Hong Kong Chinese had sharply-honed skills in the fine art of generating cash.

  Kate Rice, CEO of the hugely successful children's charity Kids First, also knew a little something about generating cash. Her charity's big annual fundraiser was being held in Hong Kong this year, and she and her staff utilized the Convention Center's ample facilities and amenities to their fullest. Rice saw herself as more businesswoman than humanitarian, but kept Kids First focused on the basics: providing food, medicine, and shelter to at-risk children in at-risk places, mostly in the war-torn corners of the world.

  A classically attractive, big-busted blue-eyed blonde in her late thirties, her straw-colored hair was pulled back into her trademark French braid. Rice filled out a designer business suit better than most. Her skirt hem was higher above the knees than many women her age, all the better to showcase her gorgeous legs. She knew all too well that her job was to get gobs of money handed to her, and sales, err, “donations” always went better with a little sexed-up interplay mixed in, charity or not.

  She'd become something of a cult figure after YouTube videos surfaced of her shouting down warlords and even Islamic militants in order to get supply convoys through armed checkpoints or blockades and into camps housing children who'd fled the ravages of war, hunger, or worse. Her sex appeal and chutzpah sent Hollywood flocking to her door wanting to do a biopic. Corporate donors and sponsors had lined up, from Google and Sony and Huawei to Nokia and Daimler and PetroChina.

  Kids First now had over 80 offices around the world in 60 countries. Operations expanded exponentially during the last few years. Over 10,000 attendees were expected for the conference, which featured celebrity guest speakers, documentary screenings, seminars, panels, and for Rice, lots of private meetings with heavy-hitter donors. Twenty kids who had essentially been saved thanks to efforts of Kids First would be hosting an Ice Cream Social later today, and there wouldn't be a dry eye or a closed wallet in the house. Over $100 million dollars was the conservative goal for the long weekend's take. The long weekend being Saturday through Tuesday.

  This being Sunday, she was in the middle of the madness. If she could clone ten more Kate Rices, the event might be manageable. Three female assistants stood nearby, each holding multiple cell phones with calls on hold. She reached for a phone held by one of her assistants, but never got the phone.

  Socorro Trujillo, a tall, twenty-something mix of Native-American and Hispanic stood erect in a well-tailored gray silk pantsuit as she thrust a business card into Rice’s face. Slender but physically fit, she had a hooked nose that somehow added to her exotic beauty, like some kind of edgy, darkly sensual temptress. Trujill
o’s vibe was all business, and her black, soulless eyes suggested a latent menace.

  Rice looked at the card and her mood darkened for a moment. She'd never met Trujillo before, but she knew who the business card belonged to.

  “Where?” asked Rice.

  “Grand Hyatt, same as you. He's waiting.”

  The Grand Hyatt and other hotels conveniently connected to the Convention Center via a spider web of overhead pedestrian walkways and passageways. For that matter, a person could practically walk across Hong Kong Island without ever having their feet touch the ground, not that it was any less crowded on the hundreds of overhead walkways.

  Rice turned to the assistant holding the phone. “I'll be back in twenty minutes. Stall everything and everybody till I get back. If there's a crisis, attack, but never retreat,” she said, smiling.

  As she walked off with Trujillo, Rice's smile morphed into a scowl of frustration and her eyes betrayed a flicker of worry. Damn. How hard can it be to kill two people?

  ###

  The area in Hong Kong between Wan Chai and Central was previously the site of British military barracks and dockyards. It wasn't until the 1970s that the Brits turned the land over to the Hong Kong government, allowing the local Cantonese to do what they do so well: develop, build, and promote commerce. The area became known as Admiralty, and in the 1980s, Swire Group embarked on an ambitious project off Queensway near the High Court building to construct a massive, inter-connected, upscale complex with four sleek, architecturally distinct high-rise towers that featured shopping, dining and entertainment, office space, serviced apartments, and high-end hotels.

  The tenant list for office space read like a who's who of global financial giants, investment houses, and professional services, with names like the World Bank, Deloitte, Moody’s, Sotheby’s, Baker and McKenzie, Daiwa, Northern Trust, CLSA, and Friends Provident among many others. Four hotels—incredibly, each one with a five-star rating—occupied gleaming high-rise towers. An ultra-fashionable three-level shopping experience was the foundation that held Pacific Place together. This glamorous city-within-a-city was inter-connected both above and below ground.