by Ed Kovacs
The place oozed sophistication, and yet, two Chinese men who could never be accused of being cosmopolitan, sat in the back seat of a black Mercedes S-600 in the car park below the mall and plotted to bring to the gentile environs the kind of trouble Pacific Place had never seen.
Major General Ma Ju, Director of the much-feared Second Department, People's Liberation Army General Staff Department, never did fill out a business suit very well, and he knew it. Even custom-fitted, expensive silk ones. Perhaps it was due to his poor posture and pot belly, which tended to rumple his look, whether standing or sitting. His medium-length dark brown hair was parted on one side, combed the same way since his youth, and he saw no reason to change. Like most Asian men, he used hair dye to cover the gray, but liver spots betrayed his sixty-four-year age. The wrinkles around his eyes tended to make him look like he was always squinting. Maybe he was.
He'd certainly seen enough during his rise to the top rank of Chinese military intelligence. The Second Department, which he ruled with an iron fist, sent highly trained undercover operatives overseas to overtly and covertly obtain military intelligence; Ma fielded excellent spies abroad. He was responsible for all of China's military attaches worldwide; for a massive intelligence analysis bureaucracy; for a scientific directorate that included research and design; for the Bureau of Confidential Work, and importantly, the Bureau of Security, a unit that kept close watch on all of the other PLA general departments and on members of the Central Military Commission. General Ma stood at the top of a very impressive heap.
His career track wove inexorably with that of his old friend and former Beijing #4 High School and Peking University classmate, Vice Premier Zhao Yiren, the man poised to become the next president of China in a couple of weeks.
General Ma sat slouched in the backseat of his Mercedes listening to the report from MSS, Ministry of State Security, Director of Special Projects Tang Jie, the same bespectacled man in the brown shirt that Ron Hernandez had spotted on Tung Choi Street. Special Projects was a euphemism for assassination, and Zhao Yiren and General Ma had been using Director Tang in that capacity successfully for over fifteen years. But now, with so much riding on the outcome, something had gone wrong, and right here in their backyard. The situation made Ma squint a little tighter as he listened to Tang. The general was peeved, and he'd be damned if he'd let a screw-up ruin everything at this late stage of the game.
“We'll kill them both easily enough. They can't hide from us in Hong Kong,” said Director Tang.
“Is the American woman in her room?” asked Ma, impatiently.
“Yes.”
“Then kill her right now. Send people to her room, kill her, and remove all of her electronics.”
Tang shifted a bit and tugged at his earlobe, displaying slight discomfort with the suggestion. “We could do that, but the hotel security video—”
“Have someone take care of that immediately in such a way that won't reflect back toward us.”
“Very well,” said Tang, in a way that suggested he didn't agree with the order. “The murder of an American tourist in a five-star hotel will become high-profile.”
“Not any more than two dead agents on a tourist shopping street!”
“It will never become public knowledge that my two dead operators were Chinese agents,” countered Tang, without rancor.
“You had better hope not,” snapped General Ma.
Tang wasn't a military man and worked for MSS, so he wasn't technically under Ma's command. The arrangement had worked okay for years, but Ma now wished he'd used killers from the Second Department instead of Tang's people. Even during all of the killings in America, the director had begun showing too many signs of obstinacy.
“I have to contact Wheeler and Roberts to get their approval,” said Tang.
“I'll take care of the CIA. I want our two targets dead. Now.”
But Tang wasn't agreeing so easily. “The protocol is that the CIA has to approve before we kill an American. Those are my orders. An American team is to observe and document the kill, just as they did during the previous eighteen kills in America.”
“I'm giving you new orders from Zhao himself! Shall I tell him you refuse to obey?”
Tang stared back blankly.
“Believe me,” said Ma, “the American government wants these two dead just as much as we do. And you don't have to worry about collateral damage if you kill her in her hotel room. Now get going, I've got to finish with damage control over the mess you made in Kowloon.” Ma looked away from Tang and turned his attention to a smartphone.
Tang was a thin forty-eight year-old with short salt-and-pepper hair, a long curved nose, eyeglasses, and full lips that seldom parted because he usually maintained a neutral expression. He was hard to read. Ma knew that whenever Tang yelled, pretending to lose his temper, it was a tactic; a tactic rarely used. The General could tell that Tang didn't like this turn of events, but that was just too bad.
Tang said nothing as he got out of the luxury sedan. General Ma pretended not to look, but he closely regarded the man who'd been Zhao's primary henchman for many years. Tang's earlobes looked like they'd been pinched off, and he had a habit of tugging on them as if trying to make them longer. A brutal killer since the age of sixteen, he moved like a cat as he walked a few steps toward an entrance to Pacific Place. Two of his men stood waiting just inside the glass doors and opened them for him. Tang hesitated and then pushed his glasses up on his nose as he turned to look back toward the Mercedes.
General Ma knew he was invisible behind the deeply tinted windows as Tang stared at him. And he knew without question he could no longer trust the man, which was a huge problem. Especially today. Today of all days.
###
Kate Rice immediately calculated that Barry Bergman's Grand Hyatt suite had a 270 degree view of Hong Kong, while her suite only had a 180 degree view. The muted earth tones and clean lines of the interior design were possibly intended so as not to detract from the amazing vistas looking across the busy harbor toward Kowloon. She glanced over at Socorro Trujillo, Bergman's pretty assistant whom she pegged as a “full-service” aide, since a quick look into the bedroom had revealed rumpled sheets and two empty champagne glasses on the nightstand. Rice held little respect for a factotum like Bergman, even if he did have the president's trust.
“Still wasting the taxpayer's money, I see, Barry,” said Rice, with a tone bordering on contempt. She'd shifted into offensive mode right off the bat, hoping to keep Bergman on his heels.
Barry Bergman, a paunchy, 55 year-old, was a Senior White House Security Adviser. A loyal hatchet man who always kept his mouth shut, he'd served a number of administrations and was known as a ruthless fixer who didn't mind getting his hands dirty.
His jowls shook like Jell-O as he munched from a plate of room service appetizers sitting atop the square coffee table. An oily sheen coated his face and his jaw seemed permanently set into a mask of displeasure. Bergman inclined his head toward the door and said, “Ms. Trujillo, could you leave us, please?”
Trujillo smiled an inscrutable smile and left the suite. As the door closed behind her, Barry stuffed a Cajun shrimp into his mouth. “We're not liking what we're hearing,” he said as he chewed.
Rice leaned back against a mahogany desk and coolly regarded him. “Then listen to me and you'll like what you hear. Everything's under control. Two targets remain out of twenty. Now I know you didn't fly all the way to Hong Kong just to get sack time with your Mexican bitch. And you didn’t come here to micromanage me, not that you could. So tell the committee we're almost there. Grant and Hernandez are in the Pacific Place complex. Taking them out will be fairly straightforward. I'll admit it’s bad luck that they're here at the same time as me and Zhao Yiren, but that doesn't change anything. Grant was scheduled to be terminated in Phoenix, but the Chinese didn't realize she'd gone on vacation. So a decision was made to eliminate the rest of the US-based targets, and then wipe her while she was on holi
day in Asia.
“As for Hernandez,” continued Rice, now feeling firmly in control, “we all know that someone tipped him.” She crossed to a service cart and poured herself a glass of expensive Bordeaux. “I've just learned that Hernandez' guardian angel is William Snedeker, a retired CIA officer. We've detained Snedeker at a secure location so we'll learn everything he knows shortly, but you should be focused on making sure everybody in D.C. keeps their mouths shut and not on second-guessing my actions in the field.”
“It doesn't appear to me you're in the field, Agent Rice.”
Rice knew Bergman's type only too well. He'd be the type of supervisor who’d never give a kind word. You could perform well on a hundred missions and he wouldn't say a thing. But make one mistake and you'd never hear the end of it.
“I'm not an agent, I'm a CIA officer, Barry. Working under non-official cover. And after years of hard work, I'm about to deliver a golden goose. A CIA asset—my asset—will be elected president of China two weeks from now. Get something right for a change and focus on the positive.”
“You don't appear to be fully involved in—”
“You want me to throw my cover down the toilet to go operational?” she snapped. “We have Chinese goons here for that. My instructions were to keep CIA involvement to an absolute minimum. Are you authorizing me to bring in Agency resources to hunt for and kill Hernandez and Grant?”
Bergman hesitated. “No, I’m not.”
Rice nodded. “Then be reasonable in what you expect from me. I'm in the middle of hosting a frigging mega-conference. Zhao himself is one of the guests of honor at a private reception I'm hosting at the Shangri-La tonight. I'm so busy I barely have time to use the toilet. Anyway, the Chinese don't need me or anyone else telling them how to kill people, they've been practicing for thousands of years.”
“I’m well aware that it’s the Chinese doing all of the dirty work, and that we have merely acted as observers, but I’m concerned that Hernandez and Grant are now working together,” he said, nonplussed.
“Highly unlikely.” Beeps signaling incoming text messages bombarded her smartphone. She took a healthy gulp of the red wine. “Unless they just formed an alliance.”
“Open your eyes,” said Bergman, wiping his greasy hands on a small napkin. “They're both at the same complex where Zhao has a condo, and they're here at the same time Zhao is present at that condo. That's not coincidence, sweetie. You’d better find out what Grant and Hernandez are up to.”
“Call me sweetie again and I'll rip off your nose.” Rice delivered the line in an offhand manner as she read through text messages, but her tone suggested she meant exactly what she said.
Bergman remained stoic. “That wouldn't be a good career move for you. Officer Rice.”
They locked eyes. She could see he wasn't intimidated by her any more than she was intimidated by him. “Grant made her hotel reservation almost a year ago, but Zhao committed to come to the conference about three months ago. So, yes, it's a coincidence. But I agree that Hernandez is no coincidence. I suspect he knows Zhao's schedule and that he came here to kill him.”
Bergman tapped his fingers together as he digested that tidbit. He belched, then, “So Hernandez knows the whole picture and this retired CIA guy Snedeker who helped Hernandez knows the whole picture. And Grant?”
“Yesterday I would have said 'no,' but like I said, they might have just teamed up. Hernandez could have figured out that she was the only other Omega Team member left alive. He must need her for something,” said Rice.
“When I ask myself what role she could play for Hernandez, the answer is: to provide documentary proof and testimony. Two Omega Team members going to WikiLeaks, with each possibly having their own evidential input is much more powerful than a single whistleblower.”
“The WikiLeaks reporter in London was terminated.” Rice slipped her phone back into her purse.
“I would have thought you'd be considering the bigger picture in that regard,” said Bergman, selecting another shrimp with the practiced scrutiny of a diamond merchant choosing a stone.
Rice hated yielding initiative to Bergman, but she didn't understand what he was referring to. She wasn't about to ask him to elaborate, so she stepped closer and sat on the arm of a sofa. Her tan, perfectly proportioned legs angled toward him, like levers waiting to be thrown that were just out of his reach. She crossed her legs and the hem of her skirt rode dangerously high on her thighs. The undercurrent of her sexuality while appearing perfectly at ease, as if Bergman were inconsequential, was designed to nullify his advantage. She kept her gaze focused on a painting across the room, kept quiet, and kept a blank expression.
He ignored her legs and scowled. “You can't take WikiLeaks out of the picture by killing a reporter or two.”
Prick. Just say what you want to say.
“Hernandez and Grant could simply e-mail what they have, they don't need some reporter as a middleman. We need to co-opt WikiLeaks itself.”
Rice put her index finger to her mouth and chewed on the nail. It was a bad habit she indulged in when she got excited. “Maybe,” she said, noncommittally. “What's the play?”
“Julian Assange,” said Bergman, as if it were only too obvious. “Wanted by the Swedes and by us, he was given political asylum, but has been a virtual prisoner in the Ecuadoran embassy in London for years now. There's been some back-channel back-and-forth. The man wants his freedom back. I'm confident we can do some simple horse-trading with him and his organization.”
“I thought he lost control of WikiLeaks.”
“We don't think so. We'll ask them to forget about certain secrets and destroy all evidence.”
“And we sort of unofficially lose interest in him.”
“Something like that.”
She uncrossed her legs. “That needs to fly yesterday. I mean right now.”
Bergman nodded. “Now what about this computer of Grant's that the Chinese are so concerned about?”
“It was her home laptop back in Phoenix. The Chinese have it, so I'm not worried. Shoot-on-sight orders are out on both of them. They'll be dead within hours.”
“Big talk is cheap. I'm looking for results.”
Rice had heard enough. Time to take the initiative back. She stood and opened her purse. “From a big girl who walks her talk.” She retrieved the smartphone. “Barry, I'm busy. Just eat your shrimp and leave the heavy lifting to me.” She crossed toward the door, then stopped and turned back to him. “Better yet, go back to bed with your hooker assistant. I should have good news before you climax. Well, maybe not that fast.”
She turned to leave, but before she got the door open, Bergman called out sharply. “Rice!” She stopped, but didn't face him. “Kids First is an excellent espionage platform, but questions have arisen regarding certain unsanctioned actions you have taken during your... 'quest' to have Zhao elected president. Be advised: the committee and I are in agreement that you are treading on very thin ice.”
Rice flung open the door then slammed it closed behind her.
CHAPTER 6
15:48
Fighting mightily to control the nervousness that washed over her like an unrelenting monsoon, Nicole Grant looked like a Muslim bag lady as she stepped onto the deeply padded carpeting of the hallway outside her room in the ultra-plush Conrad. She wore bone-colored silk slacks, a white linen blouse, and a pink headscarf covering her head like a hijab. She'd taken Ron Hernandez' warning seriously and had gathered up her essentials in under three minutes.
Today being Sunday, tens of thousands of Philippine and Indonesian amahs—a female employed to clean, cook, and look after children—had their day off, and clogged the streets in Hong Kong. Since the Indonesian amahs were mostly Muslim, Sunday meant a preponderance of hijabs could be seen all over town. Nicole had noticed that on her shopping excursion to Kowloon.
So she kept her head low toting her possessions in the new fake Celine bag she'd just bought, and she had countless o
ther items stuffed into three shopping bags she carried. With clammy hands and tightness in her chest, she made her way to the end of the hallway and stepped through a door into the stairwell, knowing she had precious little time to get to the wine bar in the Marriott. She descended two levels, and then took an elevator down to the Lower Level where the Grand Ballroom and other meeting rooms were located. Just as she was breathing a bit easier, the elevator doors opened, shocking her with the sights and sounds of a massive gathering, predominantly male, predominantly attired in Savile Row three-piece suits, and predominantly displaying a lot of self-importance.
It all seemed so incongruous. She was running for her life but had just stumbled into a moneyed business reception hosted by Credit Suisse. Her displeasure faded quickly, since a packed hotel would make it harder for anyone to find her, much less do something to her. Wait a second; Bill Clinton is in the hotel, staying in the Presidential Suite! She'd heard about it when she checked in. Even though Clinton was a former president, he had a Secret Service detail. She began to feel silly hiding under the hijab. How could anyone hurt her in here? She was about to remove the headscarf when she noticed two Asian men in suits staring at her. She quickly looked away and swallowed hard. Had they recognized her? Were they staring because she looked out of place? Maybe they were reacting to the stereotype of a Muslim suicide bomber.
Nicole started breathing rapidly and broke out into a cold sweat. She forced herself to smile, and took a few steps to her right. She chanced a glance back to the two Asian men, and they were now shaking hands with several tall Caucasian men as they prepared to exchange business cards.
Nicole exhaled. She was being paranoid. But she then noticed a dome-like overhead security camera. Paranoid or not, better to err on the side of caution, so she put her head down and cut through the gathering of wolves toward a staff exit. After walking through a set of steel double-doors, her confidence grew, and she blazed a trail along cement-walled passageways, navigated a set of employee stairs, and then popped out through an employee entrance right onto the third floor of Pacific Place Mall.
