by Ed Kovacs
“I want to ask your advice. I'm worried about my mom. When she doesn't hear from me, she'll freak out. And I'm worried that they might... hurt her.” She turned to look at him, worry lines creasing her face.
“When were you supposed to call?”
“Tomorrow afternoon”
Hernandez tamped down the fake goatee onto his chin. “I might be able to arrange some protection for her. I've already done that for my parents. What about your father?”
“He passed away a long time ago.” She got the first contact in and then blinked several times.
“Sorry to hear that. Was he an engineer like you?”
“Exactly the opposite,” she smiled. “He was so unorganized. Something must have happened to him while he was in the air force in Italy. I think it was some perceived injustice when he was passed over for promotion. Dad started talking about how everything was rigged. So he got discharged and we all moved to Nevada where he became a prospector.”
“What's wrong with that?” Hernandez selected a mustache that matched the goatee from a tray of fake hair pieces.
“He didn't have any kind of business model. He'd act on a hunch or a feeling and even started using dowsing rods to try and find a strike. He prayed to Native American spirits to help locate a vein of turquoise or something like that. As a teenager I rebelled against him. I planned out my future and knew it related to computers and technology. From the age of fifteen on I gave him nothing but grief about how he'd ruined his life and was just a failure.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah, ouch,” she said. “We argued about everything, and since I was an only child and up until then had been his best friend... well, he lost his best friend. After I left for college his health started to decline. He died while I was away at school.” She looked into the mirror and then got the second lens in.
“So you never had a chance to reconcile with him.”
She blinked and looked at Hernandez in complete shock with his having spoken the words so bluntly, and for having summarized the issue so succinctly. She'd long been in denial, and there it was, all laid out. Her mouth was slightly open, but she had no words.
She considered the one failure of her life to be her relationship with her father. The guilt and pain she carried from her behavior—she'd treated him with undisguised contempt and scorn—cut her deep when she allowed herself to revisit the memories. By the time she'd hit her early twenties, her matured attitudes resulted in her becoming best friends with Jan. She'd begun speaking to her father in prayer, asking forgiveness for being such a jerk, but the process didn't expunge her guilt. Initially, her father's death had seemed like a remote event, but for the last several years, his absence felt like a chronic open wound that could never heal.
Hernandez poured a glass of water. “Planning is imperative in most lines of work. But you and I didn't make plans to run for our lives. We're operating on the fly, making things up as we go along. Kind of like what your dad did when he was looking for turquoise or the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow to support his family.”
He handed her the water and she absentmindedly took a sip. Nicole didn't know what to think right now, much less say. A realization was dawning on her that felt like a crack in her foundation.
“So I need you thinking on your feet,” he said as he added spirit gum to the back of the mustache. “Sometimes, ditching the plan is the only way to stay alive.”
She sat there dumbfounded. The last thing Nicole ever imagined was to become more like her father. But as she thought about it, the fact she had acted on instinct, impulsively sending that audio file of Wang Hongwei inside that panel van, that spontaneous act was the very thing that just might save her and Hernandez.
“Think of it as dancing,” he said, probably mistaking her introspection for confusion. “Was your dad a good dancer?”
“Yes,” she managed to say.
He carefully pressed the mustache onto his upper lip and patted it down. “Once you know the basic steps, there's a lot of room for improvisation or adding your own style as you get in tune with the beat and the rhythm.”
“I never learned how to dance. I have two left feet.”
“Your dad didn't teach you?”
She looked away. “I wouldn't let him.”
“You never had a teacher. You can dance, you just don't know it yet.”
A different realization crept into Nicole's thinking as they sat in silence. Technology—computers and science and all that she'd immersed herself in as a counterpoint to her father—wasn't enough to save her. Quite the opposite, she needed to become more like her dad. She had to learn how to dance.
A tear rolled down her cheek and she bit her lower lip, trying not to completely lose it. “My mom is hearing and speech impaired. That's why I know how to lip read. My dad used to joke that he married her because he knew he'd never have to listen to any nagging.” More tears erupted from her eyes and she could barely get words out. “But he chose to marry a handicapped person because he had a huge heart and was full of love.”
She wept openly. Hernandez handed her a tissue. Still seated in the box truck, they leaned into each other and held on tight.
###
Director Tang hurried into the CP in the Marriott hotel suite that his team shared with Li Shan and other members of the PLA's Second Department. Abject worry vised Tang's chest, but he kept his concerns hidden. He needed some kind of victory—a positive—that he could report to Zhao. If he couldn't feed the tiger, the beast would turn on him.
Tang's senior aide Choi looked anxious and crossed quickly to his boss. “Sir, Hong Kong police have flooded Pacific Place. There are at least a hundred uniformed officers in the mall, the hotels—”
“So I just saw.” Tang had gotten a dose of hard reality in the emergency meeting with Zhao, Ma, Bergman, and Rice. He'd decided to make some changes, but the invasion of police complicated things. “Did you get my text about the WikiLeaks reporter?”
“Yes, she's still in the wine bar, under surveillance,” said Choi.
“Good. Where is Chang?”
“Here, sir.”
Chang stood five-ten, weighed 185 pounds and kept her thick black hair cut severely short, like a man's. Powerful thighs and a well-developed upper body spoke of hours in the gym every day. At age thirty-two, her round face featured a fat flat nose, and soulless dark eyes. It was a challenge to determine this was a “she” not a “he.” In Asia they're called toms, or tomboys, and are often hardcore lesbians who dress and do their best to project masculinity. Tang had met plenty of toms all over China. Some of them were pretty, but no one could ever accuse Chang of being anything approaching good-looking. Or cute. Or even average. She was butt-ugly and made for an ugly man when she cross-dressed, which was all the time. Her looks didn't matter to Tang. She was smart, strong as a water buffalo, great with a blade, and specialized in quiet kills. She'd killed dozens, either with knives or with her large powerful hands.
“Director Tang, I have learned that Hernandez has an old friend in Hong Kong. Jaffir Khan, a Pakistani-American who is former CIA,” said Chang.
“Good, but let someone else track down this Khan person. Take three people and terminate the WikiLeaks woman. Do it without being discovered. And get the body out of Pacific Place.” Chang nodded and started off, but Tang held her by the arm and spoke softly, so no one else could hear. “Chang, General Ma is looking to blame today’s failures on the Ministry and not himself or the Second Department. So please accomplish this without any problems.” He slowly released the muscular woman.
“Yes, Director Tang.” Chang bowed slightly, and then hurried off.
Tang motioned for Choi to move closer, and spoke softly, barely above a whisper. “Assign twenty good men to Zhao's security detail. And pull out all of the soldiers from the PLA garrison. They are not suited for this kind of work.”
“Yes sir.”
“Listen up, everyone!” called out Tang, addressing the room
, including Li Shan and members of the Second Department. “There is a chance that our targets have remained in Pacific Place because they intend to kill Zhao Yiren.”
Startled looks and murmurs rippled through the room.
“So let's tweak our thinking accordingly. In five minutes, I want some new suggestions about how to find and kill Nicole Grant and Ron Hernandez.”
###
Using obscure walkways and stairways it only took minutes for Grant and Hernandez to reach the main elevator bank on a lower floor of the Island Shangri-La tower. Completely composed now and looking like some kind of hip power couple, they fit right into the moneyed atmosphere of the hotel. They entered an elevator car alone and he pushed the button for the floor directly above Zhao's condo. If everything went smoothly they should be able to get within Wi-Fi range of her laptop, download the keys, and retrieve the files she'd hidden on the Darknet. He hoped like hell she could pull it off. Grant's strategy of getting the evidence, he now admitted to himself, was a better plan than simply killing Zhao and anyone else connected to the whole stinking mess. Let the Chinese kill him.
“If this doesn't work, we'll need to get inside Zhao’s condo to get my laptop.”
“I wasn't kidding when I said to forget that idea, so remind me of how your gizmos will work.”
She brought out her tablet computer from the fake Celine bag. “Once we get close to the computer, I'll send out a clone of my home Wi-Fi signal. It's an old trick used by us geeks for years now.”
“So your laptop will automatically log on to the Internet using the signal you broadcast.”
She nodded. “My tablet here is connected to the Internet via the cell phone system and is acting as a Wi-Fi hotspot. If I can spoof my laptop and it logs on, I can download all of the keys we need for the Darknet files onto this tablet.”
“How long will that take?”
“A few minutes, once the laptop logs on.”
The elevator doors opened and they stepped into a luxurious hotel hallway decorated with Chinese tapestries in green and gold accents. Hernandez checked the altimeter reading on his watch. “The elevation is good,” he said. “We should be about fifteen feet higher than the laptop, if your tracking coordinates are correct.”
Grant had several programs running on her tablet, and she checked the KCS tracking software. “To the right,” she said. Their feet sank into ultra-plush carpeting as they slowly walked past hotel room doors.
About halfway down the hall, she stopped. “It's somewhere on the floor below us, about forty feet northwest of where I'm standing,” she said.
“You're broadcasting the Wi-Fi signal? And it's strong enough?”
She nodded, and then scowled. “But the laptop's not logging on.”
Hernandez continued down the hallway for a few steps as he pulled out his cell phone. “So it's not in sleep mode, it's been shut down?”
“Actually, because of certain software I installed, even if it's shut down there's a way I could take control of that laptop as long as there was power,” she said, looking up from her tablet. “Meaning the battery's dead and it's not plugged in.”
He looked up to face her. “In that case we're back to square one, because—” Before he could complete the thought, they both heard the sound of a deadbolt sliding open on the hotel room door that was practically in front of her. Hernandez spun clear and pressed himself flat against the wall, but Grant stood rooted to the spot as the hotel door swung open.
“Well, what have we here,” said a male voice in a way that sounded lascivious. Hernandez couldn't see the man from his position against the wall, but he must be drinking in the sight of Nicole's attractive figure in front of him: blue eyes, creamy pale skin, trendy blond hair, and a perfectly proportioned figure in a form-fitting dress.
Grant looked shocked as she appeared to remember something. “You're Conner Green!” she softly exclaimed, instantly shifting into an Italian accent as she stepped toward the man and into the doorway,
“Go Green,” he said, as if reciting a slogan. “And you are?”
“Ariana Faccioli... your biggest fan.”
“Well, in that case, please come in.” Hernandez saw the man's hand reach out to take Nicole's hand as she strolled into the suite.
As the door closed, Hernandez remained flattened against the wall, not quite believing what just happened. He'd earlier been lecturing her about needing to think on her feet. Either she took his words to heart or he could have saved his breath because she handled that situation like a pro. But who is Conner Green? And Grant had called herself Ariana Faccioli. So what the hell was he supposed to do now? He waited for a few seconds, and then brought out his own tablet computer as he silently retraced his steps back toward the elevator. He brought up StartPage, his preferred search engine, and entered CONNER GREEN.
Less than an hour earlier he'd been thinking about dumping Grant. It now appeared she'd beaten him to the punch.
CHAPTER 21
20:27
Two beige, floral-print sofas set at a right angle faced a wall of glass. The visual splendor of the Hong Kong skyline at night—a sparkling exotic universe that dazzled with possibilities—looked close enough to touch yet remained opaquely out of reach. A bottle of Veuve Clicquot sat in a stainless steel ice bucket on a drinks cart next to the large rectangular coffee table. A twenty-five year-old sexed-up Asian beauty remained seated on one sofa. Grant wondered if the woman was a high-priced escort, then admonished herself for such thinking. Conner Green led Ariana Faccioli nee Nicole Grant to sit next to him on the other sofa. She steeled herself, managing her nerves much better than earlier today as she flashed on the tai tais, Vivian and Eleanor, who'd said that Zhao and Green were friends, and that they'd both be at the charity reception tonight. Maybe Green could get her into Zhao's condo.
“Tiffany, this is Ariana. Ariana, Tiffany. Tiffany is... an entertainer.”
“Buonasera,” said Nicole, as her butterflies melted away and she eased into the role of a mysterious Italian beauty. Entertainer, my ass, she's a hooker.
Tiffany forced a smile, perhaps sensing unwanted competition or complications, and arched her back slightly, the better to showcase her ample fake bosoms.
“Champagne?”
“Perfect,” said Nicole.
As he poured her a glass he asked, “How did you get my room number?”
“But I didn't, darling.”
“Come on. You must have known this was my room.” He handed her the glass. “Cheers.” They all clinked glasses and took a sip.
“No, I was in the hall speaking on my phone. Sorry, but I get lost easily. I got off on the wrong floor.”
He seemed to be having a hard time believing it. “You didn't give a large tip to a front desk clerk to get my room number?”
Wow, the ego of the guy; a weakness to be exploited. “I would gladly have done such a thing, if I'd only thought of it!”
They laughed. Tiffany forced another smile.
“And why did you open the door?” asked Nicole.
“I heard voices outside.”
“Yes, I was talking to my friend on speaker. I feel this is simply a beautiful coincidence and I'm so happy to meet you, but if you think I somehow planned this, then I should leave,” she said, putting down her champagne and trying to sound serious. Leaving was the last thing she wanted to do.
“Nonsense. You're staying.”
“To be truthful, I thought I might meet you tonight at the charity reception. Not in your room for drinks!” Nicole said, laughing.
He smiled and raised his glass: “To beautiful coincidences.”
They toasted, this time leaving Tiffany out of it. Green had had a few and was loose, but not drunk. Tiffany looked stone cold sober.
“What brings you to Hong Kong?” he asked.
“Mostly pleasure, but a tiny bit of business,” she said without thinking. Crap, I need a background story! Her mind raced back to her many childhood friends in Italy.
“What kind of business?”
Her eyes fell on the glass of champagne. “My family has a small winery, but we have no sales in China.” Wineries were a dime a dozen in Italy. It was a safe cover.
“Faccioli,” he said thinking. “I believe I've had your wines.” He paused for effect. “I might be able to help you with that.”
Nicole's heart suddenly beat a bit faster. “Really?”
“I have excellent guanxi—influential relationships—with powerful Chinese figures.” He took a healthy sip of champagne.
She'd wanted to steer the conversation in a certain direction, and Green was unconsciously helping her cause.
“Are your friends in the government? Because to gain a foothold in the Chinese market, I would need—”
“I have very good friends at the highest levels of the Chinese government,” he said, mildly miffed, as if she were questioning the level of his contacts.
“Forgive me, I'm sure you must. You're a superstar. Chinese officials are probably begging you to design signature structures for them.”
“You're right about that,” he said, smiling. He then turned to the sexy Chinese girl. “Tiffany, my love, I've been ignoring you. Come sit next to me.” He patted the sofa. Tiffany smiled and it almost looked genuine. She moved over and sat very close to him.
“I'm making a short speech at the reception tonight, Ariana. Boring, but I promised I'd say a few words to help them raise money. Care to come?” he asked.
“I'd love to hear you speak,” purred Nicole.
“Excellent,” he said, smiling. “Nothing like entering a party with a beautiful lady on each arm.”
Nicole’s mouth felt dry, from anticipation. Green was taking her to the party, but hadn’t offered to introduce her to Zhao. Meaning she’d have to find Zhao herself. She brought out her tablet computer from her purse. “I'll just text my friend to cancel.” But instead of texting, Nicole used the LINE messaging application to send Hernandez the audio file she'd been recording of everything that had been said since she’d entered Conner Green's suite.
