Locked Down

by Ed Kovacs

  “Each of you will be held responsible for his death! You know it's true,” she said, continuing to speak in Chinese.

  Hernandez's Chinese was almost as good as hers, and he could tell that her point hit home with Ma's men, because that's how things worked in Beijing. They would indeed be held accountable if something happened to the general. First one man slowly bent down and dropped his weapon, then another. The rest followed suit.

  “Move back into the elevator and go!”

  As the group of six started backing down the hallway, the chime of an arriving elevator car sounded. The men waited as doors opened and Kate Rice stormed out with a bloody handkerchief tied around her right wrist. She held the suppressed Boberg XR9-L in her left hand and raised it as soon as she spotted Grant and Hernandez.

  Hernandez's eyes bored into the visage of Rice. He leveled the Kimber, intending to shoot her dead right now. He could avenge Willie, avenge the dead families killed at the pool, and avenge the other dead Americans. He took aim as Rice screamed, “Kill them! Zhao wants them dead!” As soon as she fired the first shot, Ma's men scrambled forward to retrieve their guns.

  Carrying Ma disrupted his aim, but Hernandez fired the Kimber until the slide locking back indicated the gun was empty. The big .45 sounded like a cannon in the enclosed space. Two of the Chinese men went down. Grant was shocked to find herself point the gun at Rice and fire off two rounds. Before she could consider what she'd done, Hernandez grabbed her and they retreated away from the elevators.

  “Plan B!”

  The nature of the curved hallway was such that as they ran, they were momentarily out of sight—and out of the line of fire—of their pursuers. At the stairwell, Grant flung open the door and crashed through. Hernandez tucked the empty Kimber into his pocket and they bounded down one flight, but then found themselves staring to the barrels of sub-machine guns held by four police officers tricked out in full black SWAT tactical assault gear. Hernandez spotted the Special Duties Unit shoulder patches they wore.

  Grant put her hands in the air and Hernandez raised his free hand. His other hand held onto General Ma, still draped over his shoulder.

  “You guys are SDU?” he asked quickly. “We're CIA. My ID is in my fanny pack. I've got a wounded man here I'd like to take downstairs. But I have to tell you, there's a half-dozen terrorists in the hallway up there who just tried to kill us. Seven counting the leader who's a blond female. They'll be coming through the door above us any second. I'm not joking, officers. Any second.”

  Hernandez met the eyes of the man he guessed was the team leader. The leader motioned with his head for one of the other men to go up the stairs. That officer made it up just past Grant when the hallway door burst open and two of Ma's men charged in.

  “Drop your weapons!” yelled the officer.

  But Ma's men raised their guns... and were cut down by the SDU officer. The booming reports of the subgun firing in the stairwell rang like a bell tower. Two more officers now charged past Hernandez and Grant on the stairs. At the landing they fired again. The three police operators then entered the hallway and more gunfire erupted.

  The team leader kept his weapon trained on Hernandez, but the veteran CIA spy could see the officer wanted to go to the aid of his men in the hallway.

  “My ID is in my fanny pack. May I give it to you?”

  “Slowly,” said the team leader.

  Hernandez gave the man his genuine CIA ID and the leader examined it closely. “This man needs help right now. Let me take him downstairs. Call it in and have paramedics waiting for us, okay? You guys can debrief me downstairs.”

  The team leader glanced at Ma, not knowing who he was, partly due to all of the blood covering the general's face. More gunfire sounded from the hallway and a man cried out, seeming to compel the team leader to action. “Okay, go!” he said, handing back Hernandez's ID. He then quickly called on his radio for backup and gave the information about shots fired and three people coming down the stairwell. The team leader raced up to join his men. Hernandez and Grant set off down the stairs, but there was no way he would lead them into the waiting arms of the police.

  Meaning they were trapped.

  CHAPTER 30

  23:03

  General Ma Ju's head felt like a ripe durian that had been dropped from a third story terrace onto a cement alley filled with broken glass. He'd lost his gun; his hands were tied behind his back. He looked to be in some kind of office. Nicole Grant sat at a desk using a computer, and Ron Hernandez sat in an office chair next to her going through his things. His things, Major General Ma Ju's things. These two people—the last two Americans on the hit list—were not only alive and well but they had kidnapped him right under the nose of an elite Second Department security detail.

  An electric clock on the wall told him that not much time had elapsed, so maybe they were still in the same building. Zhao would already be in a convoy to the airport to take either his jet or helicopter back to the Mainland. Ma's old friend would be furious, and there would be hell to pay here in Hong Kong. Fall guys and sacrificial lambs would be needed. Director Tang for sure. And yours truly, Ma Ju, for another. Of this there was no doubt. Even Barry Bergman had hinted at that in the emergency meeting.

  Right now General Ma needed to send a text to the eldest of his five daughters. One word. A code for what she must hastily do to save the entire family and their fortune. Of course, Ma had already managed to squirrel tens of millions in ill-gotten gains out of China and into accounts in St. Lucia, Vanuatu and other tax havens that still provided a semblance of banking secrecy. But in a dire emergency there was still much to do.

  Actually, he felt somewhat relieved. For years Ma suspected that one day he and Zhao would have an unpleasant parting of the ways. And from the moment Zhao had entered into a relationship with CIA spy Kate Rice, Ma began making certain arrangements. Yes, much valuable intelligence had been acquired from the woman over the years, but he calculated that Zhao's chances of becoming the next Chinese president had now dropped to no better than thirty percent.

  So this was a good time for him to jump from a sinking death ship. But how could he bargain with these two Americans who sat just a few feet away from him? What could he offer? They surely wanted him dead even more that Zhao himself must now want him dead. Ma closed his eyes to think, but instead, drifted into unconsciousness.

  ###

  After leaving the SDU police in the stairwell, Hernandez and Grant had continued down, and then ducked onto this floor full of offices. General Ma's phone was clearly the most valuable item Ron Hernandez had gotten from searching the man. He'd quickly removed the battery and SIM card so the phone's location couldn't be tracked. There were no fancy spy tools or secret decoder watch on the general's person. Only the phone.

  Hernandez glanced over at Grant. Moments earlier she'd told him about the Darknet files being corrupted and asked him to give her five minutes on a computer with high-speed Internet. So he waited, but it looked to him as if they'd lost any chance to recover the drone op files. Meaning a whole lot of time and effort had been wasted for nothing. He wanted to call a neighbor of his parents whom he could count on to deliver a discreet message, but didn't want to do it in front of her. He decided that if his death or capture appeared imminent, he'd call and tell them he loved them.

  “Okay, there's a way,” said Grant, interrupting his musings. “There's a way to get back the pieces of the files we lost on the Darknet. We can get the files reassembled properly.” She turned to look at him.

  “Can you do it quickly, from this office?”

  “No.”

  He shook his head. “Grant. I promise you that this building is crawling with cops, security, the CIA, and Ma's men. We could split up, pretend we were working late in the office, or say we're hotel guests who got lost, but the cops will likely check our stories. Assuming we don't get shot first.”

  “But I have the blueprints in my tablet, remember? We can use crawlspaces for plumbing
or conduit. Pipe chases, engineering spaces. We can get out,” she said earnestly.

  “The police and SWAT teams use blueprints, too,” he said. “Trust me, they're already working with the building's facilities people to check all those places you just mentioned.”

  “I refuse to give up now,” she said with a sharp edge, her face hardening into a mask of firm resolve.

  “I'm not suggesting we surrender,” he countered. Exhaling, he pulled the Kimber from his pocket, and fished out a loaded magazine from another pocket. He exchanged the gun's empty magazine for the loaded one and let the slide lock into place with an authoritative metallic clack. He looked over to where she sat patiently watching him. “Just for giggles, what exactly do you need to get the files fixed?”

  “A supercomputer.”

  Hernandez burst out laughing. “A supercomputer?” The laugh became heartier as he shook his head. “Great, no problem,” he managed to say. It felt good to laugh, even if it was due to gallows humor. Did she not get the preposterous nature of her suggestion?

  “The world's most powerful supercomputer is Tianhe-2, located in Guangzhou,” said Grant, as if the information were terribly significant.

  “Uh oh, sounds like you have a plan.”

  “Always. Please understand that not all supercomputers are alike, and for some tasks, believe it or not, you'd be better off using your home computer. But for what we need, Tianhe-2 would be perfect, and Guangzhou is only eighty miles from here.”

  “I'm aware Guangzhou is close to Hong Kong. I'm also aware it's in China, as in the China that's trying to kill us,” said Hernandez.

  Undeterred, she leaned in closer toward him. “Carnegie Mellon University—you've heard of them?”

  “Yeah, it's a U.S. school.”

  She nodded. “Full of very smart people. They partnered with SYSU—Sun Yat-sen University to operate a Joint Institute of Engineering.”

  “What kind of engineering?”

  “The same kind I studied: electrical and computer engineering. The institute is in the same complex as Tianhe-2. Carnegie Mellon developed an algorithm specifically to be used with Tianhe-2 that I just downloaded. With some simple, fast modifications, I can use their algorithm to scour the Darknet and vacuum back pieces of the files that fell off.”

  Hernandez looked shocked. “You were able to download that algorithm?”

  “Let's just say I borrowed it.”

  “So you can log into this Tianhe-2 supercomputer and use the Carnegie Mellon algorithm?”

  “No. I need physical access.”

  Hernandez held up his hands and shook his head. “That's a non-starter.” He stood up, checked his watch. “Pull up the blueprints on your tablet, because we need to get our butts hidden until I can come up with something.”

  “I heard you mention the Tianhe-2 supercomputer in Guangzhou,” said General Ma, startling them as he blearily blinked his eyes.

  Grant and Hernandez shot each other a quick look.

  “That's right,” she said.

  “I know it well,” said Ma. “I have loyal staff in that building at Sun Yat-sen University, right now. In a room adjacent to Tianhe-2.”

  “We need access to Tianhe-2,” said Grant, before Hernandez could speak.

  Ma raised his eyebrows. “I can get you into the building. But beyond that, I don't control access to the supercomputer.”

  “Why would you help us?” asked Hernandez, not trying to mask his skepticism.

  “To save my life. The unfortunate turn of events here tonight have guaranteed my death. But since I'm not ready to die just yet, I have a helicopter waiting on the rooftop of the Peninsula Hotel, minutes from here. We can fly to Guangzhou. I have a lady friend there I'd like to pick up and take out of China.”

  The idea intrigued him, but seemed too good to be true. “Leave China, General? Defect?” asked Hernandez incredulously. “Assassination teams would track you to the ends of the earth.”

  “You forget I have run the Second Department for several years. I know the most sensitive secrets of the top cadre. I have no doubt that an understanding could be reached to prevent my murder.”

  Hernandez was starting to believe there was something here. And the truth was, he had no idea how to get them out of the Shangri-La tower. A quick study of Grant's face told him she was intrigued by the cooperation of Ma in getting her hands on Tianhe-2.

  “I'd like to believe you,” she said, “but fifteen minutes ago you were shooting bullets at me, so forgive me if I'm not so trusting.”

  “Fifteen minutes ago you nearly killed me with a red vase. I didn't become a major general by being inflexible,” Ma countered. “Alliances shift. It's the way of war, and of the world. It always has been. Americans, who are terrible at history, who can't even seem to remember what happened last month, often overlook such facts. A few hours earlier I wanted you dead. Now, I'm proposing a truce and a temporary partnership.”

  “Forget about going to the Peninsula, could the helicopter fly here, land on the roof?” asked Hernandez.

  “My personal pilots fly where I tell them. Our family relationships are intertwined, meaning they are unquestionably loyal.” Ma appraised the two Americans carefully. “I will bring you to Guangzhou on one condition. I need to send a text to my eldest daughter. It's a simple code instructing her to flee China with the entire family.”

  “How do we know that?” asked Hernandez. “How do we know the text is going to your daughter?”

  “How do you know it's not a trick?” asked Ma. “You don't. Nor can you be sure there won't be a division of troops in Guangzhou waiting to arrest you. Nor can I be sure you won't put a bullet into my head as revenge for everything that's happened.”

  “Before we agree to anything, answer me this: Who ran the wet teams in America, and where can I find them?” asked Hernandez. This was a test, since Chuck Wheeler had already given him the information. If Ma lied there would be no bond of trust, and whether Grant liked it or not he'd put a bullet into Ma Ju's brain as a measure of repayment.

  “Ministry of State Security Special Projects Director Tang Jie ran the teams. You killed two of his people this afternoon on Tung Choi Street. None of my people took part in the murders. You can find him in his command post at the Marriott.”

  So Ma told the truth about Tang. Hernandez would like nothing better than to go find and kill the middle-aged man in the brown shirt who wore black-framed glasses, but he was in no position to do so. “Maybe your people didn't take part in the murders, General, but you approved those murders.”

  Ma shrugged. “I'm a soldier who follows orders. I advised against killing any Americans since we hadn't yet identified the leaker's identity. I was overruled.”

  Hernandez looked long and hard at the general. He shifted his gaze to Grant, who nodded very slightly.

  “Get us into the building at Sun Yat-sen, but if it's a set-up, I won't put a bullet in your head, I'll put three in. As for your phone,” said Hernandez, holding up Ma's cell, “it's not getting turned back on. Period.”

  “I don't care whose phone is used. I will tell you my daughter's number.”

  Hernandez found himself staring with his mouth slightly agape. He'd just agreed to fly on a Chinese military helicopter into China with a major general as hostage, and no clear means for escape. This play didn't even qualify as a Hail Mary, but he found himself nodding, because it was all they had.

  CHAPTER 31

  23:29

  Kate Rice made a series of calls, but couldn’t reach any of the mercenary agents she’d assembled in Hong Kong. The bombing had probably scared them off. It was also possible that she was now a wanted woman. She removed the SIM cards and batteries from her phones, just to be on the safe side. Blowing the bomb had been a calculated risk. Hernandez and Grant might still be captured as a result of it. They'd better be.

  Her nose and lip had stopped bleeding and moments earlier she used makeup to cover the spreading bruise on her face from where Zh
ao slugged her. The deep slash to her wrist delivered by Nicole Grant had been professionally patched up and bandaged by paramedics in a triage area hastily set up in response to the bombing and subsequent events at Pacific Place. A bullet from Grant's gun had sprayed paint chips and plaster into her right eye. The docs were going to take her to a hospital for further treatment, but Rice had easily slipped away in the confusion. She hid the gauze eye patch that now covered her right eye by wearing extra-large sunglasses.

  Aside from the dark glasses, she had her hair tucked up into a rain hat she bought at a Chat Jai, the Hong Kong nickname for a 7-Eleven. Admiralty Station was jammed with people fleeing Pacific Place, so she moved in the shadows on the edge of the busy station. She was shaken. Zhao's alcoholism had gotten progressively worse over the last few years, but had largely been kept under wraps. Most Chinese top cadre, military generals, and powerful bureaucrats were heavy drinkers, due to nature of how the Chinese do business and accrue guanxi. While nowhere near being the kind of drunk Russia's Boris Yelstin had been before his death, Zhao's binges were getting longer and more violent. And he was on one tonight. Tonight of all nights.

  The last thing she wanted was for him to go back to China in a drunken stupor where spies for his rivals might witness his behavior and tie it to the unfolding events here. As to the rest, the bombing and other murders would be papered over by the powers in D.C. if she could deliver Zhao into the Chinese presidency. But could she stay alive long enough for that to take place, since an Agency assassin would most likely be coming for her. That's just how these kind of deep black, one-off operations went when the crap hit the fan and the gutless desk jockeys and armchair commandos inside the Beltway faced having their illegal machinations exposed.

  Zhao was the key. There might still be time.

  ###

  Barry Bergman stood with Socorro Trujillo in a 15th floor vacant office in a high-rise on Queens Road East. He hitched his pants up to a more comfortable position on his expanding waistline as he peered across the street at the bedlam. The view of Justice Drive and the vehicular entrance into Pacific Place between the Marriott tower and the Conrad tower showed roads gridlocked with every kind of emergency vehicle imaginable. The westbound lanes of Queensway were closed and choked with fleeing pedestrians, many looking unsure of where to go. The media roamed everywhere, and the chaotic scene resembled a kind of slow motion disaster as a procession of cars inched out of the complex onto Justice Drive and then funneled onto a cloverleaf feeding them eastbound onto Queensway.