by Alex Ryan
Shit.
Who else could he trust?
Maybe he could make his way to the American consulate unnoticed, but what in the hell was he supposed to say to the ambassador’s staff? It would be his word against whoever was trying to kill him. With Lankford dead, Nick didn’t even have proof that he had been working with the CIA. His role had been off the books. If his adversary was the Chinese government, then it would be his word against Beijing’s. What if he became implicated in a conspiracy against the Chinese? He would have no standing with the consulate. It was conceivable that he could be handed over to the very people trying to murder him.
He glanced at his watch. He’d wasted too much time worrying and debating with himself. His gut told him that before making his next move, he needed help, and his heart told him the only person he could trust was Dash. It was settled; he would keep trying Dash until he reached her. He knelt by the window and scanned the street in both directions. He saw nothing that sparked suspicion: no mysterious van parked across the street, no smoking man in a trench coat at the corner watching over a newspaper, no Kevlar-clad assaulters firing automatic weapons and tossing grenades . . .
If they came for him here, the outcome would not be in his favor.
He sat back down on the dirty floor and leaned his head back against the wall. He needed to do more countersurveillance in case the little boy or his innkeeper grandfather started talking about the “South African man” with US dollars staying at their hotel. He also needed to secure several burner phones with prepaid minutes so he could call Dash.
But right now, he needed to rest his eyes.
Just for a few minutes.
After a quick catnap, it would be dark.
Then he would sweep the neighborhood . . . find a shop to buy some food, bottled water, some soap and towels . . .
And then he would text Dash . . .
And . . .
CHAPTER 16
A loud crash woke him.
The adrenaline rush hit Nick like a lightning strike. He was on his feet, weapon in hand, scanning the dark room for human-shaped silhouettes and movement. Operating entirely on reflex, it took his mind a second to catch up with his body:
Hong Kong, shitty hotel, fifth floor, single window with fire escape access to the alley . . .
Ambient city light leaking through the shoddy curtain was just enough for him to validate that he was alone in the room. He pressed himself against the right-hand wall and trained the muzzle of his weapon on the door. He heard a thud in the hallway outside and then muffled voices.
They’ve come for me.
He slipped his finger from the trigger guard onto the trigger. He inched closer to the door, listening, ready for the door to fly open in a shower of splinters at any moment.
Then someone started shouting in Chinese.
Male, possibly drunk.
A reply came, also in Chinese.
Female, angry but scared.
One didn’t have to speak fluent Chinese to recognize what was going on—a domestic dispute had apparently migrated from a nearby room into the hallway. He exhaled, shifted his finger back to the trigger guard, and waited. More arguing ensued, followed by crying and then more shouting.
Definitely domestic.
Nick checked his watch: 01:11.
Instead of taking a catnap, apparently he’d gone comatose and had slept for over six hours.
“Entirely unsat, Foley,” he whispered, silently chastising himself in the dark.
The plan he’d devised to go out after sundown and buy supplies was shot. At this hour, the streets would be deserted, and the stores would be closed. He walked back to the dirty mattress on the floor and sat down cross-legged on it. He picked up the stolen phone from the floor and debated whether he should try Dash. She was undoubtedly sleeping, but the longer he waited, the more things spiraled out of control. He would only be able to use the old lady’s phone once before trashing it. He desperately needed a cache of burner phones, which meant another trip to the streets for shopping.
“Fuck it.”
He dialed her number, and to his surprise, she picked up before the second ring.
“Chen Dazhong,” she answered, cool and professional.
“Dash, it’s me, Nick,” he said.
“Oh, Nick, I was hoping that was you,” she said, her voice transforming instantly. “Are you okay?”
“I’m okay,” he said. “At least, for the moment.”
“Where are you?”
“In Hong Kong, but that’s all I should say for now. Can we meet?”
“Yes, yes, of course. Name the time and place, and I’ll be there.”
The odds were low that his “acquired” phone was being traced and monitored, but given the number of near misses he’d had recently, he decided to take precautions. He’d leave her stepwise instructions somewhere en route to the meeting—a Cold War dead-drop technique—that way he could monitor her approach and see if she was being followed. He’d already decided he wanted to meet in Victoria Park. It worked well for all the typical countersurveillance reasons: good visibility, public place, limited car access, and lots of tourists.
“At eight AM, go to reception at the Excelsior Hotel. I’ll leave instructions for you there.”
“Okay, I can do that.”
“Good,” he said. “And Dash?”
“Yes?”
“Be careful.”
She was quiet for a beat, and he could feel her smiling on the other end of the line. “Nick?”
“Yes?”
“You too.”
He ended the call before the need for intimacy trumped opsec. He sighed and looked down at his hands in his lap: gun in the right, mobile in the left. Was this his life now? Was this how he would be forced to spend the rest of his days in China—in the dark, ready to shoot, his only connection to the world via anonymous burner phone?
Some fixer I am . . . I can’t even keep my own life from falling apart.
Despite his best efforts, he could not fall back asleep. Instead, he spent the rest of the night scenario planning. He left the hotel before sunrise, hours before his meeting with Dash, to conduct countersurveillance runs. No way was he going to put her in danger. If a single hair prickled on the back of his neck, he’d abort the meeting. He walked the dark streets of southern Hong Kong Island in endless loops before catching the number thirty-eight bus, not far from where he’d started in Aberdeen. He got off at North Point Ferry Pier, made another series of loops, changed his sweat shirt, swapped ball caps, and dropped his backpack into a large canvas rucksack he’d bought. On his return to the bus stop, he let the first number-ten bus depart without him, waiting and watching for anyone who loitered with him and didn’t move along with the crowd. No one did. When the next bus arrived ten minutes later, he boarded and took a seat in the back. He rode to a stop near the Hong Kong Central Library, where he disembarked and walked an indirect route to the Excelsior Hotel. At the hotel, he chatted up the concierge for ten minutes, asking questions, giving compliments, and telling jokes until he’d built a comfortable rapport. Then he scribbled instructions for Dash on a piece of hotel stationery, sealed it in a hotel envelope—both obtained from the concierge—and left the envelope at reception. He poured himself a cup of coffee from the hotel’s complimentary coffee bar station and departed the lobby at zero seven thirty. He expected Dash to arrive promptly at eight, if not early, to the Excelsior. That gave him time to make a pass through the park before looping back to the hotel to scrub her for ticks before meeting at the Hill Knoll Pavilion in the park.
Nick entered Victoria Park west of the jogging trail. He stopped at the circular fountain, scanning for anything or anyone suspicious before making his way north to the Hill Knoll Pavilion. Halfway through his sweep, his heart seemed to freeze midbeat, leaving a heavy void in the center of his chest. He forced himself to scan casually past the man standing twenty meters away, talking on his phone by a park bench. Nick was certain the sma
ll Chinese man in jeans and a short black coat had been looking at him, but more telling was the way the man turned his head away when Nick looked in his direction. The man looked familiar—or was it just his coat?
Nick mentally scanned the catalog of figures and faces he’d logged since he’d left his hotel hours ago. In his mind’s eye, he tried to make a match. He had seen him on the number thirty-eight bus. He felt certain he’d seen that same nondescript short black jacket . . . but the man on the bus had been older. Or had he? Nick tried to recall the passenger’s face and clothing. The rider had also been wearing jeans, just like this guy.
Nick shifted his rucksack onto his shoulder and brushed his forearm across the subcompact Sig Sauer in his waistband, validating that it was still there. He had nine rounds in the weapon and four additional magazines—two in his jeans pockets and then two more in his backpack—which were stuffed inside the rucksack and therefore virtually inaccessible in a firefight. He pulled out his phone as if checking a text message and began walking a slow circle around the fountain. He pretended to type a text, periodically glancing at the man by the bench as he did.
Suddenly, the man laughed loudly and then sat down on the bench. He leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees. Now the man was paying no attention at all to Nick, but Nick was sure the guy had been watching him a moment ago. Nick walked to the far side of the fountain, keeping his head turned just enough to keep the man in his peripheral vision. The real test would come if Nick headed west toward Great George Street to leave the park. If the dude stood and followed, then Nick had problems.
He turned west and walked ten paces before stopping and taking a knee as if to tie his shoe. In the process, he glanced back toward the bench on the opposite side of the fountain. The man was now off the phone, had pulled a tablet from his case, and was looking at something on his device, apparently paying no attention to the fact that his prey was escaping. Could there be others waiting for him? Perhaps the man was texting them right now to ambush Nick as he crossed under Gloucester Road.
Instead of leaving the park, Nick turned south. He decided to loop around the fountain on the footpath north of the playing fields and observe his would-be observer from behind. After several meters, he turned east, taking the tree-lined sidewalk. He opened up the range, then turned north, merging onto the jogging path. He walked north until the fountain came into view through the trees. The man still sat on the bench, head bowed, his back to Nick. From the right, a woman approached the bench. She tapped the black-coated man on the shoulder, careful not to spill the two coffees she held, and then smiled at him. He stood up, and they embraced. The woman handed him a coffee, and they sat together on the bench. Nick let the breath hiss slowly out between his clenched teeth and then forced his shoulders to unwind.
He glanced at his watch. Just enough time to loop around the pavilion and work his way back to the Excelsior Hotel for Dash’s arrival.
Fifteen minutes later, from his observation hideout in Tung Lo Wan Garden, he spied her walking east on Gloucester toward the park. He was wholly unprepared for the effect seeing her had on him. She was dressed simply—in khaki pants, a light jacket, and sensible shoes. Her onyx hair flowed behind her as she dodged pedestrians on the sidewalk. She walked with confidence, but like a woman who had no idea how beautiful she was. The sight of her took his breath away. She was a vision of femininity, and a wave of longing washed over him.
He shook his head and tsked with his tongue.
No time for that now.
He shifted his gaze, scanning behind her. He looked for ticks, assuming that if she was being observed, it was by a team, with watchers passing her off to one another as she passed their positions. He let her pass, clearing her six as best he could, before stepping out of the little playground park and onto Gloucester behind her. She doglegged around the median, pausing for traffic before jogging over to the other side of the street and entering the park. He trailed her up the hill to the pavilion, keeping his distance. A mother and her two small children were playing on the two ancient iron cannon barrels. Dash stopped to watch them, taking a seat on the concrete wall next to two cartoonish statues depicting laughing heads. He watched her cross her legs and look around, and when she didn’t see him, she sighed. While she waited, she began chewing her pinky nail on her left hand. When she noticed she was doing it, she shook her head in irritation and crossed her arms.
Nick watched the area for several minutes, but nothing set off his antennae. He circled west for a last change of vantage points before approaching her. When she saw him, all the darkness in her face evaporated, and she jumped to her feet and ran to him. He resisted the urge to throw his arms around her, but to his surprise, she had less control and wrapped her arms around his chest. She pressed her tight body against his, and then she tipped on her toes to look at him. For an instant, he thought she might kiss him, but she stopped and smiled instead.
“Oh my God, Nick,” she said, gazing at him. “I was so worried about you. You made me wait so long between the voicemail and when you called me back.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but there was no other way.”
“It’s okay, just promise you won’t do that again.”
He pulled away slightly and scanned around them. His internal metronome was keeping time, and they’d loitered long enough. Time to move. Yes, he was being paranoid, but he could almost feel invisible forces climbing up all sides of the hill around the pavilion, moving into position for a strike. The high ground would be useless with him being the only shooter and possessing only one pistol. He smiled at her and then said, “We should walk.”
Dash reached for his hand, and he shifted to her other side—leaving his shooting hand free and taking her right hand in his left. Her skin was warm and soft, and her hand felt so natural in his. He cleared the area as they walked and led her off the west side of the hill onto a walking path that led south into the trees. Once the pavilion disappeared behind them, she spoke, squeezing his hand as she did.
“What on earth happened to you? Where have you been? Your message—the call—you sounded like you were in such trouble.”
“I am,” he said tightly. “I hate that I need to involve you, but I need your help. I’m sorry, Dash . . .”
“It’s okay,” she said. “I’m always here for you.”
She looked at him expectantly, and he suddenly wasn’t sure where to begin. More important, how could he tell her about helping Lankford and the CIA without losing her trust?
“I was in Xi’an,” he began, but she interrupted immediately, turning to look at him, her face surprised and her eyebrows suddenly knitted tightly.
“Xi’an? Why were you in Xi’an?”
He sighed. Trying to compartmentalize the information as he told the story was pointless. If he truly wanted her help, he’d have to come clean. The sooner he did that in the conversation, the better things would go. “I was doing a favor for Lankford,” he said, keeping his tone light.
“Lankford?” Dash stopped and looked up at him. “Don’t tell me you’re working for Lankford.”
“I’m not working for him, I swear.”
“But Lankford asked you to go to Xi’an.”
“Yes, but it’s not what you think,” he said.
“But he works for the CIA, Nick. If he wanted you to go to Xi’an, then it was on behalf of the CIA.”
He ran his fingers through his hair. This is not going as smoothly as I’d hoped it would.
“Nick? Answer me, please.”
“Lankford wanted me to go to Xi’an because an American expat there had gone missing. He asked me to stop by the guy’s apartment, ask a few questions, that’s all.”
“And what happened?”
“The guy wasn’t there, and when I started asking questions, it ruffled someone’s feathers, and that someone put a hit on me. Two goons tried to kill me in downtown Xi’an in broad daylight.”
“And that’s why you came to Hong Kong?”
“Yeah, Lankford got me the hell out of there and put me up in a CIA safe house on Lantau Island.”
“But Lantau . . .”
“I know,” he said. “That was for us. I escaped, but . . .”
“But what?” she said, her voice nervous now.
“Lankford didn’t make it, Dash.”
Her face lost all its color, and she let go of his hand, her hand going to her mouth.
“Dead?” she breathed.
“Yeah.”
“Who did this?” she said softly. “Who killed Lankford?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “All I do know is that the people who killed him are the same people who didn’t like me asking questions about Peter Yu’s disappearance.”
Dash froze. “Wait a minute. Did you say Peter Yu?”
“Yes,” Nick asked. He grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her to look at him. “Do you know him?”
“We have his body,” she said. “It was recovered in the investigation I’m working on here in Hong Kong.”
Nick’s jaw dropped open. How was that possible? Was fate determined to pull them together once again into a new and terrible horror? Was that their destiny? The coincidence bordered on insane, and Nick wondered, for a moment, if he was losing his mind. He felt Dash’s worried eyes on him. He swallowed hard and said, “Then that means Lankford’s murder and the two attempts on my life are also somehow connected to your case.”
“Yes,” she said absently, her mind somewhere else, evidently unfazed that the universe was once again conspiring against them. “We have to tell Zhang.”
“No, you can’t,” he said, squeezing her shoulders until her eyes came back to him. “I don’t think Zhang will be understanding once he learns I was helping Lankford. Besides, we don’t know who’s hunting me. It could be an element inside the Chinese government.”
“I work for the Chinese government,” Dash said, a sharp sting now in her voice. “This is not an American action movie. My government is not in the business of assassinations, nor is it in the business of butchering civilians and dumping mutilated bodies in the South China Sea.”
