Snake Eye

by William C. Dietz

  Peng produced a business card and held it face out, right side up, with both hands. Little Chow was prepared for formality and did likewise on behalf of both himself and his father. “It is a pleasure to meet you,” the official said politely. “Please allow me to introduce my associate, Mr. Tian.”

  More business cards were exchanged, followed by handshakes all around, and plates were loaded with food. Then, at Samuel Chow’s invitation, everyone took their seats. That was when Mr. Tian opened his briefcase, removed a black box, and placed it on top of the conference room table. A simple flick of a switch was sufficient to activate the device. Meanwhile, in a room two doors down the hall, a pair of technicians looked at their monitors in alarm. “Uh, oh,” one of them said. “I don’t like the looks of that.”

  “What?” Hawkins demanded, as he flipped his cell phone closed.

  “That,” the second technoid said, as he pointed at the black box. “It could be…”

  “…A jammer,” the first tech finished for him, as the video feeds went black, and static blasted through the speakers.

  “God damn it to hell!” the ICE agent said angrily, and threw his cell phone across the room. It shattered against the wall. Pieces flew every which way and what remained beeped pitifully from somewhere on the floor.

  “Yup,” the second technician said evenly. “That pretty well covers it.”

  Samuel Chow had always been very fastidious about his privacy, and he found the fact that Mr. Tian had similar values to be reassuring, especially since the matters they were about to discuss would have been of keen interest to the CIA, FBI, and ICE. Because, in spite of credentials that listed him as the Wu Financial Group’s vice president of marketing, Mr. Tian’s real name was Kong. His real employer was China’s Military Intelligence Directorate (MID)—and his real objective was to facilitate espionage within the United States. Or so Samuel Chow’s sources told him—and they were rarely wrong.

  The Intel officer had slightly hooded eyes, unusually long earlobes, and pitted skin. He had a BA from USC, an MBA from Harvard, and chose to speak Mandarin. Because of many years spent in the U.S., and his knowledge of the local culture, he came right to the point. “Mr. Peng tells me that you and your company would like to do business in China.”

  “Yes,” Samuel Chow agreed. “My son and I believe that the time has come to return to the home of our ancestors.”

  Kong looked from one Chow to the other. According to information gathered by his staff, the old man was corrupt, but dependably so, while his son was something of a loose cannon, a self-indulgent playboy who could produce results when forced to, but who lacked self-discipline and wasn’t very reliable. Still, once Samuel Chow died, adjustments could and would be made. The kind of adjustments that would place the family’s smuggling operation into more trustworthy hands. His hands. “I agree with you,” Kong said smoothly. “This is a good time to reintegrate your family into Chinese society. And, as a repatriated citizen, I’m sure you will find ways to support your country’s government.”

  Samuel Chow took a deep draught of air from the mask. He was a citizen of the United States and felt a sense of loyalty to it. But, if he hoped to relaunch the Zhou dynasty, sacrifices would have to be made. He let the mask fall. “Of course,” he replied simply. “Nothing would please us more.”

  Everett, Washington, which was located just north of Seattle, had long been home to paper mills, a Boeing plant, and elements of the Navy’s Pacific Fleet. Inez knew the area so it was she who guided the FBI agent into a neighborhood characterized by old wood-frame houses, unkempt yards, and beat-up cars. “Take a right,” the ICE agent instructed as they passed an alleyway. “We’re almost there.”

  After the conversation with Letisha Jones it seemed like a good idea to interview Tina Nafino. But, like so many people who live outside the boundaries of the law, Nafino had plenty of things to hide from, including a parole violation, a felony drug warrant, and a whole lot of creditors. So it took some detective work, but it wasn’t long before they came up with an address for Nafino’s sister, and that’s where they were presently headed. Rossi made the turn as Inez checked the numbers posted on the front of the nearest house. “Okay, this is the block. Pull over and let me out.”

  The FBI agent pulled over to the curb as Inez readied both her weapon and her hand-held radio. A quick check was sufficient to ensure that they were on the same frequency. Inez opened the passenger side door. “Hold until I call.”

  Rossi nodded. “Watch yourself.”

  The ICE agent grinned. “Always.” Then she was gone.

  Rossi checked her mirror, pulled out, and rolled past Inez. The ICE agent looked slightly out of place in her business suit and long overcoat but nobody was paying any attention. Or that’s what Rossi hoped as she continued up the block. Two out of three houses boasted some sort of Christmas decorations—most of which were bound to look better at night than they did during the day. The address they were looking for turned out to be the same as that of the Little Stars Day Care Center. Not only was that a surprise, but a potential problem, because the children could be at risk if things turned nasty. But the FBI agent was confident that Inez would take such factors into account.

  Rossi paused at the end of the block, took a right, and turned into the alley that ran behind the day care facility. It was barely one car wide, pitted with muddy pot holes, and bordered by all manner of fences, rickety garages, and tarp-covered boats.

  The possibility that Nafino had been present during the ambush was enough to make the FBI agent’s heart beat a little bit faster as she drove down the alley. What if she was packing? Another shoot-out was the last thing Rossi wanted.

  There weren’t any street numbers to go by, but the agent knew that the house she sought was about halfway down the block, and the brightly colored toys in the fenced backyard made it easy to spot. Rossi stopped the car next to the back gate, left the engine running, and got out. There hadn’t been so much as a peep from Inez so far and Rossi was just starting to wonder about that when the ICE agent’s voice came over the radio. “Watch out! Here she comes!”

  Rossi saw the back door fly open and a young woman emerge. She was holding what appeared to be a two-year-old girl in her arms as she ran towards the rear gate and began to fumble with the child-proof lock. Rossi had circled around the front of the car by then. She held her credentials up where they could be seen. “FBI! Hold it right there—“

  Nafino turned, and was about to run back towards the house when Inez appeared in the doorway. A worried-looking woman who held an infant in her arms could be seen just inside the back entryway. “That’s right,” Rossi said. “There’s no place to run. I want you to put the little girl down and keep your hands where I can see them. She’s cute. Is she yours?”

  Nafino nodded as she placed the toddler on the walkway and looked down into her face. Her breath fogged the air. “Go inside, honey. It’s too cold out here. I bet Aunt Carol will give you a cookie if you asked her for one.”

  The little girl looked doubtful, but went willingly enough, and soon disappeared into the house. Tears ran down Nafino’s cheeks as she offered her wrists. “Cuff me and let’s get out of here. I don’t want to make trouble for my sister.”

  Inez ordered the suspect to put her hands over her head and kneel down. Once she was in the correct position, Rossi cuffed the suspect from behind. With that out of the way the agents helped Nafino back to her feet and led the young woman over to the sedan. The ensuing search turned up five pieces of bubble gum, a rat-tailed comb, a recently expired driver’s license, twenty-two dollars and sixty-five cents, and a color photo of the girl who had been taken into the house. The young woman eyed the pocket litter that had been spread out on the hood in front of her. Somehow she still managed to look pretty in spite of the bad hair, overdone make-up, and the mascara tracks that ran down her cheeks. “Could I have a piece of my gum?”

  “Sure,” Rossi said thoughtfully as she unwrapped a square
of gum and popped the pink square into the suspect’s mouth. “Now, if you would be so kind as to get in the back of the car, we’ll take you downtown. I suspect you’ve heard them before. But Agent Inez will read you your rights.”

  Nafino had heard them before, and while seemingly impassive, was busy thinking her way through the situation as Inez read aloud. “So,” the ICE agent finished, “do you understand your rights?”

  Nafino popped her gum as Rossi guided the sedan out of the alley and onto a side street. “Yeah, sure. I have the right to remain silent—or spill my guts to some low-rent hack. Can I ask a question?”

  “Fire away,” Inez answered indulgently. “What’s on your mind?”

  Nafino looked from one agent to the other. “You’re Feds, right? What’s up with that? I didn’t rob no bank.”

  Inez peered into the backseat. Maybe, just maybe, Nafino was smarter than she looked. “No,” the ICE agent agreed. “But you had a pretty serious relationship with an international drug smuggler.”

  “Where did you hear that?” Nafino demanded. “They’re lying!”

  Rossi made an adjustment to the inside rearview mirror. Nafino was probing, trying to figure out what kind of information they had, and looking for a way to cushion her fall. All of which made sense. “Really?” the FBI agent inquired. “That’s funny. Letisha didn’t seem like a liar to me. What do you think, Agent Inez? Is Ms. Jones a liar?”

  “Certainly not,” the other law-enforcement officer replied, confidently. “Ms. Jones comes across as a very trustworthy woman.”

  “That bitch?” Nafino inquired. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

  “So you know her,” Rossi said gently.

  “Yeah, I know her,” the young woman admitted. “She has big boobs. And Mo liked big boobs. That’s why he dumped me.”

  “So you shot him,” Inez said conversationally. “I can’t say as I blame you, but murder is illegal, so you’re going down. That’s too bad because a death sentence will be hard on your daughter.”

  “You’re trying to trick me!” Nafino said accusingly. “I never said I shot him.”

  “That’s true,” Rossi said agreeably. “You didn’t say that. But who else would shoot the guy in the balls and leave him to bleed to death? Besides, I think we can prove you were there.”

  Nafino frowned. “Prove it? How?”

  “You chew bubblegum,” Rossi answered. “And, if memory serves me correctly, three or four wads of bubblegum were found at the crime scene in the mountains. Nice, juicy samples that were full of DNA. I’m betting that after the forensic people swab the inside of your mouth and run their tests, they’ll come up with a match. The prosecutor will love it! Tina Nafino had a motive—and Tina Nafino had an opportunity. Case closed.”

  “No!” Nafino objected vehemently. “I was there. I admit that. But it was Joe Chow and his gang that did the shooting!”

  Having missed the bubblegum connection, Inez looked at the FBI agent with a heightened sense of respect. “Really?” she demanded. “Well, I suppose that could be true. Why don’t you tell us more?” And Nafino did.

  The Hathaway Home for Men occupied what had once been an old office building before it had been gutted, sub-divided, and converted into semi-permanent housing for street people. But for reasons not obvious, there was no sign out front. A stiff breeze tugged at Dexter’s parka and tried to snatch the piece of paper out of his grasp as he paused to check the address that the Social Services director had given him over the phone.

  Then, sure that he had the right place, the businessman went down to the corner, crossed with the light, and made his way back to the middle of the block. The Hathaway’s front door opened into a sizeable lobby. It was home to a dozen well-worn chairs, most of which were occupied by men who Dexter assumed were residents, and a scattering of tired-looking potted plants. Black-and-white photos of Seattle’s early days decorated the walls and a counter was visible towards the back.

  Dexter felt at least a half-dozen eyes follow him as he made his way back to the desk where a weary-looking man in a black sweatsuit sat perched on a stool. He had disinterested eyes, thick dreadlocks, and wore gold rings on all of his fingers. “May I help you?”

  “Yes,” Dexter replied. “I’m here to see Willy Bock.”

  “Is he expecting you?”

  “No, he isn’t.”

  Light glinted off gold as the receptionist wrapped thick fingers around the receiver. “Your name?”

  “Jack Dexter. Tell him Lonny sent me.”

  The receptionist nodded, punched a series of numbers into the keypad, and turned away. Finally, after a muffled conversation, the black man turned back. “Willy doesn’t remember a Lonny, but he hasn’t had a visitor in a long time, and would be happy to see you. May I see what’s in the bag?”

  Dexter lifted the paper bag and held it open for inspection. “Fig Newtons. The Social Services director told me that Willy likes them.”

  The receptionist smiled. He had a gold tooth as well. “We don’t allow alcohol or drugs in the building—but Fig Newtons are fine. Take one of the elevators up to nine. Willy lives in nine oh five.”

  Dexter said, “Thanks,” and made his way back to the elevators just as one of the doors opened. He was forced to wait while a frail-looking man maneuvered his walker into the car before stepping aboard. The resident punched “4” and shuffled off when the elevator came to a stop. The businessman hit the “close door” button and waited for the trip to continue.

  Once on the ninth floor Dexter saw an arrow followed by the numbers “900-910” and followed that down the hall to room 905. Willy was waiting at the door. He was sixty-five, but due to a lifetime of alcohol abuse and intermittent medical care, he looked ten years older than that. The ex-shipfitter was relatively short, no more than five-seven or so, and very thin. What hair he had was combed straight back. It had been two days since his last shave—and his clothes were too large for him.

  However, in spite of his less-than-perfect physical condition, the shipfitter’s mental faculties were intact. He had bright blue eyes and they locked with Dexter’s. “So,” he demanded, “who the hell is Lonny?”

  “He runs Scotty’s Marine,” the businessman replied. “He’s a big guy with an affinity for Hawaiian attire.”

  “Oh, him,” Willy said disgustedly. “I guess that was his name. I always referred to him as ‘the asshole up in the office.’ Maybe that’s why he fired me.”

  “I’ll bet that was a factor,” Dexter agreed mildly.

  Willy started to laugh but it quickly turned into a hacking cough. “Cigarettes,” he explained. “About a million of them. You can’t smoke here though. Or drink. About the only thing you can do is jack off, but I can’t get it up anymore. Come on in. The room ain’t much but it beats the hell out of sleeping in a doorway.”

  The ex-naval officer entered to find that while plain and clearly designed to withstand heavy use, Willy’s room was more like a studio apartment than a room. It included a small bathroom, a walk-in closet, and a living area large enough to accommodate a single bed, an easy chair, and a dresser with a TV perched on top of it. Light entered the room via a large window that looked out onto the street.

  “You take the chair,” Will instructed. “I’ll sit on the bed. So, what can I do for you?”

  The second-hand Barcalounger had belonged to Willy for so long that it had taken on the shape of his body, and the experience of lowering himself into the recliner was, for Dexter, akin to sitting on the old man’s lap. “Here,” the ex-naval officer said from the depths of the chair, “I hear you like Fig Newtons.”

  “I do,” Willy said brightly, as he accepted the paper bag and peered inside. “Not as much as I like booze—but I like ‘em just fine. Now, like I said before, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking for information,” the businessman answered. “About a ship named the Zhou Spring. The asshole up in the office said that you might have worked on her.”

&nbs
p; Willy cackled appreciatively. “I like you, Jack, I really do. Sure, I not only worked on the Zhou Spring, I worked on her just before she took her final voyage. Tell me something, Jack. Are you a seagoing man?”

  “I was a naval officer,” Dexter admitted.

  “I thought so,” Willy said knowingly. “I served in the Navy too, except I was enlisted. So, what do you want to know about the Spring?”

  Lonny had accepted the salvage lie so Dexter saw no reason to invent a new one. “I’m part of a group that is looking into the possibility of raising the Zhou Spring.”

  “And you want to know what kind of condition she was in,” Willy interjected. “Well, you came to the right man. That was one helluva a strange refit, that was.”

  Dexter’s eyebrows rose. “Really? Why do you say that?”

  The paper bag made a rattling noise as Willy’s hand plunged down inside it. “Rather than work her over the way we normally would, Scotty ordered the crew to concentrate on constructing an airtight chamber inside the main hold.”

  The businessman frowned. “A water-tight chamber? Whatever for?”

  “That’s what we wanted to know,” the ex-ship fitter replied, as he ripped the cellophane open. “They told us it was for some kind of marine research—but that was bullshit. The chamber included a lock, just like what you would find on a submarine, plus living quarters for twelve men. We’re talking a galley, fresh water showers, and bunks. Plus an air supply and everything to go with it.”

  Willy finished the sentence by stuffing two Fig Newtons into his mouth. A look of satisfaction came over his face as he chewed and Dexter posed the next question. “You’re sure of that?”

  The old man swallowed. He was clearly resentful. “Sure, I’m sure! I may have been a lush, but I served as a machinist’s mate on two different subs, so I know an airlock when I see one.” A conspiratorial look came over his whiskered face. “Do you know what I think?”

  Dexter shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

  Willy looked left and right and lowered his voice to little more than a whisper. “If I were you I would check to see if she’s really there—before I paid one red cent to raise her! There was something weird about the people who owned her.”