by Scott McEwen
“Does that mean the sniper will return?” Diego asked.
“It means that from this day forward,” Crosswhite said, “we should assume he’s already here. I suggest that everyone—you included, Chief—continue wearing their balaclavas when patrolling the city. That will make it impossible for him to single any of us out. He might decide to shoot some men at random to scare us off the streets. If he does, we’ll zero his position and outflank him.”
“How difficult will that be?” Diego’s fear of the sniper was evident.
Crosswhite put a hand on the young police chief’s shoulder. “A sniper always has the first shot. There’s nothing we can do about that, so we have to accept it. The trick is in knowing which direction to move after he pulls the trigger. Your men need to be vigilant at all times.”
A lieutenant stepped out the back door of the building, gesturing urgently with a sheaf of papers. Diego excused himself.
“What’s that about?” Vaught wondered.
“Looks serious, whatever it is.”
Diego returned, offering the papers to Crosswhite. “My men found these bodies on a road outside of town. We haven’t seen this type of civilian execution since before my brother was appointed chief.”
Crosswhite sorted through print-offs of a half dozen cell phone pictures. Three naked bodies had been found dumped on a dirt road: a man, a woman, and a girl, all of them obviously shot in the head. The printer quality was not the best, but there was no mistaking Agent Luis Mendoza’s protruding Adam’s apple in the profile pic of his blood-smeared face. Mrs. Mendoza’s charred breast was equally evident.
“Like I said,” he muttered, passing the pictures to Vaught and walking off. “He’s already here.”
Vaught opened the file. “Oh my God,” he whispered, seeing the little girl’s exploded head.
Diego saw the blood drain from his face. “Do you know those people?”
“It’s Agent Mendoza and his family.” Vaught turned away and vomited his lunch onto the ground between the wall and a parked police cruiser.
44
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
17:30 HOURS
Strolling casually into Pope’s office, Fields took a chair across the table near the window. The CIA director did not acknowledge him, sitting with his eyes focused on a laptop screen, his fingers moving slowly over the keys in gentle taps. Fields didn’t know it, but Pope was hacked into the Chinese Guojia Anquan Bu mainframe (Chinese Ministry of State Security), and he was searching to see if the Chinese had discovered an ex–Navy SEAL operating in their country. So far there was no such indication.
He closed the laptop and looked across at Fields. “How are things in Mexico?”
Fields took off his glasses and began cleaning them with a handkerchief. “Crosswhite and Mederos have met with Castañeda,” he said. “I don’t know what was discussed, but I doubt it was in the interest of the agency.”
Pope set aside the computer with a sigh. “I’m sure they mean well.”
“I’m not.” Fields put the glasses back on.
Pope stared with his powder-blue eyes. “Is this in reference to missing gold again?”
“Gold or no gold,” Fields said. “You need to accept that all three of your most trusted children are up to something.”
While Pope did believe that Gil and Crosswhite were up to something, he didn’t believe they were up to the same thing. And he knew for a certified fact that, whatever they were up to, it had nothing to do with any missing gold. He knew this because every ounce of bullion stolen from the Palinouros—a yacht owned by a corrupt Turkish banker in the Mediterranean—the year before, had been accounted for behind door number nine of the French storage unit.
How silly, he thought, his mind drifting. People are so prone to conspiracy theories. As if Gil and Crosswhite could ever sell gold bullion on the black market without me catching them. But this was the lens through which Fields viewed the world, and the reason that Pope had put him in charge of the Mexico crisis in the first place. Fields was predictable.
“They didn’t steal any gold,” he said, dismissing the notion. “What’s happening with Serrano?”
Fields let the question of gold pass for the moment. “He’s cooperating, but if things go bad for him, he’ll attempt to throw you under the bus—he as much as said it.”
“There’s no record of our dealings with Hancock,” Pope said. “It would be my word against Serrano’s. No one paid attention when Manuel Noriega accused Bush I of colluding with him as director of the CIA in the midseventies. Everyone believed it was probably true, but nobody paid attention.”
“Still, we might have backed the wrong horse,” Fields went on. “There’s some low-level buzz in the Mexican media. They’re accusing Serrano of arranging Ruvalcaba’s ‘escape’ from prison last year. Few journalists have been brave enough to write about it, but if the story picks up momentum, it could put Serrano out of the race for president. Meanwhile, Castañeda continues to honor the truce.”
“Castañeda’s intelligent,” Pope conceded, “but he has no political ties; no one to run interference for him with the Mexican government. That makes him problematic in the long term. It’s true that Ruvalcaba is less intelligent, but he’s easier to control. Our most immediate problem is Vaught. How do we stand?”
Fields sat up in the chair. “I’ve told Serrano to send Hancock after him. It’s the most expedient solution.”
Pope nodded. “In that case, Hancock will have to go too—eventually.”
“I already thought of that, so I’ve tracked Billy Jessup to Tijuana. Once I have him, I should be able to learn quite a bit concerning Hancock’s movements.”
“I trust you have the necessary assets in Tijuana?”
“I’m leaving tonight.” Fields was satisfied that Pope was not asking for details because he wasn’t sure how he would have reacted to him manipulating Mariana. “I’ll have things in order within a few days. Jessup isn’t going anywhere soon. He’s too busy living the Tijuana nightlife.”
“Hancock won’t be easy to remove,” Pope warned. “I misjudged his mental stability, but his skill set is sound. Has he figured out the CIA put him in touch with the Ruvalcabas?”
“Not that I know of.”
Pope’s mind began to drift again, but he came back on tangent. “Midori asked me what you were doing in Mexico City. Did you meet with anyone other than Serrano while you were there?”
“I did. I made it a point to drop in on the head of the PFM. He thanked us for our cooperation in allowing them to use Agent Vaught—though the quake seems to have derailed their investigation for the time being.”
“Good,” Pope said. “That will make it easier to explain why you took a company jet to Mexico, if anyone ever comes asking. Continue to be careful, Clem; there’s no way to know who’s watching what anymore.”
45
ZHANGJIAJIE, CHINA
09:00 HOURS
There was a knock in code at the hotel room door, and Gil let Nahn into the room. The Asian man gave him a small brown paper bag, and they spoke in Vietnamese while Lena applied her makeup in front of the mirror. Nahn finally left as she was finishing her lipstick.
“He doesn’t speak English?” she asked, capping the tube and turning around.
Gil took a bottle of lighter fluid from the paper sack and set it on the table. “I’ve never asked.”
“He speaks Chinese, I assume?”
“His Cantonese is perfect. That’s what they speak down south, closer to Vietnam. Up here they speak a lot of Mandarin dialect. His Mandarin is passable but not perfect.”
“Can the people here tell he’s not Chinese?”
“Probably, but he doesn’t try to pass himself off as Chinese, so it doesn’t matter. There are a lot of Vietnamese living in China. What’s important is that our Russian friends across
the street can’t tell the difference.” He took the Zippo lighter from his pocket, pulled off the bottom and began soaking the cotton wadding inside with lighter fluid. “I have to go out for a while—be back in an hour or so.”
“Out to do what?”
“Nahn needs to show me something.”
“Show you what?”
“Where the Russians parked their car. I’ll disable it so they can’t follow us to the Dragon Wall. There are too many places in the park where they could pull some shit.”
“Can’t Nahn disable the car?”
He put the lighter back together, tucking it into his pocket. “The man isn’t being paid to risk his life.” He shrugged into his Carhartt jacket and gave her a kiss. “Back in an hour or so.”
“It’s the so part that concerns me. Aren’t they watching our hotel?”
“No. Nahn says they paid the concierge downstairs to call them if we leave.”
He gave her another kiss and slipped out the door.
Nahn was waiting for him in the back hall, where he gave him a small rucksack, and they took the stairs down to the first floor, leaving out the back. They skirted behind the restaurant next door and crossed the street a block down, making their way back behind a row of lesser buildings to arrive eventually at the rear entrance of the Russians’ older hotel.
“Are they still in their room?”
Nahn checked his cellular to see if he’d received a text from the cleaning woman he had paid to keep an eye out. “All clear,” he said in perfect English.
They went inside and took the stairs to the top floor. Nahn showed Gil how to access the elevator shaft through a maintenance panel in the janitor’s closet.
“Okay,” Gil said, removing the access panel. “If all goes as planned, I’ll meet you by the river.”
“Good luck, my friend.” Nahn closed the closet door and disappeared back down the stairs.
Gil took a small headlamp from the rucksack and slipped it over his head, switching on the red light and easing himself into the elevator shaft through the maintenance hatch. Using the ladder mounted on the wall of the shaft, he descended three floors to the top of the elevator car and gently stepped aboard, locating a small electrical box that Nahn had wired directly into the elevator’s control panel. The elevator doors opened and passengers stepped aboard. Gil took hold of the cable attached to the top of the car and steadied himself for the ride.
The old car descended seven floors to the lobby, and the passengers disembarked. Someone else stepped aboard, and a few seconds later, the elevator was going back up. Nahn had assured him there was plenty of headroom even if the car went all the way up to the tenth floor, but in the almost pitch dark, Gil could not resist the instinct to keep low.
The car stopped on the ninth floor, and he took his cellular from his pocket, texting Lena to meet him in the lobby of their hotel as quickly as possible with only her carry-on. Then he used a screwdriver to pry open the trapdoor in the roof of the elevator, wedging it in place to keep the door open just enough for him to peer down into the car. Two Chinese passengers stepped aboard, and the elevator descended to the lobby.
Five minutes later, the elevator was called to the third floor, and Gil sat watching like a spider as all three Russians walked aboard, pressing the button for the lobby. He flicked the kill switch on the electrical box, and the Russians were trapped.
The blond driver Gil had spoken to the day before jabbed the button with his thumb, but the elevator didn’t move. He pressed the button to open the doors, and again nothing happened. They began talking in hushed tones as the blond continued to jab the lobby button.
Gil eased two gallon-size plastic zipper bags from the rucksack, resting them at the edge of the trapdoor. Each was filled with two parts gasoline and one part dishwashing soap. He took the Zippo from his pocket and opened the trapdoor all the way.
“Top o’ the mornin’ to ya, boys.”
The Russians looked up with their eyes wide, completely stunned to see the American looking down at them, a red light shining from his forehead. They touched impotently at their jackets for pistols they didn’t have, stealing wary glances at one another.
Gil nudged the plastic bags over the edge. The bags broke open upon impact with the floor, splashing the homemade napalm all over the Russians, and they began shouting for help, hammering on the doors.
Gil flicked the Zippo alight. “Dasvidanya,” he muttered, dropping the lighter into the car and flipping the trapdoor shut.
The elevator car was engulfed instantly in flames. The trapped men screamed horribly as Gil climbed onto the ladder with flames licking out around the edge of the trapdoor.
The screams died out after only a few seconds, the Russians’ lungs scorched by the intense heat, and Gil climbed quickly up to the tenth. The hotel fire alarm was ringing by then, and he mixed in among the guests as they left their rooms calmly, most of them complaining about the inconvenience. By the time they arrived at the landing to the eighth floor, however, the stench of burning gasoline was evident, and they began to hurry. Arriving at the fifth floor, they smelled burnt flesh and began to scurry downward in controlled panic.
Arriving at the lobby, Gil walked calmly out the front door and crossed the street to his hotel, stepping inside, where Lena and a half dozen other guests were watching the commotion across the street. The fire had quickly burned itself out due to the lack of oxygen in the elevator car, so there was no smoke or flame to be seen from the street.
“What happened?” she asked.
Ignoring her, Gil locked eyes with the concierge, pointing at him with his thumb and index finger and pretending to take a shot. The concierge instinctively took a step back, and Gil glanced up at the security camera with a sneer, turning for the door and taking Lena by the arm. “Time to fly, baby. Let’s go.”
46
ZHANGJIAJIE, CHINA
12:50 HOURS
Thirty-year-old Captain Fa Chao of the Chinese Ministry of State Security stood looking at the partially charred bodies of the dead Russian Bratva lying crumpled on the floor of the elevator, their clothes burned away almost completely. The stench made his stomach turn, but important people would be watching him very carefully to see how he handled this, so it was imperative that he dominate his nausea and look the part of an experienced and capable leader.
“Who are they?” he asked peremptorily.
The head police investigator offered him a paper sack containing three scorched Russian passports. “The fire burned itself out quickly. The passports are still legible.”
Chao examined the passport photos, noting the Bratva tattoos about the men’s necks. “They’re Mafia?”
“It’s possible,” the investigator said. “We think they were killed by an American staying at the hotel across the street. The concierge over there said these men were asking about him yesterday morning. The propellant was gasoline, but what we still don’t understand is how he managed to trap these men inside the elevator.”
Chao leaned into the elevator, looking up at the trapdoor. “Has anyone checked the roof of the car?”
The investigator turned to one of his men, barking orders to get a ladder.
A stepladder was produced within minutes, and one of the Chinese officers pushed open the trapdoor, climbing onto the roof of the car with a flashlight in his teeth. A minute later, he stuck his head down through the hole. “Someone has wired an electrical switch into the control panel.” He handed down Gil’s rucksack. “He left a screwdriver and this empty backpack.”
The investigator took the rucksack and gave it to Chao.
Chao looked inside and handed it back. “I want to talk to that concierge.”
Again the investigator barked his orders, and two officers went to bring the concierge.
They returned five minutes later with the nervous-looking young man s
tanding between them.
Chao gazed at him, his eyes menacing. “I want to know everything. Lie to me, and you will be very sorry.”
The concierge told him all that he knew, admitting that the Russians had offered him a week’s pay to call them the second the American or his woman showed up in the lobby.
One of the police officers produced the hotel ledger, pointing out Gil’s alias: Conner MacLoughlin.
Chao looked at the concierge. “The ledger says he’s Canadian.”
“Yes, I know,” the concierge said. “But the Russians said he was American.”
Chao took the investigator aside, talking in a low voice. “Go across the street and take custody of the security video. If these Russians believed their killer was American, he could be CIA. I want him caught before sunset—alive. Is that understood?”
“Yes.” The investigator disappeared down the stairs.
Chao returned his attention to the concierge, gesturing at the bodies with the charred passports. “You admit to calling these men when the Swiss woman came down to the lobby?”
“Yes,” answered the concierge, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple.
“Place this man under arrest,” Chao said to the officers. “He’s an accomplice to murder.”
“That’s not true!” the concierge blurted, pointing at the bodies. “I was helping them, not the American!”
Chao, recognizing his blunder at once, was embarrassed to have it pointed out to him by a simple-minded concierge. “So you say!” he snapped. “But if you had not called them, they would not have been trapped in this elevator to be burned alive!”
The concierge lowered his eyes, unable to refute the fact placed before him.
Chao smirked in satisfaction. “Take him away.”
The investigator called Chao to meet him across the street in the hotel security office, where they reviewed the security video together. They saw very clearly the American pantomiming shooting the concierge with his finger before grabbing the Swiss woman by the arm and practically dragging her out the door.
