“Like they were trying to get loose. Maybe Cho was putting the gun to the kid’s heads.”
“We had some profilers look at that. In most cases the parents—or whoever is being forced to watch it—don’t struggle much. They’re too busy pleading, trying to divert the attention away from their children. Struggling usually occurs when the parents are watching something being done to their kids.”
“But what? You said—”
“They figured it out when Cho tried to pull his next job, another local politician. A beat cop heard a scream from an apartment, broke in, and caught Cho in the act. The mother and father had been duct-taped to chairs, the kids on the floor in front of them.”
When the details of the crime finally reached the newspapers, Cho’s method of torture had shocked an otherwise unflappable city. Under the horrified eyes of the parents, Cho had inserted an air-filled syringe into a vein of one of the children and then proceeded to question the parents with his thumb on the plunger. For each untruthful answer he got, Cho would pump another air bubble into the child’s bloodstream, all the while describing to the parents what the accumulation of bubbles would eventually do to the child. Once he got the answers he wanted, Cho killed the family.
Randall stared openmouthed. “That’s brutal.”
“Cho was careful, too. He used a small-bore needle. The pinprick was almost invisible. The cops and agents involved were stunned—not just because of the cruelty of it, but because of the sophistication of the technique. Either he had a hell of an imagination, or he’d had some training.”
“That’s how you got involved?”
Latham nodded. “Harry was running the New York field office then; he called me, thought I might be able to help. With nowhere else to go, they started looking at terrorist groups and foreign organized crime.”
It had taken six months, but slowly Cho’s history began unraveling. The real Hong Cho had died of natural causes three years before in a Coral Gables, Florida, nursing home. Using sources from cases Latham had worked in the past, they soon suspected Cho was working for China’s Ministry of State Security, or Guoanbu. Latham assumed Cho had learned his skills from them.
“At first we thought maybe the Callenatos and the Guoanbu were in bed together, but it turned out Cho was simply moonlighting.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Of course, the PRC denied any knowledge of him. So Cho went away for the first murder and the attempted second. He got a hundred seventy years total.”
“And this murder last night—”
“Same signature as Cho’s work.”
“Except for the father. So you’re thinking the suicide was staged.”
“That’s my guess. If so, Baker was probably the target. The question is, What was so important the Guoanbu would slaughter an entire family?”
They signed in at the Clinton Correctional Facility’s front desk, turned over their guns, and followed an officer to a windowless interview room; it was painted light pink. The table and chairs were bolted the floor.
“So how’s he done here?” asked Randall. “Cons don’t care much for child killers.”
“I heard his first month was tough, but nobody messes with him now. The first two inmates that moved on him got hurt pretty badly. The last one ended up with a broken collarbone, a ruptured kidney, and a glass eye. Now nobody comes near him.”
“Wow.”
“Wait till you see him.”
As if on cue, the door opened. Two officers walked in. Waddling between them, shackled hand and foot, was a Chinese man in his mid-forties, slightly balding, with black, prison-issue glasses. Standing just a few inches over five feet, Hong Cho weighed no more than 120 pounds. His hands and wrists were small, almost delicate. He stared at the far wall, seemingly oblivious to their presence.
The guards sat him down, secured his ankles to the chair, his wrists to an eyelet bolted to the tabletop, then left.
“Hello, Hong,” said Latham.
Cho’s eyes flicked to him, then to Randall, then back to the wall.
Latham pulled out a chair and sat down across from Cho. “Hong, I’m not going to waste your time with small talk. There’s been a murder in Washington that looks a lot like your work. We’re onto the guy”—Cho’s eyes narrowed briefly, then went blank again—“but we’d like to keep it from getting bloody. If you know of any places—”
“No.”
“We’ve got him, Hong. He won’t get out of the country. You could make it easier for him.”
“You’re lying.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Why would you care about making it easier on anyone but yourself?”
“If we can pick him up without incident, there’s less chance of civilians getting hurt.”
Cho waved his hand dismissively: Collateral damage didn’t concern him.
“That’s okay,” Latham said. “I didn’t really expect you to help, but I had to give it a shot.”
“Long drive for nothing.”
“It happens.” Latham stood. “By the way, how’re they treating you?”
In response, Cho arched his head backward so his jumpsuit collar exposed his neck. Running diagonally across his larynx was a purple scar inlaid with black stitches. “Last week.”
Latham suppressed a shiver. “Shank?”
Cho nodded. “Too dull. He wasn’t fast enough.”
“What happened to him?”
Cho returned his gaze to the wall. “He went away.”
Outside in the hallway, Randall whistled between his teeth. “Hard-ass.”
“That he is.”
Latham asked their escort to take them to the warden’s office. Latham introduced himself and Randall. “Warden, we’re working a case and we think Cho might have something. Problem is—”
“Problem is, he’s a hard-ass.”
“Right. We saw his latest scar. What happened to the other guy?”
“Cho took the shiv away from him, used it to cut off his ear, then stuffed it in his mouth.”
“Very nice. Can we take a look at his visitor log? The last six months, maybe?”
“Sure.” The warden swiveled in his chair, dug through one of the filing cabinets, and handed Latham a file. “Not much there. Two visitors—the same since he got here.”
Latham scanned the log. “Stephen Yates?”
“His lawyer. Comes about once every six months.”
“What about this one: Mary Tsang.”
“Cho’s pen pal. Sort of a nutcase if you ask me—a soul saver. She started writing him as soon as he got here, said she’d read about his trial, and didn’t think he could have done what they accused him of—you know the rest.”
Latham did. Ted Bundy got more marriage proposals than hate mail. There was always someone—usually a well-meaning but slightly off-kilter woman—who thought love could soften the hardest of hearts.
Randal asked, “What’s their mail like?”
“Routine stuff.”
“And the visits?”
“The same. You can tell he enjoys her visits, though. He even cracks a smile once in a while.”
Latham said, “Could we get the particulars on her and the lawyer?”
“Sure.”
Walking out the main gates, Latham read the information on Mary Tsang. “Hmmph.”
“What?”
“She lives in Washington. That’s a long trip to make once a month.”
“Unless she flies—which is speedy—it’s a twelve-hour trip each way. Boy, that’s love.”
“Maybe. I think we should find out a little more about the dedicated Ms. Tsang.”
6
Rappahannock River, Virginia
Thirteen months after the Tiananmen Square Massacre in Beijing, General Han Soong, chief of staff of the People’s Liberation Army, slipped his fateful note to a U.S. defense attaché. The general’s defection request sent
shock waves through the CIA.
Already sickened by his government’s ever-worsening treatment of its citizens, Tiananmen Square had pushed Soong over the edge. He had only one condition: His handler must be a military man; with a CIA case officer, he explained, he had no bond. A military man was a comrade in arms. Regardless of flag or anthem, a soldier could be trusted.
Realizing the golden opportunity they’d been handed, the CIA didn’t argue and began looking for a controller. They found their man in the then-newly formed Intelligence Support Activity Group.
Tanner, a twenty-eight-year-old navy lieutenant commander not only had the skills and experience, but also the temperament to handle the environment. Tanner accepted the job and the preparations began. The operation was code-named Ledger, Soong was Treble.
Two months later he was in China. Two months after that, on the day Tanner was to evacuate them, Soong and his family were arrested. Just minutes ahead of PSB and Guoanbu pursuers, Tanner went to ground. Eighteen days later he appeared in Taipei and was evacuated.
Later, Harve Brandt, one of the old-timers in ISAG and a former CIA handler, tried to give Tanner a short course on why the incident had so shaken him. “You liked the guy; you liked his family. That’s natural, but it’s a mistake. Better to see ’em for what they are: Product. Sometimes you deliver the product, sometimes you don’t.”
Tanner told Harve to stick his product up his ass.
So soon after China, it was still heavy in Tanner’s heart: He’d screwed up. He didn’t know how or where, but there was no other explanation. Eventually he managed to trade that conviction for the realization that no matter the cause—whether it was his fault or nobody’s fault—Soong, his wife, and his daughter were either dead or rotting inside a laogi.
Lion Soong … She’d been twenty then, which made her thirty-two now—if she was even still alive, that is. Laogis were especially hard on women, it was said. Maybe it would be better if she were—
No no no …
God, how he’d loved her. During the early days of the affair, that rational voice in the back of Tanner’s mind had tried to warn him off, but it was too late. They were already caught up in each other.
Later, it was the not knowing that haunted him most. Had the affair distracted him from the job? If he’d stuck to business, would Soong and his wife be running a deli in Tallahassee or a nursery in Seattle? Would he and Lian have—
The telephone broke Tanner’s reverie. He stared at it, then reached out and picked it up.
“Briggs, it’s Leland. I’m back.”
“And?”
“You may want to dust off your passport.”
Dutcher arrived an hour later. Tanner made coffee and they sat on the deck overlooking the cove; beyond it, a rain squall was closing over the bay.
Dutcher recounted to Tanner his meeting at Langley. “Whether he’s really still alive or not …”
“What do we know about the embassy’s contact?”
“Chang-Moh Bian. Not much. Mason’s going to ask his station chief to arrange a face-to-face. If Soong is still alive and Bian is in contact with him, he’ll have some details.”
My God, Tanner thought, could he really be alive? After all this time, was it possible?
“Here’s the interesting part,” Dutcher said. “Soong won’t accept anyone else. Just you.”
“Just like last time.”
“Yep. It’s got Mason nervous.”
Tanner understood. However remote, all this could be a setup designed to lure him back into China. Though Kyung Xiang had managed to rise to the top of the Guoanbu, his career—and life, possibly—had hung in the balance for several years after the Soong affair. Could Xiang have been waiting all this time for a chance to get his hands on Tanner?
Briggs didn’t think so. Xiang was a professional. It was unlikely he would hold a grudge this long—even more unlikely that he’d create this scenario to satisfy that grudge. Still, as the head of Guoanbu, Xiang had enormous power. If he wanted a little revenge, who would deny him?
The more likely scenario was that Soong himself was a plant. After this long they could have turned him into a marionette. The professional side of Tanner’s brain couldn’t discount the idea, but the emotional side—the side that still considered Soong a friend—refused to believe it
“The truth is,” Dutcher said, “whether this is genuine or fake isn’t the issue.”
“I know: Dick’s a little worried about my head.”
“He knows you’ve got the skills, but the environment … Hell, this is China. The Guoanbu, PSB, and PAP are forces unto themselves. Given what you went through last time….”
The odds are against me, Tanner thought. Too much emotional investment; too much “preexposure” to the target country; too many triggers that might derail him. In the eyes of the CIA, he was a bad gamble. Problem was, if they wanted Soong, they had no choice but to use him.
“Leland, there’s something else you should know. While I was there, Soong’s daughter and I … There was something between us.”
Dutcher stared at him. “Pardon me?”
“It was my first time on this kind of op; I was young … stupid. It shouldn’t have happened—”
“Damn right it shouldn’t—”
“—but it did.”
Dutcher exhaled. “Christ, Briggs.”
“I know.” Like her father, Lian had probably broken and told the MSS everything; if Tanner went back into China, she could be used as leverage against him.
Dutcher asked, “Did this thing with her affect the outcome?”
“I don’t think so,” replied Tanner. God, I hope not.
Dutcher studied his face, then nodded. “We’ve still got a problem. I have to tell Mason.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Briggs—”
“Leland, I can do this.” Tanner suddenly felt slimy. Leland was more than a boss; he was like a second father. Was he trading on their relationship for a chance to ease his own conscience? I can do this…. Was he certain? “I can do the job.”
Dutcher sighed and shook his head. “God almighty … I must be getting soft in my old age. Okay: What Dick doesn’t know can’t hurt him. But I’ll tell you this: If it goes wrong, they’re gonna hang us both from the nearest lamppost.”
Tanner smiled. “Then I’ll just make sure it doesn’t go wrong.”
Washington, D.C.
Latham and Randall got back into town in the early evening and parted ways. When Charlie got home he found Bonnie standing at the kitchen counter. He kissed her, then looked down at the bowl she was stirring. “Is that that cold salsa soup stuff?”
“It’s called ‘gazpacho,’ Charlie. You like it”
“I do?”
“You said you did last time I made it”
Uh-oh. “Oh, yeah … gazpacho. I was thinking of that other stuff.”
Bonnie smiled. “Liar. Go shower. We’ll eat when you get done.”
An hour later, Latham decided he did in fact like gazpacho. How was it that Bonnie knew what he liked when he couldn’t even remember if he’d had it before? Ah, the joys of marriage … Bonnie was a wonderful wife and mother, and he made it a point to remind himself daily how lucky he was.
“Sammie called today,” Bonnie said. Their oldest daughter, Samantha, was a sophomore majoring in economics at William and Mary College. “She said to say hi.”
“Everything okay?”
“She’s just a little homesick, I think. Finals are next month; she’ll be home after that.”
“Good. I kinda miss the patter of … young adult feet around here.”
Bonnie gave him a sideways smile. “We could always—”
“Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“I’m kidding.”
The phone rang and Bonnie picked it up, listened, then handed it to Latham. “Hello?”
“Charlie, it’s Paul. The coroner’s do
ne with the Bakers. She may have something for us.”
“I’ll meet you there.” He hung up and turned to Bonnie. “The Baker thing. Sorry.”
“It’s okay, go ahead. I’ve got paint swatches to look at.”
“Paint swatches?”
“We’re painting the kitchen, remember?” She shook her head and smiled. “Go, Charlie.”
The medical examiner, a gangly woman in her early fifties, was sitting in her office finishing the report. “Hello, Charlie. Been a while.”
“Not long enough, Margaret,” Latham replied. “No offense.”
“None taken.” She looked at Randall, and mock-whispered, “Charlie doesn’t much like morgues. I think he’s got a phobia about stainless steel.”
“Just one of his many quirks.”
“Come on, I’ll show what we found.”
She led them into the examining room. The air was thick with the tang of disinfectant. The tile floor reflected the grayish glare of the overhead fluorescent lights. Each of the room’s four stainless-steel tables were occupied: four sets of sheets—two adult-size, two child-size.
What used to be the Baker family, Charlie thought. He didn’t know how coroners did it. Two weeks in this place and he’d be drinking his lunch every day.
“First, the routine stuff,” said Margaret. “All were negative for narcotics or toxins. No signs of disease or degeneration in any of the major systems. Aside from bullet wounds in each of the victims and ligature marks on the extremities of the woman and the children, there were no gross injuries.”
“Did you check the syringe?”
“Yep. No toxins, no narcotics. It was brand-new—fresh out of its blister pack, in fact. There were minute traces of adhesive residue on it: the manufacturer uses it to keep the syringe seated in the pack while it’s going down the assembly line. If it had been handled any significant amount after opening, the residue would have been wiped off.”
“The needle?”
“Blood only. Type A positive; we matched it to the youngest child.”
Son of a bitch, Charlie thought. Part of him had been hoping against hope that he and Owens were wrong. Somewhere out there was at least one Second Bureau Guoanbu operative, perhaps more. But the question remained: Why kill Baker and his family?
Wall of Night Page 6
