Harper slid down a gully to find two large grated air intakes. He shined an infrared torch around the edge of the intakes. There were sensors on each of the bolts holding the grate tight against the rim of the intake. Harper checked the other intake. It looked as though a heavy gauge wire traveled down the shaft and out of sight.
He set down the nerve gas canisters and unslung the bag carrying the C4 plastic explosive blocks. Harper flipped the plastic plate covering the timers on both canisters. He punched the power switch and the red LED display panel blazed to life. The timer was part of the regulator gas valve. Any attempt to fiddle with the timer was an attempt to fiddle with the regulator. He set the timer to activate at 1800 hours before switching it on. It started counting towards detonation showing 0534. It blinked to NOT ARMED then back to the time. Harper pressed the arming button and held it down for fifteen seconds. The display blinked to ARMED.
He leaned both canisters against the edge of rock holding both intake vents. Fishing out some duct tape, two blocks of C4, and a pair of detonators, he wound the tape over the timer display panel, then sandwiched the C4 tight against the panel. He slid a mercury detonator into the block and wound some more tape. Finally, he took a three-inch shotgun shell labeled 00 BUCKSHOT. Fundamentally, he had created an anti-personnel explosive to ensure that any tampering would result in killing those foolish enough to try.
He slid a pair of bolt cutters off his belt and snipped an opening in the center of the grate. The bolts holding the grate to the rim of the intake vent were electrified, but the rest of the grate was cold. He tied a thin nylon cord around the neck of the regulator and pushed the canister through the grate’s center hole. The canister traveled down the side of the shaft, and disappeared over the edge. Harper figured the intake fans were probably several feet below the edge. He guessed at ten feet and stopped.
He tied the ring of a phosphorus grenade between the grate, the grate centerpiece, and the line holding the canister. A sharp tug would pull the pin on the grenade and send it cascading down the shaft. A phosphorus grenade would incinerate an unlikely hero. He rigged the other canister in the same way.
Stillwell nervously looked around from his perch. He had failed to follow Harper, so when Harper emerged over the side again he breathed easier. He could see without the night vision goggles. The day was coming quickly.
Harper signaled they should head back to their base. They scrambled quickly towards the HMMWVs. Running before daylight and detection, they dropped back over the rim of the wadi where the HMMWVs were parked. Darby Hayes looked up and poured some hot coffee in to a mug. “Thought you might be thirsty, sir.”
Harper nodded and took the mug. “You found some gas?”
Hayes chuckled. “Indeed. Gas, an RPG-7, one dead Arab, and some groceries.” He looked at the brightening light. “Drink up, we’ll need to get under cover soon.” He tossed Harper half a loaf of bread.
Stillwell looked at Darby and whispered, “You killed someone?”
Darby flashed him a grin. “Yes, sir. Don’t be so shocked.” He waved a hand at the weapons leaning against the side of the HMMWV. “We’ll probably kill some more people before we’re done here tonight. My job is to keep you and the Major in one piece long enough to get the job done.”
Stillwell looked at the bread in his hands, it did not seem very appetizing. “Lieutenant, you need to eat up,” chided the Sergeant. “You may not like the idea of killing somebody, but you need to understand, we’re the good guys and everyone else we meet out here are the bad guys. Once you understand that, the rest gets easier.”
Stillwell nodded and lifted the bread to his mouth.
Harper noted the exchange, saying nothing. It was good his men could pull the trigger when necessary. There was no glory in killing people, and he would like to believe no one would die on this mission whether they were good guys or bad guys. He knew better. He turned his attention to Burns and took another sip of his coffee.
Burns settled down beside Harper. “I worked up a watch schedule between the two of us. Kincaid and Hayes drove, so they should get some sleep. I’ll take first watch and wake you around noon.”
Harper nodded. “And your handiwork?”
“It should make a really big mess.” He smiled. “The Claymores are set up in a open box formation. Four on each long side and two on the closed end tied to a motion sensor and a Clacker override.” The Clacker was a handheld detonator for a string of Claymore mines. A simple ten-pound squeeze and seven thousand .38 ball bearings would explode in a blinding steel maelstrom.
“The anti-vehicle mines are set here, and here.” He marked the ends of the road. “They’ll simply explode on automatic sensors. Kind of a present for the reaction force when it shows up here.”
“Good work.” Harper finished off the coffee. “We jump off at 2000 hours. The gas goes off at 1800 hours. If something goes boom, we move out immediately. Burns and Hayes, you’ll come in with Stillwell and me. Kincaid mans the road and Anderson gets to play sniper. If the alarm goes off, we get out in ten minutes. Oh, and Sergeant—“
“Sir?”
“You bring one of those gas cans with you when we go in tonight.” He turned to Stillwell. “Do you know how to work a 40 mm grenade launcher?”
Stillwell shook his head.
“Sergeant, before you get some shut eye show the Lieutenant how to use one of those and fix him up with a dozen fletchett rounds.”
Burns looked at Harper. “You’re not planning on taking any prisoners?”
Harper shook his head. “Somewhere out in that desert between here and Jordan, I buried a friend.” He gazed at the dirt. “We tried to minimize casualties. After all, it was supposed to be an easy in/out kind of thing. Jerry took a bullet for me, and he kept fighting. I don’t know what’s waiting for us inside, but I do know we taught them a lesson about Special Forces and what we are capable of doing.”
He turned towards Burns. “I made you a promise before we left Andrews. I don’t want to bring anyone home in a body bag, and regardless of what we were told at Al Jubar, we’re deep inside Indian country on our own. I wouldn’t even be surprised if they already knew we were on our way.”
“Major, we’re the only ones who know we’re here.”
Harper shook his head and said sadly, “Captain, it’s never that simple.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Washington, D.C.
Sunday, November 16, 1997
10:00 A.M. EST
Harvey slumped down in the front seat of the car. He looked across the top of the steering wheel watching faces move along the sidewalk in front of the Chinese Embassy. Two District Police cruisers were parked blocking the vehicle entrance and exit. He tapped the wheel nervously, wondering if he had pushed the issue too hard. No, he decided for the umpteenth time, a Chinese National had tried very hard to spread his brains across the park lawn last night. That made itpersonal .
Twice someone from the Embassy had emerged from the security kiosk and demanded the meaning of the roadblock. A thin, reedy looking man named Brook Hamilton had been sent down from the State Department. He quietly explained that they were dealing with a threat made against the Chinese Embassy. As the host country, the police and additional security measures were simply being proactive in response to a terrorist threat.
It was a good lie. Who could doubt the very essence of violence in a society where a fertilizer bomb could obliterate the Federal Building in Oklahoma City, or the botched World Trade Center bombing? Spectacular headlines made it easy to suggest equally spectacular fabrications. There were plenty of people inside and outside China who would make threats. The Taiwanese even had the capability to carry out some of their threats.
Larry Wheeler flipped through the SundayWashington Post . “Do you think the State Department weenie is on our side or their side?”
Harvey sighed. “Their side. I mean he wouldn’t cooperate if we told him the truth about waiting for one of their precious diplomats.”<
br />
“He seemed real upset to see the police cruisers,” Larry observed.
“He’ll be a lot more upset if we grabGoldenrod and cuff him within shouting distance of the Embassy entrance,” grumbled Harvey. He was sick of politicians and administration officials. He would take a good old-fashioned criminal any day.
“How long you think this is going to last?”
Harvey swallowed the last of his coffee. “About as long as the Secretary of State remains unavailable.” He shrugged. “Maybe another two hours.”
Larry nodded, reading the furniture ads. “Yeah, but do you think he’s stupid enough to show up now?”
“We might get lucky. He won’t have anything on him, but we’ll bring him in and shake him down. He knows we can’t hold him. He’s got one of the diplomatic passports the folks at Foggy Bottom pass out like candy,” scowled Harvey.
Harvey was tired. They had spent most of the night monitoring the police band for news ofGoldenrod . It never came. They had walked through the park with forensic and ballistic experts reviewing the gun battle and examining the dead letter drop. Portable arc lamps had been erected so that the slugs could be drilled out of the trees, and bloodhounds had been brought in to search the park.
Sometime after four that morning it had settled down again. The tapes had been retrieved from the monitoring VCRs. Copies of the tapes had been sent directly to the FBI’s photo enhancement lab. The image enhancement software and the speed of desktop systems now made it possible to produce decent photographs of each Chinese agent. Harvey needed hard evidence to prosecute his espionage claim.
Goldenrodmanaged to vanish. He never attempted to return to the Embassy, which meant he had some other hole to crawl into. A safe house was somewhere in or around the District. Embassy personnel may have their diplomatic passports, diplomatic protections, and state department doublespeak, but agents operating in deep cover were vulnerable to prosecution and imprisonment.
Safe houses, dead letter drops, and agents of influence suggested a network. The very mention of Chinese agents raised red flags throughout the Bureau’s hierarchy. The presidential campaign seemed to have accepted a great deal of money from Chinese front men. No one in his or her right mind chose to provoke the White House on the China question—certainly not FBI field agents.
Those in the top floor of the J. Edgar Hoover Building had become sensitive to the China subject. Every time something began to emerge related to China, the White House spin machine gathered force like a swirling hurricane. Administration officials from the Department of Justice and the White House Counsel’s office began calling the Deputy Directors. The Secretaries of State and Commerce once again explained the significance of China to America’s foreign policy and economic security.
The special agents in charge discovered the true potency of presidential displeasure. More than one agent had been shuffled off to Billings, Montana, or Gillette, Wyoming. Others were hounded from their positions and simply turned in their resignations rather than deal with the harassment. Careers ended once the White House determined an agent became too much of an irritant. Both Harvey and Larry knew they were skirting the edges themselves.
Since last night, Harvey had twenty agents working for him on this case. He was not interested in the niceties of statecraft. These people had stolen from his country. They had tried to kill him last night. Harvey wanted his pound of flesh, and he was not terribly concerned on how he got it. His concern did stretch to Larry. He wanted to punish the Chinese agent, but spare his partner the risks associated with the pursuit of Chinese wrongdoing.
The radio clicked. “Harvey, this is the north team. We’ve got your suspects getting out a of a taxi about two blocks north of the Embassy.”
Larry leaned forward to grab the street map. He picked up a second radio and said, “Pursuit team north, stop the cab and find out where they were picked up.”
A mistake! Harvey knew it had to be a mistake. He did not have a clear idea what kind of mistake it was, his gut simply told him something critical had occurred. “Pick them up.” He banged the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. “Pick ‘em up. Don’t even let them close to the Embassy.”
“You got it.”
The north team erupted from two cars: four agents holding their identification in one hand and brandishing their weapons in the other. Their excited shouts lingered over the din of the traffic. Their targets began to protest, only to be propelled and shoved against the stonewall of another embassy compound. Handcuffs emerged and were snapped on with practiced precision.
The District cruisers charged towards the commotion, and the diminutive Brook Hamilton craned his neck to discern the problems down the street. His brow furrowed as he began to understand the FBI’s deception. He started running down Connecticut Avenue towards the area where the FBI and District police were bundling their charges into cars. A cell phone was in his hand as his thumb flipped the speed dial to find his boss.
* * * *
Goldenrodfound himself seated in a gray room with a single table. A heavy metal door was the only way in or out. It had no knob on the inside, and a single wire-meshed window for someone to check on his condition from the outside. The fluorescent lights above bathed the room in a neutral white light, and the mirror to side of the room was obviously two-way glass.
He had been on the other side of the glass before watching the videotape cameras roll and listening to each word spoken. They had fingerprinted and photographed him. The ink still stained his fingertips. He examined the faint ink stains and considered the need to surgically change his identity again. His protests regarding diplomatic immunity were ignored. So now, they let him wait. He closed his eyes and calmed his mind. The rules might be bent, but no one would seriously breach the etiquette governing international relations.
The door opened and two men entered. One carried a manila file folder under his arm and a pistol holster inside his suit coat. The other was smaller in a gray pinstripe suit. He flipped open his credentials and explained, “My name is Brook Hamilton. I represent the US State Department in this matter.”
“What matter might that be?” he asked, ignoring the small State Department man and focusing his attention on the larger man—the policeman.
“Espionage, attempted murder, assault of a federal officer. I’m sure we could come up with more charges,” Harvey explained. “It really doesn’t matter. You’ll be leaving our country within the next twelve hours.” He producedGoldenrod’s diplomatic passport and tossed it on the table. “I suggest you come up with a new name. The one printed here won’t really work anymore.”
“I wish to speak—”
Harvey leaned forward and threw the file folder on the table with a loudplop . “You’ll speak when you’re spoken to.”
“Agent Randall, this man is a guest in our—”
Harvey gave Brook Hamilton a venomous glare, and said evenly, “This man is a criminal.”
Goldenrodlooked from the file folder to Harvey. “I don’t think you—”
“I understand completely. You are in our country under a false name with a diplomatic passport. The people Mister Hamilton works for say I have to respect the nature of that protection,” snarled Harvey. “So I made a deal with them. I get you for a while before they pack your sorry butt on a airplane bound for home sweet home.”
Harvey settled into one of the chairs oppositeGoldenrod . “I don’t know your real name—yet. But I know a few things.”
“Really, detective?”Goldenrod responded in clipped British accented English. “What could you possibly know about what I do?”
“Last night your goons tried to blow my head off. I don’t like that very much.”
Open hostility is sometimes very refreshing. “Yes, well, next time they’ll have to do a better job. I’ll have them train harder.” Brook Hamilton opened his mouth to speak, but it simply flapped shut.Goldenrod examined the State Department man and wondered why the policeman tolerated this excuse fo
r a man. “The policeman is correct. My men did try to kill him last night. They failed—the next time they shall succeed.”
He looked over at the mirror and laughed. “I hope you got that down correctly in there. Now, is that all detective?”
Harvey opened the file folder displaying enhanced photographs ofGoldenrod , Shu, and the others. He spread the photographs across the table. He pointed to Shu explaining, “We have the tall geek in one of the other rooms. He’s going home with you.”
He pushed the other three photographs forward. “I think one of these boys is dead. We found a great deal of blood last night. Maybe you’d like to tell me where you dumped the body.”
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about. However, I do know one thing, detective. You won’t be—how do they say in your country—ah, dogcatcher. You won’t be dogcatcher after treating a diplomat like this.”
Harvey nodded. “Yeah, you just keep on thinking that way. You need to understand something. Last night you made this personal. I don’t like people shooting at me. It makes me real angry. I’m real angry now. So I may be a dogcatcher by noon tomorrow, but your pack of dogs are the ones I’m going to catch.”
He pulled another photograph showing the original drop. “This must be a big deal for you to risk picking up the intelligence yourself. I don’t know who he is yet, but I’m going to find out. In fact, I’m going to find your entire network of safe houses and illegals working in my country.”
Goldenrod’seyes mocked him. “And do what? Arrest them?” he laughed.
Harvey nodded.
Goldenrodshook his head and laughed again. “Detective, your country is for sale. All that is needed to run your country is enough money, and leaders dance for whom ever pays enough. You think you are the protector of a great power, but you don’t realize your time has passed you by.”
He nodded to the last photograph. “The man in that picture. There are more where he came from. I don’t make people betray a trust. I don’t have to. It is so simple detective, so incredibly simple to purchase your most precious secrets. And even if you should find this man, the damage is already done.”Goldenrod locked eyes with Harvey. “There is nothing you can do to prevent the damage. It’s already done.” He laughed.
PointOfHonor Page 17
