She now needed a way to act upon this information. This means was provided by her second big finding, which came in a subset of the emails between Meng and the senior Zhang. Zhang had requested Meng’s presence at a press event to celebrate the one year anniversary of the successful launching of MediTronic, a U.S. firm specializing in medical software. The event, which was on the coming Thursday at two o’ clock, would be used to promote both Meng and Zhang’s enterprises in the States. They had invited big wigs from all of the major players in the industry and, if the emails were to be believed, they were all expected to be in attendance. It would be a win for everybody involved, particularly the Chinese healthcare industry, which was in desperate need of an upgrade.
Additionally, the series of emails concluded with a suggestion from Zhang that they meet after the MedTronic event at “hotel dragon,” where they would meet with the other “partners” and hold a strategy session regarding an “operation.” Further down the chain of emails, the two men reversed course on both Meng’s attendance at the press event and at the meeting, citing the high probability of American surveillance of Meng.
A little more than four hours into their search of Meng’s system, Wang’s work also paid off. He discovered the log files for Zhou, Meng, Tong and Associates’ email server, where he retrieved a trove of login ids and passwords. From these, he was able to find a pattern in how they were being generated. Combining this finding with the discovery of an IP address belonging to Sonja Xu, one of Meng’s human resources executives, he was able to then break into Xu’s computer. Here, he found a folder containing some items related to the MediTronic event. Of particular interest to Lee was an editable listing of all of the media people expected to be in attendance. There was also an editable document containing the official media name tags that Zhang’s company was going to be giving to the members of the media at the event.
It was simple at this point for Wang to add in a fictitious name to the list of members from Beijing Media Limited, a name that Lee would assume. He was even able to email a copy of the official name tags to himself, input Lee’s fictitious name into it, and print it out. All Lee had to do was find someplace to purchase a lanyard and a three-by-four-inch plastic cover for the tag.
Chapter 36
Brooklyn, New York
Wednesday, March 5, 10:38 a.m. EST
Lee sat on the plush carpeting in Okoye’s den, sipping coffee from her thermos. Part of her silhouette was cast onto the far wall by the soft light from an African lantern that Okoye had hung from the ceiling. She was studying another photo on her laptop she’d discovered on the internet version of a Shanghai newspaper showing both Qianfang and Nuo Zhang. The photos had been taken as part of an article on Far East Marketing and Media Solutions. Though she’d found a number of photos of Qianfang, mostly from their company website, it was the only photo she’d yet been able to find of Nuo, who was known as David Zhang in the U.S. He had short, dark hair parted down one side, wide, dark eyebrows, and featureless eyes and mouth. In the photo, which had been taken in 2008, he was slightly taller than Qianfang, but also thinner. Like his father, he was dressed in a dark, expensive-looking suit and tie.
She’d also accumulated photos of Zhang’s partners as well as other members of the marketing firm’s senior leadership, and then she did the same with Meng’s firm. Whenever possible, she’d plucked them off the internet, placed them in a photo-sharing utility, and labeled them. They would be easily accessible on Okoye’s phone, which he’d agreed to let her borrow on the day of the MediTronic event.
She took a sip of her coffee and slid the HUD on. In the portal, Lee followed an elderly, bearded Michelangelo dressed in a light blue robe along the perimeter corridor until she came to the cluster of fern and willow trees she’d visited previously. Exiting the corridor, she followed a narrow stone path into the thicket of branches, where she was met by the avatar of Mahatma Ghandi, dressed in the traditional Indian dhoti and shawl. Lee initiated a secured communication link.
MaliqOkoye: HELLO, MAHATMA.
Gandhi: HELLO, PRETTY MAMA.
Under her HUD, Lee rolled her eyes.
MaliqOkoye: NOT NOW, RAJ.
MahatmaGandhi: OKAY. THINGS GOING OKAY?
MaliqOkoye: AS WELL AS CAN BE EXPECTED.
MahatmaGandhi: I KNOW YOU’RE LOOKING FOR LEADS. ANY LUCK SO FAR?
MaliqOkoye: WHY DO YOU WANT TO KNOW. I’M NOT SURE I WANT TO DISCUSS IT HERE.
MahatmaGandhi: REYNOLDS WANTS TO KNOW. IT COULD AFFECT THE NEGOTIATIONS.
MaliqOkoye: HOW SO?
MahatmaGandhi: I’M JUST THE MESSENGER HERE. I’M NOT PRIVY TO ALL THE DETAILS. IF YOU HAVE INFORMATION IT COULD HELP PROVIDE LEVERAGE. IT COULD AFFECT THE PROSECUTOR’S DECISION TO CHARGE YOU.
MaliqOkoye: DO YOU KNOW IF I’VE BEEN CHARGED WITH ANYTHING YET?
MahatmaGandhi: NO, YOU HAVEN’T. AT LEAST, NOT AS OF THIS MORNING. BUT, IF NOTHING MAJOR COMES OUT OF THE FBI’S INVESTIGATION, REYNOLDS THINKS IT COULD STILL HAPPEN. THE FBI WILL PAY HARDBALL IF IT SUITS THEM. REYNOLDS THINKS IF THE MEDIA FINDS OUT ABOUT IT, THEY COULD USE YOU AS A SCAPEGOAT.
MaliqOkoye: ENCOURAGING WORDS.
MahatmaGandhi: SORRY. I DON’T MEAN TO BE DISCOURAGING. THE GOOD NEWS IS THAT EVERYTHING SEEMS TO BE AT A STANDSTILL NOW. REYNOLDS ISN’T SURE WHY. HE THINKS THE FBI IS JUST FOCUSED ON THE INVESTIGATION.
Lee ruminated over her findings on David Zhang and his father. She wasn’t yet ready to divulge that information to anyone. She wanted to be at the press event on Thursday and didn’t want to have to worry about any surveillance from the FBI or anyone else.
MaliqOkoye: THERE’S A MAN NAMED MENG JIALING WHO I THINK IS INVOLVED SOMEHOW.
MahatmaGandhi: WHY DO YOU THINK MENG IS INVOLVED?
MaliqOkoye: I MET MENG’S DAUGHTER THROUGH DR. WU XIANG, WHO THE FBI BELIEVES IS INVOLVED. I HAD AN INCIDENT THAT NIGHT. I WAS GIVEN A DRUG. SOME KIND OF TRUTH SERUM. THE TESTS THE FBI GAVE ME CAME UP NEGATIVE, BUT I THINK IT WAS DONE INTENTIONALLY. MENG IS A PARTNER IN A CONSULTING FIRM HERE IN NEW YORK CALLED ZOU, MENG, TONG, AND ASSOCIATES.
MahatmaGandhi: I’LL FORWARD IT ON TO REYNOLDS. ANYTHING ELSE?
MaliqOkoye: THERE’S ONE OTHER MAN. HE GOES BY THE NAME PHUA YOUHONG. AGENT FRANK SINGLED HIM OUT AS BEING UNDER FBI SUSPICION, THOUGH I DON’T KNOW WHY. HE WAS WITH MING’S DAUGHTER. HE WORKS IN THE CHINESE EMBASSY HERE IN NEW YORK. THAT’S REALLY ALL I KNOW ABOUT HIM.
MahatmaGandhi: OKAY. ANYTHING ELSE?
MaliqOkoye: NOTHING.
MahatmaGandhi: ANYTHING ELSE I CAN DO FOR YOU?
MaliqOkoye: DID REYNOLDS SAY ANYTHING ABOUT SOME PHOTOS OF ME THAT WERE FORWARDED TO THE FBI?
MahatmaGandhi: OH YES, THE PHOTOS. LUKE TOLD ME ABOUT THEM. I DON’T HAVE ANY NEWS ABOUT THEM.
MaliqOkoy: CAN YOU ASK HIM? I WANT TO KNOW IF THE FBI HAS HAD THEM ANALYZED AND, IF SO, WHAT THEIER FINDINGS ARE.
MahatmaGandhi: I’ll GET IT DONE? ANYTHING ELSE?
MaliqOkoye: JUST WONDERING WHERE YOU AND LUKAS HAVE GONE. YOU HAVEN’T OFFERED TO MEET UP ANYWHERE.
MahatmaGandhi: YES, WE’RE SORRY ABOUT THAT. WE THINK WE’VE BEEN PLACED UNDER THE FBI’s WATCHFUL EYE. WE DIDN’T WANT TO RISK LEADING YOU INTO A TRAP.
MaliqOkoye: SURVEILLANCE? YOU AND LUKE?
MahatmaGandhi: YES. LUKE WAS SAYING THE FBI KNOWS WERE FRIENDS. THAT THEY MAY BE WATCHING US. WE BOTH FEEL AS THOUGH WE’RE BEING WATCHED. NOTHING DEFINITIVE. JUST A FEELING.
MaliqOkoye: I SEE. I UNDERSTAND COMPLETELY. I DON’T WANT TO DRAG YOU GUYS INTO THIS TOO.
MahatmaGandhi: I’LL BE FOLLOWING UP WITH REYNOLDS AGAIN SOON. BE SAFE.
MaliqOkoye: YOU AS WELL.
Lee exited out of the portal and slid the HUD off of her head. She hadn’t considered that Dvorak and Bose may actually be under surveillance, but it wouldn’t surprise her if they were.
Shanghai, China
Thursday, March 6, 1:32 p.m. CST
“Shanghai is a big deal now,” the young cabdriver said in Mandarin from his p
osition at the front of the sedan, a wry smile creeping across his face as he made a right turn onto Ganlan Road in southern Shanghai, headed westbound. “We have big business. Our port here is the biggest and busiest in the world. There is no stopping us.” The driver puffed out his chest. “We are number one.” Phong flashed his best fake smile before returning his focus to the industrial scenery outside the sedan’s window. The driver seemed to possess an endless number of factoids on Chinese economic capacity, to a point where he began to suspect that the young man was reading all of the information from the miniature computer on the sedan’s dashboard.
A few minutes later, they entered an industrial area of Nanhui District, located at the southeastern edge of Shanghai proper. They neared the offices of the relatively new international, deep water terminals, which were part of the larger Port of Shanghai organization.
After zigzagging along a series of industrial roads, the driver pulled into a parking space in front of the largest of the structures, turned and nodded at him.
“This looks to be the main headquarters,” the driver said. Phong was certain that this was, indeed, the main headquarters. He knew this because he’d been here each of the past two days seeking Pei Yaping, but had been told Pei was away someplace else in mainland China. Phong exited the vehicle, taking in a thick breath of humid air. Definitely close to the ocean, he thought. The smell of the water led to a regrettable flashback to his visit with Agent Rose along the Hudson River in Midtown Manhattan.
“Do you want me to wait for you?” the driver asked.
“Yes, please,” Phong said. This shouldn’t be long.
Phong tightened his tie and entered the building through a pair of tinted glass doors, where he found himself in a cubicle farm, a battalion of men and women in business attire moving about. He ambled in further, uncertain who to inquire with as to the whereabouts of Pei Yaping. Tuniyaz had told him Pei worked in an office warehouse close to the docks, but they had decided it would be less intrusive and would not raise as many red flags if he visited the organization’s main offices first. Phong found himself struggling to find a person to approach until a young woman dressed in formal black slacks, a white blouse, and a red-and-yellow silk kimono robe materialized in front of him and introduced herself. Phong explained that he was seeking a man named Pei Yaping and, after a five-minute wait as she checked the company database, she assigned a messenger boy to take him to Pei as he was apparently located elsewhere within the port authority’s network of buildings.
The boy led him out the back door of the warehouse, around and through the buildings within the immediate cluster, and onto Tongshun Avenue, where they ambled in a southeasterly direction for a couple of blocks until they came to a series of homogenous concrete structures with corrugated metal roofs. Phong followed him to a seemingly random unit within the complex, leading him to a spot near the front entrance.
“Pei’s office is in this building,” the boy said, as he turned without another word and scurried back the way they had come.
Phong pulled open a heavy metal door that served as the front entrance, and slipped inside. He strode along a hallway that split the building in two down the middle. On both sides were office rooms with the exception of a small break room near the entrance, where a young man dressed in greasy work clothes was pouring himself a coffee. In Mandarin, Phong said, “Excuse me, sir? Can you point me to Pei Yaping?”
The young worker, who had a grease stain on his neck and chin, finished pouring, and gestured for Phong to follow him. Phong was led all the way to the far end of the building and up a flight of stairs to a corner office. “Pei is in here,” he said. Phong waited for the man to disappear down the stairs before he opened the door and stepped in.
An overweight man of Han descent with thick black hair was standing behind a metal desk, talking rapidly in Mandarin into a smart phone. The man was dressed in black slacks and black leather shoes. He wore a light blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, unbuttoned at the neck.
Phong adjusted his tie as he stood, waiting for Pei to finish on his phone. The man jabbered for a few more seconds before sliding it into a clip on his belt.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“My name is Charlie Zheng. I’m an investor from New York, currently residing in the United States.” Phong waited a moment. “I’m looking for Pei Yaping.”
The man’s expression indicated a profound confusion as to why Phong was there. “I am Pei. How can I help you, Mr. Zheng?”
“Please hear me out, Mr. Pei. I am here seeking your assistance. I do not mean you any harm.”
“Go on.”
“I’m here solely for business purposes.”
Pei sighed heavily. “What do you want?”
“I’m seeking funding for a start-up.”
“Funding?”
A confused expression crossed Pei’s face. “Mr. Zheng, I think you’ve come to the wrong man. I’m sure you must want to speak with someone above me in the chain of command here.”
“No, no,” Phong said. “I’m not seeking funding from the Port Authority.”
Pei gestured with his hands, expressing his confusion. “Who then?”
“Let me just say, Mr. Pei, that I have an old, long lost friend who, apparently, has been involved with an organization here in Shanghai. I have been following up with certain connections that have led me here to speak with you.”
Pei fell silent, paced for a few moments. “Who is this friend of yours?”
“We grew up together in New York. Unfortunately, he was deported back to China when we were still very young.”
Pei hesitated for a moment. “Go on.”
“I came back to China searching for him. I traced him here to Shanghai, where I then found out he had hired an organization to transport him back to New York.”
Pei’s face hardened. “Mr. Zheng, I don’t know what organization you are referring to.”
“As I said, Mr. Pei, I am here solely for business purposes. I believe there is a financial enabler that you work with. I’m seeking contact with him.”
Pei’s face remained expressionless. “I don’t know what you’re referring to, Mr. Zheng. This conversation is finished.”
Internally, Phong breathed a sigh of relief. He had done his best, and it had not been enough. He would take the cab back to the hotel and would be on the first plane out of Shanghai and forget that he had ever made the trip.
“I understand, Mr. Pei.” Phong nodded, turned on his heel, and left Pei standing behind his desk. He descended a flight of stairs and exited the building without bothering to retrace his steps back along the main corridor.
He made his way northbound back to the main offices where, presumably, his cab was still waiting for him. To his surprise, he found his cab idling where he’d left it. He slid into the back seat, where he was greeted by his driver. Phong was pulling his smart phone out when his haughty friend sighed in exasperation. The little driver was pointing with his thumb to someplace out behind the cab. Phong turned and saw that the black sedan had parked itself behind the cab, blocking its progress. A man in a black business suit had exited the passenger side and was approaching. Phong opened the door and stepped out of the cab.
“Mr. Zheng?” the man in the suit said. “You’re Charlie Zheng?”
Phong nodded. “Yes.”
“If you are still interested in your investment, please come to our venue near the Bund tomorrow evening and ask for Mister Z.”
“Mr. Z.”
The man handed him a card, which Phong accepted. Phong watched the man as he re-entered the sedan, and it drove away. The card said THE KALEIDOSCOPE in a formal black font, along with an address. He began to wonder how long his visit to Shanghai was going to last.
Manhattan, New York
Thursday, March 6, 1:52 p.m. EST
Small snowflakes fell like lint from an overcast sky as Lee sat in the driver’s seat of a black Fiat. The sedan, which she’d
rented with cash earlier in the morning, was stalled along with the rest of the traffic on 8th Avenue in Lower Manhattan. She retrieved her lipstick from her purse and applied it hastily with the aid of a small mirror. Outside the window, men and women were making their way along 8th Avenue, their strides hastened as the chill of the air chased them into the warmth of the cafes and coffee houses. Finished with the lipstick, she checked her hair. She’d stopped in to a stylist the previous day and had it cut much shorter. She’d also purchased a conservative ensemble for the press event: a pair of black dress slacks, a white blouse, a pair of black high heels, and a black long-sleeved blazer. For the finishing touch, she slid on a pair of fake black eye glasses.
Two blocks later, she pulled the sedan into a parking space along 8th Avenue a block from her destination, the Intercontinental in Midtown. She exited the vehicle, walked a block north along 8th Avenue, and turned left onto 44th Street. As she approached the hotel, she found herself sucked into a maelstrom of media members, corporate bigwigs from Meng and Zhang’s firms, caterers, and technical personnel. She followed the crowd into the hotel lobby, up a stairwell to the second floor, and into a short hallway that led into a rectangular lobby with red carpeting located next to the large conference room where the press event was to be held. Here, there were representatives from Far East Marketing and Media Solutions and from Zou, Meng, Tong and Associates sitting behind tables, taking attendance, issuing passes for all of the invitees, passing out seating charts, and providing other guidance.
Lee pulled the improvised pass she’d made with her assumed name, Meiying Choi, from her purse. She stood along the perimeter for a few moments, trying to pick out another media member so she could verify the appearance of the media passes. She spied a young Asian man dressed in a black suit and tie and holding a camera and saw as he walked past her that, aside from the fact that it was reflecting a different news organization, his pass exactly mirrored her own. She breathed a sigh of relief. The relief was temporary as it also occurred to her that the event organizers may have decided to seat the media from the same news organization together. This fear, also, was allayed after a quick study of the seating chart. All members of the media were to be grouped en masse in a specially designated section toward the front of the conference room.
The Thought Cathedral Page 46
