by Jack Slater
Ikeda operated all across the continent of Asia, using the cover of her successful trade consulting business, along with exquisite command of half a dozen languages, to slip through border security in countries from Cambodia to China.
Most of those countries paid little more than lip service to the concept of human rights—if they observed them at all. Jason Trapp owed nothing to Eliza, nor she to him—so while she intended to complete this mission to the best of her ability, she was equally interested in surviving the end of it.
“Nice ride,” Trapp grunted as he came to a stop in front of Eliza.
He glanced appreciatively at the motorcycle, his eyes drinking in every last detail, from the matte black finish to the chrome exhaust pipe, which started at the rider’s knee and caressed the engine as it fed its way to the rear.
“My pride and joy.” Ikeda grinned. “Fancy a ride?”
Trapp shrugged. “Depends where you’re taking me.”
As his shoulders rolled, the white T-shirt pulled back just an inch, revealing a thin white scar that circled the front of his tanned neck. Again, Eliza remembered the detail, but did not react to it, as Trapp quickly reached up and tucked it away.
“Here,” she said, tossing a British racing green helmet at Trapp’s chest. He caught it without flinching. “Wear your sunglasses, there’s no visor.”
Trapp merely rolled his eyes at Ikeda’s coy manner, pressed the helmet down on his head, and gestured at her to get on the bike. Before she did, she handed him a small canvas rucksack to carry.
Eliza did as she was bid, climbing onto the motorcycle and pinning her long, leather-clad legs to either side of the bike. She clipped her own helmet, matte black to match the bike, to her chin, and waited for Trapp to join her. He did so, latching his powerful arms loosely around her slender torso, his thighs pressed close against her own. At five foot ten, Eliza could normally stand toe to toe with most men without looking out of place. But Trapp had five inches and at least a hundred pounds on her. She fit into him like a hand into a glove.
Cool it, cowgirl, she thought.
“Hold on.” She grinned, turning back to Trapp and squashing that particular thought from her mind.
The Triumph’s powerful engine growled beneath the entwined operatives and belched a cloud of black smoke as Eliza kicked away the stand. The smell of motor oil and gasoline hung briefly in the humid air before Ikeda put the bike into gear and turned into traffic.
Red Toyota taxicabs flashed past on either side as the warm wind whipped at the strands of Ikeda’s long black hair that had managed to escape the confines of the helmet, and she weaved through traffic with the supreme skill of a graduate of the CIA’s training facility in Langley, Virginia, known as the Farm.
The destination Ikeda had in mind was only six miles away, though midweek, approaching rush hour in Hong Kong’s notoriously crowded streets, even that short distance might take an hour. On the bike, it would be far shorter than that. Less than two minutes after picking Trapp up, the Triumph roared through the tunnel cut into the bedrock beneath Kowloon Bay, dark yellow lighting zipping past overhead.
Shortly after that, the lush green racing fields of Hong Kong Jockey Club filled Ikeda’s vision to her left, and she sensed Trapp shifting his position in order to take a look. The air hung heavy, smelling of fish and salt and smog blown in from mainland China. And then they were in the hills, and the smoke was gone, her nostrils tickled by the fresh scent of thick vegetation. The bike climbed up the jagged road cut into the mountain, and then roared down toward Deep Water Bay.
Ikeda slowed as she neared her destination, the Triumph’s powerful engine growling beneath her, letting out aggressive, throaty roars as gasoline exploded inside the piston. She tucked the bike into a narrow parking space next to an idling taxi and killed the engine. After the short, loud journey, Ikeda’s ears were ringing, but she felt alive in the newfound silence.
“So where are we?” Trapp asked as he stepped off the bike.
He took the helmet off his head and ran his fingers through his dark hair. Ikeda wasn’t certain how old he was—he looked mid-30s, though his eyes seemed older than that. Nevertheless, his hair was thick and healthy, accented well by the occasional gray.
“The real Hong Kong,” she said with a smile. “Kowloon Bay is like Disneyland. I prefer it out here.”
“Okay then,” Trapp replied. “Why are we here?”
He removed his linen jacket and slung it jauntily over one shoulder, the canvas rucksack over the other. His gaze was piercing, Ikeda thought. It was as though he could read her every thought. It seemed as though he drank in every detail, his eyes never stopping as they moved. She wondered what he saw when he looked at her.
“I want to see what you’re made of,” she replied slowly. “Come on.”
Ikeda led Trapp down to the shoreline, then angled left, hugging a thin, rocky path that hugged the bay to an isolated spot she had discovered several months before. When she got there, Ikeda stopped.
Trapp threw her a quizzical yet still patient look, crinkling his eye as he spoke. “What now?”
“Now,” Ikeda said, a smile tickling her high cheekbones, “we swim.”
She grabbed the rucksack from Trapp, unzipped it, and tossed him a pair of trunks. “I guessed the size,” she said. “But they should fit.”
“Seriously,” Trapp groaned, looking at the light blue floral trunks, decorated yellow. “This is all they had?”
Ikeda grinned back. “You’ve been to Asia before, right?”
Trapp nodded.
“And how many six foot three, two hundred pound linebacker frames have you seen walking around? Those are all they had. And besides”—she winked—“I think they’ll look good.”
“Point taken.” Trapp nodded, still looking grumpy.
Reaching again, she pulled out a full-body swimsuit, and two pairs of goggles, tossing him one, and began to shrug off her leather riding pants.
Trapp glanced around the rocky cove, looking for somewhere to change.
“Oh, don’t be a prude,” Ikeda laughed. “Just don’t look.”
A minute or so later, Trapp was clad in a white T-shirt and the floral trunks. His jeans were folded neatly and stacked next to his boots. Ikeda stood opposite him, wearing only a dark blue swimsuit that revealed her long, tanned legs—legs she was distinctly proud of.
“Take it off,” she said. “Trust me. I only brought one towel, and the humidity at this time of year is nearly 100%. That T-shirt gets wet, it’ll be dripping all night. And I’m taking you to dinner after we work up an appetite.”
Trapp’s eyes flashed at Ikeda as he stood opposite her, making her think of a jaguar prowling the Amazon rainforest. She sensed he felt uncomfortable and wondered why. He had an enviable frame—not an ounce of fat anywhere on his body.
So why the hesitation?
The moment only lasted a couple of seconds before Trapp shrugged off the white garment. He turned quickly, folding it and bending down to place it by his boots. Ikeda got a glance at his entire, unclothed upper body—and the sight stole her breath.
The CIA operative’s back was marked with deep, thin wounds — long ago healed, but still red and ridged, like mountain ranges seen from space. As he turned back, Ikeda saw the scar around his neck for the first time. It marked him like a hangman’s noose.
What the hell happened to you, Jason?
Ikeda did not vocalize her question. She turned to face the lapping waters of Deep Water Bay, tied her hair in a quick ponytail, and looped the goggles over her head, hoping Trapp hadn’t caught her staring. He clearly had a story—a long and painful one—but it wasn’t her place to ask.
“Race you to the other side,” she said without turning back, before diving gracefully into the water. Her olive skin briefly glowed gold in the setting afternoon sun, and then the waves claimed her.
Ikeda set a fast yet steady pace. The swim was just shy of a mile, as the crow flies, but she lengthene
d it by looping around the unimaginatively named Round Island. Her lithe arms propelled her through the water with the grace of a dolphin, beating a tune with her muscular legs. Every couple of minutes she stopped briefly to scan the waves for oncoming boat traffic, since they were near the Royal Hong Kong Yacht Club, but it was a weekday, and it was easy enough to avoid. Trapp did not say a word, but kept pace alongside her.
Eliza lived for this. After her time with the Secret Service, she might easily have become a competitive open water swimmer if the Agency hadn’t recruited her. It wasn’t just the familiar taste of the saltwater, or the feeling of freedom she got when cradled by the sea, or even the challenge of submitting herself to one of the world’s last great dangers that drove her on—it was the competition. And it wasn’t often she found a worthy opponent.
Jason Trapp certainly qualified.
Ikeda drove herself to race pace—a mile through choppy water in under seventeen minutes. By the time the other side of Deep Water Bay came into view, her lungs were screaming for oxygen. But Trapp stuck to her side like a limpet.
With a hundred yards to go, he began to pull away. Ikeda pushed herself on desperately, unwilling to lose to this newcomer from Langley. But as they dragged their exhausted bodies onto the opposite shore, she had to admit defeat.
“You’re quick,” she panted. “Ever compete?”
Trapp spat a mouthful of salt water into the ocean and leaned against the rock, smooth from millions of years of the sea’s relentless assault. He shook his head and grinned. “I just don’t like losing.”
“Me neither.” Ikeda grimaced. “But we’re not done yet. Last one back buys dinner.”
In the end, Trapp bought. Ikeda wondered whether he had let her win, but decided against it. He said he didn’t like to lose, and Jason Trapp did not strike her as the kind of man who lied.
They were in a relaxed beach bar looking out into Deep Water Bay as the sun set and darkness settled across the hilly area of Hong Kong. The bar was mostly empty, since it was a Wednesday night, and they had chosen a quiet corner on the wooden decking, closest to the water. Strands of acoustic guitar music floated out into the night’s blackness from the speakers overhead.
Lights twinkled from the hillsides. It was a wealthy area, and though much of it was too inhospitable to build upon, in spots expensive glass-fronted apartments looked out onto the ocean.
“I guess you do,” Trapp said.
“Do what?”
“Compete,” he replied. “You’re good.”
Ikeda took the compliment without reacting, although for some reason she couldn’t put her finger on, it pleased her. It was no more than the truth, she knew. She was a damn fine swimmer. Then again, besides her work for the Agency, and the occasional consulting gig she took to complete her cover, it was pretty much all she did.
“I’ve lived around the ocean all my life,” she replied. “Japan, then Hawaii, Los Angeles and now here. I’m working my way through the Ocean’s Seven, though not as fast as I would like.”
Trapp’s eyebrow kinked. “Ocean’s Seven?”
Ikeda grinned. “Sorry—I forget not everyone’s as geeky about it as me. They are the seven hardest open water swims. Everything from the English Channel, which has been done more than a thousand times, to the North Channel in New Zealand, which is still waiting for its ninth.”
Trapp grinned. “So what you’re saying is today was a cakewalk?”
Ikeda raised an ice-cold bottle of beer to her lips. One was fine, she figured, since they wouldn’t be heading back into town for a couple of hours. “More or less,” she said. “I wanted to see how you’d handle it.”
“Did I pass?”
“So far.”
It was the truth. Trapp had impressed Ikeda. At the age of thirty-three, she’d spent five years in the Secret Service, running down counterfeiting cases, mostly in the Los Angeles area, before being recruited into the CIA, in whose clutches she’d spent the last five. In that time, she’d worked with a lot of good operatives—but also some bad ones.
Since 9/11, the Agency had recruited from a very specific pool: US special forces.
And while many of those men, because they were usually men, were undoubtedly the best at what they did, for them every problem was a nail—and they were the hammer. There were exceptions, of course, like Ikeda herself—and, it seemed, Jason Trapp.
She wasn’t sure what it was about him that she liked so much. He had a dry, laconic style—a man who chose his words carefully, but had a good sense of humor nevertheless. It wasn’t even that he was one of the few men she’d met who could keep pace with her in the water. He just seemed…
Reliable.
Ikeda got the sense that if she found herself in danger in the upcoming mission, Trapp would put his body on the line to spring her from it. She decided she did not need to be quite so worried after all.
4
Two weeks earlier
Colonel Kim Youp-Min sat in a black Mercedes Sprinter van, about two miles from the State Research Center of Virology and Biotechnology in Koltsovo Siberia, otherwise known as the Vector Institute. He was a short man, standing at little more than five foot six inches tall, with a gaunt face and deep, sunken eyes. His facial appearance and limited height were the result of years of malnutrition in early childhood. Stunting at that age is irreversible.
Kim had once hated looking at himself in the mirror. But he had come to first tolerate, and then appreciate his unique appearance, seeing a strength in the way it inspired fear in those around him.
The colonel was on the ground in Siberia because this mission was too important to delegate to his men. The events of the past few months had presented an unmissable opportunity for his organization, but also significant challenges—his timeline had been moved up.
The turmoil in America following Bloody Monday had led to sweeping changes in the military and intelligence communities. President Nash had decreed that America would never be found vulnerable again. He had dedicated unprecedented amounts of money and resources to protecting the homeland. Appointed new directors and streamlined decision-making processes. After years of decline, the reputation of the once feared American intelligence community was again on the rise.
But over the previous few months, there had been a window of opportunity, and Kim had seized it. The Americans had taken their eye off the ball. Several targets had come into play—one of which Kim was now about to acquire. The man he was in Siberia to meet was one of those targets. And although Boris didn’t know it yet, the chubby scientist was essential to Kim’s plan.
Kim’s encrypted radio crackled. “Colonel, Savrasov has made contact.”
“Copy. Keep me updated. If he deviates from the route we gave him, take him immediately. No harm must come to him, understood? Even if it costs the lives of you or your men.”
“Yes sir.”
Kim set his radio on the dash of the Sprinter van. It was a Japanese unit—a fact that caused the colonel a significant amount of distaste. He hated the Japanese almost as much as he hated the Americans. But the truth was, his own country did not produce technology of this quality, not anymore. North Korea had been humbled by the hated Americans and their South Korean lapdogs. That was what he was here to change.
Boris Savrasov was a senior research scientist at the Vector Institute. Now into his fifties with a growing bald patch and a potbelly that protruded from his belt, he had first been assigned to the Siberian bioweapons facility shortly after graduating Moscow University in 1987. It was a bad time to become a Soviet research scientist.
For the five decades that preceded the fall of the Berlin wall, the job was a prestigious one. It came with a car, a larger than average government-provided apartment, and a good pension. But when Savrasov began his career at Vector, the Soviet Union was buckling under the pressures of Ronald Reagan’s arms race. Before he reached his thirties, the Soviet empire was gone, and a humbled, bankrupt Russia took her place on the world stage. I
n the years that followed, salaries were paid late, or never paid at all. To make ends meet, Savrasov and his colleagues freelanced on the side—selling their expertise, or equipment from the facility itself. Some of the women even sold their bodies to the army regiment that guarded the isolated research facility, deep in the midst of the thick, dark Siberian forest.
Those were hard days for Boris Savrasov. He came home to a wife who despised him. Their life together was nothing like he had promised. Their daughter went to school hungry, in ragged clothes, and came home to a dark and freezing apartment.
Kim had done his research. He knew the utility bills had remained unpaid. He’d seen the divorce papers. He knew he had his man.
The radio crackled. “Target acquired, Colonel.”
“Bring him to me.”
In a matter of minutes, Boris Savrasov climbed into the back of Kim’s van, followed by one of the colonel’s men. The scientist was clutching a metallic briefcase, a little thicker than his ordinary model. He had been carrying a replica for months, in preparation for this day. Security was accustomed to it. They hadn’t blinked an eye as Savrasov stepped out of the Vector research center and into the cold of the Siberian winter.
The sliding doors slammed shut, momentarily leaving the two men in darkness before the lights blinked back on in the rear compartment. Kim stared at the plump scientist with cold disdain. Boris might be essential to his plan, but that didn’t mean that Kim liked dealing with men who would sell out their country for money.
“Mr. Savrasov,” he said. “I trust everything went to plan?”
The scientist nodded quickly, anxiously, his cheeks wobbling as his head bobbed up and down. He glanced backward nervously, looking at Kim’s man, who was holding a Type 66 pistol, a North Korean copy of the Russian Makarov. The weapon wasn’t pointed at Savrasov, but the message was clear.
“Is that completely necessary?” he asked. “I brought what you wanted.”
Kim understood the man’s Russian. The language had still been taught in North Korean military academies when he was a young man, since at that time the USSR still provided significant amounts of weapons, cash and oil to its communist brethren. After the fall of the Berlin wall, all that had changed.
