He turned away from the window, walked over to his suitcase, dug out a small notepad that contained nothing more than a few pages of irrelevant, nearly week-old notes encompassing his search for D.C. flights and hotel rooms, and set it on the small desk. Then he did something he hadn’t done since his days in the diplomatic service in Korea. Using a simple trick from his basic counter-surveillance training manual, he opened the notepad to its second page, took three of his own hairs, and laid them across the first, 10th, and 15th lines on the page. He closed the notepad once again, slowly and carefully, making sure the hairs didn’t move from where he’d placed them. Making sure they couldn’t be seen unless the notepad was opened. Then he messed up his bed and hung the do-not-disturb sign on his doorknob.
*****
As they got into the elevator, Severin pushed the button for the 4th floor instead of the lobby.
“What are you doing?” Zhang asked.
The door opened at the 4th floor. “Come on,” Severin said. They walked to the far end of the hall where a floor-to-ceiling window framed a view of the Lincoln Memorial across the river, and further off, the Washington Monument and Capitol Building. All three reflected the rapidly fading purple-magenta light of the evening sky. “I want you to assume that people are going to be listening to anything you say in your room or on your phone.”
Zhang smiled. “You’re joking.”
“No.”
“Then you’re paranoid.”
“Probably. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s to trust the hairs on the back of my own neck.”
“And they’re standing up?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure. There was a guy in the elevator earlier … . Never mind. Just humor me.”
“Whatever.”
“There’s one other thing. There’s a small room just outside the elevators and stairwell on the underground parking level. At one end, there’s a marble table with a decorative vase of fake flowers on it.”
“So?”
“I want you to set up your smart phone to take a video in there. Lean it against that vase, in the shadow of the fake flowers, and hit record. Make sure it’s set up to cover enough of the room that the video will catch anyone coming out of the elevators or stairwell.”
Zhang gave him a dubious look.
“Just do it. Then walk to the far end of the parking garage, conceal yourself behind a minivan or something, and wait for me. I’m going to get off in the lobby, pretend to wait for you by the couches, and then head down the stairs to meet you in the garage.”
*****
A little while later, as they were walking up Wilson Boulevard toward Galaxy Hut, and with Severin eyeballing window reflections to check for followers on foot, they watched the short video on Zhang’s smart phone. For the first two minutes, they saw nothing but the empty room. At the 2:17 mark, the elevator doors opened and Severin strode through the room. Then it was back to nothing. 2:30. 2:40.
“This is silly,” Zhang said.
“Wait.”
At the 2:47 mark, the door to the stairwell appeared to move. They both stopped mid-stride on the sidewalk.
“Did that door just—”
“Wait, I said.” Then the door opened, but only three or four inches. There, it stayed for a moment before a slouching man in what looked like khakis and a blue raincoat burst from the dark doorway and flashed across the screen in a blur of rapid movement. “Replay that,” Severin said. They watched it three more times before Severin asked if Zhang could freeze it as the man crossed the field of vision. Zhang tried several times, pausing it in a number of places. But no matter what he did, they couldn’t get a clear image.
“Probably just some random guy,” Zhang said.
“Probably.”
“Maybe dropped his phone as he was trying to open the door from the stairwell.”
“Maybe. But after he walked half way across the parking lot, looking all around, I watched him reverse course and go back to the elevators.”
“Might have forgotten his car keys.”
“Might have.”
“Who would be following us?”
Severin shrugged. “One of Wesley Powell’s buddies. Someone from State. The Gestapo. Who knows?”
*****
Having walked just over a mile from their hotel, they entered the Galaxy Hut bar and took a small table in the corner. The place was barely half full. But the music playing on the house stereo would be loud enough to mask their conversation from anyone who wasn’t seated at their table.
“So,” Zhang said, “man or woman?”
“The email didn’t say. But from what we know of Kristin’s personality, and of her husband’s jealous protectiveness, I’m guessing any close friend of hers would be female.”
“Mr. Severin?” a female voice asked, right on cue. “I’m Chloe Kellar.”
Severin turned to see a tall, confident looking, red-headed woman looking down at him. Her hair was tied back in a simple athlete’s ponytail, and she wore no-nonsense jeans and a T-shirt. “Lars, please. And this is Wallace. Join us?”
She plopped down with her half-empty pint of dark beer as the server strode over from the bar.
“What are we drinking there?” Severin asked.
“Porter,” Kellar said.
“Brilliant.” Severin and Zhang ordered the same.
“Sorry for the cloak and dagger,” she said. “I just wanted to make sure you were who you said you were before I gave you any name or real contact information.”
“You checked on us?” Zhang asked.
“I called Kristin’s cousin, Anna, out in Oregon. Kristin, Anna, and I met for a little girls’ night out a few months ago. Anna, in turn, called the uncle who hired you to make sure you were for real.”
“Well done,” Severin said. “And speaking of names, I don’t remember seeing yours in the directory for Kristin’s office.”
“No, I work in another part of the building. National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. Totally different sub-agency of Commerce. Anyway, like I said in my email, I was friends with Kristin. Loved her. And I play soccer with Bergman. At practice after work today, he told me you’re here gathering more information for the family. That they think there’s more to the story.”
“Did you see the report from the State Department?” Severin asked.
“No. But I heard it’s worthless,” Kellar said.
“I can’t say we disagree with you. Still, its conclusions—if they can be called that—are entirely plausible.”
“Well, I don’t know whether you’ve met her husband, Wesley, or not. But I can tell you right now that somebody should be taking another look at him.”
“Not terribly well liked, I take it?”
“A controlling, psychologically abusive creep.”
“Physically abusive too? Ever see him get even just a little bit rough with Kristin?”
She shook her head. “No. But I’m sure he had it in him.”
“Did she ever hint at it? I mean, that he was rough at home maybe? Behind closed doors?”
She shook her head again. “Still, the guy was primed to explode. Total jealous psycho.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He was crazy possessive with Kristin, for one thing. Wouldn’t let anyone near her.”
“I’m surprised he let Kristin join you for a girl’s night out.”
“We literally had to sneak her out of the building while he was in a meeting.”
“I know the type. So how did you get to know her?”
“We were in yoga class together in the Commerce Department gym. It was practically the only time all day long when Wesley wasn’t right next to her. She was a sweetheart. Needy. No confidence. Wouldn’t stand up for herself. But a real sweetheart.”
“Why did she stay with him?”
“Usual story. Like I said, she was needy. She had no self-esteem. He doted on her
. Gave her the strokes she craved. Worshipped her in his creepy way.”
“Attention is the heroin of the emotionally deprived,” Zhang said. Severin gave him a questioning look.
“Still, there are plenty of possessive, jealous men out there who don’t necessarily merit suspicion along the lines of what you might have in mind,” Severin said.
“Yeah, but I think he knew. I mean, he always looked paranoid—like the whole world was out to get him, to steal his case work, steal his woman, steal back credit that he already stole for the work of someone else. But his body language and facial expressions the week before Kristin left for China—I really think he knew.”
“Knew what, exactly?”
“That Kristin and Bill were in love. That they were having an affair.”
“How did they manage that?” Zhang asked. “I mean, with Wesley sticking to Kristin like her Siamese twin all the time?”
“Where there’s a will,” Severin muttered. “Did Kristin confide in you?”
“She didn’t need to, though I think she tried to once. Poor thing was trembling. Looked like she was going to have a stroke. That was around a month before she left for China.”
“And Wesley was on to them?”
“That was my read,” Kellar said. “He was suddenly that much more possessive. That much more venomous and suspicious of everyone around him. I imagine he was reading the same body language between Kristin and Bill that I was, and knew that if something wasn’t already going on, it would be soon. I’m sure the idea of Kristin and Bill flying off to China for two weeks had Wesley apoplectic.”
“But you’re not absolutely certain that they were having an affair? Or that if they were, that Wesley was aware of it?” Zhang said
“Not 100 percent, no. I’ll say I’m 95 percent sure. How’s that?”
“It’s helpful. But the more concrete evidence you can give us, the better,” Severin said.
“How about this? I heard that Wesley made a series of increasingly anxious, increasingly demanding, increasingly belligerent early-morning phone calls to China, trying to contact Kristin when she and Keen were over there. But he never got in touch with her. Not once. He connected with Keen a handful of times, demanding that he get Kristin on the phone. Keen always told Wesley that Kristin was already asleep, or hadn’t been feeling well and was in her room after giving Keen instructions that she wasn’t to be disturbed, or whatever. There was always a plausible excuse. I mean, of course it was reasonable that she was in bed by the time Wesley called, given the 12-hour time difference. Of course it was reasonable that she might not be feeling well, since a lot of folks get crazy diarrhea and whatnot when they’re in the back country overseas. But she never obeyed Wesley’s command that she return his calls. That would be very out of character her, unless she had a secret reason.”
“How do you know about Wesley’s phone calls?” Severin said.
“From Kristin and Wesley’s office suitemate, Jane Smiley. She’d be there in the morning when Wesley was trying to call.”
“Is she a friend of yours?”
“Not really. I know her from stopping by their office to see Kristin. But we bumped into each other in the cafeteria just after Kristin and Bill disappeared and got to talking. Speaking of which, she won’t talk to you in case you’re wondering. I already asked her if she’d come along tonight. She’s terrified the boogiemen will come get her if she talks. That, or she’ll get fired and Wesley will sue her for defamation.”
“Can you think of anyone else who might know about any of this and who might actually be willing to talk to us?” Zhang asked.
She stared at the ceiling in thought, then shook her head.
“What about this,” Severin said, pulling the Go home, Severin note from his coat pocket and unfolding it to show her. “Recognize the writing?”
“No. It looks like someone wrote it with the wrong hand. Isn’t that an old trick from the Nancy Drew stories?”
*****
As the door to his hotel room closed behind him, an exhausted Severin stood in the entryway, giving his senses a chance to process the scene. Did anything look like it had been moved? No. Were there any odd smells in the air, like the trace of an alien shampoo, aftershave, or antiperspirant—vestiges of an uninvited guest? No. He walked over to the desk and, with great care, opened the note pad to its second page. There, his three hairs remained on the lines of the paper. One on the first line, one on the 10th, one on the—16th? He recounted the lines carefully, touching and making a slight indentation in each with his thumbnail. Sixteenth line.
Oh, no.
He sat down on edge of his bed and considered the probabilities. It was entirely possible that he’d miscounted the number of lines on the paper when he set up his surveillance detection trap before going to Galaxy Hut. It was also possible that, despite his hanging the do-not-disturb sign on his doorknob, a housekeeper had come into the room on some errand and somehow moved or fiddled with the notebook. But that made less sense. For one thing, if a housekeeper had come in, he or she would probably have done something else that was noticeable, like made his deliberately messed up bed. But there was no trace of housekeeping activity. Also, if a housekeeper had done something with the notebook that caused one of the hairs to move, then why didn’t the other two hairs move?
That left the possibility that he was under surveillance. Professional surveillance. For not only could they get into the room—presumably without a key—they’d apparently also been watching for just the sort of counter-surveillance detection trap Severin had set for them. They’d opened the notebook slowly and carefully. And if they’d been able to turn to the second page without disturbing that one hair, or had been able to return it—that single, small hair—to its proper spot, there’d have been no trace of their visit.
The implications yanked Severin back into secret, buried memories of when he’d been strong-armed into using his overseas Customs position to deliver and retrieve messages for one of the more obscure organs of the U.S. intelligence apparatus. Playing the innocent tourist on the free Sundays before more than a dozen legitimate Pacific Rim trade shows or customs and intellectual property issue consultations between U.S. and Asian government officials. Wondering if he was being followed. Through dark, narrow, ancient alleyways of Beijing’s hutongs and Forbidden City. Along the crumbling wharfs and gray Soviet-era apartment blocks of Vladivostok. Through the crowded, colorful open-air markets and steamy, disorienting neighborhoods of Ho Chi Minh City. Wondering whether his counter-surveillance maneuvers had succeeded in losing any unseen followers. Wondering if, somehow, they’d nevertheless seen him make the drop or pick up the envelope or flash drive from its prearranged hiding place under the garbage can, in the stack of discarded newspapers, in the basket of a parked bicycle. Wondering whether an unmarked van would round the corner at any moment to block his path, or whether the door to his hotel room would fly open in the middle of the night. Whether the oft-dreamed of mob of plainclothes goons would surround him, handcuff him, inject him with a sedative, pull a black hood over his head, and drag him away to some dark hole where he’d be tortured for his pathetic few secrets and then shot—his disappearance officially attributed to an ill-advised stroll in a bad part of the city.
Back in the present, Severin realized his palms were damp and his heart was racing. He went to his bathroom to splash water on his face, then thought long and hard about making himself a strong drink to take some of the force off the shockwaves of his resurrected memories of sheer terror. Instead, he turned out the lights in his room, turned on the camera on his smartphone, and scanned the room with it. Then he walked down to Zhang’s room. When Zhang opened his door, Severin stepped in and turned out the lights.
“The hell are you doing? Don’t be trying to kiss me.”
“Shhh.”
Severin scanned Zhang’s room with his smartphone camera. Then he turned the lights back on. “Grab your laptop and follow me.”
The
y went downstairs and sat down in a pair of wingback chairs they found outside the monstrous double doors of a banquet room on the mezzanine level.
“So what was going on up there?” Zhan asked.
“All but the oldest, crappiest surveillance cameras have night vision capability,” Severin said as he turned on Zhang’s laptop. “Their weakness, from a detection standpoint, is that they put off an infrared flare that you can often see with a digital camera.”
“Surveillance cameras?”
“I didn’t see any flares in either of our rooms.”
“Thank goodness. I was so worried.”
“Don’t be sarcastic.”
“Why would we even care if someone was watching us?”
“Because if someone is, then the who and the why could lead us to an explanation for Powell and Keen’s disappearance.”
Severin told Zhang about the moved hair as he searched the internet before downloading and installing a free program he seemed to already be familiar with.
“What are you putting on my computer?”
“This software will scan the area and detect wireless interfaces. More importantly, it can detect wireless bugs.”
“I didn’t know you were such a computer whiz. Maybe you should do our hacking.”
“I can download and run a program. I don’t know if that qualifies me as a computer whiz. You don’t happen to have a GPS receiver connected to your laptop, do you?”
“Why would I?”
“Tomorrow we’ll find you a USB tuner and SDR kit.”
Chasing the Monkey King Page 13
