by Ed Kovacs
“Could you at least tell the hotel people where you're going when you go out?” asked Jan, signing. “What if something happened? No one would have any idea where to start looking.” Jan was one-quarter Cherokee and her thick brown hair fell past her shoulders. Her dark eyes looked worried.
“Mom, it’s Hong Kong, not Baghdad. And in five more days I'll be back in Phoenix. The only thing you have to worry about is whether you'll like the Gucci purse I bought you today.”
“Gucci?!”
“Well, it says 'Gucci,' and who are we to argue?”
They shared a smile.
“Have you met any nice guys on the trip?” signed Jan, with an inquisitive look.
“Nice guys aren't interested in me.”
“You just haven't met the right one yet.”
“I'm not sweating it, trust me,” signed Nicole. “I don't need a man to define me or to make me whole. If I end up being a spinster, that's okay with me.”
Jan scowled slightly, clearly not liking that idea. “Have you given any thought to my suggestion?”
“You mean getting a boob job?”
“Nicole! Your language!”
“Sorry, I meant breast implants. Don't feel bad that I inherited your flat chest. It's God's way to help me weed out the assholes,” joked Nicole, signing.
Jan shook her head and smiled. “All I know is that I have a beautiful, intelligent daughter who will one day give me an awesome grandchild. The sooner the better. I bought a home pregnancy test at the dollar store yesterday. I'm mailing it to you.”
Nicole rolled her eyes. “Love you, Mom. Same time tomorrow, okay?” She knew her mom was a night owl and that talking at midnight Las Vegas time was no problem for her. Jan would now go to sleep feeling a little better about her only child being in a far-away place all by herself.
Jan waved. “Bye-bye, and love.”
“Love.”
Grant turned off the app. Two short cream-colored sofas sat at right angles to each other at the corner of the living room area, with round glass tables between and in front of them. Behind the sofas, the windows beckoned. She crossed to the sofas, held up the tablet, and snapped a panoramic photo of the Hong Kong Island skyline. The thousands of perfectly vertical skyscrapers racing heavenward looked like controlled explosions of concrete, glass, and steel, crowding every flat piece of earth between the glassy deep blue sea and the jagged green hills. Massive white and silver towers crowded right onto the lip of the land, erect and in seeming anticipation, like bathers standing on a beach waiting for the first person to jump in. Cruise ships looking as small as bathtub toys, junks, ferries, and pleasure craft skimmed the surface of Victoria Harbor as billowy clouds raced overhead with the speed of shoppers rushing a sale table on Li Yuen Street. Anticipation underscored everything in sight.
Grant took another photo, then immediately posted it to the Facebook page she used under an alias. Being serious about security, all of the information she provided to social media sites was bogus, and she never posted photos that showed her face. She smiled as she tagged the scenic photo: “Next time I'll get a room with a view!”
She sat on a sofa and logged into a special security app which presented her with a wide angle view of her hotel room. The clock radio on the round table between the sofas was a “spy cam” she traveled with. Grant knew that hotel room safes were not really 'safe.' Crooked hotel staff all over the world used master keys or override codes to plunder guests' valuables while they were out. It had happened to her once in Memphis. So she'd set up the secret video cam as a way to protect against such thefts. The device was motion-sensing, and would ping her tablet computer whenever it was set off. Grant watched the tablet screen and slowly moved the clock radio until she had the exact view of the room she wanted.
A knock startled her. She hadn't asked for anything from the hotel, so it had to be housekeeping. Grant crossed to the door and opened it without looking through the peephole. A tall, bespectacled, blond-haired man in shorts and a khaki vest and carrying both a fanny pack and backpack stepped in front of her. He looked vaguely familiar. Brown eyes, broad shoulders and a jutting chin. She sensed a quiet intensity and could almost feel an uneasiness coming from inside him, even though he had the look of a hard man who could take care of himself. He was good-looking in the genuinely rugged way that soft, spoiled film stars try to look when they do an action role. But his blond hair didn't look right somehow.
“Grant, it's been awhile.”
“I'm sorry... have we met?” Her mind raced; did she know this guy? Strangely, he maintained a neutral expression, like he wasn't particularly happy to see her. She unconsciously tensed and gripped the door a bit more tightly, closing it a few inches as she stood in the opening. He had to be a hotel guest with an electronic key or he wouldn't have been able to get to her floor.
“We worked together, remember?”
The voice! Pomona! The loss of the RQ-180! Hernandez! There was no way she could hide the look of recognition—and fear—that swept over her face. She couldn't think to speak, but stepped back as she flung the door closed. Except it didn't close.
He lunged forward like a linebacker going after a star quarterback and pushed the heavy door open using his hands as battering rams. The door flew open and caught her right arm, hurting it. She spun around, but he charged into the room and quickly closed the door behind him. She shot him a glance as she bolted toward the desk in the living room. Her purse—and the pepper spray inside it—was on the desk. So was a hotel phone. Scared beyond words, she made it to her purse and grabbed the pepper spray. As she fumbled to get the cap off, his large hand grabbed her wrist and squeezed.
He pressed behind her, against her back, so she slammed her left elbow into his ribs. Then again, as hard as she could. She struggled to twist free. Grant was no martial artist, but she'd taken a defensive tactics course for women. As he wrenched her right hand, causing her to drop the pepper spray, she lifted her left leg and drove her heel onto his left foot.
He grunted. She was about to scream, when he twisted her wrist into a painful compliance hold that caused her knees to buckle. Then he whispered into her ear, “This room might be bugged. So before we talk, we need to be on the safe side.”
He paused, but kept her in the compliance hold. She decided to try and use her leg again, but he must have sensed this and pressed harder on her wrist. The pain flaring through her arm caused her to drop to her knees. As he stood over her exerting pressure on the wrist lock, she let out a small scream. Gritting her teeth, she looked up to find herself staring into the business end of a sound-suppressed Chinese-made semi-automatic handgun.
“Scream or make a move and you die,” he whispered.
Breathe, remember to breathe. She fought panic, fought nausea creeping into her throat. Her mind raced as she took deep breaths, searching for an option as her eyes darted around the room.
“I'm going to let go,” he said softly. “Try something, and I'll put a bullet in your brain. Then you'll never know why I came to talk. And believe me, at this point, I have nothing to lose by killing you.”
Frightened out of her wits, she looked into his determined eyes. My God, he's going to kill me because of what I did in Pomona on the drone operation!
CHAPTER 4
15:15
Nicole Grant felt Ron Hernandez slowly ease his grasp and then release her. She tried to get a grip on the pure fear that vised like a clamp around her chest. Yes, she'd disobeyed orders during the drone op that he had supervised, but that was two years ago. Why was he in disguise? Why would he want to kill her? And what could she do right now to turn the tables on him? She worked to rub out the pain in her wrist, hand, and arm. He kept the gun leveled at her as he removed an electronic device from his backpack.
“White noise generator,” he said.
She looked at the device as he placed it on the desk. The unit was used to mask a conversation in a room from listening devices. She'd seen them before and knew
how easy it was to defeat the digital ones. A quick glance told her Hernandez was using an analog device, probably broadcasting a long loop of random white noise. The old technology was much harder to defeat. Thinking about technology and how it worked settled her a bit, grounded her into the form, structure, and safety of an engineer's reality, where life was ordered, cut and dried.
“This unit is good, but let's go into the bathroom to talk.”
He gestured with his gun and backed away. She slowly stood up from the floor, mentally taking note of the fact that he hadn't noticed the clock radio was the type sold at “spy shops.” If you kill me, your face will be on every law enforcement watch list.
He waved her forward with the gun, but the idea of going in there with him made her extra uneasy.
“Let's talk out here,” she managed to say.
“Let's talk in the bathroom.”
She shook her head. “No. Just shoot me. Shoot me right now. You try and drag me into the toilet and I will scream and bite and fight you to the end.” She was finding her voice; at least she could get words out. Grant didn't think he would kill her. Maybe later, but not yet.
She watched his face closely as he seemed to weigh options. After a few seconds, he nodded. “Okay. Sit on the sofa.”
She slowly moved to the sofa, furtively glancing around for something to use as a weapon. When she sat down, he pulled the upholstered chair away from the desk and turned it to face her.
He sat down heavily. He was a big, strapping fellow who somehow looked empty. Hollow. Like a man who wasn't even remotely in control of his destiny, not to mention the moment. As she stared at him she saw the fatigue, the dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep. But talk about brooding intensity, Hernandez had it to spare.
Pomona. Udon Thani. Guangzhou. The repercussions of losing the RQ-180 drone over China had created an international incident that took months to die down and had put her through an emotional ringer. But that was two years ago. What could have happened to dredge up the past?
“You must be here about the drone op. I have honored my non-disclosure agreements. I've never said a word about the mission to anyone.”
He looked at her like he saw right through her. “Really? You never did anything you weren't supposed to do?”
Crap, he knows about the audio file! And maybe about the other things, too.
###
Ron Hernandez glanced out the windows and took in the view from Nicole Grant's hotel room. The beauty of the bay and low mountains usually fed his soul. But not today. Nothing about Hong Kong—one of his favorite cities on the planet—uplifted him today. He'd never felt this exhausted in his entire life. He hadn't slept for three days and carried a heavy burden of deep grief and painful guilt that was proving to be all-consuming. He'd barely escaped a hit team sent to kill him in D.C., had gone to ground, and had been on the run for ten days now. He sensed yet another adrenalin crash coming. Pulling an energy drink from the backpack, he downed it in a few gulps.
He was still alive, but had lost his life.
Hernandez closed his eyes for a moment and felt incredibly sad. He could kid himself, but his was a suicide mission. He'd fight until his last breath, but there was no reason to hope for survival. Not a defeatist attitude, just realistic. By coming to Hong Kong, he'd taken the fight to the enemy and that alone was a victory of sorts. He knew that any man unwilling to fight for what's right is already dead.
Grant stirred on the sofa, so he blinked his reddish eyes and looked her over. He hadn't remembered her being so pretty. About five-ten with nice legs and a firm butt. Her face was all soft contours and super-pale, impossibly creamy skin. And her eyes—green spotted with hazel. Hell, she looked like the kind of lady he'd enjoy cuddling up with, not that he thought he'd live long enough to ever cuddle with a woman again. As he studied her, he realized he hadn't remembered much about her at all, since he'd been so preoccupied during the drone operation. He put the gun on his lap. The next few minutes would determine whether he'd use it on her.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“I'm the one who should be asking you that.”
“Please answer the question.”
“Who are you with? JSOC? CIA?”
He paused. “Christians in Action. Technically.” Christians in Action, like the Company, or the Agency, was slang for the Central Intelligence Agency.
She furrowed her brow. “What does 'technically' mean?”
“It means if you're smart, you'll start answering questions instead of asking them.”
She looked at him and took a breath. “I'm here on vacation, that's no secret. The Company doesn't need to send an operative to my room to ask me why I'm in Hong Kong.”
“Kind of a coincidence, you being here right now,” he said.
“Coincidence? I've been planning this trip for a year. I booked this room ten months ago. Check with the hotel if you don't believe me, I've made no secret about it. I didn't run here and go into hiding like Edward Snowden did, carrying four laptops full of classified information. I have no idea what coincidence you mean.”
He hid his surprise. It'd be easy enough to confirm when she had booked the room. Regardless, it wasn't enough to prove her innocence. “Have you been in touch with any of the other people who worked the op out of Pomona?”
“I already told you that I've honored my non-disclosure—”
“Answer my question,” he said sharply. “The non-disclosure forms you signed did not preclude you from having contact with the others. That's what I asked you. Have you had any contact?”
“No. None. Never,” she said forcefully.
He watched as she wet her lips with her tongue. Her mouth was dry, she was nervous. There was softness, a femininity about her that belied the toughness she'd shown him. It felt so much better to think about how Grant looked, than to think about what he might have to do.
“Hernandez or whatever your name is. We lost the drone. That went public. Since the whole world knows there are no secrets from the American intelligence community, you must already know that I haven't been in touch with any of the others.”
“People with your skill sets have ways to communicate that even the NSA geeks can't track. After all, you were an NSA geek,” he said, matter-of-fact.
She lowered her head. He could see how scared she was, but that was too bad. “Look, Grant, you are your own lawyer in this little two-person kangaroo court. You might want to consider dropping the smart-mouth routine and make some forthcoming statements in an attempt to save your life.”
“I'm sorry, but I'm scared.” She paused, then, “Yes, I have skills, but I don't even know who the others were. I'd never met or worked with any of the other crew members before. I think you know that. I believe that was deliberate. I didn't fraternize with them because those were the orders. I mean, there were security cameras all over that warehouse we were in, so I just stayed in my own RV when I was off duty. Maybe you could check the videotape to confirm that, if it still exists. After the drone business, I got away from the NSA and all of that as fast as I could. My father always told me that the intelligence game was a dirty business.”
“Your dad was right,” he said, still not sure what to believe as he watched her closely. “Look, we don't have much time, but I have to search the room. Stay put on the sofa.” He stood and dumped the contents of her purse onto the floor. He pocketed her cell phone and tablet computer and quickly examined the remaining items. He went through all the drawers and made a cursory search of the main room.
“Okay, into the bedroom,” he said, gesturing with the gun.
“No, I said I would talk out here, and—”
Hernandez fired the pistol, putting a round into the sofa inches from her arm. The muffled gunshot wasn't loud enough to be heard outside the room, but Grant heard it loud and clear. She jumped with a start.
“We don't have time for this,” he practically growled. “The next one goes into your heart. Your choice.”
He watched her swallow, and then she slowly stood up on wobbly feet.
In the bedroom, Hernandez had her lie face down on the carpet as he searched the room. He found knockoff designer bags that had sticky notes attached: “Mom,” “Grace,” “Sandi,” “Megan.” He found similarly tagged inexpensive souvenirs from Japan and South Korea, and absolutely nothing incriminating. Her cell phone hadn't been used to make or receive any calls in Hong Kong, so he tossed it onto the bed. He checked her tablet computer and all of the photos she'd posted on her Facebook page. He frowned. No one traveling to make a secret rendezvous would post their location on Facebook, even if they used a social media alias. Her room looked like the room of a tourist on vacation.
“I'll be damned.” He tossed her tablet on the bed next to her cell phone.
“No argument here,” she said looking up at him defiantly.
“Answer one question honestly, then maybe we'll have a temporary truce. You used Darknet to send an audio file the night we lost the drone. What was it, where did it go?”
Her face fell. Not by much, but he saw it. If she denied it, he'd shoot her right now. “I'll explain that, but why is this just now coming up? Why wasn't I confronted with this before, or in the NSA investigation?”
“Because no one at Langley looked at the data very closely. The orders were to sweep it all under the rug. So I only figured out about a week ago that you'd done something very curious.”
“Yes, I sent an audio file.” She then explained how she had targeted the laser on the panel van to record the conversation inside, and how she'd sent it off. “You know how Darknet works. That audio file was broken into a thousand pieces and sent into the ether.”