by Ed Kovacs
A waiter held up a tray of champagne and she took one to use as a prop. She scanned the room, hoping to spot Zhao. He wasn't at any of the gambling tables. Bill Clinton leaned against a roulette table vigorously chatting up a gorgeous young Chinese woman. Prince Harry was easy to spot since a cluster of females surrounded him wherever he went. Nicole noticed a couple of Hollywood stars lounging at a high table with the Executive Chairman of Google, Eric Schmidt. Jeff Bezos from Amazon was here, Elon Musk, Larry Ellison. Crap, this was a heady crowd. Nicole had to stay centered or she'd become nervous.
The tai tais, Vivian and Eleanor. I need to find the tai tais. But Nicole didn't need an introduction to Conner Green as they had earlier offered; she needed an introduction to a Chinese Princeling.
###
Kate Rice held a wireless microphone and scanned the crowd as she prepared to approach the podium. The rich, famous, and powerful in attendance were present due to her efforts and hard work. Her sweat had built Kids First from nothing into a world class charity. A sense of satisfaction and physical exhilaration washed away her fears, and anointed her with a renewed sense of grace. In spite of the present problems, look at what she'd created: a shimmering facade of philanthropy cloaking a ruthlessly efficient intelligence apparatus. She was too important to be terminated by Bergman or Zhao. She had a plan in motion with Wheeler and had every reason to believe it would work. She smiled as she glided up to the podium, reveling in the ovation that greeted her.
“Tonight is all about you,” said Rice as the applause died down. “You, our biggest donors, our greatest fans, our hardest workers. All of you here tonight make up the heart and soul of Kids First. I'm so deeply grateful that good people put their money where their mouth is and step forward to help. Grateful that good people bring hope where none exists. Grateful that good people bring light to blackness, bring healing to the sick, shelter to the homeless, and food to the hungry children of this cruel world.”
Tears rolled down the perfectly made-up cheeks of Kate Rice. What a performance! She'd choked up just enough so it could be heard in her voice, but not enough to interrupt the rhythm of the speech. The cameras and big screen monitors set up around the room had caught the tears, and number of guests got caught up in the emotion as well.
“I pledge to you that Kids First will stay focused and do what needs to be done—rules be damned, regulations be damned, danger be damned! We will do what must be done, what governments or other aid organizations can't do, or won't do. That's what makes Kids First different, and makes you the heroes. You are the heroes, not me. You are my heroes, and I love you all.”
Rice turned and made a gesture to a hotel staffer.
“I'd like to propose a toast.”
Dozens of staff held pre-poured flutes of expensive French champagne on serving trays. It only took moments for everyone in the hall to get a glass of the bubbly. Rice smiled, nodding acknowledgment to some in the crowd as she waited to make the toast. Suddenly her eyes riveted on Zhao standing close to a pretty young blonde she didn't recognize. Two Hong Kong tai tais Rice knew were standing with them. Was it jealously she felt... or suspicion?
Rice plastered a smile on her face and held her flute of champagne high into the air. She paused, taking in the sight as hundreds of glasses in the crowd were likewise lofted, following her lead and deepening her sense of satisfaction and power. “To the children... and those who love them!”
Cheers and shouts erupted as four hundred people took a drink together. The band launched into a spirited rendition of Donna Summers, She Works Hard for the Money. She waved to the throngs, checked to make sure the microphone was off, and then handed it to an assistant who had been waiting on the edge of the bandstand. “Find out who the blonde bitch is with Zhao Yiren... and get a close-up photo.”
###
Pacific Place had four five-star hotels and Ron Hernandez had asked Jaffir Kahn to rent a suite in the artful luxury hotel above the Marriott called Upper House. Working out of his Isuzu box truck had become risky, and more space was needed than the truck could provide. Unwitting bellboys had schlepped up a veritable arsenal of goodies in luggage Jaffir had hastily purchased.
Pressing a handkerchief firmly over his thigh wound, Hernandez limped slightly as he led Rena Musaad into the 2000 square-foot, two-bedroom suite that featured cool elegance and bespoke furniture. He tossed the room key onto a counter that held a wine fridge. Following suit, she put her purse on the counter, and gingerly removed the silenced handgun and the knife.
“Make yourself at home,” he said, easing off his suit jacket. He draped it over a high stool and then reached for a bottle of Crown Royal while continuing to press the handkerchief against his leg. Beads of perspiration dappled his forehead. The stab wound probably wasn't serious, but the adrenalin rush from having killed four Chinese in the life-or-death confrontation still coursed through his body.
Rena eyed the fancy digs. “A tad bit nicer than my basement room in London,” she said dryly. “I see you have wine, and since I'm a nervous wreck I could use some, but... shouldn't you call a doctor? I mean, you've been stabbed.”
“Jaffir?!” Hernandez called out. “You here?”
“Coming!” said Jaffir from one of the bedrooms.
“Rena, you can't mention Jaffir, either in your reporting or in private conversation. And that goes for his family, if you meet them. You can't create a composite of him. You can't reveal you ever entered this hotel. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
Jaffir hurried into the room holding a large first aid kit.
“Jaffir Kahn, Rena Musaad. Rena, Jaffir.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Musaad, even though the circumstances are not ideal.” The thin Pakistani-American bowed slightly as he shook her hand.
“Nice to meet you as well. Is there some way I can help?”
“Absolutely,” said Jaffir. He handed her latex gloves and put the first aid kit on a chair. “Ron, let's do it in here on the dining table.”
Hernandez nodded and then glanced over to the table where bath towels had already been spread out on top. He took a long quaff directly from the bottle of Crown and leaned against the edge of the heavy wooden dining table as Jaffir pulled on latex gloves.
“Splendid. Could you please remove Ron's shoes, Miss Musaad?”
“Only if you call me Rena,” she smiled. She stooped down and started untying the shoe laces.
Jaffir shined a penlight into Hernandez's eyes, and then checked his pulse. “Any other injuries?”
Hernandez shook his head. “No.” He looked to Rena. “Sorry you had to see all that killing downstairs.”
“I've seen killing before, and it's always so... sobering. It reminds me how precious life is. And how quickly it can be taken away.” She got one of his shoes off and went to work on the other.
“Now that you've seen how serious this is, are you still interested in getting the story?”
“Yes, of course!”
Hernandez watched her carefully. She'd spoken too quickly, without thinking. He could tell she was upset by the violence and trying to hide her feelings.
“Rena,” said Jaffir. “Please look away while our patient 'drops trou.' Not that there's much to see. And give me your handkerchief, Ron. I can see it needs dry cleaning.”
Hernandez smiled as he dumped his sat phone and the contents of his pockets onto the table. Jaffir often inserted levity into serious situations as a way to put everyone more at ease. Taking a compress—in this case, a handkerchief—off a wound, especially your own wound, always came with fear attached. Will blood suddenly spurt? Will there be some other problem? So even though he was smiling, Hernandez felt a tickle of dread as he took pressure off the wound, removed the bloody handkerchief, and handed it to Jaffir. He unhooked his belt and dropped his blood-stained slacks, grunting from pain as he stepped out of them.
“Move the toes on your left foot, then rotate the foot itself,” said Jaffir, watching closely as Ro
n followed his instructions. “Bend your knee.”
“Everything feels okay,” said Hernandez, bending his knee.
“Okay, let's get you on the table.”
Jaffir and Rena helped him lie back on top of the table. The bleeding had stopped, but his upper thigh was caked with dried blood. Jaffir quickly cut away a section of Hernandez's boxer shorts, and then used large swabs to clear away the blood.
“Not enough blood present for it to have cut a major pathway, and since there's no evidence of nerve or tendon damage, it looks like this is your lucky day,” said Jaffir.
“Antibiotic ointment?” Rena asked Jaffir, as she held up a tube of the stuff.
“No, grab a bottle of water out of the fridge, please. Then we'll use the saline solution.”
Hernandez lifted his head slightly to watch as Jaffir closely examined the cut. Rena fetched the plastic bottle of drinking water and Jaffir began to irrigate the wound. Hernandez shifted his gaze to Musaad.
“Rena, I want to make sure you're clear about the danger you face. You haven't really done anything yet and they almost killed you. You need to understand we're talking about your life.”
“My life?” She looked confused.
Jaffir emptied the last of the water into the puncture wound. Rena leaned in and repositioned a towel to absorb the overflow as Jaffir then tore open a half-liter pouch of saline solution and now poured that into the wound.
“The four Chinese I just sent to hell were following you, not me. They certainly wanted to murder me, too, but that was a kill team sent to eliminate you, and they weren't going to bother making it look like an accident, like they did with Helen Bennett in London.”
“They wanted to kill me?! That's not possible... is it?” Hernandez saw her cool facade slip a bit. More than a bit. “Perhaps they were following me to get to you,” she countered.
Jaffir tossed aside the empty saline pouch. “Sorry to interrupt, but I'm only going to give you a couple of stitches. Basically, this wound should be left open for now. You can get it properly sutured up in a week or so if there's no infection.”
Hernandez propped himself up on an elbow, took another hit of whiskey, and then offered the bottle to her. “You may want one too, Rena, because I have to tell you, the first two Chinese pulled their guns before they even saw me. And didn't you hear what the last killer said? 'Mister Hernandez, I have come to kill you and the lady.'”
“Oh,” said Rena, as a shocked realization seemed to seep into her consciousness. “I thought he was referring to Nicole Grant.”
Rena took the whiskey bottle, but didn't drink. She appeared sobered by this turn of events. “I should contact the London office right away.”
“That might not be a good idea.”
“Ron. I'm in a lot of trouble, is what you've told me. Life or death trouble.” Rena locked her deadly serious eyes with his. She put a hand on the counter as if unconsciously stabilizing herself. “So why can't I call my office?” Rena was a tough young lady, but right now looked utterly lost.
“How did the Chinese find out about you? Have you told anyone other than Nicole Grant you're from WikiLeaks?” he asked.
She paused for a moment as her eyes rolled upward, as if she were double-checking her memory. “No.”
He grunted, due to Jaffir's stitching. “They took out Helen Bennett, so they had killers on the ground in London. They knew she was in touch with me. How did they know that? Are the Chinese intercepting WikiLeaks' encrypted communications? Are the London offices bugged? Maybe they have someone on the inside, on their payroll.”
“An inside man.”
“Or woman. Who has now given them your name.” Hernandez grimaced as Jaffir made another hole in his skin and pulled the needle through.
Rena poured herself a shot of whiskey and took a drink. She was doing a good job of trying not to look scared. “Can you help me get back to London?”
“Short term, I think you'd be safe at the British consulate here in Hong Kong.”
“It's right next door to Pacific Place. We can walk there in minutes,” said Jaffir, looking up at her from his handiwork.
“But we haven't had the barest of interviews yet,” protested Rena. “I can't—”
“Jaffir will give you a couple of memory sticks as soon as he finishes with me and you two can be on your way.”
“Thank you, but...”
“It's all on the memory sticks. Damning documentation. The longer you stay with us, the more danger you're in,” said Hernandez, insistently. “You saw what happened. The hit was meant for you, Rena.”
She swallowed hard. Before she could respond, a chiming sound came from her purse on the counter. “That's an encrypted message from the office in London.” She seemed almost happy to have the distraction. She took a step, then stopped and looked to Hernandez for permission.
“Go ahead and read it,” he said.
She removed her tablet computer and read the message. She didn't bother to disguise her shock. Disbelieving, she read the message again. She looked over to Hernandez and Jaffir.
“What is it?”
“A confidential message from my best friend in the London office. A decision has been made amongst the executives. They want me to scoop up all of your evidence. But it doesn't matter what proof you might have. WikiLeaks isn't going to touch this story.”
Hernandez and Jaffir exchanged serious looks.
“Somebody got to WikiLeaks,” said Hernandez, pondering just what kind of threats or dirty dealing it would take to co-opt that activist organization. “I hadn't counted on that.”
“I still want the story. I have an idea for a strategy,” said Rena, with a cold certainty. She met Jaffir's eyes, then Hernandez's.
Hernandez looked at her, impressed. In the last few minutes she'd learned she had a bull’s-eye on her back and that her employer was selling her down the river. But instead of falling apart or shifting into a run away and hide mentality due to the shocking news, Rena was energized. She was choosing “fight” over “flight.”
With determination, she crossed to the table and reached into the first aid kit. “I can get the story picked up by Middle East press outlets, and some of the European and Asian outlets. We'll go on YouTube and do a social media push.”
Jaffir tied off the last stitch, and then Rena then applied a sterile bandage over the wound. Jaffir patted Hernandez on the shoulder. “Finished, boss. You're golden.”
Hernandez sat up and swung his legs over the side of the table.
Rena looked him in the eyes. “There are ways to get the truth out.”
He reached out and gently touched her arm. “I'll help you however I can.” He eased off the table, fished his encrypted sat phone from his shirt pocket and turned it on. The cell beeped with incoming messages. All from Chuck Wheeler. With Grant tied up at the fundraiser and with WikiLeaks out of the picture, it was time to start seriously hunting the hunters.
CHAPTER 25
21:42
Perhaps it was because they were drunk. Vivian Chu and Eleanor Chow had taken Nicole Grant's hand, told her they liked her much better as a blonde, and then practically dragged her across the ballroom, where Vivian unceremoniously elbowed aside two Chinese security men in cheap black suits and pushed their way right up to Zhao Yiren.
Zhao had waved off the security detail and spoke with Nicole and the tai tais in perfect English. His graciousness and charm didn't seem forced as he quizzed her closely about her background and why she was in Hong Kong. There wasn't a hint of recognition as to her true identity.
That had happened about fifteen minutes earlier, before the speech from the charity's CEO, which Zhao had literally ignored. He kept checking his watch, but his demeanor was too cool to seem concerned with the time.
Grant had also kept her cool in spite of her usual clamminess. Focusing on the role she played kept her nervousness at bay. Nervous, no; excited, yes. Zhao had paid close attention to her and touched her arm several times
in a manner that unquestionably suggested interest.
As soon as Vivian and Eleanor finally wandered off, Zhao gently took Nicole by the arm and smoothly guided her toward the exit. “What did you say your family name was? Faccioli?” he asked.
“Yes. Our winery isn't grand, but our wines are very nice. Perhaps I can send you a few boxes,” said Nicole with a lilting Venetian accent.
“Italy is so beautiful. It's a shame we can't get on a plane and go visit.”
“But we can!” she laughed. “Please come and be my guest,” she said, smiling coquettishly.
“I wish I could,” he said smiling. “I have a condo upstairs. We should go discuss the business of bringing your wines to China. And then we should discuss pleasure.”
I'm going to get into his condo. A tingling feeling raced through her arms. Was it anticipation, or a warning? “Why not?” she said, masking with her smile the feeling of being very much alone.
###
Chuck Wheeler selected a piece of Crab Rangoon and popped it into his mouth with a satisfying crunch. The buffet table in the Songshan Room on Level Five, just down the hall from the raging Kids First function in the Island Ballroom, was loaded with gourmet appetizers and high-end liquor. Wheeler casually grazed from the spread as if he didn't have a care in the world. He suspected the room had been intended to use for intimate side meetings with high-rollers, but here he was, stinking it up. He had the bulletproof vest on under a dress shirt. When not stuffing food into his mouth he twirled an eight-inch-long non-metallic spike that he could hide up his sleeve. Metal detectors wouldn't pick it up. His darting eyes cut a quick glance at Kate Rice pacing on the other side of the small room as she bit her fingernails. He knew his cool demeanor was irritating her, and that was swell.
“Why the hell hasn't Hernandez called you back?” carped Rice, checking her watch.
“I'll call him again, if you insist,” said Wheeler, spooning foie gras onto a toast point, “but I've left two messages. It's better if I don't seem too anxious.”