by Ed Kovacs
He performed a quick mental calculation, and then fixed Choi with a stare. “Including you and me, there are fourteen of us left from MSS. Six in this hotel suite and eight elsewhere. Have our people in this room begin to quietly slip away.”
“And the eight already outside?”
“Set up the CP across the street, but don't tell Ma's people. I should have pulled us out hours ago. Our job is not to be police who perform dragnets. We are assassins who operate in the shadows. And if we don't kill the Americans tonight...” Tang left the words hanging in the air. He vowed to himself that, if at all possible, he would personally seek revenge upon the killer of his six people, meaning he wanted to personally exterminate Ron Hernandez.
###
Pandemonium ruled in the Marriott's lobby. As soon as police had announced the evacuation, guests already spooked from the explosion at the Conrad's pool bolted without paying their checks from Flint Grill and Bar, Man Ho, Marriott's Cafe, and Dolce 88. The elevators and stairwells were now depositing scores of panicked guests into the lobby who weren't sure what to do or where to go, overwhelming Marriott security and uniformed Hong Kong police. There weren't enough taxis, and the driveways inside Pacific Place were jammed bumper-to-bumper with vehicles, anyway. The Marriott's front entrance had devolved into fist fights and shoving matches. General Ma's security men and the 8 X10s they held were simply pushed aside.
Into that maelstrom stepped Rena Musaad wearing a black burka, accompanied by Jaffir Kahn and his two teenage daughters, also hidden under burkas, as they hurried out of a stairwell. When Rena caught sight of herself in a large mirror the irony of her situation hit her like a ton of metaphorical bricks. She'd grown up hating Muslims, had been viciously abused by Muslims, and went out of her way to avoid having any contact with Muslims. But right now a Muslim family risked their own lives to get her to safety. Furthermore, it was a black burka, a garment that evoked strong negative emotions in the non-Islamic world, a garment that for many represented the oppression of women, that spoke of things dark and impenetrable and unknowing, it was a burka that shielded her from the eyes of her would-be killers.
Rena said a silent prayer to God and expressed thanks for this unlikely divine intervention that was not only saving her, but teaching her a valuable lesson. “I'll work hard to get the story out,” said Rena quietly to Jaffir. “But I'd rather stay until we can resolve a few items.”
“The situation is resolving itself, it's called a mandatory evacuation,” said Jaffir, holding onto Rena and his daughters as they pushed into the crowd.
“Do you really believe there are more bombs?” she asked in a whisper.
“It's a moot point. You'll be safe at the British consulate. You're not safe here.”
“Where are we going, papa?” asked Jaffir's eldest daughter.
“The single elevator over there! We can take it down to the shopping mall,” he said, trying to pull them free of the crush. The four of them made it to the single elevator which was being ignored in the hysteria, since most everyone saw the large front doors and naturally headed in that direction.
“I wish you success, Rena.” The elevator arrived and Jaffir pushed them all inside. “Because I think you might hold the key to saving Ron and Nicole’s lives.”
The weight of Jaffir's remark almost caused Rena's knees to buckle, just as the elevator doors closed, sealing them inside.
CHAPTER 28
22:41
The normally sedate lobby of the Island Shangri-La buzzed with a genteel but still quite tense evacuation as police guided concerned VIP guests toward the main exit. Ron Hernandez wormed his way inside through a side entrance, decisively cut through the crowd, and pushed through a stairway door. He flew down the empty stairwell. There may be an emergency evacuation in progress, but God forbid the rich and famous would have to walk up a flight of stairs to escape. He shot out through a steel door and into a human wall of 400 well-dressed, half-drunk party-goers outside the ballroom who were all trying to get into one elevator car at the same time.
Hernandez sliced through the crowd and followed signs to the Songshan Room. As he ran down the hallway, he pulled of the long gray ponytail wig and tossed it aside. In seconds he was at the door and burst in. The room stood empty. He eyed the food and drink set-up, and then spotted a red Nikon Coolpix camera at the makeshift bar. He crossed to the table and checked the camera. A cable was still attached, as if someone had been uploading photos to another device. Hernandez pressed the power button. The view that appeared on the camera screen was a shot of Nicole Grant standing with Zhao Yiren.
###
The hackers from the 57th Research Institute working temporarily at Sun Yat-sen University in Guangzhou looked sullen. Oi Lam wore a lightweight pink jacket zipped all the way up and rubbed her arms, trying to stay warm in the sterile, chilly room. The group had been practically chained to their workstations for days now and no one would mistake them for being fresh.
Oi Lam looked at the others. “Is anyone getting anything?”
They all wearily shook their heads.
“Could we have used the wrong keys?” she asked, as she took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes.
None of the other hackers said anything. They were spoiled by their past successes. Inevitably, when they'd targeted a particular Website or foreign corporation or government entity, they had succeeded. They'd planted sophisticated worms, Trojans, malware, spyware, and viruses. Some of their hacks remained undiscovered and still yielded top secret data. Oi Lam was particularly adept at targeting American government employees with what appeared to be personal emails from friends, so that when an unsuspecting worker clicked on a link in one of her specially crafted missives, the computer would be instantly infected. But here in Guangzhou they were coming up empty.
“They should have given us Tianhe-2,” said Oi Lam.
###
After slipping into her LBD and smoothing down some of the wrinkles, Nicole Grant looked into the large bathroom mirror gilded in faux gold. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. A plan had taken shape in her mind, but if the gambit didn't work, she'd simply try to leave. Considering how drunk he was, she might be able to avoid him altogether and simply sneak out unseen.
She quietly eased open the bathroom door and listened. No one stirred. Slow steps took her silently into the darkened master bedroom, but where was Zhao? Maybe he'd passed out. The closed door was to her left and she padded towards it. She mentally recreated the route she'd take to get back to the front room where Chief Lin waited. She'd almost reached the bedroom door, when a fast blur of movement appeared in her peripheral vision, and then a hand grabbed her.
A cry escaped her lips as Zhao yanked her toward the bed with his left hand, and then slapped her with his right hand so hard her wig flew off. She cried out as his rough hands dragged her across the floor toward the windows.
“Definitely not a blond!” he said drunkenly. He pushed her against a low dresser as he lifted her dress.
“Darling, there's too much blood,” she managed to say, as a trace of blood spilled from the corner of her mouth where he'd hit her.
“Blood I don't mind!” he said as he squeezed her breasts hard and twisted her nipples, causing her to cry out. She whimpered as he slapped her hard again and tightened his vise-like grip. She'd dropped her purse and looked for something to hit him with as he lowered his pants. He pushed her legs apart and moved in closer like some kind of crazed bull in heat.
She felt his bare member pressing against her loins, seeking entrance. She reached in to squeeze his testicles, when she looked up and saw the wall behind the small bar slide open. A blond woman about forty, backlit by the harsh glow of bright light in a concrete stairwell, burst into the room.
“Do you have any idea who you're screwing with?!” yelled Kate Rice, making a beeline toward Zhao and Grant.
He awkwardly pushed away from Grant and turned to face Rice as he pulled up his pants.
“I'
ll screw with anyone I want!” he bellowed with a powerful rage. He moved fast toward his CIA handler. “Who gave you permission to come in here?!” Before she could respond, he lashed out with a hard right that caught her square on the jaw and sent her crashing into the small table that separated the two French antique lounge chairs.
Grant didn't wait for an invitation. She jumped off the dresser, scooped up her fake Celine bag from the floor and bolted through the open entryway through which the blonde had just come.
###
General Ma stood directly outside the closed door to Zhao's master bedroom suite. He'd heard muffled shouts and so he unlocked and threw open the door, immediately realizing something was very wrong. He hurried into the shadowy room and saw Zhao yank Rice up from the floor and load up like he was ready to deliver a right hook to her bleeding face.
“Stop!” yelled Ma, rushing forward and grabbing Zhao's right arm. “What are you doing? A bomb went off at the hotel next door!”
Zhao was drunk, but cognizant enough to understand there was a problem. He shifted away from rage to a more sobered anger. “I thought it was a sonic boom.”
“No, it was a bomb. We have a bad situation,” insisted Ma.
“You don't have a bad situation, you have an opportunity, provided by me!” howled Rice, straightening up. Blood dripped from her nose and the corner of her mouth. She looked sharply at Zhao. “You wanted an evacuation of Pacific Place, I provided it. I blew the bomb! I called in the bomb threats! Now maybe your people could do a simple thing and find Hernandez.” She spat out the words with vile contempt.
General Ma couldn't hide his shock at hearing her admission. Zhao himself looked stunned. Rice stepped up to the vice premier, almost nose-to-nose. “As for Nicole Grant, she just ran out of this room, down those stairs!” Rice pointed toward the open entryway. “The blond bitch from the party you brought up here to bang was Nicole Grant in disguise.”
“What?!” exclaimed Ma.
“That can't be true,” said Zhao.
Rice barked orders to Ma. “Get some men and get after her. And can you at least seal this one hotel and catch her?” she asked, scathingly.
Ma yelled loudly for security back-up as he pulled his pistol and cell phone and ran into the entryway. Several seconds later, four agents stormed into the room and Zhao pointed them to follow Ma down the stairs Grant had just taken.
Two more security men entered the room and stood by, unsure of what was going on. Zhao staggered a little, looked at Rice and softly said, “I'm sorry.”
One of her teeth had been knocked loose when he hit her, so she reached into her mouth, pulled it free and flicked it into his face, spattering blood on him.
The security goons pulled their guns and sighted on Rice, but Zhao yelled, “No! Leave us!” He motioned angrily for them to go. The men backed out of the room.
“Why did she come up here, can you answer that?” she asked, rubbing her sore jaw where he'd smacked her. Rice scanned the room and her eyes quickly settled on the laptop leaning against the lounge chair. “You don't own a computer, you don't even know how to turn one on.”
As she bent down to pick up the laptop, she saw it was connected to the external power charger. “What the hell is this?”
“General Ma brought that computer here this afternoon. It belongs to—”
“Nicole Grant.” Rice smoldered with rage. “The woman we've been trying to kill suckered you into bringing her up here so she could get her files! Files that will most likely destroy you. And me!” Rice slapped Zhao so hard she nearly knocked him over, and then she bolted through the secret entryway and down the stairs.
CHAPTER 29
22:53
Nicole Grant hit speed dial for Ron Hernandez's cell phone while scrambling down cement steps in the narrowest stairwell she'd ever been in. She touched her head and realized the wig was gone. Good, the bad guys will be on the lookout for a blonde. In seconds she reached the bottom of the short stairwell where an open door awaited. She felt scared but highly alert and in complete control of her movements.
“It's me,” she gushed into the phone. “I'm being chased. There's some kind of secret stairway from Zhao's bedroom that goes down two flights. I'm about to walk into... I don't know what. A middle-aged blond woman came into his bedroom from these stairs. She knew who I was. They must be right behind me,” she said, glancing over her shoulder, up the stairs.
She kept the connection open, put the phone in her purse, and stepped into a room that looked much like Zhao's bedroom. Okay, so maybe this condo had the same layout, but how to close the door? It was some kind of recessed sliding door. She heard footsteps on the stairs above now. There must be an electronic control. Crap, she had no time to search for hidden switches! Then she saw a remote control on a bookshelf. Shouts and footsteps closer now. She grabbed the remote and pressed...
...And the slowest moving door in the history of doors began to creep closed.
Part of her screamed “Run!” but she remained rooted in place, like a defender at the gates. She looked around for something to use a weapon. A red vase looked promising, and she hefted the heavy container. The doorway was halfway closed now when an Asian man bounded down the stairs and came into view: short, dyed black hair, a little chubby, sixties, looking completely disheveled. He locked eyes with her and raised his gun. But with the door now half closed, she simply stepped to the side as he fired into the opening, and then fired into the door itself. It sounded to Grant as if the bullets were striking metal. The chubby man tried to squeeze into the narrowing opening, but his girth hung him up.
He dropped his gun as he struggled to worm himself into the room without being crushed. Grunting from the effort, he just managed to pull free of the closing doorway and stumbled inside. As he looked up, Grant smashed the vase into the side of his head, shattering it and dropping him like a stone.
The door continued closing, but men shouted and reached their hands in to try and stop it. The sliding door was powered by a strong motor, but Grant had to get these intruding hands and arms out of the way. Someone stuck a gun into the opening and wildly fired several shots. Whoever it was then twisted their wrist and fired, spraying bullets all over the room.
Grant ducked and a bullet whizzed past just above her head. A strange sense of clarity then overtook her. She had to clear the hands and arms so the door could close. She noticed the thick pieces of broken glass all over the floor, then reached out, grabbed a nasty shard, lunged forward, and slashed the nearest hand holding the gun.
A man screamed and his gun skittered to the floor at her feet. She started slicing and stabbing hands and arms as men cried out curses in Mandarin. Another gun was thrust in, this one a Boberg XR9-L with a suppressor attached and held by a female, probably the blonde since the skin was pale white. Grant sliced extra deeply into the wrist and blood gushed everywhere. The woman screamed bloody murder and retracted her hand, allowing the door to continue sliding closed until it was sealed. More bullets were fired on the other side, but to no affect.
Grant slid down to the floor, relieved, and then bolted upright with a jolt of revelation. Maybe they can open the door from the other side. Not to mention that a simple elevator ride down two stories would put the bad guys right outside the condo she was now in. She checked the Chinese man; he was out cold. She grabbed his pistol, put it in her purse, and glanced around the room. An open closet door looked like it held woman's clothes. She wanted to ditch the LBD and everything it represented to her in terms of what had just happened in Zhao's bedroom.
She grabbed slacks, a blouse and a blazer that might be a little big, but would fit. It took less than fifteen seconds for her to throw off the dress, pull on the slacks, pull over the top, and get into the blazer. She grabbed her purse and ran forward. As she cleared the doorway into the next room, arms reached out and spun her into a bear hug. Grant screamed and flailed.
“Whoa cowgirl, I'm a friendly.”
Then she looked up
into the eyes of Ron Hernandez. Tears formed in her eyes, but she fought them back. Then she slapped him hard.
“I love you, too,” he said.
She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed as hard as she could. He might only be one man, but it felt to her like Seal Team Six had just arrived. “Thanks for coming, but we need to get out of here.”
He looked to the man lying on the floor and seemed to recognize him.
“We need to go,” she said, trying to pull him away, riding an adrenaline rush from the last several minutes.
“I agree, but let's take the general with us.”
“General?”
He crossed over to the still unconscious Ma and lifted him up and over his shoulders like a sack of rice, although he grimaced slightly due to pain from his knife wound. “Meet Major General Ma Ju, China's top military spy. He might come in handy.”
###
With an unconscious General Ma slung over his shoulder, Hernandez stepped out of the CIA- owned condo into the hallway, followed by Grant. He had one plan: get to the elevators. Cars arrived quickly in this hotel and he was betting the Chinese would be on the stairs. He and Grant ran down the curving hall toward the elevator bank. His plan went out the window as a chime announced an arriving car carrying six of Ma's men.
“He's got the general!” yelled one of the men.
Hernandez and Grant stopped short as the Chinese erupted from the elevator.
“Drop your guns or I'll kill him!” yelled Grant in perfect Mandarin as she pressed a pistol to Ma's head.