Lambert's probably not going to approve of what I've done. But I have no regrets. Just like General Prokofiev in Moscow, Antipov needed to be taken out of the picture. When I run into the other two, Herzog and Zdrok, I plan on doing the same thing to them. If Lambert wants to remove me from the assignment, then so be it. The way I see it is this: A job that began over a year ago was never finished. The damage the Shop has done to Third Echelon is immeasurable. They killed several of our agents. Mike Chan and the Triad may have been responsible for Carly St. John's murder, but if it hadn't been for the Shop pulling the strings it wouldn't have happened. So I say enough is enough.
I quickly leave through the back door, stick to the shadows, and make my way back to the ferry.
22
JEFF Kehoe looked at his watch and whispered into the microphone of his headset. "Thirty seconds. On my signal."
"Roger that."
The FBI field office had provided Kehoe with six men to stage the raid on Eddie Wu's apartment. As long as no other Triad members were present, the operation was expected to go smoothly.
Kehoe had waited until the two Wu brothers were safely inside the eight-story apartment building and then set up a stakeout until nightfall. At just after one in the morning, the team arrived in full riot gear, ready to storm the residence. The Bureau had previously taken care of contacting the building's management to warn them of what was about to take place. Warrants and legal formalities were executed by the book. An ambulance and fire truck were waiting a block away in case they were needed.
The apartment was on the top floor, one of three penthouses in the building. There was only one way in--and out. Since the brothers must be asleep, the element of surprise was in the team's favor.
Kehoe gave the signal and three men moved down the hall with the battering ram. Assault rifles ready, the trio looked at Kehoe for confirmation. The special agent nodded. The first man knocked loudly on the door.
"Open up! FBI!"
By rote, the team didn't wait for the door to open. They slammed the battering ram against the door, knocking it off its hinges. The two other agents stormed into the living room, followed by Kehoe and the four remaining officers.
Mike Wu was in a deep sleep when the crash of the door jolted him to reality. The feds surrounded him before he could sit up in bed. With three rifles pointed at his head, Wu had no choice but to raise his hands.
As the Third Echelon traitor was taken into custody, the other men searched the rest of the apartment for Eddie Wu. He was nowhere to be found.
"Where's your brother?" Kehoe asked Mike as the handcuffs were snapped onto the man's wrists.
"I don't know!" Mike said. "He was here when I went to bed."
Kehoe had not seen the guy leave the building. He couldn't believe Eddie wasn't there. He angrily turned to two team members and told them to tear the place apart. Kehoe then jerked his head at the men holding Mike and said, "Let's go."
Unbeknownst to the FBI or to his brother, Eddie Wu had built an escape hatch in the closet floor of his bedroom. The idea to do so had come from Jon Ming himself back when Eddie set himself up in Los Angeles. The FBI would eventually find the trapdoor, but not until after Wu was safely away. The door led to a passageway much like an air vent through which Eddie could crawl to the stairwell on the eighth floor. When Eddie heard the crash at the front door, he immediately went for the closet. He knew he couldn't save his brother; the important thing was to get away quickly. It took him forty-two seconds to move from his bed to the closet, open the trapdoor, and snake to the stairwell. It was then a simple matter to run down the stairs and leave the building without the FBI ever seeing him.
It worked like a charm.
"I want a lawyer."
It had been twelve hours since his arrest.
Mike Wu sat in the bare interrogation room under intense bright lights with nothing but a cup of coffee on the table in front of him. Other than the mirror on the wall, which Wu obviously knew was for observation, nothing else adorned the cold, concrete space.
He was exhausted and uncomfortable. His hands were still cuffed behind him and he was barefoot. Wu had been forced to discard the T-shirt and boxer shorts he had been wearing in bed and now wore standard prisoner's trousers and a tunic.
Kehoe and L.A. FBI chief Al Nudelman sat at the table with the captive and were getting nowhere.
"Mike, you're being held under the Homeland Security Act," Kehoe said. "You don't have the same rights normal, ordinary, everyday criminals have. If I had my way, I'd organize a little lynch party right here and now for what you've done. You've betrayed your country by passing classified defense secrets to enemy organizations and you're responsible for the murder of a federal employee and the murder of an Oklahoma state employee. You're up shit creek, mister."
"I still want a lawyer. And something to eat, man. You can't treat me like this. I'm an American citizen."
"You sure don't act like one."
There was a knock on the steel door. Nudelman stood, opened it, and conversed with another agent. The chief nodded and closed the door. He stepped over to Kehoe and delivered the message.
"Oh, good news, Mike," Kehoe said. "An old friend is here to see you and he'd like to ask you some questions. He flew all the way from Washington, D.C., today just to do so."
The door opened and Colonel Lambert walked in. Mike Wu shut his eyes and shuddered. He had honestly respected his boss at Third Echelon and dreaded the moment when he would have to face the colonel.
"Hello, Mike," Lambert said with no indication of warmth.
Mike looked up and nodded. "Colonel."
Lambert sat across from the prisoner and acknowledged Kehoe. "Good afternoon."
"Is it afternoon already?" Kehoe asked. "Feels like next year already."
"Thanks for letting me know about this. I got here as soon as I could."
"I think you made it in record time, Colonel. Did they beam you here?"
Lambert looked at Mike and said, "So has this lowlife said anything yet?"
"Not a thing. Keeps asking for a lawyer."
Lambert grunted. He stared at his former employee and then leaned forward. "Mike, listen to me. It's in your best interest to make a statement. Sign a confession. You know what you've done and we've got the proof you did it. Now we could go through a lengthy trial and cost the taxpayers a lot of money and draw this out to painful proportions . . . or you can simply confess and we'll try to go easy on you."
"Easy? How easy can a death sentence be?" Mike asked.
"Well, for one thing, maybe you'll get life. I'll recommend it. No guarantees, though."
Mike didn't say a word. He looked at Lambert for a full minute as if they were in a stare-down contest. Finally, the prisoner leaned forward and said as slowly as he could, "I. Want. A. Lawyer."
Lambert and Kehoe looked at each other and sighed.
"Hey, Mike, you remember Sam Fisher?" Lambert asked.
"I met him once."
"But you know who he is. You know what he's capable of."
Mike shrugged.
"Well, guess what. He's on his way here. He finished his assignment in Hong Kong and I told him to head on back to the States. When he heard you were in custody, he couldn't wait to have a word with you. He was very fond of Carly, you see. I have a good mind to let Sam in here and, well, Agent Kehoe and I will leave you two alone for a while. I can't vouch for how Sam will react when he lays eyes on you. And seeing as how you're in Maximum Security Unit Six, which no one the fuck knows exists, you might as well wish you'd died in a hail of bullets."
Mike knew exactly what the colonel was talking about. Everyone at Third Echelon held the Splinter Cells in awe--especially Sam Fisher. It was almost as if the guy wasn't human. He was a very dangerous machine.
Lambert stood and said, "You think about that for a while, Mike. It'll take another half day or so before he gets here. Plenty of time to write and sign a confession. Come on, Agent Kehoe. Let's leave
this scum alone with his demons."
The two men left the room and locked the door. Mike Wu nervously cracked his knuckles but stared defiantly at the mirror. He knew they were behind it, watching him. After a moment, he picked up the half-empty coffee cup and threw it against the dark glass. The brown liquid ran down the wall and made an ugly puddle in the otherwise stark and sterile room.
"I want a lawyer!" he shouted again.
ANDREI Zdrok was the only man in the Shop administration who knew the Benefactor's identity. The man who acted as an agent for the Shop in the Far East had been a longtime associate of the group and had stepped up to the plate to help when the organization lost its foothold in Eastern Europe. To the others on the board, the man was known simply as "the Benefactor" because that was the way he wanted it. Zdrok was happy to comply with the man's every wish. After all, Zdrok had to grudgingly admit that the Shop would be defunct had it not been for the Lucky Dragons on one hand and the Benefactor on the other. Now it appeared that the relationship between the Shop and the Triad was going sour. Zdrok knew the partnership with Ming would completely dissolve once General Tun had the guidance system in his possession.
The disaster at the antique shop would further deteriorate the Shop's standing in the area. Antipov was dead. Their offices were destroyed and were now being picked apart by the Hong Kong police. No doubt several international intelligence agencies would be hovering like vultures over the remains. It now looked as if Zdrok might have to pick up roots and leave again.
He picked up the phone on his desk and dialed one of the few numbers he knew by heart. The Benefactor picked it up and said in English, "Yes, Andrei?"
Zdrok attempted English as well since the Benefactor's Russian wasn't great. "Good day, sir. How are things in your new--"
"They're fine, Andrei. What can I do for you?"
"One of our men in California was arrested. He was to be the one bringing the guidance system to the Lucky Dragons. And as you know--"
"Jon Ming canceled the sale. But I understand the men in California have offered to sell it to you directly. How much do they want?"
"That's still being negotiated. Oskar will handle the transaction. But there's one other thing."
"What's that?"
"This National Security Agency man. Sam Fisher. The Splinter Cell. He's responsible for what happened at the antique shop. It's time we do something about it. Once and for all."
"I couldn't agree with you more. Go ahead. Make the call. I'll front the down payment. Offer him more than usual."
"Thank you, sir."
"You're welcome."
The Benefactor hung up and Zdrok dialed another number he knew without looking it up. The phone rang five times before the man answered. "Da?"
Andrei Zdrok said, "Thank goodness you're there." He told the man what had happened at the antique shop. "It's the last straw. Sam Fisher must die. And you're just the one to do it. You're the only one who can do it."
Zdrok waited twenty seconds before the other party replied. "I want double the usual fee. You can understand why."
"Of course. Let's say two and a half times the usual fee. How's that?"
"Very generous of you. Where do I find him?"
"He has just left Hong Kong and is now on his way to Los Angeles. You can pick up his scent there."
"I'll leave on the first flight I can get."
"Thank you."
"I'll be in touch."
The two men hung up and Zdrok felt the first glimmer of hope after an anxious twenty-four hours since he discovered what had happened to Anton Antipov and the Shop's headquarters on Cat Street.
All would be well now. The Shop's most trusted killer, Yvan Putnik, was on his way to America to set things right.
23
THE ride across the Pacific in the Osprey was uneventful and I slept most of the way. However, when we landed in California I still felt weary. I suppose I could attribute it to getting older but I'm not going to. Maybe I just need another vacation. Two overseas missions back to back are enough to exhaust anyone, even guys twenty years younger than me.
Frances Coen picks me up at the base. I'm surprised to see her on the West Coast but she explains that she flew over from Washington with Colonel Lambert. She and Anna Grimsdottir think they've solved the problem of how to protect my implants from the electronic transmitter the Triad used on me. I'll need to submit to a minor operation for an hour while the adjustments are made. This will involve cutting into my skin to get to the little buggers. At the moment it's not a prospect I look forward to but I guess it has to be done.
She takes me to Maximum Security Unit 6, a classified holding pen for prisoners who represent a great threat to national security. It's the kind of place where they hold terrorists and traitors without access to legal counsel, at least for a while. This policy is part of the Homeland Security Act and the so-called War on Terrorism that's been in effect since September 11, 2001. The unit is located east of L.A., near San Bernardino. From the street it appears to be a public parking garage, which it is. But by keying in an access code in the elevator, you can descend to the lower levels some fifty feet underground. That's where they keep America's Most Wanted.
After I'm cleared to enter the place, Coen leads me to Lambert. He's temporarily taken over a small office that has a cot. He looks as if he just woke up.
"Sam, good to see you," he says.
"It's good to be back." We shake hands and he offers me a seat on the cot. He takes the chair behind the desk upon which he's set up his laptop computer. Coen leaves us alone, saying she'll be back to get me for the surgery later that afternoon.
"Forgive me if I seem disheveled," Lambert says. "I was up most of the night talking with Mike."
"I'm tired, too," I reply. "Am I on vacation yet?"
Lambert grins; he knows I'm being facetious. "Not yet, Sam. You can have a day or two to rest up but we need you here. I'll explain later. Want some coffee?"
"Sure. I want to call my daughter. Is there a line I can use or should I use my cell?"
"Here, you can use this one," he says, pointing to the phone on the desk. "It's a secure line. I'll be right back." He leaves the room and I make the call.
Sarah's answering machine picks up. "Hi, this is Sarah, leave a message." I look at my watch and figure there's no reason why she should be at home midmorning. She's probably at school.
"Hi, honey, I'm back in the States," I say. "Just letting you know. You can reach me on the number you have when you get a chance. If I don't pick up right away, I'll call you back. I love you."
I hang up and lie on the cot. I'm just about to fall asleep when Lambert returns with the much-needed coffee.
"Thanks," I say. I sit up and take it.
Lambert returns to his chair and then announces, "I read your latest report."
Uh-oh, here it comes. I was brutally honest with what happened at the antique shop in Hong Kong. He's going to tear me a new asshole for killing Antipov in cold blood. At least I know he's not going to fire me, because he's already said I'm still on the job.
"I'm glad you wrapped up that end of the Shop's operation," is what he says. "That's two down, two to go."
I certainly didn't expect that. "Thanks," I say. Somehow I feel the need to explain myself. "Listen, Colonel, about Antipov--"
He waves his hand at me. "Forget it, Sam. The guy was a major enemy. All those Shop guys are supreme shits. As far as our laws go, you were in a combative situation. We'll say no more about it."
I nod and sip my coffee. After a moment of silence, I ask, "So how's our prisoner doing?"
"I believe he's about ready to talk. I think he was waiting for you."
MIKE Chan, er, Mike Wu rather, looks pretty haggard. They've kept him awake and under intense interrogation for the last forty-eight hours. I met the guy once at Third Echelon and barely remember him. He was supposed to have been very good at his job as a research analyst. Why does greed turn so many good people into villa
ins? I'll never understand it. We all want to make money and live comfortably, but selling out one's country or friends or family to do so is beyond the scope of my comprehension.
As soon as I walk into the interrogation room, Mike sits up and widens his eyes. They must have really built up my visit. The guy looks scared.
"Relax, Mike," I say. "I'm not going to hurt you. Not right away."
"Why are you here?" he asks. "This isn't your job. Since when do Splinter Cells get recruited to interrogate prisoners?"
"They don't. I'm here of my own free will. I'm here because Carly St. John was a friend of mine. I'm here because your friends the Lucky Dragons tried to kill me. I'm here because I'm patriotic and love my country and you're a son of a bitch that isn't worth his weight in excrement."
The prisoner sighs and nods. He's resigned to his fate. "I still want a lawyer."
"You might get one after you confess. I'm not really sure how it works with you special combative types. All I know is that I'm not going to leave this room until you make an official statement and sign it."
"So, what, are you going to lean on me? You're going to show how tough you are and beat me up a little bit?"
"I'm hoping you'll come to your senses and realize that you've got no way out of this. You're caught. Lambert and the FBI have all the evidence they need to convict you. You don't have to sign anything. You'll still get the death penalty. We'd like to prevent that. Life is a lot better than death."
"Depends on what you're doing with your life, doesn't it?"
"Perhaps. It's too bad Carly can't do anything with hers now."
Mike looks down. I sense he's not altogether happy about what he did. Bastard.
"Why, Mike? Why did you have to kill her? You know, Carly once told me what a great worker you were. She said you were the best analyst in the firm and that you'd probably advance quickly."
Operation Barracuda (2005) Page 16