by Ed Kovacs
A look of confusion skewed her normally attractive features. With that laptop offline, she couldn't access the secret keys stored inside. Without those keys, she couldn't retrieve the files she'd stored on the Darknet. Without those files—she had lied to Hernandez, there were many more than just the one audio file—she had no documentary evidence to use as leverage to save her and Hernandez's lives. More than one file and more than one key. Yes, she'd lied to him and would have to explain everything soon.
More pressing was the question of how long had her laptop been offline? During the two-plus weeks of her vacation, no alarms had come in from the elaborate security system that protected her Phoenix condo. So what happened? She turned back to the duty station PC, connected to a super-fast fiber-optic Internet connection, and logged in to her home alarm / CCTV system. She had six interior cameras, and it only took a moment to see that something wasn't right. Her condo had been ransacked! She brought up the view of her home office. Her desk was a mess, the laptop gone.
Since her condo alarms were sophisticated, the skill of the intruders who broke in had to have been high. They'd gotten past all of her systems without alerting her. The killers after her now must have first gone looking for her in Phoenix. Approaching footsteps interrupted her speculation and she reached for the heavy pistol in front of her.
“Whoa, cowgirl. I'm a friendly,” said Hernandez as he came around and joined her behind the counter. He had Wheeler's oiled-canvas shoulder bag in hand. She sheepishly put the gun down.
“Guess I'm still nervous.”
“You should be. Anyway, I've got the guard and the two agents secured but I need to ask them some more questions. Obviously, we need to get out of here quickly. How much more time do you need?”
She thought about it. There was a lot she hadn't yet explained to him. “A few more minutes. But there's a problem.”
He seemed to brace himself. “Let's hear it.”
She explained how her place had been burglarized and the laptop was missing. “I guess they broke in because they were going to kill me in Phoenix.”
“That's a safe bet. But without that laptop, we have no key. And without the key we're screwed?”
“Yes, but I was just about to track it.”
“Your laptop has a tracking device?” he asked, somewhat surprised.
“All of my electronics do. Either a software app or physical micro-module with a dedicated lithium battery. I programmed it so that GPS determines the position every ten seconds, giving me a ten-week operational window before the battery dies.”
“Spare me the technical specs. You can track your laptop right now?”
She nodded and opened up software called KCS on her tablet. “I use software tracking apps for my phones, but for my laptops and some other devices I install a tiny GPS micro-module tracker made by a German company.”
“So your computer doesn't need to be turned on?”
“No, but it has to be within range of a cell tower or Wi-Fi signal for the GPS function to work.”
“Why do you have such elaborate security on your electronics?”
Nicole felt a little defensive. As an engineer, she was used to being mocked for her cautious ways. “Do you think it's obsessive? I mean, I'm in the security business. I even use a steel stylus to scratch an identification number onto the plastic cases of all my devices.”
“Why?”
“If my units are stolen and the police should recover them, they'll enter the ID number into a database. I'll be identified as the owner and get my stuff back.”
“Grant... I know that engineers are 'different,' but your boyfriends must hate you.”
“What boyfriends?”
“Exactly.”
Hernandez opened Wheeler's shoulder bag. He removed a pair of Bushnell binoculars with digital video recording capability, and was about to show them to her when...
“My God, it's here!”
He shot her a look. “What? Your laptop is in this office?”
“Practically. It's in Hong Kong. Right here in Pacific Place. I'll have to match up the elevation coordinates with the correct floor, but it's at Two Pacific Place.”
Curious, Hernandez moved in close to look at the screen. “That's the Island Shangri-La tower. Where Zhao has a condo.”
“If it's in his condo, we have to break in and get it,” she stated emphatically.
“Out of the question—the place is crawling with security,” he said, with finality. “You said your laptop was offline. Does that mean it's turned off or does it mean there's no Internet signal?”
“That's unclear. If you're asking me if we can access my laptop remotely, the answer is 'maybe.' But not from here. We'll need to get a lot closer.”
“Okay, we'll talk about that later. Just hurry up and finish what you're doing.” His hand moved down to Wheeler's shoulder bag. “One more thing.” He removed the binoculars and a small camcorder. “Download the video from these two units. Make a physical copy and send encrypted copies off into cyberspace.”
She reached out and took the devices. “What's on them?”
“The killings of eighteen Americans. I just watched how my brother was murdered,” he said. Nicole could see he was struggling not to choke up. “The assassin was the same man I saw today wearing a brown shirt on Tung Choi Street.”
She looked at him plaintively, but had no words.
“It's more evidence for us, but we still need that audio file of yours.” He turned away quickly and hurried back down the hallway.
Nicole watched him go. She bit her lip and a deep sadness washed over her. Who were they kidding? How could they hope to survive? How could she and Ron Hernandez defeat the military/intelligence apparatus of two superpowers whose operatives make movies of the innocent civilians they killed?
Nicole had just risked her life to break into a federal facility—a CIA field office, no less—and had come up with zero. No Ernest Normann and no home laptop.
So much for her plans.
CHAPTER 16
19:09
Wheeler sat on the floor, hands and feet duct-taped. Hernandez had watched enough of the video from the Bushnell binoculars and camcorder to understand what the two CIA contractor's roles had been in the killings. He still felt furious from having seen the video of the thin, fortyish, bespectacled Chinese man push his brother onto the tracks of a metro train at Foggy Bottom Station in Washington, D.C. The same man in the brown shirt from earlier today. So far, Hernandez had compartmentalized the emotion as he interrogated Wheeler. He needed to keep that rage in check.
“I had a nice chat with your partner in the next room. So you guys are quality control, huh? Make sure the job gets done right with the least amount of muss and fuss.” He wanted Wheeler thinking that Roberts had talked. She hadn't.
Wheeler remained silent. He hadn't spoken since surrendering in the anteroom.
Hernandez had their weapons, cell phones, computers—all of their gear—since this room functioned as their workspace just as a room across the hall had done so when Hernandez worked out of this field office five years ago.
Hernandez had found the call log on Roberts' phone with recent calls to RICE, MA, and TANG. “So who do you report to? Rice, Ma, Tang, or all three?”
Wheeler stayed silent. “I'm Ron Hernandez, by the way. And you are...?” As Wheeler gave him a hard look, he used his tablet computer to snap a photograph and then logged into a CIA database using a password provided to him by his father-in-law William Snedeker, the man who'd warned him ten days ago to go underground. In moments he had his answer. “You, sir, are Charles “Chuck” Wheeler, CIA contractor par excellence, it seems.” He scanned Wheeler's dossier. “Quite a few impressive kills in here.”
He aimed the suppressed Chinese pistol at Wheeler, then swung the gun up and shot out the overhead camera. “The microphone, as you probably know, is right here.” He crossed to a picture frame on the wall and removed a small listening device from behind the frame,
then crushed it under his shoe. “So now the CIA won't have a record of what we discuss,” said Hernandez, who had his own hidden unit recording everything.
“Did it not occur to you or your partner that there's evidence linking you to all of the murders? You flew on airplanes, rented cars, stayed in hotels. Maybe you used phony names, but you can both be ID'd. You were present in every city when the killings took place. Present at or very near every crime scene. So that's Plan B on how to deal with you, if they need fall guys.” He paused. “But understand, you'd be a fall guy in death. First they kill you, then information emerges suggesting you two went rogue and started killing former co-workers, something like that.”
A trace of concern spread across Wheeler's face.
“But I doubt it will come to that because of Genghis Khan's funeral.”
“What?” asked Wheeler, as his eyebrows furrowed.
Good. Wheeler had spoken. “Genghis Khan's funeral. Soldiers killed the entire funeral procession of about eight hundred people to keep the treasure-laden burial site secret. But not long after the soldiers left, they themselves were ambushed and all were massacred. And then later, the second group was also wiped out, to the man, insuring that no one left alive knew where the great Khan was buried.”
“Yeah, well, we're not in Mongolia and this is the twenty-first century.”
Hernandez laughed. “You and your partner were dead the moment you took the assignment. You're no rookie, how could you not have seen that? Maybe your ego got in the way and you started believing your own PR, like you're too valuable an asset to the Agency.”
“I've successfully completed every assignment I was ever given. The reward is not a bullet in the head.”
“Except I'm sure you're off the books here. This isn't an official Company op. Think about it, Wheeler, how could Zhao let you live, knowing what you know? In fact,” he held up Roberts' cell phone again, “I'll bet Zhao will have Rice, Ma, and Tang killed, too. It's the only way to secure his presidency. Anyone who knows much of anything will be erased.”
“I know squat!” protested Wheeler. “Our job was to document some killings, to make sure they were designed to avoid collateral damage. Period. No questions asked. Langley wouldn't have approved this if the targets weren't bad guys who deserved to die.”
“Except, like I said, you're off the books. Do you really think this op was approved by the lawyers on the seventh floor at CIA headquarters?”
Lost in thought, Wheeler's eyes drifted downward.
“Since you know squat, let me clue you in.” Hernandez launched into a brief explanation of the drone operation over Guangzhou run out of Pomona, and how elements of the U.S. government had aided Zhao Yiren, a CIA asset, in his bid to become the next Chinese president. “We gave him America's most sophisticated spy drone and we gave him his chief rival, Wang Hongwei, on a platter. And now, in less than two weeks, he'll become the Chinese president. So Zhao and the secret cabal in D.C. that’s supporting him can't let a whistleblower ruin things by going public with the truth.
“Get the picture now? Does it sound like I deserve to die, to use your words? Does Grant? Or the eighteen others—did they deserve it?” Hernandez paused, and then looked at Wheeler. “Do you deserve to die, just so Zhao doesn't have to worry about being outed?”
“You could be lying through your teeth.”
“You know I'm not lying, you just haven't admitted it yet.” Hernandez held up a flash drive for Wheeler to see, then placed it on a table. “The person who warned me that I was about to be killed got his hands on the recordings of some private conversations. It won't stand up in court, but you might recognize a voice or two. When this goes public—and it will—along with your video that I now have, where will that leave you?”
Wheeler looked long and hard at Hernandez. “Let's say I believe you. How are you going to help me?”
“Answer my questions and I can get you out of Hong Kong alive.”
“And if I don't?” asked Wheeler.
“If I thought you were complicit in the killings, I'd off you right now. But I believe you were just QC and didn't know the truth of the matter. If we don't make a deal, your handler and the Chinese will deal with you. Know what I mean?”
A scowl of frustration spread across Chuck Wheeler's face. “I don't like my choices.”
“Welcome to my world.”
Wheeler looked up at Hernandez and regarded him carefully. “I don't trust you, but I guess you're my best shot. What do you want to know?”
“Tell me about Grant's computer. The one taken from her condo in Phoenix.”
Wheeler hesitated, then, “Tang took it.”
“Tang?”
“Director Tang. A chief in the Chinese Ministry of State Security. He runs the wet team that did all the kills.”
“Tang and his people killed all eighteen Americans?”
Wheeler nodded.
Hernandez suddenly got a gut-hunch. “What color shirt was he wearing today? Was he on the street when they were going to whack Grant?”
“Yeah, he was there. Roberts and I watched the whole thing go down from a pedestrian overpass about a block away. Tang is a thin guy with glasses; I think he was wearing a brown shirt.”
So the man who killed Willie was a director in the MSS named Tang. Hernandez hid the fact he was thrilled to get this information. “Okay, so where did Tang take the laptop?” This was a good test question since Hernandez already knew the answer.
Wheeler shrugged. “They got real curious about that computer. Something it was doing. They used the word 'pinging.' And it was heavily encrypted. They were desperate to know all about it. Why was that?”
“Because they thought Grant might be a whistleblower with damaging evidence. Evidence they would need to seize or vacuum up if it had been sent elsewhere.”
“Well, I heard somebody say the laptop was going to the Fifty-seventh Institute. I remember fifty-seven because of Heinz ketchup—fifty-seven varieties. I figured that was in China, but I don't know who or what the Fifty-seventh is.”
“Okay, so far so good. So who's your control? Somebody named Rice?”
Before Wheeler could answer, the door flung open revealing a wild-eyed Nicole Grant holding the big S&W Governor handgun. “Eight men at the door, trying to get in!”
“Caucasian?”
“Asian,” she replied.
Hernandez scooped up all the gear belonging to the two CIA contractors into a backpack and slung it over his shoulder. He pocketed Roberts' cell phone, but placed Wheeler's phone next to the flash drive on the table. He coolly looked at the CIA contractor sitting on the floor. Given a little more time, he might have turned the man into an ally. “We have more to talk about, Wheeler. But a deal's a deal. I'll be in touch,” he said, indicating the phone, then he hurried out the door wondering what in the hell had gone wrong now.
###
Nicole Grant's hand shook slightly as she put the big pistol back into the nylon shoulder bag while Hernandez studied the CCTV camera view of the group of Asian men outside the exterior door of Trans-National Corporation. A couple of the men were talking on cell phones while others were trying to force open the door. Grant had things she needed to tell her partner, but it didn't look like this was the time.
“Mainland Chinese intelligence agents is my guess. They don't look like Hong Kong police and they're not CIA.”
“So the Agency still doesn't know we're in here?” she asked.
“I doubt seriously that these thugs know they're trying to jimmy the door to a CIA field station. But I'm guessing Christians in Action will find out damn quick.” He gave Grant a serious look. “What could you have done to tip off the Chinese?”
Her eyes briefly rolled up as she thought about that. “Well, I hacked the security systems of the hotels and mall here at Pacific Place. Others were hacking in at the same time,” she admitted.
“Others?” he asked.
“I... they must have been Chinese agents.
Chinese government hackers.” Embarrassment washed over her. She felt horrible that she'd screwed up so badly by not thinking to tell him earlier.
“So the people who want to kill us traced our location via the Internet based on what you were doing, correct?”
“I was rushed, so I only set up a couple of proxies, so yes, that's probably what happened.”
“Well that was pretty stupid,” he said sharply. “We went to a lot of trouble to get in here, and I'm not done with what I need to do.”
She blushed a deep red. “But I've taken down most of the CCTV security video in the entire complex. They'll have a much harder time finding us now.”
“They're right outside the damn door! They don't need CCTV to find us, you sent them an electronic invitation. They've had enough time to flood in dozens of agents. So nice work, but now we have to run. Grab everything and follow me.” He turned and jogged off down the hall.
“I shut down the command system. No one can get through that door,” she called out, trying to put a positive spin on the situation. He didn't look back or say anything else. She flashed angry—angry at herself—then took off running after him.
She ran flat out. He'd fished out a cell phone and made a call just as she caught up with him at a set of heavy steel double-doors that led to the service elevators.
“Jaffir, any BGs down there?”
Hernandez's phone was on speaker, so Nicole clearly heard Jaffir say, “Negative, but security is searching every vehicle leaving Pacific Place.”
“Understood. Standby for now, but give me a heads-up if the status changes down there.” He closed the phone, and then looked at her. “They're tightening the noose.”
Hernandez slid open a massive door lock bolt and disengaged other locks on the steel double-doors.
“I'm sorry I screwed up. But if you open those doors, an alarm will go off at CIA station in the consulate,” she warned.
“We don't have a choice. The Chinese probably have people on the stairs, so we have to take our chances with the service elevators.” He drew his two pistols, gave her a look, and then kicked the door open, ready to fire. The small foyer for the two service elevators was empty, so he stepped in holding the silenced pistol and Wheeler's Kimber—one gun in each hand. He gestured with his head as he took up a shooting position and she pressed the down button. It only took a moment for a service elevator to arrive.