by Trevor Scott
He was escorted past banks of communications stations into the office of the security chief by a slight man in his mid-thirties, his only weapon a radio on his right hip.
Alone now, Jake didn’t take a seat. Instead he wandered around observing photographs of his contact with various dignitaries, from American congressmen to South Korean K-Pop stars.
The security chief came in and closed his door behind him. He was taller than most Americans would consider the norm for Chinese, but only looked eye to eye with Jake. Either he was totally bald, or he simply shaved it. If Jake had to guess, the man was a little more than fifty. He had a gut that looked to be nourished by fast food from the building food court on the ground floor.
Jake used his Canadian persona while shaking the man’s hand. Then they both settled into nice leather chairs.
Chan Le crossed his arms over his chest and said, “Jenkins told me to expect you, but he didn’t mention you were a killer. Or Canadian.”
Jake wasn’t sure how to take that. “He didn’t say you’d be bald and fat either.”
Long pause as they stared at each other.
Finally, the security chief smiled and said, “He said you were a son of a bitch. He was right.”
“I can’t help myself,” Jake said. “It’s a compulsion.”
“It’s good to know oneself. Now, Jenkins wanted me to dig up anything I could on Bill Remington. As you probably know, he’s had some dealings in this country.”
With the extended talking, Jake could see a slight drooping on the right side of the man’s face, as if he’d had a small stroke that he had not recovered from fully.
Jake nodded his head. “Yeah, mostly banking as far as I can tell.”
“It’s funny you should mention banking,” Chan Le said. “A banker was found murdered last night at the Shilin Market.”
“Seriously? I thought murder was rare in this city.”
“Oh, it is. But the police think this was done by a foreigner.”
“That would make it easier for the locals,” Jake agreed. He redirected the conversation. “About Remington. Are you sure he isn’t in this country?”
“Taiwan is a big island. I can’t be sure of anything. But I talked to some old friends in the bureau. They would know if he was in country. And he’s not. It’s more likely, given his indiscretions, that he ended up with the communists.”
“Remington is a traitor. I’m not sure the leaders of the People’s Republic of China have much stomach to harbor a man like that.”
“Why not? From what I understand, they paid him quite nicely for his services.”
“That’s what I understand as well. But, as you know, they’re all about appearances and saving face. Once they’ve got everything they need from Remington, they’d be more likely to ship him off to South America than get caught letting the man hang out in Shanghai.”
“They would be more likely to put him in a shallow grave,” Chan Le said. “No, I take that back. They would probably burn the man back to basic elements.”
Jake let out a breath of air and scratched the three-day stubble of beard. “So you have nothing for me?”
“Nothing is something.” The man smiled at Jake.
“Right. One less country to consider.”
“Two countries. Taiwan and my communist cousins.”
This was a total waste of time. Deep down Jake knew that the likelihood of Bill Remington ending up in Taiwan was slim to none. America still had a good relationship with this nation, along with strong extradition. There was no way Remington would be stupid enough to take up residence here. But Jake knew he had to start somewhere with his search, and the death of the banker told him he was at least sniffing around the right kitchen.
Jake got up and started to leave, but Chan Le stopped him with a wave of his hand. Then he turned his large LCD computer screen for Jake to see.
“An uncanny resemblance,” Chan Le said with a smirk.
On the screen was a blurry picture of two men sitting at a table. One was identified as the dead banker. The other was Jake.
“That’s worse than a bigfoot photo,” Jake said.
“You might want to consider leaving Taiwan,” Chan Le said. “Oh, wait. All flights in and out of the island have been cancelled.”
Jake started for the door but stopped and turned with that last revelation. “Why is that?”
“Our government is concerned that our petulant cousins might retaliate by shooting down an airliner.”
“Well the Russians did that to a South Korean airliner in the eighties. I wouldn’t discount that possibility. Thanks for your help.”
“Wait. You might try looking in Singapore. I hear a lot of Americans and Europeans have moved there recently.” Chan Le gave two thumbs up just before Jake left the man alone.
He got out to the elevator foyer area and waited for a security officer to key in the elevator door. This was the second time he had gotten a lead to head to Singapore. He wasn’t entirely sure what to do with that information. Singapore also had an extradition agreement with America. But in that city money talked. Remington could simply bribe the right government official to look the other way.
When Jake got down to the lobby, the place was crawling with local police. But he was stuck. He couldn’t go back up this elevator without security approval. So he wandered across the massive fifth floor lobby area to another bank of elevators. These were just across from the elevators that brought tourists up to the observation levels. The police were holding what looked like photographs, and comparing the photo to anyone from the west. He entered the elevator and tried to blend in with a crowd of business folks heading up to their offices. Jake was clearly out of business uniform, with his black jeans, leather coat, and longer hair.
He got off on the 35th floor, remembering from the directory that there was a convenience store on that level. He quickly found what he needed and then bought a couple of other items before leaving. Then he wandered down the hall until he found the public bathroom. It took him just ten minutes to pull the body trimmer from the package and shave his head down to stubble, flushing his locks down the toilet. Although the trimmer was more of a tool to cut excess body hair, it was sharp and worked fine. He threw the clippers away and washed his head in the sink. Now he put on a hat he had also bought at the store, and looked at himself in the mirror. He didn’t even recognize himself.
Before leaving the bathroom, he thought about his leather jacket. It was the same one from the picture they had of him. Plus the sleeve had a huge gash. He quickly took it off and shoved it down the garbage. Jake hoped this would be enough change.
Drifting back toward the elevator, Jake wondered how the police knew he was in the tower. Did that old security officer sell him out? No time to think about that now. He just needed to get the hell out of this monstrosity.
Jake took the elevator to the ground level and then took the escalator to the food court area. The police were checking everyone leaving the building, but there was always another way. He went through one of the restaurants until he came to an exit that led to an inner passageway. As he wandered past the back side of each restaurant, he guessed this was how they delivered food. After a few wrong turns, he finally found the loading dock area. From there it was just a matter of walking out the building, up a ramp and onto the expansive sidewalk area around the massive structure.
He came around the side of the building and saw more police out front. But he needed his backpack and laptop in the trunk of the taxi. Otherwise he could just walk cross the street and pick up the new metro line.
His taxi was gone. Crap.
About to just give up on the taxi, he turned to walk away from the police out front. Just then the taxi pulled up to the curb, the driver smiling at Jake.
He quickly got into the back seat. “Did the police make you move?” Jake asked the driver.
“Yes. But I almost didn’t recognize you with your hair cut.”
“That’s why
I came here. I heard about a great barber.”
The driver looked at Jake in the mirror. “Where now? More temples?”
“Just drive back toward the hotel.”
The taxi driver did as he was told, pulling away from the curb.
Jake needed to get his ass out of Taiwan. But with all flights grounded, that left him just two options. He could jump a ship to Singapore. But that would take days. Or, he could still fly.
“Change of plans. Let’s go to Taoyuan International,” Jake said.
The driver turned to Jake and said, “But all flights have been cancelled.”
“That’s alright. I’ll wait there. I’m sure it’s just a temporary problem.”
6
Munich, Germany
Alexandra had spent the evening and most of the night preparing for her trip to Singapore. She packed up all of her personal items, like family photographs and guns and documents she had not put into private storage already, and hauled them in the middle of the night to her storage unit on the outskirts of Munich. Now she had just a small backpack with the essentials, including her Canadian passport identifying her as Alexandra Kline, among other passports. Anything else she needed she could buy in Singapore. She guessed the shopping would be great.
She wore everything practical from top to bottom, from the light leather jacket over the thin gray sweater and down to the comfortable black slacks and black rubber-soled leather shoes.
Just about to leave now, she stopped and looked at her BND identification and government issue Glock 19 in its holster on her bedroom nightstand. If her boss needed those to make her retirement official, she would call him and have him pick up her apartment key from her landlord.
Alexandra turned to look at her bedroom one more time. She thought of the times that Jake had stayed there. How they had made love here, spontaneously, finding the pleasure each of them needed. She wasn’t sure if they would still be friends with benefits, or perhaps something more. Either way was fine with her. She wasn’t about to push the issue.
Something made her turn. An unfamiliar sound. Instinctively, she picked up her gun and put it at the side of her leg.
Then she heard her front door smash in, the door frame collapsing with the weight of a heavy foot. She rushed toward the bedroom door, her gun now leading her way.
By the time she reached the hallway, two dark figures appeared in front of her in the living room. Both carried guns with red laser lights. She aimed and shot twice, dropping the first man to the floor. The second man opened fire, forcing her back into her bedroom.
She got to the floor at the edge of the door and waited. Voices in a foreign language, hushed but still audible, came from the living room. What was that?
As she heard footfalls coming her way, the red lights bouncing off her walls, she shoved herself across the ground into the hallway and fired at two more targets. One of them returned fire on his way to the floor. But she had already emptied half of her magazine on the two of them and pulled herself back into her bedroom.
Silence. Only the echo and wringing in her ears. The air was filled with gun powder. Her heart beat out of control now.
She pulled out her magazine and saw she had five more rounds. Getting up, she cautiously made her way out into the living room, stepping over two dead men and finding the third dead man lying where she had shot him, blood pooling out onto her Persian rug. All three men were wearing masks, but she could tell now the language they were speaking. It was Chinese.
Thinking quickly, an idea came to her. She hurried into her bathroom, found her trauma kit and then took off her jacket and rolled up her left sleeve. She pulled out surgical tubing, an IV needle, tape and an adhesive bandage. Within seconds she attached the tubing to the IV, poked it into her arm, and started flexing her hand.
Blood flowed out of her in a heavy stream. She quickly ran out of the bathroom spraying her own blood all over the floor and walls. She left a huge pool of blood on her bedroom floor, where she dropped her gun. Then she slowly worked her way out of the apartment, the sound of Polizei sirens in the far distance.
On the way out the door, she slung her backpack over her right shoulder. She turned to look at her apartment and it looked like a careless butcher shop. Besides the three dead men bleeding all over her place, she had added to the horrific scene by spraying her own blood everywhere. Before leaving, she pulled the IV out and bandaged the entry wound. She took the tubing and IV with her. She’d have to dump that on the way to the airport.
The sirens were getting closer. She left her own car parked on the street and took the beat up VW Passat she had been using while undercover.
Alexandra tried to forget about her apartment as she slowly drove out toward the autobahn in the opposite direction of the oncoming Polizei cars. She had just three hours before her flight. With the loss of blood, she felt a little light headed. She could rest on the plane.
Taipei, Taiwan
Jake had the taxi drop him off at the main terminal at Taiwan Taoyuan International Airport forty kilometers from downtown Taipei. From there he took a shuttle to the cargo terminal at the other end of the taxiway.
On the taxi drive out to the airport, Jake had confirmed his suspicions. While the Taiwanese government had cancelled all passenger flights, the cargo terminal was still open for business. His only problem would be finding his way onto a cargo plane leaving the island. It might require a major bribe.
Unfortunately the Taiwanese were not easily coaxed. And Jake had to keep a low profile, considering every police officer in the country had his photo, even though it looked nothing like him now. But Jake had one more idea.
He walked down the road to the private aviation area. There he found a private business charter flight to Hong Kong. Good enough. He got the last seat. From Hong Kong he could easily catch a flight to Singapore.
7
Woodbridge, Virginia
When Kurt Jenkins retired as the CIA Director more than six months ago, he thought he could simply kick back and perhaps read novels or go fishing. After all, he had been part of some of the country’s greatest espionage cases, from the Cold War to post-911. He got an adrenalin rush every time he went to work. He suspected it was like retiring from professional football, where athletes often had a hard time transitioning back to normal society. Now he had to face facts. He was bored out of his mind.
So, when he was asked by the current CIA Director to recommend an independent contractor to track down Bill Remington, Kurt jumped at the opportunity to help. In fact, he wanted to take the job himself. But that was problematic for two reasons. First, everyone in the intelligence community knew him. And second, his wife would have cut off his nuts. As a former covert operative, she could do it.
Hours ago Jake Adams had sent him two encrypted file folders with dozens of files in each. At first he wasn’t sure what he was reading, since Jake had not been very clear on what he had sent and why. The files apparently came from Jake’s old friend at German Intel, Alexandra, who had ‘acquired’ documents from a Munich company called Kreuzwelt Industries. Kurt was familiar with this company, since they were a major player in the defense establishment. However, after a few hours of digging through the documents, he wasn’t sure why in the hell this company had kept any of these files. Perhaps it was something within the German DNA that made them keep such meticulous records. The same affliction had been the downfall of the NAZI party after the end of World War II. They had been hanged by their own documents.
This was different, of course. The documents had nothing to do with the extermination of an entire people. But it could be even worse than that—the hegemony of one country over the entire world. Sure, Hitler had that goal. But eventually even he must have known than the Germanic people would never be numerous enough to control the entire planet. His pact with Japan would have lasted only as long as that country could kill enough Americans to make them a target for Germany. Then the Germans would have killed the Japanese as well.
>
As Kurt shifted his analysis from the German documents to those Jake had gotten in Taiwan, he almost immediately found a pattern. Well, not immediately. He had spent hours, gone through pots of coffee and then nearly a half bottle of his best Scotch, sitting on the floor of his home office with papers spread about like a child unwrapping Christmas presents, until he formed a viable conclusion.
His Mandarin Chinese was a little rusty, but he had found payments sent not only to Bill Remington’s account, which Jake had already tracked down, but dozens of other accounts. These would take time to discern, he knew. Checking on some of the routing numbers, Kurt understood that a number of them were in Europe. Not the typical Swiss accounts, since the U.S. government had forced them to divulge information on clients after 9-11. No, these were from Luxemburg, Lichtenstein and Andorra—some of the only secret tax haven states left in Europe. And even those would be gone soon.
Kurt picked up his glass of Scotch and swirled the amber contents around before taking a long drink and enjoying the taste on his tongue as the liquid warmed him from his throat to his stomach.
He reached over and grabbed his phone, but he hesitated for a moment. Who should know about what he had found? Did he trust his own former organization? It wasn’t really something they would have investigated. That was the job of the FBI. He had contacts there. But maybe it would be better if he gathered more information first.
With Toni Contardo gone, he could only trust Jake Adams, who had countless contacts in Europe. And the man was incorruptible. He would always do the right thing regardless of where the facts led him.
Kurt finished the last of his Scotch, got up from the floor, and took a seat behind his cherry desk. Before he made the call, he filled his highball glass half way again and took a small sip. Then he punched in Jake’s number and waited.
●
Jake’s phone buzzed and he checked to see who was calling. He thought it might have been Alexandra, but then realized she would probably still be en route.