by Tom Clancy
“I don’t know,” Hendricks says. “It’s doubtful. I imagine all Triad-related business is conducted at one of their Lodges, and I’m afraid I can’t help you with that. Your best bet is to get a good look at Ming and follow him. Maybe he’ll lead you to the goods.”
“What I’d really like to do is establish a connection between this Triad and the Shop. You think there might be one?”
Hendricks nods. “They get their arms from somewhere. I’ve heard rumblings that the Shop is operating again in the Far East. I’ll make some inquiries this evening and see what I can find out.”
We go back inside the house and Hendricks takes me to the bedroom where my equipment lies on the bed. It’s the usual stuff — my uniform, headset and goggles, the Five-seveN and several twenty-round magazines of 5.7×28mm ss190 ammunition, and my pride and joy, the SC-20K modular assault weapon system. This rifle uses thirty rounds of 5.56×45mm ss109 ammunition in semi and full automatic modes. There’s a flash/sound suppressor combined with a multipurpose launcher that shoots airfoil projectiles, sticky cameras, shockers, and smoke grenades. Other tools of the trade include an optic cable for looking into tight holes, a camera jammer, a couple of wall mines, frag grenades, flares, and a medical kit.
“I’m impressed, Mason,” I say. “You managed to get all of it in one shipment.”
“I’ve had a lot of experience, Sam.”
“So where is this Triad’s headquarters? Their ‘Lodge,’ as you say?”
Hendricks picks up the SC-20K and tests its weight. “Nice weapon.” He looks through the sights and says,
“The Lucky Dragons don’t have a central Lodge. I imagine they have several scattered throughout the territory. Your best bet is the Purple Queen nightclub. I can assure you there will be some Lucky Dragons in the place. You might even see Jon Ming. He’s known to stop in every other night or so.”
“All right.”
“Remember you’re a gweilo here. I don’t have to tell you that these guys are pretty dangerous, do I?” A gweilo is a derogatory term meaning “foreign devil.”
“I’m quite familiar with Triads,” I say. “They’ll kill any Westerner they suspect of spying on them. They’ll also die to protect their traditions.”
Hendricks lowers the SC-20K, looks at me eye to eye, and says, “And don’t you forget it.”
13
“Sir, the FBI agent is here to see you.”
Colonel Lambert told his secretary to send him in and then grumbled to himself. Lambert hated the idea of the FBI poking its nose into Third Echelon’s affairs. He ran a tight ship and he didn’t like interference. Carly St. John was part of the family and Lambert felt it was his duty to solve her murder and bring the perpetrator to justice.
But he had neither the means nor the expertise to carry out such a mission. Third Echelon was not a law enforcement agency. Colonel Lambert didn’t have the authority to arrest or prosecute anyone. The matter had to be handed over to an outside party and the only one that made sense was the Bureau.
Special Agent Jeff Kehoe had been assigned to the case. Lambert had met him for the first time the previous day. He was a Texan in his early forties and was a sixteen-year FBI veteran. His specialties were homicide and arson. The initial meeting had gone well and Lambert could honestly say he liked the guy. It just rankled him that Third Echelon’s hands were tied in the matter.
Preliminary investigation into the murder was swift and decisive. Kehoe quickly established that Mike Chan was their man. Everyone had to swipe a key card to enter Third Echelon. Other than Carly, Chan was the only employee logged into the building that night. The firm’s security cameras showed Chan moving from his office to Carly’s office and back. The fact that his computer’s hard drive had been erased was another dead giveaway. Lambert now looked forward to further revelations.
Lambert called, “Come in,” when he heard the knock. Kehoe entered the office and nodded at the colonel.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Agent Kehoe. Would you like some coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
“Then have a seat.” Lambert gestured to the chair in front of his desk. Kehoe sat and removed some notes from his briefcase. “What have you got for me today?”
“Quite a bit,” Kehoe replied. “First of all, what kind of background check did you perform on Mike Chan before he was hired?”
Lambert shrugged. “The usual. Complete rundown of the guy’s credit history, his family, schooling… why?”
“Mike Chan’s apartment was thoroughly searched last night. An X-ray machine revealed a hidden compartment in the floorboards of his bathroom. There were some papers there that pointed us in a new direction, mainly letters written in Chinese. They were from Chan’s brother. We learned some interesting things, the most important being that his name isn’t really Mike Chan.”
“What?”
“It’s Mike Wu. He had supplied you with a completely false identity and background.”
“That’s impossible. We use the same background checkers as your people do. And the CIA.”
“That’s the problem,” Kehoe said. “Chan’s background was manufactured from beginning to end and it was manipulated from the inside. In other words, he had help from someone in a government agency. Every bit of so-called factual information on ‘Mike Chan’ was created and put into place before the background check. It takes considerable resources to do something like that. Mike Chan, or rather, Mike Wu, is not working alone. He’s part of a much larger threat. Do you have any ideas what this could be?”
Lambert exhaled loudly. He rubbed the top of his head and said, “Gee, the only thing I can think of is the Shop. If it’s not them then it’s a major foreign power trying to get the goods on us. As I told you, Carly was working on a security breach we experienced last year. She was close to figuring it out and maybe Mike found out she was about to finger him. Hell, now I wouldn’t be surprised if it was Mike that gave the Shop all of our agents’ names. The Shop. It has to be them.”
“But the Shop is an arms broker, right? They are a profit-motivated organization, not political, correct?”
“Yeah.”
“Then what are they doing planting a mole in your organization? Other than supplying the names of your agents, what other purpose could it serve?”
Lambert thought a moment and suggested, “They’re selling information.” He slammed his fist on the table. “Whatever Mike was giving to them, they’re selling it to someone else. That has to be it.”
Kehoe nodded. “Makes sense. If it’s really the Shop he’s working for.”
Lambert squinted at the agent. “What do you know?”
“As we uncovered more and more about Mike Wu, we learned that he’s originally from Los Angeles. We confirmed the brother’s identity, the one writing him letters. He’s a guy named Eddie Wu, a known Chinatown gangster. He’s suspected of being a major figure in one of the Triads that operates in southern California.”
“Triads!”
“Yes, sir. A Chinese gang that operates like the Mafia.”
“I know what a Triad is. Wait, you think Mike Chan, er, Mike Wu, is working for his brother? And not the Shop?”
“I don’t know. According to the letters, Eddie Wu knew all about his brother’s false identity. I’m just suggesting that perhaps it’s not the Shop. It could be; I haven’t ruled it out. But there’s this other angle. The Triad Eddie Wu is hooked up with is known as the Lucky Dragons. It’s a global Triad operated from Hong Kong. The Dragons have branches in Los Angeles, San Francisco, and New York. Maybe Houston, too, but we haven’t established that for certain. Anyway, the Lucky Dragons are a formidable bunch of hoodlums. Eddie Wu has been in and out of jail a few times and he’s on a watch list out in California. But for the last several years he’s kept his nose clean.”
“So could Mike be heading to California?”
“That’s what I think,” Kehoe said. “I imagine he changed his identity again, maybe d
isguised himself, and flew out there. Or maybe he’s taking a safer route, like the train, or bus. Hell, he could be driving. His car is missing. It’s a 2002 Honda Accord. Either he’s dumped it somewhere and we haven’t found it, or he’s inside of it right now driving along the interstate. Which would put him in Los Angeles the day after tomorrow at the latest.”
Lambert shook his head. “Unbelievable. I can’t fathom how that background check didn’t turn any of this up.”
“Like I said, sir. He’s had help from someone higher up. We’d like to find out who that might be as well.”
“So what’s next?”
“I’m going to Los Angeles. The FBI there will be watching Eddie Wu. If Mike Wu shows up, they’ll surely be seen together. We’re counting on the fact that Mike Wu doesn’t know we’ve seen through his false identity.”
Lambert nodded. “Okay. Keep me informed, will you? I know you have to report to your own people but I’d appreciate it if you kept me in the loop.”
“I’ll do that, Colonel.”
“Is that all?”
“I think so. For now.”
Lambert stood and held out his hand. “Thanks. You’re doing a fine job.”
Kehoe got up and shook the colonel’s hand. “Thank you. I’ll be in touch.” He turned and left the office. Colonel Lambert sat, feeling satisfied that some progress was being made. He might not like the FBI doing the job but at least this Kehoe was actually doing the job. Perhaps it wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
On to other things. He pressed the intercom button. “Have Ms. Grimsdottir come to my office, please.”
He then turned to his in-box and picked up a memorandum from Frances Coen that confirmed Sam Fisher’s safe arrival in Hong Kong. Contact had been made with Mason Hendricks, and Fisher would be following a lead that might involve Chinese Triads.
What goes around, comes around, Lambert thought. Could Mike Wu be involved in the Professor Jeinsen business?
He then opened Anna Grimsdottir’s personnel file and scanned it once more before the meeting. It wasn’t necessary, though. Lambert had known Anna for a long time — she was one of the original Third Echelon employees. A woman of Icelandic origin, Grimsdottir was thirty years old. She was a second-generation American and a college dropout. She had been studying computer science at St. John’s College in the nineties but decided she could program rings around her instructors. She worked as a programmer for several different communications firms contracted by the U.S. Navy. She had been recruited at the ground floor of Third Echelon and had worked as a programmer and eventually became the technical director. Grimsdottir had continuously shown a strong drive, a sharp intelligence, and a noted dedication to the work.
There was a tentative knock on his door. “Come in.”
Anna Grimsdottir stepped inside. As always she wore her brown hair pulled back and resembled an attractive college professor. She was so studious looking that one’s mother might say she had a “nice personality.” Her colleagues knew Grimsdottir’s temperament was rather staid, almost the reserve of a Brit. But they also knew she had a wry sense of humor that she rarely allowed to surface.
“You wished to see me, Colonel?” she asked.
“Sit down, Anna.” She took the chair, crossed her legs, and sat with impossibly good posture. “How was your leave?”
“Nice. Hawaii, you know.”
“Sorry I had to end it early.”
“No, actually I’m happy that you did. I’m glad to be back.”
“Good. As you know, we’ve lost Carly.”
Grimsdottir lifted her chin and said, “She was very good. I’m sorry that she… well, I’m sorry about what happened, sir.”
“We all are.” He cleared his throat and came to the point. “Are you ready to resume your responsibilities?”
“Of course.”
“You’ll need to get up to speed very quickly. You’ve missed out on a number of developments within the organization.”
“Let’s do it.”
Lambert looked into her eyes and saw that there was absolutely no fear. Total self-confidence.
“Let’s do,” he replied.
* * *
Mike Wu, aka Mike Chan, passed a sign telling him that Oklahoma City was twenty miles away. He needed to find a place to stop and rest before he had an accident. Wu hadn’t slept a wink since he had shot Carly St. John and left Washington, D.C. Now, two days on, he was feeling the effects of sleep deprivation and too much caffeine. He was jittery, not thinking clearly, and had a massive headache.
Before leaving the D.C. area he had parked his blue 2002 Honda Accord alongside a green one that was in front of an apartment building blocks away from his own. Armed with a screwdriver, he switched license plates on the two cars in less than a minute, and then headed west on I-70. He picked up I-81 to take him down through the Appalachian Mountains and Virginia. The highway joined I-40 in Tennessee, and he planned to stay on that road all the way to California. He knew it was probably an obvious route to take but it was also the fastest. Hopefully the police wouldn’t be looking for him yet. After he had slept a little, he planned to dump his Honda and steal a car for the second half of the trip. Wu couldn’t believe he had made it halfway across the United States so quickly. But then, he rarely stopped. Only to buy gas and pick up a bite to eat.
He passed a sign for a motel located off the next exit. Good. Out of the way and cheap. Just what the doctor ordered. Wu couldn’t wait to get there. He’d have a shower, drop into the bed, and catch five or six hours. And then—
Damn! In the rearview mirror he saw a police car right behind him, lights flashing. Where did he come from? Wu looked at his speedometer and saw that he was doing ninety-three miles per hour. In his haste to reach the motel, he had become careless. Up to that point he had been so good at driving safely and staying within speed limits so as not to attract attention. Now this.
Wu pulled the car over to the shoulder and stopped. The patrol car, an Oklahoma State Police vehicle, moved up behind him. The officer sat in his car making a note and doing the routine call-in with the license plate number.
Shit. It’s going to be reported stolen. What should he do? Think quickly!
In his sleep-deprived, anxious state, Mike Wu did what he thought was the only solution possible. He reached under the seat and grabbed the Smith & Wesson SW1911. Wu scanned his mirrors to make sure no other drivers were around to see what he was about to do.
The officer got out of the patrol car and walked toward him. Wu lowered the window and smiled at the man.
“Hello, Officer,” he said. “I know, I was speeding. Sorry about that.”
“Step out of the car, sir,” the patrolman said.
“I have my license right here…”
“Please step out of the car, sir,” the man repeated.
“Okay, if you say so.” Wu pointed the pistol out the window and squeezed the trigger. The bullet caught the patrolman in the chest, propelling him backward to the road. Wu opened the car door, stepped out, and aimed the gun at the policeman’s forehead. The patrolman, gasping for air, shook his head and attempted to cry out.
Wu squeezed the trigger a second time, got back into his car, and drove off, leaving the dead man at the side of the road in front of the police vehicle. He decided that the best thing to do next was to go ahead with his plan to stop at the motel and get some sleep. The police would be looking for him, all right, but they wouldn’t expect him to be so close, set up in a fleabag motel. He’d simply make sure the car was out of sight. Later, after he was rested, Wu would steal another car and continue his journey to freedom.
14
I find the Purple Queen nightclub easily enough. The place is huge, more like the size of a theater. This area of Kowloon, Tsim Sha Tsui East, is a major center for nightlife in Hong Kong. All around me I see not only these ritzy hostess clubs like the Purple Queen, but also karaoke bars, disco clubs, restaurants, and even leftover British-style pubs. The n
eon is mesmerizing and you can feel excitement in the air. Kowloon after sundown rivals anything Las Vegas has to offer. It’s difficult to believe this is now a Communist-controlled land.
Two large Sikhs stand outside the front doors ready to intimidate anyone they think might not be desirable clientele. I’m dressed in my uniform because I’d like this to be purely a reconnaissance mission. I want to get the lay of the land.
I keep out of sight in the shadows and circle behind the building. There’s a small parking area with a slot marked RESERVED, probably for the big guy. All the other spots are taken. I can’t imagine where the valet parks the overflow, for the streets are packed with automobiles. There’s a back door, no windows, and an enclosure where they store the garbage until it’s hauled away. It’d be nice to get inside that back door.
As if on cue, a guy comes out the back and throws a bag of trash into the pen. He’s dressed in a suit, wears sunglasses, and obviously works as muscle for the joint. I walk over to him and say in Chinese, “That garbage stinks. How often do they pick it up around here?”
He looks at me as if I’m insane. “What?” he asks.
“I said the garbage here stinks. Oh, I’m sorry, it’s not the garbage. It’s you I smell.”
This gets a reaction. He reaches for the inside of his jacket and I quickly chop the side of his neck with a spear-hand. The gun, a Walther from the looks of it, drops to the ground. I punch the goon hard in the stomach, causing him to bend forward, then clobber him on the back of the head. Once he’s in Dreamland, I drag his body into the garbage pen, stuff him unceremoniously into the only empty can, and put the lid on. That should keep him snug for at least a half hour, maybe more. I then throw his pistol into another can and cover it up.
I step inside the open back door and find myself in a corridor lined with four doors. I hear rock music and bad karaoke singing coming from the club beyond a door at the end of the hallway. The space to my immediate right is some kind of meeting room. There’s a table and six chairs around it, a whiteboard on the wall, and a telephone. What’s strange is that there are plastic sheets hanging on two of the walls. It’s the kind of coverings painters use to protect furniture, but the room doesn’t appear to be recently painted. I’m about to move on when I notice a spot of paint at the bottom of one of the sheets. I crouch to take a closer look and discover that it’s not paint at all.