Operation Barracuda sc-2

by Tom Clancy

  The security photos from the Hong Kong airport are transmitted to my OPSAT right on time as we walk inside. We take a moment to go through them and I’m damned if I recognize anyone.

  “Maybe seeing the passengers in the flesh when they come off the plane will help,” Lambert suggests.

  My NSA credentials get me past airport security at the terminal. The flight is on time and will arrive in minutes. I wander into the gate area and take a look at the people waiting there. Because of security rules these days, only ticketed passengers are allowed to access the gates and it’s even stricter in the international terminal. So it’s a pretty good bet that the people I see here are waiting to board the next flight out, not waiting for incoming passengers. At any rate, there are no Asians in the mix. In fact, the folks here appear to be no one of interest.

  “Sam?”

  “Yeah?” I whisper. It’s Coen. I have to be subtle pressing the implant in my throat. It’s one thing to talk on those in-ear cell phones in public, it’s another to simply push on your Adam’s apple to speak to someone.

  “I’m patching in FBI agent Firuta. He’s in charge of the three-man team here.”

  “Okay.”

  In a moment, I hear his voice. “Agent Fisher?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Special Agent Gary Firuta. There are three of us here. I’ve got two men in the baggage claim area. I’m stationed just outside of Customs at the escalator connecting Immigration with the baggage claim. If you spot anyone coming off that plane we should be pay attention to, let us know.”

  “Right.”

  I stand at the back of the hallway to have a full view of the gate area. Finally, the plane is here and passengers begin to disembark. Since it came from Hong Kong it’s only natural that most of them are Asian. I scan the faces as they come through the door and don’t recognize a soul. Then, when it seems that no one is left aboard, a lone elderly Caucasian appears. He’s using a walking cane and carries a briefcase. His hair is white and he has a neatly trimmed white mustache and beard. But there’s something about him that’s very familiar. I’ve seen him before.

  I quickly snap a shot of him with my OPSAT. Even when I’m dressed in civilian clothes, my OPSAT never leaves my wrist.

  The old man walks slowly into the waiting area, looks at the signs, figures out which way to go for Immigration, and moves in that direction. I follow him at a safe distance and inform Agent Firuta of what’s happening. In the meantime I rack my brain trying to recall where I’ve seen the old man before.

  The lines at Immigration are long. I move on through to wait on the other side. The old man stands meekly in line and doesn’t appear to be threatening at all. While there’s time to kill I pull up his image on the OPSAT screen and study it. Zooming in, I focus on the guy’s eyes, his nose, his… beard. It’s the beard. Oskar Herzog. The last time I saw him he had the same beard. He’s changed the color to white, applied some aging makeup, and is doing a good job hobbling with the cane.

  “Alert,” I whisper, pressing the implant. “Old man now approaching the Immigration desk for passport clearance, using a walking cane. It’s Oskar Herzog.”

  “Hold on, Sam.”

  I see the Immigration official pick up his phone as Herzog hands over his passport and visa. The agent listens a moment, nods his head, and hangs up. He then stamps Herzog’s passport and clears the man through.

  “We’re letting him in,” Firuta says. “His passport says he’s Gregor Vladistock, a Russian national living in Hong Kong.”

  “The guy’s really German,” I say.

  “He spoke convincing Russian to the agent. My two men will pick up the tail downstairs at baggage claim.”

  “Don’t lose sight of him. He’s here to meet someone.”

  I take the escalator down with everyone else and find the baggage claim to be very crowded. Several flights have come in during the last half hour, which isn’t unusual for LAX. But the place is more chaotic because a couple of carousels are down and the only three working have been relegated to all incoming flights. On top of that the ground crew is running behind unloading the planes.

  As I follow Herzog toward the carousels I notice two Asian men in business suits standing near the rental car counters. They’re obviously poised to catch anyone heading toward the baggage claim. Every now and then they whisper something to each other. Now that I think about it, the two guys look too punkish to be wearing business suits. I’d bet the farm they’re Triad hoods attempting to look mature.

  I press the implant and whisper, “There are a couple of suspicious Asian guys by the rental car counters.”

  But Dopey and Goofy pay no attention to Herzog as he passes them. In fact, after the man is several yards away, they shake their heads in disappointment. Whoever they were sent to meet didn’t show. The pair turns and begins to walk closer to the carousels.

  Standing near the exit doors, close to the carousel designated for the Hong Kong flight, are three limousine drivers carrying signs with their clients’ names on them. I notice that Herzog nods at one of them and the driver — who happens to be Asian — smiles. His sign reads MR. VLADISTOCK. Bingo.

  Just as I’m about to call attention to the limo driver, Dopey and Goofy surprise everyone by causing a well-orchestrated disturbance. They both jump onto the moving carousel and shout in English, “We have a bomb! Nobody move!”

  Of course, the entire crowd panics. People scream and make a mad rush to the exits, dropping and leaving behind their baggage. Security personnel blow whistles and yell for everyone to calm down but it’s no use.

  “Damn!” Firuta says. “What just happened?”

  I keep my eye on Herzog. I don’t give a damn about the two Asians. The limo driver sneakily takes Herzog by the arm and hustles him out the door. I try my best to push my way through the chaos in order to keep up with them but the crowd is too thick. Police arrive on the scene and immediately take Dopey and Goofy into custody but people are still not cooperating.

  “Firuta! Where are your two men?” I ask.

  Apparently the FBI agents responded to the two Asians — exactly what the fake Triads wanted. I now realize that the two Asians were working for Eddie Wu, not Jon Ming. They were sent to cause a diversion so Herzog could get away unnoticed.

  Screw that. Like a raging bull I shove my way through the crowd, throwing people aside with no concern for politeness, and burst through the exit doors. I spot Herzog getting into the backseat of a limo that’s illegally parked at the curb. The driver gets in and the car takes off.

  I rush madly into the roadway and stop the first taxi I see. With no concern for protocol, I open the door, reach inside, unsnap the driver’s seat belt, and pull him out.

  “Hey!” he shouts. He starts to hit me but realizes I’m a lot bigger than he is.

  “You’ll get it back in one piece,” I say. “I hope.” With that, I’m already in the driver’s seat and slamming the door. Leaving the speechless driver on the street, I take off in pursuit.

  30

  Traffic is heavy on the 405 going north, so there isn’t much I can do but stop and start. The limo is four car lengths ahead of me. The situation is compounded by the onset of a rainstorm. Thunder cracks in the sky and the clouds overhead look villainous.

  The limo eventually turns off the freeway and gets on I-10 heading east. I smoothly change lanes and exit also. Traffic is lighter but it won’t be long before rush hour congestion slows the main arteries. Along the way I give Lambert a report. Apparently the FBI back at LAX are pissed off at me for taking off after Herzog without them. Tough shit, I say. They were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Lambert tells me that the two Chinese guys were arrested, even though they claimed to be “pulling a joke.” Lambert agrees with me that they were most likely placed there to create a diversion. Agent Firuta is berating himself for not being on top of the situation. I sign off after Lambert reminds me to keep him informed and mentions that Coen will be following me i
n her car.

  “What’s with the weather?” I ask. The rain has become torrential, making it difficult to see out the windshield.

  “Severe thunderstorm alert,” Lambert says. “It’s already flooding the roads west of you. Be careful.”

  Great. I thought it was supposed to never rain in L.A. but today I have the pleasure of chasing a limo through the middle of a freak downpour. I guess that’s showbiz, folks.

  Eventually the limo gets on the 110 and heads downtown but then it makes a left onto the Hollywood Freeway. By now the 101 is packed with vehicles. It isn’t long, though, before the limo gets off the highway at Sunset Boulevard and turns east toward Silver Lake. I manage to stay on their tail and keep a reasonable distance behind them.

  It isn’t long before the limo turns in to a shabby motel parking lot. The place looks like it’s from the thirties or forties. I pull the cab over to the other side of Sunset, where I’m lucky to find a parking space at the curb. From here I have a good view of the motel and watch as the limo parks awkwardly across three regular spaces. After a moment, the Chinese driver gets out and opens the back door for his passenger. Herzog steps out, shakes the driver’s hand, and goes to one of the motel doors. The driver gets back into the limo and waits.

  I quickly pull out the scope I use on my Five-seveN and focus on Herzog. He knocks on the door, briefly turns to look around and make sure no one is watching, and then faces the door again. When it opens, I see a Chinese man standing on the threshold. He smiles and shakes Herzog’s hand. It’s Eddie Wu. I’m sure of it, even through this downpour. Great, no more passive surveillance. It’s time to kick some butt.

  I get out of the taxi, dart across Sunset, and approach the driver’s side of the limo. It’s raining so hard I feel like I’m taking a shower. I rap on the window and the driver lowers it just in time to receive a powerhouse punch in the nose. Before he can react, I reach inside and apply a choke hold. Thirty seconds later he’s in Dreamland. I open the door, search the guy for a weapon, and find a Browning 9mm inside his jacket. I take it, push him over, and shut the door. As I walk toward the motel room door, I drop the handgun into a trash bin.

  Quietly, I approach and put my ear to the door. I expect to hear conversation but there’s nothing but silence. Are they in there?

  To hell with knocking. I kick the door in and go inside, my Five-seveN drawn and ready. It’s a bungalow-style place with a bedroom, living room, and kitchenette. And the place is completely empty. The back door, leading to a parking area behind the motel, is wide open.

  Damn!

  I look out the door and see another stretch limo pulling out of the parking lot. The bastards pulled a switch! These guys certainly aren’t stupid. I run out of the room and back to the limo in the front parking lot. To hell with darting back across Sunset to the taxi — it’s raining too damned hard. After opening the limo, I grab the still unconscious driver and pull him out onto the pavement. I jump inside, shut the door, and start the ignition. I’m not used to driving a stretch limo — I back right into a Volkswagen hiding behind me. I throw the limo into drive, turn the wheel, and screech onto Sunset Boulevard. Hmm, maybe I should have taken the time to get into the taxi again.

  The other stretch limo is already ahead of me, driving west. I change lanes, speed around the traffic, and pull up next to it. The windows are tinted, naturally, so I can’t see the passengers. But I can see the driver, and he’s an ugly Chinese guy with an eyepatch. Just as he turns his head to glare at me, I rotate the wheel and ram my car into his. Horns blare behind us as Enemy Limo slams into three parked cars on the north side of Sunset. The driver quickly recovers and gets back into the lane. He takes a risk by increasing his speed to move in front of me, momentarily merging into the oncoming traffic lane to go around a truck, and then continues in the westbound lane at around seventy.

  Fine. Look out, people.

  I accelerate and tear around the truck as well, forcing a splash of water the size of a small tsunami onto it. But I accidentally swing the long tail end of my limo too widely, hitting a BMW Z3. Yikes, sorry about that, fella. I hear him cursing at me and I don’t blame him. They say people in L.A. don’t know how to drive in the rain and I’m sure he’s thinking the same thing about me.

  “Sam, what is going on?” Coen’s voice surprises me. I forgot she’s in the vicinity somewhere.

  “I’m after Eddie Wu,” I announce. “He and Herzog are in a limo heading west on Sunset. I’m behind them… in another limo.”

  “My God, Sam, it’s rush hour.”

  “Tell me about it. It looks like they’re getting on the freeway up ahead. I’m on their tail. I’ll talk to you later. I need to concentrate here.”

  “I’ve got your position by satellite — barely. This rain is really hurting us. I’ll follow the best I can. Good luck!”

  Sure enough, Enemy Limo gets onto the 101 and heads northwest. Traffic is a bitch. I lean on my horn, indicating to the bozos in front of me that I’m going around them whether they like it or not. I pull out of the line of cars waiting on the entrance ramp, pass them by driving on the curb and splashing them with Niagara Falls, and shoot onto the freeway in front of a ten-wheeler doing sixty. The driver’s horn screams at me with the subtext of a million obscenities as I swing out of his lane.

  Enemy Limo is speeding ahead, maybe six car lengths in front. The driver has no regard for the traffic around him. He zigzags through the stream of vehicles, knocking cars out of the way as if he’s playing a video game. I fear this chase might end up being deadlier than I anticipated. I’m not sure if it’s a blessing or a hindrance when I hear police sirens in the background.

  I press my implant. “Coen?”

  “Yes?”

  “Get on to the police. Let them know what’s going on. Maybe they can divert traffic or something. It’s gonna get messy up here the way that guy is driving.”

  “Aerial traffic control is grounded because of the storm,” she says, “but I’ll see what I can do.”

  We pass Universal City on the right as we approach the fork separating the Hollywood and Ventura Freeways. Enemy Limo changes lanes and makes like he’s going to stay on the Hollywood, but at the last possible second he slides over and exits onto the Ventura. Two cars are plowed aside in his wake — and I do mean wake. One of them does a flip over the side of the damned freeway and sails to the ground below. Christ.

  It’s tricky but I make the exit. Like a good boy I put on a signal, honk my horn lightly, and get over to one of the correct lanes. I see Enemy Limo a quarter mile in front of me, so I step on the gas, scoot around a U-Haul truck, and gain on my prey. I’m now directly behind them, so I speed up a little more and ram their back fender. This is the catalyst for a man to lean out of a lowering passenger window. He points a handgun at me and fires. I duck as the windshield shatters with tremendous force. I’m covered in broken glass and feel the sting of what seems like a hundred needles pricking my face. My limo invariably swerves across the freeway and I barely get it under control before I crash into the rail.

  Pulling the car back into the lane, I take a moment to brush myself off. The rain batters me through the gaping hole, now making it nearly impossible to see. I reach into my backpack with one hand, grab my goggles, and slip them on. Now I could drive through a dust storm and it wouldn’t bother me. I then glance in the rearview mirror and see that my mug is lightly dotted with streaks of blood. Sons of bitches. I draw my own handgun and speed up. Most of the other drivers on the freeway are now aware of us and try to give us a wide berth. It’s as if they’re all communicating with each other—“Stay away from those mad-men in the limos!” Only in Hollywood.

  I’m now neck and neck with Enemy Limo, riding alongside his left. I lower the passenger window, point the Five-seveN, and squeeze the trigger. The round sears the driver’s nose, destroying his window in the process. I hear the guy yell as he grabs his face. Enemy Limo skids into mine and we both careen across the lanes, out of control
. I’m forced to apply the brakes to avoid spinning into another goddamned limousine. They’re all over this town! Enemy Limo has a few seconds to recover and the driver picks up speed. I straighten the wheel and take off again in pursuit. With the gun in my left hand, I reach out the window and fire at the limo’s back tires. The road is too bumpy and my aim isn’t great with my left. I succeed in knocking out a taillight but that does little good except prompting the bozo with the weapon to lean out his window again. This time, however, he’s got a rifle.

  The guy is Yvan Putnik! Katia’s killer! He was in Enemy Limo all along.

  He fires but I’m already jerking the wheel to the left and guiding the limo into the next lane with the force of a tank. I broadside a taxicab but bounce back into the lane as I hear police sirens growing louder. I can see them now, three patrol cars with lights blazing, making their way through the scattered traffic behind us. We’re getting closer to the 405 again as we cross over Sherman Oaks on the left and Van Nuys on the right. I can see another block of congestion ahead and I dread there’s going to be some real carnage if I don’t put a stop to this real soon.

  Enemy Limo finds itself trapped between a ten-wheeler in front and a bus in back. This gives me the chance to floor the pedal and shoot up the lane beside it. I raise the handgun, aim out the passenger window, and squeeze the trigger as I pass the driver. This time I don’t miss. The guy’s head explodes in a mass of red and black goo.

  Whatever causes the ten-wheeler’s driver to suddenly change lanes, I don’t know, but that’s what he does — right in front of me. With no one at the wheel, Enemy Limo wavers, finally moving on a collision course with the right rail. I desperately try to steer around the stupid ten-wheeler when the asshole slams on his brakes. I remember two things. The first is that I see someone in Enemy Limo climbing over the partition to grab the steering wheel. The second thing is the back end of the ten-wheeler in my face.