by Brad Taylor
She said, “Who’s on him now?”
“This is Blood. I got him. Lower deck, toward the stern. I’m three rows back.”
“He still has the pack?”
“Yeah, he’s got it between his legs, and he’s not meeting anyone here. Not yet anyway.”
She said, “I see Retro. Anyone else up here with me?”
The ferry had two separate decks, and she’d chosen the upper one to stay out of the mix until needed. She was sure others had loaded after her, but she made no attempt to locate them, not wanting to associate at all with the rest of the team and possibly burn the surveillance effort.
Decoy said, “No. I’m on the lower deck, aft.”
“Okay, when we exit, Decoy, pick up the eye until we merge on the gangway. Retro, take it from there. Acknowledge.”
Retro and Decoy both said they understood, and she settled back, trying to think four steps ahead of what she might be asked to do once the ferry docked, knowing it would be at least forty-five minutes until Pike could catch up. With the mantle of leadership fully on her, she began to think through more than just the mechanics of the surveillance. She began to think about the implications, and they weren’t making any sense.
* * *
Malik heard his laptop ping with an e-mail and opened the latest batch of pictures from his countersurveillance effort. He’d had Sanjar walk through multiple choke points strategically positioned on his route to the ferry, with prepositioned countersurveillance taking pictures at each one. He intended to analyze them, matching up anyone who was in each batch. The odds of someone walking the exact same route as Sanjar were beyond remote, so if he got a match, it would mean the plan was in motion.
So far, he’d identified a nondescript man wearing clothes that were about ten years out of date and another, taller man. Both had been in two separate sets of photos, but not at the same choke points. He was hoping either one would pop up in this batch, confirming the surveillance. He didn’t need to identify the entire team. He only needed to confirm there was a team before setting the plan in motion.
He scanned the photos and froze, zooming in on one.
The cleric was right.
Staring at the lens of the camera was the black man who had chased him in Singapore.
He inserted a SIM card into one of the Galaxy phones from Sin Tat and called Sanjar, now not wanting the Islamic center landline tied to the cell phone they were using as bait.
He said, “They’re on you right now. Don’t worry about following the route anymore. When you get off the ferry, head straight to the park, but still come around the Islamic center. Get them to walk by the cameras. Remember, you need to make the fight convincing.”
He hung up and dialed another number. “Sanjar is coming now. Don’t lose them once they pick up the pack.”
The man on the other end said, “What do you want me to do if they don’t pick it up? You want me to take them out?”
“No! Don’t do that. They’ll pick up the pack. When that happens, alert me and follow them until I can bring in the police.”
“But I’ll be in a position to attack. We’ll miss our opportunity. It’s why my team was flown here.”
Remembering the debacle in Thailand the year before, when the immature men had prematurely exploded an improvised device in their safe house, Malik let some steel into his voice. “Do not attempt anything against the Americans. Understand? I want this handled quietly. Let the police do their job.”
He hung up the phone and dialed one more number, this to a contact who would alert the Hong Kong police force.
He had toyed with many different ideas of how to prevent the team from interfering with his plan, ranging from an outright ambush like the one espoused by the new team leader to some sort of poison or accident. He’d realized he was looking at the problem too narrowly. He only needed to remove them, not necessarily kill or maim any of the members. He’d hit upon his idea when talking with Sanjar about Sin Tat Plaza.
China was a free-for-all of copycat articles, from Adidas shoes to Apple computers. The Chinese routinely counterfeited anything they could get their hands on, much to the chagrin of the United States. While the Great Satan screamed about copyright infringements, China did little to stem the black market of goods. Even so, the pressure was there, so he’d decided to use that as leverage. What better way to show China was serious about stopping counterfeit goods than to arrest some Americans who were trafficking in them?
Using his IRGC contacts, he’d let it be known to the authorities that Americans involved in the transport of black-market DVDs were in Hong Kong, and he had set up a sting, with only the time and place unknown. He knew that the Americans would assume the DVDs held important IRGC information and would take them with them for exploitation. All he had to do was locate where they went, then send in the police. With any luck, they’d come upon the entire team watching a grainy copy of the movie Argo. It wouldn’t matter that there was nothing but smoke in his whole artifice, with no other evidence than the bag of goods. China would want to crow about it anyway and wasn’t very concerned with the rights of the accused.
The thought made him smile.
47
Walking up Kowloon Park Drive, Jennifer heard, “He’s still on Ashley, headed north. It’s tight in here. My heat state is getting bad.”
She said, “Pull off. Blood, can you intersect?”
He said, “Looking at the map, Ashley dead-ends into an apartment complex. If he’s continuing north, he’ll have to cut over to Hankow Road. I’m on that now. Decoy, can you stay on him until he passes the last cut-through? If he keeps going, we know his destination is close and I can take the eye from there.”
Decoy said, “Yeah. I can stop here and see that. Stand by.”
Jennifer initiated the map on her phone, seeing the large expanse of Kowloon Park just beyond the apartment complex he mentioned, across Haiphong Road. A building at the corner of the park caught her eye. An Islamic center.
She said, “Retro, what’s your status?”
“Parallel on Nathan.”
“You see the park on your map?”
“Yes.”
“Look at the southeast corner. It’s the Kowloon Mosque and Islamic Centre. I want you to move to that location. I think he might be headed there.”
“You got it.”
Decoy said, “He just cut over. He’s unsighted.”
A minute went by with nothing, putting a knot in Jennifer’s stomach. Should have diverted Retro to Decoy. Shouldn’t have let him get out of sight.
Then her radio came to life. “This is Blood. I’ve got the eye. Now headed north on Hankow.”
Toward the center.
A second later her phone buzzed, a call from Knuckles.
“One of the IMEI phones just went active. It’s at the Islamic center next to Kowloon Park.”
Which confirmed her thoughts. And also triggered a little bit of an alarm.
* * *
Malik knew Sanjar was only blocks away and began scanning his camera feeds. He didn’t have real-time radio contact, only the cell phone, and didn’t want to miss him.
Watching the screen, he realized that catching Sanjar passing by was going to be problematic. The view was so narrow that he would have only a split second, the cameras obviously designed for looking at tape after the fact instead of continuous monitoring for any preventive purposes. He’d made sure that no such recording was happening now.
Focused on the mass of people flowing up and down Nathan Road, a solitary figure caught his attention, precisely because he wasn’t moving. It was the man with the out-of-date clothes. Part of the surveillance effort. Part of the devil’s team.
* * *
Jennifer reached the entrance to Kowloon Park and magnified it on her map. A large expanse of terrain smack in the heart of Hong Kong, it housed everything from a sculpture garden to a fitness trail, with the entire area landscaped much like a zoo. The only thing missing was the ani
mals.
The Islamic center was to her right, but she decided to ignore it, heading into the park. She walked for about a hundred meters, winding around the trails until she found a park bench on the north end of a sculpture garden, a lily pond off to her right. She sat, pretending to read her tour guide and waiting on the call that the target had entered the Islamic center, something she was convinced would happen.
The time dripped by and she returned to Knuckles’s information about the IMEI cell phone, wondering yet again about the circumstances of the entire mission. None of it fit.
Why would Ernie live in that slovenly hostel if he had a room at the Conrad Hotel? Especially since the name they had from the flight manifest in Singapore, and had now confirmed with the passport photocopy from the Sin Tat mission, hadn’t shown up in the Conrad registry? It wasn’t because he was afraid of being found. The room wasn’t tied to him. And why would he be using a phone from Singapore after he’d just purchased four new handsets? With one of those new handsets now talking to him on the old, compromised phone?
It was almost like he wanted to be found.
She dialed Pike to relay her fears. Wanting someone else to make the call about ending the effort.
“You back across yet?”
“Yeah, just landed. Where are you?”
“Kowloon Park. I think he’s going to the Islamic center on the southeast corner. He gets in there, and all bets are off.”
“Any sign you’ve spiked?”
“Not that we can tell. He’s still out in the open, not pulling anything stupid.”
“Just keep on him. You’re doing great. Sorry for the mess-up with the ferry, but you got us this far. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Pike, I don’t like this. I think it’s a setup.”
“Why?”
“Just the whole set of circumstances. It doesn’t make any sense. The general is pretty damn smart, and after Thailand and Singapore, I think he’s trying to regain the offensive. We should pull off. Let him think he’s won and focus on the other phones.”
“Well, do what you believe is right. I’ll be there as soon as I can. If you call it, you call it.”
She said nothing for a moment, prompting Pike. “You still there?”
“Yeah, I’m here. Pike, I can’t call it. I’m not the team leader.”
“Jennifer, I’m not there. I wish I hadn’t put you in this position, but that’s water under the bridge. I can’t call what I don’t know. You’re on the ground. You see something that doesn’t fit, then make a decision. Otherwise, he’s the biggest lead we have. Nobody is going to second-guess.”
Bullshit. Everybody is going to second-guess.
All she said was, “Okay. Get your ass up here. I’m ready to turn over the radio.”
48
Malik kept his eye on the man with retro clothing, waiting on him to do something alerting. He checked the view of the northern camera, making sure he could see into the small courtyard adjacent to the mosque. A stair-step down from the park, it was a little grotto used for some Chinese ceremony or celebration he couldn’t fathom. Forty feet long and twenty wide, it was layered in concrete, with stone benches lining the walls on both sides and small concrete tables interspersed at regular intervals, with the ash of candles or incense burned into the surfaces of the slabs next to the benches. It had never been occupied in the reconnaissance he had done before and was the perfect place for his little drama to play out. He could control the outcome along with the follow-on surveillance effort, as there were only two exits.
He returned to the stationary man and saw him back up. Within seconds, Sanjar entered the screen. A brief blip of recognition, then gone. Right behind him was the black man from Singapore. They disappeared from view, and he felt the adrenaline begin to flow. Even here, where he would have no ability to alter the outcome. He chewed his lip, praying the new men did what they had been asked to do.
Everything up until this point had been easy, something he could have done with a few children from his neighborhood. It would all be irrelevant if they didn’t manage to follow the target long enough to give the Hong Kong police a location, be it on the street or in a hotel.
He turned to the grotto camera and saw Sanjar enter. His protégé stood for a moment, then pulled out a map from his pocket and made a show of bringing it to his face. An ostentatious demonstration that he was signaling someone. More fodder for the surveillance to see. More evidence that what was about to occur required their attention.
He saw the team leader enter from the camera’s upper reaches. Malik had no sound but knew what was about to occur. He hoped it looked real. He needn’t have worried. The team leader whispered into Sanjar’s ear, then smacked him on the back of the head. Sanjar looked shocked, as he probably was, and pushed the man. They began shouting, then Sanjar, apparently truly furious, punched the team leader in the mouth and knocked him to the ground. He stood over him with a snarl on his face, only to be attacked from the left, by the man who was supposed to pick up the surveillance to follow.
Idiot!
Malik’s great plan was breaking down over nothing more than childish emotion. He couldn’t believe it. How were they supposed to compete in the world of the vipers when he was given men such as this?
He stood up, fists clenched, wanting to run into the grotto but knowing it was worthless. He saw Sanjar fall, roll to his left, and get up on his knees, holding his hands up, as if begging for mercy. He dropped the backpack and stood. Then he lashed out with a foot, catching the team leader in the testicles and felling him like a tree.
Sanjar screamed something at the other man and took off running, the man in hot pursuit.
Malik let out a breath. The wrong man was now chasing Sanjar, but the entire team knew the plan. As long as they stuck to the script, the trap was set.
Except for the idiot in the grotto now cupping his balls. No way would the Americans enter for the bag as long as he lay there rolling around.
He willed the team leader to rise. To vacate the small concrete space and allow the American devil to retrieve the bag. On-screen the man was breathing in ragged gasps, a thin stream of spittle on his lips, curled into a ball. If he waited too long, the trap would fail.
Get up!
He saw the team leader rise, the grainy image doing nothing to mask the pure rage on his face. A rage that would want an outlet. Perhaps he would give him Sanjar when this was over. After all, the script hadn’t called for a kick to the groin. The man limped off to the south, around the corner of the building away from Nathan Road. Out of sight.
Malik waited, both the man with the bad clothes and the black operative still out of view of the camera. The clock ticked, and still nothing occurred. He unconsciously held his breath.
And then the black man cautiously advanced, looking left and right. He paused, surveying the scene, then approached rapidly, snatching up the bag. He ran four feet before stopping abruptly. Malik saw him talking to the air, then dropping the bag.
What is he doing?
* * *
Jennifer heard the situation reports from Blood and began to believe she had been mistaken in her misgivings, silently thanking the gods that she hadn’t called off the surveillance and missed the golden egg that had just been laid into their lap. Whatever was occurring had nothing to do with them. The fight was clearly real, an internal dispute between factions.
It had happened faster than she or the rest of the team could collate, and now Ernie was on the run without the pack. Only a single man standing between them and retrieval. The virus could very well be inside that ruck, and for whatever reason the men at the meeting had chosen to fight instead of pass.
She maintained her position in the sculpture garden, listening to the updates on the radio. Blood said he’d lost sight of Ernie, then Retro said the final man had left the area. She heard Blood commit to the grotto, moving toward the bag. Then she caught sight of Ernie running to her front.
He
was followed by another man, and as they reached the edge of the sculpture garden, both slowed. Ernie stopped completely and was met by his chaser. The man slapped his shoulder hard, and Ernie pushed back. But there was no longer any fear in either of them.
What in the world?
She stood up, moving to the grotto at a rapid pace, studying them both. When she reached the far side of the garden, right next to the entrance of the grotto, she saw Ernie put his arm around the other man’s shoulder.
A trap. It’s a trap.
“Blood, Blood, this is Koko. Let the bag go. I say again, let the bag go.”
“What are you talking about? I have it now with no issue. I screened it. No explosives or anything. It’s full of DVDs. No threat.”
“Drop it, drop it now. I don’t know why it’s bad, but get rid of it and get out.”
Decoy cut in, his voice patronizing. “Koko, he’s got the bag without a problem. Let’s reassess back at the hotel. We’re exfiling now. Get off the radio and meet us in the TOC.”
Two hours before, she would have acquiesced, but Pike had squarely placed the mantle of leadership on her. On her. Letting Decoy override her decision was the easy path. The one she should have chosen. He would be to blame if the decision was wrong. But now she couldn’t, because she knew it was wrong.
She keyed the radio, her voice steel. “Drop that fucking bag right now. Acknowledge.”
She waited, then heard Blood say, “Okay, bag at my feet and the guy who got his nuts kicked doesn’t like it. He’s blocking the exit.”
49
I reached the outside range of our little covert radios in time to hear the last exchange, and it sent a spike of rage through me. Yeah, I should have been on-site, but I wasn’t, and Jennifer was the designated team leader. It would have been nothing but a little give-and-take, but it looked like she had been right, and the seconds wasted were now turning out to be the difference between life and death.