by E Y Mak
“Does Petri have enough time to actually do what he needs to do?” asked Patrick.
“He thinks so, but it’s a leap of faith on our part. We’ll see what we can find,” Russell said. “The question Benita and I are stuck on is how we are going to gain access to the internal staircase. The main floor entrance is behind the security checkpoint in the lobby.”
Russell watched Patrick stand up and lean over the notes that Benita had been taking. Benita was a keen listener with a good memory, and her notes were short and precise. Russell thought that Patrick would have trouble extrapolating from the outline that Benita had prepared. But Patrick persisted in gazing at the scratch pad longer than Russell had expected.
“Fa Yeung?” Patrick asked, reading out one of the lines.
“Fa Yeung provides full-service maintenance services for the building. You know, janitorial, HVAC, even window washing,” she said as she looked up from the page.
“Let me see what I can do,” Patrick said. He picked up his cell phone and stepped out the door.
“Benita, this may be a one-way walk into Fuengirola,” Russell said. “Once I’m in and Petri has connected to Fuengirola, I’m going to be up against Phineas, the HK police, and probably MSS. Not to mention an angry Mauritius and Dominique. There’s a good chance I’m going to be detained again, or worse. If I get held up, I’ll be counting on you and Petri to launch the blast.”
“I’m coming with you,” said Benita with determination. “Patrick’s men can come with us too.”
“What are low-level street thugs going to do? Patrick doesn’t have the resources of Phineas, nor do we have the luxury of time. Look at what happened to Tim Butler. The more time Mauritius has, the more opportunity he’s going to have to cover up. I need you to focus on getting the word out,” said Russell.
Before Benita could object, Patrick came back into the war room. “It’s done. I got some Fa Yeung people on my books. That’s how you’re going to get past security.”
After another three hours of planning, Russell was beat. He walked over to the east window and looked out into the Inner Port Shelter. The typhoon wasn’t going to hit for another two days, but the sea was already angry. The green water was getting choppier each day, and the small wooden ferries and junks that serviced the local tourist trade were bobbling up and down violently in the harbor. He watched as one particular fishing boat was tossed violently to the side, almost smashing against the giant rock breakwater jutting out of the water.
He walked back to the war room table. Russell would be ready for the storm.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Outside Two Isle Tower, Hong Kong
Two days later
The minute hand on his Omega Speedmaster hit forty-four minutes after noon.
Pea-size drops of rain splashed on the windshield, blurring the long train of taxis snaking ahead of them into circles of red light. Russell and Giraffe’s journey towards Two Isle Tower was impeded by everyone trying to get home to avoid the typhoon. The wind whipped the right side of their panel van, causing the vehicle to sway gently. Two Isle Tower loomed over them on their approach.
Through Patrick’s contacts, Russell had access to a Fa Yeung maintenance vehicle and a pair of work uniforms. Another contact had been able to provide them with falsified identification. The illusion they were creating was rudimentary. But Russell knew that even the best security technology had holes, and million-dollar systems could be overcome through a tired or underpaid low-level security worker. With the right amount of money, anything was possible in Hong Kong. With more money, possibilities arrived faster.
Russell looked at Giraffe seated in the driver’s seat. His knuckles were white from gripping the steering wheel. “We’ve got time,” he muttered to Giraffe, trying to calm him down. The gangster nodded back without saying a word. He was not a fan of Russell. Instead, Giraffe honked the horn in a pointless attempt to move the traffic forward.
It was twelve minutes before their van finally made it to a fork in the main road separating the front entrance from the service access. Giraffe directed the vehicle towards the latter, and after rounding a small alley they made their way to the service entrance of Two Isle Tower. Giraffe backed the van into an empty parking spot and killed the ignition.
Before getting out of the vehicle, Russell did a careful sweep of the area. The advanced biometric scanners at Two Isle Tower would quickly identify Russell once on the premises. He had put on some makeup to give himself the dark complexion of a South Asian, and had also pulled his workmen hat down low to cover his eyes.
As he walked in with Giraffe, he immediately dialed Benita on his burner phone. He positioned the phone between his shoulder and his ear, craning his neck to the right. While he was actually making a call, he was also fooling the building’s facial recognition technology. The sensors identify various distinctive features of the face, including the shape and contours of his eyes and eye sockets, the bumps on his nose and the hang of his chin. This was the golden triangle region between the temples and lips of the face—an area that remains the same even if a beard is grown, weight is gained, or aging occurs. However, one significant limitation of the software installed in this building that Petri had uncovered was that it only worked when the face was in a vertical position. By cradling the phone on his shoulder, the angle of his face would foil the sensors. He would be hiding in plain sight.
Or at least he hoped so.
“You guys in yet?” Benita’s tinny voice chimed in through the speaker on the ancient Nokia cell phone.
“Working on it. Just keep talking for now,” he said.
While Benita started talking about her Spanish hometown, Giraffe and Russell continued their approach towards the manned security station located at the main back-door entrance. Russell let Giraffe do the talking. Russell could speak passable business Cantonese, but Giraffe, having been born and raised in Hong Kong, could speak a version of the dialect that matched the gritty and abrupt intonations of working-class Hong Kong Cantonese.
“We’re here to service HVAC on sixty through sixty-nine,” Giraffe said to the security guard.
“What? Didn’t we just do those floors two days ago?” he said.
Giraffe spoke. “We stopped before we got there. The offices on floor sixty weren’t aware that we were coming. They were hosting out-of-town clients all week and refused access. Check the log.”
The security employee hesitated while Russell, still with his head angled to the side, muttered the occasional yes into the Nokia to Benita.
“Or you can check with Mr. Yao. He was supervising that day,” said Giraffe, referring to the building manager who Patrick’s associates had noted as being particularly fierce with his employees.
He watched as the security employee fumbled with the paperwork, staring cluelessly at the forged work order.
“It’s okay. Your papers check out,” the guard said nervously. The security guard went behind the desk and typed something on his keyboard. He pulled out two white plastic cards and slid them across the counter.
“Here are your security passes to floors sixty to sixty-nine. It also gives you roof and maintenance-room access, should you need it.”
“Thanks, boss,” Giraffe said in Cantonese, feigning annoyance.
Both Russell and Giraffe let out a sigh of relief once they were out of earshot. Russell glanced at his wrist.
1:20.
Benita was still going on and on about how much she missed visiting Barcelona in the summer. Russell did not speak, focusing on the elevator ahead. After another twenty steps, the duo stepped into the elevator. Giraffe pushed the button for ninety-nine and the elevator shot up.
Within minutes, they had made it the roof. The typhoon was hitting so hard, however, that the wind blew the rain inside the elevator when the door opened. They stepped out of the elevator and onto the rooftop. They peered into the whipping rain and saw that no more cameras were visible. There was no one else on the roof either.
No surprises. The blueprints were accurate.
“We’re on the roof,” he said into the phone.
“Good luck,” she said before hanging up. Russell dropped the phone into the pocket of his already-soaking-wet cargo pants.
“Let’s go,” Giraffe shouted impatiently through the howling wind. He had already walked about twenty yards ahead towards the door marked exit. The stolen map indicated this door would lead all the way down to Fuengirola’s floor. Russell picked up his pace and caught up with Giraffe.
They arrived at the door within twenty extremely wet seconds. Giraffe opened the door and they both walked in. It opened into a cold concrete staircase zigzagging down. The rain and the natural Hong Kong humidity gave the stairwell a musty smell. A thin layer of dust had formed on each step in front of them. A sign with the number “99” hung on the door in front of them.
They ran down the steps, two at a time. The floors flew by. Six minutes later, they had made it to eighty-three. The beige door stood in front of them, the red LED light on the grey keycard panel dimly glowed in the darkness. Russell looked at his watch.
1:29. Here goes nothing.
He reached into his left pocket and pulled out the Phineas phone. He reinserted the battery and pushed the power button. Instantly, a white light blazed from the display and illuminated the dark stairwell. The phone vibrated briefly before kicking him into the main screen. Once past the splash screen, he saw that the phone already had five bars of reception.
Phineas now knows where I am.
He quickly booted up the keycard application and swiped to the entry labeled “Fuengirola receptionist.” After the phone vibrated again to indicate that the card had activated, he jammed the device against the keycard panel.
The panel emitted a high-pitched beep, followed by a whir, then a flat honking sound. The red light on the keycard reader flashed and flickered briefly before returning to the same solid red.
“That didn’t sound good,” said Giraffe.
Russell pushed at the door. The handle didn’t turn. The door pushed back.
“Still locked,” Russell said grimly.
They had prepared for this. There were a million intervening possibilities that would cause the keycard to fail. Perhaps all of the building’s keycards automatically cycled at set intervals. Perhaps Mauritius had convinced the building staff to reset his floors access points after Russell had visited Fuengirola. Perhaps the receptionist had simply never had access from the interior stairwell.
But their contingency plan involved heading down the side of the tower on the window-washing scaffolding. With the rushing winds and incoming typhoon outside, it was a suicide mission.
Try it again.
He reset the application on his phone and once again primed the receptionist’s keycard. After the familiar vibration, he held his phone against the access panel for two seconds.
The same high-pitched beep.
The same whir.
A mechanical sound in the door.
Then the light turned green.
“Good luck,” said Giraffe, who had already started climbing the stairs back to the service elevator.
Russell nodded to Giraffe before looking back at the door and turning the knob.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Russell scanned the hallway. It was the same as last time. Empty. Mauritius kept minimal staff here. It made sense. A holding company. This office space that shouldn’t even exist. A company that serves no real purpose except to create a complicated business ownership structure. For tax purposes.
He entered the hallway silently and purposefully, heading straight for Mauritius’s office. He passed Elva’s office and the heavy metal security door that led back to the lobby. He walked past the room where they had tried to hold him a few days ago. He came to the place he was looking for. A brass nameplate with “M. Delgado” was affixed to a plate to the left of the large, heavy oak door. The light was off, but the door was slightly ajar. The light being off bothered him. Those kinds of lights are usually timed-off after fifteen minutes. Had Mauritius left for his lunch early?
He looked at his watch. 1:34 p.m. He had less than a half-hour before Mauritius returned. He dialed Benita using the Nokia. “I’m at his office,” he said.
“Copy.”
The inside of the office was similar to Elva’s. Clean and sleek and modern. It was a large office about thirty feet by twenty. Rain lashed the floor-to-ceiling window set at the back of the room. A built-in shelf full of old, vintage books adorned the east wall. The room was minimalist and devoid of any furniture except for a glass-top desk parked near the window and the three chairs that surrounded it. A large flat-screen monitor sat on the desk.
Russell gently shut the door behind him and rushed over to the computer.
“I’m looking at a screen.” Russell bent under the table and fished around in his left pocket for the USB stick. “Attaching the USB stick.” He fumbled the piece into place. “Okay . . . there.” Russell could hear the sound of a keyboard clicking in the background. “Where’s Petri?”
A heavily accented voice chimed in. “Hello, Russell. Let see what we’re looking at.”
Russell watched the monitor on the desk light up to the log-in screen. Then the cursor eerily started moving on its own.
“Connected,” Petri said.
1:39 p.m.
By this time, Russell had already wandered to the east wall and dug a tiny portable wireless video recorder out of his pocket. It was a small cylindrical device no larger than a AAA battery. However, the device recorded and transmitted a high-definition video feed over a cellular connection. Russell pushed a rubber button on the back of the camera and heard a soft beep.
“Recorder on,” he said.
“Copy,” said Benita. A short pause ensued before she said, “Okay, I’m getting the feed.”
“Me too,” said Petri.
“Okay,” Russell said as he looked for a good place to position the camera. He tested a few spots on the bookcase before finding an ideal but inconspicuous vantage point in a small gap above an aging leather copy of Don Quixote. From there, they would have a clear view of Mauritius’s keyboard and monitor.
“Does that work?”
“A little bit to the bottom left,” Benita said.
“Okay. What about now?” Russell said.
“Bingo. It’s a clear feed. Get out of there.”
Russell looked at his wrist. 1:47 p.m. I still have some time.
Russell sat in Mauritius’s chair and looked at the desk. It was barren. There were no drawers or cabinets. There was nothing physical to search. He stood up and walked back over to the bookcase and began to eye the items on the shelves. He saw an assortment of old Spanish books.
La Celestina.
Bodas de sangre.
La colmena
Russell kept looking. If Petri’s search came up dry, this might be their only chance inside Fuengirola. One thing he had learned over the years was to always have a backup. Always have a contingency.
Peeking out from between two volumes of an encyclopedia, he saw a hint of matte black. He took a step forward and pulled it from the shelf. It was a laptop. But not a recent model. It was old and thick. Late-1990s era.
“Petri,” Russell said. “I found something. An old laptop. Seems like it should have been tossed decades ago.”
“Interesting. Could be air-gapped computer,” Petri said.
“What?”
“For network security. Computer never connected to the internet,” said Petri.
“So, if I had really important information, I would store it on this so that no one on the internet could get access to it,” said Russell.
“Like cold storage,” said Benita.
“Da,” replied Petri. “Something like that.”
Russell set the laptop on the desk. He booted it up and the device loaded onto a log-in and password screen. Mauritius’s log-in name was already populated, but the password was not.
“Get out of there,” Benita said, through the Nokia.
“Just let me try something,” Russell replied.
Russell knew that the ideal password is a randomly generated alphanumeric string. But the human mind has problems with memorizing this type of information. Instead, it works better with key phrases. Memories. Easily remembered information. The wife’s birthday. The first name of your oldest cousin. The word password. The greatest and most secure system in the world could be felled by a lazy employee.
Or someone who thought that the laptop would never be found.
Russell type in sixteen characters. No space. All lower case.
projectmilverton
The computer beeped and booped before booting up into a barren desktop with a single digital folder. Russell chuckled over the irony of Mauritius’s weak security.
He clicked the folder and found a single word-processing document entitled “asset ledger,” which he also clicked on. The document had two hundred and ninety-nine pages. After one quick glance at the door, Russell continued to read.
The first page was a headshot of a fortyish Indian man wearing a collared shirt and dark suit with a name and contact number. Underneath the headshot was a single table, written in Courier font.
Name: Avtar Singh Parmar
Value: Investment banker, Political connections in India
Leverage: Skype video recording confirming rape and murder of Italian prostitute
The rest of the section in the document provided vivid details and graphic photos of the murder.
Russell continued scanning the document. There was similar compromising information on a Swiss professor plagiarizing an unpublished article from a deceased colleague. A British politician who had accepted bribes from a large petroleum company for the development of oil rigs in the Persian Gulf. There was an executive-level Canadian border official who had been photographed with his mistress.
Russell gasped as he suddenly came across a familiar face. He scanned the asset’s values and leverage.