Never Forget

by Richard Davis

  Ellen paused again. ‘In fact, this suggests that the Consul General, Hao Ting, is insisting the visit will go ahead anyway; that Gu will just be hosted in the Consulate’s west wing, and it’ll be business as usual. Ting’s meeting Gu at San Fran Airport in forty-five minutes.’

  ‘But surely this is the Consul’s doing,’ said Scott emphatically, pointing at his screen. ‘Yuelin has put the squeeze on Ting, and he’s behind this.’

  I looked at the screen, and read the page he now had up: Hao Ting. Consul General to the Chinese Consulate in San Francisco. Production, Distribution of Child Pornography. And all at once, everything clicked.

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Of course Hao’s implicated. Clearly he facilitated the security flaw that allowed these protestors to stage this lock-in, while undoubtedly making it look unintentional. But there’s more. This is where the nationalists have been planning to stage their accidental-looking fire. If, in the room above the space being occupied, they’ve put something innocuous yet flammable – say, drums of cooking oil – it’d only take a spark, triggered by an external detonator, and made to look like an electrical fault, to get things started. Within five minutes, there’d probably be enough heat to burn the protestors alive; after three more, enough fire to cave the roof. And I imagine nobody outside would even realize anything was amiss for at least two minutes.

  ‘But the real genius is staging it at the Consulate. Under the Vienna Convention, the Consulate enjoys extraterritorial status, meaning nobody can enter without Chinese permission – even if there’s a fire. So there’s nothing US authorities will be able to do to stop a fast-acting fire, since they ain’t gonna to get permission in the three minutes between spotting the fire and it turning lethal. What’s more, this status prevents us tipping off the authorities before the fire gets underway; because a rescue team also won’t be allowed to enter without permission. And in fact, asking for permission would almost certainly tell Yuelin her plan’s been compromised, and probably cause her to trigger the fire early.’

  ‘So we’re on our own,’ said Scott darkly.

  ‘But it’s also the symbolism,’ said Ellen. She was leaning against the table, looking pale as a sheet. ‘Yuelin’s father was killed at a Chinese embassy in an attack she believes was intentional but made to look accidental. So to kill her enemies in America, in the Chinese consulate, in an attack made to look accidental – it’s poetic justice.’

  We were silent a beat; then I said:

  ‘But why delay the fire? If I had to guess, I’d say she’s waiting for Minxin to arrive. That way, nobody would ever suspect it was intentional, since a high-ranker was inside. Yet given the size of a Consulate, he’d be in zero danger on the opposite side of the building.’

  ‘It’s more complicated than that,’ said Ellen, who was once again interacting with the computer she was standing by. ‘Just searched Minxin, and found a family tree: he is, in fact, Yuelin’s second cousin.’

  This revelation made me wince. ‘There’s no way he can know what Yuelin’s doing.’ I shook my head. ‘It’s got to be part of her cover. After all, if her cousin was in the building, she’d be the last person anyone’d point the finger at.’

  I strode to Ellen’s side. ‘Let’s see the CNN page.’

  Ellen clicked the page, hit refresh. Suddenly, interpolated among the text were two photos. One: the protestors in the building. Two: the police presence that’d formed outside.

  I studied the first one carefully, forcing myself to look at the faces of these innocent youngsters in the line of fire. Their earnest, eager faces. Sitting ducks.

  I then looked at Ellen. She was tough-as-nails, but she was shaking like a leaf. I understood what she was feeling: the terror of abject powerlessness.

  Only, we weren’t powerless. We could act.

  I put an arm around Ellen. An arm that said: you’re not alone, we can do this. Then I let her go and said authoritatively:

  ‘Right, we’re not gonna just lay down and die. We’re gonna take action. Ellen, you said Hao’s picking Minxin up in forty-five minutes. Well, since we can’t get inside the Consulate, I say we ambush these fuckers and take them hostage. There’ll probably be increased security at the Terminal, but I doubt they’ll lay on a police escort; so I reckon we can get them while they’re en route from the airport. And then we barter with Yuelin for the detonator, using either the short-wave radio frequency we found in Vegas, or the frequency Hao’s been communicating with her on. She’ll be less interested in recovering Hao, because though a confession from him could compromise her deniability, she’d have to presume we’d recorded a confession before returning him. But her cousin – he may give us some leverage. Okay?’

  Ellen’s mouth was gaping. ‘Could that work?’

  ‘We’ve got to try it. And we need to act fast, because the notion Yuelin’s waiting for Minxin to arrive is speculation, and shit could hit the fan any second.’

  ‘We can’t do this, Saul, we can’t!’ Scott was leaning forward in his seat, and looked at me with exhausted eyes. He was crumbling under the pressure, and I knew he’d have to take a back-seat.

  ‘Listen Scott: Ellen and I are gonna do this – and I’m gonna get Vann to head to the Consulate to keep an eye on things there. All I need from you is a discreet location to hold Hao while we make the swap.’

  Scott pinched the bridge of his nose. After a long moment, he said:

  ‘169 Stillman Street. A small two-story building – storage downstairs, office up – on a road barely anyone goes down. It’s definitely empty: it was, till very recently, used by SAIC, but they just vacated. It’s just west of South Park, directly opposite the I-80; but since the Interstate’s elevated, it’s effectively facing a concrete block. And there’s a roll-up door that’d let you drive straight in.’

  ‘Perfect,’ I said. ‘While we head to the airport, you head there and hold the fort. And take the USB, too.’

  Scott took a deep breath. ‘Okay,’ he said with a resolute nod. I was relieved. With the odds so stacked against me, I needed Scott to keep a level head.

  ‘And another thing: in those chat logs, does Hao ever disclose a cell number? I saw that Duncan did at one point.’

  Scott turned to the document and ran a search. A second later: ‘There’s a cell number here, though god knows if it’s for a cell he carries with him regularly.’

  I hummed. ‘It may potentially be useful to contact Hao directly during this operation, so probably worth storing that number. Can I use your phone? Mine’s been compromised.’

  Scott nodded, then took out an iPhone, saved the number to its memory, and handed it over. ‘It’s under “Hao.”’

  I nodded. Then I took a walkie-talkie out my pocket – already pre-set to our friendly frequency – and pushed the button.

  ‘Vann?’

  He answered immediately. ‘Let me guess: you called it quits, and went for breakfast?’

  I smiled inwardly. Trap Vann in a room with a lion and he’d still not lose his cool.

  ‘Not quite, Vann. The situation’s gone from bad to worse.’

  ‘Shoot,’ he said. In the next thirty seconds, I told him the whole shebang.

  ‘So you want me to head down there, and call at the first sign of trouble?’ he said.

  ‘Right. But also – try and figure out a point of entry into the building. The authorities won’t enter the building in an event of a fire, so you may be their only hope.’

  Vann blew into the phone. ‘Heading there now: on Manek’s bike.’ A pause. ‘Knock ’em dead, Saul.’

  * * *

  After I’d pocketed the walkie-talkie, I commandeered Ellen’s computer, and got up a satellite view of the main-road leading from San Fran International into town – Bayshore Freeway. Soon enough, I found what I was looking for: a large multi-story car-park, maybe a mile from the airport, whose upper-stories gave a clear view of Bayshore. Immediately, I hatched a plan. I would head to the car-park, and discreetly prepare a spot to
take aim at the road with the VSS. At the same time, Ellen would head to the airport, linger in the taxi-pickup area, and get a visual on the car. Then, using the walkie-talkies on our friendly frequency, she’d relay the details, so that when they fell into my line of fire, I could shoot out their tires.

  Bayshore was as well suited to our plan as we could hope for. It had a speed limit of thirty-five mph, and was often slower due to traffic – and this was vital, since if you shoot a car’s tires over thirty, the driver’s likely to lose control. But while this all seemed in our favor, we knew there was still a hell of a lot that could go wrong. On one hand, there was no guarantee there’d be traffic, in which case, there was no guarantee they’d stick to thirty-five. On the other, there could be too much traffic, in which case, there was no guarantee I’d get a clear shot.

  But provided everything went to plan, and I did manage to force the car to pull over, then one of two things would happen. Either the phone-number I had for Hao would work, and I’d be able to explain to him that he and Wu had to get out their car and get into Ellen’s, which will have pulled up behind theirs. Or, if I was unable to contact Hao, Ellen would need to approach their car on foot, and explain the situation herself…

  Again, there was a lot that could go wrong, not least because this was a huge ask for an untrained civilian. But Scott wasn’t up to it. And there simply wasn’t time to sub in Vann.

  We agreed that Ellen and I would use Scott’s car and Vann’s rental respectively, while Scott would head to Stillman on foot, and pick up a DVD Camcorder en route, so he could record a potential confession from Hao. Then we shut down the computers and left.

  Chapter 24

  Sunday, December 12, 9:57 a.m.

  I arrived at the parking lot – a huge concrete affair, over five stories – at just before ten a.m. And since Ellen was too early to head to the pick-up area – you could only linger there for maybe ten minutes before arousing suspicion – she tailed me up to the fifth floor. And fortunately, because this was a long-stay car-park, and most people tried the lower stories first, there weren’t many folk milling about.

  Before long, I found what I needed: a space that let me park side-on to Bayshore, so the road was framed in the passenger windows. Then I got out of the car, and walked to where Ellen had parked a couple of hundred yards away, in Scott’s Volkswagen Jetta.

  I got into her passenger seat.

  ‘You feeling okay?’

  She gave a thoughtful nod. ‘I can do this.’

  ‘You can.’

  My gut felt liquid. The plan was crazy, but I had to project calm.

  We sat a few minutes in silence. Presently I said:

  ‘Once they’re in your car, remember to put them in the handcuffs straight away.’ I paused. ‘If you give me a thumbs up, I’ll drive down, pull in behind you, get in the front passenger seat and we drive off together.

  ‘But if, for whatever reason, you feel you can’t hang around, give me an okay sign’ – I made the gesture to demonstrate – ‘and leave. I’ll meet you at Stillman.’

  I was silent a spell. ‘It’ll probably take about four minutes for me to get down there; but if things get tricky while you’re waiting for me, then leave.’

  Ellen nodded, then looked at me carefully. ‘Why have you done all of this for me?’

  I understood what she was getting at. Although, in the immediate sense, I was obviously doing this for the hostages, she was asking why I’d let myself get roped in in the first place. The image of the young girl in the gazebo and the young hacker in Vegas flashed through my mind. Then I thought back to the awful monotony of drifting around California with no purpose, and that hunger I’d felt. The hunger for action; for direction.

  But really it came down to the woman sitting next to me.

  She was worn-down, tired, dirty. But with her intense brown eyes under her scruffy fringe, her slender body, and her distinctive oversized ears, she still looked pretty as all hell.

  But more to the point, this was not some two-dimensional individual acting purely out of revenge. She’d been standing up for the little guy long before we’d met, and I knew it was this moral code – as much as any thirst for vengeance – that had been driving her.

  She was a fighter, a woman of principle, and I respected her.

  And whereas I was a trained fighter, an individual uniquely desensitized to enormous violence, she was not. And that made her willingness to put herself in harm’s way infinitely more courageous. Infinitely more selfless.

  ‘Ellen, I can think of nobody more deserving of my help.’

  She smiled a dazzling smile, and in that moment, I wanted nothing more than to lean forward and kiss this beautiful woman; wanted nothing more than to drive into the distance with her by my side, and forget this whole goddamn mess.

  Maybe the glint in her eye meant she felt the same way – and maybe not. But of course it was immaterial: it wasn’t an option.

  I squeezed her hand and gave her a melancholy smile; then I went and retrieved the valise and the backpack from my trunk, put them in Ellen’s, and withdrew the handcuffs.

  I went to the driver’s window. Handed her the cuffs.

  ‘And you’ve got your Walther and walkie-talkie?’

  She patted her pocket, to signify the Walther, and pointed to the walkie-talkie in the holder by the gear stick.

  ‘You better make a move. Good luck.’

  She leaned out the window, took my face in her hands, and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. The next instant, she’d reversed out of her spot, and was gone.

  Feeling suddenly re-energized and focused, I got into the back seat of the Chrysler, and got to work. First, I grabbed a car mat from the front, and, to conceal my activity, pushed it up against the window facing into the car-park. Next, I took the suitcase containing the VSS, and built it in thirty seconds. Finally, I opened the window facing the road, laid across the back seats on my stomach, and leveled the muzzle out the window; and, as a result of the waist-high car-park wall, this gave me a clear view of the road.

  Just as it had been when I’d headed to the car-park, the northbound lane of Bayshore was looking good: a fairly steady flow of traffic, average speeds of twenty-five mph. And while it was clear – as I’d suspected – that getting a clean shot might be tricky, I knew it might’ve been harder. There were two lanes as opposed to three. And since the car-park was to the east of Bayshore, and the target was set to be traveling north, I didn’t have to shoot across the traffic moving in the opposite direction.

  I kept very still, and concentrated on my breathing; concentrated on putting my body in a state that would best serve my aim.

  Three minutes later, my walkie-talkie, which was just under my chin, came to life.

  ‘Here.’

  I’d told Ellen to keep it brief. Didn’t want her to attract attention by talking too obviously into a walkie-talkie. But already the worries were exploding in my head. It was only too possible that she’d somehow fail to spot the men. Or maybe she’d see them, but fail to get a sufficient look at their car.

  Or maybe there’d simply be a delay of some kind, and Ellen would be forced to move before Minxin exited the airport…

  I pushed these thoughts aside. It was out of my control. I just had to focus on keeping myself together…

  Suddenly, the walkie-talkie came to life again.

  ‘Black Car. Mercedes. 2AQC314. One driver. Hao and Minxin in back.’

  ‘Copy.’

  ‘They’re heading off now.’

  I took a deep breath. They were a mile away, but at twenty-five mph, they’d be here in just over two minutes.

  I surveyed the horizon through the optics. And as I sifted through and vetted the stream of vehicles, spending a fraction of an instant on each one, I started counting: 30 seconds, 60, 90, 120, 150…

  Then I hit 180, and still no Black Mercedes. And I could feel the sweat prickling through my scalp.

  Then, with a painful wave of relief,
I saw it. Saw the driver. Two figures behind. The number plate.

  It was in the left-hand lane, which made for a tougher shot. But it was moving maybe twenty mph. And though the left-hand lane meant vehicles in the way, there was a large area of tarmac between the north and southbound lanes, painted white, which the driver would undoubtedly pull into, and would make Ellen’s job a far sight easier.

  I tried to take aim immediately, but couldn’t make it work: still too far away. But then, a few seconds later, it’d drawn nearer and as I hovered over the red car that was blocking the shot, I placed my finger on the trigger in preparation…

  And then a short glimpse of the front-right wheel. I exhaled, ready to pull the trigger. But as my finger started to jerk, the red car blocked my view again.

  Keep calm, I told myself. Moving targets. Not easy. Still time.

  But not much time.

  I continued hovering my aim as the Merc moved past me, and started moving away. Now a van was blocking my view. And with my whole being, I willed the van driver to squeeze the gas. Willed him to accelerate. Then, after a painful couple of seconds, it happened: a space freed up before the van, and it overtook the Mercedes on the inside lane…

  Now.

  I jerked the trigger, aiming just in front of where the back-right wheel of the Mercedes was in that moment. Then a sickening second – a breathless, interminable second – as the bullet smashed silently through the air…

  Bull’s-eye.

  I watched with incredulity as the bullet hit home and the wheel immediately deflated. And just as I’d hoped, the driver – after a short struggle to keep control of the vehicle – pulled over into the no-man’s land between the two lanes.

  It was an impossible shot. Millions to one. What’s more, no other road-user reacted. They’d all just assumed it was a routine break-down.