The Mac Ambrose Series: 1-3 (Boxed Set)

by HN Wake

  “What do you mean?”

  “Most of what we do here is not sexy.”

  “So Josh’s sexy shit made you all look bad?”

  Esposito nodded. “Often.”

  “What kind of things were sexy?”

  “Gossip, so-and-so was screwing the Prime Minister, which was a liability since she had ties to China. That kind of stuff.”

  “China?”

  “There’s all kinds of Chinese money in this country.”

  That fact didn’t mean much to her. She moved on. “You ever do his travel?”

  “Nah, he did most of his own.”

  “Shipman mentioned diving.”

  “Yeah, Josh liked heading off to the beaches. That’s where I’d start if I were you. He’s probably holed up with some woman.”

  Her gut clenched. She had no claims on Josh, but the image of him frolicking on a beach with a woman in a string bikini turned her mouth sour. She forced the image out of her mind and assessed Esposito. She’d gotten what she could from him. “Okay, thanks. Anything else?”

  He handed her the cardboard box. “He asked for one of these a few weeks back. It might come in handy for you as well. I dunno.”

  Inside was a six-inch, grey, handheld device with a thick antennae and a wide display screen. It looked like a chunky cell phone. It was a GPS locator. She closed the lid. “Have you got a residence address?”

  Esposito opened the folder. Inside was a single piece of paper with an address. “It’s over in the Bukit Tunku neighborhood.” He handed it to her. “Listen, Mac, the Government of Malaysia does not know you are here. And they sure as heck don’t want you here even if you are only looking into one of your own. They are very prickly about the whole espionage thing.”

  She stood, picked up her courier bag, shoved in the handheld and the paper, and headed for the door. Her annoyance was turning into anger. These guys were supposed to be playing on the same team, and all they had done was whine about Josh. It had gotten under her skin.

  She gave him a disparaging look. “Esposito, I’ve heard it all before. Feel free to say you don’t know a thing about me. I, for one, am just doing my job.”

  4

  Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia

  The sun was just setting over the city’s horizon as the taxi pulled up to the entrance of the high-rise Damansari Heights, locally known as the Expat Ritz. The building was grand in proportions with a massive glass wall running along one side of a huge lobby. Inside, pale-yellow marble tiles spread out to a far wall that opened onto a jungle retreat and pool. Leather armchairs and couches sat in groupings on dark modern carpets.

  Mac pulled open the huge glass door and eyed the bank of elevators just beyond a large desk with a young Malaysian receptionist. Walking purposefully toward the elevators, she fumbled in her purse, pretending to look for keys. The receptionist let her pass, unwilling to stop a confident expat.

  Mac rode the elevator to the fifth floor and used her picks to unlock the door to Josh’s apartment. The curtains on the high windows in the living room rippled in the new disturbance. She closed the door gently, pulling on black leather gloves from her courier bag.

  The apartment was surprisingly large, roughly two thousand feet of the same yellow marble as in the lobby, and immaculate. While the furniture was modern and probably expensive, it lacked any real style. A huge television sat on a stand in the far corner, flanked by two, tan couches. The open plan kitchen was stocked with stainless steel appliances.

  It was the perfect apartment for an oil executive.

  She imagined him stepping through, dropping his keys and wallet after a long day, and walking back into the kitchen to pour himself a bourbon. He would swish the dark liquid in the glass, clinking the ice.

  The master bedroom was unremarkable. A white duvet was spread across a king-sized bed with four huge white pillows that had been perfectly plumped--probably by a maid.

  The only photo was framed and on the bedside table. By the faded coloring, it appeared to be circa mid-1970s and had captured a young Josh with a sister and a brother. She recognized that gleam in his eye--he had flirted with the camera even at a young age.

  It was interesting that a spy kept a photo of his family on display. All her photos were locked away in a storage unit in the US.

  The en-suite bathroom proved of little interest. The medicine cabinet held only Berocca and Advil. He used the soap in a bar and a shaving brush. She sniffed the soap bar. A clean bergamot. She noticed a cologne bottle resting on the right side of the sink. She recognized the scent and it made her stomach twist.

  She had run into Josh Halloway a week after the US Consulate networking drinks. This time, she had been out with a few of her new banking colleagues in the rowdy Lan Kwai Fong neighborhood where the hillside cobblestone street was crowded with happy hour. They had been standing in a nautically-themed bar with portholes for windows and seaman’s rope wall hangings when Josh had walked in.

  She recognized him immediately.

  One of her colleagues called out, “Josh Halloway! In Lan Kwai Fang!”

  It had been the first time she had heard his name.

  Twenty minutes later, he neared their group.

  Her colleague introduced them. “Mac Ambrose meet Josh Halloway.”

  Josh had taken her hand with a hint of mischief in his eyes, and held it a touch too long as he scanned her face. She felt as if he had just looked into her soul. This subtlety of charm was rare, a combination of natural ease and learned skills. His voice was gravelly. “Mac, do you work at Legion Bank too?”

  “I’m in the risk department.” Her voice sounded timid.

  “Interesting”—he grinned wider—“I’m in oil.”

  This close, he was remarkably good looking. There were flecks of gold scattered in his hazel eyes and his skin was almost dewy. He grinned at her as if reading her mind.

  She was immediately embarrassed and felt the heat rising on her cheeks. Oh my god, she thought. Am I blushing?

  He asked, “You based in Hong Kong?”

  She recovered well. “Yup. You?”

  “I live in KL.”

  “What’s it like?” Really? She couldn’t come up with a better question?

  “It’s fine,” he said. “It’s a big Asian city. Cleaner than most. Very well behaved. I definitely don’t complain. I’ve got a good job. I play hard. They take care of me. I do what they want me to do.” He had that entitled grin of someone who had been pampered too long by in international company.

  She normally didn’t like people who relished the high life. She assumed they were superficial, shallow. But she sensed he had depth, self awareness, and an easy ability to laugh at himself. She asked, “Oil? What do you do?”

  “Oh, not much. I advise folks on it. On where to find it. I explain the obstacles. They drill, they ship, the world consumes, and the company makes money. Cha ching, cha ching. Supply and demand.”

  Was that sarcasm? Was he trying to be provocatively shallow? The oil industry was a lot more complex than that. And a lot more controversial.

  “So you must come to Hong Kong a bit.” In her ear, the statement sounded dumb, clumsy. What was wrong with her?

  “A couple times a month. I was here two weeks ago.”

  Actually, she thought, it was just last week at the reception for the Consulate General.

  Watching her, he narrowed his eyes. “No, I think it was last week. Crap. My life is too hectic.”

  It was almost as if he had again read her mind. She shook off the thought. Her spy skills were bleeding into her personal life.

  From across the room, someone called his name.

  He took her hand again, said softly, “Lovely to meet you, Mac.”

  Down a short hallway, a second bedroom was an office. A large white desk sat flush against the floor to ceiling window, looking out over a green park. The desk was clean. There were no personal effects. No notebooks. No books.

  The first three drawers he
ld only office supplies. The bottom drawer held a small ceramic bowl with four keys. Three of the keys looked like duplicates to the apartment locks. The fourth key was for an older-make car.

  She slipped the car key into her pocket.

  She silently moved back to the living room. Anyone who entered the apartment would have to walk between the kitchen and the hallway. She pulled a chair over to the opposite wall, stepped up, pulled out a tiny hidden camera from her bag, pulled off the sticky taped back, and pressed it into position high on the wall. It blended against the beige paint.

  She jumped down and pulled out her laptop. She logged into an Agency cloud server and found the feed. The camera was working: on the screen she could see herself standing at the table. She set the feed to record, closed the laptop, and slid it back in her courier bag along with her gloves.

  She assessed the apartment for the last time. It was pristine. Too pristine. It was as if no one really lived here. No dirty dishes, no dirty laundry, no strange smells, no knick knacks. No, she thought, this isn’t his only home.

  The silent, dark car park in the basement smelled of leaking gasoline. At the top of the ramp, a security hut guarded a roll bar garage door.

  Looking for an older car, she headed down into the parking structure past a bevy of expensive, new cars. In the third to last parking spot, a professional cover was thrown over what appeared to be a small sports car. She pulled back the cover to reveal a black Porsche 911 Classic in mint condition. Even the silver hubcaps were shiny and clean. Josh evidently took good care of this car.

  She opened the small, angled trunk. It was empty.

  She settled into the driver’s seat. It smelled like an old car—a mix of horse saddle and gasoline. She imagined he had a pair of driving gloves, and reached over to open the tiny glove compartment. Sure enough, a pair of soft, well-worn brown gloves sat on a pile of folded maps. Under the maps was a ball of receipts, four which read Hon Kee in the soft, faint print of a basic cashier machine.

  She pushed all the receipts into her jean pocket, unbent out of the car, locked the door, and draped the cover back over it.

  Maybe you’re at your safe house, Josh. Nice and safe. Playing hooky from Langley.

  5

  Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia

  From the taxi’s back seat, Mac showed the driver the Hon Kee receipt. When he didn’t recognize the name, she nodded toward his radio, suggesting he call it in. He reluctantly radioed the dispatcher, got a rapid-fire response, and took off immediately.

  Fifteen minutes later, she was standing in the middle of the old city center on a cobblestone street lined with small restaurants and a bustling dinner crowd. Cafes had expanded their footprint by erecting peaked tents over red, plastic chairs crammed around white plastic tables. Each table was topped with holders for chopsticks and outsized soup spoons, carafes of chili, and soy sauce. Brightly-colored photographs depicted the meals on offer.

  She breathed in the smells and felt at home.

  She took off down the sidewalk for half a block before slowing. No one matched her pace. She stepped under the overhang of a small cafe, leaned back against the wall, and mentally muted the ambient street noise. She cast her eyes slowly left then right. Everyone was Asian. Everyone appeared to be civilian.

  While she had learned counter-surveillance techniques at the Farm three years ago, she had learned to rely heavily on her natural instincts during the time since. So far tonight, she hadn’t felt any warning, no individual stood out in the crowd, no hunch forced a look over her shoulder, no hair raised on her neck.

  Inside a cafe, she showed the old counter-lady the receipt. The woman squinted, nodded, said “Haya, haya,” pointing half way down the block.

  Hon Kee’s neon sign glared above a well-lit restaurant. Inside a woman stood behind a high glass-fronted counter with vats of porridge and huge bowls of chicken, noodles, and scallions. Steam rose around her.

  An older man showed Mac a seat and she ordered a Malaysian “pulled” coffee. He returned a minute later to pour the coffee between two tin pitchers, his body swaying left and right as the hot caramel-colored liquid streamed through the air. As he set down the cup, she showed him the photo of Josh. The waiter raised an eyebrow in a telltale giveaway, but remained stoic.

  She smiled and set a hundred dollar bill on the table.

  He slipped the money in his pocket with a quick glance around the restaurant then held up a sign for her to wait. Out on the street, he called over a young kid no more than eight years old, leaned down, and spoke into his ear. The boy nodded for Mac to follow down the main street.

  Strong, pungent smells wafted through the breezeless night. Stalls were crammed full of consumer goods: electric flyswatters, pink and blue backpacks, plastic shoes, and comforters bound in plastic wrap. Hawkers were non plussed as they passed: this part of KL was a tourist destination.

  Josh had chosen well. His presence would not raise suspicions.

  Up ahead, the boy turned between two stalls and rushed down a narrow alley. On either side, smoke belched from restaurant exhaust fans. At the alley’s far opening there was a small park with three huge trees and four benches crammed between buildings. The sound of the city receded.

  The boy pointed toward a corner, painted staircase to an apartment door on the second floor of a shop house then disappeared back down the alley.

  On the landing, she picked the door’s lock and stepped into the quiet, still warmth.

  This time, the whole apartment smelled like Josh.

  It had only been another week before she had next seen saw Josh Halloway in Hong Kong. She was sitting at the window counter of her favorite Vietnamese restaurant in Central, watching the evening commuters stroll home along Wellington Street. It was 8 p.m. and she was catching a quick bite before heading home. The restaurant was packed and noisy.

  Suddenly, Josh and three other businessmen were walking by the window. She froze, chopsticks in mid air. He glanced her way and immediately recognized her. She slowly set down the chopsticks and swallowed.

  Josh asked his friends to wait, pushed his way in through the queue at the door, and approached her with a big laugh. “Mac Ambrose!”

  She felt caught—red-handed—eating alone at a boisterous restaurant. She gave him a tentative smile. “It is. How are you Josh Halloway from KL?”

  “This is funny, running into each other.” The timbre of his voice was baritone, seductive.

  “It is.” She was hesitant. She didn’t want to like him, to hope that he was interested.

  “Remember when we met in Lan Kwai Fong?”

  She nodded. Uh, oh, where was this going?

  “I went back looking for you, but you had gone,” he admitted with a wolfish grin. “I was going to ask you out.”

  She raised her eyebrows as her heart raced. He wanted to go on a date with her? She didn’t know what to say to that. He had stunned her into silence.

  “But I missed you.” His smile was teasing.

  “Oh yeah?” She was at a loss for words.

  He helped her out with a funny line. “We can’t keep just running into each other.”

  She fumbled with a coy response. “Funny, I thought we were having a fine time.” It sounded tinny, embarrassingly so.

  “What, just running into each other?” He pushed on self assuredly. “Nah, that’s like the peanuts on the bar before you sit down to eat. Totally unsatisfying.”

  Gulp. She had to play with the metaphor. “That sounds unusually sexual.” There. That sounded cool. Finally.

  “Does it?” His grin was mischievous. “So, you’re going to go out with me.”

  “Am I?” Despite her heartbeat notching higher, the truth was, she wasn’t sure. She didn’t let a lot people in to her inner circle. And the fact that he kept popping up in her life seemed alarmingly like a romantic movie. Anything related to romance sent her defense mechanisms into overdrive. But he was so exceptionally intriguing.

  He caught her hesita
tion. “I promise I don’t bite.”

  She laughed at another veiled sexual innuendo, delaying her decision.

  He pressed her. “Wine? Later tonight? I’ve gotta go do this work dinner, but I can meet you later. Up in Soho? I’ll get us nice and drunk on expensive Burgundy.”

  She had to hand it to him, he had chutzpah. Her curiosity won out. “Sure,” she finally conceded. The air left her lungs.

  “I’ll see you at ten at the wine bar on Staunton.”

  He joined his group and disappeared into the crowds along Wellington Street.

  In the darkness of Josh’s safe house, she could make out that the light switch by the door was weathered, round--a throwback to when the wires in the walls ran copper. She switched it on.

  The apartment was old school colonial. Shiny, ancient hardwood floors stretched out across a narrow main room with three large windows along the back wall. An old ceiling fan circled in slow loops, lost in an eternal cycle. An oriental rug ran diagonal across the room under three teak and leather plantation chairs.

  This is so Josh, she thought. This is so The Year of Living Dangerously.

  She closed the door behind her and listened for any sound. The apartment seemed empty.

  Maybe he was out getting dinner. But just in case, she started her investigation. She pulled out her digital camera and took a series of photos from every angle in the living room.

  The galley kitchen’s sink and tiles predated World War II. The cabinets had antique mesh fronts. In contrast, ice tumbled from the ice machine inside a brand new stainless steel refrigerator. Inside, the wine section was full.

  She pulled open the cabinet under the sink. The trash smelled rotten by at least a week. She pulled out a clean, black trash bag and flattened it on the floor. Then she lifted and dumped the trash out: six leaky, brown banana peels were hosting mold; empty food cans reeked of rot; and at least seven coffee filters had soured.

  This wasn’t a good sign. If he had gone off deliberately, he would have cleaned out the trash can.