Salsbury had spent the morning, as she often did since her retirement two years previously, curled up in her sofa in the family room reading a book. Periodically, however, she enjoyed a brief walk outside to take in some cool air blowing in from the bay. Presently, she stepped off the patio, walking deliberately across her back lawn and into a cluster of trees separating the shore from her lawn. She shivered as a cool breeze blew through, and she instinctively cuffed both hands around a hot mug of coffee she’d brought with her.
A few moments later, she slipped out from behind a last row of hedges and small trees and out onto the beach, the gray expanse of the bay spread out in front of her. To her right, the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge stretched out into gray haze. She was tracing the bridge from the Brooklyn side all the way across to the Staten Island side when she noticed something floating along the beach. She only had to walk a few feet south along the sand before she identified it as a human body. As she neared, she saw that the body was that of a male of average build. It was dressed in formal clothing, a business suit of some kind. It was floating face up, softly rising and falling with the water along the gray and brown rocks. She also noticed a black rectangular object floating a few feet from it. She walked to it and picked it up out of the water.
When she opened it, she saw that it was a wallet. Inside the wallet was a photo of the man, along with a wife and two children. The man was, presumably, the same as the man lying on the beach. A check card in the wallet bore a name: Benjamin Halberstom.
Having already seen more than she cared to, she walked back toward the tree line and found a small clearing, where she dialed emergency services with her cell phone. She would wait there until they arrived.
New York City
Thursday, January 29, 9:32 a.m. EST
Agent Jillian Frank saw the email from Patricia Fields pop into her in-box as soon as it arrived. She clicked on the link, and the encrypted email opened instantaneously. After she accepted the email and waited the second or two it took to decrypt it, she read it through to its completion.
Agent Frank,
Happy to report we uncovered something for you. I was surprised how easy it was. The message contained within Dr. Wu Xiang’s avatar is as follows:
SHANGHAI TAVERN 77 MOTT JAN 30 10 PM
Clicking through the rest of the email, she was able to bring up Agent Jefferies’s digital photos of Xiang’s avatar. As she pulled them up on her screen one by one, she was astonished at the sheer number of integers contained within the avatar. It amazed her how Fields’s team could find the message so quickly.
She picked the phone up and dialed Reardon, who was acting as the lead on the case. They’d need to put together a counter-surveillance team to intercept Xiang at the tavern.
New York City
Thursday, January 29, 6:40 p.m. EST
Patrick Dunne entered Shanghai Tavern at around twenty minutes to seven. This was early enough, theoretically, to not miss anything critical, but late enough to where he wasn’t drawing any attention to himself. He estimated more than three-quarters of the patrons in the busy cafe were of Chinese descent, though there were a few other ethnicities scattered about.
He slipped quietly past several tables through a steady din of voices and the clattering of glasses toward the rear of the tavern. Sitting at a table along the wall, dressed in jeans and a casual shirt, was FBI Agent Jonny Wong, one of the few agents of Chinese ethnicity in the Bureau. Wong didn’t notice him as he approached, his attention wholly focused upon a small portable device he held in his left hand.
Wong finally noticed him as he slid into the chair opposite him at the table. Wong nodded and waved with his free hand.
“Agent Wong—”
“How goes it, Agent Dunne.”
“Not bad. I can’t complain.”
“Congratulations on your commissioning.”
“Thanks, Jonny.”
After having worked in a supervisory role within the FBI’s counterintelligence division for a few years, Dunne had only recently completed new agent training in Quantico, Virginia, and was still on cloud nine.
Dunne knew Wong had only graduated three or four years ago, and he was tempted to inquire about Wong’s experience at the Academy. But, at the moment, there wasn’t time. They both needed to keep an eye out for their target, Dr. Wu Xiang.
Dunne reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a mobile device identical to Wong’s. He sat quietly, flipping through a series of digital photos of Dr. Wu as well as a number of known associates and other people Xiang could potentially be meeting with.
“Any fish in the water?”
“Negative. I’m sure he’ll be here shortly.”
The two agents made small talk for a few minutes. Wong was the first to notice Dr. Wu, and clued Dunne in with a nod of his head.
“There’s your shark,” Wong said.
Dunne watched Dr. Wu cross over to a small table nearer to the front of the tavern and sit down next to another Asian man, also Chinese. The two agents searched through the info in their portables, but each acknowledged that none of their information matched up with the man Dr. Wu was with.
Wong discreetly removed a pair of glasses from his coat pocket and slid them on. The glasses were not prescription glasses but, rather, had been specially designed by the U.S. government for use in reconnaissance. With the portable device he held in his hands, Wong adjusted the lenses as he zoomed in on the face of the man accompanying Dr. Wu. Once the image was clear, Wong pressed a button on the portable to take the photograph. The photo was automatically transmitted via an encrypted channel to the portable device and captured via proprietary U.S. government software, sent to the FBI’s National Security Branch Analysis Center located outside of Washington D.C., and cross-referenced against a host of state and U.S. government databases including the National Crime Information Center, the FBI’s Investigative Data Warehouse, the U.S. State Department, and others. The records included those from the U.S. Treasury Department, State and Homeland Security, and the Federal Bureau of Prisons, as well as records of international travel, hotel bookings, car rentals, and department store transactions.
A few moments later a message appeared on Wong’s portable.
Phua, Youhong; born in Xi’an, China; DOB 10-09-1973; Recent Destinations:
* * *
Beijing, China; England, London, ***CHA EMBASSY PESONNEL***
The ***CHA EMBASSY PERSONNEL*** appeared on the display in red letters. This was distinct from the other characters, which were displayed in green. This marker was to help the agent identify diplomatic personnel. It meant that this individual had official diplomat status within the Chinese embassy and was on file with the U.S. government.
Wong held his portable out for Dunne to see.
The two agents sat patiently as Xiang and Phua Youhong continued their conversation. About twenty minutes later, the two men began preparing to leave the tavern.
“In case they split, do you want Wu Xiang or Phua?” Wong asked.
“I’ll take Phua.”
A few moments later, Xiang rose from the table and exited out the south entrance, while Phua remained. Dunne glanced at Wong to follow Xiang. He watched as Wong slid off as inconspicuously as possible.
Not thirty seconds later, Phua exited out the rear exit. Dunne kept his head down as Phua passed him by before following him out the door.
Dunne slid a set of ear plugs into his ears with receivers in them. Agents Reardon, Cardenas, and Frank were all camped out in a surveillance van a few blocks away. Since they’d identified Phua, they may have identified his cell number by now and, if so, they might be able to track him with his cell phone.
Dunne heard a male voice in the receivers as soon as he had them on.
The voice was Reardon’s.
“Stay on him, Dunne. We don’t have a signal yet.”
Phua was walking at a normal pace—not leisurely, but not hurried either. Dunne trailed him by about thirty meters. S
ince they’d exited the tavern’s rear door, they’d spilled out into a clearing in the middle of several buildings with three large trees and only a smattering of people. Dunne drifted a little further back, being sure to avoid suspicion.
Dunne followed Phua westbound through the clearing and then into a narrow walkway between two more buildings before he cleared into Mulberry Avenue. He dodged the traffic on Mulberry while still keeping an eye on Phua, who’d slipped into another small walkway between two buildings along the Mulberry storefront, on the west side of the street. Phua was walking quickly, and Dunne found himself struggling to keep up. Dunne followed Phua into a narrow parking lot, then a left turn into a narrow alleyway, where he saw Phua balancing atop a fence he’d scaled. Dunne dashed quickly to the fence after Phua had dropped onto the other side. He scaled it as quickly as he could, and dropped back down the other side. For a moment, he thought he’d lost Phua, but he spotted him ahead, walking quickly into another clearing
As Dunne progressed further, he studied his immediate environment. He was surrounded on all sides by multistory buildings containing a mix of businesses and apartments. When Dunne looked up ahead again, Phua had stopped and begun to turn around. When he completed his pivot, the little man stood silent, staring directly at him, a slight grin on his face.
Shit.
Dunne spun on his heels and reached for his pistol, but his hand never made it to the grip. He felt a horrific burst of pain in his left leg and abdomen. He felt himself dropping to the ground, an incapacitating pain in his chest, and struggling to breathe.
As soon as they heard the gunshots, Cardenas and Frank tore out of the surveillance van and sprinted toward where they believed Dunne was located. Reardon stayed in the van on the radio, trying to hail Dunne, who wasn’t responding.
It took Cardenas and Frank a couple of minutes before they, following the commotion, located Dunne lying in the clearing. When they finally forced their way through the throng of people that had encircled Dunne’s body, it was obvious he’d been shot twice, once in his left leg and once in the torso where his heart was. Cardenas bent down to get a pulse.
“He’s gone,” Cardenas said.
“Jeezus! It was a crap shoot for whoever did this,” Frank said.
Frank spun around, intensely studying the immediate environment, her gun drawn. She implored the pedestrians to back away. They retreated slowly.
“No shortage of sight lines. Dunne was a sitting duck. It’s almost like they knew we were here.”
“Either that, or they’re keeping sharpshooters in strategic places waiting to pick us off in case we show up.”
Cardenas called the shooting in to Reardon, who summoned emergency services.
“It doesn’t make sense to me though,” Cardenas said. “Why would they take him out? Shoot to kill?”
Frank sighed deeply. “Who knows? Maybe they’re trying to make a statement. Maybe they didn’t mean to.”
“Rose isn’t going to be happy about this,” Cardenas said, stating the obvious.
“Yeah, neither will Lorren.”
New York City
Friday, January 30, 3:05 p.m. EST
Rose stepped out of the elevator in the headquarters building and walked quickly toward the conference room. A younger man with brown hair that had been buzzed short, dark brown cotton dress slacks, a light brown tweed coat, and horn-rimmed glasses was standing by the entrance.
Rose extended his hand. “Agent Mathiason?”
The man grasped Rose’s hand. “Yes, sir. Reporting for duty.”
“Excellent. Come on in.”
Rose opened the door and Mathiason followed him in.
“Hello, all,” Rose said.
Mathiason continued past Rose’s seat at the head of the table and sat down next to Jillian Frank.
“Guys, this is Van Mathiason. He’s joining our team investigating the Brooklyn Capital case, but will be focusing on Dunne’s shooting. We have a couple of other agents joining in the same capacity as Van who’ll be in and out of the meetings the next few days. Van came to us from the Atlanta office a little over two years ago. Please welcome him onto the team.”
Mathiason nodded curtly.
“Welcome to the team,” Reardon said. The others offered the same.
Mathiason adjusted his glasses. “Thanks, y’all. I look forward to working with you.”
“You’re from the south somewhere, aren’t you?” Pernetta Walker said.
Mathiason smiled as the group broke into quiet laughter. “How could you tell?”
“Just a hunch.”
“I was born and raised in Nashville, Tennessee.”
The group wouldn’t let Mathiason get by without answering a few more questions, which he dutifully answered. His answers revealed that he’d graduated from Vanderbilt University in 1998 before working as a policeman for the Memphis PD for a few years. He’d been accepted for admission and passed through Quantico in 2005, and had been working crimes in the Criminal Investigation Division in the Atlanta office until 2009, at which time he’d been promoted to New York
After a few moments, Cardenas got them back on task with the obvious question, “Do you have a status on Dunne, Agent Mathiason?”
“Certainly,” Mathiason said. “As you’d expect, we have agents combing through Dunne’s home, vehicle, and everywhere else. Thus far, we’ve found nothing that would indicate anything other than the obvious: that his shooting resulted from the reconnaissance he was doing related to this investigation. His funeral, I guess, is next week. The site and time are yet to be determined.”
Walker said, “Any theories on why he was shot?”
“Given the circumstances under which the shooting occurred, I’ll reiterate that it appears he was shot by a person, or persons, intent on protecting this Chinese national, Youhong Phua. From an investigative standpoint, as you all know, we have to examine all possibilities. Agent Dunne was still attached to two other cases that were carryovers from his stint as supervisor of one of our counterintelligence units. I do not believe his shooting was tied in any way to these other cases, nor to his personal life. As to why he may have been shot by Chinese nationals here in New York? I’ll admit I still have a lot of work to do getting caught up on this investigation into these abductions of Brooklyn Capital personnel, not to mention all of the political and economic implications of this. I’ll be spending a lot of time over the next few days catching up on the intel reports, as I know y’all have been doing as well.”
“Are we going to detain Phua and question him?” Reardon asked.
Mathiason was about to speak, but Rose interrupted.
“Both Lorren and myself have been discussing this very question at great length over the past few hours. As you all know, or should know, Phua is a registered member of the Chinese embassy delegation here in New York. As such, he’s afforded certain immunities. To be more specific, Phua is immune from prosecution from any acts which violate U.S. or New York state criminal law, and he is immune from acts which violate civil law with certain limited exceptions. We could apprehend Mr. Phua and question him as a witness to Dunne’s shooting. However, recall that, as part of the immunity he has with being a member of the Chinese embassy, Phua is also immune from any requirements to provide evidence as a witness. Thus, we feel the information we could get from such a questioning would be extremely limited, at best. For this reason, we feel that it may be more useful for our investigation into the abductions of Brooklyn Capital’s employees to not approach Phua at this time. Instead, we’re electing to place surveillance on him. We’re going to watch him very closely and see if he makes a mistake at some point. We can always bring him in later if we need to.”
Rose paused for a moment when Pernetta Walker spoke up. Her tone of voice reflected obvious frustration. “Frustrating that we can’t do anything with him. What’s the purpose of this immunity, anyway?”
“It’s rooted in international law,” Rose said. “Specifically, it’s all
about the concept of reciprocity. Our treatment of diplomats visiting the U.S. has a direct affect upon how our own diplomats are treated overseas. If we treat them poorly, outside the boundaries governed by the law, then we risk having our diplomats treated poorly as well. The fragile relationship with China and the political implications of all of this are playing a significant part in this as well.”
Rose paused to see if there were any further questions about Phua, but the room remained silent. Rose said, “If we can find out who killed Benjamin Halberstom, we might also find out why Dunne was shot.”
“Halberstom’s dead?” Cardenas said.
“Affirmative. His body was found washed ashore yesterday afternoon by a lady just north of the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. He was wearing the same suit he wore to work the day he disappeared.”
“How’d he die?” Frank asked.
“Forensics hasn’t finished with the body, but I’ve been told the preliminary belief is that it was asphyxiation via the use of some sort of leather rope.”
“Any word as to the whereabouts of his wife and kids?” Reardon growled.
“None.”
“With the way the currents work in the bay, assuming he was already dead, he was likely dropped into the drink somewhere south in the Lower Bay. The currents usually run south to north, from the lower bay to the upper,” Cardenas offered.
“I’ve met with a specialist on the bay currents,” Rose said. “He believes, based on the tides and a number of other factors, he was likely dropped into the water from a vessel that was afloat in the bay, as opposed to dumped in off the shore.
“The other thing,” Rose continued, “is that we found a letter with Halberstom’s body identical to the one that was sent to CEO Monroe. It has the exact same text. It’s a ransom demand for Brooklyn Capital’s research data.”
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