“Jesus, that’s disturbing. What were you thinking?”
“Honestly, I was just looking for the fastest, most practical way to hide the body. But after that, I kind of liked the idea. It has a Shakespearean quality to it, don’t you think?”
“More like Poe and no, I don’t like it at all. Some people would say it has a ritual murder quality to it, which is something neither the Chinese nor the organization I work for is going to think is a good thing.”
“The only murderer is Huang. He shot an unarmed woman in the head. I killed the little bastard with his own knife. I was unarmed on an errand to pay my respects to Cheryl. That’s not murder— that’s self-defense. And I think it’s only fitting that he spends eternity ass up in a stone box with a Buddhist god and his elephant sitting on top of him.”
“That’s troubling. I may have to get you another psych eval.”
“Fine, but bring back the Schneeberger girl, enough with the old women.”
“That’s Doctor Schneeberger.”
“That’s the one. Let’s get back to the point. Huang was part of a team. I took out a Chinese tail before I encountered him. They should have figured out he was killed; they should’ve been covering his back. Why are they asking for him now?”
“There are a lot of question marks about what happened in Zurich. The Chinese had a team following you from the time you left Paphos. But I don’t think Huang was part of that team. I think he went maverick to take you out. The Chinese don’t do subtle. If they had an official kill order on you instead of a surveillance order it would have been like the Bahamas with lots of foot soldiers and not just Huang and one guy tailing you.”
“It felt like killing me was personal to him.”
“I think you wanted him dead. This was personal for you. So personal that every time you visit Cheryl’s memorial, you’ll be reminded of exacting your revenge.”
“That’s pretty deep. Are you reading pop psychology books?”
“Pop psychology? What I’m trying to get through to you is that this isn’t in the realm of pop, this is deep in abnormal psychology territory.”
“People don’t kill murderers and mount them under the memorials of their victims anymore? Is that what you are saying?”
“We might have to recover Huang’s remains and return them to the Chinese. Let’s move on to the third point.”
“What’s that?”
“Sorenson’s replacement. Your team needs a fifth man.”
“Huang killed Sorenson too. Yet another reason for him to suffer in the afterlife.”
“I sent you some files. I need you to interview the candidates and make a decision. We can’t hold onto these guys forever—they have other options.”
“Ok, I’ll stay around here for a few days and take care of it.”
“Then are you going back to Siargao?”
“No, I think I’ll take the Nomad back to the Bahamas.”
“That’s a good place for you. You may want to talk to your friend Father Tellez about sticking Huang heels up under Cheryl’s memorial.” Mike got up and we walked back to his airplane. I watched him limp up the stairs. He was in a good mood; even from the side, I could see he was smiling. I think I amuse Mike. Plus, the craziness of these past months was behind him and I’m guessing that any respite is something to be savored in his business.
Chapter 29
Beijing, China
The Minister of State Security sat behind Huang’s desk. Lined up in front of him were the senior officers from Huang’s Task Force. Despite the suits and ties, all four men were standing at a rigid position of attention.
“What do you men have to say for yourselves?” the Minister said in a loud voice. The oldest, most senior member of the group, Colonel Lu, was the only one who dared to speak.
“Sir, we’ve completed our search for Brigadier Huang. We’re convinced he’s dead.”
“Where is the body if he’s dead?”
“Sir, we have extensively reviewed security camera coverage from the Zurich storefronts. Many of the buildings had good camera coverage including the antique dealer’s business, Hind Esquire. The video coverage clearly shows Pat Walsh entering the building from the front and Huang entering the building from the loading dock in the rear.”
“And how does that prove conclusively that Huang is dead and not captured by the Americans?”
“Pat Walsh is captured on video exiting the building. He leaves alone and departs on foot. He appears injured when he leaves. Huang is not seen leaving the building. All of the exits are covered by cameras. We have questioned the receptionist and the owner; neither saw Huang inside the building.”
“What does any of this mean?”
“We believe Pat Walsh killed Huang and hid the body. We think the body was disposed of in a way that the owner was not aware of it—in the garbage, perhaps.”
“What makes you think the CIA didn’t pick up Huang from the building?”
“Because the only activities to and from the building were trash removal, deliveries, and shipments. None of the businesses involved had any relationship with the CIA. We tracked down the people and businesses associated with every license plate that stopped near the building for days after Huang was there.”
“The disappearance of Huang remains an unsolved mystery.
“Yes, but we are confident he is dead.”
“Why did Pat Walsh visit the business?”
“He was buying an 18th Century Buddha statue.”
“What for?”
“It was a memorial for his girlfriend, Cheryl Li, the Chinese Intelligence agent Huang killed in the Bahamas.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Where is the statue now?”
“We tracked it to a Catholic Cathedral in Palawan, Philippines. Here, we had a photo taken of the statue on display on the Cathedral grounds.”
The Colonel handed the minister an 8 x 10 photo of A Dehua Seated Figure of Samantabhadra sitting atop a small grassy hill with the spires of a Catholic cathedral in the background. The Minister studied the photo and took notice of the image of Cheryl Li on the base of the statue along with her Chinese birth name.
“I will keep this photo,” he said.
“Of course,” the Colonel replied.
“We will officially classify Huang as dead, and the investigation of his death is now closed.” The minister got up from the desk and left the office with the picture in hand. He took the elevator up to his office and sat behind his desk. He thought for a minute and a grin broke out across his thin grey features. He pulled out a pad of stationery from his center drawer and wrote a short note to the PLA Commander.
“I thought you might want to know that MSS has located your agent, Colonel Shu Xue Wong. May her demise give you comfort as you journey into your well-earned retirement.”
The Minister smiled as he attached the note to the photo and slipped the two documents into an envelope. He buzzed his secretary.
“Have this delivered to the PLA Commander,” he ordered.
The forced retirement of the PLA Commander was a source of great joy for the Minister. Losing the Spratlys was a mistake not to be forgiven by the President. The Minister daydreamed of being the hero who took them back. The Chinese forcibly occupied the islands in 2010 after the American President signaled that he wouldn’t come to the defense of his Asian allies. Eventually, another like-minded individual would inhabit the White House; it was a democracy, after all, with the inevitable ebb and flow of ideas and convictions.
The Minister sat back in his chair with his hands behind his head. It was regrettable, what became of Huang; he served him well and played a key role in vanquishing his rival and in elevating his status with the President. Ping was President for life, but he was twenty years older than the Minister and had not chosen a successor. The new social credit score system managed by MSS gave the Minister great power to stymie any upcoming rivals who would get in the way of his true ambiti
on, which was to follow in the footsteps of President Ping. The South China Sea affair was a huge opportunity that he made the best of. He felt greatly satisfied with his performance.
Chapter 30
Paphos, Cyprus
The four of us were seated around the table in the Clearwater conference room. We’d been reviewing CVs and military records for the past two hours. Mike supplied us three candidates to choose from and we were deadlocked over two of them.
“Does anybody know these guys personally?” I asked.
“I know both of them,” Savage replied.
“And you prefer Ramirez over Tully?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“They’re both competent operators. I wouldn’t object to either, but if given the choice, I think Ramirez is the better fit for this group.”
“What do you know about a fit for this group? You haven’t been here long enough for us to know for certain if you’re even a fit.”
“What do you mean by that?” Savage asked.
“You barely speak. I was about to enroll in a sign language course to communicate with you; I thought you had a disability.”
“How can anyone get a word in with you around? That’s why I want Chi Chi Rodriguez. He’s the only guy I know who can keep pace with your motor mouth,” Savage said.
“Chi Chi Rodriguez. Wasn’t he a PGA golfer back in the seventies or eighties?” I asked.
“Chi Chi is his nickname. You’ll like this guy; he was pretty famous within the unit for his practical jokes.”
“Since when are practical jokes a selection criterion?” Migos asked.
“What is it you don’t like about the guy?” I asked Migos.
“He’s a squid for one thing.”
“McDonald’s a squid. You get along well with him.”
“McDonald isn’t an Alpha Squid. He was on the teams, but he was a medic.”
“You object to Rodriguez because he was an Alpha Squid. That’s it, seriously?”
“Yeah. He’ll be writing books and blogging about every one of our missions and we’ll probably have to hire a cameraman and a public relations team. That’s what squids do.”
“Rodriguez did his Tier 1 time with CAG and if Mike forwarded him to us, he’s already passed a CIA polygraph where they would have asked about that kind of stuff. What’s your next objection?”
Migos sat quietly with his arms folded in front of him.
“If everything else is even, then it comes down to personality and compatibility,” McDonald said.
“This isn’t E-Harmony.com—this is a military operation. I don’t care if Chi Chi completes you, Savage. I say we go with Tully,” Migos said.
I laughed. I knew Migos didn’t care who got picked; he was just trying to score points and annoy Savage.
“What do you say, Pat? You’re the chairman of this committee. In the event of a tie, you vote twice. You’ve already voted for Tully once,” Migos said.
“I’m good with Rodriguez.”
“Why’d you flip?”
“He’s going to be Savage’s battle buddy; his vote is what counts. I’m happy with either one and it might be good to have another person on the team besides McDonald who knows what he’s doing in the water,” I said.
“Clearly favoritism; I’m going to HR,” Migos said.
“All right, let’s hold one more vote and make this official. Everyone for Rodriguez, raise your hand,” I said.
All four hands went up.
“Chi Chi Rodriguez it is, then,” Migos said.
“Savage, you can contact him and onboard him with the team.”
“No problem.”
“I think we should do a team bonding exercise to speed up fitting him in with the group,” Savage said.
“What do you have in mind?” I asked.
“A surfing trip,” Savage said.
“Now you’re sucking up to the boss. You went from Helen Keller mute to a groveling kiss ass in a minute. What’s gotten into you?”
“Rodriguez and I are very good surfers.”
“You surf? I said.
“I grew up in Hawaii; of course I surf.”
“Why didn’t you ever mention that before?”
“I don’t know; you never asked.”
“Anybody else around here surf?”
“Muy Muy Migos has never surfed, but how hard can it be if Savage can do it? Color me in.”
“What about you, McDonald?” I asked.
“I was stationed in Hawaii once, but I never learned. I’ll bandage you guys up after you damage the coral.”
“I was going to head back to the Bahamas, but a week in Siargao with you guys might be fun. I know a great place to stay and I have a daily routine already worked out that I’m sure you’ll love. I’ll handle the logistics. Get Chi Chi Rodriguez on a plane heading West,” I said.
Author Notes
Dear Reader, I hope you enjoyed Rising Sea. I would really appreciate a review on Amazon if you are so inclined. As with all of my books, in Rising Sea there’s a lot of overlap between fact and fiction. I took more than a few liberties with the science around creating a man-made tsunami. I have no idea if such a thing is actually possible. Tests were done on the concept in New Zealand after the second world war, but the experiments never generated anything as big as what’s described in the book. The other weapons and tactics used in the book are real and the descriptions are accurate to the best of my knowledge. Lady Chang and the Red Flags really were a scourge in 19th Century China, and they were defeated by the Portuguese and Chinese in the battle of the Tigers Mouth. Lady Chang did come to the rescue of her husband and negotiate a surrender to the Emperor, but as far as I know there was never any pirate treasure involved. The disputed Chinese occupation and construction of military bases on the Spratly Islands is a well-known fact.
As you may have noticed, I like travel, and I like to eat. A lot of what I write about is places I visit and things I like to do. Occasionally, I write about a place or an experience before I’ve ever visited. For example, I’ve never been to Siargao. I have a trip scheduled very soon and I plan to surf Cloud 9. I’m hoping it doesn’t kill me. If you have any ideas, questions or comments about my books, feel free to write me at [email protected]
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Chapter 1
Brussels, Belgium
Ahmed Eleiwi zipped his leather jacket against the wind as he exited the Bruxelles Central Train Station and entered downtown Brussels. It was a Saturday afternoon and the station was crowded with visitors on their way to enjoy a sunny spring afternoon shopping and sightseeing in the Grand Place Square. As he passed through the main doors of the station, he drew a second look from one of the soldiers positioned in the entryway. Belgium’s response to the reoccurring terrorist incidents over the past year had been to station hundreds of military personnel throughout the city. In the congested downtown Brussels area, it was becoming increasingly difficult for a man Middle Eastern in appearance to travel unmolested. Ahmed was purposely carrying no bags to avoid arousing too much suspicion. Despite his efforts, the soldier signaled for him to come over and gave him a quick pat-down from top to bottom. Ahmed reminded himself that it was just a random search and forced himself to remain calm.
Despite his heart kicking into high gear, Ahmed slowly walked away from the guard and continued at a leisurely pace past the Hilton Grand Place Hotel and through the arch passageway, taking him into the square proper. As he entered the Grand Place, Ahmed stopped to get his bearings. Along one side of the rectangular cobblestone square, a rock band was playing on a stage set up against a building wall, midway along one of the sides. It was ea
rly afternoon, and the UNESCO World Heritage site was crowded with a festival atmosphere. Tourist guides hustled to corral their charges across the expanse to the many historical and architectural items of interest. It was Earth Day, and several hundred protestors, still wearing green shirts and carrying signs from the morning march, congregated near the stage. The protestors were drinking beer, dancing to the music and having a great time in the unseasonably cool weather.
The small square was bordered by four- and five-story gothic buildings made of grey stone and adorned with gold accents, archways and magnificent spires. He searched for the City Hall, with its distinctive nighty-six-meter tower holding the Archangel Michael. Having found his bearings, he confirmed he was in the northeast corner.
Ahmed looked west and found the Hard Rock Café sign only fifty meters from his location. He checked his cell phone and found a text: “3rd Floor, window.” Ahmed stepped inside the narrow restaurant entryway and walked through the souvenir shop to the hostess. Before she could offer to help him, Ahmed interrupted and volunteered that his wife was on the third floor, waiting for him. The hostess pointed him to the stairs. Slightly winded from the climb up the steep spiral staircase, Ahmed emerged from the stairs and surveyed the crowded third-floor dining room for Raghad. He spotted his Iraqi contact in the last table along the windows. He walked directly to her, gave her a peck on the cheek and slid into the seat across the table. Raghad acknowledged Ahmed and turned her attention back to the baby she was feeding in the high chair to her left.
Forcing a smile, Ahmed reached across the table and placed an affectionate hand on the baby’s head in greeting. The waiter came over, and although Ahmed had no appetite, he ordered a hamburger and a liter of Leffe Blonde Beer. The window seat had an excellent view of the entire square. Ahmed estimated the crowd at over six hundred in the confined twenty thousand square feet of space. His pulse was racing, and he began to sweat. His beer arrived, and he gulped it down and ordered a second potent Belgian Beer. When his glass was empty, he nodded to Raghad and reached down under the table to retrieve a heavy diaper bag. He struggled sliding the heavy bag across the wooden floor.
Rising Sea Page 17