Choke Points

by Trevor Scott

  “Already in the building.” Jake drew his Glock.

  “Were they Chinese?”

  “No. Take out your gun.”

  Instead of pulling her gun from her purse, she first found her identification. Then she lifted out her gun and placed it at the side of her right leg.

  Jake went behind a pony wall in the kitchen and waited for those men to kick in the door. He had observed a man scoot into a building when he was on the street, and guessed that wasn’t a good sign. But the way the men walked, he had to believe they were not coming to kill them.

  Suddenly, there was a knock on the door, followed by proclamations in Portuguese indicating they were with Judicial Police.

  Carla glanced to Jake for help.

  The men outside became more obnoxious with their orders to open the door.

  Finally, Carla said in Portuguese, “I am with SIED.”

  “I know. You are Carla Matos. Let us in.”

  “Identify yourself,” she said.

  “Chief Superintendent Armando Machado.”

  Carla glanced at Jake. Finally, she turned and opened the door, showing her identification to the man in the hall.

  The chief superintendent strut into the room alone, his own badge out for Carla to read. Satisfied they were who they said they were, they both put away their IDs.

  Jake had his gun hidden behind the low wall.

  Machado focused on Jake and said in English, “Herr Karl Konrad from Austria.”

  Okay, perhaps those on Pico Island had not discovered his true identity. Not yet anyway.

  Jake came around into the living room.

  “You can put your gun away, Mister Konrad,” the cop said.

  Instead of returning his gun to its holster, Jake put the gun in his jacket pocket.

  Machado was shorter than Carla, his stocky chest pushed out like a tin-pot dictator lecturing his people.

  The chief superintendent concentrated on Carla again. He said, “SIED is looking for you. Is the Austrian man holding you against your will?”

  Jake picked up most of the conversation. With a German accent, he said, “Please speak English. I’m afraid my Portuguese is lacking.”

  “You understood what I said,” Machado said.

  Jake nodded. “Yes. And I assure you I have not kidnapped Carla.”

  She broke in and said, “He has kept me alive for the past two days.”

  Machado looked skeptically at Jake and then back to Carla. “Why would someone want you dead?”

  “Probably the same reason they killed the two security personnel in this apartment and tried to kill my Austrian friend on Pico Island,” Carla said with considerable attitude.

  “Those were Chinese hit men,” Machado said. “I understand witnesses have said those who killed the two in this room were Europeans.”

  Jake said, “Hired by the Chinese. And one correction. Those Chinese who attacked me at my house on Pico were Chinese intelligence officers with the Ministry of State Security.”

  Machado swung his head around quickly. “How do you know this?”

  Smiling, Jake said, “The same reason I know that you are way out of your jurisdiction and out of your depth.”

  “I am allowed to investigate crimes where they take me,” Machado said derisively.

  “Not if the case is taken away from you by SIS, the Secret Intelligence Service,” Jake said knowingly.

  Machado was finally silent for a moment.

  “This is a case for both SIS and SIED,” Carla said.

  “And how do you know I am not working in concert with them?” Machado asked.

  Jake took this. “If you were, you would not have left your men out in the corridor. You would want them to hear what was said in here. But instead, you know you are not sanctioned to be here. So, you keep them in the blind.”

  After a long silence, Machado finally said, “I am simply trying to find the men who tried to kill you.”

  “I appreciate your dedication, Chief Superintendent,” Jake said. “But I assure you that this case is beyond your paygrade.”

  The short cop from Ponta Delgada seemed to deflate like a balloon at a five-year-old’s birthday party. Machado said, “Why don’t you want answers?”

  Jake said, “When someone tries to kill me, I respond with overwhelming force. After the smoke clears, then I ask the question why. For now, though, I believe the bullets are still flying. Go back to the Azores.”

  Machado swished his head slowly side to side. “I must do my duty.”

  By now, Jake was close enough to the chief superintendent to smell the coffee on the man’s breath. The java was blended with some kind of alcohol. Jake said, “More is going on here than you understand.”

  “Then inform me,” Machado said.

  Carla took this. “This case is beyond your security level.” Then she went to the door and opened it for the stout fellow.

  Ouch. Being dismissed by a woman would definitely shrink Machado’s machismo.

  But the chief superintendent dutifully walked out and nearly had the door hit his backside when Carla shut it on him.

  Carla turned to Jake and smiled.

  “You seemed to like that too much,” Jake said.

  “You were right. That man was out of his element.”

  “I know. But a part of me likes his enthusiasm.”

  “And his ignoring of orders?” she asked.

  “That too.”

  •

  The slight Chinese woman sat in the front passenger seat of the four-door untraceable rental car provided by her embassy. Chen Fang played a casino game on her cell phone, keeping her eye on the apartment entrance two blocks ahead. They had gotten there earlier that morning, hoping to find their target from Pico Island. Somehow that man and his whore had escaped the Azores without a scratch. That was unfortunate, she thought. Her mind wandered, trying to think about all of the sexual positions she could have with a brute like the Austrian. When orders had come down to simultaneously take out various targets around Europe, she had not hesitated to put her plan to action. All of the others had been killed without a single loss, but somehow this man had taken out four of her best officers. How did that happen?

  Since the strikes, Chen Fang had made it her mission to finish her assignment and kill this mysterious Austrian.

  Did she question the wisdom or need to hit any of the targets? Not at all. Her government must have had a reason.

  She lost big-time with her game, running out of fake money, making her swear at her phone.

  “Fang,” her subordinate said from behind the wheel. “The men are coming out of the apartment.”

  Yan Shen was the Yin to her Yang. He reasoned through every problem like a mathematician, knowing there was only one answer. But Chen Fang didn’t like to hear the reasonable. She preferred answers to be more flexible.

  “I told you that was that fat little cop from the Azores,” she said.

  “Do we follow him?”

  “Why? He is insignificant. We now have the Austrian and this new whore—the Portuguese intelligence officer.”

  “She was not on our list,” Shen said.

  “If she’s with the Austrian, then she’s our target.”

  A few minutes after the Portuguese cop left with his men, the Austrian finally came to the street with the woman young enough to be his daughter.

  She put her phone away, turned on her comm, and spoke firmly into the mic, “Everybody in place. Follow the Austrian and the woman. If they split up, we stick with the man.”

  Acknowledgments came across the comm from her people.

  20

  Atlantic Ocean

  Carlos Gomez leaned back in his plush white leather chair in the rear lounge on his private yacht. Behind him was an extensive bar with only top-shelf spirits. In front of him, on the starboard bulkhead, was a large-screen LED television hooked up to satellite communications that could beam down nearly any channel Gomez wanted, or could be used for teleconferenc
es. Which was his plan this morning.

  His crew had pulled out of the Douro River, past Porto, Portugal, and were now in the greater Atlantic heading south along the Portuguese coast. Eventually they would pass through the Strait of Gibraltar and enter the Mediterranean. Then they would make port in Saint Tropez until February.

  Each year in January the rich, famous and politically connected met in Davos, Switzerland for the World Economic Forum. Prior to that meeting of the minds, those billionaires who were part of Europe’s elite met to discuss upcoming issues. This morning many were meeting in person in Monaco, while others, like Gomez, tuned in via satellite.

  Gomez finish the last of his cappuccino and set the empty cup on a small side table. Then his main steward clicked on the conference call, handing the remote control to his boss before leaving the room.

  As the billionaires entered the call, Gomez could see each one sign in by their face in a small box along the bottom of the screen. Normally those in attendance were only from Europe, but this year the council had included some from Asia and South America. The only caveat, of course, was that no Americans were allowed. They had too much power already. And no Chinese were invited. Europe was not happy with their trade practices.

  There were a few faces that Gomez did not know, and these were of the newer participants from South America—although Gomez had knowledge of them. Also, he suspected some of the Eastern European and Russian oligarchs were part of the Midnight Group, the super-secret near cult-like clan of elite billionaires that Gomez refused to join. He had been invited a number of times, but wasn’t a big joiner. He wasn’t sure that his priorities would align with theirs. Gomez was part of another group that had descended from the Templars.

  This meeting was run by a billionaire from South Africa, the only man from that continent. Since this man ran the agenda, he almost immediately brought up the elephant in the room—the overwhelming and increasing influence of the Chinese.

  “How can we possibly compete with the Chinese?” South Africa asked. “They are buying up entire ports on all sides of Africa. They can run their cheap products through the ports duty free and tariff free.”

  An Indian billionaire chimed in. “Now you know how we feel.”

  More billionaires spouted off, like young girls at a sorority house. Gomez simply listened. Finally, he got up and went to his bar, pouring himself at least three fingers of single malt Scotch. He wandered back and settled into his chair, the squabbling continuing until South Africa brought some order to the meeting.

  None of them had the problems that Gomez was experiencing, he thought.

  “Does anyone have a solution instead of simple complaints?” South Africa asked.

  Perfect opening. Gomez said quickly, “Punch them in the mouth.”

  A few people laughed. Some agreed with Gomez.

  “Could you explain yourself, Carlos?” South Africa asked.

  Gomez took a sip of his drink and then said, “I feel for everyone on this call, but I need to know if any of you have been physically attacked by the Chinese.”

  Silence.

  “Come on,” Gomez said. “And I’m not talking about cyber-attacks. I’m sure you have all been hit by those. I’m talking about physical attacks perpetrated by the Chinese.”

  Still silence.

  “Fine,” Gomez said. “I’ll start.” He explained how last week a number of his people had been murdered. How his main headquarters was being protested by a paid crowd of rabble-rousers. And how he wasn’t going to take it anymore.

  “What can we do about it,” the Indian billionaire asked.

  “Has someone in your organization been attacked?” Gomez asked.

  The Indian’s head bobbed agreement. “My Chief Financial Officer was murdered last week in Bangalore. They also killed two security officers. Luckily his wife and children were in Delhi at the time. We just assumed it was robbery. He lived in a very nice house.”

  “Anyone else have similar experiences?” Gomez asked.

  There was some hesitation on the faces of those on the call, but many of them finally agreed that things were not business as usual.

  “I’ll bet each one of those attacked have been approached in the past few months for either a buy-out or some kind of cooperative deal with the Chinese. Am I wrong?” Gomez asked.

  Now, each of those attacked put their concerns into the record. Many had lost key employees, or had suspicious fires or other accidents in their production facilities. It was nothing big enough to shut them down, but enough to make them think.

  “They don’t want to kill your production,” Gomez said. “They simply want to dominate you like an alpha dog dry humping your leg. Then when you are at your weakest, the Chinese will come back with a deal. But this one will be less favorable than the last. They will eventually wear you down until you capitulate.”

  “Those are Mafia tactics,” said one of the Italian billionaires.

  Now they were getting it, Gomez thought, as he took another sip of Scotch. There was one man who looked a bit squeamish. Gomez found his wireless keyboard and typed in a private message to this man, asking him to stay on after this conference call. The man reluctantly agreed.

  South Africa finally said they needed to meet in person at Davos and come up with a solution to their Chinese problem. “But we must come to Davos with not just complaints. We must have evidence. Then we can file a formal complaint with the WTO and the UN.”

  Gomez broke in. “The Chinese don’t care one bit about those entities.”

  A number of members mumbled concerns, but nothing concrete.

  “What do you suggest, Carlos?” South Africa asked.

  He hesitated, unsure if he should show his hand at this time. “I’m working on it,” Gomez said. “I have my best people on it. I will have an answer for you at Davos. But I assure you one thing is true. The Chinese will not go quietly into that good night. They only understand strength.”

  There were a few final remarks before everyone signed off the call. Everyone but the man Gomez had sent a private message. This was a billionaire from Singapore named Bobby Barnes. Gomez knew that this man dealt with the Chinese more than anyone else on the call.

  “Thank you for staying for a private meeting, Bobby,” Gomez said.

  “My pleasure,” Barnes said. “But why me?”

  “Because you have a good relationship with the Chinese.”

  “In my neck of the woods, I have no choice,” Barnes said.

  “I can imagine.” Gomez hesitated, trying to decide the best way to broach the subject. Then, he said, “You are in Panama. Is there something you want to tell me about your presence there?”

  “Business. It’s private.”

  “I understand.”

  “What are you getting at? Are you accusing me of something?”

  “Not at all. I just know that the Chinese practically own the Panama Canal and the ports on both side of the passage. Nothing happens in Panama without their knowledge or approval.”

  The lanky man seemed to squirm on the other end. “As you know, Panama is a tax haven.”

  Gomez knew. And he had a lot of contacts there. “I could make one call to find out what you did there.”

  More slithering. “I’m sure you could, Mister Gomez. But why would you?”

  “Because my people were attacked and killed last week,” he said. “The same could happen to your people.”

  Barnes shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not? The Chinese are schoolyard bullies.”

  Smiling, Barnes said, “But their checks clear.”

  Gomez had a feeling this tall billionaire from Singapore was holding back on him. But now that he knew this, he had another direction to search.

  “Will you be in Davos later this month?” Gomez asked.

  “Of course. Why?”

  “I think we need to meet to discuss some business.”

  Barnes smiled. “You make cell phones and other c
ommunications equipment. That’s not my area of expertise.”

  “I know. But you know real estate, shipping, and international business. Especially in the Pacific Rim area.”

  “That, I do. Are you looking to produce in my area?”

  “Do you have contacts in Vietnam?” Gomez asked.

  “I do. If I broker a deal, I expect a finder’s fee.”

  “I understand that’s how you work,” Gomez said. “I would expect nothing less from you. We’ll work a meeting into our Davos visit.”

  “Sure thing.” The man from Singapore cut off his connection.

  Gomez smiled and sat back in his chair, taking a long sip of Scotch. This was a total ruse, of course. He had no intention of producing anything in Asia. He had locked in enough production in Poland and the Baltics to keep him going forever, if needed.

  His satellite phone rang and he saw that it was his chief of technology in Porto, Sancho Eneko.

  “You get it, Sancho?”

  “Yes, sir,” Sancho said. “I now have his cell phone in my pocket. We can keep track of his location and even listen in to any call he makes.”

  “Wonderful. Where are Jake and Sirena?”

  “Jake is in Lisbon,” Sancho said. “And Sirena is just getting there now.”

  “Great. Can you do me a favor?”

  “Of course.”

  “Dig into the recent business dealings of this Singapore billionaire Bobby Barnes.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “Everything.”

  “When do you need it?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Then I’ll get it for you two days ago,” Sancho said with a slight chuckle.

  They both hung up simultaneously.

  Gomez finished off the last of his Scotch and set the glass on the table next to him. He had a feeling this man from Singapore could give him exactly what he needed, but it might take a little persuasion.

  21

  Lisbon, Portugal

  Jake and Carla had walked back to their hotel, and Jake had tried his best to help the young Portuguese officer understand their situation. The Chinese were not their friends. Her government was making a huge mistake letting the hordes into the gates. And the Chinese were doing so without having to fire a shot—at least in a hot war sense.