Dragon Head

by James Houston Turner

  “Diane is taking it hard.”

  “I can see why. Do we know who those women are?”

  “That’s what I’m calling about,” Wilcox replied. “How long would it take you to set up a dedicated cyberlocker? Secure and isolated, for Alice in Hong Kong to have a look at the footage. To see if she can ID the killers.”

  “Five minutes, tops.”

  “Text me when it’s done.”

  After ending the call, Wilcox phoned Alice. It was early morning in Hong Kong and Alice was not polite when she answered the phone.

  “Bill, you had better have a damn good reason for calling me at this hour.”

  “There’s been a murder. I need your help.”

  Alice quickly switched on a lamp and sat up in bed. “Okay, I’m awake,” she said.

  Wilcox elaborated on Amber’s murder, then told Alice he was setting up a secure cyberlocker, where security footage of the murder could be viewed. “I know this is a long shot,” he said, “but if you can ID their faces, please let me know.”

  After expressing her deepest sympathies, Alice said she would happily assist.

  “Thanks, I’ll send you the link. Be warned, though, it’s not pretty. In fact, it’s downright brutal.”

  Within minutes of Wilcox ending his call with Alice, his phone chimed with a text message from Charlie. It contained the link and password to the cyberlocker. Wilcox replied with a quick text, then forwarded the link and password to Alice. He then sat back and allowed his mind to drift back to happier times, when he and Alice first met in Italy during the summer of 2003. They were both visiting the Tuscan village of Montalcino when he ran into her coming out of a restaurant with a glass of wine. The village was famous for its Brunello di Montalcino – an earthy Sangiovese – which was the main reason Wilcox was there, after having visited Talanov in the nearby city of Florence in order to hand him the latest of several cash payments for services rendered as a spy. The encounter not only knocked Alice down onto the cobblestones, but drenched her with the wine she was set to enjoy at an outdoor table. A new shirt and a whole bottle of Brunello di Montalcino later, Wilcox convinced Alice to spend the afternoon with him.

  They were an unlikely couple, with careers they could not talk about, but ultimately did, at least superficially over big plates of ossobuco, then ice cream while strolling among Montalcino’s ancient walls and narrow streets. He smiled at the memory of Alice swearing at him in Chinese when he tried wiping off the wine.

  Wilcox refocused when his phone chimed and he saw that it was an email from Alice. The email read, simply, “Bill, I hope this helps. Regards, Alice xx

  Attached to the email were a number of attachments, the first being Alice’s summary of the infrared security footage taken in Amber’s apartment, which showed a greenish image that had been lifted from the footage. Wilcox stared at the faces of the two women shown in the image. He then read Alice’s notes, which identified the shorter of the two women as Chin Chi Ho, aka Straw Sandal, who was the daughter of a Hong Kong crime lord named Dexter Moran, aka Dragon Head.

  Of Irish ancestry, Moran had been born in Hong Kong when it was a British colony, with his father, Arlo, controlling much of Macau’s gambling industry until he was killed by Chao Lin’s father, Kun Lin, after a rigged card game in which Kun Lin won the title to Arlo’s casino. A fight ensued, which Arlo started and lost. When the courts failed to obtain a guilty verdict against Kun Lin for cheating and killing Arlo, Dexter moved quickly to do what the courts would not, and within weeks, had quietly executed Kun Lin, which in turn made him a regional hero, with Dexter soon becoming the leader of his own secret society, the Shí bèi, which was created for the purpose of protecting Hong Kong neighborhoods from corruption.

  But Moran was still a gwai lo – a white-skinned foreigner –which Kun Lin’s son, Chao, continued to exploit in an ongoing rivalry. So Moran cemented his presence on the island by marrying the daughter of a prominent Chinese industrialist. Together they had one daughter, Chin Chi Ho, known now as Straw Sandal, who works as Dragon Head’s second-in-charge.

  “Aside from his criminal and gambling enterprises, Moran actually does a lot of good,” Alice’s notes went on to say. “He feeds the poor, provides people with jobs, protection, and stability, with crime in the neighborhoods he controls almost nonexistent.”

  “Except for the crimes he commits,” Wilcox muttered to himself, and with a swipe of his finger, he brought an image of Dragon Head onto the screen.

  Moran’s Irish ancestry was obvious because of his stocky physique and white skin, especially on his bald cranium, tattooed as it was, as were his shoulders and arms. It was a move no doubt calculated to make him look less gwai lo and more fearsome, with body art the color of storm clouds.

  Another swipe showed Moran in the company of more than a dozen Shí bèi fighters. Moran was in a tank top that showed off his muscular arms. The fighters, all lean and young, were in loose black karate “gi” pants and T-shirts. A footnote from Alice explained the term Shí bèi, which means “ten tens,” which Alice said was a reference not only to the level of pain a fighter must endure, but be able to inflict as well.

  The next swipe brought an image of two women onto his screen. They were standing together in front of the heavy wooden doors of the Zhongzhen Martial Arts Academy, which doubled as Dragon Head’s residence. The taller of the two was identified as Dragon Head’s lover, Xin Li. The shorter of the two was identified as Straw Sandal. Body language indicated hostility between the two women.

  Division in the ranks, thought Wilcox. Looks promising.

  Another swipe brought an enlargement of Xin Li onto his screen. She was leaving a highrise building in Hong Kong and was looking to her left, her expression hard, her lips pinched, like she was angry. She had coal-black hair, cut short to her neck, and was a full head taller than the two Chinese men with her, one of whom was Dragon Head himself, along with an unnamed bodyguard.

  Wilcox swiped his screen again and looked at the next photo. It was an enlargement of a passport photo of Straw Sandal. She had none of her father’s features save flawless white skin and rosy cheeks. Other images showed Dragon Head conversing with each of the women individually in various locations, plus more photos of him conversing with both women together. A final photo showed Xin Li and Dragon Head dining in a restaurant. Also at the table was Straw Sandal, who was glaring at Xin Li, who was glaring back at her. In total, the pictures established an undeniable link between Dragon Head and the women who murdered Amber.

  Sitting back, Wilcox thought about what he had just read and seen, and with a troubled frown, he forwarded Alice’s email to Gustaves and Charlie, then sent a text to Alice, thanking her for her help. He then went to the bathroom to splash water in his face.

  Returning to his seat several minutes later, he saw the poultry delegates, specifically the women, still chatting and laughing. The two men were still focused on their laptops, although one of them did look up and make eye contact. When Wilcox nodded, the man did not respond.

  Once in his seat, Wilcox picked up his phone and dialed Charlie, who was staring intently at the photos on her screen. In her left ear was a soft plastic bud, which was connected by an air tube to a tiny inline microphone, which was wired to her cell phone several feet away.

  “What have you found?” Wilcox asked.

  “First, the good news,” said Charlie. “I ran the women’s names through the usual databases and got hits. As we speak, they’re on board a commercial flight to San Francisco.”

  Wilcox sat forward. “San Francisco? That’s where—”

  “—Talanov is, yes, I know, which brings me to the bad news. We can’t reach him because his phone is switched off. And we don’t know where he is.”

  “So the women who killed Amber weren’t after Diane?”

  “Nope. They’re after Alex.”

  “Do we know why?”

  “Not yet.”

  “And the virus they planted?”


  “My guess at this point: a distraction, to keep us chasing our tails while the women went after Alex. Shaw of course thinks the Chinese government is involved, but I disagree. Dragon Head? Yes. Beijing? No way.”

  “Are you sure the virus was nothing more than a distraction?”

  “I’m working to confirm that, because there’s some code that I haven’t been able to dissect and analyze yet, but as it looks to me now, the virus doesn’t have much of a function except as an oil slick.”

  “Translation, please?” asked Wilcox just as Anshika Kumar, one of Charlie’s analyst colleagues, touched Charlie on the shoulder.

  “Coffee?” Anshika asked.

  “You know I don’t drink that awful stuff they serve in the cafeteria,” Charlie replied. “I only go for—”

  “—the freshly ground organic, shade-grown, fair-trade, single-plantation Central American espresso beans, yes, I know. I was asking if I could have one.”

  Anshika nodded toward the espresso machine nestled in a cubicle beside Charlie’s copy machine.

  Charlie grinned. “Help yourself. The old man’s out of town.”

  “I heard that!” shouted Wilcox over the phone.

  Anshika covered her mouth and laughed, then tiptoed toward the espresso machine, as if Wilcox might hear her footsteps.

  “You were saying?” asked Wilcox irritably.

  “That’s right, my oil slick,” said Charlie, speaking into her phone again. “As you know, oil spills are a mess to clean up. Just the other night, for instance, I dropped a bottle of olive oil on the floor. It took me forever to clean up, and I went through a ton of paper towels, and because it made such a mess, I forgot about my casserole in the oven, which meant I ended up torching the thing. I mean, I still ate it – well, some of it, anyway – and it wasn’t all that bad, even though the top was kind of charred and the inside was kind of burned, but not entirely. But that’s beside the point. My point is, if I hadn’t made such a mess by dropping that bottle of olive oil—”

  “You’re going to have to stop with the olive oil analogy and spell this out for me.”

  “Don’t you ever cook?”

  “No, I don’t cook,” snapped Wilcox, “and you know that. Now, what are you talking about?”

  “Don’t be so grouchy. Jeez. What do you have, low blood sugar? I’ve said this before, sir, but I’ll say it again: you really should go keto.”

  “Charlie!”

  “Okay, okay. The virus is, well, a virus, and as such, is alarming, although it doesn’t appear to have the DNA necessary to penetrate very deep or do much damage apart from making a huge mess for us to clean up. But in doing so – in cleaning up that mess – we’re being distracted from their actual intention, which is locating Alex.”

  “Then Alex was right,” said Wilcox. “The assassination attempt on Diane and the search for him by someone in China are completely unrelated.”

  “Correct, even though they tried locating his whereabouts by including searches on you and Diane, which confirms a connection among you three.”

  “Which is why they targeted Amber—”

  “—to access Diane’s SCI files—”

  “—figuring she would know where Alex was.”

  “Which of course she did,” said Charlie, completing the thread. “I called Diane to let her know that I’d located the two women, and she called Shaw, who’s ordered a grab team to apprehend them once their plane lands.”

  “Good work, Charlie, but I still think we should order protection for Alex.”

  “We don’t know where he is, remember? How can we order protection if we don’t know where he is?”

  “Those two women seem to know.”

  “We don’t know that for sure.”

  “Then why are they on a flight to San Francisco?”

  Charlie did not reply.

  “I’m rerouting my flight,” said Wilcox. “Those women seem to know where he is, and that means Alex has been compromised.”

  “Can you reroute a flight like that? I thought you were just hitching a vacation ride.”

  “As of now I’m back on the clock, which means I’ve got seniority.”

  “And the grab team?”

  “They may succeed, and I hope they do, but in case they don’t . . .”

  “What do you need me to do?”

  “Get me an address for Talanov by the time I land. You’ve got an hour.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Forty minutes later, Wilcox’s phone vibrated and Wilcox answered it on the second ring. “Tell me you found him,” he said.

  “Yes and no,” Charlie replied, entering a command that brought a series of receipts to her screen. “His phone is still switched off, and untraceable, but there are several credit card purchases in and around the Mission District, The Castro, and Bernal Heights, so we know he’s in that part of the city. But there’s no discernible pattern or cloister of purchases that would allow us to pinpoint a location in proximity to any specific community center. And no hotel, either, meaning he’s obviously staying with Babikov. Unfortunately, everything we’re getting is after the fact, meaning nothing yet in real time.”

  “How about his call history? Can you identify Babikov’s number from that list? Maybe trace it to a location?”

  “One number stands out – Babikov’s, no doubt – but it’s a burner – i.e., a cash purchase from a kiosk – and the caller has been careful not to phone or text Talanov from a single location. Cell tower use is all over the map.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “No signal. No idea.”

  “Did Alex rent a car? Can we track it with GPS?”

  “Nope,” answered Charlie. “Someone no doubt picked him up.”

  “What about the Quiet Waters Community Center?”

  “Are you sure that’s the name of the place? I can’t find any record of it anywhere.”

  “That’s what Alex said it was.”

  “Sorry, Boss, but there’s no record of any community center by that name.”

  “Then run a search on every community center, charitable organization, sports facility, youth club, gym, and halfway house in the city, especially those that are privately owned, including schools that have closed and been sold, old warehouses, and commercial buildings.”

  “On it.”

  “Do the same with Babikov, too. Get me the address of every variant spelling you can find.”

  “Already tried,” answered Charlie. “There are a few Babikovs, or close variations, in other parts of California, but none in San Francisco.”

  “How about a marriage license, driver’s license, or Social Security Number?”

  “Nothing. There’s no Zakhar Babikov in any databank.”

  “Relatives? A sister? A wife?”

  “Sorry, Boss, I tried finding someone – anyone – but there are no primary or secondary listings anywhere. I’ve never encountered anyone without a digital footprint of some kind.”

  “Then how the hell does Talanov keep in touch with him?”

  “Apart from that burner cell, I’m guessing they communicate via email, or snail-mail to a PO box in someone else’s name. As far as email goes, owners of anonymous addresses take time to identify, especially if they’re pseudonymously registered, and since I could find no San Francisco IP address in any of Talanov’s emails – which, yes, I was able to hack – I’m guessing Alex is using an anonymous account himself.”

  Wilcox swore under his breath. “Keep looking,” he said just as a series of beeps occurred on the line. Checking his screen, Wilcox saw an incoming call was being patched through from Gustaves. “Gotta go,” he said. “Let me know the minute you find him.”

  “You got it.”

  After ending the call with Charlie, Wilcox took the call from Gustaves, which was a looped-in conference call from FBI task force commander Skip Shields, who was phoning from Terminal 2 of the San Francisco International Airport.

  The airport itself was originally one hundr
ed and fifty acres of cow pasture on the western shore of San Francisco Bay. Today, there are no cows within sight. Only asphalt and concrete and the never-ending blast of jet engines.

  According to Shields, the flight from Washington, DC had landed and the aircraft was taxiing toward the arrival gate, where Shields and his team were waiting. Passengers in the arrival area had been cleared and the area cordoned off.

  The takedown would be quick, Shields went on to explain. Agents would flood the aircraft and remove the two women. A passenger manifest had confirmed their targets to be in seats 34A and 34B, with Chin Chi Ho by the window and Xin Li on the aisle.

  As planned, the plane pulled up to the gate and eight men in black uniforms streamed onto the aircraft and took the women into custody, with Shields furnishing a real-time report from his position near the cockpit door. Once the women were off the plane, Shields led the group along the jetway, then out a side door and down a private stairway to the tarmac, where two black SUVs were waiting. There he directed his men to put Xin Li in the lead vehicle and Chin Chi Ho in the other, both with their hands zip-tied behind them.

  “Mission accomplished,” Shields said into his phone moments later. “Xin Li and Chin Chi Ho are in custody, in separate vehicles, unable to communicate.”

  “Was there any trouble?” asked Gustaves.

  “No, ma’am. Went like clockwork.”

  “Neither one put up a fight?”

  “We didn’t give them a chance.”

  “And you confirmed their identities?” asked Shaw, who was standing beside Gustaves.

  “Yes, sir, as far as we could.”

  “What do you mean, as far as you could?”

  “The faces of the two women matched the photos we were carrying, which in turn matched their names on the passenger manifest.”

  “But?”

  “Neither woman was carrying ID. We searched their clothing and handbags, but came up empty.”

  “How can that be? IDs are required to purchase tickets. The airline verified their identities using Chinese passports, with surveillance cameras confirming that. Other cameras recorded them showing their passports and boarding passes to officials when they passed through airport security.”