Текст книги "Operation Barracuda (2005)"

Автор книги: David Michaels

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"Good morning, Jimmy," the sergeant said in Cantonese.

"Good morning, Sergeant," Jimmy replied. "It will be a very nice day, I think."

"Looks that way. Catching anything?"

"Not yet. The fish are not biting. Something else has their attention."

"And what might that be?"

Jimmy shrugged. "I don't know. If you find out, you let me know."

Wei laughed. "Will do. Have a good day."

"You, too, Sergeant."

Wei continued up toward the East Ferry pier and smiled to himself. Had he ever known Jimmy to actually catcha fish? He wasn't sure.

When the sergeant reached the point where the Hong Kong Bypass was directly overhead, he noticed something odd. A metal stake had been hammered into the concrete at the edge of the walkway. A rope was tied around it and connected to something in the water. The line was taut.

What the hell?Wei thought. He had never seen that before.

He stepped over to take a closer look and saw that there was indeed something in the harbor being kept from floating away. Wei moved to the very edge, supported himself on the rail, and began to pull the rope. It was surprisingly heavy. After four hand-over-hand tugs, a burlap bundle broke the surface. It appeared to be elongated, roughly five or six feet long and maybe one or two feet wide. Wei continued to pull it up until he was able to grab the bulky end and drag it onto the walkway.

There was no doubt about it. It was a body.

An hour later, the Promenade was swarming with policemen. Sergeant Wei had provided a statement and the homicide detectives had taken over the case. Wei couldn't believe he had run across a murder. A Caucasian man had been shot in the head, wrapped in burlap, and dropped in the water. The strange thing was that the killer or killers wanted the corpse to be found; hence, it was tied to the waterfront.

The dead man was logged as a "John Doe" at the morgue. It would take several days before the corpse was successfully identified as Professor Gregory Jeinsen.

IT was crunch time again at Third Echelon.

Carly St. John sometimes brought a bedroll with her to work when things got bad. As temporary technical director, she was more or less second in command of the team, reporting only to Colonel Lambert. Anna Grimsdottir, her superior and the regular technical director, was on the Company's mandatory annual psych leave and was due back soon. In the meantime it was Carly's responsibility to make sure Third Echelon functioned efficiently and accurately–mistakes could come back to haunt her and everyone involved in the security of the nation. That was why last year's leak of Splinter Cell names to the Shop was so demoralizing. She'd never rest until she learned how it had happened.

She had stopped working at twelve-thirty A.M. to try to get a little sleep so that she could be up and pounding on her keyboard before the colonel arrived at seven. But something was nagging at her brain and Carly knew she was close. When she realized she'd never get to sleep, Carly sat up in the bedroll–still dressed in her work clothes–and decided to go back to the computer. The clock in her office told her it was three o'clock in the morning.

As she sat in front of her monitor, the same thought kept coming back to her.

What am I overlooking?

After all the time she had spent hacking into every employee's computer, examining every byte of the firewall, and reprogramming the security system, Carly St. John was finally on the verge of learning how sensitive information had been leaked. But something was eluding her.

She sighed and decided a pick-me-up was needed. She left her office and went to the kitchen to make some coffee. Even though her mind was racing, her body needed some caffeine to catch up with her gray matter. When she finished the preparations, she heard noise coming from Mike Chan's office. Carly moved to his door and gave it a tap.

"Mike? You in there?"

"Huh? Yeah." Chan sounded sleepy. After a couple of seconds, the door opened. Carly was startled by his appearance. He was unshaven and appeared to be wearing three-day-old clothes.

"What do you want?" he asked. No hello. No smile.

"I didn't know you were working late," she said. "I thought I was alone, that's all."

"Nah, I'm here. I've been here since yesterday morning."

"What are you working on?"

"The usual." Mike Chan was one of Third Echelon's research analysts. He reported to Carl Bruford, the director of research. Carly had never found Chan particularly friendly. Chan was very no-nonsense with regard to fellow employees. He was a serious guy, difficult to get to know.

"Okay, well, I'll leave you alone, then," she said. Carly started to walk away but Chan stopped her.

"Wait, Carly. Sorry, I guess I fell asleep and you woke me. You know how it is."

She turned and nodded. "Yeah. You want some coffee?"

"I'd love some."

"I'm making some now. In the kitchen."

The brew was ready so she took two mugs from the drainer sitting next to the sink. "These look clean," she said. "I think."

Chan followed her into the kitchen and stretched. "So how you coming with your project? Do we still have a firewall?"

"Yeah. I don't think anyone's going to be hacking us again." She handed him a cup. They took turns putting in cream and sugar. "Actually, I think I've almost solved our problem. I'm this close." She held her fingers up to indicate an inch.

"Really? How's that?" Chan asked.

"Oh, I don't know. Thinking out loud."

"No, I'm interested. Try me." Carly was surprised. Mike Chan had never paid much attention to her before.

"Well, I discovered a back door in the old firewall that was breached. Someone from our office created the back door. Someone outside the office breached it with the insider's help. That much I know."

"Jeez," Chan said. "Who could it be?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out. There are traces of two ISP addresses that have gone through the door. Would you believe that one of them is in Washington, somewhere near the Senate building? The other one originated right here at Third Echelon."

"Holy shit," Chan said. "Does Lambert know this?"

"I'm going to tell him this morning when he comes in. I was hoping I'd be able to tell him even more by then. Hey, that reminds me. Do you know anything about Triads?"

Chan blinked. "What?"

"Triads. You know, Chinese criminal organizations."

"Yeah, I know what they are. Why do you want to know?"

"I uncovered an encrypted e-mail that mentions a Triad in Los Angeles called the Lucky Dragons. Ever hear of them?"

"Um, no, I don't think so."

"I'm trying to figure out who received that e-mail. It may be a part of the puzzle."

"You think you can?"

"Wish me luck." She gave him a little wave and walked out with her coffee. Chan watched her go and shook his head. Carly St. John was a little dynamo. She was less than five feet, five inches tall, was twenty-nine years old, and possessed a brain that could power a computer. The joke around the office was that she should wear a sticker on her head that read INTEL INSIDE.

Chan went back to his own office and looked around the mess until he found the backpack he always brought to work with him. He opened it and retrieved a Smith & Wesson SW1911 .45-caliber semiautomatic. He checked to make sure it was loaded, attached the sound suppressor that was custom-made for the weapon, racked the slide, and carried it with him toward Carly's office. Chan couldn't concern himself with the security cameras that lined the hallways. The situation had reached the breaking point and there was only one thing to do.

She had left her door ajar. He peered inside and saw her sitting at her desk. Her fingers flew over the keyboard as she stared at the monitor.

Chan knew that Carly St. John would solve the puzzle. It was only a matter of time. For months he had kept a close watch on her, trying to intercept any information she provided to Lambert. If Carly said she was close to uncovering the traitor in Third Echelon's midst, then it had to be true. And if she exposed the Lucky Dragons . . . !

Chan couldn't allow that.

He quietly pushed the door open wider and stepped inside. Chan raised the pistol, pointed it to the back of Carly's head, and squeezed the trigger. The gun recoiled with a PFFT!and the woman slumped over the keyboard. She might have appeared to be asleep if it weren't for the mess that was made over the desk. Chan grimaced and moved closer. He aimed at the computer tower on the side of her desk and emptied two cartridges into it. The machine sparked and went dead. Chan then kicked it over and stomped on the casing. The covering came off and he was satisfied that the hard drive had been destroyed.

He quickly went back to his own office and stuffed his personal belongings into the backpack. His heart was beating furiously and he had to sit a moment to catch his breath. Picking up his cell phone, he dialed a number and waited.

"This better be good," the voice answered in Cantonese.

"I'm sorry to wake you," Chan said in the same language. "I have to get out now."

"What's the problem?"

"I'm blown. And I've killed someone."

"Shit."

"I'm leaving for L.A. right now."

"Right. We'll be expecting you. How are you coming?"

"I . . . I don't know."

"Don't fly. They'll catch you."

"Yeah."

"Stay away from the trains and buses, too. You'll have to drive. But don't drive your own car."

Chan was now so nervous he couldn't think straight. "What else am I going to drive? Tell me that!"

"Buy a new car! Rent one! But not under your own name. Don't be foolish."

"You're going to get me out of the country, right?" Chan asked.

"Of course. Just as we agreed."

"To Hong Kong?"

"I'll begin making the necessary arrangements. But you'll have to get to L.A. on your own without being caught. You must keep calm. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Then I suggest you leave now." The man in California hung up.

Chan closed his phone, put it in his pocket, and grabbed the backpack. His final act was to delete everything on his own computer's hard drive. He then took one last look around his office, made sure he wasn't leaving anything important, and left. To hell with the security cameras, he thought. Third Echelon would know soon enough what he had done. The main thing was to get away as quickly as possible.

On the way out of the building, he avoided Carly St. John's office.

10

Ikeep a small amount of weights, a bench, and a punching bag on the lower level of my town house. The entire bottom floor serves as my library, office, and gym. I used to go to a real gym in Baltimore where a motley assortment of boxers, gang members, and toughs hang out. That was okay, but now I prefer to do my workouts at home.

I'm in the middle of bench-pressing on the lower level of my town house when the doorbell rings. The clock reads 8:30 and I wonder who the hell is at my door at this time of the morning. Then I remember–damn, it's Katia. Today's my birthday and I agreed to let her come fix breakfast for me. How the hell could I forget that?

I run up the stairs to the ground floor and open the door. There she is, looking marvelous. She's wearing tight-fitting jeans and has a winter coat on–that's all I can tell at the moment–but she's done her hair and is wearing makeup, which is something she doesn't normally do at the Krav Maga class. And here I am wearing a T-shirt and sweat pants.

"Katia!" I say. "Is it eight-thirty already?"

Her smile becomes a frown. "Don't tell me you forgot, Sam."

"No, no, I didn't. I was working out and the time got away from me, that's all. Come in, come in." I don't think she believes me but she doesn't mention it again. I take her coat and see that she's wearing a red cami with spaghetti straps. The thing accentuates her cleavage in a most alluring way.

Uh-oh,I think.

She has a grocery bag full of stuff. "Where's the kitchen?" she asks.

"Right here," I reply, pointing to the archway to my left.

"Oh, so it is. Nice place, Sam. You have all this to yourself?"

"Uh-huh."

"Must be nice." She puts the bag on the counter. "Okay, you go finish your workout, take a shower, and by then breakfast will be ready."

"I'm done with the workout. Really."

"Then go get cleaned up." She bats her eyes at me. I get the hint; she doesn't want me to watch her cook.

When I come back down after showering and dressing, the table in the dining room is set with two places and lit candles. She's brought her own china and a bottle of champagne. In my spot there's one of those stupid little party hats that reads BIRTHDAY BOY on it.

"Katia, this is beautiful," I say.

"Sit down, big boy, and put on your hat."

"Katia, I'm not going to wear that hat."

She sticks out her tongue at me and goes back into the kitchen. I sit and put on the hat anyway, feeling like an idiot. When she returns carrying a tray of stuff, she sees me and laughs. "Oh, that is too precious for words."

"Can I take it off now?"

"Oh, all right. I don't want to snicker all through our meal."

The breakfast is amazing. She serves omelets made with three different cheeses, peppers, onions, mushrooms, and spinach. We have bagels and lox. A side plate holds a variety of fruit. There's fresh orange juice as well as champagne.

"Damn, Katia. I guess you'll have to marry me," I say facetiously.

"Is that a proposal?"

I don't answer. Instead I hold up my champagne glass for a toast. She clicks my glass with hers. "Happy birthday, Sam," she says.

"Thanks."

And we begin to eat. Our conversation feels awkward at first. It's like it usually is when we go out for coffee. There's that underlying sexual tension I normally like to deny is there. She knows it's there, too, but pretends that it isn't simply because I'm not acknowledging it. We talk of the class, discuss some of the talented students, and eventually the subject turns into our respective careers.

"I'm pretty happy just teaching Krav Maga," she says. "I never aspired to anything else. I'm probably too old to be a mother and too young to retire."

"Can you make ends meet just teaching those classes?" I ask. "And by the way, you're not too old to be a mother, if that's what you really want."

She shakes her head. "No, I amtoo old. I wouldn't want to go through that in my late thirties. Having babies is something twenty-somethings do. And to answer your question, no, I don't make ends meet just teaching. But I have some income in a trust that my father set up before he died. As long as I don't go crazy at the mall once a month, I'll do okay with what I make."

I decide not to push the baby issue. "Where is your mother? Do you have siblings?"

"She and my younger sister live in California. San Diego. In fact, I'm going there in a couple of days. I meant to tell you. There's no class next week. I'll let everyone else know by e-mail. I'm gonna stay for about a week, I hope. I was thinking of maybe going up to the wine country afterward but I'm not sure. Or maybe L.A."

"That sounds nice," I say. "I could use a vacation, too."

"You? Mister travel-around-the-world?"

"That's work. Believe me, I don't relax when I'm traveling."

"Just what is it you really do, Sam? And don't tell me you're in goddamned sales. I don't believe that for a minute."

"I amin sales. Sort of. International relations between the U.S. and companies that provide a lot of goods that Americans can't get anywhere else. I guess I'm what you might call an information gatherer and troubleshooter."

She laughed and shook her head. "You work for the government. That's what you do."

I shrug. "Not really."

"Come on, Fisher. I wouldn't be surprised if you're some kind of spy. You're so athletic and fit. Most guys your age let themselves go. Not you. And you're smart and seem so well traveled. You're gone for sometimes weeks at a time. And you keep your private life incredibly secret. I don't know a damned thing about you except that you have a daughter and that you're better at Krav Maga than me."

"I'm no spy, Katia. And I'm not better at Krav Maga than you."

"Yes, you are, and you know it. You could have whipped my ass yesterday. You letme pin you."

"Maybe I wanted you to pin me."

She looks at me sideways. The candlelight makes her brown eyes sparkle.

"Yeah?" she asks.

I take a sip of champagne and attempt to keep my face expressionless. I now know this is it. My years of ignoring the opposite sex have come to an end. It's high time I reenter the world of male-and-female relationships.

Our breakfast finished, I stand and hold out my hand. She smiles and takes it. I begin to lead her away from the table but she stops me.

"Wait!" Katia grabs the two champagne glasses and the bottle. "We might need this."

I lead her upstairs to my bedroom. The bed isn't made but she doesn't complain. Katia sets down the bottle and glasses and turns to me. I take her into my arms and we kiss more passionately than we did at the studio, if such a thing is possible.

WHENwe finally come up for air, the clock on my nightstand reads 1:30. We made fiercely primal love for at least an hour before falling asleep in each other's arms. The lovemaking, for me, was a revelation. It had been a long time. I guess it's one of those things you don't forget, kinda like riding a bike. Well, Katia Loenstern is one hell of a ride. She rode mepretty hard, too. We must have slept for a half hour, then got to it again. You'd have thought I'd been celibate for a century. After chugging down the rest of the tepid champagne, we tried another position. Katia marveled at my stamina and I welcomed her enthusiasm.

It was the best morning–and best birthday–I'd had in years.

We contemplate taking a shower together just as my beeper goes off. That means I need to make a call to Lambert on my secure line downstairs in the office. I don't want to do it. Damn it, I'm on vacation. I just returned from an assignment. It can't be that. Not now. Not as I'm just beginning thiswith the first woman I've grown to like since–

"Does that mean anything?" she asks.

"Yeah," I say. "I have to make a call. Downstairs in my office."

She smiles sweetly. "Go ahead. I'll just lie here and see if I can get my blood pressure back to normal."

I touch her face lightly and kiss her. "I'll be right back."

"Bring some water," she hollers as I bound down the stairs. Once I'm alone in the office, I make the call and reach Lambert at Third Echelon.

"Sam, thank God you're there," he says.

"What's up, Colonel?"

"Meet me at the usual place in an hour."

"An hour?"

"Why, you have something else going on?"

I want to tell him to take this job and shove it but I don't. "I, uh, I'm a little busy."

"This is priority three, Sam."

Shit. That means it's of vital importance. There's no way I can weasel out of it.

"I'll be there," I say. We hang up and I climb the stairs to the kitchen. I pour two tall glasses of water and bring them to the top floor. Katia's lying playfully under the sheet, giggling. As I enter the room, she exposes one long, shapely leg and flexes it in the air.

"You like?" she says in a phony European accent. "You vant?"

I sit on the bed and gently pull down the sheet. She has a cute, mischievous expression on her face.

"Here you go," I say as I hand her the water. She sits up, exposing her lovely chest.

She downs the liquid quickly, exhales, and says, "So, you ready for round six? Or is it seven? I've lost count."

"Katia, I have to leave. Business. I'm sorry."

She looks as if I've slapped her. "Really?"

"Really."

"You're not trying to get rid of me?"

"Never. If I had my way about it, we'd never leave this room."

"I bet you say that to all the girls who make you breakfast on your birthday."

I lean in to kiss her again. She lets me but the earlier passion isn't there. Her feelings are hurt.

"Does this mean you're going out of town again?" she asks.

"It might."

"Sam, whatis so important about your job?"

"I can't tell you, Katia."

"You dowork for the government."

I figure there's no harm in her knowing that much. If we're going to have a relationship . . .

"Yes. I do. But I can't tell you whatI do. Please don't ask. All right?"

She considers that a moment and then says, "Okay. As long as you promise you're not going to drop the Krav Maga class now."

I laugh. "Of course not." I hold out my hand and help her out of bed. "We can still take that shower if you want."

"You bet. I don't want to go home smelling like sex. My cat will go nuts."

I precede her into the bathroom to turn on the water. I see her reflection in the mirror and notice that she's writing something on the notepad I keep on the nightstand. She joins me in the shower and we spend a luxurious five or six minutes soaping each other and getting all hot and bothered again. We do it one more time, standing up in the shower stall as the hot water rains down on us.

Afterward, when we're dressed, I notice what she wrote on the notepad. It's her cell phone number and the words, I don't give this number to justanybody. I smile and lead her downstairs.

"You let me know if you have to leave town, will you?" she asks.

"I promise," I say. It's the least I can do.

11

IT'Sbegun to snow. Winter in Maryland is always unpredictable. You never know if it's going to be blizzard conditions, wet and icy, or just plain cold. The temperature isn't so low today but the snow is falling heavily. The weather boys predict six inches. Joy.

I crank up the heat in my 2002 Jeep Cherokee and drive down to D.C. on I-95. The vehicle is one of the Overland models, a rugged 4x4 with a potent 265-horsepower V8. For the city, it's way too much car, but there are times when I like to take it over more rugged territory. I happen to enjoy road trips but I don't get to take them very often. I've often fantasized of being a truck driver after I retire from the intelligence biz. I could go "searching for America," just like all the other folk heroes.

Lambert and I usually find a public place to meet. I avoid the government agency buildings in and around D.C. just in case someone's tailing me. Seeing me enter an NSA or CIA building would certainly be a tip-off that I work for the feds. Currently Third Echelon's actual headquarters is nowhere near the National Security Agency, which is housed on Savage Road in Fort Meade, Maryland, halfway between Baltimore and D.C. Third Echelon proper resides in a small, nondescript building in the nation's capital, not far from the White House. Every couple of years they move HQ to a new location for security reasons. Even though I try to steer clear of HQ, I occasionally have business there. Lambert and I decided long ago that it was best to rendezvous elsewhere. We used to vary the locations, usually meeting in shopping malls. He knows I hate shopping malls so I think he picks them on purpose just to annoy me. Lambert has a sick sense of humor. Lately we've been using the same one, located in Silver Spring, because of its convenience.

I take the exit off I-95 and follow the directions to City Place Mall on Colesville Road, park the Jeep, and go inside. The food court is easy to find and there's Lambert waiting for me at one of the tables–he's always the first to arrive–but I'm surprised because he's not alone. Frances Coen is sitting with him. I know her as one of the Field Runners that Third Echelon uses. She's in her thirties and is fairly attractive for a tomboy type. Slim with close-cropped dark hair. She's wearing professional, close-fitting rugged clothes. Lambert is dressed in a black turtleneck sweater and khaki pants. He never wears his uniform when we meet in public. It appears he's munching down on his favorite fast food, a Big Mac Combo Meal. The woman is eating a salad. I make eye contact with Lambert and then I go to the court to pick up something for myself. Breakfast was hours ago. After all that heavy lovemaking and champagne, I need something substantial. I end up buying a plate of chicken and broccoli from the faux Chinese joint.

I join Lambert and Coen at the table and see that the colonel is already finished with his meal. He has a funny habit of rubbing the top of his crewcut when he's nervous, and that's what he does when I sit down. Lambert appears to be more stressed than usual. The bags under his eyes are especially prominent today and I don't remember them being that bad. Lambert's usually a very energetic guy. He's ambitious and smart, and I'm not sure if he ever sleeps. He drinks more coffee than he sucks air. Lambert's the kind of guy who's always busy and never relaxes. From the way he looks today, I'd say his lifestyle is going to send him to an early grave.

Coen eyes me silently. For the first time I notice a large scar on the side of her neck that disappears into her collar. Possibly ex-military?

"You okay, Colonel?" I ask.

"No," he says. "Carly St. John is dead."

I feel my stomach lurch. "What?"

He nods. "Shot in the back of the head. At our office."

I can't believe it. Carly is–was–my friend, the one person other than Lambert with whom I enjoyed a meaningful relationship.

"Do you know who–?"

"Not yet," the colonel says. "But Mike Chan is missing. There's every indication that he's the perpetrator. He's all over the cameras."

"Mike Chan? The analyst?"

The colonel nods. I met Chan once and only briefly. A quiet Chinese-American, he seemed to be on the ball, a real team player.

I look at Coen. Lambert notices my circumspection and says, "Sam, you know Frances Coen, one of our Field Runners."

"Yes." Field Runner. I remember discussing this program with Lambert. He wants to send not one, but twopeople into the field. A Field Runner is supposedly responsible for coordinating transportation and equipment for a Splinter Cell. I made my objections to the concept known, loud and clear. The main disadvantage, in my opinion, is that it's dangerous enough having one agent vulnerable to capture and torture. At least a Splinter Cell is trained to withstand rough treatment. What happens if a Field Runner is caught? How is this woman–Frances Coen–going to react when the bad guys try to extract information from her with hot irons?

I save the argument for later. Right now I'm more concerned about what happened to Carly.

"Whoever killed Carly is responsible for our leak to the Shop," I suggest.

"You're probably right," the colonel replies. "If it really is Chan . . ."

"What's being done about it?"

"We had to bring in the FBI. This is a federal crime. We couldn't have the D.C. police in our offices. We don't exist, remember?"

"Yeah."

"So we have to sit on our hands while the Bureau sniffs around." I can see that Lambert isn't happy about this.

"When did this happen?" I ask.

"Last night sometime. Carly was working late. Her computer was destroyed as well. All the progress she'd made on plugging the leak vanished with it."

"We do have backup tapes," Coen says. "We're starting to go through them now. We just don't know if Carly backed up her work in the past day or two."

"I've asked that Anna come back from psych leave immediately. Until then we're operating on thin ice," Lambert says.

Anna Grimsdottir is just as smart as Carly, but I have–had–a special attachment to Carly. It will be difficult to replace her. "So I guess the reason you called me here today is to go after Mike Chan?"

"No. I'm afraid it isn't."

Huh? What the hell?"Sir, I wantto go after Mike Chan."

"It's not your job. It's not Third Echelon's job. It's the FBI's job. Sorry, Sam. I want to avenge Carly's murder as much as you do. We have to let the political wheels turn the way they're supposed to."

"Then what am I doing here?"

"It's unrelated. I'm sending you to Hong Kong, Sam. You'll need to leave tonight."

"Tonight? Damn it, Colonel, I just got home from Russia! I haven't been here a week. And aren't I supposed to have mandatory psych leave?"

"I know, but you're the only available operative right now. Remember–we lost our Far East agent last year and have had to fill in with subs when we needed someone. I have the Committee breathing down my neck about budget cuts. For some reason, Third Echelon is on Washington's shit list. We have to prove our worth and soon. That's why I need you, Sam. I don't like to say this because I don't want you getting a big head, but you're the best we've got."

It's nice to hear but I'm too pissed off to respond appropriately. I sure as hell don't want to go to fucking Hong Kong.

"What the hell is so goddamned important in Hong Kong?" I ask.

Lambert slides a large envelope across the table. "You've heard of SeaStrike Technologies?"

"Yeah, I've heard of 'em."

"One of their top scientists went missing a week ago. We were afraid he'd been kidnapped because he was the project leader of one of our most important defense programs."

"The MRUUV," Coen says. "Do you know it?"

"No."

"All the info you need is in that envelope," Lambert says.

"So, I'm supposed to find this scientist?" I ask.

"No. He's been found. He was murdered in Hong Kong. His body turned up in Kowloon. It took the Chinese authorities twenty-four hours to identify him."

"Who was he?"

"Gregory Jeinsen. Former East German physicist, defected to the U.S. in 1971. He's worked for the Pentagon ever since."

"So what do you want me to do?"

"I want you to find out what Jeinsen was doing in Hong Kong. If Jeinsen turned or was indeed kidnapped, he may have handed over MRUUV secrets. If that's happened, let's just say that the Pentagon is not going to be very happy." Lambert rubbed his crewcut again.

"You want me to go investigate a murder? Colonel, with all due respect, I'm not a homicide detective. Isn't that a little out of Third Echelon's jurisdiction?" I ask.

"No, that's not what I want you to do. You're going to Hong Kong to do what you always do–extract intelligence. Gregory Jeinsen was there for a reason. I want to know why. If MRUUV secrets were sold or given away or pried out of him, then your job is to follow the trail and see where they went. If, in finding that out, you discover who killed him, then great. We'll beat the FBI and CIA at their jobs. And that'll be a feather in our cap when the Committee starts making budget cuts."

"So this is all about funding, is that it?" I'm really becoming angry now.