Текст книги "Operation Barracuda (2005)"

Автор книги: David Michaels

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"Stop it, Sam. Just read the file. You'll understand why this is important once you do."

I stew for a moment and everyone at the table is quiet. Finally I take the envelope and say, "Fine."

"Thank you, Sam," Lambert says.

I wave him off. "What about the stuff I found in Prokofiev's house? Have you had time to look into that list of missing nukes?"

"Our analysts are decoding the general's notes as we speak. I should know more in the next day or two. That was a good find, Sam."

"Thanks. So what can you tell me about that security breach Carly was working on? I think it's gotten worse. Look what happened to me in Russia. Someone knewI was following General Prokofiev in Kyiv. He got wise and destroyed his car because he knew it was bugged with a homing device. How did he know? And from all accounts it looks like he came home unexpectedly in Moscow because he may have known I was in his house. Colonel, you can count on one hand the number of people who knew what I was doing in Russia."

"I realize that, Sam. As soon as Anna is back in place, that will be her first priority. There's no question in my mind that an insider compromised Third Echelon. Maybe it was Mike Chan. Maybe he wasn't working alone. Maybe there's another insider that's not a Third Echelon employee. Maybe the traitor is one of the few people in Washington that know of our existence. I don't know at this point, Sam, but I'm keeping an open mind. I'd like you to as well."

I nod my head toward Coen. Lambert catches the subtext behind the move. "Sam, the Field Runner operation–"

"I work alone, Lambert. You know that."

"That may not be the case in the future, Sam. For now, yes, but we're here to tell you we've got Frances here on the fast track to become your personal Field Runner. For this assignment she'll stay in Washington and monitor you remotely. Next time, well, we'll see. The kinks in the program still have to be worked out. I understand your concerns; you've voiced them enough."

I look at the woman and say, "No offense, Frances, but I can't see how your presence in an enemy zone would make my job any easier. I have enough to worry about just looking after my own butt. I don't need another butt to watch."

"You won't have to watch my butt, as you put it," Coen says. "I'm thoroughly trained. I can handle myself in a threatening situation."

"How about torture?" I ask. "Can you handle that? Can you handle your fingernails being ripped out one by one, or electric prods shoved up your–"

"Sam!" Lambert almost shouts. Other people around us look up to see what's going on. He lowers his voice and says, "That's enough."

I fold my arms and sit back. "Whatever."

Coen waits a beat and then starts to talk. "You're to meet me tonight at Dulles. An army Osprey will take you to one of our bases in the Philippines and from there you'll get a commercial flight to Hong Kong. I'll have some last-minute documents for you then. Your flight information is there in the envelope. I'll see you tonight, Mr. Fisher." She holds out her hand.

I don't want to be a dick so I reach out and shake it. "Call me Sam," I say.

KATIAisn't too pleased that I have to leave the country again so soon. But she didn't make a big deal out of it. If she had, I'd think twice about becoming more involved with her. The last thing I want is a needy girlfriend. I could tell that Katia was ticked off about my leaving but she said for me not to worry about it. She understood. She explained again that she was going to California anyway so maybe we'd both be back at the same time.

I like her, damn it. Against my better judgment, I'm looking forward to us both being back at the same time.

So now I'm in Dulles Airport and I meet Frances Coen in front of the magazine shop she'd designated. We walk to an empty gate, sit, and she gives me another envelope.

"I have all your transportation arrangements in here," she says. "Instructions for picking up your equipment are in there as well. You shouldn't have any problems."

"That's what youthink," I mutter.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Look, Mr. Fisher, I know–"

"I said to call me Sam."

"–Sam–you're not fond of this idea of Field Runners. But I'm good at what I do. You'll have to make a leap of faith. Can you do that?"

I shrug. "I'm not a very religious person."

She frowns at me.

"Okay, I'm willing to give it a try," I finally say.

"I'm not over there with you this time around. For now you'll work just like you always have. The only difference is that you'll be dealing with me on most things. Colonel Lambert will of course be giving you instructions. Anna will be back soon. But I'm your main contact now."

"Okeydokey," I say and grin. The sarcasm is not lost on her but she holds out her hand.

"Good luck, Sam."

I shake it and nod.

At that point an army sergeant enters the gate and approaches us. "Mr. Fisher?" he asks.

"Yeah?"

"I'm to escort you to the Osprey."

"Right." I take my duffel bag and follow the soldier outside. I don't look back at Frances Coen. I don't look back at anything.

12

I'VEbeen in Hong Kong a number of times, both before and after the momentous handover in 1997. Before the Brits left the colony, there was widespread speculation that the capitalistic society that Hong Kong had enjoyed for over a century would disappear. Communist China would ruin what was up to then known as "the Pearl in the Crown." So far it hasn't happened. I can't see that much has changed except perhaps there are fewer Brits walking around. The Chinese promised to keep Hong Kong in its current state of economic enterprise for the next fifty years. Who's to say what happens after that? Are they simply going to say, "Okay, folks, no more free enterprise, that's it, you're done, now it's share and share alike"? I don't buy it. Hong Kong is a well-oiled machine and I believe it's going to continue functioning the way it always has well into the twenty-second century.

My trip to the Far East was uneventful. The Osprey flew to Hawaii first and made a stop. I had a two-hour layover at Pearl Harbor and then we continued on to Manila. By the time we arrived in the Philippines it was too late to catch the commercial flight to Hong Kong, so I spent the night in the barracks. It wasn't bad. Since I can usually sleep on demand I didn't have any problems with jet lag. Jet lag never has bothered me much. Only after I return home does it seem to catch up with me. I guess you could say I'm the master of my internal clock.

After I land the next morning in Hong Kong, I consider renting a car but decide against it. As in London or New York, cars in Hong Kong are more of a hindrance than an advantage. I'll get around much faster taking public transportation and walking. If and when I need to get to some remote spot, I'll take a taxi. I can always rent a car later if I need one.

Frances Coen's instructions say I have to seek out Mason Hendricks, a former intelligence officer stationed in the Far East. Hendricks, an American, is ex-CIA and, like Harry Dagger in Moscow, is retired but still has his nose to the ground. I've never met him although I've had plenty of opportunities to do so. Back when I was in the CIA he was certainly around, but our paths never crossed. He's reputed to be a good man, very smart and resourceful. Coen tells me that my equipment was drop shipped from Manila to Hendricks. I'm not sure what the logistics are and how he goes about retrieving the stuff; I leave that to my so-called Field Runner.

Hendricks lives in the Mid-Levels, halfway up Victoria Peak. The Peak is theplace to live in Hong Kong, especially when the British were here. The higher up you go, the more expensive the real estate. The Mid-Levels is the equivalent of upper-middle-class to lower-upper-class neighborhoods, if that makes any sense. It's still damned expensive.

I take a taxi to his home, a detached dwelling next to a block of apartments off of Conduit Road. When he answers the door, I'm surprised by how young he looks. Hendricks is supposed to be sixty-one but he appears to be forty-five.

"Sam Fisher," he says. He holds out his hand. "Mason Hendricks."

I shake it, evaluating his firm grip. This is a man of strength. "Glad to meet you after all these years."

"Likewise. Please come in."

The inside of his home is tastefully decorated in a mixture of Western and Eastern styles. The British influence is definitely present but the Asian flavoring tends to dominate. For example, there's a very large Buddha in the room, something you notice when you first walk in. The smell of burning incense fills the place. Next to it is a shelf containing a collection of ships in bottles–and they're all British warships from the classic eighteenth-century period.

"Forgive the incense," Hendricks says. "I'm afraid I've grown to like it after forty-some-odd years in Hong Kong."

"Doesn't bother me," I say.

Hendricks is dressed in a simple beige tunic and loose-fitting matching trousers. He'd be at home in any beach house.

"I know what you're thinking," he says. "I look younger than I'm supposed to be."

"As a matter of fact," I reply, "you don't look fifty. But you're sixty-something, right?"

"Sixty-two next month. It's the clean living that does it. And of course, a stress-free lifestyle. I admit to having a little plastic surgery, I dye my hair, and I never eat fatty foods. My health improved immeasurably after I retired from the CIA. I also finally found time for a love life. I've had so many Chinese girlfriends in the last ten years that it puts my college years to shame. That will certainly keep you young! And that's another reason why I take care of myself. Anyway, everything I do these days for our precious government is simply for the fun of it or because it interests me. I'm happy to help out the NSA. I hope I can give you some useful information. How about a drink?"

I shrug. "Sure."

"I'm having scotch. What will you have?"

"Just fruit juice if you have it."

He goes straight to the bar on the opposite side of the room from the Buddha and fixes a couple of glasses. I take the moment to browse his bookshelf, which is full of historical military reference books and suspense novels. When he brings my glass of juice–apricot–he clicks it and says, "Cheers."

"Thank you. Cheers."

Hendricks leads the way through a sliding glass door to a terrace that overlooks the skyline. "I wish I were higher up. I bought this place twenty-five years ago for a song. I could probably make a fortune if I sold it. Or if it accidentally burned down, the insurance would make me a rich man." He laughs. "Then maybe I could buy a place farther up the Peak. The view's much better. That's where all the hoity-toity live."

"I think it's a very nice place, Mr. Hendricks."

"Oh, please, call me Mason."

"All right."

We sit on deck chairs and enjoy a slight breeze. In serious contrast to the weather in Maryland, it's quite warm on the island. I don't think I've ever been to Hong Kong when it wasn't.

"Did my equipment arrive safely?" I ask.

"It did indeed. I have it in one of the bedrooms. But please, let's relax and talk out here a while. Where are you staying?"

"I don't know."

"I'd offer you my spare bedroom but I tend to have female company at night. I hope you understand."

I smile at him. "Whatever rocks your boat. I'll find a place. I'm not picky. I may stay in Kowloon. There are inexpensive hotels I know there."

"Suit yourself."

We sit for a moment in silence. Finally I bring up the mission at hand. "Mason, what can you tell me about this Professor Jeinsen?" Hendricks relates what I already know–that Jeinsen was shot in the head, wrapped in burlap, tied to the Promenade in Kowloon, and left to float in the water until he was found. An Interpol bulletin on the missing physicist was what did the trick in helping the police to identify him. Once the corpse was ID'd, the U.S. government was notified.

"The interesting thing here is that Professor Jeinsen wasn't murdered," Hendricks says. "He was executed."

"By whom?"

"I'd say it was a Triad killing."

I nod with understanding. The Triads are the Chinese equivalent of our Mafia, the Japanese Yakuza, the Russian Mafiya, and other organized crime outfits. They've been around for centuries, originally formed to help oust the Ch'ing dynasty and reinstate the Ming. It was during the twentieth century that they became criminally oriented. As secret societies, they pride themselves on being patriotic and nationalist. Violently opposed to the Communists, the Triads primarily settled in British Hong Kong and Portuguese Macau. Eventually they spread around the globe to other Chinese communities. I know for a fact that Triads operate in the Chinatowns of big American cities. They traffic in drugs, weapons, prostitution, and slavery, as well as operate protection rackets and gambling parlors. The Triads are fiercely anti-Western and their rites and meetings are sacred, usually never witnessed by non-Asians.

"I believe we're also dealing with a very specific Triad," Hendricks continues. "Most Triads use knives, hatchets, machetes–blades–to do their killing. Jeinsen was shot in the back of the head, gangland style. Like the Mafia does it. There's one Triad known to use that particular method of execution in Hong Kong. They're called the Lucky Dragons."

"I don't know them."

"They're not the biggest Triad by any means. The Dragons are awfully small when you compare them to, say, the 14K or Bamboo Union. But they've been around as long as I can remember. They're based in Hong Kong but I know they have extensive branches reaching into mainland China."

"But Triads are notoriously anti-Communist," I say.

"They are. And so are the Lucky Dragons. But I'm fairly confident they have some pull with certain government officials. Ever since the handover, it was expected that the Chinese government would crack down hard on Triads because of their widespread ideology against Communism. It hasn't happened. The Triads are just as powerful now as they were under British rule. Sure, it's still illegal to be a member of a Triad and all that, and the police make arrests all the time. It's just one of those things, like the Yakuza in Japan. They'll always be with us."

"What's the leadership like?"

"A fellow named Jon Ming is the leader. The Cho Kun, the Dragon Head. He's, I don't know, forty-eight or so. About your age I think. He became Cho Kun about fifteen years ago after a bloody coup within their organization. Ming is a wealthy gangster that lives on a plantation-style estate in northern Kowloon, just below the border of the New Territories. Actually, he acts more like a Yakuza than a Triad. He flaunts his wealth and power in public the way the Japanese gangsters do. That's not the norm for Chinese Triads. Here you can be arrested for just actinglike a Triad, yet he seems to steer clear of legal trouble. That's why I think he's got some politicians in his pocket."

"Where can I find this Jon Ming?"

"He runs a fancy nightclub in Kowloon. The Purple Queen. It's one of those hostess clubs, the kind that cost you a fortune to sit and talk with a beautiful girl. Sometimes you can get her to go home with you, which will cost you even more." Hendricks rattles the ice in his glass. "I guess you can say that's how I came to know some of my girlfriends. I do frequent the hostess clubs a lot. The Purple Queen, too. I can't take you there, though. You'll have to go alone. They know me. I wouldn't want you seen with me."

"I agree."

"Ming also owns a couple of restaurants and has his hand in some of the industries around here. He controls some of the container port so he has unbelievable access to shipping stuff in and out of the country. I left you a photo of the guy in the room with your equipment so you'll recognize him when you see him."

"So what's Jeinsen's connection to the Lucky Dragons?" I ask.

Hendricks looks at me and wiggles his eyebrows. "That's what you're here to find out, isn't it?"

"Any ideas?"

"None. If you ask me, the guy must have betrayed his second country. After all, he betrayed the first one by defecting to the U.S."

I sigh and say, "That's just what we're hoping he didn'tdo. Do you think Ming keeps anything at the nightclub I might be interested in?"

"I don't know," Hendricks says. "It's doubtful. I imagine all Triad-related business is conducted at one of their Lodges, and I'm afraid I can't help you with that. Your best bet is to get a good look at Ming and follow him. Maybe he'll lead you to the goods."

"What I'd really like to do is establish a connection between this Triad and the Shop. You think there might be one?"

Hendricks nods. "They get their arms from somewhere. I've heard rumblings that the Shop is operating again in the Far East. I'll make some inquiries this evening and see what I can find out."

We go back inside the house and Hendricks takes me to the bedroom where my equipment lies on the bed. It's the usual stuff–my uniform, headset and goggles, the Five-seveN and several twenty-round magazines of 5.7x28mm ss190 ammunition, and my pride and joy, the SC-20K modular assault weapon system. This rifle uses thirty rounds of 5.56x45mm ss109 ammunition in semi and full automatic modes. There's a flash/sound suppressor combined with a multipurpose launcher that shoots airfoil projectiles, sticky cameras, shockers, and smoke grenades. Other tools of the trade include an optic cable for looking into tight holes, a camera jammer, a couple of wall mines, frag grenades, flares, and a medical kit.

"I'm impressed, Mason," I say. "You managed to get all of it in one shipment."

"I've had a lotof experience, Sam."

"So where is this Triad's headquarters? Their 'Lodge,' as you say?"

Hendricks picks up the SC-20K and tests its weight. "Nice weapon." He looks through the sights and says,

"The Lucky Dragons don't have a central Lodge. I imagine they have several scattered throughout the territory. Your best bet is the Purple Queen nightclub. I can assure you there will be some Lucky Dragons in the place. You might even see Jon Ming. He's known to stop in every other night or so."

"All right."

"Remember you're a gweilohere. I don't have to tell you that these guys are pretty dangerous, do I?" A gweilois a derogatory term meaning "foreign devil."

"I'm quite familiar with Triads," I say. "They'll kill any Westerner they suspect of spying on them. They'll also die to protect their traditions."

Hendricks lowers the SC-20K, looks at me eye to eye, and says, "And don't you forget it."

13

" SIR, the FBI agent is here to see you."

Colonel Lambert told his secretary to send him in and then grumbled to himself. Lambert hated the idea of the FBI poking its nose into Third Echelon's affairs. He ran a tight ship and he didn't like interference. Carly St. John was part of the family and Lambert felt it was his duty to solve her murder and bring the perpetrator to justice.

But he had neither the means nor the expertise to carry out such a mission. Third Echelon was not a law enforcement agency. Colonel Lambert didn't have the authority to arrest or prosecute anyone. The matter had to be handed over to an outside party and the only one that made sense was the Bureau.

Special Agent Jeff Kehoe had been assigned to the case. Lambert had met him for the first time the previous day. He was a Texan in his early forties and was a sixteen-year FBI veteran. His specialties were homicide and arson. The initial meeting had gone well and Lambert could honestly say he liked the guy. It just rankled him that Third Echelon's hands were tied in the matter.

Preliminary investigation into the murder was swift and decisive. Kehoe quickly established that Mike Chan was their man. Everyone had to swipe a key card to enter Third Echelon. Other than Carly, Chan was the only employee logged into the building that night. The firm's security cameras showed Chan moving from his office to Carly's office and back. The fact that his computer's hard drive had been erased was another dead giveaway. Lambert now looked forward to further revelations.

Lambert called, "Come in," when he heard the knock. Kehoe entered the office and nodded at the colonel.

"Good morning, sir."

"Agent Kehoe. Would you like some coffee?"

"No, thank you."

"Then have a seat." Lambert gestured to the chair in front of his desk. Kehoe sat and removed some notes from his briefcase. "What have you got for me today?"

"Quite a bit," Kehoe replied. "First of all, what kind of background check did you perform on Mike Chan before he was hired?"

Lambert shrugged. "The usual. Complete rundown of the guy's credit history, his family, schooling . . . why?"

"Mike Chan's apartment was thoroughly searched last night. An X-ray machine revealed a hidden compartment in the floorboards of his bathroom. There were some papers there that pointed us in a new direction, mainly letters written in Chinese. They were from Chan's brother. We learned some interesting things, the most important being that his name isn't really Mike Chan."

"What?"

"It's Mike Wu. He had supplied you with a completely false identity and background."

"That's impossible. We use the same background checkers as your people do. And the CIA."

"That's the problem," Kehoe said. "Chan's background was manufactured from beginning to end and it was manipulated from the inside. In other words, he had help from someone in a government agency. Every bit of so-called factual information on 'Mike Chan' was created and put into place before the background check. It takes considerable resources to do something like that. Mike Chan, or rather, Mike Wu, is not working alone. He's part of a much larger threat. Do you have any ideas what this could be?"

Lambert exhaled loudly. He rubbed the top of his head and said, "Gee, the only thing I can think of is the Shop. If it's not them then it's a major foreign power trying to get the goods on us. As I told you, Carly was working on a security breach we experienced last year. She was close to figuring it out and maybe Mike found out she was about to finger him. Hell, now I wouldn't be surprised if it was Mike that gave the Shop all of our agents' names. The Shop. It has to be them."

"But the Shop is an arms broker, right? They are a profit-motivated organization, not political, correct?"

"Yeah."

"Then what are they doing planting a mole in your organization? Other than supplying the names of your agents, what other purpose could it serve?"

Lambert thought a moment and suggested, "They're selling information." He slammed his fist on the table. "Whatever Mike was giving to them, they're selling it to someone else. That has to be it."

Kehoe nodded. "Makes sense. If it's really the Shop he's working for."

Lambert squinted at the agent. "What do you know?"

"As we uncovered more and more about Mike Wu, we learned that he's originally from Los Angeles. We confirmed the brother's identity, the one writing him letters. He's a guy named Eddie Wu, a known Chinatown gangster. He's suspected of being a major figure in one of the Triads that operates in southern California."

"Triads!"

"Yes, sir. A Chinese gang that operates like the Mafia."

"I know what a Triad is. Wait, you think Mike Chan, er, Mike Wu, is working for his brother? And not the Shop?"

"I don't know. According to the letters, Eddie Wu knew all about his brother's false identity. I'm just suggesting that perhaps it's not the Shop. It could be; I haven't ruled it out. But there's this other angle. The Triad Eddie Wu is hooked up with is known as the Lucky Dragons. It's a global Triad operated from Hong Kong. The Dragons have branches in Los Angeles, San Francisco, and New York. Maybe Houston, too, but we haven't established that for certain. Anyway, the Lucky Dragons are a formidable bunch of hoodlums. Eddie Wu has been in and out of jail a few times and he's on a watch list out in California. But for the last several years he's kept his nose clean."

"So could Mike be heading to California?"

"That's what I think," Kehoe said. "I imagine he changed his identity again, maybe disguised himself, and flew out there. Or maybe he's taking a safer route, like the train, or bus. Hell, he could be driving. His car is missing. It's a 2002 Honda Accord. Either he's dumped it somewhere and we haven't found it, or he's inside of it right now driving along the interstate. Which would put him in Los Angeles the day after tomorrow at the latest."

Lambert shook his head. "Unbelievable. I can't fathom how that background check didn't turn any of this up."

"Like I said, sir. He's had help from someone higher up. We'd like to find out who that might be as well."

"So what's next?"

"I'm going to Los Angeles. The FBI there will be watching Eddie Wu. If Mike Wu shows up, they'll surely be seen together. We're counting on the fact that Mike Wu doesn't know we've seen through his false identity."

Lambert nodded. "Okay. Keep me informed, will you? I know you have to report to your own people but I'd appreciate it if you kept me in the loop."

"I'll do that, Colonel."

"Is that all?"

"I think so. For now."

Lambert stood and held out his hand. "Thanks. You're doing a fine job."

Kehoe got up and shook the colonel's hand. "Thank you. I'll be in touch." He turned and left the office. Colonel Lambert sat, feeling satisfied that some progress was being made. He might not like the FBI doing the job but at least this Kehoe was actually doingthe job. Perhaps it wasn't such a bad thing after all.

On to other things. He pressed the intercom button. "Have Ms. Grimsdottir come to my office, please."

He then turned to his in-box and picked up a memorandum from Frances Coen that confirmed Sam Fisher's safe arrival in Hong Kong. Contact had been made with Mason Hendricks, and Fisher would be following a lead that might involve Chinese Triads.

What goes around, comes around,Lambert thought. Could Mike Wu be involved in the Professor Jeinsen business?

He then opened Anna Grimsdottir's personnel file and scanned it once more before the meeting. It wasn't necessary, though. Lambert had known Anna for a long time–she was one of the original Third Echelon employees. A woman of Icelandic origin, Grimsdottir was thirty years old. She was a second-generation American and a college dropout. She had been studying computer science at St. John's College in the nineties but decided she could program rings around her instructors. She worked as a programmer for several different communications firms contracted by the U.S. Navy. She had been recruited at the ground floor of Third Echelon and had worked as a programmer and eventually became the technical director. Grimsdottir had continuously shown a strong drive, a sharp intelligence, and a noted dedication to the work.

There was a tentative knock on his door. "Come in."

Anna Grimsdottir stepped inside. As always she wore her brown hair pulled back and resembled an attractive college professor. She was so studious looking that one's mother might say she had a "nice personality." Her colleagues knew Grimsdottir's temperament was rather staid, almost the reserve of a Brit. But they also knew she had a wry sense of humor that she rarely allowed to surface.

"You wished to see me, Colonel?" she asked.

"Sit down, Anna." She took the chair, crossed her legs, and sat with impossibly good posture. "How was your leave?"

"Nice. Hawaii, you know."

"Sorry I had to end it early."

"No, actually I'm happy that you did. I'm glad to be back."

"Good. As you know, we've lost Carly."

Grimsdottir lifted her chin and said, "She was very good. I'm sorry that she . . . well, I'm sorry about what happened, sir."

"We all are." He cleared his throat and came to the point. "Are you ready to resume your responsibilities?"

"Of course."

"You'll need to get up to speed very quickly. You've missed out on a number of developments within the organization."

"Let's do it."

Lambert looked into her eyes and saw that there was absolutely no fear. Total self-confidence.

"Let's do," he replied.

MIKEWu, aka Mike Chan, passed a sign telling him that Oklahoma City was twenty miles away. He needed to find a place to stop and rest before he had an accident. Wu hadn't slept a wink since he had shot Carly St. John and left Washington, D.C. Now, two days on, he was feeling the effects of sleep deprivation and too much caffeine. He was jittery, not thinking clearly, and had a massive headache.

Before leaving the D.C. area he had parked his blue 2002 Honda Accord alongside a green one that was in front of an apartment building blocks away from his own. Armed with a screwdriver, he switched license plates on the two cars in less than a minute, and then headed west on I-70. He picked up I-81 to take him down through the Appalachian Mountains and Virginia. The highway joined I-40 in Tennessee, and he planned to stay on that road all the way to California. He knew it was probably an obvious route to take but it was also the fastest. Hopefully the police wouldn't be looking for him yet. After he had slept a little, he planned to dump his Honda and steal a car for the second half of the trip. Wu couldn't believe he had made it halfway across the United States so quickly. But then, he rarely stopped. Only to buy gas and pick up a bite to eat.

He passed a sign for a motel located off the next exit. Good. Out of the way and cheap. Just what the doctor ordered. Wu couldn't wait to get there. He'd have a shower, drop into the bed, and catch five or six hours. And then–

Damn!In the rearview mirror he saw a police car right behind him, lights flashing. Where did he come from? Wu looked at his speedometer and saw that he was doing ninety-three miles per hour. In his haste to reach the motel, he had become careless. Up to that point he had been so good at driving safely and staying within speed limits so as not to attract attention. Now this.

Wu pulled the car over to the shoulder and stopped. The patrol car, an Oklahoma State Police vehicle, moved up behind him. The officer sat in his car making a note and doing the routine call-in with the license plate number.