Текст книги "Operation Barracuda (2005)"

Автор книги: David Michaels

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

Hell, it ain't myAltima, so I get out and chase after him. More car horns blast annoyance as we maneuver through the traffic and onto a sidewalk. The Triad, who's holding his wounded right shoulder, cuts around a corner and into a dark alley. When I get to the entrance I lower my goggles, flip on the night vision, spot him, crouch, and aim the Five-seveN. I squeeze the trigger and he goes down in a tumble.

As I walk toward the wounded man I hear so many police sirens that it's difficult to tell where they are. Most of them are probably on the expressway, dealing with the pileup. But some could be after me as well, so I have to make this fast and get the hell out of here.

My Triad friend is crawling on the ground, bleeding to death. I place my right boot on the wound in his back and say in Chinese, "Talk to me."

He curses at me in English. It's funny how some words are universal.

"How did you know I would be at the warehouse tonight?" I ask.

The man curses again so I apply a little more pressure to the wound. He screams and I let up a bit. "Well?"

"It's just what we were told," he says.

"So it's true you were expecting me to be there?"

He moans but doesn't answer. I apply pressure and he cries, "Yes!"

"Good. Now tell me: Was there an arms deal going down tonight? Anywhere?"

He curses at me again so this time I practically stand on the guy's back. I don't normally go in for torturing an enemy to get information, but when time is of the essence and there's no other way around it then I'll do whatever it takes.

When he finishes screaming and I let up, he says, "It's in the morning. At Kwai Chung."

Kwai Chung is the big container port for all of Hong Kong.

"Where? What time?"

"Eight o'clock."

The sirens are really close now. I can hear policemen on foot shouting to each other on the street beyond the alley entrance. They'll be here any second.

I crouch, pull the man's head up by his hair, and ask again, "Where?"

He mutters a number.

"Is that a terminal?"

He nods and coughs. Blood spurts out of his mouth.

"You wouldn't lie to me, would you?" I ask.

His eyes flutter, he coughs again, then chokes on the blood and mucus in his throat. I know he's a goner. He won't last more than a few seconds longer and I'm not going to get much else out of him. I stand and begin to run down the alley just as two policemen appear at the entrance behind me. They shout for me to stop but I'm in the shadows now. They can't see me. When I reach the end of the alley, I dart into the street, run across traffic, and duck into another dark alley. I repeat this strategy three more times and by then I've lost the cops. The only thing to do now is go back to my hotel and wait until morning. I just hope my late Triad friend was telling me the truth.

16

" SOMEONEset me up, damn it!" I shout to the empty hotel room in Kowloon.

Colonel Lambert, Frances Coen, and Anna Grimsdottir are all online with me through my implants. I've given a full report on what went down at the warehouse and I'm hopping mad.

"Calm down, Sam," Lambert says. "Why do you think you were set up?"

"Because they knew I would be there. They brought along that contraption that screwed with my implants for that very purpose. The Triad I interrogated in the alley confirmed it. Someone told them to expect me. They knew I was a Splinter Cell and that I had those communication implants. I was set up!"

Grimsdottir speaks up. "This device, Sam, what did it look like?" She has a soft voice but one can sense intelligence behind it.

"Kinda like a boom box. There was a tiny satellite dish they pulled out of it and set on the floor."

"I think I understand how it was done," she says. "They would have had to understand the technology behind the implants and how they work. If you're right, then they must have had inside information from Third Echelon. It's the only way."

"Mike Chan again?" Lambert asks.

"Possibly. If he's the traitor."

"Of course he's the traitor," I say. "He killed Carly, didn't he? Have you caught that bastard yet?"

"No, the FBI is on his trail," Lambert replies.

"Well, it still doesn't answer how the Triad knew I'd be at the building. The only person who knew what I was doing was Mason Hen–"

That has to be it. Hendricks.

"Um, I think I need to pay a little visit to Hendricks, Colonel." I look at my watch. There are a few hours left before I have to be at the Kwai Chung container port.

"Mason Hendricks has been one of our most trusted field agents, Sam," Lambert says. "His record is impeccable."

"Then maybe he knows how there might have been a link. His source was bad or something. It's worth pursuing. Besides, I gave him a piece of evidence that needs to go to a lab. Some blood I found at the Triad's nightclub. Who knows, it might belong to Jeinsen."

"All right, Sam."

"Anything else, Colonel?"

"Yes. We've finished the analysis of General Prokofiev's materials you found in his house."

"Yeah?"

"You know that list of missing nuclear devices? The notes he scribbled next to some of them?"

"Uh-huh."

Frances Coen continues. "It's a code, all right. And it's very strange."

"Well?"

"When the code is broken, it's a recipe for Russian borscht."

"What?"

"Well, that's a guess. The words specifically decode as 'Formanova Cylindra beets, beef stock, water, vinegar, butter, cabbage, and tomato sauce.' Those are the ingredients of borscht. It leaves out a few spices and perhaps some other vegetables, but that's what it is."

"What the hell does borscht have to do with nuclear bombs?"

"We don't know. That's just what the code says when it's broken."

"I think you guys have gone loony," I say.

"We were hoping you might know what it means," Lambert says. "Was there anything in Prokofiev's house that might give us a clue as to what it's all about?"

"I can't think of anything, unless that battle-ax of a wife puts plutonium in her cooking. Which I wouldn't put past her. Look, I'm going back to Hendricks's place before the sun comes up. I'll let you know what he has to say."

"We'll talk later, Sam," Lambert says, and then we sign off.

DRESSEDin my workout clothes and carrying my uniform in a gym bag, I take the ferry to the island, grab a taxi, and go back to the Mid-Levels just as the sun begins to rise. But the driver can't get through to Hendricks's street. A policeman tells us that only local traffic is allowed in.

"What's the problem, Officer?" I ask in Chinese.

"Fire," he replies.

I pay the cabbie and get out. Once I'm on the street I can see the thick smoke billowing up ahead. A couple of fire trucks, an ambulance, and two police cars are blocking the middle of the road. And they're in front of Hendricks's small house.

I walk up the pavement and take a look. Sure enough, his place is black, still smoldering from what was apparently an intense blaze. I move closer to the policemen who are talking with the fireman in charge. Even though they're speaking in Chinese, I'm able to catch a few words and phrases.

"Firebomb . . . through the front window . . . one in the back . . . possible Triad work . . . two bodies . . ."

I observe in fascination as firemen bring out two covered corpses on stretchers. One charred, black-and-red arm sticks out from under a sheet. I catch the words "man and woman in bedroom" before the corpses are loaded into the ambulance.

Hendricks had boasted about expecting female companionship for the night. Well, he got lucky, all right. Lucky as in Lucky Dragons. And I guess his lady friend got more than she bargained for as well. It's a shame.

Now I'm at a loss as to how I was set up at the warehouse. Apparently Hendricks was betrayed too. The Triad must have found out what he was up to, somehow intercepting the information he got from his source. Maybe it was the source who tipped them off.

And so much for the piece of evidence I took from the nightclub. It's probably long gone now.

I walk away, realizing I must disengage myself from Hendricks, finish what I came to Hong Kong to do, and get the hell out. As the new rising sun bathes the island in warmth, I make my way back to the ferry so I can get to my appointment at the container port on time.

17

FBISpecial Agent Jeff Kehoe sat in the Empress Pavilion Restaurant enjoying somewhat authentic dim sum as he kept an eye on Eddie Wu, the brother of wanted fugitive Mike Wu, aka Mike Chan. Kehoe had arrived in Los Angeles a day earlier and, with the help of the local FBI branch, had tracked Eddie Wu to L.A.'s historic Chinatown. Kehoe had staked out Wu's apartment on Alameda and had seen the man come and go twice. The first trip Wu made was to the Phoenix Bakery on Broadway, the main drag through the district. The second outing was to the Wing Hop Fung Ginseng and China Products Center, also on Broadway, where Wu purchased tea and a few other groceries. So far the Triad had displayed innocuous activity. But it was still early in the day.

Alan Nudelman, the FBI chief in Los Angeles, had briefed Kehoe upon his arrival in the city. Nudelman confirmed that Eddie Wu was a known Triad member but had never been tied to any of the more serious crimes connected with the Chinese gangs operating in southern California. The L.A. branch of the Lucky Dragons was a small organization consisting of less than a dozen members. Wu was either the top man of the clan or one of the enforcers. He had been arrested twice for narcotics possession but he had a very good lawyer who got him off with fines and short jail time. Intention to distribute wasn't proven but the L.A. police were sure that Wu was dealing the drugs for the Triad. A more serious charge cropped up involving stolen property, including weapons, for which Wu served three years in the nineties. Since then he had stayed clean, although he was on the FBI watch list. Nudelman suspected Wu of being an accomplished thief, smuggler, and killer. Currently Wu was unemployed, yet he lived in a very nice apartment building, drove an expensive car, and always had cash to spend.

The Triads in southern California operated much like small-time Mafia families. They specialized in protection rackets, mostly among the Chinese populations in the city, ran gambling and prostitution houses, and trafficked in illegal arms and drugs. Most gangland violence that occurred was between rival Triads and rarely spilled out into the mainstream. Nevertheless, the Chinatown district's police precinct was kept very busy escorting the gang members in and out of its justice system. Most of the Caucasian officers could care less if the Chinese criminals killed each other; their main concern was for the innocent families trying to make an honest dollar in democratic America.

Kehoe finished his meal and sat with the Los Angeles Timesin front of him, pretending to do the crossword puzzle. Eddie Wu was with two other men who had come in together to meet him. They, too, appeared to be rough types wearing black leather jackets and sunglasses. The Triads in America didn't dress as fashionably as their counterparts in Hong Kong and China did. In the United States they looked more like street punks. As for Eddie Wu, he was purportedly thirty-eight years old, which was old for a common thug.

After a while, Wu paid the bill and he and his two companions stood. Kehoe paused a moment, paid his own bill, and followed the trio onto Hill Street. The restaurant was in Bamboo Plaza, home to a variety of shops. The men turned onto Bamboo Street and headed toward Broadway. Kehoe casually tailed them, trying his best to be just another Caucasian tourist admiring the Chinese souvenirs along the way.

They passed Central Plaza, where the sounds of clicking mahjong tiles from upstairs windows and open doors mixed with authentic Chinese music being played in shops. A popular place for filming, the plaza was known for its distinctive Gate of Maternal Values, a statue of Republic of China founder Dr. Sun Yat-sen, and a wishing well dating to 1939.

Wu said goodbye to his companions at the Cathay Bank at the corner of Broadway and Alpine. The two men left, walking east on Alpine. Wu went inside the bank. Kehoe lingered outside the impressive building, which was supposedly the first Chinese-American-owned bank in southern California.

Ten minutes passed and Wu bounded out. He walked east on Alpine, past Dynasty Plaza, to his apartment building on Alameda, a block east of the array of bazaars. It was one of the more modern, upscale structures in the area, certainly not the norm for low-to-middle-income Chinese immigrants. After Wu disappeared into the lobby, Kehoe got into his rented Lexus to sit and wait.

Tracking Mike Wu westward had been easy. When a state policeman in Oklahoma had been found shot to death near Oklahoma City, evidence quickly pointed to Wu. The patrolman had stopped the Honda Accord for a traffic violation, called in the license plate, and learned that the plate was stolen. Before catching a bullet in the chest, the patrolman had informed his headquarters that he was investigating the suspect vehicle. Ballistics comparison of the round that killed the patrolman and the bullets that slew Carly St. John proved to be identical.

Nearly thirteen hours after the discovery of the patrolman's body, Wu's blue Honda Accord was found abandoned behind a convenience store in Oklahoma City. Whatever Mike Wu was driving after that was a mystery.

Kehoe was certain that Wu would come to Los Angeles to see his brother. After all, Eddie Wu knew about his brother's false identity as Mike Chan. Perhaps Eddie was going to help Mike leave the country. It was what Eddie was good at, according to Nudelman. Thus, it was only a matter of time before Mike showed up at Eddie's door. All Kehoe had to do was never take his eyes off the Triad.

At midafternoon Wu emerged from his apartment. He went to his car, a BMW 745i sedan, obviously another indication that Eddie Wu earned his money illegally. Kehoe figured the BMW to cost in the upper range of sixty thousand dollars. The BMW drove west and got on the 110 freeway, heading south. Kehoe cautiously followed him.

Traffic was surprisingly light for a weekday afternoon. The rush hour hadn't begun in earnest quite yet and Kehoe actually enjoyed driving on L.A. freeways. He considered them to be the best in the country. Unlike other big cities in the U.S., it seemed that the freeways in L.A. were planned from the beginning to hold a lot of traffic. Other places he'd been, such as Chicago and Washington, D.C., had experienced painful crowding when the population had outgrown the highways.

The BMW got on the Santa Monica Freeway and sped west. Wu opened up the car and Kehoe had to push the speedometer to stay a safe distance. No problems arose, though, and eventually the BMW reached the intersection with the 405. Wu took the northward exit and headed over the hills. It wasn't long before the BMW got off at Sunset Boulevard and turned west into Brentwood.

Following the car became tricky. The BMW took odd side streets up into the area around Crestwood Hills Park. Kehoe was worried that he would either lose his prey or Wu would make him. On many of the roads they were the only two cars moving. After nearly thirty minutes of this kind of driving, the BMW turned onto a hilly road called Norman Place. Wu eventually took a hard right onto a gravel road and disappeared into the trees. Kehoe stopped at the intersection and looked at a map. Where the hell was he?

The Getty Museum wasn't far away. It was a couple of miles to the northeast. The area was sparsely dotted with expensive homes and a few isolated businesses.

Kehoe decided to take a chance and drove onto the gravel road. After moving slowly for about a mile, he came to a gate and wire fence blocking further access. A sign read: GYROTECHNICS, INC.–PRIVATE PROPERTY–NO TRESPASSING. There was Chinese script beneath the English words; Kehoe figured they said the same thing.

The FBI agent got out of the car and looked through the steel mesh gate. Fifty yards beyond the fence was a two-story modern building that was unremarkable save for dark windows of different geometric shapes. It was similar to a 1950s sci-fi movie production designer's bad idea of what a futuristic building might look like.

He got back into the Lexus and drove back to Norman Place. He pulled over and called Al Nudelman on his cell phone.

"Nudelman."

"Hi, Al, it's Jeff Kehoe."

"Yes, Jeff."

"Ever hear of a company called GyroTechnics Inc.?"

"Uh, no. What's that?"

"I was hoping you could tell me. I followed Eddie Wu from Chinatown to this building. It's in the hills near the Getty Museum. Private property."

"I'll check it out and get back to you."

"Thanks."

Kehoe drove down the hill and parked in a more unobtrusive spot. He could see the unnamed gravel road in his rearview mirror, so if Eddie decided to leave he'd be seen. Twenty minutes later, Nudelman phoned back.

"GyroTechnics is a brand-new Chinese company. Electronics, circuit boards, that kind of thing. Says here that their specialty is guidance systems for aquatic vehicles, namely boats and ships. Been incorporated in California for three months."

Kehoe asked, "What's Eddie Wu got to do with them?"

"That's a good question," Nudelman replied. "I seriously doubt he's on the payroll."

Kehoe chuckled. "Not officially anyway. Well, I'm just going to have to camp out and wait for Eddie to leave. Or wait for his brother to show up. One way or another I'm going to find out what this company is really up to."

ANTONAntipov opened the antique shop door and let Andrei Zdrok in.

"This had better be good," Zdrok grumbled. "The sun isn't even up yet. Decent human beings are still asleep at this hour."

"You'll be happy when you see what we unpacked," Antipov said.

He led Zdrok through the dark Hong Kong-Russian Curios shop and into the back room. Like the Shop's director, Antipov knew how to manipulate the Shakespeare and Marlowe books on the shelf and open the secret door. Together they went down into the Shop's headquarters, past Zdrok's private office, and into a main receiving area.

In the middle of the floor sat an opened crate the size of a large television. Straw had been pulled out and now littered the floor. Antipov directed Zdrok to a worktable next to the crate, where the unpacked item lay horizontally under a bright lamp, dramatically lit as if it were on display in a museum.

It was silver in color and cylindrical in shape, much like a giant bullet in its casing. Two cushions on either side of the device kept it from rolling. On the cylinder's side facing the ceiling was a compartment that had been opened, its inner mechanisms exposed.

"Direct from Mother Russia," Antipov said, smiling. "It arrived last night after you left. Ironically, delivered by Federal Express."

Andrei Zdrok's jaw dropped and he momentarily forgot having been awakened too early. The device's beauty mesmerized him. It shone like a polished precious metal but it was worth far more than any gold or silver.

"It's too bad Prokofiev isn't conscious to hear that it arrived safely," Antipov added. "The poor guy is still in a coma."

"Screw the general," Zdrok said. "He's of no use to us now. At least he was able to have this shipped to us before he became a permanent tube sucker." He approached the device and gently placed his palm on the cone-shaped head. It was smooth and cold to the touch.

"It's magnificent," he said. "I have never seen one before, have you?"

"No. Well, yes, some of the earlier kinds. Not one like this," Antipov replied.

"Well. We have to get this to our customer in China right away," Zdrok said. "You'll take care of the arrangements?"

"It's already being done." Antipov looked at his watch. "I have to get to Kwai Chung. Oskar is coming in with the shipment this morning."

"Good." Zdrok touched it once more, admiring the fine craftsmanship and design. "You know, I almost wish we didn't have to sell it. It's not often that a nuclear bomb passes through the Shop. You're right, Anton. The last one we sold was one of the older models from the early Cold War era. Big motherfucking thing the size of a Volkswagen. These 1980s jobs are so much more compact and . . . movable."

"That they are, Andrei," Antipov replied. "That they are."

Zdrok nodded at his partner and said, "Do you have time to get some breakfast and some coffee? I'll treat."

Antipov grinned and nodded. "Sure."

Together they walked out, past the crate lid that read in Russian, English, and Chinese: PERISHABLE–FORMANOVA CYLINDRA BEETS–KEEP AWAY FROM HEAT.

18

DRESSEDin my uniform, I arrive at Kwai Chung container port at seven-fifteen. The place is brimming with activity so I need to be careful. I don't want to be seen wearing this getup. Someone might think I'm on my way to a costume party. To make it less noticeable, I don't wear the headset or goggles. Hopefully I'll simply look like I'm wearing some kind of protective gear for handling hazardous materials. I can't worry about it, though.

Kwai Chung is a famous shipping center, probably the busiest in all of Asia. The place also serves to export goods from the Chinese mainland because China's own transport infrastructure is so inadequate. The container port lies on the eastern shore of Rambler Channel, just north of the border that separates Kowloon from the New Territories. The area is purely industrial, so there are always trucks, construction vehicles, and moving vans going in and out of the port. The container port itself consists of six terminals, with Terminal 5 at the northern end and Terminal 6 at the southern end. Terminals 1 through 4 are in the middle. The Triad hoodlum I interrogated told me that the arms deal was going down at Terminal 6, which by my map readings appears to be somewhat set apart from the terminal buildings. That figures. The Triad wouldn't want illegal activities to be noticed.

From where I'm standing I can see hundreds of containers stacked high like colored building blocks. They all have labels and logos painted on the sides, words like EVERGREEN, HYUNDAI, WAN HAI, UNIGLORY, and many others. Tall orange cranes loom over the containers at strategic points around the port, along with equally tall blue barges. The white warehouse buildings are scattered throughout the port and are manned by security guards, terminal employees, and representatives from the various shipping companies. Security at the port has increased since the events of September 11, 2001, but probably not as much as the United Nations would like. I know that in the United States our shipping ports are still very vulnerable. It would be quite easy for terrorists or other notorious groups to place WMDs inside a container and hide them well. The containers are rarely inspected. If they are, it's done randomly.

When I arrive at Terminal 6 I see that the Odessa, a large Russian ship, is docked at the pier against one of the big blue barges. A crane is already at work unloading crates and containers from the ship. I make note of the ship's identification details and then attempt to creep closer to the terminal. Three workers are hovering at the back of the building smoking cigarettes next to a rung ladder that goes all the way to the roof. If I could get up there I'd have a good bird's-eye view of the proceedings taking place by the barge.

I reach into my backpack and grab one of the diversion cameras that I usually launch from my SC-20K. I didn't bring the rifle with me on this trip but I can throw the camera by hand if I need to. A diversion camera sticks to a wall or object and then makes noise on my command. There's a very creative list of sounds in its database, from effects to different types of music. It can sometimes attract the attention of nosy guards and divert them away from me. It's a camera, too, should I need photos of curious guards.

I arm the diversion camera to make noise and then toss it about twenty yards away in between a row of stacked containers. The thing begins to beep, attracting the workers' attention. One of them points in the direction of the containers and curiosity gets the better of them. When they walk over to investigate the noise, I quickly run to the ladder, climb it, and safely reach the roof.

From this position, I can see the entire barge and terminal area. In addition to five men dressed in business suits conversing in a huddle, terminal workmen are loading crates from the ship into two medium-sized moving trucks with Chinese script on the side, translated as "Ming Fish Company." I lie flat, remove my binoculars, and focus on the suits. I immediately recognize Jon Ming as one of the businessmen. He has two toughs with him–armed, from the looks of the bulges beneath their jackets. Ming's Rolls-Royce is parked near the building I'm lying on.

The Chinese are talking to two white guys who apparently came in a black Mercedes that's parked beside the Rolls. Lo and behold I recognize Oskar Herzog as one of them. He's come a great distance since I last saw him in Ukraine. But then again, so have I. The other guy appears to be Anton Antipov. Lucky me, two Shop directors in one spot. Antipov is doing all the talking.

Just from witnessing this exchange it's obvious that the Shop is doing business with the Lucky Dragons. I'd bet a Hong Kong dollar that those crates are full of weapons. The Triad has to get gear from somewhere and the Shop doesn't care who their customers are.

I aim my OPSAT's digital camera at the group and snap a few photos. Then I pull out the Five-seveN and activate the T.A.K. audio component. Quickly sticking the earplug in my right ear, I'm now able to listen to what they're saying and record the conversation as well. At first I'm surprised that they're speaking English, but then I realize the Chinese guys don't speak Russian and vice versa. Ah, yes, English, the universal language. That should tell you something about the way of the world.ANTIPOV:–as we agreed. Your order is now complete.MING: Thank you. Please tell Mr. Zdrok that we appreciate the opportunity to do business with you. Of course, we will need to inspect the merchandise where we can do so in privacy.ANTIPOV: I understand. I'm sure you'll find it satisfactory. By the way, Mr. Zdrok asked me to tell you that he is sorry he couldn't be here in person this morning. He had some urgent business to attend to.MING: Don't we all?ANTIPOV: So, everything is good, then? This completes our end of the agreement. This is the final shipment of merchandise in exchange for the various installments of Operation Barracuda that you have graciously passed on to us.MING: Agreed. As you know, we also eliminated the link. The American authorities should not be able to trace the professor's trail. At least he won't be able to talk about it!ANTIPOV: ( laughs) Why, Mr. "Wong"! The professor really believed he'd have safe passage to Beijing?MING: ( laughs) Apparently so.ANTIPOV: Oh, well, he probably wouldn't have liked working in Beijing anyway.MING: I wouldn't.ANTIPOV: Of course not.

The men are silent for a moment as they watch the workers.

ANTIPOV: It looks as if your men are almost finished. I am obligated to bring up the issue of the final piece of the Barracuda project, which you still owe us.MING: Don't worry. We'll be picking that up from California any day. I'm just waiting to hear from my people in Los Angeles.ANTIPOV: Very good. Please keep us informed. Our customer is anxious to receive it.MING: ( coughs) Excuse me. I think I am fighting a cold. Speaking of your customer, may I ask who it might be?ANTIPOV: Mr. Ming, you know we cannot reveal that. The Shop has built a reputation on discretion.MING: Mr. Antipov, surely you can understand our concern. Operation Barracuda, as you call it, involves some serious technology that could very well be used against our interests if it was sold to the wrong people.ANTIPOV: I appreciate your concern but again I must stress that we cannot reveal who the customer is.

Ming takes a step closer to Antipov and Herzog. Although Antipov is two inches taller, Ming is definitely the more threatening. I can hear the change in the man's voice. He is not someone to cross.

MING: Fine. Keep your secrets. But I should leave you with a little word of advice. I do hope you are not selling the Operation Barracuda material to anyone in mainland China.ANTIPOV: That sounds like a warning, not advice.MING: Take it however you wish. Some of my sources have suggested that the Shop is dealing with that devil General Tun in Fuzhou. As you know, the Lucky Dragons have a relationship with a few friends in the Communist government in China, but those relationships go only so far. Triads fundamentally hate the People's Republic and what it stands for. General Tun represents the worst of China. I shall go on the record here and now that if I find out the Shop is indeed selling this material to General Tun, the Lucky Dragons will not be happy with Mr. Zdrok. We will do everything in our power to stop it. Good day, Mr. Antipov. Mr. Herzog.

No shaking of hands, no friendly salutations. Abruptly, the three Chinese turn and walk toward the Rolls. I have to duck quickly to avoid being seen. After a moment I peer over the edge again and see that the Rolls is pulling out of the parking area and the two Russians are walking inside the building. This is my chance to get down.

Once I'm on the ground, I fish a homer from my backpack, activate it, and casually walk toward the Mercedes. I look around to make sure the Russians are out of sight and that the workers are paying no attention to me. In one fluid move, I crouch, place the homer under the car, stand, and walk away. The odds are heavily in my favor that I wasn't seen.

"Anna, are you there?" I ask, pressing the implant in my throat.

"Hi, Sam."

"I take it you received that little conversation?"

"Loud and clear. I'm analyzing it now."

"And, Frances?"

I hear Coen's voice a little clearer. "Yes, Sam?"

"I've placed a homer underneath the Russians' car. I'm counting on you to track it and let me know where they go."