Текст книги "Operation Barracuda (2005)"

Автор книги: David Michaels

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"Already zoomed in on it, Sam."

Satisfied, I make my way toward Kwai Chung Road, the outer perimeter of the container port, throw my sport jacket on to cover up the more superhero aspects of my uniform, and hail a taxi.

19

MIKEWu drove into Los Angeles on I-40 after crossing the Mojave Desert overnight. He hit I-15 at Barstow, drove southwest into the metropolis, took I-10 west to the 405, and then headed for Los Angeles International Airport. It had been a stressful trip and he was happy it was over. Pretty soon he would see his brother Eddie and he could get the hell out of the United States and over to Hong Kong where he would start a new life with a new identity.

The plan was for him to bring the final puzzle piece of Professor Jeinsen's project directly to the Lucky Dragons. Apparently the device could be disassembled and packed in checked luggage without arousing security concerns. It was made simply of machine parts and a laptop computer. Eddie was taking care of a new passport and visa for him and soon Mike could kiss America goodbye. The most important thing was that Mike would receive his big payoff, from Jon Ming himself. For the last three years Mike had worked at Third Echelon for his regular U.S. government salary. His deal with the Lucky Dragons began with an initial advance of a reasonable amount of cash. But after final delivery of Jeinsen's materials, Mike was due to receive three million dollars. Mike never understood why he had to wait until the end to get his money but that was the way the Lucky Dragons wanted it. In the meantime, Mike had done a little side transaction with the organization known as the Shop for a comfortable sum.

Mike Wu actually liked living in the U.S. He and his brother had been born and raised in L.A.'s Chinatown. Becoming involved with the neighborhood gangs began early in their lives. Mike, being the oldest, joined a Triad at the age of thirteen. Eddie had waited until he was sixteen but by then Mike was one of the major players in the gang. The Wu brothers joined the California contingent of the Lucky Dragons when Mike turned twenty-six. He and Eddie visited Hong Kong just before the handover and met Jon Ming. He gave the Wu brothers a great deal of responsibility running the American West Coast operations, tasks they shared with members already in place. When the Lucky Dragons became associated with the Shop, a new directive sent Mike to the East Coast as "Mike Chan," and eventually he became a research analyst for Third Echelon.

He didn't know how he would enjoy living in a Communist country after the luxury of the U.S. But Mike Wu was sure that he would be free of the inherent prejudice he had experienced in America. It wasn't as bad for Asians as for other minorities, but Mike encountered it daily. Even at Third Echelon. He felt he was a much better analyst than Carl Bruford, his boss. Bruford rarely gave Mike the tough assignments and yet Mike more than once went above and beyond the call of duty to work on them. He was fairly certain that Third Echelon's director, Colonel Lambert, thought highly of him.

Well, too bad. Mike "Chan" had screwed them royally.

He drove the car he'd stolen in Oklahoma into LAX and parked it in the long-term lot, where it would stay until the authorities discovered it days later. He then took the shuttle to the nearest terminal and looked for a bank of pay phones. Wu had tossed his cell phone long ago since he knew that government authorities could trace his movements if he used the device. Instead he'd bought a prepaid phone card and used it at pay phones when he had to.

Wu dialed the number his brother had given him and waited. He smiled broadly when he recognized Eddie's voice.

"Welcome to sunny southern California, big brother!" Eddie said.

It was true. The weather was quite pleasant for winter. It was a relief leaving behind the snow and ice of the East Coast.

"I can't wait to see you," Mike said. "How do I get there?"

Mike wrote down Eddie's instructions and promised he'd see his brother within a couple of hours. He then went to the baggage claim, exited the terminal, and caught a taxi.

EDDIEshowed his brother into his office at GyroTechnics, embraced him, and said, "It's been too long. It is good to see you."

"Likewise," Mike said. "You look well."

"And youlook tired. Was it a difficult journey?"

"I had a few problems but I'm here. And you're right, I'm exhausted."

"We'll go to my apartment as soon as I'm finished with some things here. What did you do with your car?"

Mike said, "I dumped it in Oklahoma. Stole another one there and I just left that one in the LAX long-term parking. If I'm tracked maybe they'll think I hopped on a plane."

"Good thinking. You took a taxi here?"

"Yeah."

"Are you hungry? Want some lunch?" Eddie asked.

"That sounds good. Then I want to sleep for a week. But I can't do that because I'm going to Hong Kong tomorrow!"

Eddie laughed. "Not tomorrow. I hope to have you leaving in two or three days. Four at the most. In the meantime you'll stay at my apartment and chill out. How does that sound?"

Mike wrinkled his brow. "What do you mean? I thought you had it all arranged."

Eddie waved him off. "There have been some complications. Don't worry about it, I've got it under control."

That wasn't what Mike wanted to hear. He was too tired to push it so instead he looked around the office and asked, "You really work here?"

"Nah. Well, yes and no. I'm not officially on the payroll. I'm a troubleshooter. I help out with immigration and work visas."

"Oh, right. Eddie Wu, the Wizard of Work Visas. Illegal ones."

Eddie laughed. "Something like that."

"So what is this place, anyway?"

"It's one of Ming's many businesses. The Lucky Dragons back GyroTechnics financially but it's a legitimate enterprise here in America. They employ top scientists from Hong Kong and China and the Lucky Dragons help to get them here. That's my job."

"You mean it's a means by which scientists defect from China?"

"I guess you can say that. So far the authorities in China haven't figured out where their physicists are going. That's why GyroTechnics keeps moving around and changing its name. We stay ahead of the Americans that way, too."

"So where's the guidance system? I've been waiting for news about the final piece of Professor Jeinsen's project for a long time."

"Right. It's done, ready to ship."

"So what's the problem? I thought I was to take it with me to Hong Kong."

Eddie frowned and looked away. "Like I said, there are some complications."

Mike didn't feel like playing games. "What is it, little brother? What are these complications?"

"Ming. He's canceled the sale of the device to the Shop."

"What the hell for? Isn't it what we've been working toward for the last three years?"

"Yes. But Ming is afraid the Shop is selling it to a general in China. General Tun. Have you heard of him?"

"Yeah. The guy that's so dead set to attack Taiwan. Is hethe Shop's customer for all this stuff?"

"I think so. I don't know for certain. Ming seems to think so. He's ordered me not to ship it and await further instructions."

"But . . . but that means we don't get paid!" Mike said. Now he was truly alarmed, forgetting how weary he was. "This deal has to go through. I'm looking forward to my new life in Hong Kong!"

"You're still going, don't worry. You just won't be carrying the guidance system with you."

"That was my cover! I was supposed to be one of your scientists, delivering it from California. Shit, has all that changed?"

"It's still being worked out, Mike. Don't worry! We have a few days to work it out."

Mike Wu was furious. He stood and shouted, "Damn Ming! He's screwing with a machine that was working so well. The minute you start changing things is when you get caught. I say we go ahead and sell the thing to the Shop without Ming!"

Eddie looked at his brother in shock. "What are you saying? Are you mad?"

"Screw Ming! What has he really done for me? I sat there in Washington for three years, supplying the Lucky Dragons with Jeinsen's stuff, with no payoff whatsoever. It was all on spec, to be paid in one huge lump sum when I arrive in Hong Kong with the guidance system. To hell with that! I've got my own connections with the Shop. I sold them information about Third Echelon's agents last year. I can deal with them directly. Let's you and me do that, get rich, and then go our own way. We don't need to work for a Triad, Eddie. Not anymore."

"Mike, you don't know what you're saying! Look, I'm sympathetic to how you feel. But we can't go against the Lucky Dragons. We'd be dead men. Ming would come after us and he'd find us. He has the means to do it, too. You underestimate the guy."

"Does Ming know what it's like to be wanted by the Washington, D.C., police, the Oklahoma police, the FBI, the NSA, and probably the CIA, too? I have to get out of this country before they find me! I'm reallya dead man if they do. Espionage against the United States government is one thing they don't take too lightly. Not to mention the murder of government employees."

Mike paced the room. "Eddie, if you're not with me on this, I'm going to the Shop myself. I'll tell them Ming has stopped the sale and if they can get here then I'll sell the guidance system to them on my own. And I can ask a very high price. A few million dollars will go a long way toward protecting us from the Lucky Dragons." He pointed to his sibling and said, "And youwill back me up!"

Eddie looked at his older brother and rubbed his chin. "Maybe," he said. "Let me think about it. I suggest we go back to my place so you can get some rest. We'll talk about it tomorrow, all right? Let me find out what Ming has planned for you. Okay? We wait a day or two?"

Mike shook his head and slapped the wall. "Damn it, Eddie." He took a deep breath and finally resigned himself to the situation. "All right. But let's go now. I'm dead tired."

JEFFKehoe could have sworn he had seen Mike Wu get out of the taxi that had stopped in front of GyroTechnics' gate. The guy punched the call button and went inside before Kehoe could get a good look. The FBI agent wasn't too worried, though. What went in eventually came out. As long as Kehoe stayed put in his car and kept his eye on the one road that led out of the facility, he'd be able to make a positive ID.

One of the L.A. field agents had spelled Kehoe overnight so that the FBI agent could get some sleep. Kehoe had resumed the stakeout outside of Wu's apartment in Chinatown that morning. It wasn't long before Wu emerged from the building and got into his BMW. Kehoe tracked Wu back to GyroTechnics to sit in the Lexus parked outside the compound, waiting for a sign that Mike Wu might have come into town. When the taxi pulled up to the gate and an Asian man got out, Kehoe was almost positive the fugitive had been located.

Kehoe called in to the FBI field office and told Nudelman what he suspected. He then waited for nearly two hours until Wu's BMW finally appeared and left the premises. As the car passed, Kehoe got a good look at the two men in the car.

The driver was Eddie Wu, of course, and there was no doubt in Kehoe's mind that the passenger was his brother Mike.

"Bingo," Kehoe said to himself as he fired up the Lexus and followed the BMW at a safe distance.

20

" SAM, the Mercedes is moving down the West Kowloon Highway."

Frances Coen's words reverberate in my ear. I type a reply to her on my OPSAT: I'M RIDING IN A TAXI AND CAN'T SPEAK. COMMUNICATE BY OPSAT PLEASE.

It was simple to grab a taxi outside of the container port. They're always hovering around the area, dropping off or picking up workers or shipping executives. I made an educated guess as to where the Russians' Mercedes would be heading, so I told the cab driver to head south toward Kowloon.

I'm now able to pull up the satellite map on the OPSAT and track the Mercedes myself. I send a quick message to Coen, telling her I've got the car on my screen. She signs off and wishes me luck, adding that Colonel Lambert is pleased with the conversation I recorded between the Shop guys and the Lucky Dragons. I've succeeded in establishing the link between Professor Jeinsen and the Triad and, indirectly, Jeinsen's connection to the Shop. Now it's up to the suits in Washington to decide what to do next. I'm wondering if I'll get to go home now, but another text message appears on the OPSAT: TRY TO FIND OUT WHAT THE SHOP IS UP TO IN HONG KONG. WHAT THE HELL IS OPERATION BARRACUDA? L.

Good question. Oh, well, I knew it was wishful thinking on my part, wanting to go home.

I wonder what Katia is doing.

The Mercedes gets off the highway at Tsim Sha Tsui, so I have the cab driver do the same. He asks me again in Chinese where I'm going–there might be a shortcut around the heavy street traffic. I tell him I know what I'm doing and to just follow my directions.

We catch up with the Russians near Harbour City. I can see the black Mercedes in front of us, pulling over near Ocean Terminal. I ask the driver to stop and wait a moment. Then Antipov and Herzog get out of the Mercedes and walk away. Their driver moves the Mercedes away from the curb and into traffic, presumably toward a parking garage. I decide to follow Abbott and Costello, since they're a part of the Shop's top brass.

I pay the cab driver and get out. I'm pretty good at tailing someone on foot. Practicing stealth when you're alone in the dark is one thing; stealth when you're on a crowded city street is completely different. You have to blend in, not look conspicuous, and be flexible with your pace of movement. It's important to keep a steady distance between the prey and yourself but not appear to be rushing. Sometimes, if the prey stops, you have to pause and pretend to be interested in something while you wait for the quarry to move again. It's pretty standard stuff. There are also antisurveillance moves you can make to ascertain that no one is following you. But when you're doing the tailing, that can be difficult. I'm fairly confident that no one is behind me. As for the Russians, they're pretty naive. Any jerk could follow these guys. They seem to be paying no attention to what's behind them. They don't have a care in the world.

As I expected, they make their way to the Star Ferry, on their way to Hong Kong Island. Once they're aboard, I linger just long enough to meld into a crowd of Chinese and Caucasian businessmen swarming through the gate and onto the boat. Antipov and Herzog step into the lower-deck quarters and take seats on a bench next to the wall. They are deeply embroiled in conversation, oblivious to what's around them. I position myself across the room, picking up a discarded newspaper to hide behind. I know it sounds cliche, but that's what you do.

The ferry ride between Kowloon and Hong Kong is always pleasant. Despite the rather foul stench of the harbor, it's a short, relaxing trip that could be quite enjoyable if I weren't on the job. At one point, Antipov stands and points to something outside the window. Herzog looks and nods. Antipov resumes his seat and the two men are silent. Herzog shuts his eyes and slumps for the remaining few minutes of the journey.

Ashore, I follow the men off the ferry to the taxi stand. Damn. This is where it gets tricky. I hurry to get in line behind them, with a buffer of two parties between us, and keep my nose in the newspaper just in case one of them turns around. I note the number of the taxi they climb into and then wait as patiently as I can for my turn. When I finally get into a cab, I point to the Russians' taxi up ahead, which is luckily stuck in traffic at the end of the block. The driver understands and nods his head. He throws the car into drive and screeches away from the curb. He makes an illegal move around the stalled cars in front of him, passing them in the oncoming traffic lane. So much for not attracting attention.

But the driver is good. As soon as traffic begins to move he slips into it, two car lengths behind the Russians. He takes it easy from then on, following the other cab with discretion.

We head west on Connaught Road until the Russians' taxi pulls off onto Morrison Street. Eventually they reach Upper Lascar Row–"Cat Street"–and stop. I pay my driver and give him a huge tip, which he appreciates by showing me his rotten, discolored teeth.

The two Russians walk up Cat Street to a small antique shop. I stand across the road and watch as they enter the building. A sign above the door says it's the Hong Kong-Russian Curios store. Interesting.

After a few minutes I cross the street and walk by the shop. I look through the window and see a Chinese man sitting at a desk in the back and polishing a small statue. The Russians are not in the store. There's an Employees Only door next to the desk, and I must presume that they went through it to another area of the building. A basement, perhaps?

I note the sticker displayed in the window that informs potential burglars that Hong Kong Security Systems, Inc., protects the shop. I press my implant and ask Coen to get Grimsdottir to hack into the company's records and come up with a security access code I can use. She acknowledges and then I go back across the street.

During the next half hour no one enters or exits the shop. I snap a couple of photos and then decide there's nothing more to do now. Best to return after dark.

That's when my job is more fun.

IT'Sjust after midnight when I arrive at the antique shop dressed in full uniform. The first thing I do is circle the block and pop through the alley behind the store. There's an expected employee exit but I also notice an unusual outline in the pavement on the ground next to the building. It's almost as if someone had taken a stick and drawn a ten-foot-by-five-foot rectangle in the wet cement when it was first poured. Using my thermal vision, I notice there is heat beneath the outline–I can just make out thin slivers of light. Unlike most loading lifts that carry boxes to a shop basement, someone took great care to see that this one was hidden from view. Anyone without my training would never realize it's there.

I go back around to the front of the shop and carefully peer through the display window. The place is dark except for a lamp that illuminates the desk and cash register in the back. The best bet is the alley door. I return to the back of the building and use my lock picks to unlock the door. The dead bolt gives me five minutes' worth of trouble but eventually it gives and I'm inside.

The security keypad is immediately to my left. It's blinking and beeping and I know I have fifteen or twenty seconds to punch in the code Anna Grimsdottir provided. As soon as I press the sequence of buttons, the system deactivates. Nice.

I'm in a storeroom full of boxes and dusty goods. Lots of crap that someone might call antiques. There's a full bookshelf along one wall and a small bathroom with a door. But no staircase to a basement. There has to be another way down there.

I look inside the shop proper and find nothing out of the ordinary. The papers on the desk are invoices and such, neatly arranged and organized. I run my hand beneath the counter, searching for trick levers or buttons, but find none. Returning to the storeroom, I begin to examine the walls for telltale signs of secret doors. Again, my thermal vision comes in handy when I get to the bookshelf. Faint traces of light leak from the edges between two sets of cases. The access to the basement is behind them.

The bookcases don't budge, though. I pull on the sides, try lifting the sides, and search for more trick levers and buttons. Nothing. I remember seeing a play on stage in which one of the characters opened a trick door by pulling out a particular book. It's a device that's been used hundreds of times but it works. I figure what the hell?–so I begin to pull out the books on each shelf, one at a time. There are about fifty but I go through them quickly. When I get to the shelf that is shoulder level, I notice two books that are slightly forward, as if they've been moved recently. A book of Shakespeare and a book about Christopher Marlowe. I figure one must go with the other, so I pull out one and then the other. I hear a latch give way and the bookcase pops ajar. I open it and, sure enough, there's a spiral staircase descending to the floor below.

The stairs squeak much too loudly as I go down so I stop and take them one at a time slowly. When I'm halfway I hear snoring. I take the rest of the stairs at a snail's pace but from the way the guy is sawing logs I don't think I have anything to worry about. When I get to the bottom, I see him sitting at a desk. He's wearing a jacket and tie and is lying on top of the game of solitaire he was playing. There's a bottle of Russian vodka on the floor beside his chair. So much for Russian efficiency.

I move to the man and ask, "Are you awake?" in Russian. He snorts, mumbles, and then turns his head the other direction. The snoring begins again in earnest. He reeks of vodka so I figure I can go about my business without disturbing him. From the looks of the guy, he's going to need several hours to sleep this one off.

There are a couple of doors along the corridor, both leading into separate offices. At the end of the hall is a larger room full of more boxes and crates. I take a look and can immediately see that this storeroom isn't for the antique shop. A wooden box the shape of a coffin is full of assault rifles. On shelves lining the walls are various handguns of all makes and calibers. On another shelf is a collection of timers, material that appears to be plastic explosive, and boxes of ammunition.

In the middle of the floor is an open crate, one recently unpacked. Straw lies around the crate and the lid is against the wall. I examine the interior but there's nothing inside; however, the missing contents left an impression in the straw of an object that was maybe eight inches wide by thirty-six inches long.

I examine the crate for other clues as to what it contained but it's unmarked. I then look at the lid and see the logo and words burned into the wood, along with the shipping invoice. It reads, in Russian, Chinese, and English, PERISHABLE–FORMANOVA CYLINDRA BEETS–KEEP AWAY FROM HEAT. The crate was shipped from Moscow.

Beets? No way. Then I remember what I found in General Prokofiev's house. That list of missing nuclear weapons. Frances Coen told me the general's handwritten note by one of the listings was the recipe for borscht. Beet soup. Could this be . . . ?

I leave the storeroom and make my way back to the first office. My friend the Russian guard is still building a log cabin, oblivious to the world. I close the door, sit at the desk, and boot up the computer. Much of the software is in Russian. I go to the e-mail program and try to get past the log-in screen but can't.

"Anna? Someone? Are you there?" I ask, pressing my implant.

"Here, Sam. What's up?" It's Grimsdottir.

I give her the e-mail address for the computer and its server. "I need a password, and fast."

While I wait, I putter around the hard drive, taking a look at Word files and other programs. There's a folder containing several Excel spreadsheets that are obviously inventory lists with purchase and profit designations. I run searches for "Jon Ming," "JonMing," "Ming," "Lucky Dragons," "Shop," and "Mike Chan" but come up with zilch. Then I search for "Barracuda" and come up with a folder with that name. I open it and see several saved e-mails. Some of them are from Prokofiev in Moscow. Reading them, I come to realize that once again, for the second time in a year, I'm sitting at the desk belonging to Andrei Zdrok, the Shop's leader. So he's here in Hong Kong. I might have known, seeing that his other two flunkies are in the colony as well.

Prokofiev's messages are in coded gobbledy-gook but I can make out something concerning shipments of materials to Hong Kong from Russia, and orders to make sure something from America is delivered to China.

There's a folder marked GYROTECHNICS and it contains some e-mails from someone named GoFish@GyroTechnics. com. These are written either in very poor English or it's some kind of shorthand code. I quickly scan them and then come across the word professor. The gist of the message is that the author's brother provided the professor's materials to "JM." Jon Ming? It's signed E. W.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"I have something for you." She gives me a six-character letter-and-number combination. "Try that and see if you get in."

I do, and it works. "Anna, I guess you're still on my birthday card list," I say.

"What about me?" I hear Coen ask.

"You just might get a card anda piece of cake," I say.

"Thanks a lot."

I look through the recently received e-mails and find one from GoFish. It says that his brother is now in town and needs to get out of the country quickly. A brand-new message in the in-box is from "GoFish2." I can't believe what I see when I open it.

Andrei–

It's me, Mike Wu, formerly Mike Chan. As you know, Eddie is my brother. We have just learned that JM has canceled the purchase of the Barracuda GS. We want to sell it to you directly. Contact me ASAP. We don't have much time. I need to get out of Los Angeles immediately.

–Mike

I quickly upload these files to my OPSAT and turn off the computer. While I'm doing so I consider all the various bits of information I've gathered in Russia and in Hong Kong. The way I figure it, Mike Chan was the mole inside Third Echelon. He arranged to deliver MRUUV classified secrets from Professor Jeinsen to the Lucky Dragons. The Shop then bought this material and sold them to another party. Mike and his brother, whoever that is, are in possession of one more piece of Jeinsen's work. Jon Ming doesn't want to go through with the transaction so Mike is trying to sell the thing to the Shop without the Triad acting as middleman.

There's a noise outside in the hallway. I freeze as I realize that someone's coming down the creaky stairs. Whoever it is shouts at the sleeping guard, giving the guy a thorough dressing-down for drinking and falling asleep on the job. I hear the guard, disoriented and hoarse, try his best to apologize.

More footsteps. There are several guys out there. What the hell am I going to do? There's no way out of this office. No windows, no vents, nothing. I move to the door and stand behind it, my Five-seveN drawn and ready. If I have to shoot my way out, I'll do it.

Then I hear the newcomer ask the guard why the bookcase upstairs was open. The guard doesn't have an answer. An order is given to search the premises.

I reach into my trouser leg pocket and grab a smoke grenade. After lowering my goggles, I clutch it in my left hand and prepare to pull the pin with my teeth and throw it. Suddenly, the office door pushes inward, slamming against me and revealing my position.

21

Iswitch on my thermal vision, pull the grenade pin, reach around the open door, and drop it. The men shout in alarm and then there's a tremendous explosion in the hallway. It's just a smoke grenade but the tight confines of the quarters magnifies the intensity of the blast. Total chaos ensues outside the office as the door is bombarded with gunfire. I fall to the floor, facedown, and crawl out beneath the line of fire. With my head in the hallway I can count four warm bodies in the smoke. Three of them are shooting blindly toward the office. I calmly aim my Five-seveN and take them out–one, two, three.

"Stop!" the fourth man shouts. "Stop shooting, you fools!" The poor guy doesn't realize his men are already dead. I can see him moving toward the staircase, feeling his way along the wall. I stand, grab him in a one-arm choke hold, and place the barrel of my handgun to his head.

It's Anton Antipov.

"I should just kill you now," I say in Russian.

The guy is trembling. "Wait!" he says in English. "Please!"

"Give me a good reason why I shouldn't."

"If you kill me you'll . . . you'll never know what's going on."

"I know what's going on."

"Surely you don't know the details." The guy is desperate. The coward is ready to spill his guts. He's right, though. I don'tknow the details. I pull him back through the hallway and out of the smoke. We end up in the storeroom with the weapons. I throw him to the floor, quickly frisk him, and find that he's unarmed. Standing over him with the Five-seveN in his face, I say, "Okay, Antipov. Tell me the details. I'm listening. Don't leave anything out."

The man squints at me and asks, "Who are you?"

"The Avon Lady. Now what's the Shop doing with the MRUUV material?"

"You're Fisher! Are you not? The Splinter Cell!"

"I asked you a question."

"I was afraid you might show up sooner rather than later. Andrei . . . Andrei wouldn't believe you'd be on our trail so quickly."

"Are you going to answer me or not? You have three seconds."

"Wait!" Antipov puts up his hands defensively. "Don't shoot!"

"Okay, I'm waiting. Now talk to me."

"We've sold the MRUUV plans to General Tun in China. He plans to attack Taiwan with his army. He's mobilizing in Fuzhou and war is imminent."

Is the general nuts? "He's crazy if he thinks he can attack Taiwan without retaliation from the United Nations, not to mention America. Surely he knows that."

Antipov nods. "The general apparently has a plan for that scenario."

"And that is . . . ?"

"I don't know!"

The guy is too scared to lie. I think back to the information I gleaned from Zdrok's computer. "What's this final piece that's coming from California?"

"You know about that?"

"Answer me."

"It's the guidance system for the MRUUV. A firm based in Los Angeles is designing it according to Tun's specifications. You know how the MRUUV works?"

Yeah, I do. It's an undersea torpedo that can be guided remotely from a submarine or ship. "Why the hell would Tun need one of those to attack Taiwan? Does he have a bomb? One of your Russian nuclear bombs? Is that what came in this crate?" I indicate the one that was marked as containing beets.