Operation Barracuda (2005) (10 page)

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.

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.

I
keep 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
am
too 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.”