Operation Barracuda (2005) (25 page)

I move aft and crouch, ready to spring at the guard as he comes around the yacht’s stern. I hear him approaching, closer . . . closer . . . and then I rise and deliver a solid punch to his nose. Before he can utter a sound I lunge forward, slap my hand over his mouth, move around him, and then lock his neck inside my free arm. The choke hold takes roughly thirty seconds to render him unconscious. When he’s limp in my arms, I silently lay him on the deck.

Since the lights are on in the salon, they can’t see out the windows. The glass is tinted so I don’t have a very good view of what they’re doing in there. To compensate for this disadvantage, I pull out the optic cable again and thread it into the gangway leading below. It doesn’t have to go very far before I’m able to see the entire salon.

It’s roomy, with a sofa, dining table, stabilized chairs, a television, stereo system, and even a dartboard on the wall. But a plastic sheet covers the floor and in the middle of the sheet is a man with his hands tied behind his back. He’s lying on his side with his knees to his chest. His face is covered in blood.

I’m guessing it’s Agent Kehoe and he’s not moving at all.

Eddie Wu sits in a chair, looking at his victim. Wu wears leather gloves and an apron that is splashed with Kehoe’s blood. Two more Chinese hoods stand on either side of the helpless man.

“Now we know what happened to Kehoe.” It’s Lambert in my ear, obviously awake now. Coen must have got him up. They can, of course, see everything I see through my headset.

“Try to take ’em out, Sam,” he says, “but we need Eddie Wu alive.”

I quickly retract the optic cable and stuff it in the backpack, and then remove a CS gas grenade from my trouser pocket. The CS gas is good for knocking out the enemy if it’s used in a confined space such as the yacht. In larger areas the CS is more of a deterrent, like tear gas. Third Echelon also supplies a CS grade that is lethal but I rarely carry it unless I know I’m going to need it.

Grasping the grenade in my right hand, I pull the pin just as a bullet sears past my head. I feel the heat of the thing on the bridge of my nose—too goddamned close! The round smashes through the tinted glass, alerting the men inside of my presence. I hit the deck as another round streaks above me. Someone is on the marina taking potshots at me!

“Damn, where the hell did he come from?” Lambert says. “He was well hidden from our satellite. Sam, the SAT images reveal the sniper to be one man,” Lambert says. “Repeat, it’s one guy.”

Before I can adequately plan a defense strategy, the two Chinese gunmen appear on deck. They’re armed with semiautomatics, which they’re all too eager to point at the guy in the strange uniform that they see lying at their feet. The only thing I can do is to toss the live CS grenade into the air, right in front of their faces. I roll myself into a ball, covering my head as the damned thing explodes. The two men scream in pain and surprise. One of them falls off the boat, hitting his head on the edge of the dock as he plummets into the water. The other guy tumbles back through the gangway into the salon. The gas is affecting me and I find it difficult to crawl along the deck to the other side of the boat. At least the sniper can’t get at me there. I take a moment to breathe the fresh air, clear my head, and attempt to ignore the ringing in my ears. Finally I stand, lower my goggles, and switch on the thermal vision. Using extreme caution, I peer around the foredeck and focus on the marina. Sure enough, I see the heat-outlined shoulders of a man crouching behind a collection of barrels on the pier. He’s got a rifle, probably a tactical sniper model, and he’s ready to fire again. I draw the Five-seveN and aim but he shoots at me, forcing me back behind cover.

At that point I hear steps on the gangplank as someone runs out of the yacht and onto the dock. In a few seconds I see him running toward Mindanao Way. It’s Eddie Wu, abandoning ship. I’m just able to aim the Five-seveN from my prone position and get off a shot in his direction. The round chips the wood beneath his feet but doesn’t do any damage to him. Wu disappears around a corner and there’s no way that I can pursue him. Why didn’t the sniper shoot
him
? Unless the killer is on Wu’s side . . .

Moving around to the dockside of the yacht is impossible with the sniper over there. He doesn’t seem to have any intention of moving. I have no choice but to reach into my backpack and grab a frag grenade. It’s my last one—I should have stocked up when I was with Lambert and Coen yesterday. That’s one of the problems with taking detours when you’re on the way home from an assignment. You don’t always follow the normal routine of debriefing and restocking.

Okay, this one has to count. I pull the pin, stand, and throw the grenade over the top of the yacht toward the barrels. The sniper fires again while I’m visible and he catches the top of my backpack. Luckily I’m in the act of dropping to a crouch position—if I’d lingered at full height for a split second longer I’d be a dead man.

The grenade explodes, momentarily brightening the pier with a blinding flash of lightning. I wait a good ten seconds before I carefully peer around the foredeck again. Nothing happens. With the night vision on, I see that the barrels are smashed to bits and there’s a hole in the boardwalk. No sniper.

“Do you see the shooter on the SAT image?” I ask, pressing my throat implant.

“Negative,” Coen answers. “Either you got him or he slipped away under cover.”

“What about Wu? Don’t tell me you lost him.”

“I’m afraid he’s merged into traffic patterns.”

“Great.”

I stand and cautiously move around the deck to the gangway and go inside the boat. The Chinese guard that caught the CS grenade in the face is lying dead on the plastic sheet next to Kehoe. I kneel and examine the FBI agent and see that they really worked him over. He apparently suffered some serious damage to the inside of his mouth. What did they do? Then I notice the pair of bloody pliers on the floor next to the chair in which Wu was sitting. I can’t help but grimace when I see at least three of Kehoe’s teeth lying next to the pliers, the roots torn and mangled. And . . . oh, no, it’s the agent’s tongue lying on the plastic sheet beside his head. The poor guy bled to death.

There’s an open bottle of bourbon sitting on the dining table. I can’t help grabbing it and taking a swig. I’ve seen some terrible things in my time and this has to be in the top ten.

Pressing on my implant, I say, “Frances?”

“Sam?”

“Shit, Frances, tell the FBI that Kehoe has been tortured and killed.”

“What’s the pier number?”

“Pier Forty-four, Marina Del Rey. I’m on the yacht
Lady Lotus
. It’s pretty bad.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” I’m a little shaken from the sniper attack and seeing Kehoe in such a condition but I don’t mention that.

“I’ll get on to Kehoe’s people right away.”

She says the FBI will pick up their boy and clean up the mess. I need to disappear, and fast. As I return to the deck I carefully scan the pier with my thermal vision turned on and see no trace of the sniper. The cops will probably be here any minute, thanks to the noise of the grenades.

I scuttle down the ramp and run to the smashed barrels. As I search the boardwalk for any clues indicating the identity of the sniper, I find three spent shells. I take one of them and recognize it as a 7.62mm NATO—a common round used in sniper rifles. This rings a bell somewhere in the back of my head but at the moment I don’t know what it is. I pocket the shell and head for the marina exit before the cavalry arrives, all the while slightly paranoid that a damned competent assassin most likely has his eye on me.

ANDREI
Zdrok had experienced many setbacks and successes in his long career as an international criminal. While he maintained his status as an extremely wealthy man, the ups and downs of his business constantly drove him into states of unbearable anxiety and worry. He was often surprised that he had never developed ulcers.

To his comrades, Zdrok was very good at exhibiting a self-confident persona regardless of what turmoil the Shop might be suffering. This character trait was essential for leadership. His fellow board members—Prokofiev, Antipov, and Herzog—were aware of the hardships the Shop had faced over the past year and in many instances displayed despair and fatalism in the face of an uncertain future. Not Zdrok. He continued to push his team into new frontiers and new partnerships in order to put the Shop on the map again. Zdrok knew his fellow workers perceived him as a crotchety and humorless slave driver, but that pressure was what kept the Shop alive.

Just when it seemed that the organization was back on its feet in the Far East and making progress toward becoming a powerful force in the arms black market, the Shop had suffered another setback. It was clear that the Lucky Dragons were no longer their allies. America’s National Security Agency, Central Intelligence Agency, and Federal Bureau of Investigation were sniffing around in the Shop’s Asian headquarters, not to mention interference from Interpol, the Hong Kong police, the Red Chinese, the GRU, MI6, and countless other intelligence and law enforcement agencies around the world.

In short, the Shop was on the run again.

Zdrok had packed up his flat on the Peak and disappeared before the authorities came looking for him. The antique shop on Cat Street was now a crime scene and completely inaccessible. The Triad that protected him had turned their backs on him.

The Benefactor was his only friend and it was to him that Zdrok fled.

 

 

ZDROK
took the glass of bourbon from the Benefactor and thanked him for the hospitality.

“Don’t worry, Andrei,” the Benefactor said. “You’ve been in worse scrapes. It won’t be long and we’ll be out of Hong Kong.”

“Going to China seems more like jumping from the frying pan and into the fire.”

“That’s a very good English expression, Andrei. Your English is getting better.”

“But my Chinese is shit. I don’t even know how to curse in Chinese.”

“That you’ll learn quickly, my friend.”

Zdrok looked at his ally and studied him. It was such an unlikely relationship. Who would have thought the Shop would benefit from a man so well connected with the organization’s enemies?

“Have you heard anything from the police?” he asked.

The Benefactor shook his head. “No more than what I told you last night. They know the antique store was a front for the Shop. They’re probably tearing apart your computers and looking into the facility up in the New Territories. They’re searching for you but they won’t find you. And since Mr. Herzog got away safely there are less of you for them to chase. When does he arrive in America?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Let’s hope for our sake he gets the guidance system from that Triad fellow and gets to China with it in one piece.”

“That’s putting it lightly,” Zdrok said. “If Herzog fails to do that, then the Shop is forever dead. I might as well go to Siberia, find a nice iceberg to sit on, and freeze to death.” He took a sip of bourbon and then asked, “What does your friend in Washington have to say about all this?”

The Benefactor gave Zdrok a sharp look. “Leave my Washington friend out of this. Suffice it to say our ally there is fully aware of the situation and is monitoring it closely. If help is needed, then our friend will supply it.”

Zdrok often wondered who the Benefactor’s contact in the American government really was. The person had powerful connections. It was because of this “friend” that Mike Wu had been able to become Mike Chan and secure a job within the NSA.

“Have you heard from Putnik yet?” the Benefactor asked.

“No. I have to assume he’s located Fisher and is putting together a plan to wipe the man off the face of the earth.”

“Putnik is the best at what he does. He’ll succeed.”

Zdrok stood with his drink in hand and looked out the Benefactor’s hotel room window and tried to admire the Hong Kong skyline. “You realize what General Tun will do if he doesn’t get the guidance system?”

“Yes.”

Zdrok turned to his friend and said, “He will crush us. He will alert the Chinese authorities to our presence and we’ll be doomed. Not just me. You, too, you know.”

“I’m aware of that. A lot rides on this deal, Andrei.”

“The general is already unhappy that the system is late. It should have been in his hands days ago. The MRUUVs have been built and are ready for use.” Zdrok turned back to the window. “I can’t wait to see them work. They are formidable weapons. Operation Barracuda, if it ever gets off the ground, will take the world by surprise. When it’s discovered that the Shop brokered the deal to create them, we will be back at the top of the game. Yes, a lot rides on the deal. That’s putting it mildly.”

 

 

IN
another part of Hong Kong, Jon Ming awoke in his spacious master bedroom also feeling anxious. He wasn’t afraid of the law, though. His home, a fortified mansion just south of the border between Kowloon and the New Territories, was perhaps the most secure private residence in the colony. Surrounded by an electrified security fence and watched by four armed guards around the clock, safety was not a cause for the Cho Kun’s concern. He was easily one of the most powerful men in Hong Kong. He was beyond the reach of the law. He had the respect of the politicians and judges. In fact, he could give
them
orders.

What worried Jon Ming was something more personal, more political, and more
nationalistic
. Taiwan was under the threat of Red China. Ming, as a dedicated Triad leader, was violently opposed to China’s government and sociological philosophy. The Communist ideology was anathema to him and to every other Triad on the face of the earth. The Triads had a long-standing tradition of nationalism and the expression of freedom. In the ancient times, the Triads were secret societies formed to bring about a regime change in the Chinese government. Today the Triads still believed in a China ruled by an emperor, for only in a capitalistic state could a criminal enterprise such as a Triad exist.