Choke Point (15 page)

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

Central Macau, southern peninsula

Thursday, 5 July 16:02:15 GMT +0800

Mawl waited until Fosseler—aka Catman—was in the van with the door closed before speaking. “You turn on the cameras?” Catman Fosseler was their sweep man—last in, last out—responsible for making sure no detail had been overlooked, no equipment left behind.

The man frowned, clearly irritated at the suggestion he might have forgotten anything. “Yeah, Brick, I reactivated the bloody cameras.”

Mawl nodded and turned to Big Paddy. “Go.”

Paddy eased the van away from the gate, which they had left slightly ajar, and slowly accelerated away. Mawl pulled his cellular and pressed
SEND
, the number preset and ready to go.

The woman answered on the first ring.
“Yeyyy.”

“Make the call. You’ll get the rest of your money tomorrow.”

“Hai.”
There was a soft click and the line went silent.

Mawl immediately deleted the number and call history from the phone’s memory, then leaned back, closed his eyes, and methodically began to walk the dog back, making sure nothing had been overlooked. He worked every step through his mind, back and forth twice, but couldn’t find a single mistake.
Perfect,
not a hitch or a hiccup, not one damn thing Trader could take exception to.

No one spoke until Paddy reached their designated disposal site—the backside of a shuttered warehouse near the waterfront—but Mawl could tell the men were jazzed, relieved and excited at the way things had turned out. Daylight assaults were always risky, especially when you were stuck on a peninsula with no way out if things went bad. He glanced over his shoulder at the two men in back, now dressed in typical tourist attire, their coveralls along with the plexi masks and latex gloves having disappeared into a black garbage bag. “Bang on job, guys.”

Everyone nodded, trying unsuccessfully to hide their exuberance and maintain their professional detachment. Mawl turned to Paddy. “You too, Big.”

Paddy grunted, leaned out the window and spit, obviously still upset about his watchdog role.

Mawl smiled to himself. It had been an easy choice; someone had to monitor the police channel in case they inadvertently set off a silent alarm, and Big Paddy wasn’t exactly the stealthy type. “Next time—” He hoped to hell there wasn’t one, not in broad daylight. “You go in.”

Paddy hunched his massive shoulders, sulking like a schoolboy who had been passed over when they chose up sides for soccer.

Mawl let it go. The big man would get over it soon enough, he always did. Opening the door, Mawl stepped onto the crushed-granite lot, peeled off his coveralls, and tossed them into the back along with his thick rubber-soled shoes. Fosseler stuffed everything into the garbage bag, added a small magnesium charge, and passed the bag up to Paddy, who walked it out to an empty oil drum near the back of the empty lot.

While the other men scrubbed down the van—removing all traces of the water-soluble paint and temporary signage—Mawl walked out near the water, far enough not to be overheard, attached the micro-recorder to his phone and punched in Trader’s now familiar number. As always, the phone rang four times, followed by the sound of a relay and another click before the call was finally answered. “This is Trader.”

“English,” Mawl responded.

“Is it over?”

“Yes.”

“Complications?”

Mawl wasn’t about to make it sound easy. “A few minor surprises. Nothing we couldn’t handle.”

“And…?”

“You don’t need to worry about songbirds, if that’s what you’re asking.” The neck shot had been his own idea; a subtle message no one would understand but his own men, which was exactly his intent.

“And the carrier pigeon?”

Mawl smiled to himself—the man was quick, no doubt about that. “Just as you ordered. I clipped his wings.”

“Excellent. The money will be in your account within the hour.”

That was all Mawl wanted to hear. “I need to go. All hell’s about to break loose around here.”

“I’ll be in touch.” There was a faint click followed by the sound of dead air.

Mawl pulled the jumper cable, dropped the recorder in his pocket, and jogged back to the van. “Let’s move.”

As Paddy wheeled the van around and headed toward the street, Mawl reached up and pressed the button on the tiny remote attached to the visor. Behind them, there was a soft
whomp
as the magnesium charge exploded.

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

Central Macau, southern peninsula

Thursday, 5 July 16:13:34 GMT +0800

Along with the terrible roaring noise that filled Simon’s head, came the realization that he was still alive. His neck felt like an elephant had stepped on it, the rest of his body numb. Afraid to move—not sure that he could—he laid there, eyes closed, listening, trying to assess the damage. He could smell blood, but couldn’t taste it…he could even feel the dampness against his chest, but couldn’t tell if the bleeding had stopped, or where it was coming from.

The internal noise slowly diminished until it was only a loud hum and all he could hear was the sound of his own shallow breathing. Confident he was alone, or the only one alive, he took a deep breath and cracked one eyelid.
Holy Jesus!
A wave of nausea welled up from his stomach, but he managed to swallow it back, the acid scorching his throat. Though he knew Madame Chiang would be there, he didn’t expect her to be so close—barely a foot away—her painted eyes staring directly into his.

He forced himself to look away—at least he could move his head—enough to see Clean II, his arm still stretching out toward the panic button and the door beyond. A door that now looked firmly closed. Something felt oddly wrong about that, though he couldn’t think why; it was such a small detail in comparison to being trapped and bleeding to death. What the hell happened? Robbery? No, the man had come to kill—it was in his eyes. Either a vendetta or a hit. Madame Chiang obviously had enemies—that’s why she needed a panic room and a staff of armed retainers—and Simon Leonidovich just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Story of my life.

He tried to move his arm but couldn’t. Then he noticed a slight tingle in his fingers and realized it was stuck beneath his body. Girding himself for a jolt, he edged over onto his side, relieved and more than a little surprised at the lack of pain. He waited, working his fingers until the tingling numbness began to recede, then reached up and gently probed the back of his head and neck, searching for the wound. He found it at the base of his skull, but it was only a small lump, and he suddenly realized the blood wasn’t his—that the man had hit him with the gun, not shot him.
Thank you, God.

Moving slowly, not wanting to rile the demons still humming away inside his head, he pushed himself back from the gaping, lifeless stare of Madame Chiang, and sat up. The room looked untouched, the file drawers unopened, the stacks of paper on the desk undisturbed—everything just as it was except for the phone, which Madame Chiang had apparently yanked from the wall in a last desperate attempt to call for help. No robbery, that was certain. He glanced at his watch, the face smeared with blood, but the numbers still visible beneath the glass: 4:18. How long had he been out? Twenty, thirty minutes? No more, he was sure of that. He pulled his cellular, wiped it beneath his underarm to remove the blood, and was about to call for help when he noticed the
NO SERVICE
display.
Great,
trapped in a steel reinforced panic room with two bodies and no phone. And the smell, the putrid miasma of death—a disgusting combination of excreted body fluids—wasn’t getting better.

He pushed himself to his feet, then carefully tiptoed his way to the door, trying to avoid the blood. Though controlled by electronic keypad, he gave the door a hard tug, just to confirm what he already knew. He turned and began to scan the room, looking for an override. There had to be something, some way to get out if the electricity failed. Then, from the corner of his eye, he noticed a slight movement on one of the security monitors—a ruffling of leaves on a plum tree in the garden—and he realized the system had been reactivated.
Sonofabitch.

He made his way to the desk, checking each of the screens. What he saw, sent a sudden, nauseating chill racing through his body. There were at least five more bodies: Mr. Clean just inside the front gate, a woman at the top of the stairs, two more in the kitchen, and another man near the back garden: another Clean type, except that his muscular arms were covered in tattoos. All dead, Simon realized, before anyone ever approached the panic room. All in broad daylight. It would have taken a team. A well-trained and well-financed team. What did Mei-li Chiang do to deserve such cold-blooded retribution? And who did she do it to?

Without moving, he resumed his search, looking for some way to escape a room that seemed to be getting smaller by the minute. Not that he was worried about being trapped; both the gate and the front door were slightly ajar, and he couldn’t imagine it would be long before someone investigated and called the police.

By the time he finished scanning the walls and the underside of the desk, the headache demons were picking up steam, trying to escape their cranial prison through the front of his forehead. Being careful to avoid the blood, he pulled one of the rolling chairs over to where he was standing, then eased himself down into the seat, intending to rest his head on the desk. Unfortunately, he couldn’t avoid the stack of papers Madame Chiang had been going through, or the temptation. Pulling a tissue from a nearby box, he tore it into small squares, dampened them with saliva, then layered the pieces over his thumb and index finger to avoid leaving fingerprints, and began to turn pages. Most of the material, faxes and letters, were written in Chinese, but all the handwritten notes were in English—
I may still have notes regarding this conversation
—and that’s what he concentrated on. Nothing seemed to stand out—most of the notes nonsensical scribbles from telephone conversations—yet he had the feeling he had seen something and overlooked it. He ran through the pages a second time, trying to connect the disjointed phrases into something meaningful, but couldn’t find anything vaguely connected to Jake or the opening of the Pearl.

Frustrated, he removed the damp tissues, absently wiping at a faint ink stain between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. When it didn’t come off, he realized it wasn’t ink, but some kind of oily film.
Huh.
He leaned back, thinking about it, when a frenzy of activity drew his attention back to the monitors. Cops everywhere—a battalion of heavily armed SWAT-like troops with helmets and body armor—swarming through the gate and into the garden, moving fast toward the front door.
Too fast,
no reconnaissance, no tiptoeing through the tulips, as if they knew exactly what they were up against and what they would find. That’s when it hit him…why leave the gate and front door ajar?…why wear a mask if the intent was to leave no witnesses? Or was that intention? He glanced down at the smudge on his hand, then brought it to his nose.
Gun oil!
But he was locked in, how could anyone believe…? But the answer right there, Clean II pointing the way, as if he’d hit the panic button and died, trapping his killer inside.
You idiot, Leonidovich!

He spun around, the adrenaline spike burning away the demons, his mind suddenly sharp and focused. Where was it? He forced himself to breathe, to slow down, to take his time, knowing it was there, a gun with a silencer and fingerprints—his fingerprints.
Think, Leonidovich, think!
And then he knew, even without looking, it would be close to where they left him, where they expected the police to find him, but not where he would see it if he woke up. He crouched down, and there it was, laying just beneath the edge of the couch. He glanced back at the monitors, the cops were already in the gallery, less then a minute away if they had the door code, and he knew they did. Someone had given them everything: Simple Simon on a platter.
Bad! Very bad!
And he only had seconds to make it better.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

Coloane Island, Macau

Friday, 6 July 11:04:54 GMT +0800

Simon recognized the man the moment he stepped into the room, Mr. Gao Wu, the officious government representative who had met the plane when he and Kyra landed in Macau. He affected the same shallow bow, the same dour expression. “Mr. Leonidovich.”

Simon would have laughed at the utter foolishness of the situation if he hadn’t been sitting with his hands shackled to a table, in the middle of an interrogation room, in the middle of a mini prison, with his urine-stained pants stuck to a hard steel bench. He nodded, determined not to the show the man how miserable he felt, but even that small movement was enough to make his brain explode with fireworks.
Damn,
twenty hours, and the little demons with jackhammers showed no signs of retreat. “Mr. Wu.”

“Hai,
you recognize me.” He looked surprised, a man not accustomed to being remembered.

“Of course. You’re the one who said these kind of things don’t happen in your country.”

The little man sucked his cheeks into hollows, as if he had just taken a bite of lemon. “You can hardly blame the People’s Republic for your actions.”

“You don’t really believe that.”

“I’m told the facts are quite condemning.”