Snake Eye (9 page)

Inez was short, petite, and pretty. “The sonovabitch is crazy,” the ICE agent muttered darkly as the generator started to chatter outside. “I’ll have to burn these clothes.” Rossi laughed and realized that the other woman was correct. The combined odors of decaying flesh, raw sewage, and vomit would be hard if not impossible to get rid of. The blue suit was toast.

Portable lights had been hung inside the container and they came on as someone flipped a switch. “Okay, people,” Hawkins said cheerfully. “Welcome to conference room seven three oh six. Take any seat that’s open. While most of this is old news to some of you, the rest need to hear it, so listen up. The background stuff is on the CDs that have been prepared for you—so
there’s no need to take a whole lot of notes.”

The customs agent withdrew a laser pointer from an inside pocket and projected a red dot onto the surface of a large, wall-mounted map. “I got most of my experience with human smuggling down in the southwest, but having just completed a crash course on Asian trafficking, I know just enough to be dangerous. As I mentioned earlier, a lot of the illegals who come through Vancouver and Seattle originate in Fujian province. It’s about the size of Delaware. The capital city of Fuzhou is home to a
liudong renkou
, or floating population of a quarter million displaced farm workers who migrated there hoping to find work, but lack the skills and education necessary to get factory jobs.

“Having heard stories about life in the United States, which they commonly refer to as the ‘Golden Mountain,’ many displaced workers want to come here. And that makes sense since workers in Shanghai earn eight times what the folks in rural China do—and the average worker in the United States makes twenty times more than that! Which is why criminals called snakeheads have such an easy time signing them up to come here. Never mind the fact that the would-be immigrants have to borrow between fifty and sixty grand to buy their passage, then work eighty-to ninety-hour weeks to pay the money back, all at a wage of four to five bucks an hour. Oh yeah, and did I mention that the smugglers charge interest? It all adds up to what some experts say is an eight-billion-dollar per year business worldwide.”

Hawkins paused to eye those in front of him. “Task Force SNAKE EYE can’t put a stop to the trade—it’s way too big for that—but we can sure as hell put a dent in it. And
this
particular bastard would be a good place to start.”

The little red dot wobbled across the wall and came to rest on a poster-sized mug shot of an Asian male. “For those of you who aren’t already acquainted with this piece of shit, his name is Sam Chow. Over the last thirty years he’s been accused of everything from spitting on the sidewalk to premeditated murder. None of the charges have stuck. He’s getting old now and plans to hand the business over to his son, but it ain’t over till it’s over.”

“Has anyone tried going after him on taxes?” Rossi wanted to know. “Maybe the IRS could help.”

“They nailed Al Capone,” Hawkins agreed, “but no, Chow is too smart for that. Our guess is that profits generated from human trafficking are taken out of country where they are washed through seemingly legitimate corporations prior to being repatriated. Then he pays whatever taxes are owed and uses the remainder to buy more fishing boats for his fleet, trucks for his shipping company, and lots of real estate.

“So, having failed to nail him in the past, the powers-that-be decided to create a task force that will go after Chow the old-fashioned way. We’ll put some pressure on the bastard, spook him if we can, and wait for him to make a mistake, which would be good, because the intelligence folks believe that the old man has developed a
new
way to smuggle illegals into the country by sea, but we haven’t been able to figure out how. A body washed ashore a few days ago. An Asian male dressed in a survival suit. But there must have been more.
Lots
more. But where are they? We have a full-court press in place but nothing to show for it. Maybe this team can come up with the answer.”

“It
sounds
good,” Tolley allowed cynically, “but where do we start? The SPD has been chasing Chow for years without success.”

When Hawkins smiled it had a predatory quality and Rossi felt a sudden sense of sympathy for the coyotes who worked the Mexican border. “That’s simple, Detective Tolley,” the customs agent replied. “We’ll go after Chow the same way we would go after you.”

Tolley raised his eyebrows. “Which is?”

“Which is through your children,” Hawkins answered coldly.

Rossi thought about how much she loved Missy, and judging from the expression on Tolley’s face, knew that the detective felt the same way about
his
children.

“That’s right,” the ASAC said knowingly, “and consider
this
: The name
Chow
comes from
Zhou
, which means to encircle. And, as it happens, the Zhou Dynasty ruled China from ten twenty-seven to two twenty-one B.C. Something Sam Chow not only takes pride in, but continues to identify with, as he prepares to found a dynasty of his own.

“And that,” Hawkins said, “brings us to
this
piece of shit.” Rossi watched the red dot land on a second mug shot. “This is
Joe
Chow,” the customs agent added, “also referred to as ‘Little Chow’ by the denizens of the International District. He is not only Sam Chow’s right-hand man, but his heir apparent, and chance for immortality. That makes him the old geezer’s weak spot, which is why Rossi is going to bug his apartment and see what we can find out about him. Isn’t that right, Rossi?”

The FBI agent looked up at the mug shot and nodded her head. “Yes, sir. Assuming we can get a judge to sign the Title III paperwork and the proprietor will cooperate.”

“He’d
better
cooperate,” Inez put in mischievously, “or Rossi will shoot him.”

Everyone laughed, and Rossi smiled, but her heart wasn’t in it. The FBI agent could still see the flames, still smell the burning flesh, and still feel the gun bucking in her hands.

The meeting broke up two hours later, but the smell followed Rossi into the rain and all the way home. A bath took care of the odor in her hair, but not the loneliness that went with an empty house and a life focused almost entirely on work. She had her job but very little else. With Snowball on her lap, and CNN for company, Rossi fell asleep.

Careful not to make any noise Dexter entered his closet, pushed his carefully hung clothes out of the way, and slid the hidden door to one side. Then, with his heart beating a little faster than normal, the businessman peered through the window into the dimly lit bedroom next door. But there are problems associated with being a voyeur, not the least of which has to do with the fact that the victim or victims determine when they will be victimized.

The reality of that served to remind Dexter of the deep recons that he and his men had carried out along the border between Iraq and Iran. Long, often boring missions during which the SEALS spent up to six days waiting for bad guys to transit a remote mountain pass, hold a meeting in an isolated cave, or hunker down around a campfire. Of course they, just like Joe Chow and his mistress Lena Ling, frequently failed to show.

Once all the paperwork had been signed Joe Chow had moved into the Bayview apartments with surprising speed. A wave of brand new furniture had been followed by some starkly modern art and a dozen cardboard boxes. Hardly anything at all compared to the tons of stuff that most tenants trucked in.

Then, once his belongings had been unpacked by two well-coiffed interior designers, Chow and a small entourage of what Dexter took to be bodyguards arrived. That was problematical since the businessman didn’t want renters who needed that kind of protection living in his building—not to mention the fact that at least two of the heavies could be found slouched in their employer’s SUV at all hours of the day and night, a development that annoyed Pasco no end since the maintenance man regarded the parking garage as
his
turf.

Still, if Dexter was ready and waiting when Chow and Ling decided to enter the adjoining bedroom, then the subsequent show might be worth all the trouble. The couple were home, the
businessman knew that, so he dropped into his easy chair and opened a book. It was
The Fermata
, by Nicholson Baker, which seemed perfect for the occasion. There were times when the missing leg felt as though it was still there, and for whatever reason, such was the case as the businessman began to read. The ex-SEAL was well into chapter eight, in which Marian finds interesting ways to entertain herself inside a UPS truck, when the lights came up and Ling was propelled into the room beyond the glass. The young woman stumbled, tripped, and fell.

Chow rounded the corner with a beer in his hand. He smiled, said something Dexter couldn’t hear, and used his left hand to release his belt and pull it free. The ex-SEAL felt his stomach muscles tighten as the leather dangled next to the other man’s leg.

Having placed the beer on a night stand, Chow went over to where Ling cowered on the floor. He grabbed a handful of the girl’s thick black hair and jerked her up onto her feet. Then, having ordered her to remain there, the snakehead brought the belt around. The resulting
crack
was loud enough for the apartment house owner to hear through the interconnecting ventilation system. Dexter came to his feet. His hands were balled into fists. The strap struck
again
.

But then, just as Dexter was about to reveal his presence and to hell with the consequences, the scene on the other side of the mirror changed. Chow dropped the belt, ripped Ling’s blouse open, and pushed her onto the neatly made bed. The young woman made no attempt to resist, which raised the possibility that what the businessman had witnessed was consensual, and left him unsure as to what to do.

Ling knew what to expect. Chow needed to inflict pain on her, needed to demonstrate his dominance, in order to achieve an erection. Now, with his hard-on poking at the front of his jeans, the snakehead was ready to take her. She felt rough hands rip at her clothes, and knew it was important to struggle, but not too much. Because if Chow thought his victim was resisting,
really
resisting, he would take that as an affront to his masculinity and beat the crap out of her. But the sado-masochistic charade followed the unwritten script, and it wasn’t long before Ling had been prodded into position.

Dexter felt a variety of emotions as he watched the couple prepare to copulate, including curiosity, anticipation, lust, anxiety, fear, and guilt. But he had felt guilty before, many times in fact, and always given into his desires. So the voyeur watched with a growing sense of excitement as Chow positioned his mistress on her hands and knees, paused to remove his pants, and prepared to take Ling doggy style, a position that would allow the snakehead to watch himself perform in the big mirror opposite the bed. A strategy that would make
Chow
a voyeur too, thereby locking both males together in what had become a strange ménage a trois.

Ling felt her master’s hands pry her buttocks apart. She knew he planned to use her anally, and so left her body. It was sunny in southern California, and as she and her sister made their way across the imaginary campus Ling saw hundreds of pretty people, all wearing the latest fashions. They were happy, just as she would be happy some day, and completely oblivious to the pain that so much of the world lived with.

Dexter watched Chow flick his hips forward, knew he had entered Ling, and took a look at her face. But rather than the pleasure he had hoped to witness, the businessman saw her face go blank, and knew that her essence had gone somewhere else. And it was the knowledge of that, the
certainty
of it, that brought Dexter’s experiment to an abrupt end. Because rather than the sexual excitement that he had expected to feel, the ex-SEAL experienced revulsion instead, and not just for his tenant. Because the apartment house owner knew that even though he remained in the adjoining room,
he
was guilty of victimizing the young woman too. Sickened by what he had done, and determined to eliminate the mirror the moment that Chow moved out, Dexter left the
secret room.

Meanwhile, having prolonged the pleasure for as long as he could, Chow made the decision to end it. It was a powerful orgasm and the snakehead gave a bellow of satisfaction as he granted himself release.

Ling felt the final thrust, heard Chow shout, and knew the ordeal was over. Soon, within a minute or so, he would wipe himself on the bed cover, put his pants back on, and head for the living room. That was when he would tell his bodyguards what a good lay she was, bask in their approval, and pop another beer. Though not as good as California, a bath would feel good, followed by the nothingness of sleep. They were small pleasures, but all a slave could hope for, and Ling was grateful.

Americo Lopa awoke as he always did, to the gentle,
beep, beep, beep
of his battery-powered alarm clock. Even though he didn’t have a job to go to it was important to make sure that he didn’t spend more than one night per week in the same parking lot, a precaution that prevented the shopping center’s rent-a-cops and the local police from tagging his vehicle as suspicious, or worse yet, having it towed—a potential nightmare for a man who kept all of his possessions in his van and was paranoid about his privacy.

Lopa slapped the off button on the alarm, sat up, and took a peek out through the hand-sewn curtains that not only served to screen the van’s interior but blocked the harsh green glow that illuminated the parking lot at night. It was still dark, but a single glance confirmed that he was in the Mountlake Terrace strip mall, where one of his many alter-egos maintained a membership at the local gym.

In spite of the fact that he lived within the context of an extremely large city, most of Lopa’s days were spent in near-isolation on the streets or in the solitude of his van. Today would be different however, since he was scheduled to meet the man who would kill FBI agent Christina Rossi for him. That being the case, Lopa was even more efficient than usual as he entered Ginny’s Gym, spent thirty minutes on the treadmill, shaved while he showered, and ambled down to Starbucks where he purchased a grande mocha, a Hawaiian bagel, and a copy of
USA Today
.

Exactly thirty minutes later, Lopa entered his van and made his way onto I-5 southbound, where he entered the normal flow of traffic. As always the cell leader was careful to keep his speed at or just below the limit, signal before he changed lanes, and avoid conflicts with other drivers. Still, in spite of all those precautions it was unsettling to know that on any given day footage of his white van was likely to be captured by the news choppers that cruised overhead, the traffic cams mounted at strategic spots along the freeways, and the ATM machines that fronted most banks.

Lopa took the Mercer street exit, made a couple of turns, and lucked into an on-street parking spot. The terrorist tried to avoid lots because some were monitored. Had anyone been watching the man who exited the white van—they would have been hard-pressed to describe him later. He had black hair, that much was obvious, but everything else was a blur. He wore a tan jacket, faded blue jeans, and beat-up hiking boots, the same sort of clothes worn by students at the University of Washington, thousands of blue-collar workers, and anyone else who didn’t have to wear a suit or uniform.

As usual Denny’s was packed with people who liked lukewarm coffee, grand slam breakfasts, and sticky tabletops. Lopa saw the security camera that was mounted over the cash register, wished there was a way to avoid it, and knew there wasn’t. He scanned the area ahead, spotted the man in the black beret, and made his way down the center aisle. The man with the rimless glasses, sunken cheeks, and sallow skin looked more like a retired college instructor than the man of violence that Lopa knew him to be. That impression was reinforced by the fact that the assassin was reading the
New York Times
and sipping tea. In spite of the fact that the ELA had no formal hierarchy and consisted of ad hoc cells, there were certain websites that could be used as message drops, which was how the man he knew as Eason had been contacted. Lopa approached the booth with the surety of an old friend joining another for breakfast, slid onto the bench-style seat, and smiled pleasantly. “Good morning! It’s good to see you.”

Eason lowered the paper, removed the reading glasses, and tucked them away. Rather than
actually reading the
Times
, he’d been looking over the top of it, watching to see if Lopa had been followed. If the terrorist had a tail, and if left with no other choice, the assassin was prepared to remove the Ingram MAC 10 submachine gun from the briefcase on the floor beside him and spray the interior of the restaurant with 9mm bullets before exiting via the door located six paces behind him. But Lopa was clean, or that was the way it appeared, so Eason added some additional water to his cup and made a ritual out of dunking a fresh tea bag into the hot liquid. His voice was pitched intentionally low. “Thank you. It’s good to see you as well.”

A tired-looking waitress arrived, offered Lopa some coffee from a nearly empty pot, and slopped some of the noxious brew into his cup. “So,” Eason said as the waitress waddled away, “I understand you need some help.”

“Yes,” Lopa agreed solemnly. “I do. How soon can you begin work?”

“Today,” Eason replied laconically. “If that’s convenient.”

“The sooner the better,” the terrorist said as he brought the coffee cup up to his lips. Having been threatened by the ELA for two months a corporate executive had been gunned down in Los Angeles two days before—and Lopa wondered if Eason had been the triggerman. Not that it mattered. The coffee tasted horrible so he put it down. “What will you need?”

“You mean what will
we
need,” Eason answered levelly. “Either we work together or we don’t work at all.”

Though not adverse to using violence to achieve his ends Lopa preferred to let others pull the actual triggers whenever possible. But, having spent his cell on the university sanction, the cell leader was out of foot soldiers. He frowned. “Why?”

“Because I’m a pragmatist,” Eason replied. “The task you have in mind involves a high level of risk. One way to control that risk is to ensure that everyone who knows about the activity participates in it. So, assuming you want my assistance, it will be necessary to stay by my side until the project is complete. The choice is yours.”

Lopa understood what the hit man was getting at but didn’t like the notion of providing anyone with that kind of a hold on him. Still, Christina Rossi would be a lot harder to kill than Aspee had been, which meant that he was in need of help. “I see,” the terrorist responded neutrally. “Tell me something…. How did you wind up in this line of work anyway?”

Eason smiled thinly. He could see the other man’s hesitancy and practically smell his fear. Lopa was stalling for time. “I put in twenty years at a nuclear waste facility. They told me it was safe even though they knew it wasn’t. I’ll be dead twelve months from now—but not before I send a few of them to hell ahead of me.”

Now Lopa understood why the hitman looked the way he did. As for Eason’s desire to get back at “them,” well that was what everyone within the resistance movement wanted to do, although various subgroups were focused on different aspects of the same problem.
His
anger was fueled by a childhood spent in migrant labor camps, his politics were Che Guevara’s, and his methods were those of Mao Tse Tung. “I’m sorry,” the terrorist said sincerely. “That’s why the battle must go on.”

“Exactly,” Eason agreed emotionlessly. “So, what will it be? Are we going to tackle the project together? Or should I leave you with the check?”

The knowledge that Eason was going to die, and sooner rather than later, made Lopa feel better. He smiled. “We’ll do it together.”

They shook on it, and when Lopa took the assassin’s hand, he noticed that it was very, very cold.

Having lucked into a parking spot, Rossi fed what seemed like an excessive amount of money into the gray meter, and eyed the newly refurbished building on the far side of the street. Her face had been on TV a lot lately, so there was the risk that Joe Chow would recognize the agent should they run into each other in the lobby, but that wasn’t going to happen since the snakehead was busy losing money at a tribal casino north of Everett. Just one of the habits that kept little Chow from amassing the kind of fortune that his father had.

Confident that her visit would go undetected, Rossi crossed the street, mounted a short flight of stairs, and entered a well-appointed lobby. The agent spotted the office, pushed open the door, and saw the man she knew to be Jack Dexter beyond a glass divider. He waved her in.

Dexter stood as the woman entered. He saw that she was tall, had black hair, large brown eyes, and a determined mouth. She also looked familiar although he couldn’t say why. While not drop-dead gorgeous, she was very attractive, and well dressed. The businessman had been expecting an FBI agent, but this lady looked more like a prospective tenant, so he reacted accordingly. “Hello…. Can I help you?”

Rossi inspected the man on the other side of the desk the same way she inspected everyone, as a potential scam artist, thief, or murderer. Dexter didn’t look like a criminal though. Far from it. He had hazel eyes, even features, and an athletic build. The last was somewhat predictable, given his special ops background, but hadn’t been apparent in the photo that the Department of Defense (DOD) supplied along with the ex-officer’s military record. “Yes,” the FBI agent said as she offered him a look at her badge and credentials. “My name is Christina Rossi.”

“Please, sit down,” Dexter replied, as he updated his stereotypes of female law enforcement officers to include pretty FBI agents. “I’m Jack Dexter. Most people call me Dex.”

Rossi struggled to remember whether the man opposite her was married as she sat down. “Thank you for taking the time to see me. I’m here because one of your tenants is under criminal investigation.”

Dexter nodded as he returned to his chair. The agent had a hard-soft quality that he found appealing. “Can I ask which one?”

“Yes,” Rossi answered, “you can. The man we’re interested in is Joe Chow.”

Dexter sighed. “I should have known.”

Rossi raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “Really? Why is that?”

“Mr. Chow is the only tenant who employs bodyguards. When they aren’t in his apartment they’re usually sitting in his Hummer with the sound system turned up. They love hip-hop and it drives my maintenance man crazy.”

Rossi nodded as she scribbled in her notebook. “Yes, well, Mr. Chow has numerous enemies, so it pays to be careful.”

Dexter nodded. “What about the rest of my tenants? Are they safe?”

“As far as I know,” Rossi answered cautiously. “Our experts tell me that you have an extremely good security system. So good that it would be difficult to install surveillance devices without you knowing about it. That’s why I came to see you.”

The news that the government was familiar with his security system was disquieting to say the least. Dexter thought about the one-way mirror, the viewing room, and the tie to his illegal sex life—all things he wanted to conceal from the FBI
and
the agent on the other side of the desk. Like all special ops warriors he’d been trained to handle interrogations and kept his voice neutral. “Are you sure that’s necessary?”

“Yes,” Rossi replied. “I’m afraid it is. I am not at liberty to go into the details, but suffice it to say that we need to know what Mr. Chow is up to, and we need your help.”

Dexter felt the trap close around him but was powerless to object. First the sadistic episode between Chow and his mistress, now this. “Okay, if that’s what you need, then so be it. Should I ask to see a court order or something?”

“Yes, you should,” Rossi said, as she opened her briefcase. “Take a look at these.”

The ex-SEAL scanned the documents that the FBI agent put in front of him but his thoughts were elsewhere. The woman across from him was not wearing a ring, but was far too attractive to be single, so what did that mean? A live-in boyfriend perhaps? Probably, but what if there wasn’t? What if he asked her to have a drink with him and she said “yes?” That would trigger the very series of events that he had worked so hard to avoid. A successful date could lead to more, the inevitable moment would arrive, and the businessman would be expected to remove his clothes. Now, more than two years later, he could still see the expression of shock and revulsion on Kristen’s face as she looked at the stump for both the first and last time. It had only been there for a moment, and had been replaced by what could only be described as a determined smile, but there was no mistaking how she felt.

Perhaps that was predictable given that she had been a prototypical high school cheerleader when they had first met, and he had been an equally prototypical jock, both focused on and celebrated for the quality of their physical bodies. But predictable or not, and second only to the moment when he’d been wounded, that had been the most painful episode of his life—one which he didn’t want to repeat. But what if he let the opportunity go? There was something different about Christina Rossi, something he didn’t want to take a pass on, and that meant taking a chance.

The FBI agent restored the documents to her briefcase and snapped the lid closed. “I think that covers it. Please don’t share any part of this conversation with anyone else. One of our technical agents will call to set up an appointment. I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me.”

As Dexter stood he felt his heart beat a little faster, wondered if his face was flushed, and knew his hands were clammy. “Agent Rossi, I know this is out of the blue, but I wondered if there was any chance that I could buy you a drink?”

Rossi experienced a feeling of surprise, followed by pleasure, followed by suspicion. Was Dexter trying to play her somehow? There was no reason other than the obvious one for him to do so. Besides, judging from the look of apprehension in his eyes, he was anything but predatory. Yes, he was hitting on her, but why not? So long as the contact was limited to a drink. She glanced at her watch, saw it was nearly 5:00 p.m., and looked up. “You know what? That sounds good…Where shall we go?”

The look of pleasure on Dexter’s face was clear to see and the FBI agent was surprised by his reaction. Surprised, but pleased, since the last man who had looked at her with the same combination of relief, eagerness, and enthusiasm was her daughter’s father.

It took the better part of twenty minutes for Dexter to lock his office, provide Rossi with a quick description of the renovation process, and walk to one of the small but classy cocktail lounges scattered about Bell Town. Once in a cozy corner, with drinks resting in front of them, it felt natural to ask Rossi about her work. That led to a discussion of the ELA shoot-out, the resulting media attention, and the impact on her social life. That was when Dexter realized that while he’d seen stories about the University shootout on the news he hadn’t made the connection. “Sorry about that,” the ex-SEAL said apologetically. “I didn’t recognize you.”