The Portal (A Delphi Group Thriller Book 2)

 
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“The Nephilim were on the earth in those days, and also afterward, when the sons of God came in to the daughters of man and they bore children to them. These were the mighty men who were of old, the men of renown.”

Genesis
6:4

“There were two hundred, total, that descended in the days of Jared upon Ardis, the summit of Mount Hermon.”

The Book of Enoch
6:5

Taipei City, Taiwan

THEY SAY THE most critical battles of espionage are won through attention to detail. David Parsons didn’t know who
they
were, but he’d learned the hard way
they
were right. In a subsequent debrief of the evening’s events, he would confess to a number of sins, but one in particular proved to be the most egregious. He had violated one of the agency’s most fundamental rules when working in the field: never,
never
, drink more alcohol than your target.

And Parsons hadn’t just broken that simple maxim, he’d trampled it, spit on it, then beat it with a baseball bat. And when he had, he’d immediately ceded control to one Wu Mei-ling, the woman who was supposed to have been putty in his hands.

The disastrous night began auspiciously at a four-star Indian restaurant in central Taipei. Mei arrived promptly at 7:00 p.m. and was unabashedly ecstatic about the choice. What she may not have realized was that the decision to dine in that particular establishment hadn’t been the simple whim of her date. As with all decisions made by the CIA, the choice of restaurant had only been determined after a long and thorough examination of her personal file in Langley, Virginia. Mei’s social media posts betrayed a strong penchant for the cuisine of northern India, and Parson’s handlers also hoped spicy food might lead to a greater intake of alcohol.

About an hour into the meal, Parsons gestured toward the half-eaten plate of chicken tikka masala in front of Mei. “You’re full already?”

She grinned and shrugged. Was the reaction a subtle hint that she was ready to leave? He hoped so.

Parsons didn’t think the thirty-four-year-old Chinese national was particularly beautiful, but he did love her smile. He also loved her svelte figure, honed from countless hours at Taipei’s most expensive gym.

The CIA had first zeroed in on her father, Wu Shing, almost a year earlier. His profile on the Ministry of Foreign Affairs website indicated he was a low-level diplomat, but as NSA technicians began to peek at his phone records, they discovered something astonishingly contradictory: Shing had a nasty habit of talking to known Chinese defense intelligence experts. His real position, they surmised, was somewhere under the broad umbrella of military technology.

The decision to gather more information on Shing through his daughter Mei hadn’t been a particularly difficult one. As agency profilers had perused her social media accounts, they quickly learned that she had a penchant for all things Western, particularly the US art scene. They also learned she had the loosest pair of lips they’d ever seen. Nothing in her life seemed hidden from view. Her Facebook page was littered with the sordid details of her dates. It was also filled with photographs of her frequent attendance at wine tastings, art exhibits, and orchestra performances. One profiler said that calling her an open book was an insult to open books.

The opportunity for first contact had come a month earlier when her name appeared on the guest list of a party given by the American Institute in Taiwan, or AIT. Was her attendance at the gala a hint that she was sympathetic to the West? Did she have her eye on the bigger art scenes of New York and LA? The agency couldn’t be sure, but they
were
sure of one thing: they’d never know if they didn’t ask.

The job of “wooing Wu,” as one low-level Langley technician described it, fell naturally into the hands of Taiwan-based field agent David Parsons. Not only was Parsons a veteran of covert affairs, but he was also markedly handsome. And while the glamorous side of intelligence was often overplayed in espionage films, it certainly didn’t hurt when trying to build rapport and gather information.

“Come on.” Parsons pushed the bowl toward her with a finger.
Remember, it has to be her decision to leave.
“I know you can do better than that.”

“I guess I’m just a little too excited,” Mei confessed.

His pulse quickened. Was that the green light he’d been looking for? They had already planned to return to his flat after dinner, but he needed to make sure he didn’t push too hard.

He took another sip of champagne and said, “I hope you’re not nervous.”

She giggled. “I don’t know. I just like being with you.” Her face reddened. “So yes, I’m probably a little nervous.”

“I think you know me pretty well by now.” He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “Which means there’s no reason you shouldn’t be comfortable around me.”

“I just know you come from a rich family, and I’m a simple girl.”

Parsons lifted an eyebrow. “Now wait.
I
come from a rich family? What about you? The last time I checked, you were the daughter of a diplomat.”

“Yes. But you know that’s just a title.” She looked over at a couple speaking loudly at the table next to them then turned back to him. “My father is a simple man, and we’re a simple family. Remember, I spent most of my life in the country, far away from here.” She waved her hand at the restaurant’s opulent decor. “This has not always been my life.”

He nodded in feigned agreement. Her father was anything but a simple man.

“I do remember that. And it’s one of the things I like about you. In America we’d say you’re down to earth.”

Mei’s brow furrowed. “Down to earth?”

“It means you’re practical, sensible, easy to talk to.” He smiled. “It’s a compliment.”

As Mei opened her mouth to respond, the server, a tall Indian man with the wispy mustache of a teenager, appeared. Parsons noted a leather check holder tightly clutched in his hand, a not-so-subtle hint that they needed the table. “Can I get you anything else?” the waiter asked.

Parsons did want to leave, but Mei had barely touched her champagne. It was the one piece of the arrangement that concerned him. He was working on his fourth flute, and she’d barely finished her first. He’d have to remedy that back at his flat.

He looked at Mei and raised an eyebrow.

“I’m done,” she said.

Parsons looked at the server. “I believe that will be it.”

The man bowed slightly then placed the check on the table. “Very well. I’ll just leave this with you.”

Parsons quickly pulled out a credit card in the name of Peter O’Donnell, placed it in the holder, and handed it back. “Here, you can just take it now. We’re in a bit of a hurry.”

A light drizzle fell as the two stepped into a taxi outside the restaurant. The driver, a heavy smoker of Vietnamese descent, greeted them in broken English as they settled into the back. Parsons leaned forward and gave him the address through the hole in the glass partition.

“I get you there quick,” the man assured them with an exaggerated smile.

After barely a glance in the mirror, the cabbie whipped out into the heavy Friday evening traffic. He then directed the car skillfully through the crowded streets of Da’an, the cultural and residential center of Taipei. Despite the weather, Parsons noticed that there were still throngs of stylish female shoppers scurrying in and out of high-end clothing stores and restaurants.
A spot of retail therapy wasn’t about to be put on hold because of a little rain
, he thought.

After leaving Da’an and crossing over into Xinyi, the driver slowed the vehicle and pulled up in front of a luxury condominium tower. The rain was coming down harder now, sending torrents of water down the sidewalk. Parsons paid the fare then stepped out and opened his umbrella. After taking Mei’s hand, he escorted her into the front lobby.

As they crossed the shiny tiled floor of the atrium, Parsons glanced over at his date. Her eyes widened at the building’s opulence, although the gesture seemed a bit contrived.

Still trying to play the role of the country girl.

Mei caught him looking at her and said, “It’s beautiful. I feel so out of place.”

Parsons had to admit that his current cover was about the best that agency money could buy. It was a time of austerity for most regions, but not Taipei. Despite the communist facade, Chinese hierarchy was impressed with money, and in order to penetrate their world you needed copious amounts of it.

“Sometimes I do too.” He put a hand on her waist as they approached a bank of elevators.

A concierge stood just to the right. He bowed and greeted them in flawless English. “Good evening, Mr. O’Donnell.”

“Thank you, Han.”

A minute later, they exited onto the thirty-fifth floor. As they turned down the hall, Mei slipped her arm through his. He smiled.

“So beautiful,” she said, admiring the marble floor in the corridor. “I think you’re too good for me.” She poked him gently in the ribs.

“Don’t be silly. Do I act like I’m too good for you?” He leaned over and gave her a quick peck on the lips.

Moments later they arrived at his door. Parsons stepped in front of Mei, inserted his key card into the metal slot, and typed in a seven-digit code. After a two-second pause, the light at the top of the panel turned green and a lock clicked loudly.

The interior was dark when they entered. Parsons felt around until he found the dimmer switch on the wall. He pressed it, and the darkness slowly transitioned to a soft glow.

“Welcome,” he said, waving her in.

“Oh my, I …” Mei said as she walked out of the foyer and into the living room.

The flat was decorated in a decidedly contemporary style, with smooth stone walls and a sprinkling of Scandinavian furniture. Beyond the living room was an open kitchen and dining area. Both shared a floor-to-ceiling glass window looking out over suburban Taipei.

Mei walked through the dining room and stood at the window, taking in the view. “I’ve never seen the city from here.”

Parsons joined her at the glass. “Compliments of my father’s company.”

Mei seemed to stare at a nearby condominium tower before shifting her gaze toward the twinkling lights of downtown Taipei in the distance. Finally, she turned and looked at him. “I’m sorry?”

“The view… it’s compliments of my father’s company. Do you like it?”

“Do I like it?” She looked back through the glass. “I think I could really get used to this.”

“Well, first things first,” Parsons said, crossing into the kitchen. “For now, how about just telling me what you’d like to drink?”

“I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

“Make yourself at home,” he said, nodding toward the living room. He plucked two glasses from the hanger under the cabinet then pulled a bottle of chilled sauvignon blanc from the fridge.

While pouring the wine, he watched Mei walk over and sink into the couch, crossing one leg over the other. He lifted an eyebrow then returned his attention to the wine.

“You know, you never tell me much about your father’s business,” she said. “I don’t even know what you do.”

Parsons stopped pouring for a moment, pondering his answer. “I will.” He finished pouring the wine, picked up both glasses, and left the kitchen. “My father is a very private man.” He handed a glass to Mei then set his on the end table. “His export business has been wildly successful and… well, he’s humble and doesn’t like to advertise the fact that he’s done so well. And frankly, I try to respect that.”

“No, I understand.” As Mei lifted the glass, it slipped awkwardly out of her hand, soaking her dress before she caught it. “Oh my!” she said, standing up and wiping herself with a bare hand. “I’m so clumsy.”

“You know, there are better ways to proposition me,” Parsons quipped as he stood.

She popped him playfully on the arm. “You’re naughty.”

He leaned over and gave her a quick kiss. “Let me get you another glass and a towel.”

“Thank you. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t worry. There’s more where that came from.”

Parsons took her glass and returned to the kitchen. He uncorked the bottle and filled the glass once again, this time almost to the top.

He paused and tried to formulate a way forward from here. How far should he take the conversation tonight? The psychologists at Langley had warned him against trying to push too far too fast, but if she wanted to talk, why stop her? As he re-corked the bottle, Parsons decided to play it safe. In the spy business, patience was an agent’s best friend.