The Widow's Strike (23 page)

M
alik saw the
new team
leader enter the grotto, a murderous glint in his eye, and knew the mission was about to implode. There was no way the American would take the bag once that idiot confronted him. He grimaced, a small part of him hoping the man would push the issue far enough to get his ass kicked, but consciously knowing that was the worst thing that could happen. Then they’d both be involved with the police.

He accessed the Widow’s e-mail account and rapidly typed a message, keeping one eye on the drama, the lack of sound making it seem as if it were miles away instead of just outside the building he was in.

He’d ordered the Widow to check the account every ten minutes and now wished he’d made it every five. He wanted to get her moving immediately out of Hong Kong as a precaution. As soon as he was done, hitting save and causing the e-mail account to register an unsent draft, he picked up the Galaxy phone Sanjar had purchased and dialed the bait phone’s number but got no response.

He heard muffled gunfire and jerked his head to the screen, his mouth falling open.
Shooting? The idiot escalated to using his weapon?

He’d believed that if the plan failed it would be because the Americans refused to take the bait, the end result being their leaving the bag, forcing him to come up with some other method of interdicting the team. As he watched the scene unfold in the narrow frame of the camera, he knew he’d now have to worry about the mission, period.

In grainy black and white, he saw the black man aiming a pistol at something out of range of the camera. The man spun to the ground from an unseen force and scrambled out of view, followed by a flurry of activity, the cheap camera making it hard to discern what was going on. He saw the team leader—the idiot who had started the fight—step into view and begin firing wildly at something out of sight. The man spun a half step as if he’d been punched in the shoulder, his two-handed grip broken. He held his ground, the pistol in one fist, continuing to fire, his other arm hanging limply at his side. He got off two rounds before his body was whipsawed by invisible rounds. He fell face-first into the concrete. Malik watched for a sign of life. Instead, a dark pool spread underneath the body on the black and white screen.

Malik began calculating the damage and realized the new Quds team was forfeit. Forget the authorities simply arresting the Americans. At the very least, they’d have the dead team leader and a passport from Iran. Minimal investigative work would lead to the rest of the new team. Sanjar was the only one with a clean break. Hopefully he’d had the sense to flee.

He thought about his own escape and realized he was in as safe a place as possible. No way would the police come storming into a mosque. At least not until they’d cleared such a search with the proper authorities. Eventually they would, though, if only to ask for the nonexistent tapes for the cameras outside.

He took stock of his vulnerabilities, staring at the phone he had used. The only connection between him and everything that had occurred. He’d called both the team and Sanjar on it. He ripped out the SIM card and the battery, putting both in his pocket. He then stomped on the phone, smashing it, more out of frustration than because it was necessary.

He sagged in the chair and rubbed his face, still incredulous at the debacle. He heard running feet outside his door, men chattering in Arabic. He knew it was only a matter of time before they barged in on him, blathering about the fight that had occurred. He would need to be ready. Able to pretend he was as astounded as they were to keep them from alerting the authorities about the strange man in the back room.

A chirp from his computer jarred him out of his dismal thoughts. He brought the computer out of sleep and saw a new draft message from the Widow. With the SIM card she was using.

He inserted a new SIM card into the other phone Sanjar had purchased, activated it, and dialed. When the Black Widow answered, he began giving instructions in a low voice, ensuring she repeated everything he said.

* * *

I heard the
sirens getting louder and said, “Knuckles, hang on. I got a situation here.”

Luckily, the grotto had an exit right next to the mosque, which spilled out onto Nathan Road. Nobody had been inside when the fight went down. All they knew was there had been gunfire. We had maybe ten seconds before people got up the courage to explore, but that should be enough.

“How’s Blood doing?”

Moving to the exit, Decoy said, “Just a ding on the biceps. He’s okay.”

Jennifer finished wrapping it and said, “The problem is the blood everywhere. He’s going to stand out.”

“Retro, give him your jacket. Everybody else get ready to exfil. Meet back at the hotel. Arm the alert on your phones. I want to know your location to the meter. You get picked up, hit the alarm. We’ll figure something out.”

Retro said, “My jacket? Why
my
jacket?”

Jennifer said, “Because it looks like you got it from Goodwill in 1988.”

Decoy poked his head around the wall and said, “Clear here. Crowd’s gathering outside. We can blend if we leave now.”

Blood pulled off his shirt, the left side soaked red. Retro stripped the jacket off and handed it over.

I said, “Go. Get out. Decoy and Jennifer first. Retro five seconds after. Blood, you come with me.”

By the time Blood had the god-awful Members Only jacket zipped, the others had disappeared. We flowed into the crowd, pretending to gawk along with everyone else. Police were running on foot from a substation up the street and I could see flashing lights coming down Nathan Road.

I didn’t want to walk in front of the Islamic center but also didn’t want to move toward the police. I opted to jog across the road, between the cars, not moving fast enough to draw any attention. Easy to do with everyone focused on the park.

I dialed my phone. “Knuckles, we had a gunfight. The bastards were hunting us. They set a trap.”

He said, “I know. I’m outside the main entrance to the park right now. Here’s the status of our IMEI track: New phone just went active inside the Islamic center. Old phone is offline. Also, as I said before, new phone is active at the Shangri-La hotel. What do you need me to do?”

Huh?
“Hang on, you’re where?”

“Outside the park. I heard the status on the radio. The repeater’s in my room.”

What the hell?

We reached an alley, and Blood took it with me following. “So you came down here? I told you to monitor the phone net.”

His voice came back a little miffed. “You told me to use my damn judgment. And I did. Did you think I was going to sit up there while the team was getting ambushed?”

I knew it was a losing battle. “Never mind. Where’s the phone at the Shangri-La headed?”

“That’s why I left. We can’t get any granular resolution on its movements. Taskforce is petrified about messing with the Chinese cell network. They refused to do it. They’ll ping it every ten minutes but won’t risk a full-on trace in real time. The pings will come to our phones.”

“Why is that? We need the resolution. Did you talk to Kurt?”

“Yeah. Well, I tried. The president himself said no go. They’re afraid of China seeing the activity. Apparently, China’s on cyber red alert because we’ve accused them of hacking our networks. National Command Authority won’t risk it. A full-on trace leaves too many fingerprints that can be tracked back to the United States.”

“So we’ve got one phone inside the Islamic center and one at the Shangri-La?”

“Yeah. I say forget the center and focus on the hotel. Too much activity here.”

He was right. “Okay, listen, since you’re so fired up about getting into the mix, get inside the park before it’s blanketed with police. We dropped Ernie and another guy at the eastern entrance to the grotto. We didn’t get a chance to search them. See if you can get there before the cops. Find their phones and passports.”

He said, “That’s going to be tough. I’m moving inside now, and the police are already here.”

“But they don’t know where to look. They’ll contain first. I’m sure all they know is that there was a shootout in the park, and this thing is huge.”

“Roger all. I’ll contact you later.”

I hung up and switched to the radio net.

“Koko, Retro, Decoy, you still up?”

I got a roger and gave them a situation update on the Shangri-La lead. “I’m headed back to the hotel with Blood. We won’t know if the phone’s moved for another ten minutes. Decoy and Koko, get across the harbor. Try to interdict it the best you can. Retro, stay on this side in case the next ping shows it in the middle of the harbor, on a ferry headed your way.”

S
anjar lay on
his stomach,
his brain refusing to focus. The world was in a fog, people screaming all around him, sirens blaring closer and closer. He felt like he was underwater, with time operating on a different plane, everything happening around him faster than he could assimilate. He wanted to move but couldn’t get his body to perform. He saw the weapon in his hand. He threw it into the bushes in reflex, then tried to stand. Something was on his legs. A heavy weight. He tried to focus. Tried to get his body to cooperate but couldn’t.

His head throbbed with incredible pain. He touched his brow and his hand came back red. Dripping red.

I’m hit. I’m hurt. General, I’m hurt. Help me.

He wasn’t sure if he said it out loud or simply thought it. Convinced he had been paralyzed by an assassin’s bullet, he began to crawl away, using his hands to pull himself along the ground, ignoring the screams around him. He scraped along on the concrete, bloodying the tips of his fingers as he clawed for the cover of the foliage just meters away. The weight on his legs was too much, and the ground offered too little for his hands to grasp.

He rolled onto his back and embraced that he was going to die. He felt the weight against his legs shift when he moved. His head clearing more every second, his mind working to escape, he realized he shouldn’t have been able to feel anything if he was paralyzed.

He sat up and looked at his legs for the first time, seeing the body of his comrade lying over him. The head split open, the man’s brains layering his thighs, his tongue lolling from the mouth, the eyes open and staring at nothing.

Sanjar’s moment of revulsion was short-circuited by his survival instinct. He kicked the man off and stood, still woozy, still feeling the blow to his head.

A woman pointed at him, shouting something in Chinese. He raised his hand to shoot her and realized he was just pointing a finger. He staggered into the bushes to get away, running parallel to Nathan Road. He reached a public bathroom and went inside, sitting down on a toilet and pressing a hand to his head wound, trying to think.

He needed help. He dialed the general’s agreed contact number, but the call went immediately to voice mail. He stared at the phone in disbelief, then heard the police cars stop nearby. He staggered outside and began running to the west, putting distance between himself and imminent arrest. People began shouting and pointing. Pointing at him.

He jogged around the lily pond and dove into the bushes, ripping out a scrap of paper with the number to the general’s issued IRGC cell phone. He dialed it, then realized he was using the bait phone. No way could he link that with the general’s phone given by the cleric. He hung up before it connected, then realized the phone itself held enough incriminating information to damn him forever. He’d contacted three of the men on the new Quds team, including the dead man he’d just kicked off of himself.

He threw the phone into the bushes and activated the final cell he’d purchased near Sin Tat Plaza. Before he had a chance to dial, he saw an old man and woman waving at someone and pointing his way.

He broke out of the bushes, stumbling in a ragged jog. He saw police across the pond, near the grotto, and whirled around, heading toward the main entrance of the park, with everyone pointing his way and shouting. He rounded a corner on the path and saw a phalanx of police rushing toward him.

He sagged to his knees.

* * *

Elina hung up
the phone and sat in silence, reflecting on her instructions. Leave again. Go somewhere else. The thought brought a sense of dread that was becoming all too familiar. She didn’t want to leave her hotel and go find another one. She’d not left this one since she’d met the contact yesterday and had grown used to the isolation. She’d lived on room service, the small “do not disturb” sign outside of her door a blanket of comfort.

She’d done her own cleaning, keeping her mind busy with daily chores as if she was still at home. Making the bed, washing the dishes in the sink before placing them back outside the door, folding the soiled towels ready for the exchange with the maid. An exchange that took no more than thirty seconds.

Now she would have to leave again, entering the claustrophobic mass of foreign humanity that was crammed on the island. She longed for the woods of her homeland. Longed to at least talk with someone whose primary language wasn’t Chinese.

She began packing, banishing the thoughts, a little ashamed at her weakness.

At least the mission is progressing.
With any luck, she would be leaving this alien place for good in a day or two.

As instructed, she packed everything into a single carry-on bag, as that was all the ferry would allow. She left the few other belongings behind, hoping the maid would take them for her own use.

Downstairs, she had the concierge hail a taxi and give the cabby instructions. After a short drive, he stopped and pointed at the meter. She handed him more money than was necessary and said, “Ferry terminal? This is the ferry terminal?”

He nodded vigorously and made no move to help her with her bag. She stood on the street as he drove away, seeing that the terminal was very large.

What if I get on the wrong one?

She moved inside, and, after reading the confusing English on all the signs, she approached a counter and bought a ticket. She attempted to confirm it was the right ferry, but the man pointed toward a gangway and turned to the next customer. Realizing he was done with her, she walked toward the gangway. The farther she went into the terminal, the less it appeared anyone spoke English.

She saw the ferry was actually a double-decker hydrofoil, unlike the ones that simply crossed the harbor. The sight caused her nervous stomach to calm.

It has to be the right one.

She walked up the gangway into the lower deck, a large area with seating much like that of the coach section of an airplane, already full of people. She showed a man in uniform her ticket, written entirely in Chinese. He snatched the bag out of her hand and pointed toward a stairwell behind him. She said, “My seat is up there?”

He simply pointed again.

She said, “My bag?”

Irritated, he jabbed his hand toward the stairs, then piled her suitcase on top of a stack of others.

She walked up a short staircase and found that she’d been tricked into buying a first-class ticket. The room was laid out exactly like the one below, the only difference being the size and spacing of the seats. She grinned at how human nature was the same all over the world. She didn’t care about the cost, since it wasn’t her money.

She showed a second man her ticket, and he led her to a window seat. She settled in, staring out the glass to kill the forty-five minutes before the ferry departed.

The cabin filled up around her, with only one other westerner on her level. A female with dirty-blond hair sitting across the aisle and two seats up. Elina studied her, trying to guess where she was from.

Five minutes later, she felt a subtle shift. She glanced out the window and saw the pier sliding by, causing a spasm of fear. She looked at her watch. They were leaving twenty minutes early.

I’m on the wrong ferry.

She had seen a sign for Shanghai, but that had pointed to the other pier. She stood, walking to the front holding her ticket. The uniformed man pointed back to her seat. She said, “Macau? Ferry to Macau?”

The man became agitated, pointing again at her seat, but she’d had enough of the “inscrutable” Chinese.

“No, I’m not sitting down. Where is this ferry going?”

She felt someone pull on her shirt and turned to find the western woman trying to get her attention.

“This is the ferry to Macau. Is that where you’re going?”

American.

“Yes. I am. Thank you. It’s very hard to get anybody to understand you here.”

The woman smiled, a sincere, warm gesture, and said, “Boy, you aren’t kidding. It’s worse being a single female. They treat you like you don’t exist.”

Elina felt an instant connection and a compelling need to continue the conversation. Then she remembered why she was here. Where she was going.

Don’t get involved in questions you don’t want to answer.

She thanked the woman and sat back down, her heart stopping its rapid stutter, the fear now replaced with an emptiness that gnawed.

An hour later she’d docked in Macau and exited quickly, wanting to get away from the American lest she ask to pair up. The terminal in Macau was much poorer, showing the wear of time, which made her feel more at ease for some reason. She found a taxi in the swirling mass of people and managed to convey her destination. Shortly, she was in her new hotel room. Another Conrad Hotel. The room was exquisite, making her wonder if the Arab contact thought she could be bought. She dismissed the idea. In her limited engagement he had shown no indication that money would ever induce him to do anything. So there was no way he would believe such a thing about her.

Maybe just a little reward. He had to put me somewhere.

She sat on the bed and turned on her cell, unsure how long she was supposed to wait. She received four text messages, startling her.

They were all from casinos welcoming her to the island. One after the other begging her to show up and win big.

Casinos? Is this the target?

She opened a hotel book and was surprised to see that Macau had become the number one gambling destination in the world, eclipsing even Las Vegas. She’d had no idea. She parted the shades of her window and saw a skyline in motion, with building after building under construction. Directly across the road was a monstrosity called the Venetian. An enormous building fronted by a man-made lake.

She booted up her tablet, got online, and Googled it, killing time.

Two hours later, after a dinner of room service, the standard “do not disturb” sign on the door, she gave up on meeting anyone that night. She stepped into the shower, exhausted by the day’s events.

She toyed with the massage head and leaned against the wall, letting the blast of water pummel her body, amazed at the technology. She bathed herself, then tried every setting, wondering if any of her friends had ever experienced such luxury.

Wearing a towel on her head and one around her body, she sauntered across the room, captivated by the view of the skyline in the setting sun. She leaned against the glass, watching the lights tinkle in the distance. A flash on the window caught her eye, and she realized it was her phone.

Picking it up, she saw a missed call. Immediately, she was brought back to earth. Back to the reality of why she was staying in such opulence. Deflated, she hit redial.

The man she knew as Malik answered and gave her instructions. She took notes and hung up. She had five hours. Five short hours before she entered the mission and left the opulence behind. She wondered again about her chosen path and how this would help her people. She was going to give all she had—her very life—and was unsure about Malik’s agenda. He seemed pure, but maybe
he
was being led down a path and using her as a result.

Nothing to do about it now but continue. What else could she do? Going home would garner her punishment, which she knew, given the pressure she’d felt to accept the mission, would mean her death. She held no illusions about the justice of the Islamists in Chechnya.

She dressed slowly, savoring every minute she had left in the room.