Operation Barracuda (2005) (20 page)

The bookcases don’t budge, though. I pull on the sides, try lifting the sides, and search for more trick levers and buttons. Nothing. I remember seeing a play on stage in which one of the characters opened a trick door by pulling out a particular book. It’s a device that’s been used hundreds of times but it works. I figure what the hell?—so I begin to pull out the books on each shelf, one at a time. There are about fifty but I go through them quickly. When I get to the shelf that is shoulder level, I notice two books that are slightly forward, as if they’ve been moved recently. A book of Shakespeare and a book about Christopher Marlowe. I figure one must go with the other, so I pull out one and then the other. I hear a latch give way and the bookcase pops ajar. I open it and, sure enough, there’s a spiral staircase descending to the floor below.

The stairs squeak much too loudly as I go down so I stop and take them one at a time slowly. When I’m halfway I hear snoring. I take the rest of the stairs at a snail’s pace but from the way the guy is sawing logs I don’t think I have anything to worry about. When I get to the bottom, I see him sitting at a desk. He’s wearing a jacket and tie and is lying on top of the game of solitaire he was playing. There’s a bottle of Russian vodka on the floor beside his chair. So much for Russian efficiency.

I move to the man and ask, “Are you awake?” in Russian. He snorts, mumbles, and then turns his head the other direction. The snoring begins again in earnest. He reeks of vodka so I figure I can go about my business without disturbing him. From the looks of the guy, he’s going to need several hours to sleep this one off.

There are a couple of doors along the corridor, both leading into separate offices. At the end of the hall is a larger room full of more boxes and crates. I take a look and can immediately see that this storeroom isn’t for the antique shop. A wooden box the shape of a coffin is full of assault rifles. On shelves lining the walls are various handguns of all makes and calibers. On another shelf is a collection of timers, material that appears to be plastic explosive, and boxes of ammunition.

In the middle of the floor is an open crate, one recently unpacked. Straw lies around the crate and the lid is against the wall. I examine the interior but there’s nothing inside; however, the missing contents left an impression in the straw of an object that was maybe eight inches wide by thirty-six inches long.

I examine the crate for other clues as to what it contained but it’s unmarked. I then look at the lid and see the logo and words burned into the wood, along with the shipping invoice. It reads, in Russian, Chinese, and English, PERISHABLE—FORMANOVA CYLINDRA BEETS—KEEP AWAY FROM HEAT. The crate was shipped from Moscow.

Beets? No way. Then I remember what I found in General Prokofiev’s house. That list of missing nuclear weapons. Frances Coen told me the general’s handwritten note by one of the listings was the recipe for borscht. Beet soup. Could this be . . . ?

I leave the storeroom and make my way back to the first office. My friend the Russian guard is still building a log cabin, oblivious to the world. I close the door, sit at the desk, and boot up the computer. Much of the software is in Russian. I go to the e-mail program and try to get past the log-in screen but can’t.

“Anna? Someone? Are you there?” I ask, pressing my implant.

“Here, Sam. What’s up?” It’s Grimsdottir.

I give her the e-mail address for the computer and its server. “I need a password, and fast.”

While I wait, I putter around the hard drive, taking a look at Word files and other programs. There’s a folder containing several Excel spreadsheets that are obviously inventory lists with purchase and profit designations. I run searches for “Jon Ming,” “JonMing,” “Ming,” “Lucky Dragons,” “Shop,” and “Mike Chan” but come up with zilch. Then I search for “Barracuda” and come up with a folder with that name. I open it and see several saved e-mails. Some of them are from Prokofiev in Moscow. Reading them, I come to realize that once again, for the second time in a year, I’m sitting at the desk belonging to Andrei Zdrok, the Shop’s leader. So he’s here in Hong Kong. I might have known, seeing that his other two flunkies are in the colony as well.

Prokofiev’s messages are in coded gobbledy-gook but I can make out something concerning shipments of materials to Hong Kong from Russia, and orders to make sure something from America is delivered to China.

There’s a folder marked GYROTECHNICS and it contains some e-mails from someone named GoFish@GyroTechnics. com. These are written either in very poor English or it’s some kind of shorthand code. I quickly scan them and then come across the word
professor
. The gist of the message is that the author’s brother provided the professor’s materials to “JM.” Jon Ming? It’s signed
E. W.

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“I have something for you.” She gives me a six-character letter-and-number combination. “Try that and see if you get in.”

I do, and it works. “Anna, I guess you’re still on my birthday card list,” I say.

“What about me?” I hear Coen ask.

“You just might get a card
and
a piece of cake,” I say.

“Thanks a lot.”

I look through the recently received e-mails and find one from GoFish. It says that his brother is now in town and needs to get out of the country quickly. A brand-new message in the in-box is from “GoFish2.” I can’t believe what I see when I open it.

 

Andrei—

 

—Mike

 

I quickly upload these files to my OPSAT and turn off the computer. While I’m doing so I consider all the various bits of information I’ve gathered in Russia and in Hong Kong. The way I figure it, Mike Chan was the mole inside Third Echelon. He arranged to deliver MRUUV classified secrets from Professor Jeinsen to the Lucky Dragons. The Shop then bought this material and sold them to another party. Mike and his brother, whoever that is, are in possession of one more piece of Jeinsen’s work. Jon Ming doesn’t want to go through with the transaction so Mike is trying to sell the thing to the Shop without the Triad acting as middleman.

There’s a noise outside in the hallway. I freeze as I realize that someone’s coming down the creaky stairs. Whoever it is shouts at the sleeping guard, giving the guy a thorough dressing-down for drinking and falling asleep on the job. I hear the guard, disoriented and hoarse, try his best to apologize.

More footsteps. There are several guys out there. What the hell am I going to do? There’s no way out of this office. No windows, no vents, nothing. I move to the door and stand behind it, my Five-seveN drawn and ready. If I have to shoot my way out, I’ll do it.

Then I hear the newcomer ask the guard why the bookcase upstairs was open. The guard doesn’t have an answer. An order is given to search the premises.

I reach into my trouser leg pocket and grab a smoke grenade. After lowering my goggles, I clutch it in my left hand and prepare to pull the pin with my teeth and throw it. Suddenly, the office door pushes inward, slamming against me and revealing my position.

I
switch on my thermal vision, pull the grenade pin, reach around the open door, and drop it. The men shout in alarm and then there’s a tremendous explosion in the hallway. It’s just a smoke grenade but the tight confines of the quarters magnifies the intensity of the blast. Total chaos ensues outside the office as the door is bombarded with gunfire. I fall to the floor, facedown, and crawl out beneath the line of fire. With my head in the hallway I can count four warm bodies in the smoke. Three of them are shooting blindly toward the office. I calmly aim my Five-seveN and take them out—one, two, three.

“Stop!” the fourth man shouts. “Stop shooting, you fools!” The poor guy doesn’t realize his men are already dead. I can see him moving toward the staircase, feeling his way along the wall. I stand, grab him in a one-arm choke hold, and place the barrel of my handgun to his head.

It’s Anton Antipov.

“I should just kill you now,” I say in Russian.

The guy is trembling. “Wait!” he says in English. “Please!”

“Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t.”

“If you kill me you’ll . . . you’ll never know what’s going on.”

“I know what’s going on.”

“Surely you don’t know the details.” The guy is desperate. The coward is ready to spill his guts. He’s right, though. I
don’t
know the details. I pull him back through the hallway and out of the smoke. We end up in the storeroom with the weapons. I throw him to the floor, quickly frisk him, and find that he’s unarmed. Standing over him with the Five-seveN in his face, I say, “Okay, Antipov. Tell me the details. I’m listening. Don’t leave anything out.”

The man squints at me and asks, “Who are you?”

“The Avon Lady. Now what’s the Shop doing with the MRUUV material?”

“You’re Fisher! Are you not? The Splinter Cell!”

“I asked you a question.”

“I was afraid you might show up sooner rather than later. Andrei . . . Andrei wouldn’t believe you’d be on our trail so quickly.”

“Are you going to answer me or not? You have three seconds.”

“Wait!” Antipov puts up his hands defensively. “Don’t shoot!”

“Okay, I’m waiting. Now talk to me.”

“We’ve sold the MRUUV plans to General Tun in China. He plans to attack Taiwan with his army. He’s mobilizing in Fuzhou and war is imminent.”

Is the general nuts? “He’s crazy if he thinks he can attack Taiwan without retaliation from the United Nations, not to mention America. Surely he knows that.”

Antipov nods. “The general apparently has a plan for that scenario.”

“And that is . . . ?”

“I don’t know!”

The guy is too scared to lie. I think back to the information I gleaned from Zdrok’s computer. “What’s this final piece that’s coming from California?”

“You know about that?”

“Answer me.”

“It’s the guidance system for the MRUUV. A firm based in Los Angeles is designing it according to Tun’s specifications. You know how the MRUUV works?”

Yeah, I do. It’s an undersea torpedo that can be guided remotely from a submarine or ship. “Why the hell would Tun need one of those to attack Taiwan? Does he have a bomb? One of your Russian nuclear bombs? Is that what came in this crate?” I indicate the one that was marked as containing beets.

Antipov nods. “Yes, he’s got it. All he needs now is the guidance system. It will be on its way here from California any day if it isn’t already.”

I’m confused. The plan doesn’t make a bit of sense. Why would the general use a nuke on Taiwan? Isn’t the whole point to annex it to China? A nuke would completely obliterate such a tiny country. And what about the Chinese government? Do they know what he’s up to?

Antipov shivers. “Please. Let me go. We just . . . we’re just b-b-businessmen.”

Why in the world would China want to destroy Taiwan? They’ve been trying to get the rogue island back into their sphere of influence for decades. You’d think they’d want to inhabit the place, take it over, and exploit its resources. No, there’s something missing here.

“What else do you know, Antipov?” I ask. “There’s more to this than you’re telling me.”

I see a flicker of triumph in the man’s eyes. “Let’s . . . let’s work out a deal. Then perhaps I can tell you more.” He grins, nods, and pleads with his eyes like a hungry dog. “I can pay you! I’ll give you a million dollars. American! Let’s deal, Fisher!”

The guy makes me sick. The Shop doesn’t care who lives or who dies after they broker a transaction. They don’t think twice about selling a nuclear weapon to a mad-man for a bit of cash. At the moment I can’t think of anything more evil. The bribe only makes me angrier.

“Sorry,” I say. “No deals.”

Coldly and deliberately, I squeeze the trigger. Another quarter of the Shop’s leadership is eliminated.

I turn and walk through the corpse-ridden hallway back to the staircase. Once I’m upstairs I fire a couple of rounds at the store’s front plate window, shattering it to pieces. This sets off an alarm. Good. Let the Hong Kong police deal with the mess downstairs. I’m sure the little cache of weapons will interest them.

Lambert’s probably not going to approve of what I’ve done. But I have no regrets. Just like General Prokofiev in Moscow, Antipov needed to be taken out of the picture. When I run into the other two, Herzog and Zdrok, I plan on doing the same thing to them. If Lambert wants to remove me from the assignment, then so be it. The way I see it is this: A job that began over a year ago was never finished. The damage the Shop has done to Third Echelon is immeasurable. They killed several of our agents. Mike Chan and the Triad may have been responsible for Carly St. John’s murder, but if it hadn’t been for the Shop pulling the strings it wouldn’t have happened. So I say
enough is enough.

I quickly leave through the back door, stick to the shadows, and make my way back to the ferry.

JEFF
Kehoe looked at his watch and whispered into the microphone of his headset. “Thirty seconds. On my signal.”

“Roger that.”

The FBI field office had provided Kehoe with six men to stage the raid on Eddie Wu’s apartment. As long as no other Triad members were present, the operation was expected to go smoothly.

Kehoe had waited until the two Wu brothers were safely inside the eight-story apartment building and then set up a stakeout until nightfall. At just after one in the morning, the team arrived in full riot gear, ready to storm the residence. The Bureau had previously taken care of contacting the building’s management to warn them of what was about to take place. Warrants and legal formalities were executed by the book. An ambulance and fire truck were waiting a block away in case they were needed.