Chapter Seven

 

 

Canadian Embassy, Trafalgar Square

London, England

 

Justin’s MI5 contact had no update. After the Dublin shooting, it had become even more difficult and dangerous to gather good, valuable intelligence. Most confidential informants had disappeared, afraid of reprisals from either the new IRA or the Gardai, which had already started a crackdown. The MI5 agent promised to keep looking, but warned Justin that this might be a dead end.

Justin wondered whether he should approach Mandy and inform her about Dunbar. That admission would require some finagling, which Justin could manage without any trouble. But he was not sure how much he could trust Mandy. She could take that information to Elliott or someone else and cause problems. Mandy had yet to produce a shred of helpful evidence. Yes, she had made the offer of cooperation, but had yet to deliver. Justin shook his head. It’s better to wait and see what she brings us first, if anything.

He called Flavio with an update about Thames’s Chinese-born girlfriend and to seek Flavio’s opinion about Mandy. Justin’s boss agreed with the assessment that she would have to prove herself trustworthy. Even then, Justin was to tread lightly and maneuver carefully. She was not yet an ally, and it would take more than a few bits of intelligence to turn her into one.

Hitting the proverbial brick wall, Justin decided it was time to get some fresh air. It was cool when he stepped outside the embassy, and sharp wind gusts toyed with his hair. A few gray clouds hovered in the horizon, but the threat of rain was not immediate. Justin waved at the heavily-armed police officers manning the embassy’s main entrance, then waited for one of the big red-and-white tour busses to pass before he dashed across the A4, the two-lane street separating the embassy building from Trafalgar Square. It was around ten-thirty, and he wondered how Carrie was faring. If she can find Thames’s girlfriend, that might give us something.

Justin walked along the sidewalk and looked at the giant hand with a thumbs-up on a plinth at the northwest corner of the square. He wondered how much money was wasted for this public “artwork,” whose thumb was disproportionally long compared to the rest of the hand. Justin shook his head. Maybe I just don’t understand art.

As he reached the end of the sidewalk, a sleek silver Mercedes-Benz sedan drove slowly from its illegally-parked position on the sidewalk. The car stopped when it came next to Justin. Instinctively, he turned slightly to the side, and his hand went over the Sig Sauer in his waistband holster.

The tinted rear window began to slide down.

Justin stepped further away from the car. His hand gripped the pistol as he got ready to pull it out if he noticed a threat.

A smiling young woman popped her head out of the window. “Mr. Hall, may I have a moment of your time?” she said in a warm tone with barely a hint of an accent.

Justin peered deep into her almond-shaped brown eyes. It was clear she was Asian, maybe Chinese. The woman had a light skin and a small nose, long, straight, black hair that fell down her slender neck and to her shoulders. She had high cheekbones and a birthmark near the left corner of her lips.

He wanted to ask how she knew him and whether she had followed him, but doubted he would get truthful answers. “What is this about?” He neared the car, but still stood at a safe distance. His hand hovered over the pistol.

“You can relax, Mr. Hall.” The woman pointed at Justin’s weapon. “You won’t need that. This is a friendly meeting; we can have coffee, perhaps? And talk about my cousin who’s visiting London next week.” The woman smiled and glanced at a couple of young men who were walking by. One of them turned his head and admired the Mercedes-Benz.

Justin frowned. “Cousin?”

“Yes.” The woman gestured to the young men, who were now beyond earshot. “He’s coming with somewhat evil intentions.”

“Why would you talk to me about him?”

The woman kept the bright smile on her face. “How about I let my boss explain that to you? He’s not far from here. Just five minutes.” She gestured with her hand beyond Trafalgar Square.

“Who else is in the Merc?”

“Just me and the driver.” She said something in what sounded like Chinese to the driver, and he rolled down his window.

Justin looked at the middle-aged man. He was of Asian descent as well, with a small thin beard and black-framed eyeglasses. He nodded at Justin, then said, “Please join us, Mr. Hall.” His voice was warm, and he had a thicker accent.

Justin glanced around and thought about the woman’s words. He had received stranger offers, and some of them had led to deep trouble. If this was not a trap, the Chinese agents might provide valuable intelligence about the plot. But if the man coming to London is a Chinese operative, why are they talking to me? Do they have a loose cannon?

“Mr. Hall?” the woman said.

“Yes. This will be in a public place, right?”

“Of course, a café in Victoria Gardens. Very quiet, relaxing. You’ll like it.”

“And the coffee is very good,” the driver said in his deep voice.

Justin nodded. “All right.”

“Good. You made the right choice.”

He walked around the car, then slipped in next to the woman, who offered him her hand. “My name is Ying Ng. I’m an MSS intelligence officer.”

Justin shook her soft hand. “MSS—you’re a field operative?”

Ying shook her head. “I work in data collection, analysis, and profiling. I have a psychology degree, and I help in retrieval operations.”

Justin nodded toward the driver, who had put the Mercedes-Benz in gear, but Ying ignored Justin’s gesture. So he returned his gaze to her and said, “Retrieval? Why, you’ve lost something?”

Ying nodded slowly. “You could say that,” she replied in a low, timid voice.

“The Chinese operative who’s plotting an attack on London?”

Ying gave Justin a pained look. “Please do not ask anymore, Mr. Hall—”

“Call me Justin.”

“Okay, Justin. My boss will explain everything, okay?”

“All right. Can you tell me your boss’s name?”

“Oh, sure, I can do that. It’s Hai Suen.”

Justin racked his brain, but could not remember any MSS operative by that name. “Is he a director?”

Ying shook her head. “Commander ... well, you’d call him special operative or ... supervisor. He’s my supervisor.”

“Good.”

Justin wanted to ask more about Commander Suen, but doubted Ying would give him additional useful details. Moreover, Justin did not want to ruin the surprise. Mr. Suen will tell me everything I need to know. I hope ... He tried to keep a positive attitude, but an eerie feeling began to form deep in his stomach. If the Chinese are inviting you to their party, it’s not because you’re a guest of honor. So, keep your eyes open, Justin.