THE FLIGHT TO HONG KONG the next morning was uneventful. After the restless night I’d just had, I was glad to sleep through most of it. I arrived at Hong Kong International feeling relaxed and refreshed and caught a cab to the Shangri-La.
I checked in, then called Dox on the prepaid unit he was carrying. He was in a cab, on his way to Kowloon.
“Stop at the bug-out point first, take care of that,” I said. “No sense in both of us being there at the same time. Then check in and get the clothes you need.”
“Will do.”
The bug-out point was a coffee shop near the Man Mo temple on Hollywood Road. When you go operational, or otherwise commit an act that the authorities are apt to frown upon if you’re caught, it’s wise to choose a backup meeting place to use if it becomes inconvenient to return to your hotel, and to preposition certain necessary items there: cash, for one thing; and a spare passport, for another, if you’re lucky or connected enough to know how to come by such things. You typically want a place that’s accessible at all hours and that offers many appropriate hiding spots: the underside of a counter or a bookshelf, the back of a bathroom cabinet, that sort of thing. Whether the op goes well or poorly, your things need to be in place for only a few hours. If the op goes really poorly, you’ve got bigger problems than someone stumbling across the stash you’ve taped to, say, the underside of a toilet in an all-night diner.
“When you’re done with that,” I said, “let’s meet on the mezzanine level of the Grand Hyatt at sixteen hundred. It’s away from the main lobby so it’s private, and you’ll look right at home there in your new threads.”
“Sounds good. You’ve got the gear?”
“And everything else.”
“All right, partner, see you soon.”
I turned off the phone and headed over to the hotel shopping arcade, where I got a haircut and a shave. I had them put a bunch of gel in my hair and slick it back—not my usual look, and not a dramatic alteration to my appearance, but lots of small changes would begin to add up. Next, a visit to an optometrist for a pair of rectangular wire-frame glasses that did a nice job of reworking the angles of my face. At the adjacent Pacific Place shopping mall, one stop at Dunhill got me the rest of what I needed: single-breasted, double-vented navy gabardine suit, fitted with inch-and-a-half cuffs in fifteen minutes flat; white Sea Island cotton shirt and flat gold cuff links; brown split-toe lace-ups and navy socks; brown alligator belt and British-tan attaché case. It wasn’t terribly cold in Hong Kong, but perhaps just chilly enough to justify the purchase of a pair of brown deerskin gloves, which went into the attaché. I checked myself in the mirror before heading out of the store and liked what I saw: a well-off Japanese businessman, with international experience and taste, in the discreet employ of powerful industrial interests seeking a foothold in Hong Kong through one of its famous business institutions, the China Club. Hopefully I’d even get to keep the clothes when this was done. Hopefully they wouldn’t have any bullet holes in them.
I headed back to the hotel and filled the attaché case with the commo gear and other equipment. From the hotel, I caught a cab to the bug-out point, where I taped an extra passport and some other necessaries to the back of a cabinet in the men’s room. Then I walked until I found an Internet café, where I checked the bulletin board. No word from Kanezaki. From Tatsu, there was some interesting news. His post said:
Jim Hilger: Works as a financial adviser in Hong Kong for high net worth clients. Cannot confirm his possible CIA affiliations, although sources believe there was a connection there at some point. More recently, considered dirty. Suspected to be involved in black market arms trading, including Israeli weapons to various separatist groups in the region. Suspected of operating “Murder, Inc.” type organization, trading on former military and possible intelligence skills and contacts.
Mitchell William Winters: Gulf War I veteran, Third Special Forces. No other information.
Looking forward to seeing you. Take care of yourself.
All right, the more I learned, the more it seemed that Dox and I were right. Either Hilger was running his own show, or he was so far off the government reservation that he might as well be.
I Googled “Two Slain Americans Reported to Be CIA Officers” to follow up on the story we’d seen the day before in the Washington Post. This time there were dozens of hits—the other services were starting to pick up the story. I went to the Post’s site because they seemed to be breaking the news. There was a new story, this one headlined, “Americans Killed in Manila Connected to Mysterious Company.”
The Post had picked up the Gird Enterprises information and was running with it. They’d done some digging, and apparently the address listed in the company’s articles of incorporation was an empty suite in a New Jersey office park. The Post had contacted the law firm that had drawn up the articles; when told who was calling and why, the lawyer they reached hung up. Interesting.
I caught a cab to the Grand Hyatt and called Delilah from the lobby.
“Hey,” she said. “I was wondering when you were going to call.”
“Sorry. I had a lot of things to do to get ready. How soon can you be in the lobby of the Grand Hyatt?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
“Good. See you then.” I clicked off.
I walked up the black granite stairs that curved along the wall to the mezzanine level. The mezzanine was open to the opulent lobby below, and would provide a good vantage point for ensuring that Delilah came alone.
Dox wasn’t there yet. I stood looking down at the lobby, explaining to the woman who offered to seat me that I preferred to wait and watch for my acquaintances, who ought to be arriving soon.
Delilah got there in fifteen minutes as promised. She looked around the lobby, then up at the mezzanine. I nodded when she saw me, then watched her cross the lobby and start up the long, winding stairs. No one came in after her. If Gil was keeping tabs, it was at a distance. So far.
I offered her my hand as she approached, just a business acquaintance greeting her for a post-meeting drink. We shook, then stood looking down at the lobby. Harry’s bug detector lay in my pocket without stirring.
“Dox is on his way,” I said. “Let’s just keep an eye out for him.”
“All right.”
In fact, I wanted to watch the lobby for a little longer to make sure she had come alone. She knew what I was doing, of course, but under the circumstances couldn’t really object.
“Where’s Gil?” I asked.
“He’s here. I told him you contacted me and wanted to meet me in Hong Kong. Right now he’s probably just sitting in his hotel room, waiting for me to call.”
I would have liked to take the fight to him. I’ve never been inclined to simply run and hide. A tactical retreat, sure, but at a minimum you leave booby traps along the way. Or you circle behind the people who are hunting you until you’re hunting them. It’s just the way I work, the way I’ve always done things.
But all I said was, “We’ll try to get this over with before he gets too antsy.”
Dox showed ten minutes later. Damn, I’d never seen him like this—a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, white spread-collar shirt, and a monochrome blue tie. The only thing that was out of place was the goatee—I’d forgotten to mention that. It was too memorable and anyway we needed to alter his appearance as much as possible. I thought it ought to go.
Unlike Delilah, Dox looked up before he looked anywhere else. It was reflex for him to check for sniper hides, and he saw us immediately. He crossed the lobby and headed up the stairs.
He walked over to where we were standing and shook Delilah’s hand. “It’s nice to see you again,” he said.
I realized that the latent formality Delilah seemed to evoke in him would be perfect for the job at hand. Dox, whose acting skills, in my opinion, still needed polishing, would automatically comport himself like the perfect gentleman, businessman, and solicitous host, which was exactly who he was supposed to be today.
She gave him a warm smile and said, “Likewise.”
“Sorry I’m a little late. I had some trouble getting fitted in this suit. They’re not used to the big guys in these parts.”
“You look great,” she said, nodding her head appreciatively.
He actually blushed. One day I would have to ask Delilah what her secret was. “Thank you,” he said. “You do, too.”
She did look great. She was wearing a charcoal pantsuit with a fitted double-breasted jacket, short to the waist with the buttons set low across the chest. Underneath was a crisp white blouse open at the neck. The pants were also fitted, with a slight flare below the knee; farther down, a pair of deep purple flats, a little less dressy than pumps but better for maneuver. The whole thing was set off with a pair of diamond stud earrings and a simple platinum link necklace. She was carrying a leather attaché case and a small clutch. Her blond hair was down and blown out—the perfect attention-getter in Hong Kong, and something that could be expected to draw attention away from Dox, whom Hilger might recognize.
We sat down and ordered tea. I briefed them on what I had just learned from my “source in Japan,” and on the latest news from the Washington Post. We all agreed that, although Gil’s information was to the contrary, the jury was in on Jim Hilger. Now all that remained was to carry out his sentence. And Manny’s.
We spent some time mapping things out. Through the hotel, I had already arranged a visit to the China Club for later that afternoon, and Dox and Delilah needed to do the same. Reservations shouldn’t be a problem; all they had to do was get there early enough to ensure getting seats at one of the small tables in the bar. We’d communicate via the commo gear. We would use the wireless video transmitters that Dox and I had employed in Manila, but this time we would supplement them with audio, and the combination would let us know when tonight’s targets arrived, where they were positioned, and, most important, when one of them excused himself from dinner to attend a call of nature. I was confident I could find an appropriate place to hide on the premises; Dox and Delilah would monitor it all from the bar and keep me apprised of whatever I needed to know. As for Manny and Hilger, I would use my hands on the first one that presented a target of opportunity, then immediately proceed to the other. With any luck, at that point I would be armed. VBM, whoever he was, would go down, too, if he got in the way, but other than that he meant nothing to me.
If this had been a sniping operation, I would have been the sniper; Dox and Delilah, the spotters. The division of labor isn’t always necessary, but it’s almost always useful. Having a partner spot, assess, and monitor the target enables the sniper to focus on a single task: killing. In this case, it would have been distracting for me to have to try to gauge whether and when Hilger or Manny might be moving toward my position; to adjust, if they went elsewhere; to react, if they did something I hadn’t predicted. Dox and Delilah, angled with their backs to the wall and monitoring everything on the laptop like two businesspeople discussing a PowerPoint presentation, would provide some welcome cushioning from all those vagaries. And backup, if something went wrong.
I looked at my watch. It was almost five o’clock. Time for me to go.
“You take the attaché,” I said, setting it on the table and discreetly removing the items I would need. “Everyone carries a bag in Hong Kong and you have to look the part. The commo gear, the laptop, everything is inside.”
“What about you?”
I eased my hips forward and started slipping the items I’d removed from the attaché into my front pockets. “I’ll find something on the way. Something the right size for adhesive-backed, wireless audio and video transmitters.”
He grinned. “What the well-dressed man is carrying these days, I understand.”
I looked at him, trying to decide, then said, “I think you’re going to have to lose the goatee. It’s too noticeable.”
He looked at me as though I’d suggested a vasectomy. “Son, I’ve been wearing this goatee for over twenty years.”
“That’s my point. If Hilger has file photos, and I’m sure he does, the trademark goatee will be front center. The suit and the beautiful lady by your side are helpful, but losing the facial hair would be better.”
“Well, the suit is a new look, it’s true, but I’ve been known to have a beautiful lady by my side from time to time,” he said. “So that part’s not exactly a disguise for me.” He rubbed the beard. “Damn, I feel like Samson here on the chopping block.” He turned to Delilah. “Well, your name is Delilah.”
She smiled. “I think you’ll look great without it.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “You’ve got good bones. Why hide them?”
Dox smiled and looked at me. “Someone get me a razor!” he said. Then he turned back to Delilah. “You know, I’ve never considered myself the marrying type. But if you ever get tired of my partner here, I believe I’d like to propose to you.”
She laughed.
“Did I say something funny?” Dox asked.
“All right, I’ve got to go,” I said, standing up. “You should get there in, say, forty-five minutes, before the bar fills up. And before Hilger and company arrive.”
They stood and we all shook hands again, staying in our roles. I went downstairs, took a cab to the Mandarin Oriental, then crossed the street and ducked into a luggage store. They were selling a number of high-quality, but essentially boring business bags . . . and one mahogany-colored, lid-over, Tanner Krolle attaché. Expensive, I thought, playing with the latches, which clicked open with the quiet assurance of a bank vault or the door on a Rolls-Royce, but life is short . . .
Five minutes later, I was circling the old Bank of China building, attaché in hand. At over half a century of age, the Art Deco–influenced building was, by Hong Kong standards, ancient. At fifteen stories, it was also a pygmy, and with the steel-masted HSBC headquarters looming to its right and the fountain-like, fiber optic–controlled light show of the Cheung Kong Center rising up behind it, it had the air of a structure that has been granted some miraculous reprieve from the engines of progress that must have demolished its contemporaries to make room for the behemoths that now surrounded it. A condemned man, still dignified, but now living on borrowed time.
I noted all points of ingress and egress, the direction of traffic, the presence of cameras. There was a single entrance in use, on the western side, along a short, single-lane street that was all that separated the building from its giant neighbors. On the other side of the street, directly across from the building’s entrance, was a large industrial dumpster that would make for good cover and concealment if for some reason I needed it. Four elevators, two security cameras, center. One bored-looking guard behind a desk, right. A stairwell and fire door, left. An office worker emerged from the stairwell as I approached, and as the door eased closed behind him, I noted he wasn’t holding a swipe card or other key. The stairwell doors were accessible from the interior, then, at least on the ground floor. To be expected, it’s true—you can’t very well lock people in if there’s a fire—but it’s good to have confirmation.
I stepped onto one of the elevators, running a hand along my slicked hair as I did so to obscure my face while I checked for more cameras. There it was, a ceiling-mounted dome model. I pressed the button with a knuckle and kept my head down on the trip up. I reminded myself of who I was and why I was here: Watanabe, an advance man examining the China Club on behalf of certain Japanese industrial interests.
I got off on thirteen and looked around. A winding wooden staircase curved upward to my left, its banister supported by some sort of Chinese-style metal latticework. The walls were white; the floors, dark wood, with that density and slight unevenness that’s only acquired with generations of use. A flat panel monitor by the staircase was running stock quotes from the Hang Seng index. There was a hush to the place, a feeling of money, old and new; status, acquired and sought; ambition, barely concealed behind pin-striped suits and cocktail party smiles. The Bank of China might have moved its headquarters to I. M. Pei’s triangular black glass tower a few blocks to the southwest, but the ghosts of the drive and wealth to which the new headquarters stood in monument were all still at home right here.
And yet there was an air of whimsy to the place, as well. There was a sitting area crowded with overstuffed chairs and couches covered in slipcovers of bubble-gum pink and lime green and baby blue. The lamp shades hovering above the end tables were of similar glowing hues. And those grave wooden floors gave way to brightly colored kilim rugs. It was as though the proprietor had designed the place both in homage to Hong Kong’s titanic ambitions, and also to gently mock them.
A pretty Chinese woman in black pants and a white Mao jacket emerged from a coatroom to my right. “May I help you?” she asked.
I nodded, and switched on a heavy Japanese accent. “I am Watanabe.” As though that explained everything.
She picked up a clipboard and glanced at whatever was written on it. “Ah yes, Mr. Watanabe, the Shangri-La called to tell us you’d be visiting. Would you like me to show you around?”
“Yes,” I said, with a half bow. “Very good.”
The woman, whose name was May, was an excellent guide, and helpfully answered all my questions. Such as: Where are the private dining rooms? Fifteenth floor. Do you have any that would be appropriate for a small party—say, four people? Yes, two such rooms. And how are the upper floors accessible? Only by the winding internal staircases.
May’s guided tour took about ten minutes. Given the earliness of the hour, there weren’t yet any other patrons on the premises, and the staff was busy laying out silver and crystal and adjusting tablecloths and otherwise preparing for what would no doubt be another capacity-crowd evening for the club.
When we were done, I asked May if it would be all right if I wandered around a bit by myself. She told me that would be fine, and that I if I had any additional questions I should simply ask.
Watanabe-san gave the place a thorough examination, starting with the main dining room on the fourteenth floor and the charming Long March Bar adjacent to it. He observed the positions of the restrooms on the thirteenth and fourteenth floors, and noted that there was no restroom on fifteen, meaning that diners enjoying the private banquet rooms there would have to descend a floor to use the facilities. He wandered around the splendid library, and briefly enjoyed the view of Central from the rooftop observation deck. And of course he made sure to take a peek in all the private dining rooms, paying particular attention to the two that had been set for parties of four. In these, Watanabe stepped inside and paused for an extra moment to admire the furnishings, even running the backs of his fingers along the astonishingly thick interior doorjambs, which in each room was of more than adequate stature for the placement of a miniature audio and video transmitter.
So that we could keep the signal weak and therefore less susceptible to bug detectors, I also placed repeaters in various places outside the private dining rooms and along the stairs down to the fourteenth floor. Before heading down to the elevators on thirteen, I ducked into the fourteenth-floor restroom. As restrooms go, this one was impressive. The floor was white marble, and I noted with satisfaction that my new Dunhill split-toes were utterly noiseless on its polished surface. To my right was a bank of sinks, all solid white ceramic. Folded terrycloth washcloths were laid out neatly on a shelf just above them in lieu of ordinary paper towels, along with an array of special soaps, lotions, and tonics. Straight ahead, a bank of urinals; like the sinks, all heavy white ceramic. To my left were stalls that could more properly be described as closets, separated as they were by marble walls and featuring floor-to-ceiling mahogany doors.
The stalls looked promising, although I was concerned that, after his recent experience in Manila, Manny might have some sort of phobic reaction if he entered a restroom and noticed that one of the stall doors was closed. But then I noticed something that might be even better.
Between the sinks and the urinals was a large mahogany door. On it hung a brass sign with black lettering:
BUILDING ORDINANCE
(CHAPTER 123)
NOTICE DANGER
LIFT MACHINERY
UNAUTHORIZED
ACCESS PROHIBITED
DOOR TO BE KEPT LOCKED
Interesting, I thought. If the passenger elevators went up only to thirteen, this access must be to a freight unit. The door opened out, and there were three sets of heavy brass hinges running up its left side. I tried it, and, per the ordinance, found it was indeed locked. The lock, though, was a cheap single wafer model, what you might find on an old desk or filing cabinet. It wasn’t there to protect valuables, just to comply with a local building ordinance. After all, who in his right mind other than a maintenance man would want to access the lift machinery?
I didn’t even need a lock pick—I simply forced the mechanism with a turn of the Benchmade folder. Then I slipped the knife into the crack between the door and the jamb and eased the door open. The hinges gave a long squeal and I thought, Shit, hadn’t thought of that. Should have brought some lubricant.
I glanced inside. There was a small corridor, providing, I supposed, maintenance access to the elevators. It looked good. There were variables—Manny might have a new bodyguard, or might otherwise not show up alone, or he might not come at all—but this could work.
But what about those hinges. I walked back to the sinks and picked up one of the bottles of lotion. Gardner’s Hand Lotion, the label advised, Replete with Lavender and Other Essential Oils. Well, it wasn’t WD-40, but let’s see. I emptied a healthy amount onto one of the wash towels, then wiped down the hinges. I swung the door open and closed a few times, and the essential oils worked their magic. The squealing stopped.
I wiped down the bottle, put it back on the shelf, and tossed the wash towel into a basket that the China Club had thoughtfully provided for this very purpose. I exited the restroom and began to descend the winding staircase. A waiter on his way up passed me but paid no attention.
Two-thirds of the way down, I had a clear view of the elevators and the coatroom from which May had emerged when I first arrived. The area was empty. May must have been elsewhere for the moment, attending some aspect of preparing the restaurant. She might wonder at not having seen me leave, but I felt I could count on her to assume she had simply failed to notice my departure. Hopefully she would forgive Mr. Watanabe his rudeness in not saying thank you and a proper good-bye.
I turned around and went back up the stairs. This time I really did use the bathroom—I didn’t know how long I’d be without access. Then I opened the closet door again and stepped inside. I pulled the door shut behind me and waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. There was just a little light coming from the elevator shaft behind me. The lack of illumination in here wasn’t the problem though—what I really needed to see was the bathroom, and, with the heavy mahogany door closed, that was impossible.
I set down the attaché and popped the hinges. The case opened with a muted double click. I pulled out the Surefire E1E mini-light I was carrying and twisted it on, then slipped into the deerskin gloves. I looked around to see what I might have to work with.
Propped against the wall to my right was a mop in a bucket. On the floor, a plunger and a few rudimentary tools, including a screwdriver. I opened the door, then slid the screwdriver between the door and the jamb on the hinged side at eye level. I pulled the door inward. The steel shaft of the screwdriver created tremendous pressure on the hinged surfaces around it, and something had to give. But it wouldn’t be those heavy brass hinges—instead, the wood itself provided the path of least resistance, and the edge of the door and jamb deformed around the screwdriver as I pulled relentlessly toward me. I went back and forth several times until I was easily able to almost close the door with the screwdriver still in the way.
I stepped outside. I closed the door, then opened it without a problem. Just wanted to make sure that nothing was going to stick as a result of my handiwork. It would have been embarrassing to have to call for Dox to come let me out. I looked at the dent I had made at the intersection of the door and jamb. It was virtually unnoticeable. Even if someone put his eye right up to it, all he would see inside was darkness.
I went back inside, closed the door, and put my eye up to the jamb.
Perfect. I had a clear view of the area to my right, which included the urinals and stalls. Every time I heard someone come in, it would be a simple matter to visually confirm who it was.
I repeated the operation on the knob side of the door. When I was done, I had a view of the entrance and sinks. I checked from the outside and confirmed again that the door opened and closed without a problem, and that the second hole, too, was unnoticeable.
I slipped an earpiece and lapel mike into place and checked the illuminated dial of my watch. Almost six o’clock. Dox and Delilah should be arriving anytime now. I wouldn’t be able to use the gear to communicate with them until they were in the building—fifteen floors of steel and concrete would block the signal for sure.
At just after six o’clock, I heard Dox’s soft twang. “Hey, partner, it’s me. Are you there?”
It felt good to hear him. “Yeah, I’m here. The men’s room on the fourteenth floor.”
“Well, that’s a nice coincidence. I was just going to use that very facility. Can you hear me? I’m on my way in.”
A moment later, I heard the restroom door open, then footsteps on the marble. Dox moved past my position. The goatee was gone, and I was pleased at the way its absence changed his appearance.
He stepped up to one of the urinals and started to use it. Looking over at the open stall doors, then to his right, he said, “Looks like you’ve got a good spot. Where are you?”
“The closet. To your right.”
“Ah-hah, I should have known. Hey, man, no peeking.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, surprising myself with a rare rejoinder, “from this far, I can only make out large objects.”
He chuckled. “That’s a good one. Say, you don’t hang around in men’s rooms habitually, do you? You seem awfully good at it.”
All right, I should have known better than to try to one-up him. “Where’s Delilah?” I asked.
“She grabbed us a table in the dreaded Long March Bar.”
“Crowded?”
“Not yet, but it’s filling up. No sign of our friends. I sure hope they show. If they don’t, I’ll start to worry something might have happened to them.”
“Yeah, that would be too bad.”
He zipped up and headed over to the sink, winking at my position en route. “Ooh, look at these fancy soaps. I like this place. Ordinarily I’m not terribly fastidious about washing my hands after urination, but tonight I believe I’ll make an exception.”
I checked through the other hole and watched Dox lathering his hands. “Damn,” he said, “I can’t get used to the way I look in these clothes and without my trusty goatee. You think Delilah meant it when she said I have good bones?”
“I’m sure she did,” I said, feeling a little impatient. “Look, you might want to hurry. If our friends show up, you don’t want to accidentally pass them in the hallway. Even without the goatee that was hiding your good bones.”
He dried his hands with a towel and tossed it in the basket. “Okay, partner, that’s a fair point. I’ll be in the bar, keeping your girlfriend company. Seriously, I’ll be right here, talking into your ear the whole time. If you need me, I’ll come running.”
Even in the midst of all the annoying palaver, it felt good to hear him say that. “Thanks,” I said. “I know you will.”