After a two-hour drive east, we arrived in Joshua Tree – a small settlement, popular with summer vacationers, to the north of Joshua Tree National Park. And after a half hour of navigating its terrain of sand dunes, boulders, and cacti, we found what we were looking for: a string of large, detached vacation homes, seventy feet apart, with no lights on, no cars, no signs of life of any kind. They lined either side of the street.
I parked outside one on the south-side: 61035 Prescott Trail. A large, two-story affair, with a small gate blocking the drive, and oversized glass windows that revealed a good deal of the house’s innards.
‘How about this one?’ I said.
Ellen stared it down. ‘Looks good.’ She turned to me. ‘You sure you don’t want to give your friend a third try?’
I’d tried Vann again about fifty minutes ago – while we were passing through Palm Springs. Again, I’d gotten voicemail. And this had frustrated Ellen as much as me – because as the magnitude of the task had sunk in, she’d come to see the value of backup, too.
‘I’m sure. Not least because I don’t want to put the battery back in the cell now we’re here. Don’t want to do anything else that might give away our location.’
Ellen gave a nervous sniff. ‘At least it forces us to get this show on the road.’ She paused. ‘So, this is the easy part: we break in. Then, I suppose, we play the waiting game… And assuming the nearest they’ll be is LA, that’ll be at least two hours.’
‘Well, breaking in may be relatively easy. But we mustn’t take anything for granted.’ I glanced back at the house. ‘Let’s break the front door’s locks. Then before the alarm’s triggered, I’ll disable the control panel, okay?’
‘You know how to do that?’
‘I did black-bag jobs at the FBI. This stuff’s par for the course.’
We got out of the car. Then, after quickly ensuring the coast was clear, we scaled the hip-height gate, and approached the front door.
There was a single deadbolt lock below a spring bolt lock.
‘I can shoot this lock off,’ I said, pointing to the dead bolt. ‘And can force the other one with my shoulder. You ready?’
‘Ready.’
I produced the Walther, leveled it at the deadbolt, unloaded a single slug, and it made contact with the metal with a dim crack. Then I pocketed the gun, drove my shoulder into the door, and it sprung open. All the persuasion it needed.
We were met by the beep-beep-beep of the burglar alarm. I made for where the sound was emanating – the cupboard under the stairs – and found the control panel. Smashed off the plastic, found the wire that’d disable it, and snapped it.
Silence.
‘That’s all it takes?’ said Ellen. ‘So much for safe as houses, eh?’
‘Don’t believe everything the pro-house lobby tells you.’
We began exploring. It was a large house, with seven rooms on the first floor. And not only did we find three other entrances besides the frontdoor – one side door, two backdoors – but in one of the living rooms, we also found the all-important object: a five-year-old Dell desktop, still in good shape. And, when we turned it on, it loaded without a hitch, and instantly connected to the house’s wifi.
‘Perfect,’ I said. ‘Let’s nose around upstairs.’
The second floor was just as spacious: four bedrooms, two of which were en-suite; a separate bathroom; a linen closet.
Soon enough, we were back by the Dell.
Ellen said: ‘Pull up a second chair, and we’ll get cracking.’
A moment later, I was sitting at Ellen’s side as she got to work. First, she downloaded all the software we needed – TOR, Bitcoin, GhostWallet – all of which was easy to find, free, and entirely legal to obtain. Then she opened TOR. Just as I remembered, it looked no different from any other web-browser.
Ellen looked at me.
‘So here’s what I’m thinking. I head to this TOR website I frequently visit – a members’ only community of pro-Tibet activists – and donate money to a team of Western activists. And obviously I’ll use Bitcoin and GhostWallet.’
I nodded.
Ellen clicked on the URL bar. Then, because there’s no search engine for TOR websites, and they don’t have conventional website names, she typed what seemed like a random set of letters and numbers: fh232kr934e4fp92.onion.
‘This particular website’s not listed anywhere,’ said Ellen. ‘So the only way you can find it is if an existing member tells you about it.’
Again, I nodded. I knew this was the case for most Dark Net websites – be they hit-man marketplaces, child porn communities, or terrorist hangouts.
Ellen hit enter, and the page loaded. It was a well-put-together forum, with the words “The Free Tibet Family” across the top.
Ellen clicked on the log-in page, and entered her username and password.
‘Need to sign in to gain proper access to the site,’ she said.
‘I assume your details are encrypted with Public Key?’
Ellen nodded. Then she clicked on a tab entitled “Initiatives,” and, on the list that popped up, clicked on “Citizen Lab.” This took her to a page describing Citizen Lab, accompanied by a “Donate Now” icon.
‘Citizen Lab’s a Canadian group that opposes state internet surveillance, and has done good work for the pro-Tibet cause,’ Ellen explained. ‘Just the sort of folk I’d donate to.’
Ellen then opened up the Bitcoin software; and though I’d never seen it in action, the interface was easy to understand – and soon enough, Ellen, using her bank card, had purchased $500 worth of Bitcoin. It was simple as any online purchase I’d ever seen.
‘Basically, pre-GhostWallet, I’d now transfer these Bitcoin to Citizen Lab, and someone who knew what they were doing would be able to see not only the IP address – and thus geographical location – of the computer it came from, but also that these Bitcoin had been purchased by Ellen Kelden. But GhostWallet supposedly hides all that.’
Ellen opened GhostWallet – another easy-to-use interface.
‘Ready to make the transfer?’ asked Ellen.
‘No time like the present.’
Ellen took a deep breath. Then, after transferring the money from the Bitcoin software to GhostWallet, she returned to TOR, clicked “Donate Now,” and sent the money – all in the blink of an eye. She said:
‘If there’s a trapdoor in GhostWallet, we’ve now announced our whereabouts.’
I nodded calmly, but could feel the adrenaline coursing through my neck.
‘We’ve got to get our asses in gear,’ I said. ‘The best tactic, I reckon, is to wait in a concealed location out front. If I were them, given what happened last time, I’d send at least four men. From outside, we’ll be able to see how they attack the house.’
‘Makes sense,’ replied Ellen. Her eyes contained both resolution and fear.
I was silent a beat; then: ‘El, you need to ready yourself for if things go wrong; for if we get captured – or worse. It’s a real possibility.’
Ellen chewed her cheek. ‘I’m prepared.’
I gave a slow nod. Then we fell into action: we headed out front, and began searching for a hiding place. Soon enough, we settled on a line of bushes next to the gate. They didn’t provide great cover – like most desert flora, they were scrawny – but they were the best we had. And, on the plus side, they gave a good view of both the road and driveway.
Ellen climbed into the bushes, while I went back to the Saab.
The vehicle itself I was happy to leave in plain sight – if the nationalists hadn’t heard from Manek, and didn’t know this may be an ambush, our seeming obliviousness to any threat would make them complacent. But I wanted the rucksack and valise with us in the bushes; so I grabbed both, then joined Ellen in the bushes.
As I’d expected, Ellen queried my decision.
‘Wouldn’t it be better to hide those somewhere the nationalists won’t find them if we’re caught?’
‘That crossed my mind. But if we get captured and survive, I reckon we’ll be taken elsewhere; in which case, it’ll probably be best for them to bring our gear. And with our bags in the bushes, they won’t find them when they turn up, but they will find them later.’
Ellen gave a half-convinced grunt.
‘But there’s a hard bottom to the valise, and an opening in the lining that lets me conceal things between the bottom and lining.’ I showed Ellen. ‘My defunct FBI ID’s in there. But I’ll put the iPad and GPS reader in, too. They may find them anyway. But it may stop them figuring out: a) we’ve got tabs on Manek; and b) I have an FBI modified iPad.’
Ellen shrugged – like it was a minor point – but I did it anyway.
‘When they arrive,’ I continued seriously, ‘not only do we need to be stealthy, but we’ve also got to be ready to kill: we can only afford to capture two. You prepared for that?’
Ellen unconsciously patted the Walther in her pocket. ‘I’m prepared.’
Sometimes in the field, nature throws a curveball. And, half an hour into our stake-out, that’s exactly what happened: out of nowhere, a thick fog descended on Prescott Trail. And quickly the visibility went from perfect to five feet.
It was tule fog. Named after the tule bulrushes in the Californian Valley, it was a common enough occurrence this time of year; but this particular bout was of uncommon thickness. And I knew it was the sort that sticks around until dispersed by heavy winds.
But while this fog was entirely unexpected, and forced us to now depend on our ears to pick up on their approach, we recognized it could in fact help us. For one thing, it vastly improved our hiding place. For another, it lent itself to the stealth attack we had planned.
And so we continued waiting in the milky blindness – a blindness made all the more striking by the deathly silence of the deserted road beyond.
And, curiously, though we quietly exchanged words, neither of us at any point suggested they might not be coming. We were both convinced they were.
Then, about two hours later, they did.
We could hear a vehicle humming in the distance. Then it drew nearer. Then, suddenly, it’d stopped a few hundred yards away, and a door opened and closed. A few seconds later, it started crawling closer again – they’d gotten the wrong house at first, I reckoned – till finally it pulled up behind the Saab, maybe four yards from us. And judging by the sound of it, it was a largish vehicle. Perhaps another van, like they’d used in LA.
My stomach lurched with fear and righteous anger.
‘We’ve got company,’ I whispered.
Ellen nodded. She looked nervous yet composed.
There were doors opening. Then footsteps towards the driveway gate. I shifted over, and watched the tarmac beyond the gate which was just in sight. In the next ten seconds, four pairs of feet moved across my line of vision.
I turned to Ellen and raised four fingers. Then I signaled for her to stay put.
Next instant, I was out of the bushes. I could see neither the front door, nor the vehicles. But the first task was to inspect their vehicle: there could be a driver.
I scaled the gate. Then I quickly reached the Saab and could see the nose of a van just behind it.
Crouching low, I moved in an arc towards the back of the van, so I remained out of sight of anyone in the driver’s seat. Once I hit the back, I withdrew my Walther, glanced inside the open panel door (the hold was empty), then did a repeat performance of my maneuver in LA – I moved towards the front of the van on the passenger’s side. But this time, when I reached the passenger door, and saw a small, suited, East Asian man in the driver’s seat, I didn’t mess about.
I opened the door and, before he could react, I aimed and jerked the trigger.
His brain was on the window.
I jumped onto the passenger seat, and frisked the body. No gun, but a walkie-talkie. This time, not only switched on, but set to a particular frequency.
This wasn’t a frequency to communicate with comrades elsewhere, I reckoned. It was a frequency to communicate among themselves as they carried out this operation.
I got out of the van. It’d been no more than fifteen seconds since I’d left the bushes. But I knew I already had to play catch up. The four men would almost certainly have split up: perhaps two entering via the front, and two heading round back. And, ideally, I wanted to catch at least two before they got inside: I reckoned the fog was in my favor.
I jumped the gate and beckoned Ellen out. A moment later, she was at my side.
‘Killed the driver,’ I whispered. ‘I reckon the four will’ve split up. The ones who took the front door are likely already inside; so let’s head round back and eliminate the others.’
Ellen nodded, and I led the way down the left-hand side of the house. Then, as we neared the side-door, I slowed to a creep. But when we hit the door three seconds later, I let myself relax a bit: it was unguarded.
I took a second to examine the door – it was untouched; then I took another step towards the garden…
Barely had I done so when suddenly a man strode out of the fog before us. A big guy – 6’2”, solid build – with a Walther in his right, and moving fast. All at once, before I could react, he let out a muted yelp of surprise, and his left arm – which had already been raised with the natural rhythm of his walk – shot up, and smashed my Walther out of my right-hand.
I took a half-step forward; then I grabbed his right-arm as he went to raise it, directed his gun at the wall, and a bullet bit the brickwork. Then, swinging my free left-arm, I smashed an elbow into his temple. And this time, it was his head that hit the brickwork.
There was a gut-wrenching thud, and the guy hit the deck. But I left nothing to chance: I drove my toe into the back of his neck.
Dead. No doubt about it.
I took a couple of deep breaths. Although I couldn’t be sure, I reckoned this guy had been returning to this side-door, and had left a comrade in the garden who was intending to use one of the back doors. But though I knew I had to act quickly to catch the second guy before he got inside, this last kill hadn’t been silent. And so I had to be extremely cautious, because the other guy’s suspicions could be aroused.
I bent down, and fumbled till I’d found both Walthers. Then, after tucking one into my pocket, we continued forward.
Then we were in the garden, and moving across the patio at the back of the house towards the first backdoor. But then, maybe twenty-five yards off, we hit a hitch: I stepped on a broken patio tile, and there was the sound of stone grinding stone.
Immediately, there was a response.
‘Weisang?’ came a voice near the upcoming backdoor. Tense, nervy, challenging.
I crouched low, and Ellen instinctively did the same. It was the natural response: make yourself the smallest target possible.
If this guy had thought something was wrong before, he knew it now.
But because of muzzle flash, we were in a deadlock. When you hit the trigger on a pistol – even a pistol as subtle and silent as these Walthers – the propellant charge in the slug is activated, creating a swell of gas that hurls the slug out the barrel. But this gas isn’t cool, and it ignites the atmosphere – if only briefly – just beyond the muzzle.
So if one of us took a shot, and missed, we’d generate a burst of light that’d give the other a far better chance of hitting home.
The sweat was dripping down my face.
I jumped as Ellen tapped my shoulder, and I turned to face her. We shared a brief look of deep concern. But then Ellen revealed she had a plan: she pointed to herself, then to the expanse to our left, then made a circular motion with her finger. I understood. She wanted to circle round the back of him. Catch him off-guard.
A strong idea. Risky, but strong.
I chanced a whisper. ‘In twenty seconds, I’ll take a shot. When he returns fire, use his muzzle flash to pinpoint him.’
She gave a thumbs up; then, before I knew it, she’d disappeared into the mist.
As I flattened myself to the floor and started counting, I hoped to hell there wasn’t a third man in the garden; hoped to hell she’d be quiet enough.
But though I was worried about Ellen, I was more worried about me. I had to discharge a gun to get the guy to return fire. But I was reluctant to pull the trigger myself, since the muzzle flash would leave me a sitting duck. So my plan was to lob the gun into the garden, because if I landed it right, the gun’d go off.
And while this sounded easy, it wasn’t. It was damn tricky.
But at least I had two attempts. I withdrew the second Walther.
Ten… Five… Zero.
I picked up one of the Walthers, took a deep breath, then lobbed it leftward. It hung in the air interminably. Then, at last, it hit the earth with a soft thump.
But no discharge. No flash.
Shit.
I wiped the sweat off my forehead, and grabbed the second Walther. For a second, it crossed my mind to simply fire the gun above my head. But immediately I decided against it, and, with a sharp intake of breath, again lobbed the gun…
Three seconds later, I knew with a jolt of fear the decision had spared my life. Because my gun fired, and in response, there was a burst of multiple, near-instantaneous muzzle flashes, and the area in which the gun landed was assaulted with at least fifty rounds.
He wasn’t using a pistol: he was using a goddamn submachine gun. But no sooner did the panic rise in my throat than a single further muzzle flash illuminated the scene. And when there was no further shooting, I knew – to my enormous relief – this meant Ellen had neutralized the target.
I stood; then, after managing to find only one of the two Walthers, I approached the backdoor. And though I’d expected to see it, I still felt a second huge wave of relief when Ellen came into view standing over the dead body.
I knelt and examined the weapon.
A Heckler and Koch MP5SD6: one of the most powerful silenced submachine guns around. A weapon capable of expelling thirteen 9mm slugs a second, yet whose bullets – because of thirty depressurizing punctures in the barrel – travel well shy of the sound barrier.
A death machine.
But when I stood again, I spotted something just as unnerving: the look of terror, shame, and self-loathing on Ellen’s face.
I recognized the expression. It was of someone who’d just snuffed their first life. And I knew the fact it was a fanatical thug made zero difference. These emotions were a response to her own capacity for bloodshed.
I put a hand on her shoulder. ‘The feeling’s natural. For what it’s worth, you saved our lives.’
Ellen’s eyes remained pained a moment. Then she blinked, and took hold of herself – her face went stern again.
Then, abruptly, we were reminded of the task at hand: the lights in one of the upstairs rooms went on above our heads.
Clearly, the other two men were in the process of surveying the upstairs – presumably the two we’d killed had been charged with combing downstairs – and the fact there’d been no attempt at contact over the walkie-talkies indicated they likely hadn’t yet realized anything was amiss. But if we wanted to catch them off-guard, we had to act fast.
I pocketed the Walther, grabbed the MP5, and approached the plate-glass backdoor. A small knife was jammed in the lock.
I gave the knife another jerk, opened the door, and whispered:
‘First, we survey the downstairs. Then we move upstairs, pronto, where I think they’re both likely to be.’
Ellen nodded. Then, splitting up, we crept speedily through the downstairs – hearts pounding, sweat oozing – before reconvening at the foot of the stairs.
I led the way up at a crouch, MP5 at the ready. We wanted to take these two alive, but that wasn’t to say I couldn’t blow their legs off if it came to it.
As we neared the top of the stairs, I could see lights on in one of the bedrooms straight ahead. I signaled to Ellen to stay put, then crept towards the room, and poked my head round the door. There was a guy with his back to me, holding a Walther in his left hand, and peering into the en suite.
I moved up behind him, and growled softly:
‘There’s a MP5 to your head.’ The guy went stiff. ‘Bend down slow, put the gun on the floor, and kick it away.’
The guy remained still a beat. Then he made a sudden jerk – as if to pivot – and I cracked the butt of my gun into his left shoulder and he fell to the carpet and I stamped on his left wrist. He groaned in pain and I kicked the Walther away.
Suddenly, the walkie-talkie in my pocket – and the one in his – came to life.
‘Everything okay?’ came a disconcerted voice. I could also faintly hear the original source of the voice down the hall.
‘Get to your feet. Any games, and these walls get a fresh lick of paint.’
The guy stood, his face creased with fear. And oddly, as I took in his thin eyebrows, big jowls, jutting chin, I was struck with a strange sense of déjà vu.
‘Walk onto the landing.’
The guy complied. The other guy – who I was now certain was in the master bedroom at the opposite end of the hallway, the door to which he’d left ajar – was out of sight, and staying put. He’d received no response, so knew something was wrong; that exiting the room would put his ass on the line.
Again, I beckoned Ellen. I removed my Walther with my free hand and handed Ellen the MP5; then, to ensure the guy was completely under control, I wrapped my left arm around him and ground the muzzle to his temple.
I took a deep breath. Ideally, we needed both alive: it’d double our chances of extracting useful information. But the other guy was undoubtedly armed – perhaps even with an MP5 – and alert.
One choice was to enter the room with the gun to the head of the guy in my arms. But I’d no idea if their concern for each other would trump their fanaticism.
But we also outnumbered the other guy, and that could be used to our advantage.
‘Ellen,’ I whispered. ‘I’m gonna enter, gun to this guy’s head, and move into the room. Five seconds later, you enter, and level the machine gun at the other guy. Can’t aim at us both at once.’
I didn’t want to elaborate with the guy in my arms listening: didn’t want him to realize his life was valuable to us. But the idea was simple enough. I wanted to put the other guy between a rock and hard place. Shoot me, then his friend dies, and Ellen mows him down. Shoot Ellen, and her return fire ends him, and I kill his friend.
Ellen nodded. She got the gist.
I said in the guy’s ear: ‘Walk.’
We marched along the hallway. Then, after a half-second pause at the threshold, I walked the guy into the bedroom.
The bedroom was a large rectangle. We entered at a corner, and the second guy was standing in the diagonally opposite corner; the corner where the wall of the side of the house met a huge window that looked onto the road. And again, the moment I saw this guy’s face – slim, sharp, volcanically pockmarked – I felt a flash of vague recognition.
But more importantly, though he was aiming his weapon at me, it was – to my relief – a Walther. Gripping his buddy tight, I shifted along the wall, and said as I did so: ‘Shoot me, and your comrade eats lead.’
The guy moved his aim to adjust for my movement, but his hand shook with indecision. The problem was: even if he managed a head-shot, my post-death spasms would work the trigger.
Ellen entered, leveled the MP5, and said calmly: ‘Gun on the floor, motherfucker.’
The guy’s head jerked over to Ellen, and his face dropped at the sight of the MP5. Sure enough, he was unable to cover us both at once.
‘Put it on the goddamn floor,’ I said.
Silence. Finally, he raised his arms in surrender, slowly bent down, and placed his gun on the floor. I said:
‘Kick it to my friend.’
He kicked it to Ellen. She picked it up.
‘Now lay on the floor.’
Again, he complied. I pushed the guy I’d been clutching away from me, and told him to do the same. He laid down next to his friend.
A profound calm washed over me, and I took a step forward to frisk the men.
The next second, all the walkie-talkies in the room crackled to life. A voice, speaking in Chinese, said something I didn’t understand. A few short sentences.
I looked at Ellen. Her face was white.
‘Saul, don’t move. There’s a sniper in the house opposite.’
‘A sniper?’ I said incredulously, staring into the thick fog.
‘Yes, he says he has a device to see through fog. Says to put our weapons down. Says he doesn’t care what threats we level against his accomplices.’
I continued to stare, slack-jawed. There was technology that could see through fog. Image intensifiers that takes a modest number of protons, converts them to electrons, and makes them visible by throwing them against a phosphorous screen. But was it possible these guys had gotten their hands on such tech?
Then I remembered how the van had paused down the road. Maybe they hadn’t got the wrong house: maybe they’d let the sniper out early, so he was less likely to be detected—
Suddenly, the huge window burst into a thousand pieces, and a bullet smashed a hole in the wall behind me. A big goddamn hole.
The voice spoke again. The pock-marked man translated.
‘You’ve got ten seconds to put your guns on the floor, and’ – he pointed at the wall that just took the bullet – ‘stand with your backs to the wall, hands behind heads.’
I glanced to the bedroom door. If I’d been by myself, I might’ve dived for the door, and stood a decent chance. But there was no way Ellen and I could both escape.
A primal fear shot through my arms and legs. We were at their mercy.
I turned to Ellen and nodded in defeat. We laid down our guns. Then we moved to the wall, and placed our hands behind our heads.
The two men stood.