Operation Barracuda sc-2 Read online

  “The MRUUV,” Coen says. “Do you know it?”

  “No.”

  “All the info you need is in that envelope,” Lambert says.

  “So, I’m supposed to find this scientist?” I ask.

  “No. He’s been found. He was murdered in Hong Kong. His body turned up in Kowloon. It took the Chinese authorities twenty-four hours to identify him.”

  “Who was he?”

  “Gregory Jeinsen. Former East German physicist, defected to the U.S. in 1971. He’s worked for the Pentagon ever since.”

  “So what do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to find out what Jeinsen was doing in Hong Kong. If Jeinsen turned or was indeed kidnapped, he may have handed over MRUUV secrets. If that’s happened, let’s just say that the Pentagon is not going to be very happy.” Lambert rubbed his crewcut again.

  “You want me to go investigate a murder? Colonel, with all due respect, I’m not a homicide detective. Isn’t that a little out of Third Echelon’s jurisdiction?” I ask.

  “No, that’s not what I want you to do. You’re going to Hong Kong to do what you always do — extract intelligence. Gregory Jeinsen was there for a reason. I want to know why. If MRUUV secrets were sold or given away or pried out of him, then your job is to follow the trail and see where they went. If, in finding that out, you discover who killed him, then great. We’ll beat the FBI and CIA at their jobs. And that’ll be a feather in our cap when the Committee starts making budget cuts.”

  “So this is all about funding, is that it?” I’m really becoming angry now.

  “Stop it, Sam. Just read the file. You’ll understand why this is important once you do.”

  I stew for a moment and everyone at the table is quiet. Finally I take the envelope and say, “Fine.”

  “Thank you, Sam,” Lambert says.

  I wave him off. “What about the stuff I found in Prokofiev’s house? Have you had time to look into that list of missing nukes?”

  “Our analysts are decoding the general’s notes as we speak. I should know more in the next day or two. That was a good find, Sam.”

  “Thanks. So what can you tell me about that security breach Carly was working on? I think it’s gotten worse. Look what happened to me in Russia. Someone knew I was following General Prokofiev in Kyiv. He got wise and destroyed his car because he knew it was bugged with a homing device. How did he know? And from all accounts it looks like he came home unexpectedly in Moscow because he may have known I was in his house. Colonel, you can count on one hand the number of people who knew what I was doing in Russia.”

  “I realize that, Sam. As soon as Anna is back in place, that will be her first priority. There’s no question in my mind that an insider compromised Third Echelon. Maybe it was Mike Chan. Maybe he wasn’t working alone. Maybe there’s another insider that’s not a Third Echelon employee. Maybe the traitor is one of the few people in Washington that know of our existence. I don’t know at this point, Sam, but I’m keeping an open mind. I’d like you to as well.”

  I nod my head toward Coen. Lambert catches the subtext behind the move. “Sam, the Field Runner operation—”

  “I work alone, Lambert. You know that.”

  “That may not be the case in the future, Sam. For now, yes, but we’re here to tell you we’ve got Frances here on the fast track to become your personal Field Runner. For this assignment she’ll stay in Washington and monitor you remotely. Next time, well, we’ll see. The kinks in the program still have to be worked out. I understand your concerns; you’ve voiced them enough.”

  I look at the woman and say, “No offense, Frances, but I can’t see how your presence in an enemy zone would make my job any easier. I have enough to worry about just looking after my own butt. I don’t need another butt to watch.”

  “You won’t have to watch my butt, as you put it,” Coen says. “I’m thoroughly trained. I can handle myself in a threatening situation.”

  “How about torture?” I ask. “Can you handle that? Can you handle your fingernails being ripped out one by one, or electric prods shoved up your—”

  “Sam!” Lambert almost shouts. Other people around us look up to see what’s going on. He lowers his voice and says, “That’s enough.”

  I fold my arms and sit back. “Whatever.”

  Coen waits a beat and then starts to talk. “You’re to meet me tonight at Dulles. An army Osprey will take you to one of our bases in the Philippines and from there you’ll get a commercial flight to Hong Kong. I’ll have some last-minute documents for you then. Your flight information is there in the envelope. I’ll see you tonight, Mr. Fisher.” She holds out her hand.

  I don’t want to be a dick so I reach out and shake it. “Call me Sam,” I say.

  * * *

  Katia isn’t too pleased that I have to leave the country again so soon. But she didn’t make a big deal out of it. If she had, I’d think twice about becoming more involved with her. The last thing I want is a needy girlfriend. I could tell that Katia was ticked off about my leaving but she said for me not to worry about it. She understood. She explained again that she was going to California anyway so maybe we’d both be back at the same time.

  I like her, damn it. Against my better judgment, I’m looking forward to us both being back at the same time.

  So now I’m in Dulles Airport and I meet Frances Coen in front of the magazine shop she’d designated. We walk to an empty gate, sit, and she gives me another envelope.

  “I have all your transportation arrangements in here,” she says. “Instructions for picking up your equipment are in there as well. You shouldn’t have any problems.”

  “That’s what you think,” I mutter.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Look, Mr. Fisher, I know—”

  “I said to call me Sam.”

  “—Sam — you’re not fond of this idea of Field Runners. But I’m good at what I do. You’ll have to make a leap of faith. Can you do that?”

  I shrug. “I’m not a very religious person.”

  She frowns at me.

  “Okay, I’m willing to give it a try,” I finally say.

  “I’m not over there with you this time around. For now you’ll work just like you always have. The only difference is that you’ll be dealing with me on most things. Colonel Lambert will of course be giving you instructions. Anna will be back soon. But I’m your main contact now.”

  “Okeydokey,” I say and grin. The sarcasm is not lost on her but she holds out her hand.

  “Good luck, Sam.”

  I shake it and nod.

  At that point an army sergeant enters the gate and approaches us. “Mr. Fisher?” he asks.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m to escort you to the Osprey.”

  “Right.” I take my duffel bag and follow the soldier outside. I don’t look back at Frances Coen. I don’t look back at anything.

  12

  I’ve been in Hong Kong a number of times, both before and after the momentous handover in 1997. Before the Brits left the colony, there was widespread speculation that the capitalistic society that Hong Kong had enjoyed for over a century would disappear. Communist China would ruin what was up to then known as “the Pearl in the Crown.” So far it hasn’t happened. I can’t see that much has changed except perhaps there are fewer Brits walking around. The Chinese promised to keep Hong Kong in its current state of economic enterprise for the next fifty years. Who’s to say what happens after that? Are they simply going to say, “Okay, folks, no more free enterprise, that’s it, you’re done, now it’s share and share alike”? I don’t buy it. Hong Kong is a well-oiled machine and I believe it’s going to continue functioning the way it always has well into the twenty-second century.

  My trip to the Far East was uneventful. The Osprey flew to Hawaii first and made a stop. I had a two-hour layover at Pearl Harbor and then we continued on to Manila. By the time we arrived in the Philippines it was too late to catch t
he commercial flight to Hong Kong, so I spent the night in the barracks. It wasn’t bad. Since I can usually sleep on demand I didn’t have any problems with jet lag. Jet lag never has bothered me much. Only after I return home does it seem to catch up with me. I guess you could say I’m the master of my internal clock.

  After I land the next morning in Hong Kong, I consider renting a car but decide against it. As in London or New York, cars in Hong Kong are more of a hindrance than an advantage. I’ll get around much faster taking public transportation and walking. If and when I need to get to some remote spot, I’ll take a taxi. I can always rent a car later if I need one.

  Frances Coen’s instructions say I have to seek out Mason Hendricks, a former intelligence officer stationed in the Far East. Hendricks, an American, is ex-CIA and, like Harry Dagger in Moscow, is retired but still has his nose to the ground. I’ve never met him although I’ve had plenty of opportunities to do so. Back when I was in the CIA he was certainly around, but our paths never crossed. He’s reputed to be a good man, very smart and resourceful. Coen tells me that my equipment was drop shipped from Manila to Hendricks. I’m not sure what the logistics are and how he goes about retrieving the stuff; I leave that to my so-called Field Runner.

  Hendricks lives in the Mid-Levels, halfway up Victoria Peak. The Peak is the place to live in Hong Kong, especially when the British were here. The higher up you go, the more expensive the real estate. The Mid-Levels is the equivalent of upper-middle-class to lower-upper-class neighborhoods, if that makes any sense. It’s still damned expensive.

  I take a taxi to his home, a detached dwelling next to a block of apartments off of Conduit Road. When he answers the door, I’m surprised by how young he looks. Hendricks is supposed to be sixty-one but he appears to be forty-five.

  “Sam Fisher,” he says. He holds out his hand. “Mason Hendricks.”

  I shake it, evaluating his firm grip. This is a man of strength. “Glad to meet you after all these years.”

  “Likewise. Please come in.”

  The inside of his home is tastefully decorated in a mixture of Western and Eastern styles. The British influence is definitely present but the Asian flavoring tends to dominate. For example, there’s a very large Buddha in the room, something you notice when you first walk in. The smell of burning incense fills the place. Next to it is a shelf containing a collection of ships in bottles — and they’re all British warships from the classic eighteenth-century period.

  “Forgive the incense,” Hendricks says. “I’m afraid I’ve grown to like it after forty-some-odd years in Hong Kong.”

  “Doesn’t bother me,” I say.

  Hendricks is dressed in a simple beige tunic and loose-fitting matching trousers. He’d be at home in any beach house.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he says. “I look younger than I’m supposed to be.”

  “As a matter of fact,” I reply, “you don’t look fifty. But you’re sixty-something, right?”

  “Sixty-two next month. It’s the clean living that does it. And of course, a stress-free lifestyle. I admit to having a little plastic surgery, I dye my hair, and I never eat fatty foods. My health improved immeasurably after I retired from the CIA. I also finally found time for a love life. I’ve had so many Chinese girlfriends in the last ten years that it puts my college years to shame. That will certainly keep you young! And that’s another reason why I take care of myself. Anyway, everything I do these days for our precious government is simply for the fun of it or because it interests me. I’m happy to help out the NSA. I hope I can give you some useful information. How about a drink?”

  I shrug. “Sure.”

  “I’m having scotch. What will you have?”

  “Just fruit juice if you have it.”

  He goes straight to the bar on the opposite side of the room from the Buddha and fixes a couple of glasses. I take the moment to browse his bookshelf, which is full of historical military reference books and suspense novels. When he brings my glass of juice — apricot — he clicks it and says, “Cheers.”

  “Thank you. Cheers.”

  Hendricks leads the way through a sliding glass door to a terrace that overlooks the skyline. “I wish I were higher up. I bought this place twenty-five years ago for a song. I could probably make a fortune if I sold it. Or if it accidentally burned down, the insurance would make me a rich man.” He laughs. “Then maybe I could buy a place farther up the Peak. The view’s much better. That’s where all the hoity-toity live.”

  “I think it’s a very nice place, Mr. Hendricks.”

  “Oh, please, call me Mason.”

  “All right.”

  We sit on deck chairs and enjoy a slight breeze. In serious contrast to the weather in Maryland, it’s quite warm on the island. I don’t think I’ve ever been to Hong Kong when it wasn’t.

  “Did my equipment arrive safely?” I ask.

  “It did indeed. I have it in one of the bedrooms. But please, let’s relax and talk out here a while. Where are you staying?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’d offer you my spare bedroom but I tend to have female company at night. I hope you understand.”

  I smile at him. “Whatever rocks your boat. I’ll find a place. I’m not picky. I may stay in Kowloon. There are inexpensive hotels I know there.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  We sit for a moment in silence. Finally I bring up the mission at hand. “Mason, what can you tell me about this Professor Jeinsen?” Hendricks relates what I already know — that Jeinsen was shot in the head, wrapped in burlap, tied to the Promenade in Kowloon, and left to float in the water until he was found. An Interpol bulletin on the missing physicist was what did the trick in helping the police to identify him. Once the corpse was ID’d, the U.S. government was notified.

  “The interesting thing here is that Professor Jeinsen wasn’t murdered,” Hendricks says. “He was executed.”

  “By whom?”

  “I’d say it was a Triad killing.”

  I nod with understanding. The Triads are the Chinese equivalent of our Mafia, the Japanese Yakuza, the Russian Mafiya, and other organized crime outfits. They’ve been around for centuries, originally formed to help oust the Ch’ing dynasty and reinstate the Ming. It was during the twentieth century that they became criminally oriented. As secret societies, they pride themselves on being patriotic and nationalist. Violently opposed to the Communists, the Triads primarily settled in British Hong Kong and Portuguese Macau. Eventually they spread around the globe to other Chinese communities. I know for a fact that Triads operate in the Chinatowns of big American cities. They traffic in drugs, weapons, prostitution, and slavery, as well as operate protection rackets and gambling parlors. The Triads are fiercely anti-Western and their rites and meetings are sacred, usually never witnessed by non-Asians.

  “I believe we’re also dealing with a very specific Triad,” Hendricks continues. “Most Triads use knives, hatchets, machetes — blades — to do their killing. Jeinsen was shot in the back of the head, gangland style. Like the Mafia does it. There’s one Triad known to use that particular method of execution in Hong Kong. They’re called the Lucky Dragons.”

  “I don’t know them.”

  “They’re not the biggest Triad by any means. The Dragons are awfully small when you compare them to, say, the 14K or Bamboo Union. But they’ve been around as long as I can remember. They’re based in Hong Kong but I know they have extensive branches reaching into mainland China.”

  “But Triads are notoriously anti-Communist,” I say.

  “They are. And so are the Lucky Dragons. But I’m fairly confident they have some pull with certain government officials. Ever since the handover, it was expected that the Chinese government would crack down hard on Triads because of their widespread ideology against Communism. It hasn’t happened. The Triads are just as powerful now as they were under British rule. Sure, it’s still illegal to be a member of a Triad and all that, and the police ma
ke arrests all the time. It’s just one of those things, like the Yakuza in Japan. They’ll always be with us.”

  “What’s the leadership like?”

  “A fellow named Jon Ming is the leader. The Cho Kun, the Dragon Head. He’s, I don’t know, forty-eight or so. About your age I think. He became Cho Kun about fifteen years ago after a bloody coup within their organization. Ming is a wealthy gangster that lives on a plantation-style estate in northern Kowloon, just below the border of the New Territories. Actually, he acts more like a Yakuza than a Triad. He flaunts his wealth and power in public the way the Japanese gangsters do. That’s not the norm for Chinese Triads. Here you can be arrested for just acting like a Triad, yet he seems to steer clear of legal trouble. That’s why I think he’s got some politicians in his pocket.”

  “Where can I find this Jon Ming?”

  “He runs a fancy nightclub in Kowloon. The Purple Queen. It’s one of those hostess clubs, the kind that cost you a fortune to sit and talk with a beautiful girl. Sometimes you can get her to go home with you, which will cost you even more.” Hendricks rattles the ice in his glass. “I guess you can say that’s how I came to know some of my girlfriends. I do frequent the hostess clubs a lot. The Purple Queen, too. I can’t take you there, though. You’ll have to go alone. They know me. I wouldn’t want you seen with me.”

  “I agree.”

  “Ming also owns a couple of restaurants and has his hand in some of the industries around here. He controls some of the container port so he has unbelievable access to shipping stuff in and out of the country. I left you a photo of the guy in the room with your equipment so you’ll recognize him when you see him.”

  “So what’s Jeinsen’s connection to the Lucky Dragons?” I ask.

  Hendricks looks at me and wiggles his eyebrows. “That’s what you’re here to find out, isn’t it?”

  “Any ideas?”

  “None. If you ask me, the guy must have betrayed his second country. After all, he betrayed the first one by defecting to the U.S.”

  I sigh and say, “That’s just what we’re hoping he didn’t do. Do you think Ming keeps anything at the nightclub I might be interested in?”