of the ridge stood an enormous white house with a panoramic view not only of the L.A. basin, but of Santa Monica Bay as well.
Or at least it would have, if not for the Vanderbilt Complex. The Vanderbilt Complex, or just the Vanderbilt to locals, was a vast, impressive castle built into the hillside. Although constructed lower on the slope than the houses of Mountaingate Drive, the Vanderbilt was big enough to mar the view from the large white house above it. Mountaingate residents had complained, but as wealthy as they were, they were peons compared to the Vanderbilt estate, which had both money and public sentiment on its side. The Vanderbilt was a museum complex built around the private collection of a few Vanderbilt heirs. The museum was free to the public, dedicated to advancing the cause of the arts among all people, and a political juggernaut. The estate bought the property and forced the approvals through the city bureaucracy. Environmentalists had decried the development because the Sepulveda Pass was one of the few green spots left in Los Angeles…but everyone, from the environmentalists to the residents of Mountaingate, had to admit that the finished structure was impressive. Perched on a shoulder of the mountains, it commanded a lordly view of the Los Angeles basin. The
As she gazed down on the Vanderbilt from the mountaintop, Nina decided that the museum was an excellent location from a security point of view. The single road leading up to the complex was easily controllable; the steep slopes were inaccessible by vehicle and offered little or no cover to a team on foot. The wide open skies above allowed easily for exfil of the VIPs by helicopter if the need arose. Because of its isolated location on the hilltop and the security measures that had already been put in place to protect its priceless treasures, the Vanderbilt was a desirable location for dignitaries seeking a secure but elegant meeting ground. The only variable keeping the Vanderbilt from becoming a perfectly controllable site was, in fact, the house at the end of Mountaingate Drive.
Nina parked a few blocks down from the house — a tall, white, antebellum mansion with a circular driveway. The house even had one of those little statues of a jockey in a red coat, holding out one hand, to which was attached a metal ring. Nina walked past it and knocked on the door. No sound came from inside, but an intercom next to the door came to life and a static-laden voice came through. “Yes?”
“Hello, I’m looking for Mr. Marcus Lee, please,” Nina said in her nicest, most professional voice.
“Who is asking, please?” the intercom replied, and Nina knew intuitively that she was speaking to Mr. Lee.
“My name is Nina Myers, sir. I’m with the Federal government. I just have a few questions to ask.”
The intercom clicked off and Nina felt her muscles tense. Was he going to rabbit? She liked action, and part of her relished the idea. But a moment later the door opened and a small Asian man of indeterminate age smiled at her warmly. “I am Marcus Lee,” he said gently. “Please come in.”
Jack pulled at the flex cuffs on his wrists, more out of frustration than anything. They bit into his skin, reminding him that they were practically unbreakable unless they were severed with wire cutters. He didn’t mind the pain — it helped him focus. He stared across the short space to his quarry, the young man in the blue shirt. The young man returned his stare bravely, but his look of anger and defiance soon wilted under Jack’s glare.
Something bumped up against the outside of the police wagon.
“What’s that?” one of the other prisoners asked.
“Someone getting beat up,” said the blond kid next to Jack.
But the next sound they heard was the anxious voice of the police driver in the cab in front of them. “Get them the hell off!” he yelled, his voice pitched anxiously high. They heard several shouts from outside, then silence.
“Have you made that call yet?” Jack yelled toward the cab, but there was no answer.
Nina walked into Marcus Lee’s living room and blinked in the bright sunlight. The entire back wall of the living room was made of several sets of French doors nearly two stories tall, opening out onto a wide green lawn that dropped away where the property met the slope of the hill. Beyond the grass, Nina could see the roofs of the Vanderbilt Complex, and beyond that, the glistening blue water of Santa Monica Bay. To the left, she saw white and dark smoke rise up around the Federal Building, and she heard sirens wail plaintively far away.
“What can I do for you, Agent Myers?” Marcus Lee asked.
He was polite and welcoming, which immediately put Nina on edge. Most people were at least a little nervous when they saw a Federal badge, but Lee had scanned her ID as casually as a man reading the morning headlines. He had turned and led her gracefully into the house, offering her a drink, which she declined, and then escorted her to the living room.
Nina decided to ambush him immediately. “I’d like to talk to you about your involvement with ETIM.”
She watched his face closely. His eyes brightened, but otherwise he gave no reaction at all. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Yes, you do, Mr. Tuman.”
Half a beat. “Excuse me?”
“Your real name is Nurmamet Tuman,” Nina said, glancing at a notepad in her hand and using the same casual tone he had used to greet her. “You told the INS that you were ethnic Chinese, but you are in fact a Uygur from the eastern province of Xinjiang.” She looked up. “You’re also most likely involved with ETIM.”
Another half beat, but no change in his facial expression. Marcus Lee/Nurmamet Tuman was a very good poker player. “My real name is Marcus Lee,” he said. “And I don’t know what ‘ee-tim’ is.”
“You knew them well enough to give them two million dollars. Did you also put them in touch with Ayman al-Libbi, or did they already have their own contact?”
Bull’s-eye. Lee tensed, and Nina readied herself to go for her weapon. But instead of running or attacking, Lee put a hand to his temple and rubbed it as though she’d just given him a severe headache. “Agent Myers, I can neither confirm nor deny what you are saying. But I can tell you this. I am very well connected in the Chinese government, even to this day. I recommend that you contact a Mr. Richard Hong, who operates out of the Chinese Embassy here in Los Angeles. He may have information that will help you.”
Nina felt her stomach tighten into a knot. She did not know Richard Hong, but unless she missed her guess entirely, Marcus Lee had just referred her to his case officer in Chinese intelligence, which also meant that Lee was Chinese intelligence, which meant that with a few simple words Lee had made this whole affair much, much more complicated.
“In fact, I have his card right here.” Lee reached carefully into his pocket and pulled out a simple business card. He handed it to Nina with two hands in traditional Chinese fashion, and bowed slightly.
Nina read the card. “Stay here.” She walked into the hallway, keeping Lee in her line of sight, and pulled out her cell phone. She called CTU and asked for Jamey Farrell.
“Jamey, Nina. Can you do a quick check and patch me through to a Richard Hong at the Chinese Embassy. If they give you the runaround, tell them I’m calling about one of his assets.”
Nina waited on hold for only a minute or two, watching Marcus Lee, who had settled himself gently onto a plush white couch.
“Nina,” Jamey’s voice came on the line, “they tried to pass me off, but the minute I mentioned an asset, Hong was right there. Here you go.”
The line clicked. “Mr. Richard Hong?”
“Speaking. Who is this?”
Nina explained who she was, and why she was there. Richard Hong paused. “I think this is a discussion best had in person.” Meaning, Nina knew, no cell phones. “Can you come to me?”
“Not if Tuman is going out the back door at the same time,” Nina said.
“He is no flight risk. I can promise that.”
Nina considered her options. If she were concerned about protocol, she would heed the warnings and walk away. But she was more inclined to take Lee in, regardless of whatever Chappelle had said about using kid gloves.
