Operation Barracuda

I take the exit off I-95 and follow the directions to City Place Mall on Colesville Road, park the Jeep, and go inside. The food court is easy to find and there’s Lambert waiting for me at one of the tables — he’s always the first to arrive — but I’m surprised because he’s not alone. Frances Coen is sitting with him. I know her as one of the Field Runners that Third Echelon uses. She’s in her thirties and is fairly attractive for a tomboy type. Slim with close-cropped dark hair. She’s wearing professional, close-fitting rugged clothes. Lambert is dressed in a black turtleneck sweater and khaki pants. He never wears his uniform when we meet in public. It appears he’s munching down on his favorite fast food, a Big Mac Combo Meal. The woman is eating a salad. I make eye contact with Lambert and then I go to the court to pick up something for myself. Breakfast was hours ago. After all that heavy lovemaking and champagne, I need something substantial. I end up buying a plate of chicken and broccoli from the faux Chinese joint.

I join Lambert and Coen at the table and see that the colonel is already finished with his meal. He has a funny habit of rubbing the top of his crewcut when he’s nervous, and that’s what he does when I sit down. Lambert appears to be more stressed than usual. The bags under his eyes are especially prominent today and I don’t remember them being that bad. Lambert’s usually a very energetic guy. He’s ambitious and smart, and I’m not sure if he ever sleeps. He drinks more coffee than he sucks air. Lambert’s the kind of guy who’s always busy and never relaxes. From the way he looks today, I’d say his lifestyle is going to send him to an early grave.

Coen eyes me silently. For the first time I notice a large scar on the side of her neck that disappears into her collar. Possibly ex-military?

“You okay, Colonel?” I ask.

“No,” he says. “Carly St. John is dead.”

I feel my stomach lurch. “What?”

He nods. “Shot in the back of the head. At our office.”

I can’t believe it. Carly is — was — my friend, the one person other than Lambert with whom I enjoyed a meaningful relationship.

“Do you know who—?”

“Not yet,” the colonel says. “But Mike Chan is missing. There’s every indication that he’s the perpetrator. He’s all over the cameras.”

“Mike Chan? The analyst?”

The colonel nods. I met Chan once and only briefly. A quiet Chinese-American, he seemed to be on the ball, a real team player.

I look at Coen. Lambert notices my circumspection and says, “Sam, you know Frances Coen, one of our Field Runners.”

“Yes.” Field Runner. I remember discussing this program with Lambert. He wants to send not one, but two people into the field. A Field Runner is supposedly responsible for coordinating transportation and equipment for a Splinter Cell. I made my objections to the concept known, loud and clear. The main disadvantage, in my opinion, is that it’s dangerous enough having one agent vulnerable to capture and torture. At least a Splinter Cell is trained to withstand rough treatment. What happens if a Field Runner is caught? How is this woman — Frances Coen — going to react when the bad guys try to extract information from her with hot irons?

I save the argument for later. Right now I’m more concerned about what happened to Carly.

“Whoever killed Carly is responsible for our leak to the Shop,” I suggest.

“You’re probably right,” the colonel replies. “If it really is Chan…”

“What’s being done about it?”

“We had to bring in the FBI. This is a federal crime. We couldn’t have the D.C. police in our offices. We don’t exist, remember?”

“Yeah.”

“So we have to sit on our hands while the Bureau sniffs around.” I can see that Lambert isn’t happy about this.

“When did this happen?” I ask.

“Last night sometime. Carly was working late. Her computer was destroyed as well. All the progress she’d made on plugging the leak vanished with it.”

“We do have backup tapes,” Coen says. “We’re starting to go through them now. We just don’t know if Carly backed up her work in the past day or two.”

“I’ve asked that Anna come back from psych leave immediately. Until then we’re operating on thin ice,” Lambert says.

Anna Grimsdottir is just as smart as Carly, but I have — had — a special attachment to Carly. It will be difficult to replace her. “So I guess the reason you called me here today is to go after Mike Chan?”

“No. I’m afraid it isn’t.”

Huh? What the hell? “Sir, I want to go after Mike Chan.”

“It’s not your job. It’s not Third Echelon’s job. It’s the FBI’s job. Sorry, Sam. I want to avenge Carly’s murder as much as you do. We have to let the political wheels turn the way they’re supposed to.”

“Then what am I doing here?”

“It’s unrelated. I’m sending you to Hong Kong, Sam. You’ll need to leave tonight.”

“Tonight? Damn it, Colonel, I just got home from Russia! I haven’t been here a week. And aren’t I supposed to have mandatory psych leave?”

“I know, but you’re the only available operative right now. Remember — we lost our Far East agent last year and have had to fill in with subs when we needed someone. I have the Committee breathing down my neck about budget cuts. For some reason, Third Echelon is on Washington’s shit list. We have to prove our worth and soon. That’s why I need you, Sam. I don’t like to say this because I don’t want you getting a big head, but you’re the best we’ve got.”

It’s nice to hear but I’m too pissed off to respond appropriately. I sure as hell don’t want to go to fucking Hong Kong.

“What the hell is so goddamned important in Hong Kong?” I ask.

Lambert slides a large envelope across the table. “You’ve heard of SeaStrike Technologies?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of ’em.”

“One of their top scientists went missing a week ago. We were afraid he’d been kidnapped because he was the project leader of one of our most important defense programs.”

“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.