impeccable.”
“Then maybe he knows how there might have been a link. His source was bad or something. It’s worth pursuing. Besides, I gave him a piece of evidence that needs to go to a lab. Some blood I found at the Triad’s nightclub. Who knows, it might belong to Jeinsen.”
“All right, Sam.”
“Anything else, Colonel?”
“Yes. We’ve finished the analysis of General Prokofiev’s materials you found in his house.”
“Yeah?”
“You know that list of missing nuclear devices? The notes he scribbled next to some of them?”
“Uh-huh.”
Frances Coen continues. “It’s a code, all right. And it’s very strange.”
“Well?”
“When the code is broken, it’s a recipe for Russian borscht.”
“What?”
“Well, that’s a guess. The words specifically decode as ‘Formanova Cylindra beets, beef stock, water, vinegar, butter, cabbage, and tomato sauce.’ Those are the ingredients of borscht. It leaves out a few spices and perhaps some other vegetables, but that’s what it is.”
“What the hell does borscht have to do with nuclear bombs?”
“We don’t know. That’s just what the code says when it’s broken.”
“I think you guys have gone loony,” I say.
“We were hoping you might know what it means,” Lambert says. “Was there anything in Prokofiev’s house that might give us a clue as to what it’s all about?”
“I can’t think of anything, unless that battle-ax of a wife puts plutonium in her cooking. Which I wouldn’t put past her. Look, I’m going back to Hendricks’s place before the sun comes up. I’ll let you know what he has to say.”
“We’ll talk later, Sam,” Lambert says, and then we sign off.
Dressed in my workout clothes and carrying my uniform in a gym bag, I take the ferry to the island, grab a taxi, and go back to the Mid-Levels just as the sun begins to rise. But the driver can’t get through to Hendricks’s street. A policeman tells us that only local traffic is allowed in.
“What’s the problem, Officer?” I ask in Chinese.
“Fire,” he replies.
I pay the cabbie and get out. Once I’m on the street I can see the thick smoke billowing up ahead. A couple of fire trucks, an ambulance, and two police cars are blocking the middle of the road. And they’re in front of Hendricks’s small house.
I walk up the pavement and take a look. Sure enough, his place is black, still smoldering from what was apparently an intense blaze. I move closer to the policemen who are talking with the fireman in charge. Even though they’re speaking in Chinese, I’m able to catch a few words and phrases.
“Firebomb… through the front window… one in the back… possible Triad work… two bodies…”
I observe in fascination as firemen bring out two covered corpses on stretchers. One charred, black-and-red arm sticks out from under a sheet. I catch the words “man and woman in bedroom” before the corpses are loaded into the ambulance.
Hendricks had boasted about expecting female companionship for the night. Well, he got lucky, all right. Lucky as in Lucky Dragons. And I guess his lady friend got more than she bargained for as well. It’s a shame.
Now I’m at a loss as to how I was set up at the warehouse. Apparently Hendricks was betrayed too. The Triad must have found out what he was up to, somehow intercepting the information he got from his source. Maybe it was the source who tipped them off.
And so much for the piece of evidence I took from the nightclub. It’s probably long gone now.
I walk away, realizing I must disengage myself from Hendricks, finish what I came to Hong Kong to do, and get the hell out. As the new rising sun bathes the island in warmth, I make my way back to the ferry so I can get to my appointment at the container port on time.
17
FBI Special Agent Jeff Kehoe sat in the Empress Pavilion Restaurant enjoying somewhat authentic dim sum as he kept an eye on Eddie Wu, the brother of wanted fugitive Mike Wu, aka Mike Chan. Kehoe had arrived in Los Angeles a day earlier and, with the help of the local FBI branch, had tracked Eddie Wu to L.A.’s historic Chinatown. Kehoe had staked out Wu’s apartment on Alameda and had seen the man come and go twice. The first trip Wu made was to the Phoenix Bakery on Broadway, the main drag through the district. The second outing was to the Wing Hop Fung Ginseng and China Products Center, also on Broadway, where Wu purchased tea and a few other groceries. So far the Triad had displayed innocuous activity. But it was still early in the day.
Alan Nudelman, the FBI chief in Los Angeles, had briefed Kehoe upon his arrival in the city. Nudelman confirmed that Eddie Wu was a known Triad member but had never been tied to any of the more serious crimes connected with the Chinese gangs operating in southern California. The L.A. branch of the Lucky Dragons was a small organization consisting of less than a dozen members. Wu was either the top man of the clan or one of the enforcers. He had been arrested twice for narcotics possession but he had a very good lawyer who got him off with fines and short jail time. Intention to distribute wasn’t proven but the L.A. police were sure that Wu was dealing the drugs for the Triad. A more serious charge cropped up involving stolen property, including weapons, for which Wu served three years in the nineties. Since then he had stayed clean, although he was on the FBI watch list. Nudelman suspected Wu of being an accomplished thief, smuggler, and killer. Currently Wu was unemployed, yet he lived in a very nice apartment building, drove an expensive car, and always had cash to spend.
The Triads in southern California operated much like small-time Mafia families. They specialized in protection rackets, mostly among the Chinese populations in the city, ran gambling and prostitution houses, and trafficked in illegal arms and drugs. Most gangland violence that occurred was between rival Triads and rarely spilled out into the mainstream. Nevertheless, the Chinatown district’s police precinct was kept very busy escorting the gang members in and out of its justice system. Most of the Caucasian officers could care less if the Chinese criminals killed each other; their main concern was for the innocent families trying to make an honest dollar in democratic America.
Kehoe finished his meal and sat with the
After a while, Wu paid the bill and he and his two companions stood. Kehoe paused a moment, paid his own bill, and followed the trio onto Hill Street. The restaurant was in Bamboo Plaza, home to a variety of shops. The men turned onto Bamboo Street and headed toward Broadway. Kehoe casually tailed them, trying his best to be just another Caucasian tourist admiring the Chinese souvenirs along the way.
They passed Central Plaza, where the sounds of clicking mahjong tiles from upstairs windows and open doors mixed with authentic Chinese music being played in shops. A popular place for filming, the plaza was known for its distinctive Gate of Maternal Values, a statue of Republic of China founder Dr. Sun Yat-sen, and a wishing well dating to 1939.
Wu said goodbye to his companions at the Cathay Bank at the corner of Broadway and Alpine. The two men left, walking east on Alpine. Wu went inside the bank. Kehoe lingered outside the impressive building, which was supposedly the first Chinese-American-owned bank in southern California.
Ten minutes passed and Wu bounded out. He walked east on Alpine, past Dynasty Plaza, to his apartment building on Alameda, a block east of the array of bazaars. It was one of the more modern, upscale structures in the area, certainly not the norm for low-to-middle-income Chinese immigrants. After Wu disappeared into the lobby,
