Kehoe got into his rented Lexus to sit and wait.
Tracking Mike Wu westward had been easy. When a state policeman in Oklahoma had been found shot to death near Oklahoma City, evidence quickly pointed to Wu. The patrolman had stopped the Honda Accord for a traffic violation, called in the license plate, and learned that the plate was stolen. Before catching a bullet in the chest, the patrolman had informed his headquarters that he was investigating the suspect vehicle. Ballistics comparison of the round that killed the patrolman and the bullets that slew Carly St. John proved to be identical.
Nearly thirteen hours after the discovery of the patrolman’s body, Wu’s blue Honda Accord was found abandoned behind a convenience store in Oklahoma City. Whatever Mike Wu was driving after that was a mystery.
Kehoe was certain that Wu would come to Los Angeles to see his brother. After all, Eddie Wu knew about his brother’s false identity as Mike Chan. Perhaps Eddie was going to help Mike leave the country. It was what Eddie was good at, according to Nudelman. Thus, it was only a matter of time before Mike showed up at Eddie’s door. All Kehoe had to do was never take his eyes off the Triad.
At midafternoon Wu emerged from his apartment. He went to his car, a BMW 745i sedan, obviously another indication that Eddie Wu earned his money illegally. Kehoe figured the BMW to cost in the upper range of sixty thousand dollars. The BMW drove west and got on the 110 freeway, heading south. Kehoe cautiously followed him.
Traffic was surprisingly light for a weekday afternoon. The rush hour hadn’t begun in earnest quite yet and Kehoe actually enjoyed driving on L.A. freeways. He considered them to be the best in the country. Unlike other big cities in the U.S., it seemed that the freeways in L.A. were planned from the beginning to hold a lot of traffic. Other places he’d been, such as Chicago and Washington, D.C., had experienced painful crowding when the population had outgrown the highways.
The BMW got on the Santa Monica Freeway and sped west. Wu opened up the car and Kehoe had to push the speedometer to stay a safe distance. No problems arose, though, and eventually the BMW reached the intersection with the 405. Wu took the northward exit and headed over the hills. It wasn’t long before the BMW got off at Sunset Boulevard and turned west into Brentwood.
Following the car became tricky. The BMW took odd side streets up into the area around Crestwood Hills Park. Kehoe was worried that he would either lose his prey or Wu would make him. On many of the roads they were the only two cars moving. After nearly thirty minutes of this kind of driving, the BMW turned onto a hilly road called Norman Place. Wu eventually took a hard right onto a gravel road and disappeared into the trees. Kehoe stopped at the intersection and looked at a map. Where the hell was he?
The Getty Museum wasn’t far away. It was a couple of miles to the northeast. The area was sparsely dotted with expensive homes and a few isolated businesses.
Kehoe decided to take a chance and drove onto the gravel road. After moving slowly for about a mile, he came to a gate and wire fence blocking further access. A sign read: GYROTECHNICS, INC. — PRIVATE PROPERTY — NO TRESPASSING. There was Chinese script beneath the English words; Kehoe figured they said the same thing.
The FBI agent got out of the car and looked through the steel mesh gate. Fifty yards beyond the fence was a two-story modern building that was unremarkable save for dark windows of different geometric shapes. It was similar to a 1950s sci-fi movie production designer’s bad idea of what a futuristic building might look like.
He got back into the Lexus and drove back to Norman Place. He pulled over and called Al Nudelman on his cell phone.
“Nudelman.”
“Hi, Al, it’s Jeff Kehoe.”
“Yes, Jeff.”
“Ever hear of a company called GyroTechnics Inc.?”
“Uh, no. What’s that?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. I followed Eddie Wu from Chinatown to this building. It’s in the hills near the Getty Museum. Private property.”
“I’ll check it out and get back to you.”
“Thanks.”
Kehoe drove down the hill and parked in a more unobtrusive spot. He could see the unnamed gravel road in his rearview mirror, so if Eddie decided to leave he’d be seen. Twenty minutes later, Nudelman phoned back.
“GyroTechnics is a brand-new Chinese company. Electronics, circuit boards, that kind of thing. Says here that their specialty is guidance systems for aquatic vehicles, namely boats and ships. Been incorporated in California for three months.”
Kehoe asked, “What’s Eddie Wu got to do with them?”
“That’s a good question,” Nudelman replied. “I seriously doubt he’s on the payroll.”
Kehoe chuckled. “Not officially anyway. Well, I’m just going to have to camp out and wait for Eddie to leave. Or wait for his brother to show up. One way or another I’m going to find out what this company is really up to.”
Anton Antipov opened the antique shop door and let Andrei Zdrok in.
“This had better be good,” Zdrok grumbled. “The sun isn’t even up yet. Decent human beings are still asleep at this hour.”
“You’ll be happy when you see what we unpacked,” Antipov said.
He led Zdrok through the dark Hong Kong-Russian Curios shop and into the back room. Like the Shop’s director, Antipov knew how to manipulate the Shakespeare and Marlowe books on the shelf and open the secret door. Together they went down into the Shop’s headquarters, past Zdrok’s private office, and into a main receiving area.
In the middle of the floor sat an opened crate the size of a large television. Straw had been pulled out and now littered the floor. Antipov directed Zdrok to a worktable next to the crate, where the unpacked item lay horizontally under a bright lamp, dramatically lit as if it were on display in a museum.
It was silver in color and cylindrical in shape, much like a giant bullet in its casing. Two cushions on either side of the device kept it from rolling. On the cylinder’s side facing the ceiling was a compartment that had been opened, its inner mechanisms exposed.
“Direct from Mother Russia,” Antipov said, smiling. “It arrived last night after you left. Ironically, delivered by Federal Express.”
Andrei Zdrok’s jaw dropped and he momentarily forgot having been awakened too early. The device’s beauty mesmerized him. It shone like a polished precious metal but it was worth far more than any gold or silver.
“It’s too bad Prokofiev isn’t conscious to hear that it arrived safely,” Antipov added. “The poor guy is still in a coma.”
“Screw the general,” Zdrok said. “He’s of no use to us now. At least he was able to have this shipped to us before he became a permanent tube sucker.” He approached the device and gently placed his palm on the cone- shaped head. It was smooth and cold to the touch.
“It’s magnificent,” he said. “I have never seen one before, have you?”
“No. Well, yes, some of the earlier kinds. Not one like this,” Antipov replied.
“Well. We have to get this to our customer in China right away,” Zdrok said. “You’ll take care of the arrangements?”
“It’s already being done.” Antipov looked at his watch. “I have to get to Kwai Chung. Oskar is coming in with the shipment this morning.”
“Good.” Zdrok touched it once more, admiring the fine craftsmanship and design. “You know, I almost wish we didn’t have to sell it. It’s not often that a nuclear bomb passes through the Shop. You’re right, Anton. The last one we sold was one of the older models from the early Cold War era. Big motherfucking thing the size of a Volkswagen. These 1980s jobs are so much more compact and… movable.”
“That they are, Andrei,” Antipov replied. “That they are.”
Zdrok nodded at his partner and said, “Do you have time to get some breakfast and some coffee? I’ll treat.”
