blend in, not look conspicuous, and be flexible with your pace of movement. It’s important to keep a steady distance between the prey and yourself but not appear to be rushing. Sometimes, if the prey stops, you have to pause and pretend to be interested in something while you wait for the quarry to move again. It’s pretty standard stuff. There are also antisurveillance moves you can make to ascertain that no one is following
As I expected, they make their way to the Star Ferry, on their way to Hong Kong Island. Once they’re aboard, I linger just long enough to meld into a crowd of Chinese and Caucasian businessmen swarming through the gate and onto the boat. Antipov and Herzog step into the lower-deck quarters and take seats on a bench next to the wall. They are deeply embroiled in conversation, oblivious to what’s around them. I position myself across the room, picking up a discarded newspaper to hide behind. I know it sounds cliche, but that’s what you do.
The ferry ride between Kowloon and Hong Kong is always pleasant. Despite the rather foul stench of the harbor, it’s a short, relaxing trip that could be quite enjoyable if I weren’t on the job. At one point, Antipov stands and points to something outside the window. Herzog looks and nods. Antipov resumes his seat and the two men are silent. Herzog shuts his eyes and slumps for the remaining few minutes of the journey.
Ashore, I follow the men off the ferry to the taxi stand. Damn. This is where it gets tricky. I hurry to get in line behind them, with a buffer of two parties between us, and keep my nose in the newspaper just in case one of them turns around. I note the number of the taxi they climb into and then wait as patiently as I can for my turn. When I finally get into a cab, I point to the Russians’ taxi up ahead, which is luckily stuck in traffic at the end of the block. The driver understands and nods his head. He throws the car into drive and screeches away from the curb. He makes an illegal move around the stalled cars in front of him, passing them in the oncoming traffic lane. So much for not attracting attention.
But the driver is good. As soon as traffic begins to move he slips into it, two car lengths behind the Russians. He takes it easy from then on, following the other cab with discretion.
We head west on Connaught Road until the Russians’ taxi pulls off onto Morrison Street. Eventually they reach Upper Lascar Row—“Cat Street”—and stop. I pay my driver and give him a huge tip, which he appreciates by showing me his rotten, discolored teeth.
The two Russians walk up Cat Street to a small antique shop. I stand across the road and watch as they enter the building. A sign above the door says it’s the Hong Kong-Russian Curios store. Interesting.
After a few minutes I cross the street and walk by the shop. I look through the window and see a Chinese man sitting at a desk in the back and polishing a small statue. The Russians are not in the store. There’s an Employees Only door next to the desk, and I must presume that they went through it to another area of the building. A basement, perhaps?
I note the sticker displayed in the window that informs potential burglars that Hong Kong Security Systems, Inc., protects the shop. I press my implant and ask Coen to get Grimsdottir to hack into the company’s records and come up with a security access code I can use. She acknowledges and then I go back across the street.
During the next half hour no one enters or exits the shop. I snap a couple of photos and then decide there’s nothing more to do now. Best to return after dark.
That’s when my job is more fun.
It’s just after midnight when I arrive at the antique shop dressed in full uniform. The first thing I do is circle the block and pop through the alley behind the store. There’s an expected employee exit but I also notice an unusual outline in the pavement on the ground next to the building. It’s almost as if someone had taken a stick and drawn a ten-foot-by-five-foot rectangle in the wet cement when it was first poured. Using my thermal vision, I notice there is heat beneath the outline — I can just make out thin slivers of light. Unlike most loading lifts that carry boxes to a shop basement, someone took great care to see that this one was hidden from view. Anyone without my training would never realize it’s there.
I go back around to the front of the shop and carefully peer through the display window. The place is dark except for a lamp that illuminates the desk and cash register in the back. The best bet is the alley door. I return to the back of the building and use my lock picks to unlock the door. The dead bolt gives me five minutes’ worth of trouble but eventually it gives and I’m inside.
The security keypad is immediately to my left. It’s blinking and beeping and I know I have fifteen or twenty seconds to punch in the code Anna Grimsdottir provided. As soon as I press the sequence of buttons, the system deactivates. Nice.
I’m in a storeroom full of boxes and dusty goods. Lots of crap that someone might call antiques. There’s a full bookshelf along one wall and a small bathroom with a door. But no staircase to a basement. There has to be another way down there.
I look inside the shop proper and find nothing out of the ordinary. The papers on the desk are invoices and such, neatly arranged and organized. I run my hand beneath the counter, searching for trick levers or buttons, but find none. Returning to the storeroom, I begin to examine the walls for telltale signs of secret doors. Again, my thermal vision comes in handy when I get to the bookshelf. Faint traces of light leak from the edges between two sets of cases. The access to the basement is behind them.
The bookcases don’t budge, though. I pull on the sides, try lifting the sides, and search for more trick levers and buttons. Nothing. I remember seeing a play on stage in which one of the characters opened a trick door by pulling out a particular book. It’s a device that’s been used hundreds of times but it works. I figure what the hell? — so I begin to pull out the books on each shelf, one at a time. There are about fifty but I go through them quickly. When I get to the shelf that is shoulder level, I notice two books that are slightly forward, as if they’ve been moved recently. A book of Shakespeare and a book about Christopher Marlowe. I figure one must go with the other, so I pull out one and then the other. I hear a latch give way and the bookcase pops ajar. I open it and, sure enough, there’s a spiral staircase descending to the floor below.
The stairs squeak much too loudly as I go down so I stop and take them one at a time slowly. When I’m halfway I hear snoring. I take the rest of the stairs at a snail’s pace but from the way the guy is sawing logs I don’t think I have anything to worry about. When I get to the bottom, I see him sitting at a desk. He’s wearing a jacket and tie and is lying on top of the game of solitaire he was playing. There’s a bottle of Russian vodka on the floor beside his chair. So much for Russian efficiency.
I move to the man and ask, “Are you awake?” in Russian. He snorts, mumbles, and then turns his head the other direction. The snoring begins again in earnest. He reeks of vodka so I figure I can go about my business without disturbing him. From the looks of the guy, he’s going to need several hours to sleep this one off.
There are a couple of doors along the corridor, both leading into separate offices. At the end of the hall is a larger room full of more boxes and crates. I take a look and can immediately see that this storeroom isn’t for the antique shop. A wooden box the shape of a coffin is full of assault rifles. On shelves lining the walls are various handguns of all makes and calibers. On another shelf is a collection of timers, material that appears to be plastic explosive, and boxes of ammunition.
In the middle of the floor is an open crate, one recently unpacked. Straw lies around the crate and the lid is against the wall. I examine the interior but there’s nothing inside; however, the missing contents left an impression in the straw of an object that was maybe eight inches wide by thirty-six inches long.
I examine the crate for other clues as to what it contained but it’s unmarked. I then look at the lid and see the logo and words burned into the wood, along with the shipping invoice. It reads, in Russian, Chinese, and English, PERISHABLE — FORMANOVA CYLINDRA BEETS — KEEP AWAY FROM HEAT. The crate was shipped from Moscow.
Beets? No way. Then I remember what I found in General Prokofiev’s house. That list of missing nuclear weapons. Frances Coen told me the general’s handwritten note by one of the listings was the recipe for borscht. Beet soup. Could this be…?
I leave the storeroom and make my way back to the first office. My friend the Russian guard is still building a log cabin, oblivious to the world. I close the door, sit at the desk, and boot up the computer. Much of the software is in Russian. I go to the e-mail program and try to get past the log-in screen but can’t.
“Anna? Someone? Are you there?” I ask, pressing my implant.
“Here, Sam. What’s up?” It’s Grimsdottir.
