what came in this crate?” I indicate the one that was marked as containing beets.
Antipov nods. “Yes, he’s got it. All he needs now is the guidance system. It will be on its way here from California any day if it isn’t already.”
I’m confused. The plan doesn’t make a bit of sense. Why would the general use a nuke on Taiwan? Isn’t the whole point to annex it to China? A nuke would completely obliterate such a tiny country. And what about the Chinese government? Do they know what he’s up to?
Antipov shivers. “Please. Let me go. We just… we’re just b-b-businessmen.”
Why in the world would China want to destroy Taiwan? They’ve been trying to get the rogue island back into their sphere of influence for decades. You’d think they’d want to inhabit the place, take it over, and exploit its resources. No, there’s something missing here.
“What else do you know, Antipov?” I ask. “There’s more to this than you’re telling me.”
I see a flicker of triumph in the man’s eyes. “Let’s… let’s work out a deal. Then perhaps I can tell you more.” He grins, nods, and pleads with his eyes like a hungry dog. “I can pay you! I’ll give you a million dollars. American! Let’s deal, Fisher!”
The guy makes me sick. The Shop doesn’t care who lives or who dies after they broker a transaction. They don’t think twice about selling a nuclear weapon to a mad-man for a bit of cash. At the moment I can’t think of anything more evil. The bribe only makes me angrier.
“Sorry,” I say. “No deals.”
Coldly and deliberately, I squeeze the trigger. Another quarter of the Shop’s leadership is eliminated.
I turn and walk through the corpse-ridden hallway back to the staircase. Once I’m upstairs I fire a couple of rounds at the store’s front plate window, shattering it to pieces. This sets off an alarm. Good. Let the Hong Kong police deal with the mess downstairs. I’m sure the little cache of weapons will interest them.
Lambert’s probably not going to approve of what I’ve done. But I have no regrets. Just like General Prokofiev in Moscow, Antipov needed to be taken out of the picture. When I run into the other two, Herzog and Zdrok, I plan on doing the same thing to them. If Lambert wants to remove me from the assignment, then so be it. The way I see it is this: A job that began over a year ago was never finished. The damage the Shop has done to Third Echelon is immeasurable. They killed several of our agents. Mike Chan and the Triad may have been responsible for Carly St. John’s murder, but if it hadn’t been for the Shop pulling the strings it wouldn’t have happened. So I say
I quickly leave through the back door, stick to the shadows, and make my way back to the ferry.
22
Jeff Kehoe looked at his watch and whispered into the microphone of his headset. “Thirty seconds. On my signal.”
“Roger that.”
The FBI field office had provided Kehoe with six men to stage the raid on Eddie Wu’s apartment. As long as no other Triad members were present, the operation was expected to go smoothly.
Kehoe had waited until the two Wu brothers were safely inside the eight-story apartment building and then set up a stakeout until nightfall. At just after one in the morning, the team arrived in full riot gear, ready to storm the residence. The Bureau had previously taken care of contacting the building’s management to warn them of what was about to take place. Warrants and legal formalities were executed by the book. An ambulance and fire truck were waiting a block away in case they were needed.
The apartment was on the top floor, one of three penthouses in the building. There was only one way in — and out. Since the brothers must be asleep, the element of surprise was in the team’s favor.
Kehoe gave the signal and three men moved down the hall with the battering ram. Assault rifles ready, the trio looked at Kehoe for confirmation. The special agent nodded. The first man knocked loudly on the door.
“Open up! FBI!”
By rote, the team didn’t wait for the door to open. They slammed the battering ram against the door, knocking it off its hinges. The two other agents stormed into the living room, followed by Kehoe and the four remaining officers.
Mike Wu was in a deep sleep when the crash of the door jolted him to reality. The feds surrounded him before he could sit up in bed. With three rifles pointed at his head, Wu had no choice but to raise his hands.
As the Third Echelon traitor was taken into custody, the other men searched the rest of the apartment for Eddie Wu. He was nowhere to be found.
“Where’s your brother?” Kehoe asked Mike as the handcuffs were snapped onto the man’s wrists.
“I don’t know!” Mike said. “He was here when I went to bed.”
Kehoe had not seen the guy leave the building. He couldn’t believe Eddie wasn’t there. He angrily turned to two team members and told them to tear the place apart. Kehoe then jerked his head at the men holding Mike and said, “Let’s go.”
Unbeknownst to the FBI or to his brother, Eddie Wu had built an escape hatch in the closet floor of his bedroom. The idea to do so had come from Jon Ming himself back when Eddie set himself up in Los Angeles. The FBI would eventually find the trapdoor, but not until after Wu was safely away. The door led to a passageway much like an air vent through which Eddie could crawl to the stairwell on the eighth floor. When Eddie heard the crash at the front door, he immediately went for the closet. He knew he couldn’t save his brother; the important thing was to get away quickly. It took him forty-two seconds to move from his bed to the closet, open the trapdoor, and snake to the stairwell. It was then a simple matter to run down the stairs and leave the building without the FBI ever seeing him.
It worked like a charm.
“I want a lawyer.”
It had been twelve hours since his arrest.
Mike Wu sat in the bare interrogation room under intense bright lights with nothing but a cup of coffee on the table in front of him. Other than the mirror on the wall, which Wu obviously knew was for observation, nothing else adorned the cold, concrete space.
He was exhausted and uncomfortable. His hands were still cuffed behind him and he was barefoot. Wu had been forced to discard the T-shirt and boxer shorts he had been wearing in bed and now wore standard prisoner’s trousers and a tunic.
Kehoe and L.A. FBI chief Al Nudelman sat at the table with the captive and were getting nowhere.
“Mike, you’re being held under the Homeland Security Act,” Kehoe said. “You don’t have the same rights normal, ordinary, everyday criminals have. If I had my way, I’d organize a little lynch party right here and now for what you’ve done. You’ve betrayed your
“I still want a lawyer. And something to eat, man. You can’t treat me like this. I’m an American citizen.”
“You sure don’t act like one.”
There was a knock on the steel door. Nudelman stood, opened it, and conversed with another agent. The chief nodded and closed the door. He stepped over to Kehoe and delivered the message.
“Oh, good news, Mike,” Kehoe said. “An old friend is here to see you and he’d like to ask you some questions. He flew all the way from Washington, D.C., today just to do so.”
The door opened and Colonel Lambert walked in. Mike Wu shut his eyes and shuddered. He had honestly respected his boss at Third Echelon and dreaded the moment when he would have to face the colonel.
“Hello, Mike,” Lambert said with no indication of warmth.
Mike looked up and nodded. “Colonel.”
Lambert sat across from the prisoner and acknowledged Kehoe. “Good afternoon.”
“Is it afternoon already?” Kehoe asked. “Feels like next year already.”
“Thanks for letting me know about this. I got here as soon as I could.”
