“Just don’t say, ‘Forget it, Sam, it’s Chinatown.’ ”
Lambert doesn’t get it but Coen chuckles.
Lambert gets off his cell phone as we’re about to separate in front of Bradley International Terminal. There will be some undercover FBI agents working backup for us. I guess the Bureau figures I can’t do this alone. Coen and Lambert postpone their trip back to Washington for another day so they can keep an eye on me and make sure I don’t have a nervous breakdown or something.
I must admit I feel a little better now that I’m “working.” In the car I was ready to murder anyone that so much as smelled like a government official, and that includes Lambert and Coen. It’s typical that I would beat myself up over Katia’s death. I certainly did the same thing over Regan, and she died of fucking
Anyway, now that I’m here at the airport and am in the thick of things, so to speak, my mind is clearing. I’m pretty sure I can focus on the task at hand and I told Lambert that when we got out of the car. He put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed it. That gesture alone was worth more than any stupid words of sympathy he might have said.
The security photos from the Hong Kong airport are transmitted to my OPSAT right on time as we walk inside. We take a moment to go through them and I’m damned if I recognize anyone.
“Maybe seeing the passengers in the flesh when they come off the plane will help,” Lambert suggests.
My NSA credentials get me past airport security at the terminal. The flight is on time and will arrive in minutes. I wander into the gate area and take a look at the people waiting there. Because of security rules these days, only ticketed passengers are allowed to access the gates and it’s even stricter in the international terminal. So it’s a pretty good bet that the people I see here are waiting to board the next flight out, not waiting for incoming passengers. At any rate, there are no Asians in the mix. In fact, the folks here appear to be no one of interest.
“Sam?”
“Yeah?” I whisper. It’s Coen. I have to be subtle pressing the implant in my throat. It’s one thing to talk on those in-ear cell phones in public, it’s another to simply push on your Adam’s apple to speak to someone.
“I’m patching in FBI agent Firuta. He’s in charge of the three-man team here.”
“Okay.”
In a moment, I hear his voice. “Agent Fisher?”
“That’s me.”
“Special Agent Gary Firuta. There are three of us here. I’ve got two men in the baggage claim area. I’m stationed just outside of Customs at the escalator connecting Immigration with the baggage claim. If you spot anyone coming off that plane we should be pay attention to, let us know.”
“Right.”
I stand at the back of the hallway to have a full view of the gate area. Finally, the plane is here and passengers begin to disembark. Since it came from Hong Kong it’s only natural that most of them are Asian. I scan the faces as they come through the door and don’t recognize a soul. Then, when it seems that no one is left aboard, a lone elderly Caucasian appears. He’s using a walking cane and carries a briefcase. His hair is white and he has a neatly trimmed white mustache and beard. But there’s something about him that’s very familiar.
I quickly snap a shot of him with my OPSAT. Even when I’m dressed in civilian clothes, my OPSAT never leaves my wrist.
The old man walks slowly into the waiting area, looks at the signs, figures out which way to go for Immigration, and moves in that direction. I follow him at a safe distance and inform Agent Firuta of what’s happening. In the meantime I rack my brain trying to recall where I’ve seen the old man before.
The lines at Immigration are long. I move on through to wait on the other side. The old man stands meekly in line and doesn’t appear to be threatening at all. While there’s time to kill I pull up his image on the OPSAT screen and study it. Zooming in, I focus on the guy’s eyes, his nose, his… beard. It’s the beard. Oskar Herzog. The last time I saw him he had the same beard. He’s changed the color to white, applied some aging makeup, and is doing a good job hobbling with the cane.
“Alert,” I whisper, pressing the implant. “Old man now approaching the Immigration desk for passport clearance, using a walking cane. It’s Oskar Herzog.”
“Hold on, Sam.”
I see the Immigration official pick up his phone as Herzog hands over his passport and visa. The agent listens a moment, nods his head, and hangs up. He then stamps Herzog’s passport and clears the man through.
“We’re letting him in,” Firuta says. “His passport says he’s Gregor Vladistock, a Russian national living in Hong Kong.”
“The guy’s really German,” I say.
“He spoke convincing Russian to the agent. My two men will pick up the tail downstairs at baggage claim.”
“Don’t lose sight of him. He’s here to meet someone.”
I take the escalator down with everyone else and find the baggage claim to be very crowded. Several flights have come in during the last half hour, which isn’t unusual for LAX. But the place is more chaotic because a couple of carousels are down and the only three working have been relegated to all incoming flights. On top of that the ground crew is running behind unloading the planes.
As I follow Herzog toward the carousels I notice two Asian men in business suits standing near the rental car counters. They’re obviously poised to catch anyone heading toward the baggage claim. Every now and then they whisper something to each other. Now that I think about it, the two guys look too punkish to be wearing business suits. I’d bet the farm they’re Triad hoods attempting to look mature.
I press the implant and whisper, “There are a couple of suspicious Asian guys by the rental car counters.”
But Dopey and Goofy pay no attention to Herzog as he passes them. In fact, after the man is several yards away, they shake their heads in disappointment. Whoever they were sent to meet didn’t show. The pair turns and begins to walk closer to the carousels.
Standing near the exit doors, close to the carousel designated for the Hong Kong flight, are three limousine drivers carrying signs with their clients’ names on them. I notice that Herzog nods at one of them and the driver — who happens to be Asian — smiles. His sign reads MR. VLADISTOCK. Bingo.
Just as I’m about to call attention to the limo driver, Dopey and Goofy surprise everyone by causing a well- orchestrated disturbance. They both jump onto the moving carousel and shout in English, “We have a bomb! Nobody move!”
Of course, the entire crowd panics. People scream and make a mad rush to the exits, dropping and leaving behind their baggage. Security personnel blow whistles and yell for everyone to calm down but it’s no use.
“Damn!” Firuta says. “What just happened?”
I keep my eye on Herzog. I don’t give a damn about the two Asians. The limo driver sneakily takes Herzog by the arm and hustles him out the door. I try my best to push my way through the chaos in order to keep up with them but the crowd is too thick. Police arrive on the scene and immediately take Dopey and Goofy into custody but people are still not cooperating.
“Firuta! Where are your two men?” I ask.
Apparently the FBI agents responded to the two Asians — exactly what the fake Triads wanted. I now realize that the two Asians were working for Eddie Wu, not Jon Ming. They were sent to cause a diversion so Herzog could get away unnoticed.
Screw that. Like a raging bull I shove my way through the crowd, throwing people aside with no concern for politeness, and burst through the exit doors. I spot Herzog getting into the backseat of a limo that’s illegally parked at the curb. The driver gets in and the car takes off.
I rush madly into the roadway and stop the first taxi I see. With no concern for protocol, I open the door, reach inside, unsnap the driver’s seat belt, and pull him out.
“Hey!” he shouts. He starts to hit me but realizes I’m a lot bigger than he is.
“You’ll get it back in one piece,” I say. “I hope.” With that, I’m already in the driver’s seat and slamming the
