discipline Tun would be embarrassing to the Chinese government. As we all know, the culture there is about saving face. I suppose if General Tun makes a stupid blunder, attacks Taiwan and fails miserably, then the government can then discipline him and say, “I told you so.” On the other hand, if he attacks and is successful, the government could rally to his defense and challenge the rest of the world. It could be an extremely serious situation.
Lambert provided me with satellite photos of General Tun’s camp on China’s southeastern coast. His army is nearly 200,000 strong, consisting of land, naval, and air forces. There are three suspicious structures built right on the coast that appear to be airplane hangars. I have a feeling they’re submarine pens. It’s difficult to determine what kind of firepower Tun’s got up his sleeve but we know about the MRUUVs, of course. And we know he probably has the missing nuke that was shipped to Hong Kong from Russia. The problem is that our intelligence has no idea what the general plans to do with the MRUUVs. Attacking Taiwan with a nuke doesn’t make sense. But the presence of the submarine pens tends to refute that line of thinking, doesn’t it?
My job is to find out what the hell the guy plans to do with his nuke.
When we get to Edwards Air Force Base, Coen and I spend several hours going over my equipment. She helps me restock my supplies and ammo, fixes the bullet hole in my backpack, and provides me with maps, papers, and passports. It’s tricky going into a Communist country on a Third Echelon assignment. I’ll have to enter illegally and for all intents and purposes I do not exist. Coen will not be going with me; it’s just too dangerous. The political ramifications of being caught in China would be a public relations disaster for the NSA. I’ll pick up my equipment and be in direct communication with an official at the U.S. Consulate General in Guangzhou, but even the consul will Protocol Six me if I’m arrested. I don’t relish the thought of being accused of spying in the People’s Republic of China. The unfortunate souls who have had that experience most often do not live to talk about it.
Before I retire for the night, I arrange for five hundred dollars’ worth of flowers to be delivered to Katia’s mother. Coen tells me that Katia’s body was shipped to San Diego, where she’ll be buried after a quick Jewish funeral. The official explanation for her death is that she was a victim of gang violence and caught a stray bullet. I suppose her mother is not going to question why gang violence erupted at Beverly Center, one of the more fashionable parts of Los Angeles.
In my note to Katia’s mom, I say that I was one of her daughter’s students and was very fond of her. I also provide my personal contact information in case there’s anything I can do to help settle Katia’s estate in Maryland. There will be the Krav Maga class to deal with and all… hell, perhaps I should offer to take it over. I’ll have to think about that. It would be a good way for me to honor her memory.
As I settle in for the night, I think of Regan. I haven’t thought about my former wife in depth in a while and I try to define my feelings for her at this point in time. I’ll always love Regan even though she’s a distant figure in my past. Katia would never have replaced her. No one could. After a stormy and intense relationship, Regan and I ultimately couldn’t continue living together. She’s been gone a long time but our hearts were always linked. At least I still have the result of our union, my dear Sarah. I’ll have to call my daughter in the morning before I leave.
As sleep overtakes me, I wonder who will occupy my dreams tonight. Will it be Regan or Katia? One or the other would be nice. I just hope it’s not both of them. I couldn’t face being in the same dream with two lost loves.
I don’t think I could handle the guilt.
32
I make an unscheduled stop before slipping into China. Lambert knows I’m doing it but no one else does.
I’m in Kowloon again, keeping watch over the Purple Queen nightclub. It’s the middle of the afternoon and I’m waiting for Jon Ming to arrive. The entrance to the back parking lot is visible from my seat in Chen Wing’s coffee bar, located across the street from the club in Tsim Sha Tsui East.
A slightly altered passport and visa got me into the colony. We changed it just in case the authorities might have linked me to some of the violence that occurred here a few days ago. It will also be much easier for me to enter mainland China from Hong Kong instead of trying to get in through Shanghai or another major city. From Kowloon it’s a straight overland journey to Fuzhou. I can stop in Guangzhou and visit the consul, pick up my stuff, and make my way to the east coast. It’s a good plan.
The only problem now is that I’m unarmed and without my uniform. With Mason Hendricks gone, there’s no one in Hong Kong I can rely on to provide me with a weapon. My chat with Jon Ming will have to depend on the old Sam Fisher charm, what little of it there is.
Contacting Ming proved to be much easier than I expected. When I arrived and checked in to a fleabag hotel in Kowloon, I phoned the Purple Queen and in my best Cantonese asked to speak with Ming. The exchange went something like this:
“There is no Jon Ming here. Wrong number.”
“Excuse me, but I know this is Ming’s nightclub. I’d like to speak to him.”
“You have the wrong number.”
“Tell Ming I will call back in five minutes. Tell him I have information about the Shop, Andrei Zdrok, and General Tun.”
I hung up, waited the allotted time, and called back.
“Who is this?”
“Did you give Mr. Ming my message?”
“Yes. Just a minute.” There was murmuring in the background before the guy got back on the phone. “Mr. Ming wishes to talk to you. Come to the Purple Queen at three o’clock today.”
At exactly five minutes of three, Ming’s Roll-Royce slides into the parking lot and disappears behind the building. I finish my tea, pay the bill, and walk across the street. The big Sikh standing guard glares at me, ready to pull his weight.
“Don’t sweat it, big guy, I’m here to see Ming,” I say.
The Sikh goes inside and I wait nearly three minutes before I become impatient and step into the club. Two Chinese thugs in suits are waiting for me. With no questions being asked first, thick strong arms grab me from behind and hold me with a viselike bear hug. It’s the Sikh and he’s a walking lump of muscle. Once I’m sufficiently immobile, “Joe” and “Shmoe” move forward and take turns delivering spear-hand chops to the sides of my neck. On top of the injuries I suffered in the L.A. limo crash, the pain is immense.
“Hey! What’s this about?” I gasp.
“Who are you? Why are you here?” Joe asks in English.
“I was
He says, “You were the man at the warehouse. You are an enemy of the Lucky Dragons.” The thug gives me another spear-chop that sends shock waves down my spine.
At first I don’t know what he’s talking about — there have been so many warehouses in my life. Then it comes to me. The time they had the device that wreaked havoc on my implants. I ended up killing a handful of their men.
“That’s before I was on your side.” I cough.
“We don’t believe you,” Shmoe says. He moves in to hit me again but I use the Sikh’s arms as leverage, raise my legs, and kick the man in the face. Before Joe or the Sikh can retaliate, I swing my legs back, bend my knees, and ram the soles of my boots into the Sikh’s knees. He bellows in pain and releases me. That gives Joe time to perform a jump kick, hitting me squarely on the sternum and knocking me backward into the Sikh. The two of us tumble to the ground. The Sikh is pretty much out of the game — I may have broken his kneecaps — so I concentrate on the two Chinese hoods. As Shmoe moves in to kick me in the ribs, I roll toward him like a log and manage to trip him up. He falls into his partner, allowing me the opportunity to jump to my feet. I immediately spin, thrust out my right foot, and connect the heel to Joe’s chin. I follow through, place my right foot on the floor, bend the right knee, and spring forward with my left foot pointed at Shmoe. Bull’s-eye, right in the solar plexus. I drop back, assume a defensive stance, and wait.
“Stop!” Jon Ming stands a few feet away. He looks at me and says, “I’ve seen you before.”
“I’ve been in your club,” I say.
