He says something to her — apparently he must leave immediately — and she wrinkles her brow and pouts. The general kisses her on the cheek and then leaves the restaurant with Putnik. Miss Grominko remains at the table, sulking. I wait a couple of minutes and then follow the men outside.
Great. It’s snowing. In fact, it’s a major blizzard.
The Mercedes is already out of the lot when I run to get in the SUV. I switch the OPSAT to tracking mode and see that the car is heading east toward Oryal. It’s also the road to Moscow. They’re already close to two miles ahead of me so I pull onto prospekt Brovansky and proceed to catch up. I’d never lose them while the homing device is working but I like to keep a visual on the target when I’m tailing someone. Unfortunately, the snowstorm is a hindrance and the roads are slick with ice. I’m forced to slow down when I see a policeman directing traffic through an intersection where two cars have collided. By the time I’m clear, the Mercedes has a five-mile lead on me. They’re definitely traveling out of town.
Suddenly the blinking dot stops moving. The car has stopped somewhere up ahead. I’m in the outskirts of Kyiv and can’t imagine what the general is up to. Surely he doesn’t have another mistress living out in the burbs.
I reduce my speed when I’m within a mile of the location indicated by the blinking dot. Then, without warning, the homing signal quits on me. The blinking light disappears.
I pull over and study the map on the OPSAT, trying to remember exactly where the dot had been before it vanished. I pinpoint an intersection that seems to be the best possibility and then drive in that direction. I’m about a quarter of a mile away when I see, through the blinding snow, a black cloud of smoke billowing toward the night sky. I hear approaching sirens as I slowly guide the SUV down the street to a vacant lot next to a condemned building, the point where the Mercedes last sat.
In its place is a burning wreck. The car appears to have been deliberately set on fire.
I stop the SUV and watch the scene as two fire trucks and a police car appear with lights flashing. The firefighters immediately set about putting out the blaze. Once they do, I can see that the burning hulk is indeed the Mercedes.
The bastards dumped the car, destroyed it, and went on their way in a different vehicle.
4
Professor Gregory Jeinsen wiped the sweat off his brow as he debarked and made his way toward the Arrivals area. Hong Kong International Airport was abuzz with activity, as was usually the case, so Jeinsen felt relatively safe from being recognized. After all, who could possibly identify him? He had changed his appearance considerably since he left Washington. He had dyed his gray hair black and combed it differently, he had shaved his mustache, and he now wore glasses with fake lenses. These simple alterations made him look twenty years younger than his true age of sixty-four. If the Pentagon was searching for him, an agent would have to do a couple of double takes in order to see any resemblance to the scientist who mysteriously went missing two days earlier. His liaison in Hong Kong had paved the way for a new identity and taken care of the necessary paperwork, so Jeinsen now held a German passport and entry visa with the name Heinrich Lang. This wasn’t too much of a stretch. Jeinsen had a cousin named Heinrich and his favorite film director was Fritz Lang. The new name suited him.
The exodus had been planned for years. Jeinsen had come to the United States by way of an even earlier defection. Born and raised in Germany, Jeinsen unfortunately found himself growing up on the eastern side of the Berlin Wall at the end of World War II. As an adult he worked as a weapons development scientist for the GDR until the fateful day in 1971 when he was smuggled through Checkpoint Charlie in a laundry truck. A job with the U.S. government had already been arranged; hence for over thirty years Jeinsen lived in Washington, D.C., helping to design and develop weapons technology for the Pentagon.
After flying smoothly through Immigration and Customs with no problems, Jeinsen picked up his one piece of luggage from the baggage claim and made his way outside to catch a taxi. His instructions were clear: go directly to the hotel, check in under the new name, and await further orders.
It had been an anxious two weeks preparing to leave. He had to make sure he left nothing behind that might implicate him as a government traitor. All traces of communication with Mr. Wong in Hong Kong were to be erased. It was best if Jeinsen seemed to have simply disappeared. The D.C. police would chalk it up to a missing persons case. Because of Jeinsen’s status within the Pentagon, FBI involvement in the search was of course inevitable. But if he had done everything correctly, the authorities would find no trail to follow. Jeinsen had done it once before in East Germany. He was fairly certain he had accomplished the task successfully in D.C.
The taxi dropped him off in front of the magnificent Mandarin Oriental Hotel on Connaught Road in the Central district of the island. Jeinsen knew it was possibly the most luxurious hotel in the territory, aside from perhaps the Peninsula Hotel in Kowloon. He was pleased that Mr. Wong had seen fit to treat him as a VIP and provide him with such flattering accommodations.
The bureaucrats and military bigwigs at the Pentagon never appreciated Jeinsen’s talents. Sure, he was given a top-level security position, had carte blanche in the weapons design programs, and was respected by his peers. It was the moneymen that always gave him short shrift when his colleagues received higher advances. Jeinsen had asked for better raises time and time again. He got raises but they were never what he felt he deserved. Growing up in East Germany, Jeinsen had a delusion that anyone who defected to America could become rich. It had never happened. He had made a modest income, lived comfortably, but was by no means “wealthy.” Jeinsen firmly believed he was a victim of prejudice due to his former nationality. The thirty years in Washington ended up being a huge disappointment.
When Mr. Wong contacted him through a liaison in a government agency, Jeinsen was ready to consider any offers made to him. Wong promised him a fortune and secure passage to Beijing by way of Hong Kong. All Jeinsen had to do was hand over information concerning a special project he was working on and use a transmittal system that Mr. Wong specified. The process would take three years. Jeinsen didn’t want to wait that long but Wong convinced him to be patient. It would be worth it in the end. Thus, when Jeinsen’s role in the project ended recently and the task was complete, everything happened quickly. Wong made good on his promises, arranged Jeinsen’s travel plans, and quietly got the scientist out of the country.
Jeinsen approached the front desk and checked in under his new name.
“Welcome to the Mandarin Oriental, Mr. Lang,” the registration clerk said, handing Jeinsen a key and an envelope. “Oh, someone left this for you this morning.”
Jeinsen took it. It was a brown envelope addressed to him in care of the hotel. “Thank you,” he said.
The physicist nearly gasped when he saw the room. It was a full suite with a terrace. He had never before stayed in such lavish surroundings. Even when he had to travel for the Pentagon, they always pinched pennies and put up their employees in midrange hotels. Mr. Wong was truly a generous man.
Before unpacking, Jeinsen opened the envelope and examined the contents. There was a small silver key with the number 139 engraved on it, a phone number written on a piece of paper, and fifty Hong Kong dollars. Jeinsen picked up the telephone and dialed the number.
Mr. Wong answered, saying, “Welcome to Hong Kong, Mr., uh,
Jeinsen chuckled. “Hello there. How did you know it was me?”
“No one else would be calling this number. How was your flight?” Wong spoke good English with a strong Chinese accent.
“Long. Very long.”
“Yes. Do you need some time to rest?”
“No, no, I slept on the plane. I think I’m ready to… well, whatever you need me to do.”
“Fine. Did you get the key?”
