Death Wave

the NSA.

“It’s good to meet you at last, Mr. Feng,” Lia’s voice said from the wall speakers.

“Please … have a seat. Though I must confess I still don’t know why you insisted on such a public meeting place! The street is such an unlikely place to discuss business!”

“Because it is public, Mr. Feng,” Lia replied, taking the chair next to Feng’s. “Your phone calls and your e-mails have been most informative. But …” The image jiggled slightly as she shrugged. “I don’t know you yet, not personally. You could be anybody.”

“And a girl can’t be too careful,” Feng said, his dark eyes twinkling. “I do understand completely.”

His English was excellent. According to his dossier, he’d been educated at Oxford.

“Smooth operator,” Marie said.

“The word is ‘smarmy,’” Rubens replied. “Have Alabaster move in a bit tighter.”

These next few minutes — Feng’s first impressions of Lia — would be critical.

STARBUCKS

PARISER PLATZ

CENTRAL BERLIN, GERMANY

WEDNESDAY, 1422 HOURS LOCAL TIME

Lia smiled pleasantly at Feng as he signaled a waiter and ordered two cappuccinos. She’d taken the chair next to the man because the seat opposite him, which would have been her first choice, might have put her ridiculous hat into Onyx’s line of sight from the hotel, blocking his shot. She glanced casually up at the window where she knew Castelano and Daimler were watching. The left half was open, but she couldn’t see them. Thoroughgoing professionals, they would be set up well back from the window, hidden in shadow, their rifle invisible from the street.

Glancing right, she did see CJ — Siege to her friends — dressed in a green T-shirt and blue jeans, carrying a shopping bag from Peek & Cloppenburg. Siege was studying a tourist’s street map while edging unobtrusively closer, probably at Rubens’ order.

She was glad for the backup. Feng was a thoroughly nasty character. Formerly a major in the Chinese People’s Liberation Army with fifteen years’ experience in Chinese military intelligence, he was now a high-ranking executive for COSCO, which meant his former connections would still be very much intact. He was known to have underworld connections as well, a working arrangement with one of the more powerful tongs operating out of Hong Kong, and he had a rap sheet that included smuggling, drugs, and gunrunning. His dossier suggested that his weakness was attractive women, with a string of mistresses from Hong Kong to Honolulu to Vancouver to Berlin. He seemed to collect women, though Lia wasn’t sure what it was about the man that would attract them.

Perhaps it was just a combination of those most powerful of aphrodisiacs, money and power.

She was dressed this afternoon to entice. The red heels, the short red skirt with the slit up to here, the generous V of exposed cleavage, the smart-looking designer sunglasses, the hat canted across her head at a jaunty angle — all part of the alluring package. Her handlers had designed her look based on careful analyses of six of Feng’s recent girlfriends. He liked Americans but seemed to prefer the dark and exotic beauty of Asian Americans, which was why Rubens had asked Lia to volunteer for this op in the first place.

Despite the way Feng kept staring at her chest, however, she knew it was her brain that would make or break the deal. According to the employment listing that had first caught Desk Three’s attention last month, Feng was looking for an advisor in cultural affairs and public relations, and that was how she intended to sell herself.

Feng glanced up from her chest, and their gazes locked. “So, Ms. Lau. Is this your first time in Berlin?”

“Not at all,” she replied truthfully. She’d passed through the German capital several times in the past five years on various missions. “I love this city.”

“We have something in common, then.” He nodded toward the monument against the western skyline. “The Brandenburg Gate. Magnificent. Though … I have to admit that my favorite piece of history connected with it is your President Kennedy giving a speech right over there on the far side of the monument … was it 1962? After the Berlin Wall went up, anyway.” He laughed. “ ‘I am a jelly doughnut’!”

“Ich bin ein Berliner,” Lia said, nodding. “That was 1963. But you do know that the whole jelly-filled doughnut thing is an urban legend, right?”

“Lia, what are you doing?” the voice of Thomas Blake said in her ear. Blake was one of the Desk Three handlers and would be running her during this mission. “That Kennedy story is well attested—”

“What do you mean, Ms. Lau?” Feng said at the same time.

“Kennedy was identifying himself with the German people,” Lia said patiently. “The story went around — I think it was even in the

New York Times — about how his use of the indefinite article, ein, made it seem like he was calling himself a pastry. In fact, in German the indefinite article is left out when you’re talking about someone’s profession or place of residence, but it’s absolutely necessary when you’re speaking figuratively, as Kennedy was. He wasn’t literally from Berlin. He was only declaring his solidarity with the city’s citizens, in a city divided and barricaded by the Soviets. So ‘Ich bin ein Berliner’ was completely correct.”

“I’ve heard that people in Berlin don’t call themselves Berliners,” Feng said. “They reserve that name for jelly-filled doughnuts.”

“Not true,” Lia told him. “The things are called Berliners elsewhere in Germany, but here they’re called Pfannkuchen — pancakes, for some odd reason.”

“I hope you’re sure of your facts, Lia,” Blake told her over the communications link. “That’s not what it says here.” Blake and the other Art Room personnel had access to various guidebooks and reference works, as well as the entire Internet to call upon. If Feng asked her something she didn’t know, they would be able to provide the answer in seconds.

But Blake, Lia knew, was wrong. She was relying on a different source, one she trusted.

“So … you speak German?” Feng asked her.

“Some,” she admitted.

“You seem unusually well versed in the language for an American.”

“Danke. I’m interested in people, Mr. Feng, and in their stories. Urban legends like that Kennedy story fascinate me, because of what they tell us about people.”

“Oh? And what does I-am-a-doughnut tell you about people, Ms. Lau?”

“That too often they jump to conclusions or generalizations, or rely on outright bad information, without checking the source. One of the biggest challenges I face working in PR is cleaning up the mess after someone important puts his foot in it — usually because that someone spoke first and checked his sources later.”

The waiter appeared with the cappuccinos Feng had ordered. After he paid the man, Feng’s gaze dropped to her chest again, and she leaned forward just a bit, “accidentally” giving him a better view. The idiot could look all he wanted — and if he cared more about that than her experience and her brains, so much the better. It just gave her another weapon in her arsenal.

“Diane … may I call you Diane?”

“It’s Ms. Lau,” she told him. “At least for now.”

“Don’t alienate him, Lia,” Blake said in her ear. “You’re supposed to be swooning all over the guy.”

She ignored the advice. Sometimes it was better to play hard to get, and her legend, the fictitious background created for her by Desk Three, emphasized that she was a hard-nosed professional.

“Of course, Ms. Lau,” Feng said, and he smiled. “For now.”

Lia glanced down into her cup, then looked up, bemused. The barista had expertly poured the steamed milk to create an incredibly delicate image of two intertwined hearts surrounded by lace. Had that been Feng’s idea? Or a misinterpretation of the meeting by the barista? She wondered if Feng had the same picture in his cup, but she wasn’t going to lean closer for a look. Instead, she stirred the picture away, then took a cautious sip. The cappuccino was strong and slightly bitter.

“I very much liked your resume, Ms. Lau,” Feng said after a moment. “A double major in public relations and communications from Berkeley,

and a minor in anthropology. I like smart women.”