“Don’t be,” she said. “He’s with them.”
The landing craft were anchored ahout ten meters apart, in long rows. They hopscotched toward shore, resting every few minutes and making sure that there were no patrols nearby. They were nearly to the wharf when Zeus spotted an army truck trolling along the far side.
“We’ll have to look for another place to land,” he told the others. “I think farther east.”
“We should go this way,” said Solt. “We can take one of the small boats and go to the beach.”
“Back by the city?” asked Christian.
“We can change our clothes,” she said.
“You brought some?”
“Under the wet suit. In case.”
“I don’t have any clothes,” said Christian.
“I have yours,” said Zeus. He held up the ruck.
“Well then lead the way,” said Christian.
Solt waited until the truck had turned around before pushing off from the side of the landing craft. The dock she was talking about was nearly a half mile off. Zeus felt tired before he’d taken more than a dozen strokes. He put his head down, willing himself forward.
He’d almost reached the boat when he heard an explosion in the distance. He stopped and turned, looking back in the direction of the landing craft they’d put the charges on. He couldn’t see it because of the other landing craft in the way.
A fireball shot up from the ocean. Then there was a loud crack, and a red glow in the distance where the patrol boat would have been.
“I set the charges on the patrol boat,” said Christian. “I didn’t figure you’d object.”
“When?”
“I did it right after we took it over. You think I’m going to leave something like that for the last minute? All I had to do was press the button.”
“Good work,” said Zeus.
“We better get moving. The landing craft should explode any second. My bet is the fishing boat will, too.”
28
Jing Yo parked the van in a cluster of cars near one of the doors, backing into a spot that allowed him to observe the loading dock and another service entrance on the side. He got out, planning to look in the nearby cars for spare IDs — a violation of security protocols so common that it was generally unpunished, especially at a place like the museum, where security was usually not a high priority.
The first car was locked. Not seeing anything that would make it worth breaking into, Jing Yo moved on to the second car. He was just opening the passenger door when a worker opened the service door at the side of the building and walked out.
The man stuck his hand into the pocket of his blue mechanics overalls and pulled out a cigarette. Cupping his hands against the light breeze, he lit up, took a puff, then began walking toward the two heating company trucks parked a short distance away.
Jing Yo watched. He expected that the man would get into the cab of the truck and drive off. Instead, the man went to the back of the truck and opened it, climbing in for some part or tool he needed inside.
Jing Yo left the car and circled back, angling toward the rear of the truck just out of view from the interior.
He would take him with his hands. Shooting would be too loud.
Jing Yo was almost at the back of the truck when the employee jumped out, the vehicle rocking on its shocks. The man looked at him in surprise. Jing Yo was surprised as well — the man was a Chinese-American, which for some reason Jing Yo hadn’t expected.
“I wonder if you have a cig,” said Jing Yo.
“Cig?” The man looked bewildered, and slightly annoyed.
“Cigarette?”
“Yeah, I guess I got one,” said the worker, digging into his pocket. “Damn things cost a fortune,” he added, taking the pack and shaking a cigarette out. “Here.”
It seemed odd to be complaining about your own sense of charity. Jing Yo took the cigarette, then watched the man pull out another for himself. The worker put his parts down — there were small pieces of electronics gear — and lit up. Then he handed Jing Yo the lighter.
“You work here?” asked the man.
“Yes.”
“Nice place, huh? Pay okay?”
Jing Yo shrugged. The other man laughed.
“Don’t worry. I’m not looking to take your job.”
“What are you fixing?” Jing Yo asked.
“The safety cutoff on boiler two is your big problem,” said the man. “You guys are lucky I found the parts in the truck. Boss wanted me to drive back to the warehouse. Forget that, man.”
“Don’t you need an access badge?” asked Jing Yo.
“You mean a card to get in? Nah — I stuck a doorstop in there. You’ll open it for me, right? If I need it.”
“Sure.”
“Have we met?” the man asked. “You look familiar. You live in Kew Gardens?”
Jing Yo shook his head. “I come from China,” he said in Chinese.
“Huh?”
If the man had answered him, or even shown some recognition of the language, Jing Yo might have spared his life. But the man’s ignorance of his ancestral language broke the small spell his Asian roots had cast.
Jing Yo stepped forward quickly and swung his left leg up in a hard kick that caught the worker in the chest, doubling him over. A chop on his neck sent him to the pavement.
Two kicks to the side of his head finished him.
Jing Yo picked him up and put him in his truck. The man was a little shorter than he, and the coveralls didn’t quite fall to his shoe tops. But they were roomy enough for him to move his arms easily, and gave him a good place to hide his pistol.
A toolbox hid the P90 submachine gun.
Jing Yo turned abruptly, angry that he was being stopped. “Your heating system has difficulties,” he said.
The woman frowned at him. “I know it has
“It may take a few hours.”
“A few hours? It was supposed to be fixed by nine. It’s a quarter past.”
Jing Yo stared at her.
“We have some important guests coming,” she continued. “You have to fix it quickly.”
“We need parts.”
“Get them. And get it fixed.”
