Hayden glanced at the secret video camera that had been installed in the conference room high up in a corner. She knew Gates was watching from his office on the Hill. His interest in Lauren Fox was a little odd to say the least.
Hurriedly, she quelled those thoughts. “Tell us more about the two men?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary. Both rich. One an American, the other Chinese, I think. The American was tall, well-built. The Chinese guy short and wide. One time—” She half-laughed. “As our session became more in-depth, another Chinese guy barged into the room and asked a question. It sounded like a request, you know? When the first guy answered — totally breaking character — the second saluted and rushed away.”
“Wait.” Dahl held up a hand. “When you say Chinese. Could he have been Korean?”
Lauren made a face. “I guess.”
Hayden caught Ben’s eye. “Bring up a list of prominent Korean officials.”
“Oh God.” Stevens suddenly began muttering. “Oh dear God. That’s it.”
Kinimaka glanced toward Hayden before addressing the truck driver. “That’s what?”
“It were earlier that night. Some kid told us ’bout a free private dining room. Hotel normally charges a bundle for ’em. We was drunk and happy enough even by then to think it a good idea. So we went looking.” Stevens sniffed. “Didn’t think nothin’ of it at the time. We barged into this room — a well-dressed American and a chinaman — or mebbe Korean. The Korean was wearing a jacket full of medals. Looked pretty official like, I dunno, an officer maybe? They seemed shocked when we rushed in. A few bodyguards herded us out like goats. We laughed about it, then went back to the bar, giving up on the idea of the private room. Oh crap. Is that it?”
Ben turned his laptop around, the screen partially filled by a man’s face. “That him?”
“I’m pretty sure that’s the Korean dude. Yeah.”
Lauren stared. “Yes. That’s him. Is he important?”
“General Kwang Yong, of the Korean People’s Army, is leader of the Special Operations Force. The KPA consists of five branches, with this being the most obscure. Naturally.”
“What’s he doing in the U.S.?”
“Well,” Dahl said, “he’s the leader of an important branch of the largest military organization on earth. Take a bloody guess.”
Drake watched as Zanko waved one of the dull, galvanized nails before his eyes.
“Hold still, Mr. Drake. The first nail? It will only tickle.”
The point dug into Drake’s palm. Zanko fumbled with the hammer, his outsize, fleshy hand too big to maneuver it quickly and hang onto Drake at the same time. “Vladimir!” he cried. “Bystro!”
Zanko nodded at Drake. “Just be moment, my friend. Did you know…?” His voice took on a matter-of-fact tone. “That I once did smother a man to death using my armpits?”
He twisted his body so one was revealed. Drake almost gagged at the sight of thick locks of matted hair, glistening with sweat and hanging from his arm like a gelled-up sheepdog.
Drake felt the pain of the nail being placed in the center of his palm. Vladimir pulled back the hammer. Romero rose behind him, shaking his head. The marine stared blankly, looking confused.
But his presence distracted Zanko. Vladimir struck with the hammer. Drake shifted his hand aside as Zanko looked to the side, conscious of the enemy at his back. As the hammer hit Zanko’s smallest finger, Drake struck like a snake, grabbing its handle and twisting away, turning, and in one complete move buried the claw in Vladimir’s shoulder.
The man screamed. Zanko grunted. Romero’s eyes began to clear. Drake might be a battler, but he knew a bad fight when he was in the middle of one.
“Go!” He swore when Romero, still slightly befuddled, ran in the direction of the back office, toward even more trouble. Using every ounce of energy, he leapt free of the corner and put a precious few feet between himself and Zanko. The mountainous Russian roared at his heels.
Drake ran hard for the office door and then suddenly stopped, flinging himself to the side. Zanko, fast but still unable to stop his freight train body fast enough, hit the frame like an elephant hitting a brick wall. The entire cabin shuddered, its far end disturbed so much it fell entirely off its brick supports, crashing to the ground and upending everyone in the office.
Romero shouted. “Window!”
Drake paused though, just for a second. A sixth sense told him a minute spared here might save them hours or even days of trouble later. He looked at the walls, really looked at them, trying to digest and divine some kind of meaning.
A more recent map showed Iraq and its borders, its roads and towns. An older one showed ancient Babylon, mapped out by historians and experts, with several areas highlighted. Drake could make out the words “gate,” and “swords”, with the rest being obscured by a garish Post-it note covered in Russian scribble. A place called the Ishtar Gate was circled.
Still another picture was an ancient representation of something called The Tower of Babel, an old legend Drake was barely aware of. Far back in time, didn’t the people and the priests try to construct a tower of stone high enough to reach God?
Romero’s shouting and crashing tore his attention away. Zanko was already picking himself up off the floor, but his body was currently blocking the office door. The old Russian boss just knelt among his men, fixing Drake with an emotionless stare that made the Englishman shiver.
Such detachment in this situation was unreal.
Then Romero smashed the window and Drake dived out after him, bullets strafing their heels.
“So, the five of you stumbled across a Korean general on U.S. soil. The man never appeared dressed as a soldier to you, Lauren, giving you no reason to question him. You shouldn’t have mattered. That changed after Stevens and the other victims saw him. A decision must have later been taken to tie up all loose ends.” Hayden glanced from eye to eye. “Sound about right?”
“It most certainly does.” Dahl clicked his fingers. “But who’s the American?”
“His host.” Hayden turned briefly to the hidden eye. “An influential man, I presume.”
The conference phone rang immediately. Hayden answered and Gates spoke. “Time is of the essence, Jaye. Get them to make a photo fit of this guy. If the Koreans are here on U.S. soil trying to make a deal…”
Hayden flashed back to Dai Hibiki’s original message. “This could be all about arms, sir. Futuristic weapons.”
“It usually is, Jaye. It usually is.” Gates signed off, sounding weary. Hayden tapped the desk. “Lauren. Stevens. We need a picture of that American and we need it last week. Ben will help you with the photo fit. The rest of you — the Korean general clearly gives us a link to the island, but what about the strange assassins? They’re American — no doubt. And how does it fit in with Drake’s kidnapping ring? If it is somehow tied to the Koreans then why draw attention to themselves?”
“The deal on the table,” Kinimaka offered. “Might be humongous.”
“Then God help us.”
Outside, Romero threaded between big packs of timber. Hundreds of cubes of the stuff sat in the Russian yard, waiting to be picked over and sold, and the marine used the bulky, piled-high pallets as cover. Drake followed a step behind. Bullets sent wood chips flying in all directions; sharp splinters littered the ground.
“Go left!” Drake cried.
Romero ducked down an aisle, heading around the back of the big office now and toward their car. The shooting had momentarily stopped as men piled out of the broken window behind them. Romero jumped through the open car door without touching the sides. Drake looked up to see Vladimir, hammer still hanging from his shoulder, pushing out of the cabin door.