Richards said, “As best we can determine, debris blown outside the reactor was collected and buried in bunkers somewhere nearby.”
“Have the Ukrainians reported any thefts? Any missing material?” Fisher asked.
“No, but that doesn’t surprise us. Hell, for days after the explosion the Soviet government continued to call it a ‘minor incident.’ Even if they knew about something fishy, we wouldn’t expect them to tell anyone.”
Fisher could see what was coming. Aware of the missing material or not, when this revelation became public, Ukraine—and by proxy, Russia—would be held complicit, a silent partner in Iran’s attack on the United States and the deaths of what could be as many as five thousand people.
In his mind’s eye Fisher imagined a chessboard. What part did this news play? Was this a distraction strategy, the white knight jumping its way toward the black king, or something more—that lone pawn no one is paying attention to? Or was it exactly what it seemed: Iran’s Queen’s Gambit?
“We have some leads?” Fisher asked. “Chernobyl’s Exclusion Zone covers a lot of territory. I assume you’re not asking me to wander around with a Geiger counter waiting to get lucky.”
“No. We’re working to identify the bunkers most likely to contain the debris we’re interested in. We also have some human assets in Ukraine that might point us in the right direction.”
“What’s our timeline?”
“You’ll leave in five days,” Lambert replied.
Richards closed his folder and stood up. “I’ll leave you to it. Fred, good luck.”
“Thanks.”
ONCERichards was gone, Lambert said, “Sam, this is a volunteer mission. You can decline with no questions asked.”
“I’ll go. How often do you get a tour of Chernobyl? One question, though: How long can I walk around that place before my hair starts falling out?”
“Longer than you think,” Grimsdottir said. “Don’t worry, we’ve got you covered. I’ll brief you once you’re en route.”
Lambert said, “While the CIA is putting the pieces into place, we’ve got another lead—or maybe a red herring—for you to chase down. Go ahead, Grim.”
“The microfiche you found in Kolobane’s office was a gold mine. There was nothing specific about either the Tregoor the Sogon,but there was loads of information on the diesel engines installed aboard the Trego.”
“Another finger pointing at Iran?” Fisher asked.
“Maybe, maybe not. The engines were purchased and transported to Kolobane by a company called Song Woo Limited out of Hong Kong.”
“Another layer of the onion.”
“Unfortunately, I’ve found no trace of the company in cyberspace.”
“Which means a personal visit,” Fisher said.
28
HONG KONG
“ SLOWdown,” Fisher ordered the driver, whose grasp of English was weak but probably better than he let on. Some taxi drivers didn’t want to be bothered with “touristy” questions, and nothing shuts up a tourist quicker than a Hong Kong driver’s practiced “Eh?”—which is exactly what he gave Fisher now.
“Slow down,” Fisher repeated in Cantonese.
The driver slowed the taxi and Fisher stared out the window at the line of darkened windows trolling by. The characters on the windows were Chinese, but Fisher had memorized the ones he was looking for. It appeared in the window of the fourth storefront: SONG WOO LTD.
“Stop,” Fisher said in Cantonese.
The street was more alley than thoroughfare, dark and narrow and bracketed on both ends by the bustling nightlife of Kowloon, most of which involved laborers coming from or going to work, and shop owners closing down for the day. It had been raining all afternoon and the pavement glistened under the illumination of a lone streetlight farther down the alley. In the distance, like a faint melody, he could hear the sing-song babble of voices speaking in Mandarin and Cantonese.
Following Grimsdottir’s map, he’d taken a taxi from his hotel on Hong Kong Island and through the Cross Harbor Tunnel to this mostly commercial area of Kowloon—commercial only on its face, Fisher knew. Many of the businesses were owned and run by families who lived in apartments above the shops.
Song Woo Limited’s storefront stood out for two reasons: One, it was situated between an herbalist and a dim sum kiosk; two, the space was vacant—a rarity in Hong Kong, one of the most densly populated cities on the planet.
“What’s that sign say?” Fisher asked in English.
“Eh?”
Fisher handed a five-dollar bill—about forty HKD—over the seat.
“Say, ‘For Lease,’ then give phone number for agent.” The driver recited the number.
The fact that the space was still unleased told Fisher Song Woo Ltd. had only recently been vacated.
Fisher handed over another bill. “You know this place?” The driver grabbed the dollar, but Fisher held on. “You know how long it’s been here?”
“Maybe two month. Gone last week. Never see nobody.”
“Okay, take me back.”
The driver drove to the end of the alley and turned onto the main road. Fisher let him get three blocks away, then said, “Let me out here.” He paid the fare and got out, then flipped open his satellite phone and speed-dialed. Grimsdottir answered: “Extension forty-two ninety.”
“Hey, it’s me. Aunt Judy isn’t home, but she left a forwarding number.” He recited the leasing agent’s phone number. “Give her a call and let me know what you find out.”
“Will do.”
Fisher hung up and started walking. In the distance, over the stacked rooflines of Kowloon, he could see a rainbow of searchlights crisscrossing the sky. This was a nightly event in Hong Kong, a light show atop the sky-scrapers that lined the shores of Victoria Harbor. In contrast, here he was just a few miles inland walking past a coop full of clucking chickens. This was the lure of Hong Kong: two worlds, the modern and the traditional, crowded into a chunk of land one third the size of Rhode Island.
He took a circuitous route through the streets and alleys until certain he wasn’t being followed, then made his way back to the alley where Song Woo was located. He wasn’t hopeful of finding anything in the deserted office, but it was an i he needed to dot.
He found the alley as he’d left it: dark and deserted. He felt slightly naked without his tac-suit, but his pants were black and after turning it inside out, his jacket was as well.
He clicked on his flashlight and gave the door a quick study. He clicked off the flashlight and pulled a pick set from his pocket and went to work. Twenty seconds later, he got a satisfying snickas the lock snapped back. He eased open the door, slipped through, and shut it behind him.
The office, no bigger than an average bedroom, was devoid of furniture and furnishings. Even the overhead fluorescent lights were missing from their fixtures. At the back was a closed door. Inside he found storage closet lined with empty shelves. Sitting in the corner on a table was a multifunction printer/fax/copier. On its back side he found a sticker with Chinese characters.
He pulled out his sat phone, took picture, and sent it to Grimsdottir with the caption “Translation?” Her answer came back sixty seconds later:
EXCELSIOR OFFICE RENTALS
15 CAMERON ROAD, STE 443
KOWLOON
CALL ME - GRIM