Mike shook his head and slapped the wall. “Damn it, Eddie.” He took a deep breath and finally resigned himself to the situation. “All right. But let’s go now. I’m dead tired.”
Jeff Kehoe could have sworn he had seen Mike Wu get out of the taxi that had stopped in front of GyroTechnics’ gate. The guy punched the call button and went inside before Kehoe could get a good look. The FBI agent wasn’t too worried, though. What went in eventually came out. As long as Kehoe stayed put in his car and kept his eye on the one road that led out of the facility, he’d be able to make a positive ID.
One of the L.A. field agents had spelled Kehoe overnight so that the FBI agent could get some sleep. Kehoe had resumed the stakeout outside of Wu’s apartment in Chinatown that morning. It wasn’t long before Wu emerged from the building and got into his BMW. Kehoe tracked Wu back to GyroTechnics to sit in the Lexus parked outside the compound, waiting for a sign that Mike Wu might have come into town. When the taxi pulled up to the gate and an Asian man got out, Kehoe was almost positive the fugitive had been located.
Kehoe called in to the FBI field office and told Nudelman what he suspected. He then waited for nearly two hours until Wu’s BMW finally appeared and left the premises. As the car passed, Kehoe got a good look at the two men in the car.
The driver was Eddie Wu, of course, and there was no doubt in Kehoe’s mind that the passenger was his brother Mike.
“Bingo,” Kehoe said to himself as he fired up the Lexus and followed the BMW at a safe distance.
20
“Sam, the Mercedes is moving down the West Kowloon Highway.”
Frances Coen’s words reverberate in my ear. I type a reply to her on my OPSAT: I’M RIDING IN A TAXI AND CAN’T SPEAK. COMMUNICATE BY OPSAT PLEASE.
It was simple to grab a taxi outside of the container port. They’re always hovering around the area, dropping off or picking up workers or shipping executives. I made an educated guess as to where the Russians’ Mercedes would be heading, so I told the cab driver to head south toward Kowloon.
I’m now able to pull up the satellite map on the OPSAT and track the Mercedes myself. I send a quick message to Coen, telling her I’ve got the car on my screen. She signs off and wishes me luck, adding that Colonel Lambert is pleased with the conversation I recorded between the Shop guys and the Lucky Dragons. I’ve succeeded in establishing the link between Professor Jeinsen and the Triad and, indirectly, Jeinsen’s connection to the Shop. Now it’s up to the suits in Washington to decide what to do next. I’m wondering if I’ll get to go home now, but another text message appears on the OPSAT: TRY TO FIND OUT WHAT THE SHOP IS UP TO IN HONG KONG. WHAT THE HELL IS OPERATION BARRACUDA? L.
Good question. Oh, well, I knew it was wishful thinking on my part, wanting to go home.
I wonder what Katia is doing.
The Mercedes gets off the highway at Tsim Sha Tsui, so I have the cab driver do the same. He asks me again in Chinese where I’m going — there might be a shortcut around the heavy street traffic. I tell him I know what I’m doing and to just follow my directions.
We catch up with the Russians near Harbour City. I can see the black Mercedes in front of us, pulling over near Ocean Terminal. I ask the driver to stop and wait a moment. Then Antipov and Herzog get out of the Mercedes and walk away. Their driver moves the Mercedes away from the curb and into traffic, presumably toward a parking garage. I decide to follow Abbott and Costello, since they’re a part of the Shop’s top brass.
I pay the cab driver and get out. I’m pretty good at tailing someone on foot. Practicing stealth when you’re alone in the dark is one thing; stealth when you’re on a crowded city street is completely different. You have to blend in, not look conspicuous, and be flexible with your pace of movement. It’s important to keep a steady distance between the prey and yourself but not appear to be rushing. Sometimes, if the prey stops, you have to pause and pretend to be interested in something while you wait for the quarry to move again. It’s pretty standard stuff. There are also antisurveillance moves you can make to ascertain that no one is following you. But when you’re doing the tailing, that can be difficult. I’m fairly confident that no one is behind me. As for the Russians, they’re pretty naïve. Any jerk could follow these guys. They seem to be paying no attention to what’s behind them. They don’t have a care in the world.
As I expected, they make their way to the Star Ferry, on their way to Hong Kong Island. Once they’re aboard, I linger just long enough to meld into a crowd of Chinese and Caucasian businessmen swarming through the gate and onto the boat. Antipov and Herzog step into the lower-deck quarters and take seats on a bench next to the wall. They are deeply embroiled in conversation, oblivious to what’s around them. I position myself across the room, picking up a discarded newspaper to hide behind. I know it sounds cliché, but that’s what you do.
The ferry ride between Kowloon and Hong Kong is always pleasant. Despite the rather foul stench of the harbor, it’s a short, relaxing trip that could be quite enjoyable if I weren’t on the job. At one point, Antipov stands and points to something outside the window. Herzog looks and nods. Antipov resumes his seat and the two men are silent. Herzog shuts his eyes and slumps for the remaining few minutes of the journey.
Ashore, I follow the men off the ferry to the taxi stand. Damn. This is where it gets tricky. I hurry to get in line behind them, with a buffer of two parties between us, and keep my nose in the newspaper just in case one of them turns around. I note the number of the taxi they climb into and then wait as patiently as I can for my turn. When I finally get into a cab, I point to the Russians’ taxi up ahead, which is luckily stuck in traffic at the end of the block. The driver understands and nods his head. He throws the car into drive and screeches away from the curb. He makes an illegal move around the stalled cars in front of him, passing them in the oncoming traffic lane. So much for not attracting attention.
But the driver is good. As soon as traffic begins to move he slips into it, two car lengths behind the Russians. He takes it easy from then on, following the other cab with discretion.
We head west on Connaught Road until the Russians’ taxi pulls off onto Morrison Street. Eventually they reach Upper Lascar Row—“Cat Street”—and stop. I pay my driver and give him a huge tip, which he appreciates by showing me his rotten, discolored teeth.
The two Russians walk up Cat Street to a small antique shop. I stand across the road and watch as they enter the building. A sign above the door says it’s the Hong Kong-Russian Curios store. Interesting.
After a few minutes I cross the street and walk by the shop. I look through the window and see a Chinese man sitting at a desk in the back and polishing a small statue. The Russians are not in the store. There’s an Employees Only door next to the desk, and I must presume that they went through it to another area of the building. A basement, perhaps?
I note the sticker displayed in the window that informs potential burglars that Hong Kong Security Systems, Inc., protects the shop. I press my implant and ask Coen to get Grimsdottir to hack into the company’s records and come up with a security access code I can use. She acknowledges and then I go back across the street.
During the next half hour no one enters or exits the shop. I snap a couple of photos and then decide there’s nothing more to do now. Best to return after dark.
That’s when my job is more fun.
It’s just after midnight when I arrive at the antique shop dressed in full uniform. The first thing I do is circle the block and pop through the alley behind the store. There’s an expected employee exit but I also notice an unusual outline in the pavement on the ground next to the building. It’s almost as if someone had taken a stick and drawn a ten-foot-by-five-foot rectangle in the wet cement when it was first poured. Using my thermal vision, I notice there is heat beneath the outline — I can just make out thin slivers of light. Unlike most loading lifts that carry boxes to a shop basement, someone took great care to see that this one was hidden from view. Anyone without my training would never realize it’s there.