I go back around to the front of the shop and carefully peer through the display window. The place is dark except for a lamp that illuminates the desk and cash register in the back. The best bet is the alley door. I return to the back of the building and use my lock picks to unlock the door. The dead bolt gives me five minutes’ worth of trouble but eventually it gives and I’m inside.
The security keypad is immediately to my left. It’s blinking and beeping and I know I have fifteen or twenty seconds to punch in the code Anna Grimsdottir provided. As soon as I press the sequence of buttons, the system deactivates. Nice.
I’m in a storeroom full of boxes and dusty goods. Lots of crap that someone might call antiques. There’s a full bookshelf along one wall and a small bathroom with a door. But no staircase to a basement. There has to be another way down there.
I look inside the shop proper and find nothing out of the ordinary. The papers on the desk are invoices and such, neatly arranged and organized. I run my hand beneath the counter, searching for trick levers or buttons, but find none. Returning to the storeroom, I begin to examine the walls for telltale signs of secret doors. Again, my thermal vision comes in handy when I get to the bookshelf. Faint traces of light leak from the edges between two sets of cases. The access to the basement is behind them.
The bookcases don’t budge, though. I pull on the sides, try lifting the sides, and search for more trick levers and buttons. Nothing. I remember seeing a play on stage in which one of the characters opened a trick door by pulling out a particular book. It’s a device that’s been used hundreds of times but it works. I figure what the hell? — so I begin to pull out the books on each shelf, one at a time. There are about fifty but I go through them quickly. When I get to the shelf that is shoulder level, I notice two books that are slightly forward, as if they’ve been moved recently. A book of Shakespeare and a book about Christopher Marlowe. I figure one must go with the other, so I pull out one and then the other. I hear a latch give way and the bookcase pops ajar. I open it and, sure enough, there’s a spiral staircase descending to the floor below.
The stairs squeak much too loudly as I go down so I stop and take them one at a time slowly. When I’m halfway I hear snoring. I take the rest of the stairs at a snail’s pace but from the way the guy is sawing logs I don’t think I have anything to worry about. When I get to the bottom, I see him sitting at a desk. He’s wearing a jacket and tie and is lying on top of the game of solitaire he was playing. There’s a bottle of Russian vodka on the floor beside his chair. So much for Russian efficiency.
I move to the man and ask, “Are you awake?” in Russian. He snorts, mumbles, and then turns his head the other direction. The snoring begins again in earnest. He reeks of vodka so I figure I can go about my business without disturbing him. From the looks of the guy, he’s going to need several hours to sleep this one off.
There are a couple of doors along the corridor, both leading into separate offices. At the end of the hall is a larger room full of more boxes and crates. I take a look and can immediately see that this storeroom isn’t for the antique shop. A wooden box the shape of a coffin is full of assault rifles. On shelves lining the walls are various handguns of all makes and calibers. On another shelf is a collection of timers, material that appears to be plastic explosive, and boxes of ammunition.
In the middle of the floor is an open crate, one recently unpacked. Straw lies around the crate and the lid is against the wall. I examine the interior but there’s nothing inside; however, the missing contents left an impression in the straw of an object that was maybe eight inches wide by thirty-six inches long.
I examine the crate for other clues as to what it contained but it’s unmarked. I then look at the lid and see the logo and words burned into the wood, along with the shipping invoice. It reads, in Russian, Chinese, and English, PERISHABLE — FORMANOVA CYLINDRA BEETS — KEEP AWAY FROM HEAT. The crate was shipped from Moscow.
Beets? No way. Then I remember what I found in General Prokofiev’s house. That list of missing nuclear weapons. Frances Coen told me the general’s handwritten note by one of the listings was the recipe for borscht. Beet soup. Could this be…?
I leave the storeroom and make my way back to the first office. My friend the Russian guard is still building a log cabin, oblivious to the world. I close the door, sit at the desk, and boot up the computer. Much of the software is in Russian. I go to the e-mail program and try to get past the log-in screen but can’t.
“Anna? Someone? Are you there?” I ask, pressing my implant.
“Here, Sam. What’s up?” It’s Grimsdottir.
I give her the e-mail address for the computer and its server. “I need a password, and fast.”
While I wait, I putter around the hard drive, taking a look at Word files and other programs. There’s a folder containing several Excel spreadsheets that are obviously inventory lists with purchase and profit designations. I run searches for “Jon Ming,” “JonMing,” “Ming,” “Lucky Dragons,” “Shop,” and “Mike Chan” but come up with zilch. Then I search for “Barracuda” and come up with a folder with that name. I open it and see several saved e-mails. Some of them are from Prokofiev in Moscow. Reading them, I come to realize that once again, for the second time in a year, I’m sitting at the desk belonging to Andrei Zdrok, the Shop’s leader. So he’s here in Hong Kong. I might have known, seeing that his other two flunkies are in the colony as well.
Prokofiev’s messages are in coded gobbledy-gook but I can make out something concerning shipments of materials to Hong Kong from Russia, and orders to make sure something from America is delivered to China.
There’s a folder marked GYROTECHNICS and it contains some e-mails from someone named GoFish@GyroTechnics. com. These are written either in very poor English or it’s some kind of shorthand code. I quickly scan them and then come across the word professor. The gist of the message is that the author’s brother provided the professor’s materials to “JM.” Jon Ming? It’s signed E. W.
“Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“I have something for you.” She gives me a six-character letter-and-number combination. “Try that and see if you get in.”
I do, and it works. “Anna, I guess you’re still on my birthday card list,” I say.
“What about me?” I hear Coen ask.
“You just might get a card and a piece of cake,” I say.
“Thanks a lot.”
I look through the recently received e-mails and find one from GoFish. It says that his brother is now in town and needs to get out of the country quickly. A brand-new message in the in-box is from “GoFish2.” I can’t believe what I see when I open it.
Andrei—
It’s me, Mike Wu, formerly Mike Chan. As you know, Eddie is my brother. We have just learned that JM has canceled the purchase of the Barracuda GS. We want to sell it to you directly. Contact me ASAP. We don’t have much time. I need to get out of Los Angeles immediately.
— Mike
I quickly upload these files to my OPSAT and turn off the computer. While I’m doing so I consider all the various bits of information I’ve gathered in Russia and in Hong Kong. The way I figure it, Mike Chan was the mole inside Third Echelon. He arranged to deliver MRUUV classified secrets from Professor Jeinsen to the Lucky Dragons. The Shop then bought this material and sold them to another party. Mike and his brother, whoever that is, are in possession of one more piece of Jeinsen’s work. Jon Ming doesn’t want to go through with the transaction so Mike is trying to sell the thing to the Shop without the Triad acting as middleman.