Dox had asked for a Heckler & Koch PSG/1, semiautomatic, with a twenty-round magazine, tripod, 6x42mm illuminated mil-dot reticle scope, and integral suppressor. In the same package was a 7.62mm Tokarev for me. Unless Dox had to switch to armor-piercing ammunition, we would both be using frangible rounds, with relatively low penetration power but devastating results at the range from which we would be working.
Dox had been as excited as a kid with a new toy. He took the rifle over to the deserted south side of Hong Kong to take it through its paces. I joined him with the Tokarev and the commo gear. Everything was working fine. I was careful not to give him the opportunity to get downrange of me with the rifle. I still didn’t trust him.
I was checking the bulletin board every hour, but no word from Kanezaki. Not the first day. Not the second.
On the evening of the second day, there was a message waiting for me: “He’s on the way. Call me!”
I wondered if he’d thought to try Dox’s cell phone first. Maybe I’d been wrong, and he hadn’t figured out that this had become a joint operation.
I called him. He picked up immediately. “Moshi moshi,” he said,
“It’s me.”
“You got the message.”
“Of course.”
“ ‘Of course.’ How was I supposed to know, if you didn’t call to confirm? I wish you would just use a damn cell phone. I really do.”
“Do we have to have this conversation again?”
There was a pause, and I wondered whether he was smiling. “No, we don’t,” he said.
“I’ll call you when it’s done.”
There was another pause, then he said, “Ki o nuku na yo.” Be careful.
I smiled. “Arigatou.” I hung up.
I picked up Dox and we drove to Kwai Chung. We parked the van in the parking lot of a nearby residential high-rise, reachable on foot from the hills overlooking the terminal entry gate. Each of us had a key to the van. If something went awry and only one of us made it back to the van, he’d still be able to drive away. We reviewed our plans one last time and separated to take up our positions. Dox was about thirty meters south of the gate, about a hundred and fifty meters distant and at maybe seventy meters elevation. I was thirty meters north, and much closer to the road. Dox would be doing the distance work; I would do the spotting, then follow up at close range. I was lying in a concrete-lined drainage culvert, which would provide cover from Dox’s position in case I’d been wrong about him. But this was still dangerous. He was a sniper, more than capable of stealthily achieving a new position.
At a little after two o’clock, I saw a dark sedan coming down Cheung Fi road. I raised the binoculars-a gorgeous, mechanically stabilized Zeiss 20x60 unit with antireflective lenses-and looked through them. The approaching car was a Lexus LS 430. Two Caucasians in front. The back looked empty, but the car’s interior was too dark to be sure.
I had been half-expecting to see Delilah in the car, although I knew the possibility was remote. She might not even know this meeting was going down tonight. And her role, as I understood it, was such that Belghazi would want to keep her separate from his business transactions. Most of all, I knew she was too specialized and valuable an operator to risk in an operation like a straightforward terrorist takedown.
“That him?” I heard Dox’s voice clearly through the earpiece.
“I’m not sure yet,” I said. “Too much glare on the windows from the streetlights, not enough light in the car. Hold on.”
The car continued past my position. The driver-side backseat was empty. I couldn’t be sure about the passenger side.
“Still no ID,” I said. “Hold on.”
The car pulled into the turnaround in front of the entrance, swung around so that it was facing the street, then backed up to within a couple of meters of the gate. The engine cut out. I watched through the binoculars, trying to imagine what this was, to understand why they weren’t going inside.
The front doors opened and two men got out. They looked Slavic to me: broad cheekbones, wheat-colored hair crew cut, white skin shining unhealthily in the light cast by the shipping facility behind them. They seemed uncomfortable in their dark suits, neither of which fit particularly well, and each was wearing a bright red tie. Ex-military, maybe, men unaccustomed to any uniform that wasn’t battle dress and choosing their ties in overreaction to a previous lifetime of nothing but olive drab. I decided to think of them as Russians. They looked around after exiting the car, and I thought their looks had the feel of an attempt at orientation. They certainly weren’t locals.
“Looks like a drug deal in the making,” I heard Dox say, and he was right, it did have that sort of illicit feel to it. I had expected them to drive into the container port, but it looked like the party was going to happen outside it. Which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
“I think they’re going to do the exchange right here,” I said. “Let’s see if our friend shows, too. As long as the gate stays closed, I’m going to let him pass my position. If he gets out of the car like these guys have done, you’ll have a stationary target and a clearer shot. You’re loaded up with the frangible ammo?”
“Unless you tell me to switch to the AP.”
“Good. Hang tight.”
“Roger that.”
Five minutes later, two more vehicles pulled onto the access road: a white van, followed by a black Mercedes S-class. I glanced over at the previous arrival. The Russians, talking to each other, were smoking cigarettes. The gate was still closed.
“Two more vehicles approaching,” I said.
“Roger that.”
I saw two Arabs in the front seat of the van, neither of whom was the target.
Three men were in the Mercedes. The driver was Arab, and I recognized him as one of Belghazi’s bodyguards from Macau. It looked like there were two men in back, but I couldn’t see well enough to know. Given the circumstances, though, I was reasonably sure about who the passengers were. Adrenaline kicked into my bloodstream.
“I think this is him,” I said. “In the Mercedes. Let’s let him go to the gate, like we said.”
“Roger that.”
The Mercedes stopped in front of the gate and backed in parallel to the Lexus. The van performed the identical procedure, parking so that the Mercedes was in the middle.
“They sure have fine taste in their automobiles,” I heard Dox say.
The van doors opened and two Arabs got out. Three men exited from the Mercedes. One Arab. One white guy. And one half-French, half-Algerian. Belghazi. Bingo.
“He’s here,” I said. “The one who just got out from the passenger-side rear of the Mercedes.”
Belghazi was walking over to the Russians. I watched as they shook hands.
“The one who’s shaking hands now?”
“That one, yeah.”
“Say the word and I’ll drop him.”
“Let’s give them just a few more seconds. I don’t see any money, and I don’t want to have to dig it out of a locked trunk or something.”
“Roger that.”
“Hang on for a second, I’m going to see if I can listen in. Keep him in your sights now.”
“He’s not going anywhere.”
I changed channels so the earpiece would receive from the parabolic mike. The reception was good. The men were exchanging pleasantries, in English. Good to see you, thanks for coming all this way. The two I’d been thinking of as the Russians had heavy accents that might have been Russian. I wasn’t sure.