The gun was loaded, the safety was off, and the hammer mechanism was functioning free and clear, as his father used to describe it. The former army officer was the one who first taught his son how to shoot. Chichang slipped the weapon back into the holster as his heart began to speed up. The inspector had discharged his gun only once in all his years on the police force. That was during a raid on a drug factory in a harbor warehouse. He had wounded a pusher in the shin when the individual swung an AK-47 toward him. The victim was fifteen. He was sentenced to the same number of years in prison. Chichang was commended for his restraint.
The patrol car tore through the misty morning. They reached the hotel in under five minutes. Two of the other cars had already arrived. They parked in the small underground garage. As the ranking officer, Chichang was in charge of the operation. He told the two hotel security men to make sure all the exits were locked, including roof and cellar doors. Then he went to the front desk. According to the concierge, 418 was the only room in which two men were registered. Chichang asked the bellman to describe the layout of the floor. The room was relatively near the elevators. The two men might hear the bell if he went up that way.
The hotel was one of the older structures in the district, and there was only one stairwell. There were two windows, which overlooked the rooftop of a small grocery store. It was a two-story drop. Chichang instructed one of the police officers to go to that roof. He had one of the housekeepers go with him to point out the window of 418. If either of the men tried to escape, the officer was to open fire. His goal was to keep them inside, not to kill them.
The inspector took a master key from the desk and ordered Yilan and two other men to come with him. He sent one of the men to the fifth floor so the bombers could not go up. He left the other man on the third floor to block their descent. He and Yilan exited on the fourth floor. Yilan’s job was to make sure that if the two men got past him, they did not try to get into another room and take hostages. The bombers had taken a corner room beside a linen closet. The room on the other side was occupied by a couple from England.
“I’m wondering if we should wait for the bomb squad and body armor,” Yilan said. “They may have more explosives.”
“If we’re quick, they won’t have time to prime them.”
“They may already have done so,” Yilan observed.
“If we wait too long, they may hear the quiet, start to wonder if something is wrong. We need to move quickly if we want to surprise them.”
“What about a chain on the door? Surely they would have used one.”
“That’s why I need you here,” the inspector said. They reached the door, and Chichang removed his handgun. He handed the brass key to Yilan. “You open it,” he whispered, pointing toward the room. Then he hunkered his right shoulder toward the door and put his weight on his right leg.
Yilan nodded in understanding.
He put the key in the lock as carefully as he could to make as little noise as possible. He turned to the right. The deadbolt slid back, and the door popped open. The chain was not on. But there was a very thin wire between the door and the jamb. It moved when the door swung inward. It pulled a plug from a detonator cap. The cap was stuck in a wad of plastique. It blew the top half of the door and the frame outward, slashing the two police officers with pieces of wood ranging from splinters to large fragments. They screamed and were tossed backward by the blast. Yilan took the brunt of the explosion, which tore a large, lethal hole through his rib cage. Chichang lost most of his face in the initial explosion. He also lost his right hand when the gunpowder in the shells detonated. He lay on the floor, his legs stretched across the carpet as his own blood mingled with that of Yilan.
The two bombers tossed aside the bedspread they had been holding over their heads. They pushed open the shattered door, stepped over the two bodies, and ran down the hall. They had been alerted by a call from the front desk. The Guoanbu maintained a covert sleeper presence in several Taiwanese businesses. This hotel was one of them. The concierge had no idea how the bombers were pinpointed. The only thing they could think of was that the cell phone had been compromised in some way. They had placed a short call to a relay boat in the East China Sea, letting their employer know that they had escaped the site. If they had been injured or captured, it could have led investigators to Director Chou.
The linen closet was unlocked, and the two men ducked inside. The officers who had been stationed on the staircase came running when they heard the blast. The bombers waited until they heard the men talking beside the blownout door. Then they pushed open the closet door and ran to the stairwell. The door afforded them the moment of cover they needed to get away.
The two men hurried down the concrete steps. They got off on the second floor, which had a ballroom and a small kitchen. The doors were unlocked. They went inside, swung around a butcher-block island, and went to an emergency exit. It was there in case of fire in the kitchen. The steps were inside and led to a nondescript door near the Dumpster in an alley. Unless someone knew it was there, they would not think to look for it. The men listened, heard nothing, then opened the door a crack. There was no one in the alley. The CID had done a classic off-premises entry. The patrol cars were probably parked in a place where they would not have been heard or seen.
The two men walked into the damp, chill, early morning mist. They had arrived that same day and had no luggage. The explosives had been provided by a mainland loyalist in the Taiwanese military. They had planned to leave Taiwan the same way they came in, by a China Airlines flight through Tokyo. They would still do so, only now they would spend the next few hours at the White Wind all-night bar on Kunming Street instead of in their hotel room.
They had no way of notifying Director Chou that they had escaped. The cell phone had been attached to the plastique they applied to the door. The concierge had said he would call the boat with news of the getaway.
The men walked to the bar and went directly to the lavatory to wash the distinctive tart smell of the plastique from their hands. The bedspread, at least, had prevented their clothes from being covered with dust. They had walked off any traces that might have stuck to their soles.
Dawn came quickly, burning off the mist and allowing the two bombers to slip away, like human vapor.
EIGHTEEN
Paul Hood felt mortified after talking with Mike Rodgers, though he was not sure why.
Horseshit, he scolded himself in a flash of candor. You know damn well what the reason is. He was humiliated because Mike Rodgers had come out on top. The guy who had been dismissed had not only landed upright but next to a ladder that let him scurry right back to the top. And beyond. Hood had landed on his ass and had to be picked up by the president and dusted off by the chief of staff. As Hood discovered, and as Rodgers had intimated, that was not a pleasant experience.