The Ninja and the Diplomat, page 11
part #2 of The Chinese Spymaster Series
“Let’s meet tomorrow at the same place and then I think it will be good-bye. Best to leave you and Emilio in place as you were. Hashim needs his friends.”
“Yes, Emilio and I have already discussed this,” she replied. “We agree.”
***
The next day, Li followed Chen at a distance and waited the additional two hours for his own flight back to Beijing.
Contents
CHAPTER 12
The third Monday in Beijing
As usual, the air in Beijing was heavy with smoke and other pollutants, disguising any omen of gloom or hopefulness when Wang’s red phone rang early in the morning. He picked up at once.
“Good morning, Comrade Commissar,” greeted China’s diplomat extraordinaire.
“Deputy Minister Yu, how are you?”
“As you must have heard, I’ve had more excitement than I can stand. Do you have an hour after our meeting this morning?”
“I will be at your service. We can leave together from the CPS if you like.”
“Good. See you then.”
As Wang replaced the red phone to its cradle, there was a knock on his door. The assistant spymaster entered without further ado and declared, “I hope this is not an interruption.”
“This time is always reserved for you, Old Ma. It is a good idea to travel together to the CPS meeting. It saves time.”
On the way to the meeting, they discussed the latest developments related to Kim’s arms deal that had initiated the current intelligence mission.
“Chen has reported regarding the delivery of the stolen goods to Hashim. He was not able to get a look inside the crates that have been delivered in Manila but he confirms a small trace of radiation. It sounds similar to what was found in the warehouse in Macau. We still do not understand who is behind all this,” reported Ma although he knew Wang had already read and reflected on the report.
“The meeting between the Yu cousins suggests possibilities,” commented the old spymaster, “although Cousin Yu does not appear to be acquainted with the intentions of his manipulator. He may have been as much a pawn as the assistant quartermaster, the logistics manager at the army depot.”
“The Yakuza,” mused Ma. “It has an ominous tinge to it. I wonder if Cousin Yu is telling the truth or—”
“We must have faith in those doing the interrogation, unless we want to do it ourselves,” grumbled Wang, who always wanted to do things himself but had found the world, even his world, beyond the grasp of any one person. “Our diplomat may be able to shed some light on the matter. He has requested to meet with me after the CPS.”
Knowing that he would learn all the pertinent details disclosed at the meeting, Ma said amiably, “I’ll ask Gong and Owyang to come and pick me up so you can have the car all to yourselves. There are a few matters that concern us, as you know. Our nation’s actions in the East and South have been taken to be saber rattling. Reports from our assets in Japan and Vietnam are expected any time.”
“Purity of heart is to will one thing,” murmured Wang. As Ma looked puzzled, he continued, “It’s an obscure remark by an obscure philosopher in the old Europe. I don’t know if he is even read anymore. Anyway, it was a religious statement when he made it, but it has other applications.” As usual, Wang did not explain further, as if he intended by these utterances to challenge his assistants to think beyond the world of their post-revolutionary Chinese education. Ma remembered that Tang and Hu had advised not to ‘encourage’ the spymaster in his ramblings.
***
The meeting of the Committee on Public Safety on this day had moved beyond the pointed recriminations arising from General Deng’s admission of the failings in the nation’s armory the prior week. The army had pledged to comply fully with the Party Secretariat’s request for regular audits, but Commissar Long had not resisted some verbal digs. Today, the big news was the assassination attempt on the MFA representative, former ambassador Yu and his cousin nearly a week ago.
After Wang’s opening remarks which were briefer than usual, Yu explained,
“My father, like hundreds of thousands of Chinese, fought for the revolution while his older brother fought for the Nationalists. They both survived and the hope for reunification burned in both their hearts. Thirty years ago, they brought my cousin and me together in Shandong, a part of China that had been their ancestral home, our ancestral home. They made us swear we would carry on what they had dreamed to achieve in their era, that which has now become increasingly unlikely. We were to persevere in the grand hope.
“Our nation has many priorities, but it is no secret that hope remains for me, not only to be cherished, but also something to champion. I regret to say that I did not consult anyone when I received a request nearly three weeks ago from my cousin to help him in what he implied would advance this hope. It turned out that there are bad, dangerous consequences to that action.”
“What exactly did you do, deputy minister?” asked Commissar Long.
The Deputy Minister replied, “With due respect, Commissar, the matter is still in police hands. I have given them and my superiors at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs my assurance that I will remain until the end of the investigation. No doubt, the reports will make their way through Party channels very soon. I am sure you will hear the full story, even though I do not know if it is of national interest.”
“Does it have anything to do with the thefts at the Army warehouses?” the Commissar persisted.
Wang interrupted and stated, “It is possible that the separate incidents are related and yet unrelated at the same time. I recommend we await the findings of our investigators.”
He glanced at Wen, the police representative to the CPS, who said in a neutral tone, “Cousin Yu has been interrogated for five days. During the first day, we obtained no useful information as he was clearly exhausted and in shock. He has since made a voluminous statement that is self-contradictory in parts and incoherent in others. We have several specialists checking on the factual accuracy of his statement and I am happy to report that the police enjoy the cooperation of several entities represented at this table.”
“I trust,” added Wang, “that the appropriate Party officials are informed as you proceed.” There was a barely perceptible emphasis on the word “appropriate” in his statement.
Wen responded with good-humor, “Of course.” Finally, the message made its way into Commissar Long’s awareness and he abandoned further questioning.
“May I add,” Assistant Minister Zhang remarked, “that we and the Taiwanese have a very significant economic relationship and that for the purpose of making realistic plans we would be grateful for guidance on the likelihood that the hope of the Yu cousins might be realized.”
Spymaster Wang could not think of anything to say to fill the silence that appeared and lingered in the room until Yu advised, “Our leaders are not yet ready to decide what our goals should be in this matter or what steps should be taken. But it is possible we will not have long to wait.”
***
“Spymaster,” Yu began when they were in the intelligence agency car then hesitated, “may I call you Old Wang?”
“Old Yu,” replied Wang. “Why did you ever think otherwise?”
“Because, such familiarity might seem opportunistic after I tell you about the things my cousin led me to do.”
“Think nothing about it,” asserted Wang. “I trust that nothing Wen said came as a surprise to you?”
“No. I did not know about some details like the incoherence of my cousin’s memory, but it seems very likely he is incapable of telling the simple truth. He has lived such a life, it appears to me, that he not only lied to his father but also to himself.”
Wang merely nodded as Yu continued, “He asked me to help obtain an export license for his friend. I did not think to ask what would be exported. Had I done so, that would have been the end of all the grief. I would not have been implicated in the export of stolen goods from army supplies.”
“Don’t take all the blame,” replied Wang. “The thefts began months ago. What was critical, and for this there will be plenty of blame, is that there were a number of nuclear devices stolen and possibly exported.”
Yu was simply stunned at this revelation. Tears of anger and frustration came to his eyes. Some of those tears possibly were for himself.
Wang regarded his passenger without judgment. But he knew the following had to be said, “If you have not already disclosed the matter of the export license to your superiors and the cadre assigned to the MFA, you should do so as soon as you get back to the office. Naturally, you can count on me to do what I can on your behalf. But, to be honest, that may not be much.” The spymaster then looked away and drifted into an agitated reverie. “The political climate these days puts a premium on punishment, visible punishment. There is a need felt at present to make examples of a certain class of offenders.”
“Princelings,” muttered Yu bitterly.
“Even those with honorable intentions. By the way,” said Wang delicately, “if any money changed hands—”
“My cousin did give me a thick envelope. I did not even look to see what was in it though I assumed it was money.”
“You gave this away,” observed Wang.
“How did you know?” asked Yu. Then he made the connection between Wang and Hu. “Yes, it was to Hu. We were chatting at an SCO meeting and the conversation turned to the hard lot of those who live in rural areas. He mentioned his friend, the accidental death of his mother-in-law, and their plans to move into a nearby town. I thought it would be the right thing to do.”
“The investigators cannot be expected to determine between right and wrong. They can only decide what is legal and what is not. It is a puzzle to me, but then I know nothing of the law.” Wang’s tone was rueful, as if he did not have much hope for a good outcome.
“There is so much left to do,” Yu sobbed.
“I don’t know who else could shepherd us through the troubles we face over the Eastern Ocean and the South Sea,” declared Wang fervently.
“Our case is very strong over the Eastern Ocean,” declared Yu, relieved to turn his attention to questions and subjects familiar to him. “The Senkaku islands, which we know of as the Diaoyu islands, have never been Japanese in the same sense that Manchuria and Taiwan were never Japanese. They were taken by conquest and confirmed by unequal treaties during various administrations. The islands were given to the Japanese by those at the Treaty of Versailles over China’s vehement opposition. Later, after the second world war, the Americans had over-sight of those islands.”
“You have no need to persuade me,” exclaimed Wang with a chuckle.
“Our national interests, our needs and wants, in the South Sea are actually more acute,” explained Yu. “The legal or moral rights have been laid out for all to see. Our neighbors have objected but so far have not prevailed.”
“What are those interests?” Wang asked, adding with a smile, “My country right or wrong, but preferably right.”
“You should get minister Zhang to explain the interests to you. As for the rights, our claims have been made public and there have been challenges to them. I am doing what I can to help the MFA find bridges over the areas of disagreement.”
“You may not have much time,” replied Wang in a tone suddenly grave.
“I know,” Yu replied. “I’m not trying to be literal or heedless about the precarious nature of my personal situation, but there are those who need to understand that diplomatic pressure is real even though it cannot be seen.”
“Like gravity.”
“Exactly.”
***
The senior staff at the intelligence agency, except for Ma, had not met Yu, nor did they see how his story was related to their current investigation.
“Give us at least a day,” pleaded Owyang. “We know the logistics manager who supplied the arms for sale to the Filipino was killed. Now we learn that the person who orchestrated that arms deal is himself in danger and his personal assistant in China has probably been assassinated. This requires some deep thinking.”
“Whoever we are up against has already done his or their thinking,” Wang remarked. “We have to find out what they were trying to achieve. Then maybe we will find out who they are.”
“Let’s find out everyone Cousin Yu has talked to in the last year and determine if anyone might be the Yakuza. Can we do that?” demanded Ma.
“I shall get started immediately,” responded Owyang.
“I shall alert our assets in Japan,” declared Gong.
“Good idea, Old Gong,” agreed Wang. “I think we need to find out all we can about the Yakuza and his connections. He, I would guess, should be our primary suspect for the money involved in the arms deals. As has been pointed out, the expensive items are the nuclear devices. A small trace of radioactive material has been found in Manila. Where are the devices if not in Manila? My guess is that the Yakuza played a key role. Therefore, his motives deserve our closest attention.”
Contents
CHAPTER 13
The third Wednesday, somewhere in the Russian Federation
It had been dark in Macau when his prison door clicked open. He waited for five minutes until the lights in the hallway suddenly went off. That was his cue to be on his way. A large sum had changed hands and ‘arrangements’ had been made. He had been given directions that would take him out of the prison to a point where his own men would pick him up. They had been given instructions to drive to Hong Kong, from where there were frequent flights to Europe. He would probably never return to Macau.
Several sleepless days later, Viktor made his way at last to the local suburb of a city in the Russian Federation in which he felt most comfortable. He approached a small rooming house and chuckled at how different it looked from the outside to what it actually was, a fortress-like haven for a couple dozen regulars like himself.
A slim young woman he did not recognize was at the desk. She nodded to the small machines in front of her as he greeted her in the thickest accent he could manage. Her eyes remained sad but Viktor decided that was not because of her mood. Some people just had those eyes. On her, he decided, those eyes seemed to have a mystical appeal. He directed his attention to the small box with a tiny microphone that the establishment used for speaker verification. He said a name and recited a line of Russian poetry as he had always done. Then he placed his right palm on the glass surface of a sophisticated biometric scanner.
The woman glanced at a screen identifying Viktor, smiled through her sad eyes and handed him a pass-card, saying, “Your usual room is ready. Do you have any requirements other than the usual?” Viktor shook his head and tipped his cap as he stepped lightly into his only real home for twenty years. He didn’t always get the same suite of rooms and never resented it when he had to take another. But over the years, the rooms and building had become his home.
Viktor took a leisurely shower and answered a knock on the door. It was a maid with the usual requirements, two changes of clothes suitable for casual wear in the neighborhood during that season of the year. “Please leave anything else that comes for me at the front desk,” he requested gruffly. “I would like to try to sleep for a while.”
When he awoke, hours or days later, he went for a gentle jog around the neighborhood, mostly to drink in the sights and smells he felt nostalgic about. It was another glorious summer afternoon in the Motherland.
***
Viktor kept his eyes closed even as he awoke. He was aware of a raging thirst. It occurred to him that he had too much to drink but why did his throat have to feel like the Afghans he fought decades ago had poured a boot-full of the desert sand from near Herat into it? He wondered also about the aches and pains he felt, especially the pounding in his head. He felt the cool hard floor, thankful it was not winter. He was now convinced that he was in a bad place.
How had that happened? He was safe in a neighborhood he knew well and which knew the likes of him well. It was a rough place to be. There were fights on the street and sometimes in the bars. He had a distinct memory of the bars and the fights. He had been in two or three bars to see if he might meet with an acquaintance or two. The turnover of the local clientele sometimes slowed to permit such encounters. It did not happen that night for Viktor.
Or did it? Was there someone he had recognized just before the fight erupted? He had no idea how the violence had begun, but when the fists, glasses, bottles and chairs went flying, he was caught up in it. There was no doubt in his mind. Several times, he remembered, three, four or more muscular bodies had been flung or had flung themselves at each other. Viktor had been well schooled in handling himself in such situations although usually he was not alone. He avoided any and all belligerents and when he could not step away from a confrontation, he could defend himself as well as anyone. Yet he had been hit hard several times. His knuckles were skinned and sore, proof that he had hit out as well. A chair had finally crashed on his head. Did he see the bartender take a phone call just before that and signal to someone, perhaps someone he recognized?
“Water,” Viktor croaked. Then he shouted more loudly, “Give me some water! What kind of place is this?” Looking around, he recognized it was his own vomit and filth that surrounded him. Was he in jail? That seemed preposterous. The room looked formidably secure but he could recall no cell in which he had ever been held that looked like this. It was lacking the ingrained grime and gore of maximum security prisons.
A small window in the door opened. Viktor squinted at the face and decided he was not in a prison. The face was like his own, weathered, unshaven, and rough, unlike the well-scrubbed countenance of law enforcement. The eyes were hard, much harder than those of his jailers in Macau. He started at that memory. Was that why he was here? He remembered his mission to make sure the arms deal went through. It had indeed gone through. He had tried to get something more for himself out of it and landed in a Chinese prison for his trouble. Surely, that could not be why he was here? He looked again to see if he might recognize the face but it was gone. He looked around the room. It was completely bare. He crawled to the door, too sore to drag himself to his feet although he did not think any bones had been broken. He slammed on the steel door a few times.
“Yes, Emilio and I have already discussed this,” she replied. “We agree.”
***
The next day, Li followed Chen at a distance and waited the additional two hours for his own flight back to Beijing.
Contents
CHAPTER 12
The third Monday in Beijing
As usual, the air in Beijing was heavy with smoke and other pollutants, disguising any omen of gloom or hopefulness when Wang’s red phone rang early in the morning. He picked up at once.
“Good morning, Comrade Commissar,” greeted China’s diplomat extraordinaire.
“Deputy Minister Yu, how are you?”
“As you must have heard, I’ve had more excitement than I can stand. Do you have an hour after our meeting this morning?”
“I will be at your service. We can leave together from the CPS if you like.”
“Good. See you then.”
As Wang replaced the red phone to its cradle, there was a knock on his door. The assistant spymaster entered without further ado and declared, “I hope this is not an interruption.”
“This time is always reserved for you, Old Ma. It is a good idea to travel together to the CPS meeting. It saves time.”
On the way to the meeting, they discussed the latest developments related to Kim’s arms deal that had initiated the current intelligence mission.
“Chen has reported regarding the delivery of the stolen goods to Hashim. He was not able to get a look inside the crates that have been delivered in Manila but he confirms a small trace of radiation. It sounds similar to what was found in the warehouse in Macau. We still do not understand who is behind all this,” reported Ma although he knew Wang had already read and reflected on the report.
“The meeting between the Yu cousins suggests possibilities,” commented the old spymaster, “although Cousin Yu does not appear to be acquainted with the intentions of his manipulator. He may have been as much a pawn as the assistant quartermaster, the logistics manager at the army depot.”
“The Yakuza,” mused Ma. “It has an ominous tinge to it. I wonder if Cousin Yu is telling the truth or—”
“We must have faith in those doing the interrogation, unless we want to do it ourselves,” grumbled Wang, who always wanted to do things himself but had found the world, even his world, beyond the grasp of any one person. “Our diplomat may be able to shed some light on the matter. He has requested to meet with me after the CPS.”
Knowing that he would learn all the pertinent details disclosed at the meeting, Ma said amiably, “I’ll ask Gong and Owyang to come and pick me up so you can have the car all to yourselves. There are a few matters that concern us, as you know. Our nation’s actions in the East and South have been taken to be saber rattling. Reports from our assets in Japan and Vietnam are expected any time.”
“Purity of heart is to will one thing,” murmured Wang. As Ma looked puzzled, he continued, “It’s an obscure remark by an obscure philosopher in the old Europe. I don’t know if he is even read anymore. Anyway, it was a religious statement when he made it, but it has other applications.” As usual, Wang did not explain further, as if he intended by these utterances to challenge his assistants to think beyond the world of their post-revolutionary Chinese education. Ma remembered that Tang and Hu had advised not to ‘encourage’ the spymaster in his ramblings.
***
The meeting of the Committee on Public Safety on this day had moved beyond the pointed recriminations arising from General Deng’s admission of the failings in the nation’s armory the prior week. The army had pledged to comply fully with the Party Secretariat’s request for regular audits, but Commissar Long had not resisted some verbal digs. Today, the big news was the assassination attempt on the MFA representative, former ambassador Yu and his cousin nearly a week ago.
After Wang’s opening remarks which were briefer than usual, Yu explained,
“My father, like hundreds of thousands of Chinese, fought for the revolution while his older brother fought for the Nationalists. They both survived and the hope for reunification burned in both their hearts. Thirty years ago, they brought my cousin and me together in Shandong, a part of China that had been their ancestral home, our ancestral home. They made us swear we would carry on what they had dreamed to achieve in their era, that which has now become increasingly unlikely. We were to persevere in the grand hope.
“Our nation has many priorities, but it is no secret that hope remains for me, not only to be cherished, but also something to champion. I regret to say that I did not consult anyone when I received a request nearly three weeks ago from my cousin to help him in what he implied would advance this hope. It turned out that there are bad, dangerous consequences to that action.”
“What exactly did you do, deputy minister?” asked Commissar Long.
The Deputy Minister replied, “With due respect, Commissar, the matter is still in police hands. I have given them and my superiors at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs my assurance that I will remain until the end of the investigation. No doubt, the reports will make their way through Party channels very soon. I am sure you will hear the full story, even though I do not know if it is of national interest.”
“Does it have anything to do with the thefts at the Army warehouses?” the Commissar persisted.
Wang interrupted and stated, “It is possible that the separate incidents are related and yet unrelated at the same time. I recommend we await the findings of our investigators.”
He glanced at Wen, the police representative to the CPS, who said in a neutral tone, “Cousin Yu has been interrogated for five days. During the first day, we obtained no useful information as he was clearly exhausted and in shock. He has since made a voluminous statement that is self-contradictory in parts and incoherent in others. We have several specialists checking on the factual accuracy of his statement and I am happy to report that the police enjoy the cooperation of several entities represented at this table.”
“I trust,” added Wang, “that the appropriate Party officials are informed as you proceed.” There was a barely perceptible emphasis on the word “appropriate” in his statement.
Wen responded with good-humor, “Of course.” Finally, the message made its way into Commissar Long’s awareness and he abandoned further questioning.
“May I add,” Assistant Minister Zhang remarked, “that we and the Taiwanese have a very significant economic relationship and that for the purpose of making realistic plans we would be grateful for guidance on the likelihood that the hope of the Yu cousins might be realized.”
Spymaster Wang could not think of anything to say to fill the silence that appeared and lingered in the room until Yu advised, “Our leaders are not yet ready to decide what our goals should be in this matter or what steps should be taken. But it is possible we will not have long to wait.”
***
“Spymaster,” Yu began when they were in the intelligence agency car then hesitated, “may I call you Old Wang?”
“Old Yu,” replied Wang. “Why did you ever think otherwise?”
“Because, such familiarity might seem opportunistic after I tell you about the things my cousin led me to do.”
“Think nothing about it,” asserted Wang. “I trust that nothing Wen said came as a surprise to you?”
“No. I did not know about some details like the incoherence of my cousin’s memory, but it seems very likely he is incapable of telling the simple truth. He has lived such a life, it appears to me, that he not only lied to his father but also to himself.”
Wang merely nodded as Yu continued, “He asked me to help obtain an export license for his friend. I did not think to ask what would be exported. Had I done so, that would have been the end of all the grief. I would not have been implicated in the export of stolen goods from army supplies.”
“Don’t take all the blame,” replied Wang. “The thefts began months ago. What was critical, and for this there will be plenty of blame, is that there were a number of nuclear devices stolen and possibly exported.”
Yu was simply stunned at this revelation. Tears of anger and frustration came to his eyes. Some of those tears possibly were for himself.
Wang regarded his passenger without judgment. But he knew the following had to be said, “If you have not already disclosed the matter of the export license to your superiors and the cadre assigned to the MFA, you should do so as soon as you get back to the office. Naturally, you can count on me to do what I can on your behalf. But, to be honest, that may not be much.” The spymaster then looked away and drifted into an agitated reverie. “The political climate these days puts a premium on punishment, visible punishment. There is a need felt at present to make examples of a certain class of offenders.”
“Princelings,” muttered Yu bitterly.
“Even those with honorable intentions. By the way,” said Wang delicately, “if any money changed hands—”
“My cousin did give me a thick envelope. I did not even look to see what was in it though I assumed it was money.”
“You gave this away,” observed Wang.
“How did you know?” asked Yu. Then he made the connection between Wang and Hu. “Yes, it was to Hu. We were chatting at an SCO meeting and the conversation turned to the hard lot of those who live in rural areas. He mentioned his friend, the accidental death of his mother-in-law, and their plans to move into a nearby town. I thought it would be the right thing to do.”
“The investigators cannot be expected to determine between right and wrong. They can only decide what is legal and what is not. It is a puzzle to me, but then I know nothing of the law.” Wang’s tone was rueful, as if he did not have much hope for a good outcome.
“There is so much left to do,” Yu sobbed.
“I don’t know who else could shepherd us through the troubles we face over the Eastern Ocean and the South Sea,” declared Wang fervently.
“Our case is very strong over the Eastern Ocean,” declared Yu, relieved to turn his attention to questions and subjects familiar to him. “The Senkaku islands, which we know of as the Diaoyu islands, have never been Japanese in the same sense that Manchuria and Taiwan were never Japanese. They were taken by conquest and confirmed by unequal treaties during various administrations. The islands were given to the Japanese by those at the Treaty of Versailles over China’s vehement opposition. Later, after the second world war, the Americans had over-sight of those islands.”
“You have no need to persuade me,” exclaimed Wang with a chuckle.
“Our national interests, our needs and wants, in the South Sea are actually more acute,” explained Yu. “The legal or moral rights have been laid out for all to see. Our neighbors have objected but so far have not prevailed.”
“What are those interests?” Wang asked, adding with a smile, “My country right or wrong, but preferably right.”
“You should get minister Zhang to explain the interests to you. As for the rights, our claims have been made public and there have been challenges to them. I am doing what I can to help the MFA find bridges over the areas of disagreement.”
“You may not have much time,” replied Wang in a tone suddenly grave.
“I know,” Yu replied. “I’m not trying to be literal or heedless about the precarious nature of my personal situation, but there are those who need to understand that diplomatic pressure is real even though it cannot be seen.”
“Like gravity.”
“Exactly.”
***
The senior staff at the intelligence agency, except for Ma, had not met Yu, nor did they see how his story was related to their current investigation.
“Give us at least a day,” pleaded Owyang. “We know the logistics manager who supplied the arms for sale to the Filipino was killed. Now we learn that the person who orchestrated that arms deal is himself in danger and his personal assistant in China has probably been assassinated. This requires some deep thinking.”
“Whoever we are up against has already done his or their thinking,” Wang remarked. “We have to find out what they were trying to achieve. Then maybe we will find out who they are.”
“Let’s find out everyone Cousin Yu has talked to in the last year and determine if anyone might be the Yakuza. Can we do that?” demanded Ma.
“I shall get started immediately,” responded Owyang.
“I shall alert our assets in Japan,” declared Gong.
“Good idea, Old Gong,” agreed Wang. “I think we need to find out all we can about the Yakuza and his connections. He, I would guess, should be our primary suspect for the money involved in the arms deals. As has been pointed out, the expensive items are the nuclear devices. A small trace of radioactive material has been found in Manila. Where are the devices if not in Manila? My guess is that the Yakuza played a key role. Therefore, his motives deserve our closest attention.”
Contents
CHAPTER 13
The third Wednesday, somewhere in the Russian Federation
It had been dark in Macau when his prison door clicked open. He waited for five minutes until the lights in the hallway suddenly went off. That was his cue to be on his way. A large sum had changed hands and ‘arrangements’ had been made. He had been given directions that would take him out of the prison to a point where his own men would pick him up. They had been given instructions to drive to Hong Kong, from where there were frequent flights to Europe. He would probably never return to Macau.
Several sleepless days later, Viktor made his way at last to the local suburb of a city in the Russian Federation in which he felt most comfortable. He approached a small rooming house and chuckled at how different it looked from the outside to what it actually was, a fortress-like haven for a couple dozen regulars like himself.
A slim young woman he did not recognize was at the desk. She nodded to the small machines in front of her as he greeted her in the thickest accent he could manage. Her eyes remained sad but Viktor decided that was not because of her mood. Some people just had those eyes. On her, he decided, those eyes seemed to have a mystical appeal. He directed his attention to the small box with a tiny microphone that the establishment used for speaker verification. He said a name and recited a line of Russian poetry as he had always done. Then he placed his right palm on the glass surface of a sophisticated biometric scanner.
The woman glanced at a screen identifying Viktor, smiled through her sad eyes and handed him a pass-card, saying, “Your usual room is ready. Do you have any requirements other than the usual?” Viktor shook his head and tipped his cap as he stepped lightly into his only real home for twenty years. He didn’t always get the same suite of rooms and never resented it when he had to take another. But over the years, the rooms and building had become his home.
Viktor took a leisurely shower and answered a knock on the door. It was a maid with the usual requirements, two changes of clothes suitable for casual wear in the neighborhood during that season of the year. “Please leave anything else that comes for me at the front desk,” he requested gruffly. “I would like to try to sleep for a while.”
When he awoke, hours or days later, he went for a gentle jog around the neighborhood, mostly to drink in the sights and smells he felt nostalgic about. It was another glorious summer afternoon in the Motherland.
***
Viktor kept his eyes closed even as he awoke. He was aware of a raging thirst. It occurred to him that he had too much to drink but why did his throat have to feel like the Afghans he fought decades ago had poured a boot-full of the desert sand from near Herat into it? He wondered also about the aches and pains he felt, especially the pounding in his head. He felt the cool hard floor, thankful it was not winter. He was now convinced that he was in a bad place.
How had that happened? He was safe in a neighborhood he knew well and which knew the likes of him well. It was a rough place to be. There were fights on the street and sometimes in the bars. He had a distinct memory of the bars and the fights. He had been in two or three bars to see if he might meet with an acquaintance or two. The turnover of the local clientele sometimes slowed to permit such encounters. It did not happen that night for Viktor.
Or did it? Was there someone he had recognized just before the fight erupted? He had no idea how the violence had begun, but when the fists, glasses, bottles and chairs went flying, he was caught up in it. There was no doubt in his mind. Several times, he remembered, three, four or more muscular bodies had been flung or had flung themselves at each other. Viktor had been well schooled in handling himself in such situations although usually he was not alone. He avoided any and all belligerents and when he could not step away from a confrontation, he could defend himself as well as anyone. Yet he had been hit hard several times. His knuckles were skinned and sore, proof that he had hit out as well. A chair had finally crashed on his head. Did he see the bartender take a phone call just before that and signal to someone, perhaps someone he recognized?
“Water,” Viktor croaked. Then he shouted more loudly, “Give me some water! What kind of place is this?” Looking around, he recognized it was his own vomit and filth that surrounded him. Was he in jail? That seemed preposterous. The room looked formidably secure but he could recall no cell in which he had ever been held that looked like this. It was lacking the ingrained grime and gore of maximum security prisons.
A small window in the door opened. Viktor squinted at the face and decided he was not in a prison. The face was like his own, weathered, unshaven, and rough, unlike the well-scrubbed countenance of law enforcement. The eyes were hard, much harder than those of his jailers in Macau. He started at that memory. Was that why he was here? He remembered his mission to make sure the arms deal went through. It had indeed gone through. He had tried to get something more for himself out of it and landed in a Chinese prison for his trouble. Surely, that could not be why he was here? He looked again to see if he might recognize the face but it was gone. He looked around the room. It was completely bare. He crawled to the door, too sore to drag himself to his feet although he did not think any bones had been broken. He slammed on the steel door a few times.
