Black Dragon, page 8
“I think they’ve got bigger fish to fry than keeping tabs on our little old car,” replied Cardinal as they turned a bend in the road. Up ahead, he saw another column of army vehicles heading straight at them. Leaving plenty of room between themselves and the convoy, Sam and Cardinal sat in their vehicle as a half-dozen jeeps and old-fashioned, Soviet-style armored cars drove by them, sending a thick cloud of dust up into the sky.
Looking at the last vehicle in the convoy, Cardinal nearly fell out of his seat. “Sam, take a couple of photos of that vehicle before it disappears from sight!” Cardinal sat there shaking his head in disbelief.
“What was so important about that last vehicle?” asked Sam, checking the image in the view screen of her camera.
Cardinal kept his eyes fixed upon the road as he spoke. “That was a BRDM-2, a Soviet-era armored car used for reconnaissance.”
“So?”
“Did you see the long rectangular boxes on the back of it?”
“Yes, I have a good shot of them,” replied Sam, showing the image in her camera to Cardinal.
“Well, my love, that was, to be precise, a BRDM-2RKh—a chemical and radiological reconnaissance vehicle. Whatever is happening out in the desert is not good news,” said Cardinal soberly.
“Oh my God,” said Sam, staring back out into the vast expanse of the rocky desert. “What could have happened out there?”
“I don’t know, but we need to get a hold of Donaldson ASAP before the Mongolians get suspicious and detain us for poking our noses where it isn’t wanted.” With that, Cardinal placed their Rover in gear and jammed his foot down on the gas pedal. The sooner they were on the road heading north, the better.
9
The Arthur M. Sackler Gallery
Washington, D.C.
Turning off Independence Avenue, the silver-and-blue Bentley Mulsanne with Mitchell, Atsuko, and her aide inside headed down the narrow and winding ramp built beside the gallery that led beneath the National Mall.
Built as an open-air park, the National Mall was one of the main tourist attractions in Washington D.C., with over twenty-four million visitors a year. The spacious, tree-lined area between Constitution and Independence Avenues extended from the Washington Monument to the U.S. Capitol Building. At just over three kilometers in length, it’s a popular destination for people to walk while they sightsee. The ten museums of the Smithsonian Institution, located within the heart of the capitol, offered visitors a variety of unique exhibits, ranging from all kinds of art to the exploration of space. Some of the other major attractions included the Lincoln memorial, the Botanical Garden, and the many solemn memorials to America’s veterans.
They stopped to have their identification verified by a female Parks Service Police Officer; the limo and its accompanying Hummer proceeded down into the well-lit basement of the gallery. Closed to the public, the underground entrance was for the delivery of new items to the gallery and for VIPs to use, allowing them a small degree of privacy when visiting. Turning a corner, Mitchell could see a delegation of people waiting to greet Miss Satomi. There were several young women dressed in red-and-gold silk kimonos standing beside an open elevator. Just in front of them was an attractive, middle-aged woman in a long, black evening dress with a strand of pearls around her slender neck, her fine gray hair pulled up into a bun on the back of her head. Mitchell recognized her from his briefing file as Mrs. Olivia North, the gallery’s director. Waiting with the director was the Japanese Ambassador to the United States. Wearing a tailor-made, light-gray suit, the ambassador stood there beaming, a smile on his weathered face as the limo came to a smooth halt in front of the greeting party.
Quickly exiting the limo, Mitchell made his way over to Atsuko’s door and then waited. Looking about, Mitchell noted that there were several men hanging about just out of view of a local news camera crew recording the event. Mitchell knew that the men were the security detail for the ambassador. Matsuda’s men silently exited the Hummer and took up posts around the limo.
Mitchell waited a second and then opened the door. With a polite nod at Mitchell, Atsuko stepped out of the vehicle, followed immediately by her ever-close assistant, who knew the protocol drills by heart and hung back slightly. Speaking in fluent Japanese, Mrs. North introduced herself and the Japanese Ambassador to Atsuko, who delicately shook hands with both before following the director to the open elevator, where a Japanese-American exchange student wearing traditional clothing met her. Bowing respectfully, the young woman handed Atsuko a bouquet of white roses. With a smile, Atsuko graciously accepted the flowers and then deftly handed them off to her assistant.
“We are in the basement and on our way up,” said Mitchell quietly. Jackson and Fahimah responded in his earpiece. His friends had been in the gallery for hours already, scoping out the throng of invited guests as they arrived for the unveiling. All told, Mitchell knew that between his people, Matsuda’s, the ambassador’s close protection detail, and the Park police, that there were around twenty security personnel on duty tonight. More than sufficient for a group of amateur eco-terrorists, thought Mitchell as he and Matsuda’s men stepped into the elevator.
The Arthur M. Sackler Gallery was home to thousands of pieces of Asian art. Japanese, Chinese, Korean, and Indian art dating back centuries graced the walls of the gallery. The complex was over 115,000 square feet, with less than half of it being open to the public. Ninety-six percent of the gallery was built underground.
The elevator ride was short. Coming out on the third floor, they were met by more representatives from the Japanese community in Washington. Mitchell saw that the gallery had a diamond-shaped fountain built into the floor. Pink-and-gray granite covered the floors and walls of the gallery.
For the next hour, Atsuko Satomi was ushered around the gallery, meeting one prominent person after another. There were people from the business, diplomatic, scientific, and artistic communities who had all come to meet the rising young dragon from Japan. Mitchell stayed off to one side, keeping a close eye on the crowd. He couldn’t believe how easily Atsuko flowed through the crowds, greeting each person with a warm smile on her face and a polite handshake. It would have driven Mitchell crazy to be this polite with so many strangers. Matsuda and his men were far too conspicuous in their dress and demeanor, but they knew their job and gave Atsuko the space she needed to move freely through the crowded rooms in the gallery.
“I’d rather be at the movies,” said a friendly voice behind Mitchell.
Without turning about, Mitchell said, “Cartoons don’t count.”
“Hey, Pixar makes some great stuff,” shot back Jackson.
Turning around, Mitchell looked straight at Nate Jackson, standing there looking bored to death in his snug tuxedo.
“You really should get yourself a new tux.”
“I will when I lose a few pounds,” replied Jackson, tugging at his tight tuxedo jacket.
“So never, then.”
“If you buy me a new one, I’ll wear it.”
“There’s no chance of that ever happening. Jen can spend my money well enough, thank you.”
Watching Atsuko chat with a delegation from the University of Columbia, Jackson said, “How much longer is she going to spend socializing with the local bigwigs?”
Mitchell looked down at his watch. “Not too much longer. She’ll be heading upstairs soon for the unveiling. After that, some more schmoozing, and then it’s straight back to the hotel for the remainder of the evening.”
“Thank God. I brought the wrong shoes with me,” complained Jackson. “These ones are killing my feet.”
“I’d feel sorry for you, but I can’t. You’re the one who beat it into me in the army that good footwear makes all the difference.”
“Yeah, okay, whatever, Captain. For our first assignment since coming off the crap list, this is one dull mission.”
“Let’s just hope it stays that way for a few more hours, and then we can say good-bye to Miss Satomi and head back home ourselves.”
“Have you seen Fahimah yet?”
“No, where is she?” asked Mitchell, looking around the room.
“That would be no fun. All I can tell you is that she’s somewhere on the second floor,” said Jackson as he grabbed a few scallops wrapped in bacon off a tray as it went past. Popping them all in his mouth, Jackson winked and then faded back into the crowd.
Mitchell watched Atsuko as she handed yet another gift to her long-suffering aide, who was now being assisted by a young employee of the gallery. Together they were taking all of the gifts to a table in a side room to be looked after until after the show was finished. Mitchell followed Atsuko and the gallery director as they began to climb the pink granite grand staircase that led all the way to the top of the building. On the second floor, Miss Satomi was introduced to a couple of major-league baseball players from Japan. Both men were dressed in silk suits that easily cost over ten grand apiece. Mitchell was surprised to see how many people had come out for the unveiling. He guessed that there were over five hundred people spread out on the three floors. While Miss Satomi worked the crowd, Mitchell tried spotting Fahimah. Looking past the people congregating around Atsuko, he soon found her.
Standing there in a full-length, Persian blue-silk caftan with matching headscarf, Fahimah was easily the most stunningly beautiful woman in the room. She looked as if she had just walked out of a fashion magazine and into the gallery. Standing beside Fahimah was a short, fat, balding man, more than twice her age, trying his best to sweet-talk her. Upon seeing Mitchell, her eyes lit up, and with a look of desperation on her face, she mouthed help. Mitchell smiled to himself, and quietly strolled through the crowd until he arrived at Fahimah’s side.
“Ah, there you are, my dear,” said Mitchell, with a warm smile at Fahimah. “I have been looking for you for hours.”
The short man looked up at Mitchell. He was about to say something, but when he saw the determined look in his eyes, he gulped, and with a quick nod at Fahimah, he slunk away from her and never looked back.
“Thank you,” said Fahimah, feeling relieved that the annoying toad had left.
“You should have just told him to go away.”
“I tried,” said Fahimah shaking her head. “He just wouldn’t quit.”
“Well, I can see why; you look truly beautiful tonight,” Mitchell said honestly.
Fahimah felt her cheeks flush. “You’re not supposed to notice things like that, Mister Mitchell.”
“Impossible. Jen may have stolen my heart, but I would have to be dead not to notice your beauty.”
“Please, you’re embarrassing me. You’re my boss. Besides, Miss Satomi looks like she is ready to head upstairs,” pointed out Fahimah, looking past Mitchell.
Looking back, Mitchell was surprised to see Atsuko already making her way back onto the staircase leading up to the first floor. Glancing down at his watch, he saw that she was a full thirty minutes ahead of schedule. Thinking it odd, he left Fahimah’s side and quickly made his way through the crowd, pushing past an already inebriated man and his wife until he stood beside Atsuko.
“Pardon me,” said Mitchell politely, “Miss Satomi, you’re not supposed to be upstairs until nine o’clock.”
“Mister Mitchell, I’m growing weary of all of this socializing,” replied Satomi. She stifled a yawn. “For some reason, the jet lag is really getting to me tonight. I’d like to wrap things up as quick as I can so I can head back to the hotel and get a few hours’ sleep before I leave in the morning. The gallery’s director has assured me that speeding things up for me isn’t a problem. She said that everything was already in place and that everyone would be invited upstairs to the lobby for the unveiling right away.”
“As you wish,” said Mitchell, wishing that she would adhere to the pre-arranged schedule. Looking over at Matsuda, he saw the same look of discomfort in his eyes. They were both highly trained professionals and knew that changes made on the spur of the moment tended to end badly. Quickly informing his people of the change, Mitchell followed Atsuko upstairs into the spacious lobby.
At the far end of the lobby stood the five paintings concealed under delicate white silk covers. Beside them stood a lectern with a microphone. Already, people had begun to make their way up from below. The catering staff, unaware of the change in timing, tried their best to keep the drinks and finger food moving through the growing crowd. The noise in the lobby soon grew deafening as more and more people filled the room. Deciding that he had best find a good place to observe from, Mitchell made his way over to the side of the lobby. Standing there, he watched as Atsuko and Mrs. North chatted for a few minutes while they waited for all of the other VIPs to arrive. The first two rows of chairs directly in front of the lectern were reserved for the Japanese Ambassador and several dozen of the richest men and women in attendance. As soon as Mrs. North judged that the lobby was as full as it was going to be, she stepped over to the lectern and then in English and Japanese, she asked for everyone’s attention. Slowly, the lobby grew quiet as Atsuko Satomi moved over behind the lectern.
She bowed her head slightly toward Mrs. North, and then spoke to the crowd in English and Japanese. “I would like to thank all of you for coming. It is because of my father’s love of art that he has decided to donate these pieces to the gallery.” Polite applause filled the room every time she paused.
With a practiced eye, Mitchell began to scan the crowd. He smiled when he saw Fahimah standing off to one side, fending off the unwanted advances of another older man. Jackson was nowhere to be seen. As they had discussed days before the event, Mitchell knew that his friend was probably farther back, checking out the people from another angle. Matsuda and his men were prominent and close to Atsuko, their eyes scanning the crowd for any potentially hostile threats.
The applause rose higher as the Japanese Ambassador was invited to help Atsuko unveil the art. A couple of international reporters moved in front of the exhibit, jockeying with one another for the best position to take their pictures.
About midway through the crowd, a young Asian woman, wearing a dark gray business suit, stood quietly watching the speech. When the timer on her watch beeped three times, she calmly looked about the room and saw that everyone’s attention was fully on Miss Satomi. Looking as if she was searching for something, she reached into her expensive Guess purse and pressed a small button on a device concealed inside. On the other side of the lobby, another, identically attired woman did the same thing. Letting go of her purse, the woman turned on her heel and stepped back into the crowd. Soon gray smoke, like a genie escaping out of the bottle, began to rise up out of her purse.
“Fire,” yelled out a terrified voice from somewhere in the crowd. Within a second, another voice screamed fire, followed by several more panicked cries as the smoke began to fill the lobby. Someone pulled the fire alarm. Instantly, the room filled with the sound of a siren wailing, adding to the growing fear and confusion sweeping through the gallery.
“Damn, we’ve got trouble,” said Mitchell as he watched the crowd begin to panic and push away from the billowing smoke. Some of the people ran toward the lobby entrance, some for the stairs while others surged to the back of the lobby, pushing over those still in their seats. Screams of fear and panic quickly filled the air.
“Ryan, I don’t see any flames,” said Jackson calmly, from his position near the front entrance.
“Neither do I,” added Fahimah, from the side of the hall.
“Something’s up. Be alert,” said Mitchell. Jackson moved so he could see anyone coming or going from the gallery while Fahimah made her way to the tall staircase and started to descend down to the bottom floor, aiming to reach their vehicles, waiting below.
Already Matsuda and his men had encircled Atsuko and were trying to push their way through the smoke and the panicked crowd to the doors at the front of the lobby. Mitchell had told Matsuda to make for the stairs and their cars, but he could see that Matsuda had decided otherwise. Silently cursing the man for not listening, Mitchell could only follow them. He hoped that Fahimah would hear what was going on and bring their vehicles up onto the street as quick as she could.
A shot rang out, quickly followed by another. The fear and panic that gripped the crowd boiled over as people turned violent and began to push one another aside or simply stepped on those unfortunate souls who had fallen to the floor. Mitchell ducked as the shots rang through the lobby. He pulled out his Glock 9mm and pulled back on the slide, loading a round into the chamber before pushing his way through the mob, trying to join Matsuda before he lost sight of them in the teeming crowd.
The lead man in Matsuda’s detail could see the entrance to the lobby. Pushing his way as best he could through the frightened mob, he saw a woman staggering toward him, blood covering her slender face.
“Please help me,” she pleaded in Japanese to the bodyguard.
Momentarily turning his eyes away from the door and at the injured woman, the man never saw another woman in the crowd step out from behind a tall man, a small silenced pistol in her hand. Without hesitating, she fired one shot, killing the bodyguard, his head snapping back as his body tumbled to the ground.
“Down!” yelled Matsuda to Atsuko as he pushed her to the floor while he tried to bring up his pistol to shoot the attacker. Only he was too late. Two more women moved in for the kill from behind. In an instant, it was over. Matsuda and his men were all dead. With her eyes wide and terrified, Atsuko was grabbed from behind by two of the women and hauled toward the front door.
Mitchell heard the shots and the screams of the people in front of him as he fought to get closer to Matsuda. A second later, the crowd parted. Mitchell saw a blood-covered floor. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed the arm of a man blocking his way and threw him aside as he tried to reach Atsuko. With his heart racing in his chest, Mitchell moved beside her, his pistol in his hand, his eyes searching the crowd for the people who had killed Matsuda and his men. He saw nothing but the scared look in the eyes of the people in the crowd as they pushed one another out of the way, trying to get out of the smoke-filled room. Mitchell knew that he couldn’t waste time standing around. Reaching over for Atsuko, he went to pull her back into the crowd with him for safety when he realized that the woman standing beside the dead bodies of Matsuda and his men wasn’t Atsuko Satomi. She was dressed identically and had the same exact hairstyle, but she wasn’t Atsuko. Quickly stepping past the girl, Mitchell peered into the smoke and surging mass of people, but couldn’t see Atsuko anywhere. Instead, for the first time tonight, he saw three other women dressed identically as Miss Satomi looking over at him, a smug look of satisfaction on all of their faces.
