Operation Barracuda (2005)

"I think I understand how it was done," she says. "They would have had to understand the technology behind the implants and how they work. If you're right, then they must have had inside information from Third Echelon. It's the only way."

"Mike Chan again?" Lambert asks.

"Possibly. If he's the traitor."

"Of course he's the traitor," I say. "He killed Carly, didn't he? Have you caught that bastard yet?"

"No, the FBI is on his trail," Lambert replies.

"Well, it still doesn't answer how the Triad knew I'd be at the building. The only person who knew what I was doing was Mason Hen--"

That has to be it. Hendricks.

"Um, I think I need to pay a little visit to Hendricks, Colonel." I look at my watch. There are a few hours left before I have to be at the Kwai Chung container port.

"Mason Hendricks has been one of our most trusted field agents, Sam," Lambert says. "His record is impeccable."

"Then maybe he knows how there might have been a link. His source was bad or something. It's worth pursuing. Besides, I gave him a piece of evidence that needs to go to a lab. Some blood I found at the Triad's nightclub. Who knows, it might belong to Jeinsen."

"All right, Sam."

"Anything else, Colonel?"

"Yes. We've finished the analysis of General Prokofiev's materials you found in his house."

"Yeah?"

"You know that list of missing nuclear devices? The notes he scribbled next to some of them?"

"Uh-huh."

Frances Coen continues. "It's a code, all right. And it's very strange."

"Well?"

"When the code is broken, it's a recipe for Russian borscht."

"What?"

"Well, that's a guess. The words specifically decode as 'Formanova Cylindra beets, beef stock, water, vinegar, butter, cabbage, and tomato sauce.' Those are the ingredients of borscht. It leaves out a few spices and perhaps some other vegetables, but that's what it is."

"What the hell does borscht have to do with nuclear bombs?"

"We don't know. That's just what the code says when it's broken."

"I think you guys have gone loony," I say.

"We were hoping you might know what it means," Lambert says. "Was there anything in Prokofiev's house that might give us a clue as to what it's all about?"

"I can't think of anything, unless that battle-ax of a wife puts plutonium in her cooking. Which I wouldn't put past her. Look, I'm going back to Hendricks's place before the sun comes up. I'll let you know what he has to say."

"We'll talk later, Sam," Lambert says, and then we sign off.

DRESSEDin my workout clothes and carrying my uniform in a gym bag, I take the ferry to the island, grab a taxi, and go back to the Mid-Levels just as the sun begins to rise. But the driver can't get through to Hendricks's street. A policeman tells us that only local traffic is allowed in.

"What's the problem, Officer?" I ask in Chinese.

"Fire," he replies.

I pay the cabbie and get out. Once I'm on the street I can see the thick smoke billowing up ahead. A couple of fire trucks, an ambulance, and two police cars are blocking the middle of the road. And they're in front of Hendricks's small house.

I walk up the pavement and take a look. Sure enough, his place is black, still smoldering from what was apparently an intense blaze. I move closer to the policemen who are talking with the fireman in charge. Even though they're speaking in Chinese, I'm able to catch a few words and phrases.

"Firebomb . . . through the front window . . . one in the back . . . possible Triad work . . . two bodies . . ."

I observe in fascination as firemen bring out two covered corpses on stretchers. One charred, black-and-red arm sticks out from under a sheet. I catch the words "man and woman in bedroom" before the corpses are loaded into the ambulance.

Hendricks had boasted about expecting female companionship for the night. Well, he got lucky, all right. Lucky as in Lucky Dragons. And I guess his lady friend got more than she bargained for as well. It's a shame.

Now I'm at a loss as to how I was set up at the warehouse. Apparently Hendricks was betrayed too. The Triad must have found out what he was up to, somehow intercepting the information he got from his source. Maybe it was the source who tipped them off.

And so much for the piece of evidence I took from the nightclub. It's probably long gone now.

I walk away, realizing I must disengage myself from Hendricks, finish what I came to Hong Kong to do, and get the hell out. As the new rising sun bathes the island in warmth, I make my way back to the ferry so I can get to my appointment at the container port on time.

17

FBISpecial Agent Jeff Kehoe sat in the Empress Pavilion Restaurant enjoying somewhat authentic dim sum as he kept an eye on Eddie Wu, the brother of wanted fugitive Mike Wu, aka Mike Chan. Kehoe had arrived in Los Angeles a day earlier and, with the help of the local FBI branch, had tracked Eddie Wu to L.A.'s historic Chinatown. Kehoe had staked out Wu's apartment on Alameda and had seen the man come and go twice. The first trip Wu made was to the Phoenix Bakery on Broadway, the main drag through the district. The second outing was to the Wing Hop Fung Ginseng and China Products Center, also on Broadway, where Wu purchased tea and a few other groceries. So far the Triad had displayed i

Alan Nudelman, the FBI chief in Los Angeles, had briefed Kehoe upon his arrival in the city. Nudelman confirmed that Eddie Wu was a known Triad member but had never been tied to any of the more serious crimes co

The Triads in southern California operated much like small-time Mafia families. They specialized in protection rackets, mostly among the Chinese populations in the city, ran gambling and prostitution houses, and trafficked in illegal arms and drugs. Most gangland violence that occurred was between rival Triads and rarely spilled out into the mainstream. Nevertheless, the Chinatown district's police precinct was kept very busy escorting the gang members in and out of its justice system. Most of the Caucasian officers could care less if the Chinese criminals killed each other; their main concern was for the i

Kehoe finished his meal and sat with the Los Angeles Timesin front of him, pretending to do the crossword puzzle. Eddie Wu was with two other men who had come in together to meet him. They, too, appeared to be rough types wearing black leather jackets and sunglasses. The Triads in America didn't dress as fashionably as their counterparts in Hong Kong and China did. In the United States they looked more like street punks. As for Eddie Wu, he was purportedly thirty-eight years old, which was old for a common thug.