Act of War

CHAPTER 28

China had found its criminal organizations, particularly the triads, to be quite useful, especially as proxies abroad. No one had been more adept at leveraging them from an operational perspective than Cheng. They fulfilled a very important role within his U.S. network and he made sure they were well compensated — both financially and with favors back in China. They couldn’t move the kinds of drugs, weapons, and human cargo that they did without very powerful political figures agreeing to look the other way.

Stepping off the plane in Nashville, Cheng wheeled his bag downstairs and purchased a shuttle ticket to the Opryland Resort and Convention Center. The buses departed at the top and bottom of each hour and took only twenty minutes to get to the hotel.

When the shuttle arrived at the resort, Cheng’s fellow passengers walked inside, but he headed to the adjacent Opry Mills Mall. Built on the site of the former Opryland USA theme park, it was one of the largest shopping centers in the southeastern United States.

Cheng moved in and out of stores and back and forth through crowds of people, careful to avoid security cameras whenever he could. Once he was convinced he wasn’t being followed, he ducked into a bathroom, changed clothes, put on a hat and sunglasses, and then exited the far end of the mall. He found the vehicle right where he had been told it had been left. Reaching behind the rear license plate, he removed the key fob and unlocked the doors.

The Lincoln Navigator had been driven down from Chicago. Opening the lift gate, he found a small duffle bag inside. He placed his carry-on bag and briefcase in the cargo area, and after grabbing the duffle, closed the lift gate and walked around to the driver’s-side door.

He climbed in and started the SUV. Looking around to make sure no one was close enough to see, he then unzipped the duffle bag sitting on his lap. Inside were a suppressor, a Smith & Wesson M&P9 pistol, two spare magazines, and a box of ammunition. Satisfied, he zipped the bag back up, placed it on the floor behind him, and headed for the highway.

When he reached his hotel and checked in forty-five minutes later, the clerk handed him a FedEx box that had been delivered that morning. Cheng thanked the woman, accepted the box and his key card, and then headed up to his room where he locked the door and drew the drapes.

While the weapon and car had come from Chicago, the FedEx package was from a different and unrelated asset in San Francisco. Inside were an envelope full of currency and three sterile cell phones. He knew better than to turn any of them on. As soon as he did, there would be a record of the phone touching the nearest cell tower. He didn’t plan on leaving any trails. There was a cord included and he plugged the first phone in to make sure that it was fully charged.

As he did this with the second phone, he removed the envelope full of currency, counted the bills, and stacked them according to denomination. Out of all the tools intelligence operatives could wield, money was one of the most powerful.

Removing the Smith & Wesson M&P9 from the duffle, he disassembled it and made sure all the parts were clean and properly lubricated before putting it back together.

After plugging in the third cell phone to make sure it was topped off, he walked into the bedroom area to change his clothes.

Putting on a pair of khakis, a short-sleeved dress shirt, and a tie, he then stood in front of the mirror and combed his hair in a different style. He slipped on a pair of glasses and reviewed his appearance. Not only did he not look menacing in any way, he appeared to be some sort of midlevel bureaucratic functionary, which was exactly what he wanted.

Stepping over to the desk, he fired up his computer and refreshed himself with all of the details in Wazir Ibrahim’s file. Once satisfied that he had everything committed to memory, he gathered up his briefcase, turned on the TV, and left his hotel room, hanging the Do Not Disturb sign on the door as he did.

Surveying the exits, he found one that led to a small smoking patio that wasn’t monitored with a CCTV camera. Stepping outside, Cheng hopped over a low fence and walked around the corner to where he had parked the Navigator.

Traffic was heavy and it took him more than an hour to reach Wazir’s neighborhood. It was typical of many of the poor, immigrant neighborhoods Cheng had seen across the United States — run-down four-story apartment buildings cheek-by-jowl with small, dilapidated houses. Yards were untended and filthy children ran back and forth unsupervised. The only thing residents seemed to care for were their cars and trucks, almost all of which had glittering rims, lift kits, and paint jobs you could see yourself in. Cheng shook his head.

He did a slow pass by Ibrahim’s house. There were no signs of life from inside. He found a spot and parked halfway down the next block. Picking up his briefcase, he exited the SUV and walked back the way he had come.

Though he couldn’t see them, he could feel eyes watching him. Old women behind curtains, cautious neighbors peering out to see who the stranger was.

Being Chinese made operating in the United States quite easy. Not many people saw him as dangerous, or even potentially dangerous. Being Asian seemed to automatically disqualify him as a threat. It was a prejudice that he played thoroughly to his advantage.

Arriving at Wazir’s address, he walked up the cracked walkway to a set of uneven stairs to the front porch. He removed a business card from his pocket, pressed the doorbell, and waited. No one came. He leaned over and peered through the front window. Nothing. He leaned back and rang the bell again.

When no one answered, he opened the frayed screen door and knocked. He waited again, but still no one came. He moved back to the window and was about to use his car key to rap on the glass when he heard a voice nearby say, “She’s not home.”

Cheng turned to his right and saw a Hispanic man in his late twenties who had stepped out onto the porch of the house next door. “Pardon me?” Cheng replied in perfect English.

“Mrs. Ibrahim,” the man said. “She’s not home. She went down to her sister’s in Shelbyville. That’s who you’re looking for, right?”

Cheng smiled and walked to the edge of the Ibrahims’ porch to better chat with the neighbor. “Actually, I’m looking for Mr. Ibrahim,” he said. “Wazir.”

“You’re not here from Social Services?”

“No, I’m not.”

Suddenly, the neighbor appeared more reserved. “Are you a lawyer?”

Cheng smiled even more broadly. “No. Insurance. Mr. Ibrahim filed a claim at work. We have an appointment to go over it.”

“What kind of claim?”

“I’m sorry, but that’s confidential.”

“Are you really an insurance agent?”

Cheng handed him his card.

“Well, you may have to reschedule your appointment,” the man said.

“Why is that?”

“Wazir’s in jail.”

That wasn’t good news. In fact, it was very bad news. “Jail? Why would Mr. Ibrahim be in jail?”

The man jerked his head, indicating Cheng should leave the Ibrahims’ porch and join him on his. When he did, the man said, “Mrs. Ibrahim had him arrested for domestic violence.”

Cheng acted shocked. “Really?”

The neighbor nodded. “He beat her pretty good.”

“When did this happen?”

“It’s been going on for a while. Someone at the Community Center finally convinced her to file charges.”

“No,” said Cheng. “I mean, when did he get arrested?”

“A day or two ago, I think,” said the neighbor. “I just got back and heard about it. No one is surprised. Wazir’s a pendejo. A total dick.”

Cheng let all of this sink in. “The Nashville police have him?”

The young man nodded. “He can’t afford to bond out, so he’s fucked until his trial.”

The idea of Wazir Ibrahim sitting in jail and possibly coming to the conclusion that he should make a deal by giving up a plot much bigger than a wife-beating charge was very troubling. It was good Cheng had come. He just hoped he wasn’t too late.

Thanking the neighbor, he left and returned to his SUV. He had to figure out a way to get to Wazir.

Going in as a visitor and warning him to keep his mouth shut would be dangerous. The same could be said for paying another inmate to deliver the message. It would take too long to set something like that up. That didn’t leave him with a lot of options.

Cheng had slipped into two jails and a prison before, but all three of those had been in third world countries, not a heavily guarded, high-tech facility in a major American city. There was only one way he was going to be able to get to Wazir Ibrahim and that was to assist him in getting out. The sooner, the better. But he was going to need help.

He drove around until he found a business hotel with free Wi-Fi. Sitting outside in his vehicle, he opened his anonymous browser, took a deep breath, and ran everything through his mind. Cobbling together operations on the fly was a necessary part of fieldwork. Clear thinking was imperative. If you moved too quickly, many things could go wrong. The same could be said for moving too slowly. The key was striking the right balance.

Confident that he had come up with an exceptional plan, he opened his eyes. There were two things he needed. The first was a bail bonds operation.

He looked at several websites. Once he had found the one he wanted, he turned on one of the sterile cell phones and dialed Lumpy’s Bail Bonds. He identified himself as Mushir Ali Mohammed of the Somali Friends Association of Nashville and explained that they had taken up a collection at their mosque in hopes of bailing one of their members out of jail. Cheng asked if the bail bonds agent could help. The man took Wazir Ibrahim’s information and then asked him to hold for a moment while he checked the county court computer system.

When the agent returned to the line, he listed the charges against Wazir Ibrahim, as well as the bail amount. Cheng was relieved on both counts. The fact that Wazir was even eligible for bail meant that he hadn’t yet tried to cut a deal. If he had, the FBI would be involved and there was no way they would let him walk — unless they were trying to set a trap.

Suddenly, that seemed all too plausible to Cheng. It was very much like the FBI to try such a sting. They could allow Wazir Ibrahim to bond out and then follow him to see what he did, where he went, and whom he talked to. Cheng would have to take extra precautions.

The bail would burn through most of his cash, but he had no choice. If he didn’t pay the cost of the bond in full, plus the bond agent’s fee, then collateral and residents with ties to the community would be required to act as cosigners. The fewer people involved the better.

After the bond agent finished explaining the process, Cheng asked how quickly Wazir Ibrahim could be released. “As soon as I walk across the street and sign the paperwork.”

This was good news. Cheng thanked him and, after hanging up, removed the battery and disassembled the phone.

The only other thing he needed at this point was a middleman, someone he could use as a cutout to shield his involvement and add to the authenticity of his plan. If the Somali community in Nashville was big enough, that wasn’t going to be a problem at all.

Cheng searched the Web again and, finding what he was looking for, pulled up the directions online. It was downtown, on Murfreesboro Pike.

Traffic was light and it took less than twenty minutes to get there. When Cheng arrived, his eyes exactly what he had hoped to see — taxicabs. And as it was a Somali restaurant, he had no doubt about the ethnicity of the drivers.

He parked out of sight and came back to the restaurant on foot. It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for. The young Somali man was a flashy dresser. He wore pressed jeans, expensive basketball shoes, and a designer shirt. In his hand was a brand-new iPhone. He was louder than his colleagues, with a big smile and a bounce to his step. He thought highly of himself and liked to show off. This was exactly the kind of man Cheng needed.

As the Somali reached his cab, Cheng approached him and asked if he was free. The man nodded and Cheng climbed in back.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

Cheng asked to be taken to Music Row. He wanted enough time to make small talk and feel the man out. Nodding, the driver started his cab, turned on the meter, and pulled away from the curb.

As they drove, Cheng learned everything he needed to know about the driver. He would be perfect.

When they arrived at Music Row, Cheng paid his fare and gave the Somali a hundred-dollar tip. The man was extremely grateful.

“If you need a taxi again,” he said, scribbling down his cell phone number and handing it to his passenger, “call me.”

Cheng took the number and smiled. “Actually, I have two important errands to run tonight. How would you like to make a thousand dollars?”