Operation Barracuda

32

I make an unscheduled stop before slipping into China. Lambert knows I’m doing it but no one else does.

I’m in Kowloon again, keeping watch over the Purple Queen nightclub. It’s the middle of the afternoon and I’m waiting for Jon Ming to arrive. The entrance to the back parking lot is visible from my seat in Chen Wing’s coffee bar, located across the street from the club in Tsim Sha Tsui East.

A slightly altered passport and visa got me into the colony. We changed it just in case the authorities might have linked me to some of the violence that occurred here a few days ago. It will also be much easier for me to enter mainland China from Hong Kong instead of trying to get in through Shanghai or another major city. From Kowloon it’s a straight overland journey to Fuzhou. I can stop in Guangzhou and visit the consul, pick up my stuff, and make my way to the east coast. It’s a good plan.

The only problem now is that I’m unarmed and without my uniform. With Mason Hendricks gone, there’s no one in Hong Kong I can rely on to provide me with a weapon. My chat with Jon Ming will have to depend on the old Sam Fisher charm, what little of it there is.

Contacting Ming proved to be much easier than I expected. When I arrived and checked in to a fleabag hotel in Kowloon, I phoned the Purple Queen and in my best Cantonese asked to speak with Ming. The exchange went something like this:

“There is no Jon Ming here. Wrong number.”

“Excuse me, but I know this is Ming’s nightclub. I’d like to speak to him.”

“You have the wrong number.”

“Tell Ming I will call back in five minutes. Tell him I have information about the Shop, Andrei Zdrok, and General Tun.”

I hung up, waited the allotted time, and called back.

“Who is this?”

“Did you give Mr. Ming my message?”

“Yes. Just a minute.” There was murmuring in the background before the guy got back on the phone. “Mr. Ming wishes to talk to you. Come to the Purple Queen at three o’clock today.”

At exactly five minutes of three, Ming’s Roll-Royce slides into the parking lot and disappears behind the building. I finish my tea, pay the bill, and walk across the street. The big Sikh standing guard glares at me, ready to pull his weight.

“Don’t sweat it, big guy, I’m here to see Ming,” I say.

The Sikh goes inside and I wait nearly three minutes before I become impatient and step into the club. Two Chinese thugs in suits are waiting for me. With no questions being asked first, thick strong arms grab me from behind and hold me with a viselike bear hug. It’s the Sikh and he’s a walking lump of muscle. Once I’m sufficiently immobile, “Joe” and “Shmoe” move forward and take turns delivering spear-hand chops to the sides of my neck. On top of the injuries I suffered in the L.A. limo crash, the pain is immense.

“Hey! What’s this about?” I gasp.

“Who are you? Why are you here?” Joe asks in English.

“I was invited. My name is Fisher.”

He says, “You were the man at the warehouse. You are an enemy of the Lucky Dragons.” The thug gives me another spear-chop that sends shock waves down my spine.

At first I don’t know what he’s talking about — there have been so many warehouses in my life. Then it comes to me. The time they had the device that wreaked havoc on my implants. I ended up killing a handful of their men.

“That’s before I was on your side.” I cough.

“We don’t believe you,” Shmoe says. He moves in to hit me again but I use the Sikh’s arms as leverage, raise my legs, and kick the man in the face. Before Joe or the Sikh can retaliate, I swing my legs back, bend my knees, and ram the soles of my boots into the Sikh’s knees. He bellows in pain and releases me. That gives Joe time to perform a jump kick, hitting me squarely on the sternum and knocking me backward into the Sikh. The two of us tumble to the ground. The Sikh is pretty much out of the game — I may have broken his kneecaps — so I concentrate on the two Chinese hoods. As Shmoe moves in to kick me in the ribs, I roll toward him like a log and manage to trip him up. He falls into his partner, allowing me the opportunity to jump to my feet. I immediately spin, thrust out my right foot, and connect the heel to Joe’s chin. I follow through, place my right foot on the floor, bend the right knee, and spring forward with my left foot pointed at Shmoe. Bull’s-eye, right in the solar plexus. I drop back, assume a defensive stance, and wait.

“Stop!” Jon Ming stands a few feet away. He looks at me and says, “I’ve seen you before.”

“I’ve been in your club,” I say.

Ming turns to Shmoe and orders, “Frisk him. Then bring him to the conference room. There is no need to play rough.” He focuses on the Sikh, who is rolling on the floor in agony. “And see to his needs.” Ming shakes his head as if the guard hadn’t studied for a school quiz and had failed it miserably.

I hold up my arms and Shmoe does a thorough job of patting me down. When he’s satisfied I’m not there to assassinate his leader, he gives me the dirtiest look he can muster, jerks his head, and says, “Follow me.”

We walk through the empty club. I notice the pretty hostess who served me the night I was here. She’s busy wiping the tables, preparing the place to open. She looks at me and wrinkles her brow, trying to remember where she’s seen me before. Of course, all gweilo look alike to Asians.

They lead me through the Employees Only door and into the hallway where not too long ago I performed a clandestine search. I’m not surprised when I’m ushered into the very room that was once covered in plastic, the room where I took a specimen of dried blood. Now, however, the place is tidy and devoid of plastic. Jon Ming sits at the small conference table and gestures to one of the other empty chairs. Joe and Shmoe remain standing behind me. One of them shuts the door.

“Mr. Sam Fisher,” Ming says in English. “You are a Splinter Cell from the branch of the National Security Agency known as Third Echelon.”

Dripping with sarcasm, I say, “I can’t imagine how you’d know that.”

Ming smiles. “You have a sense of humor, I see. That is good.”

“Oh, it’s a million laughs that one of your people penetrated our organization and then sold information to the Shop. Yeah, we find that extremely funny, Mr. Ming, but that’s not why I’m here. By all accounts I should be at your throat. Not only were the Lucky Dragons in league with the most dangerous arms-dealing outfit in the world, but you also tried to have me killed not too long ago.”

“We thought you were a threat to us,” he answers. “I apologize. Since you did away with six of my men at the time, I assume you will agree that the score is settled. And you did just break one of my employees’ kneecaps just now. Are we even?”

“Perhaps,” I say. “That depends on how our conversation goes today.”

Ming is silent for a moment as he lights a cigarette. He offers one to me but I refuse it. “May I offer you a drink?” he asks instead.

“No, thanks.”

“Very well. What is it you wanted to speak to me about, Mr. Fisher?”

“Let’s go back to the beginning of all this. Once upon a time there was a physicist working in weapons development in my country. His name was Gregory Jeinsen. He died here in this room.”

Ming registers no reaction when I say this but he also offers no refutation.

I continue. “Through Mike Wu, your mole at Third Echelon, you obtained information from Professor Jeinsen over a period of time. This consisted of the specifications, plans, and everything else that’s needed to create an MRUUV. Am I right so far?”

“Operation Barracuda,” Ming says. “Yes, you are correct.”

“Of course I am. You then — wait, why do you call it ‘Operation Barracuda’?”

“Because an MRUUV is long and cylindrical, like a barracuda fish.”

“I see. Anyway, you then sold all of Jeinsen’s material to the Shop.”

“We traded it for goods, but that’s neither here nor there.”

“Whatever. There was one piece of the pie you didn’t give them, though — the guidance system that your illegal research outfit in Los Angeles created. By then you had called off your business relationship with the Shop and closed down GyroTechnics.”

“You are exceptionally well informed, Mr. Fisher. I wouldn’t expect anything less from someone with your aptitude and abilities.”

“Are you aware that Eddie Wu managed to sell the device to the Shop anyway? And that he and the Shop have delivered it to General Lan Tun in Fuzhou?”

For the first time since we began, Ming registers concern on his face by blinking several times. He adjusts himself in the seat and says, “Go on.”

“The United States has reason to believe that General Tun is about to attack Taiwan with a nuclear device. I’m not sure why he wants to blow up Taiwan, but all the intelligence we’ve gathered points to that scenario.”

“And why do you tell me this, Mr. Fisher?” Ming asks after a pause.

“Because I know you hate General Tun and Communist China. It’s a basic, fundamental tenet of the Lucky Dragons, as it is with all Triads.”

“That may be true,” Ming says. “But are you asking me for something?”

“I’m asking for your help.” There. I’ve said it. Lambert and I debated for over an hour whether or not we should seek an alliance with a criminal organization that has in the past done damage to the United States. In the end I convinced him there might be some wisdom to it.

I elaborate. “Mr. Ming, you have the means to lead men to Fuzhou and do something to General Tun before he attacks. You have a small army at your disposal. You have people that believe in your cause. Do you understand what will happen if General Tun — if Red China—attacks Taiwan? It would lead us all into World War Three. You and your little empire here in Hong Kong would not go unaffected.”

Ming takes a drag from his cigarette and asks, “Are you absolutely certain the MRUUV guidance system is in General Tun’s hands?”

“No, but I know Eddie Wu was in possession of it and he was last seen in the company of Shop personnel. We have evidence that they fled the United States and were headed for Asia. They have the ability to get into China and deliver it right into the general’s hands. You know they do.”

Ming crushes the cigarette into an ashtray. “Is there anything else, Mr. Fisher?”

I consider my words for a moment and then say, “Yes. When I encountered your men at that warehouse near the old airport, they had a device, some kind of transmitter.”

“Yes.”

“How did you know the thing would be useful against me?”

“That machine was loaned to us by the Shop. It was created by and belongs to them. We gave it back to them. You should direct that question to someone in their organization.”

“Interesting.” So the knowledge of my implants and how they work most likely came from the Shop’s source within our government. Possibly the mysterious informant Mike Wu mentioned? The one who sits “high on the food chain” somewhere in Washington?

“And how did you know I would be at that warehouse?” I ask. “Only two people were aware of my movements that night and one of them is dead.”

“Again, Mr. Fisher. The Shop. Our source in the Shop knew where you would be at all times.”

“Did you know a man named Mason Hendricks?”

“Yes. He was one of our best customers here in the club. I was very sorry to hear of his unfortunate accident. I believe he perished with a woman who worked for me. Very tragic.”

“That fire at his home was deliberately set. Any idea who was responsible?”

Ming shakes his head. “None whatsoever. Although I suspect—”

“I know: the Shop. Regular scapegoats, aren’t they, Mr. Ming?”

Ming’s eyes flare and then he asks, “Is there anything else, Mr. Fisher?”

I sit back in the chair and say, “No. That’s it.”

“Very well. It was a pleasure talking with you.” Joe and Shmoe move forward and stand on either side of me, ready to escort me out.

“That’s it?” I ask. “You have nothing to say?”

“The conversation is over, Mr. Fisher. Let us say that I shall take your words under advisement. You are still an enemy of the Lucky Dragons. I cannot and will not divulge my thoughts to you. Good day and good luck, Mr. Fisher. My men will see you out.”

Fine. I’ve tried my best. I stand and leave the way I came. Little Miss Hostess is still cleaning the tabletops when I go by. This time she smiles at me — if I was important enough to gain an audience with Jon Ming then I must be a VIP of some kind. I ignore her and head for the door. Before I get there, Joe puts his hand on my shoulder as if to give me a word of advice. With the speed of a snake I grab his wrist and twist it, sending him to his knees. Shmoe moves in to defend him but I hold my hand out in front of him, warning him not to get any closer.

“It was a pleasure meeting you guys,” I say with a smile, then I let go of Joe’s hand. If looks could kill… but I pay them no mind as I turn and walk out the door.