Wall of Night

25

With his family tucked away in a safe house, Latham decided it was time to shake things up.

Armed with a little creative documentation from Oaken, he took the noon shuttle to New York, then drove north to Dannemora, where he was escorted to the interview room. Minutes later Hong Cho was escorted in.

As before, the diminutive Cho wore an orange jumpsuit and was manacled hand and foot. He shuffled forward, sat down, and stared impassively at Latham as the guard cuffed his hands to the table.

Once the guard was gone, Latham said, “Hong, have you ever wondered how we caught you?”

“You didn’t catch me.”

“I’ll rephrase: Didn’t you ever find it curious that a beat cop just happened to be walking by the apartment of the people you were trying to murder? Lucky timing, wasn’t it?”

Cho said nothing.

“Or how quickly backup was on the scene? Didn’t that ever make you think?”

Cho’s eyes narrowed for a moment, then went blank again. “No.”

“Sure it did,” Latham said. “Since I know you’re too proud to ask, I’ll tell you. We caught you because we knew who we were looking for. We’d had you under surveillance for weeks.”

“You’re lying.”

“We knew who you were, and how to look for you. We had profiles of where you were likely to hide, how you’d react to given situations, how you were trained — everything.”

“That’s impossible.”

Latham opened his briefcase, pulled out a piece of paper, and slid it across to Cho. “Do you recognize the letterhead?” Charlie asked. “It’s from the Guoanbu—your former colleagues. They burned you. All your moonlighting for mobsters … You were an embarrassment.”

As if handling a snake, Cho studied the letter. Latham could see his jaw bunching. Cho lashed out, shoving the paper off the table. “This is a trick!” he shouted.

“It’s called politics, Hong. Your government found out about your side profession and they knew we’d eventually catch you, so they decided to cut their losses. Instead of facing the humiliation of having an active Guoanbu agent on trial for murder, they sacrificed you.”

“They wouldn’t do that.”

“Why not? Are you really that naive? You were a liability, plain and simple; they did what was necessary. Unfortunately for you, that means you get to spend the rest of your life here.”

With a growl, Cho tried to lunge to his feet, but the manacles jerked him back. “Get out!”

Latham collected the letter from the floor and walked to the door. “These are the people you’re protecting, Hong. You’re here because of them. Think about it.”

“Get out!”

Back in his car, Latham dialed his cell phone. When Randall picked up, he said, “It’s done.”

“Did he buy it?”

“If he didn’t, he’s a hell of an actor. How’s our girl?”

“She just got home from work. I’ll let you know the minute she moves — if she moves, that is. Janet and Tommy are standing by if we need them.”

“Keep your fingers crossed. If Hong’s as pissed as I think he is, we won’t have long to wait.”

He spent the next ninety minutes parked in the prison parking lot listening to an oldies station before his cell phone trilled. “Latham.”

“Agent Latham, it’s Warden Fenstrom. Cho just asked to make a telephone call.”

“Good. Put up a stink, tell him it’s past telephone hours, then finally give in.”

“Gotcha. I’ll call you back.” He called back fifteen minutes later: “You guessed it. His call went to the same woman. Mary—”

“Tsang.”

“Right. We’re not allowed to tape or listen in, but I had a guard keep an eye on Cho. The guard says he didn’t look too happy. What the hell did you say to him?”

“I told him he’d just run out of friends,” Latham replied. “Thanks, Warden, I appreciate it.”

“My pleasure.”

Latham hung up and called Randall. “He went for it. Keep your eyes peeled.”

“Will do. You’re coming back?”

“I’ll be on the next flight.”

Latham was sitting in the passenger lounge at Kennedy waiting for his boarding call when Randall called. “About an hour ago she went for a jog,” he reported. “She went about a mile, then stopped at a Seven-Eleven and used the payphone.”

“And?”

“I had Oaken get the dump from the phone. She called the Post, Charlie. The classifieds.”

The Post? Latham thought. Then it hit him: “She’s making contact,” he said. “Have Walt start working on that ad. I want to see it.”

As Latham was landing in D.C., Oaken was placing his own call to the Post. He took out an innocuous ad — a lawn mower for sale — then jotted down the order number the clerk gave him, then hung up and nodded to Janet Paschel, who then placed her own call.

Posing as Tsang, she told the clerk she might have made a mistake in her ad and asked that it be read back to her. The clerk asked for her order number. Praying that only a few ads, if any, had been placed between Tsang’s call and Oaken’s, she recited a number a few digits lower than Oaken’s.

“Sorry, but I’m not sure about the last couple digits,” Janet said. “Sometimes I can’t read my own writing.”

“That’s okay,” the clerk said. “Let’s see … here it is: ‘Adrian, please accept my condolences on your loss. Thinking of you, Harmon.’ Is that what you wanted?”

“It’s perfect. How did you spell Harmon?” The clerk spelled it out. “Yeah, that’s right. Thanks very much; I appreciate your help.”

Paschel hung up and handed Oaken the note: “Mean anything to you?”

“Nope. Maybe it will to Charlie.”