Wall of Night

35

By late afternoon, Latham had a list of the bus’s fifty-two passengers, which he faxed directly to Tom Whulford at FBI headquarters. As the day wore into evening, a trickle of passenger information began rolling off the Holystone fax machine.

Despite Latham’s prayers to the contrary, it was soon evident that every passenger was in fact a Chinese citizen. However unlikely, he’d been hoping he’d find one that was either a U.S. citizen or a recent immigrant. If so, that person would have likely been Tsang’s contact: A wolf among the sheep. Alas, it wasn’t to be.

“Now what?” Randall asked, yawning.

“Where are we with pictures?”

“Tommy’s working on it. If they’d been part of the same tour, we’d be done by now.”

Despite sharing the same bus, most of the passengers were individual travelers, so instead of one entry point to check, there were dozens ranging between Atlanta to New York City. Tommy was slogging his way through Immigration’s red tape, trying to nail down passport photos.

“Besides, what good are pictures going to do us?” Randall asked.

“I don’t know, I like to have faces — it makes them more real.”

“I hope so. Otherwise we’re going to be visiting a lot of hotels.”

Approaching nine-thirty, photos began spooling off the fax machine. They set up a system: Randall would pick up the photo, give it a quick look, then pass it to Latham, who would do the same, then clip it to the appropriate passenger’s file.

The hours passed and the faces became a blur. The conference table grew ever more crowded with manila folders and photos. At eleven, the last one came off the fax.

“Nope,” Randall muttered. “Of course, I don’t think I’d recognize Jimmy Hoffa right now.”

Latham looked at the photo, shook his head, then clipped it to the matching file. He plopped down into a chair. His head was buzzing. Too much coffee, too much thinking.

Randall sat down on the carpet, then lay back. “What d’ya think? Get some sleep and come back fresh in a few hours?”

“Sounds good.”

Latham leaned his head back and closed his eyes. After ten minutes, his brain was still clicking over. Something there … something I’m overlooking … He got out of his chair and started pacing.

From the floor, Randall murmured, “What’s up … ”

“Nothing.” Latham circled the table, thinking, thinking … Then, suddenly, it was there. “Paul!”

“Huh … what?”

Latham began flipping through the files, glancing at pictures. As Randall watched, Latham circled the table, checking a file, moving on, checking a file, moving on … On the twenty-sixth one, he stopped. He picked up the passport photo and studied it.

“Something, Charlie?”

Latham turned the photo around. “This.” He picked up the phone and called Wuhlford. “I need something: an old case of mine …” Latham gave him the details and hung up.

Forty minutes later, Tommy called back. “Got it, Charlie.”

“There should be two composite photos.”

“Yep, I see them.”

“Fax them to me.”

Latham stood by the machine as they arrived. He glanced at the first one, laid it aside, then grabbed the next and laid it beside the passport photo. After a few seconds, he nodded. “Hot damn.”

“What?” said Randall.

Latham slid the photo and the composite across the table to him. The composite depicted a Chinese woman in her mid-sixties with a round face and silver hair; the photo was an almost exact duplicate except for the age.

Randall read the file: “Siok Hui Zi. They’re the same person. What’s going on?”

“About six years ago,” Latham began, “some executives at Raytheon suspected they had a spy ring in their fire control division. An employee had come forward, stating she’d been approached by a coworker who asked how she felt about the company … the way it treated the employees — basically stirring the pot. Finally she was asked if she wanted to make a little extra money.

“Raytheon called us and we started digging into it. The employee who’d been approached strung along her coworker. Slowly the pieces came together. There were three others in the ring, but we were having trouble pinning down the group’s controller.

“Finally we got enough on the ringleader and confronted him. He broke down and gave us everything — including a composite picture of the controllers and their names. By the time we went to grab them, they’d disappeared.”

Randall said, “You said controllers — plural.”

“Right.”

“You’re telling me this old woman was one of them? Sweet-faced Grandma Siok Hui Zi?”

“Her name was different then, but yes.”

“And her partner?”

Latham picked up the other composite. “Sweet-faced Grandpa Mihn Zi.”

“Charlie, they’ve gotta be nearly seventy years old … If you’re right, that means these two … “ Randall stopped, shook his head as though to clear it.

“It means that Grandma and Grandpa Zi are the ones who broke into the Baker home, then tortured and slaughtered a husband, wife, and two children.”

Like Randall, Latham found it hard to imagine a pair of wizened, cherubic-faced Chinese septuagenarians doing something so savage. Could he be wrong? Perhaps the Zis were just gophers, cogs in a larger network. “What hotel did she list on their entry visa?” Latham asked.

“They won’t be there, Charlie. They—”

“It’s a place to start. It’s all we’ve got.”

“What about Tsang?”

“What about her? I doubt she could lead us to them even if she wanted to.”

“She listed her hotel as the Marriott in Bethesda — Pooks Hill. Checked in four days ago.”

“Okay, that’s where we start. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

Latham’s cell phone trilled. “Latham.”

“Charlie … is that you?”

“Who is this?”

“Charlie, it’s Mrs. Felton … from down the street.”

His neighbor: spinster, six cats … “Yes, Mrs. Felton, is there something wrong?”

“I’m not sure. That’s why I’m calling. Bonnie called me earlier today—”

“Bonnie? When?”

“This morning. She was worried about her ficus and asked if I would water it. I was just over there. Charlie, there’s water all over the basement floor.”

Ah, shit. “Does it look like there’s something running?”

Mrs. Felton paused. “Uh, well, I … yes, I heard water running. I was afraid to look.”

“Okay, I’m on my way. Thanks, Mrs. Felton.” He hung up.

“Problem?” asked Randall.

“I think my water heater finally gave up the ghost.”

“The hotel’s halfway to your place. I’ll run home, feed my cat, then meet you.”

Latham made good time, taking 270 past Bethesda then up to Burdette. Forty minutes after Mrs. Felton’s call, he pulled into his driveway.

Aside from the amber light on the porch, the house was dark. Bonnie’s flower baskets swung in the breeze. He punched the garage door opener. The door began rolling upward.

Gotta be some kind of unwritten law, he thought. Minor home disasters only happen on holidays or late at night … He checked his watch. Almost midnight, for God’s sake.

The garage door reached the top and stopped with a clunk. Gotta replace that track spring.

He pulled into the garage until the hanging tennis ball bounced against the windshield, then shut off the engine. Almost midnight …

The overhead light clicked off, casting the garage in darkness except for what moonlight filtered through the open door.

Latham stopped. “Midnight?” he muttered. “It’s almost midnight.” Mrs. Felton was eighty years old; she was lucky to make it past nine o’clock.

Even as the alarm went off in his head, he glanced at his review mirror and saw a shadowed figure enter the garage. Moving fast, hunched over, it came around the side—

Gun!

He rolled right, reached into his jacket for his holster. He heard three muffled thuds and thought, noise suppressor. His side window shattered. Glass peppered his face. He drew his gun, pointed it toward the window and pulled the trigger three times. Nearly blinded by the muzzle blast, he scrambled to the passenger door.

Thud.

The window above his head shattered. He extended his gun, pulled the trigger twice more, then yanked the door latch and tumbled onto the garage floor.

He took a deep breath. His heart pounded in his ears.

He heard feet shuffling on the other side of the car. He pressed his head to the concrete and peeked under the chassis. A pair of feet streaked past the front tire and disappeared from view. Latham pushed himself to his knees and laid his gun across the hood.

There was nothing.

The door to the laundry room banged shut.

They’re in the house, he thought. The sons-of-bitches are in my house … Gotta assume they’re both here… that’s how they work … Mrs. Felton — God, let her be alive …

He leaned into the car and turned the ignition key. The engine roared to life. He scrambled back out and waited.

The laundry-room door flew open. Silhouetted in it was a small-framed figure with hunched shoulders. Grandma Zi. Her gun game up, pointing at the car’s windshield. Latham adjusted his aim and opened fire. Lightning fast, she turned, snapped off a shot, and ducked back inside as Latham’s bullets shattered the doorjamb.

Latham reached into the car and shut off the engine.

Silence. The engine ticked as it cooled.

He stood up, pressed himself against the wall, then reached out and pressed the garage-door button. As it clattered shut, he ducked down, gun pointed at the laundry-room door.

Five seconds passed. Nothing happened.

They’re too smart for that, he thought. And fast. God almighty, she was fast.

It was decision time. Did he go in after them, or do the smart thing and go for help?

No, he thought. They’d invaded his home; they’d been looking for Bonnie and the kids.

“The hell with it,” he muttered.