White Tiger

CHAPTER 22

The video wasn’t as clear as it could have been, despite having been captured by state-of-the-art digital recording equipment employing sophisticated night vision imaging systems. But there it was, Baluyevsky taking in the view of San Francisco, totally unaware of the figure that slowly separated itself from the hedges to his right. While Baluyevsky’s body glowed in the darkness thanks to the night vision system’s ability to read infrared imagery and therefore “see” the big Russian’s body heat, the figure stalking him was muted, not as distinct. She (and Manning knew that killer was a female, and had always known it since Lin had described what had happened to his sons) crept toward Baluyevsky like a tiger, slowly stalking across the wide swath of lawn that separated the two of them. Even shrouded by the darkness of night, Manning thought Baluyevsky should have sensed something, that his mortality clock was slowly winding down. And at the last moment, he did. The assassin had closed to within fifteen feet of him when he turned suddenly, already reaching for the weapon at his side.

His assailant leaped toward him and launched a barrage of strikes that Baluyevsky only started to block. Then, his left arm went limp, as did his right, though he kept his grip on the butt of his pistol. He lashed out with one trunk-like leg then, executing a surprisingly swift crescent kick that would have floored his attacker had it made contact. But she had anticipated such a response and ducked down. Baluyevsky’s leg sailed over her, and then she launched herself at him, stabbing upward with both hands.

Baluyevsky tottered for just a moment, then collapsed on his back. Bright blood squirted into the air. The night vision gear read it as white, so it showed up clearly on the video screen.

And then the killer relaxed. She bent over the body and verified the kill. Satisfied, she rose to her feet and slowly walked back the way she had come. There was no urgency to her gait. It was almost as if she was taking a leisurely stroll.

Manning watched the video twice. The attacker practiced an easy economy of force, despite being arguably outmatched by Baluyevsky in almost every way. The only chance she had-other than shooting him in the head from a safe distance-was to get close to him and work fast. And that was how it went down. Manning didn’t kid himself, he knew Baluyevsky was as deadly as any man could be, but in this instance stealth coupled with speed and precision had won out.

Is she better than I am in close quarters? he wondered. How much punishment can she take? Will one punch make her fold up? If I break her collarbone, will she still come after me?

If it had been me out there last night instead of Baluyevsky, would I be dead now?

Manning didn’t know the answers to these questions, but he had the nagging suspicion he soon would.

Nyby and another security man stood in the small room with him. Manning turned to them.

“Thanks for showing me this. Where did you take Baluyevsky’s body?”

Nyby looked at the other man, a broad-shouldered Chinese. “To the wine cellar,” he said simply.

“Take me to him. And get me some latex gloves.”

Surrounded by dozens of bottles of rare vintage wines, Manning donned the latex gloves Nyby had given him and knelt on the cold concrete floor to examine Baluyevsky’s body.

The corpse was stretched out on the cement floor and its clothing cut away. Manning went through the garments one by one, gingerly going through the pockets of his trousers-Baluyevsky had urinated when he died, and his pants were still damp. He extracted a thin wallet which held only two plastic cards, one American Express Gold charge card and one Wells Fargo ATM card. Neither card bore Baluyevsky’s name, but that of an alias. He carried no cash. Manning removed the pistol and found another one in an ankle holster, as well as a Spyderco Tenacious knife in a special pocket sewn to his dress shirt. The shirt was more red now than white. Baluyevsky carried a cell phone, but it was password-protected. Manning set that aside.

Finished with the clothes, Manning set about examining Baluyevsky’s body. He was a mix of fat and muscle, with the physique of a powerlifter. His chest and arms were particularly hirsute, but his legs were almost completely devoid of hair. Old wounds marked the corpse; dimpled scars left by bullets, longer, more livid scars where blades and shrapnel had had their way with Baluyevsky’s flesh. Manning ignored the older injuries and concentrated on the new ones.

There was some bruising around his shoulders, and on each of his biceps. Lividity had drained the blood from the bruises before they could darken substantially, but enough blood lingered beneath the surface tissue to give Manning some clues as to what had happened. He asked for a ruler, then held it beneath the blotched skin to capture their dimensions. He had Nyby take photos of the measurements with the Nikon while he stayed out of the camera’s range. When he was finished, Manning examined the bruises more closely. It looked like Baluyevsky’s assailant had targeted both of his radial nerves, not just once, but twice-possibly necessary since Baluyevsky was quite large and had a goodly amount of tissue protecting the underlying structures, and his attacker was on the small side. Manning appreciated the attacker’s dexterity. While he had been taught to do the same thing when possible, he found that clipping the radial nerve track was a mixed proposition with an equally mixed success rate. But Baluyevsky’s attacker had done so with great precision, and then did it again just to ensure the big Russian’s arms had been neutralized.

A lot of skill behind this attack.

Manning moved on.

The blade that had likely ended Baluyevsky’s life had been long but thin, perhaps more scalpel than knife. Manning rocked Baluyevsky’s head from side to side, working against the stiffening muscles in his neck. He felt around the back of the dead Russian’s neck, and detected no real damage to the cervical vertebrae there. Death was caused by soft tissue damage, likely to the brain stem itself where it left the protective sheath of bone. Cut off from the brain, Baluyevsky’s body would have no choice but to die. Manning found the method of death interesting. While the Lin boys had been killed in a gruesome fashion, Baluyevsky hadn’t; if anything, his death was almost as gentle a send-off as possible, excepting a sniper’s bullet to the head. His suffering had been minimal, which likely meant the killer bore no particular malice toward the big Russian.

But still, his death was meant to send a clear message to Lin Yubo.

There is no security.

Manning rolled the corpse over but found nothing remarkable other than some curious scarring on Baluyevsky’s right buttock. He rolled the corpse onto its back and rose to his feet, stripping off the gloves as he did so.

“What did you find, Manning?” Lin stood several feet away, behind Manning and Nyby. He looked down at the corpse with a muted expression of disgust, even though he must have seen more than his share of dead bodies. Manning chuckled inwardly. Lin was still Chinese enough to believe that a dead body on the premises would invite ghosts and perpetual bad luck.

“Baluyevsky wasn’t the target. You were.”

“I know that already.”

“He was killed to send you a message, Lin Yubo. Your most senior bodyguard, a man who had killed who knows how many people-himself killed in an engagement that lasted less than five seconds.” Manning tossed the gloves onto the corpse and turned to Lin. “Your would-be assassin is taking some time to show off. Frightening you is part of her plan. She wants to torture you mentally as well as physically.”

Lin said nothing.

“I’ve called in all the guards,” Nyby said. “And we can hire some additional contractors to take up some of the slack. I know some really first-rate people-”

“A little late for that.” Manning nodded toward the body lying on the cement floor. “The estate’s security has been substantially compromised. Remaining here is no longer an option.”

“So where?” Nyby asked.

Manning ignored the question. “Lin Yubo, how long ago exactly was Lin Jong killed?”

Lin did not answer. He stared at Baluyevsky’s body before them. Manning detected something akin to a shudder pass through the small man’s body, a sensation that he was certain was foreign to Lin, both physically and spiritually. Despite having lived a lifetime full of violence, much of which he had perpetrated himself, his aspiring assassin had most definitely accomplished one part of her mission.

Lin was terrified.

“Lin Yubo,” Manning said.

“Over one month ago. Thirty-nine days.” Lin did not look up from Baluyevsky’s body. “Why is it important?”

“We can’t stay here any longer.”

“Where will we go?”

“Upstairs. Get some clothes. Toiletries. Pretend you’re going on a weekend trip.”

“I never go on weekend trips.”

“Lin! Snap out of it!” Manning said, his voice loud and sharp, strong enough to penetrate the cloak of fear that had draped around Lin. The old man looked up at him then, his eyes sharp, angry. Manning nodded to himself. Even when the chips were down, Lin Yubo was still a greedy, selfish, self-centered bastard who demanded all defer to him, no matter what the circumstances.

“Do not speak to me that way ever again,” he said. His voice had a lethal quality to it, like the slithering sound of serpents moving into striking range.

“Then pull your shit together and follow directions,” Manning said, monumentally unimpressed that an 80-something was finally showing some backbone. “Get whatever you need, and let’s leave. You’ve been compromised here.”

Lin nodded slowly and finally turned away from the body. He headed toward the stairs, and Manning followed him.

“How many men do you want to take with you?” Nyby asked. He hurried after Manning.

“None.”

“What? Are you kidding? You saw what happened to Baluyevsky-”

Manning turned and faced Nyby directly. The security man drew up short, as if he had suddenly decided he didn’t want to get close to Manning when Manning was wearing his war face.

“I’m a whole lot better than Baluyevsky ever was,” Manning said. “Do something you might be good at, like dumping Baluyevsky’s body.” With that, he turned and trudged up the steps after Lin.

“But where will you go?” Nyby asked. He ran to the foot of the stairs and looked up.

Manning turned at the head of stairs. “Somewhere about fifty-two stories up.”