Red Shark

Caserta peeked over the edge. “Fuckin’ A, it’s an elevator shaft.”

“See anybody?” Scott said.

“Yeah. But he ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Van Kirk and Jefferson kept their weapons aimed at a badly wounded Chinese tangled up in the elevator’s gear track and safety cables. He had been hiding just below the upper lip of the shaft. Caserta and Van Kirk reached down and dragged him out by his BDU shirt, onto the closet floor. Pellets had crashed through his chest and shattered his right collarbone. His BDUs ran wet with blood.

“I’ll be damned,” Scott said as he looked down the shaft and saw an elevator cab parked at the bottom. A musty, oily smell mixed with that of the sea and jungle rose from the shaft. “Fat’s a sneaky bastard.”

“Where’s Fat — Wu Chow Fat?” Jefferson demanded as Caserta searched the wounded man for weapons. He found a long hooked knife and threw it aside. He examined the man’s wounds and shook his head.

“Give him some water,” Scott said.

Leclerc offered the man his canteen, but he refused to drink.

Jefferson prodded the man with his boot toe. “Fat. Where is Fat?”

The man shook his head and looked away.

“Don’t give me that shit, where is he?”

“Want me to raise the cab, Skipper?” said Van Kirk, “ride it down, see where it goes?”

“Fat might be waiting for you down there, plus it could be booby-trapped. You and Caserta go around via the service road, find out where this tunnel comes out at the foot of the bluff.” He oriented himself. “It should be facing the pier. Be careful. If it’s clear, give us a signal and ride it up here.”

“Aye, Skipper.”

Scott turned back to the wounded Chinese. Jefferson was using his Sig to poke the shattered collarbone. The man hissed in pain; Scott pushed the Sig away.

“Drink this,” Scott said. He lifted the man’s head and put the open canteen to his lips to dribble water into his mouth. “English. Do you speak English?”

“You’re wasting your time,” Jefferson said. “He doesn’t understand you.”

“Marshal Jin; North Korea — do you know him?”

The Chinese said nothing.

“Was Jin a visitor here? Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Forget it,” Jefferson said. He stood. “He’s not going to tell you anything. He’s just a grunt.”

Chief Brodie came on the comm line. “Skipper, you better have a look at this.”

“Where are you?”

“Downstairs in the dining room.”

“Be right there.”

Scott lifted the canteen to the man’s lips again but saw that his dead eyes had glazed over.

Jefferson snorted. “Dumb fuck.”

21

Matsu Shan, rally point

Scott found Brodie and Zipolski standing in the wrecked dining room. Brodie pointed to a hand-hammered copper vase from an early Chinese dynasty, perhaps one dating from before the birth of Christ.

“Found this. Take a look.” Brodie aimed his penlight inside the vase. “A goddamn mini-video cam and mike, size of a pinhead aimed through a hole — it’s almost invisible — drilled in the vase. Digital video direct to etched micro discs. And that ain’t the only one.” He pointed to a piece of porcelain. “Another one’s in here. And there’s more, all of ’em instant voice-activated and bubble-wrapped and undetectable by sweepers.”

Scott understood the significance of Brodie’s discovery: Fat had recorded Jin’s meeting, possibly for his own protection, or, more likely, to blackmail Jin in the future.

“Have you traced these pickup devices to their storage media?” Scott asked.

Zipolski led the way into the kitchen, to a small pantry off the main part of the room. Inside the pantry Scott saw stacks of recording gear — computers, drives, and filters — all of it inside a wrenched-open case constructed of zirconium-impregnated glass panels, a bubble impervious to electronic detection, and all of it smashed to bits.

“Someone made sure it was destroyed.”

Scott inspected the ruined equipment made by VTron, a German company that supplied state-of-

the-art clandestine video and audio eavesdropping equipment to intelligence agencies in Western Europe and the United States. How Fat had managed to purchase such highly sensitive equipment was anybody’s guess.

“I suppose all the hard drives and discs are gone?” Scott asked.

“All except this one,” Zipolski said. He held in his palm a shiny, gold-colored mini-disc the size of a half-dollar. “I found it on the kitchen floor. Damn near stepped on it. They must of dropped it when they bugged out. Bet Fat’s got the rest of ’em onboard his junk.”

“You’re sure there’s nothing else here? You looked?”

“Yes, sir. Ain’t a thing left but this here pile of junk. And this.” Zipolski dangled one of the MAVs by its bent wing for Scott to see. “Found it outside the kitchen.”

“That’s the first one we lost.”

“Yes, sir. No sign of the one we lost in Fat’s bedroom.”

Scott said, “Chief—,” but Brodie had a hand up.