Insider X (14 page)

20

Four Seasons Hotel, Chengdu

MARKS AND LIP walked through the spacious hotel lobby.  Various seating areas were populated with hotel guests relaxing in the swank surroundings.  Some were using digital media devices, others were chatting, and a few were flipping through newspapers or glossy magazines.  In the international mix of suits and skirts were Ciggies and Camel Joe.  They were loitering near the cascading waterfall, which was spilling into an elaborate tiered series of reflecting pools.  The two men had dejected looks on their faces.  No doubt because their charges had given them the slip again.

Marks wondered if they’d even called it in that they’d lost their charges.  Such admission might result in disciplinary action.  The more likely scenario was they’d stayed mum, and had staked out this hotel lobby hoping that Lip and he would eventually turn up.

Ciggies spied them first.  He gave an elbow nudge to Camel Joe, whose face immediately perked up.  Marks pretended not to notice them.  Lip went to the front desk and inquired about messages.  The comely girl behind the marble counter went to check.  A few seconds later, she handed Lip a package.  Lip thanked her and rejoined Marks.

“Did they miss us?” Lip said, speaking about their tail, as they walked towards the elevator lobby.

“They look happy now,” Marks said.

“Got a package,” Lip said, stating the obvious.

“From?” Marks said.

“Guessing Hu,” Lip said.

Marks’s eyebrow arched.  He glanced at the package.  It was addressed to them, or the names they were using: Mr. Shawn Carter and Mr. McKinley Morganfield.  But there was no name showing the sender, except for a logo, which was the corporate logo for IDF.

“Care package?” Marks said.

Lip pushed the button for the elevators.  “Maybe it’s cookies.”

But it wasn’t cookies.  While they waited for the elevator, Lip swiped it with his phone, using one of his apps.

“Shit,” Lip said.  “Signal!”

Marks saw Camel Joe in his peripheral vision.  The man was still by the reflecting pools and had pulled out his phone.  Marks didn’t hesitate.  His mind processed, considered the proximity of innocents sitting nearby, saw the knee wall near Camel Joe, and made a call.  He grabbed the package from Lip and with a Frisbee-like toss threw the package towards Ciggies and Camel Joe.

The package sailed in the air.  Its trajectory took it towards the lower reflecting pool, but it didn’t quite make it there.  Instead, it fell a little short, hopped twice, and landed a few feet from Camel Joe and Ciggies, right near that tiled knee wall.  Camel Joe’s eyes widened.  He dropped his phone and dove.

“Let’s skip the elevator,” Marks said.

Marks and Lip headed towards the door for the exit stairs.  Just as they opened the door, they heard an explosion behind them.

“NOT COOKIES,” LIP said, as they went through the door for the stairs.  They didn’t go up the stairs, but chose the emergency egress corridor instead.  The corridor, they knew from doing their advance work, would lead outside.

Marks and Lip had scoped the hotel upon arrival.  They’d also gotten the lay of the land well before they checked in.  Lots you could do online nowadays with what was out there—publicly accessible and not.  Standard procedure on their parts.  Always have escape routes mapped out.  Covers get  blown.  Things go sideways.  Plan for what you can.  For everything else—improvise.

That care package Marks had just thrown was a not-so-subtle message.   Mr. Carter and Morganfield had just had their visas cancelled.  So much for passing themselves off as investors on a company visit.  They’d obviously been made.

Punching their tickets with a bomb, though, was not usually how it was done.  For one, it was messy.  Two: wasn’t discrete either—lots of noise and public attention with bombs.  Three: also happened to be kind of permanent, and those solutions were usually only reserved for special cases.

Wasn’t the good ‘ol days anymore.  Used to be there were a set of protocols when it came to certain infractions. 
Used to be
key phrase there.

The FSB (that’d be the Ruskies), for the most part, still played by those rules—as byzantine and convoluted as those rules were.  Ditto for some of the other outfits that operated in the European theatre and Eastern Bloc.  But out here in the Pan-Asian realm the pinball machine kept going tilt for no reason.  Case in point, just now.  Using an explosive device, when a simple tap on the shoulder to let them know the dance was over would have worked just fine.

Guess they wanted to make sure the message wasn’t lost in translation.  Too much of that was happening around here lately.  So, new rules.  Forget the old rules—the new kid on the block (PLA) thought they were too complicated.

Enough to give you a friggin’ headache.  It was like playing with the kid who didn’t like to lose.  The rules kept changing on you.  It was hard to keep up anymore.

Used to be window shoppers were given some slack.  Standard procedure, before cheater’s rules applied, was that when an operative was made they were placed under surveillance.  If that operative continued to overstay their welcome (i.e.: do things they shouldn’t) then things might get ratcheted up.  The operative might then be picked up and escorted to the nearest holding cell.

Even that, though, was way down the line—after exhausting other options.  Folks in this business really tried to avoid letting matters get to that stage.  Too much work when that happened.  Diplomatic channels had to be opened up.  A bunch of phone calls had to be made.  Real pain in the ass, where various trades were bandied and concessions discussed, all done using euphemisms, which didn’t admit anything or acknowledge there was even a problem.  Mind-numbing when it came to deciphering what the other guy really wanted.

Could take weeks or years to sort things out.  All depended on the factors involved.  But at least one thing was fairly certain.  When things did get worked out, and they usually got worked out, that operative (or operatives) were then put on a plane with one-way tickets and sent back home.  Sitting in B-class, of course, sipping the freebies.

That was the deal.  Gentlemen’s rules.  Used to be a clubby business this.  Granting mulligans were how the big boys preferred to play it.  Permanent solutions—like using a bomb—were considered poor form.  Real cheesy.  No class.  Tended to illicit blowback.  Nation states, as a general rule, didn’t take kindly when their operatives were offed and it was obvious who did it.  They usually got offended, and not in a good way.

Protocol, when such reprisals happened, necessitated an immediate and equal response.  An eye for an eye.  And that was just a mess.  Because things could quickly spiral out of control when two parties went at it like that.

Course it happened sometimes.  Even drinking buddies on the links didn’t always stay chummy.  Which made Marks wonder, was that what had happened here?  Was this blowback?  Had something happened to trigger this?  Had the good guys picked up someone, or had they accidentally (or intentionally) offed one of the PLA’s favorites and denied they’d done it?  Might explain the PLA’s testiness now.  Why they felt compelled to splash the pot and say, “Call you and raise you; and oh, here’s a bomb, go fuck yourself.”

Not that any of that mattered, right now.  Done was done.  For whatever reason, Marks and Lip had jumped to the head of the class.  The PLA wanted them dead.

Not cool.  But shit happened.

“Plan B,” Marks said, as they quickly went down the corridor.

“Right,” Lip said, huffing to keep up.

They reached the end of the corridor.  Plan B was simple.  Get out, and do it now.  Later, they could chew on all of this and figure out what the hell happened.

In front was a door, and to the right were another pair of stairs that went up and down.

“Which way?” Marks said.

“You pick.”

Marks did.  He pushed open the door and out they went into the alley.  In front of them was a big blank wall.  Left and right, he knew, would lead to daylight.  Marks’s eyes took it all in with one pass.  Nothing here, but junk and trash.  Good thing.  Because Marks was .  That little button in his head had been pushed.  He was motivated.  And one thing you never wanted to do was get in the way of a motivated Marine.

He assessed their options in a flash.  Left led to the front of the hotel.  Right led to the rear.  Easy choice.  They went right.  Did it at a jog.  Slowed down before they got to the end.  Lip stayed close.  Man was already winded by the sound of him, but no complaints from him yet.

Marks would have liked to have a weapon right now.  Didn’t like doing this without some pig iron in his grip.  Preferably something that held seven rounds of bite-ass.  That’d be his M1911A1.  Old school—US Marine Corps issued handgun.  Round here, though, choice weapon like that would be a little hard to come by.  Wasn’t like there were gun shops, let alone Walmarts or A&N stores.  Only way to get a weapon here was to find someone who had one and take it.

So that was the plan.  Marks found his store.  It was parked ahead, near the loading docks, past some columns.  Candidates inside.  Three guys.  Each of which, he was guessing, were carrying something he could use.

“See ‘em?” Marks said, at a whisper.

Lip and he had stopped short of the end of the alley.  The alley was covered in this area.  Above them, supported by massive columns, was a monolithic concrete slab that was the underside of the hotel.  Off to the right was another entrance into the hotel; a service entrance, pair of double doors.  Whole row of dumpsters was along the wall next to those doors.  The stench of rancid meat and other rank goodies killed the ambience.  Marks’s and Lip’s location was good, however.  Where they were standing afforded them a view onto the loading dock area and the service lane beyond.

That car.  Marks’s eyes settled on it like a teenage burglar looking at a sixty-inch flat screen still in its box.  The car was parked at the end of the loading docks.  Nose pointed away from them.  About thirty yards away.  Still running; could see the slight visual distortion caused by the exhaust coming from the tailpipe.  Driver’s profile was visible.  Let’s call him ‘P’.  Man in the passenger seat was staring straight ahead; couldn’t really see him at all, except for the back of his head.  He’d be ‘L’.  And the third was in the backseat.  That’d be ‘A’.

Okay cheer section… put them together and what do you have?

PLA.

“What are you thinking?” Lip said.

“I want what they have,” Marks said.

“Car?” Lip said.

“That too,” Marks said.

“Sounds good to me,” Lip said.

21

MARKS LIKED LIP’S attitude.  His partner didn’t dicker around when snappy decisions were required.  No time to overthink this.  If it looked like a duck, quacked like a duck, it was probably a duck.  It got to be déjà vu sometimes.  Same scene.  Same tricks.

Those guys were parked there by the service dock.  Car running.  Black sedan.  Not a van, truck, or some other delivery vehicle.  But a car.  Call it vehicle profiling, or whatever you want to call it, but Marks was pretty sure he was looking at the third team.

Yes, rules for the game were constantly changing on them.  But outfits the world over still used the same plays from the same dog-eared playbook.  They all cribbed what worked.  Op like this—taking out a pair of operatives—wouldn’t be done solo.  You wanted odds in your favor.  So that meant backup teams, which would be situated in certain spots, covering the perimeter.

Front of the hotel was a given.  Marks hadn’t spotted them when Lip and he had entered the hotel, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there.  Thinking about it now, could have been several of the folks Marks had seen loitering.  One or two of the bellhops?  Maybe one of the Taxi drivers?  Could have been those two gents puffing cigarettes, standing there with their bags.

All red flags now.  Needed to reassess, put them back under the lens.  Should have done that with Ciggies and Camel Joe.  He’d misjudged those two.  Their blasé attitude and apparent ineptitude had fooled him.  Marks hadn’t pegged them as a serious threat.  Thought they were just the usual crew that peeped on business types.

Mistake.  Not going to do that twice.  Didn’t need a genius to tell him that these three, hanging in the car, weren’t here to deliver clean sheets.

Ciggies and Camel Joe had fumbled the football.  News on that might be delayed.  Explosions had a tendency to vent that direction.  Smoke usually had to clear before it could be determined if the target was hit.

About a minute or less had passed since the bomb had gone off.  These three in the car might still be in the dark.  Would probably be brought up to speed any moment now.  And when that happened Marks wanted to be situated right.  And that place wasn’t here.  It was about twenty yards ahead, behind one of those support columns.  He told Lip what he was going to do.  Lip nodded.  Knew his role.

Marks leapfrogged ahead, kept behind the columns as best he could.  Behind him was Lip, doing the same.  Marks had almost reached where he wanted to be when there was movement inside the car.  Passenger door and rear door started to open.

Marks wasn’t in place, yet.  But he was close enough.  Had to hustle a little, but not much.  Almost couldn’t have timed it better, if he’d wanted to.

He closed the remaining distance.  Man in the rear seat was just stepping out by the time Marks got there.  Man wasn’t even looking Marks’s way.  In one fluid motion, Marks palmed the back of the man’s head like he would a small basketball (one of those kiddie-sized balls you’d find at an arcade—benefit of big hands).  Marks’s momentum did the rest.  In one downward arc, he introduced the man’s forehead to the top of the car.  Big noise.  Big dent.

Marks let go and the man crumpled in a heap.  Next guy in the queue.  He had stepped out, and was turning around, taking in what had just happened to his colleague.

Marks sidestepped the door, like he was doing the two-step.  He planted his left foot firmly and put his right shoulder into it.  Nothing fancy.  Simple, in a case like this, worked just fine.  That’d be six inches of flat knuckles corkscrewing ninety degrees in its swift delivery.  That flat surface of bone hit the bridge of the man’s nose with a sickening crunch.  About two hundred pounds of force, give or take, behind that punch.  The man dropped.  Like a rock.

The hammer had that affect.  Wasn’t often he needed to use it twice.  Drove the nail flush to the board every time.

All that commotion, unfortunately, got the driver’s attention.  Blurry movement inside the car told Marks the man was reacting.  Marks was not in a good position.  Good thing Lip had finally shown up to join the show.

Lip yanked open the driver’s door.  Driver’s head whipsawed the other direction, and took in Lip.  Could be a real eyeful when a person did that, seeing Lip up close, all in one rush.

Lot to take in.  There was Lip’s girth.  And then there was his affable friendly face.  Kind of off-putting.  Like having Santa suddenly getting up in your grill.  What the hell was going on?  Is he about to kiss me?  Or did I piss him off by pee peeing in his lap?

That flurry of brain synapses sending those questions, usually worked in Lip’s favor.  Man was constantly being underestimated.  He might look soft, but he had some scary hand skills.

Lip did a backhanded series of punches to the man’s face.  Patter-pat-pat!  Driver’s head jerked back three times in quick succession.  Lip grabbed the stunned driver by the collar, and swept him out.

Marks didn’t waste time admiring Lip’s efficiency.  Clock was ticking.  He bent down to see what the passenger seat guy had.  Had to roll him over to find it.  It was inside his jacket in a holster.  He unsnapped the silly button (no-no having one of those) and retrieved the weapon.

Quick look at it.  It’d do.  He checked what the other guy had, and in short order got his as well.  Neither had a backup piece.  That bit of news said it right there.  Not the most competent crew here.

Marks stood up.  His partner had already traded places with the driver.

“Well, are you coming or what?” Lip said.

Marks got in.

“That could have gone better,” Lip said, tapping on the gas before Marks even had time to shut the door.

“Kidding?” Marks said.  He shut the door.

“Well, what’d you get?” Lip said.

Marks looked at the two weapons he’d lifted.  They were familiar to him.  Hadn’t seen one for a while, though.  Last time would have probably been in a museum.

There was a five-pointed star surrounded by a circle on the handgun’s grip.  Real distinctive little detail.  Made the piece easy to identify.

It was a Tokarev TT30.  Soviet-era design whose origins went back to World War II.  The Chinese had started manufacturing these things later, starting in the 50s.  In some ways the thing was similar to the original Colt M1911 in its design.  Poor knockoff, though.  Range really sucked.  Even the Ruskies never liked them.  It was kind of amazing to see one of them, let alone two of them.

“Must be their grandpas’ guns,” Marks said.

“Every time,” Lip said.  “It’s like a flea market over here.”

Marks saw what Lip had pilfered.  Wasn’t any better.  In fact, Marks probably had gotten the better haul.

Lip pulled up to the service street, nice and easy.  Marks scanned.  Nobody on the sidewalks and no other cars.

“Least the price was good,” Marks said.  He checked their six.  No followers there either.

Lip snorted.  “And this car.”

“What’s wrong with the car?” Marks said, turning back around.  Dumb question.  His eyes took in the overfilled ashtray in-between them and the piles of spilled butts littered on the floor.

“It’s like an ashtray got dumped in my mouth,” Lip said.

“Open your window then,” Marks said.

“That meant to be a joke?” Lip said.

Marks smirked.  He looked out the window into the smog, as Lip turned onto another street.  Lots of cars now.  Lip quickly merged into the middle lane and they joined the rumble and bumble of evening rush hour spurt and go.