Wall of Night (19 page)

Washington,
D.C.

Mary Tsang's ad ran in the
Post's
Saturday edition.

Paul Randall and Janet Paschel spent the morning sharing surveillance duty on her apartment. At noon, Tsang stepped out her door wearing sweatpants, sweatshirt, and running shoes, then got into her car and drove off. Paschel called Latham. “She's moving, Charlie. I'm passing Florida and Q. I don't know if it means anything, but it looks like she's dressed for a workout.”

“Maybe something,” Latham replied. In the ten days they'd been watching Tsang, the most exercise she'd performed was carrying grocery bags from her car. However subtle, this was a change in behavior.
Better safe than sorry,
Latham thought. “Where's Paul?” he asked.

“Went to grab some lunch.”

“Call him and see if he can rustle up some sweatpants, then have him meet you.”

As it happened, Randall was only five minutes from his own apartment when Paschel called. He changed clothes and began heading toward Paschel's location. “Passing the Spectrum Gallery on M Street,” she reported. “Looks like she's trying to find a parking spot.”

“Good luck,” Randall replied. “I know that area. Finding a spot there on a Saturday morning is going to be a trick.”

Latham asked. “Doesn't a jogging trail start around there—the one that goes to the zoo?”

“We're passing Thirty-first,” Paschel announced.

“Yeah, you're right. It starts on Prospect.”

“You may have called it,” Paschel said, “She's turning toward Prospect … slowing down now … yep, she's looking for a spot.”

“I'll be there in five minutes,” Latham said. “Paul?”

“Less than that.”

Whatever aversion Tsang had to exercise, it wasn't apparent as she parked her car and started jogging northeast toward Rock Creek Park and the National Zoo.

Following Paschel's directions, Randall took a few shortcuts and found a parking spot on P Street, then got out and started stretching. A few minutes later Tsang jogged past him.

“I've got her,” Randall called over the cell phone. “Damn, she's moving fast.”

“Stay with her,” Latham said. “Dinner's on me if you do.”

“I'll hold you to it.”

Tsang headed down Q Street to where it crossed the jogging path bordering Rock Creek, then turned north, following the trail into the park's half-mile-wide forest of spruce and pine. She never once looked over her shoulder, Randall noted. In fact she seemed to be in a hurry, so focused was she on the path ahead.

A mile into the park she turned east onto a narrow path. The wooden sign at the intersection read “Steep trail—For experienced hikers and joggers only.”

“Just great,” Randall muttered, and pushed on.

Tsang began to slow as the grade increased. Randall adjusted his pace accordingly. The trees crowded the trail until branches brushed his arms and the canopy blotted out the sun. He took a bend in the trail and found himself on a straightaway. Fifty yards ahead, Tsang was rounding the next corner. Randall sprinted ahead and made the turn: another straightaway, this one downhill …

What's this
?
He stopped and backpedaled out of sight.

Tsang, barely ten yards ahead of him, was emerging from the trees along the path.

Randall waited five seconds, then peeked around the corner. She was gone. He started out again, studying the underbrush as he passed it. He saw nothing.

Twenty minutes later he emerged from the park and turned onto Q Street. A hundred yards ahead of him, Tsang had slowed to a walk. He pulled out his cell phone, dialed Paschel, and gave her his location. “I see her,” Paschel said. “She's passing me now.”

“Thank God,” he panted. “Damn, I'm outa shape.”

“At least you earned your dinner. Hold on, I'll get Charlie conferenced in.”

Latham came on the line. “You alive, Paul?”

“Barely. She's a dynamo. We may have something, though.” He explained what had happened on the trail. “I didn't see anything, but it's worth a check.”

“Okay. Janet, follow her home, make sure she's got nothing else on her itinerary. Paul, I'm headed your way. Let's see if we can figure out what she was up to.”

Had they not been looking for something, they would have never found it.

The pill bottle was tucked inside the knothole of a fallen tree about twenty feet off the trail. The white top had been smeared with mud, and a leaf was stuck to the plastic.

“Take a good look, Paul,” Latham said. “Memorize it. When we put it back, I want everything just as it was.” If Tsang had left any telltales—physical peculiarities designed to betray tampering—Latham wanted to make sure they recreated them perfectly.

Randall examined the knot from several angles. “The leaf's stem is pointing at twelve o'clock … hold it …” Randall leaned closer. “There's a toothpick, Charlie. It's covered in mud; almost looks like a twig. It's wedged under the bottle.”

Very smart,
Latham thought.
Move the bottle and the toothpick falls.
“I thought you said she was only back here for ten seconds?”

“She was.”

“Then she's been practicing. Anything else?”

“Nope.”

Latham eased the bottle out and peered into the hole. It was empty. Next he pried off the leaf and set it aside. He examined the bottle for more telltales. There were none. He unscrewed the cap. Inside the bottle was a folded piece of white paper. Counting folds as he went, Latham opened it. Inside he found six characters in what he assumed was Mandarin Chinese.

“Damn, Charlie, you were right about her,” Randall murmured.

“Looks that way.”

The unremarkable Mary Tsang had just serviced a dead-letter drop.

“What do you want to do?”

“Copy down the characters as best you can. We'll see if Oaken can make sense of them.”

When Randall was finished, Latham refolded the note and returned it the bottle, then slid it back into the knot and replaced the toothpick and leaf. Stepping carefully, they backed onto the trail, brushing leaves over their footprints as they went.

“Now what?” Randall asked.

“We're gonna have to stake it out.”

Randall chuckled. “I've got a sleeping bag.”

“Don't laugh, it might come to that. I'm guessing whoever's coming won't wait long.”

“No problem. Take that to Walt. I'll get things set here.”

“It's Mandarin,” Oaken said. “How accurate was Paul in his copying?”

“Looked good to me. Why?”

“Chinese dialects are tricky—both in the written and the verbal. You take two characters, both seemingly identical, but curl a brush stroke a certain way and you've got a different meaning. Chinese is a metaphorical language, so there are very few single word characters. Hell, I studied Mandarin for a year in college and I still had a hard time telling the difference between the characters for ‘water running downhill' and ‘eternal bliss.'”

“No wonder our governments are at odds,” Latham said. “That kind of subtlety doesn't make for easy communication. They're abstract, we're more concrete.”

“Exactly,” Oaken said. “Okay, let's see what we can do with this.”

He placed the note on a scanner, transferred it to his computer, then fed the file into a language database. After a few minutes, the computer chimed. Oaken looked at the screen, then tapped a few keys. “Done.” He took the sheet out of the printer's tray and peered at it. “Now, remember, this is probably pretty close, but it's not exact.” He handed Latham the translation and he read aloud:

“‘Opposition interested family; making connections; caution.' That answers a couple questions.”

“Such as?”

“First, Hong Cho knows—at least in general terms—who killed the Bakers.”

“And second?”

“He didn't buy the story we fed him.”

“But he sent a message anyway.”

“Which means he doesn't know we're onto Tsang. If he did, he wouldn't have let her service the drop.”

“But he did,” Oaken said, “They're still out there somewhere.”

Latham nodded.
And up to God-knows-what,
he thought. What was keeping them here?

Jakarta

Tanner slipped into the water and started out in a breaststroke, submerged except for the upper rim of his mask. He kept his eyes fixed on the
Tija's
decks, watching the guards come and go. When he was fifty yards off the port beam, one of the guards stopped, leaned on the railing, and looked out.

Come on,
keep walking
…

After ten seconds, the guard turned and walked aft.

Tanner turned and circled the boat until he was on the bow, then started swimming in. He got as close as he dared on the surface, then took a breath, ducked under, and started kicking.

Slowly the white curve of
Tija's
bow appeared out of the gloom. He stretched out his hands.
Easy now,
Briggs
…
Distances under water were exaggerated; similarly, sounds were amplified. Anything more than the lightest touch on the hull might draw unwanted attention. He felt the cold fiberglass under his fingertips, then kicked to the surface, snatched a quick breath, and dove again.

He arched his back and angled deeper, following the sweep of the keel. He pulled a chemlite off his belt and crushed it to life. He held the green glow against the keel and kept swimming aft.

Segung's directions had been specific: twenty-five feet behind the forefoot, just off the centerline. He almost missed it, so well was the hatch set into the keel.

Segung had called it his “dump door.” On dicey smuggling runs, he explained, forbidden cargo was placed atop this hatch. If a customs official happened to get nosy, Segung would dump the cargo, then wait for nightfall and dive over the side to collect it.

Briggs tapped his knuckle against the hull. There were a few seconds of silence, then a responding tap. A crack of light appeared around the seam, then the hatch swung open. Tanner finned through until his fingers touched a metal grating. His head broke into the air.

Segung was kneeling on the catwalk above. “Welcome aboard,” he whispered. “Any trouble?”

“None. Give me a hand.”

Segung helped him onto the catwalk, then reached down, grabbed a knotted rope, and pulled the hatch shut. “Clever, yes?”

Tanner took off the rucksack and set it aside. “Very. Ever had to use it?”

“Once or twice.”

“How many guards aboard?”

“Four, all on deck. There is a shift change coming from the island at four.”

Tanner checked his watch; time was going to be tight. “How about Soong?” he said.

“He's in the master cabin—forward companion way, last door on the port side.”

“There's no one else aboard?”

“No,” replied Segung.

“Okay, wait here. I'll be back in five minutes.”

“One moment. What about our arrangement? The other half of the money?”

“I told you: The other half when it's done.”

“I would say we are done now. In a matter of minutes, you and your friend will be gone.”

“In a matter of minutes, my friend and I will be in the water, in the middle of the Java Sea with only a few hours before the Chinese seal off the island.”

“That's your problem. I will take my money now, thank you.”

Tanner put an edge in his voice: “You'll get your money. I gave my word, and I'll keep it.”

Segung raised his hands, smiling sheepishly. “Of course, whatever you say. Go find your friend.”

Tanner climbed to the top of the ladder, slipped through the door, and eased it shut.

The passageway was dark. What little moonlight that filtered through the skylights was absorbed by the earth-toned carpeting and wood paneling.

Walking on flat feet, he moved into the salon: cream carpet, sectional sofas, and wide, convex windows lining both bulkheads. He dropped to his belly and crawled across the carpet to the companionway steps. Once at the bottom, he stopped and listened. Outside, the click of footsteps came and went. Voices murmured.

Last door,
port side
…
As he neared the door, he could hear snoring. He could feel his heart pounding. A rivulet of sweat ran down his cheek; he wiped at it with his shoulder. He eased the door open and slipped through.

Fully-clothed, Han Soong lay in the fetal position on the bed's coverlet, the unused pillows pushed into the corner. He was tiny, all bones and sinew, his skin a pasty white.

Why wasn't he sleeping under the covers or with pillows
?
Tanner wondered. Then it struck him: There were no such amenities in the
laogi.
In that moment, Briggs knew in his gut that it was all true. Soong
had
been in prison for the last twelve years.

He knelt beside the bed and gently placed his hand over Soong's mouth.

Soong's eyes sprang open, but he didn't move. He blinked his eyes a few times, and then they settled on Tanner's face. “Han, it's me. It's Briggs. Nod if you recognize me.”

Soong nodded vigorously.

“I'm going to take my hand away. Don't make a sound.”

Another nod. Tanner took his hand away.

“Briggs …” Soong whispered. “Heavens, Briggs, it's you, it's really you. What are you doing here? What is happening—”

“We'll catch up later. Right now, I need you to come with me. Don't ask any questions. Okay?”

“Yes, of course.”

As Soong put on his shoes he said, “I'm a little older man you remember me, eh?”

“We both are. You're alive—that's what counts.”

Soong patted Tanner's face. “You've grown up. What are you now, thirty-eight?”

“Forty.”

“I see a few silver hairs here and there.”

Tanner smiled. “Don't remind me. Okay, time to go.”

With Soong behind him, Tanner slipped out the door, up the steps, and into the salon. Once certain the way was clear, they crab-walked to the engine-room hatch. Tanner descended the ladder first, then helped Soong to the bottom.

Segung was waiting. “I was getting worried.”

“Everything's fine,” Tanner said. “Segung, this is Han Soong.”

Soong gave him a bow, then shook his hand. “Thank you for your help.”

Tanner led Soong to the hatch, then sat down and began donning his fins.

“Briggs, what is going on?” asked Soong.

“I'm getting you out of here.”

“What?”

“I know I'm about a dozen years late, but better late than—”

“I can't go with you.”

“What?”

“I can't go, Briggs. They still have Lian; if I don't go back, they'll kill her.”

Another question answered.
Thank God.
“What happened to her? Where—”

“She's alive. That's all I know.”

“What about Miou?”

“Miou got pneumonia and died the first year. They refused to treat her.”

“I'm sorry, Han:”

“I can't leave my child. She's the only family I have left. I won't abandon her.”

“We can still get her. Once you're out, we'll have leverage. They'll release her.”

“No they won't.”

“Then I'll go back for her. Han, you have to come with me.”

“No, Briggs, I—”

“Enough!” Segung barked. “Both of you shut up.”

Tanner turned.

Segung was pointing a thirty-eight revolver at them. “General, you're staying. Briggs, you're leaving—but not the way you came in.”

Tanner stood up and stepped in front of Soong. “Why are you doing this?”

“For the reward, you idiot. I've just broken up a plot to kidnap the general.”

“Segung, they won't buy it. Listen to me: They'll arrest you, seize your boat, then—”

“I doubt that.”

“You're making a mistake.”

“There's a lesson in this for you: Never haggle with a man who holds your life in his hands.”

Tanner knew his plan had just gone to hell. Regardless of whether the Chinese believed Segung's story, they'd whisk Soong back to Beijing and he would disappear into the
laogi.
There was only one way out of this. Briggs steeled himself for it.

“Segung, stick to our deal. There's a bonus in it for you—ten thousand U.S.”

“And what am I supposed to do? Let you go and wait here for the money? I don't think so.”

“I have the money here.”

“You're lying. Where?”

Tanner reached down, picked up the rucksack, and extended it to Segung. “Here.”

“No,” Segung said. “Put it down and open it yourself.
Slowly.
”

As he knelt, Tanner took a casual lean forward. He opened the zipper, reached inside, and pulled out a money belt He showed it to Segung. “Ten thousand. It's all yours.”

Segung barely heard him; his eyes were locked on the belt.

Tanner hefted the belt in his hands. “It's a lot of money. What do you say? Do we have a deal?”

“Give it to me.”

“We have a deal?”

Segung nodded absently; his gun never wavered. “Of course, yes. Give it to me.”

Easing his foot forward, Tanner pushed the belt toward Segung's right shoulder, the same side on which he held the gun. Instinctively Segung grabbed at it with his left hand. His torso followed the movement, pivoting left and drawing the gun along—across Tanner's body and slightly off target

Even as Segung's fingers touched the belt, Tanner was moving. Sidestepping left to clear the gun, he clamped his hand around Segung's wrist—thumb pressed into the radial nerve—then lunged forward, jerking Segung off balance and jamming the revolver into the open rucksack. With a muffled cough, the revolver discharged into the blankets.

Before Segung could pull the trigger again, Tanner slapped his open palm hard across Segung's windpipe. Stunned and off balance, Segung fell backward, his head striking the catwalk railing with a dull crunch. He slumped to the, deck.

Tanner knelt down and checked for a pulse; there was none. His skull was fractured.

“My lord, Briggs,” Soong murmured. “What did you just do?”

“I just got very lucky, that's what. Wait here.”

Tanner picked up the revolver, scaled the ladder, and opened the hatch. He listened for thirty seconds, heard nothing, then climbed back down. Soong was sitting on the cat-walk, staring at Segung.

“Are you okay?” Briggs asked.

“It's been a while, that's all. Funny, no? All those years in the army, I never got used to it.”

“Me neither. It's better that way.”

“It seemed easy enough for you just then.”

“That doesn't mean I enjoyed it. Han, come with me please.”

“I told you, I can't. Please understand.”

Tanner hesitated. “Then I'll come back for both of you. Do you know anything about the prison? Anything that might help me find it?”

“No, I'm sorry. It would be very dangerous for you, Briggs. If they catch you—”

“I'll figure something out. Just keep your bags packed.”

Soong smiled. “I will. What are you going to do about Segung?”

“He'll have to disappear. When the guards can't find him, they'll wake you. You didn't see or hear anything, understood? You never woke up.”

“Yes.”

“Let's get you back to your cabin.” He helped Soong to his feet.

“Briggs, how long before you come?”

“As soon as I can.”

Soong placed a hand on his shoulder. “Make it very soon.”

“Why?”

“I want you to take a message back. You can reach the CIA, I assume?”

“Yes.”

“Give them this: Ming-Yau Ang and Night Wall.”

“That's it? Nothing else?”

“They'll figure it out,” Soong replied. “When they do, they'll understand.”