Havoc (19 page)

CHAPTER 50

The next morning, Feng Wu’s eyes shot open. Although his alarm had not yet sounded, he felt not the slightest trace of drowsiness. Of all days to oversleep, this would be the most catastrophic. With a sense of mounting panic, Wu rolled over to check the time. He issued a sigh of relief as he saw the phone’s alarm wasn’t due to sound for another ten minutes. Nervous excitement had proved to be a more effective alarm clock than his phone.

Wu’s senses tingled with anticipation for today’s breakfast meeting with Mr. Brookings. Since he had no hope of drifting back to sleep, Wu decided to begin preparations for the meeting. By now, his choice of attire had evolved into a ritual: don the plaid shorts and solid polo of a tourist, with a fisherman’s hat and sunglasses added for good measure. By transforming his appearance into that of the ubiquitous sightseer, he became—for all practical purposes—invisible to those he passed on the street, exactly the effect he desired.

Wu slipped Wells’ cellphone into one of his shorts’ hidden pockets, then pressed on the strip of Velcro to produce a firm seal. Hopefully, he would have another cellphone for the other hidden pocket within a matter of hours.

Last night, Wu had plotted out a timeline for this morning’s events. He left his hotel room seven minutes ahead of schedule and began walking north as soon as he emerged from his hotel. As always, he sought to conceal both his point of origin and his destination from his taxi drivers, just in case the police assigned to the Duncan Wells murder investigation began polling them.

After a full twenty minutes of traveling down the crowded sidewalk on foot, Wu hailed a cab. He instructed the driver to drop him off at a shopping complex nearly two kilometers short of Ristorante di Scalotti, the local eatery in which he and Mr. Brookings had met previously and where they were scheduled to reunite.

After exiting the taxi, Wu walked the final distance to the restaurant and requested a table in the al-fresco dining area. He ordered green tea from the waiter, then turned his attention to the surroundings. On the other side of the waist-high fence that delineated Scalotti’s dining area from the street at large, a steady stream of pedestrians flowed along the sidewalk. Many appeared to be tourists, albeit from all walks of life and corners of the earth. Others looked to be locals on their way to work, based on their smart attire and the occasional name tag. A number of parents and children passed by, apparently anxious to take advantage of the Sunday morning’s comfortable autumn weather. But Mr. Brookings had yet to make an appearance.

The waiter returned with Wu’s tea and requested his breakfast order. Wu would have preferred yóudoùfu fěnsī, a traditional soup of fried tofu and noodles, or even plain rice porridge, but the restaurant carried a limited selection of breakfast foods. Eventually, he ordered a cornetto, an Italian croissant, guessing it to be the option he was least likely to find revolting.

Wu glanced at his watch: nine-fifteen. The appointment time had come and gone a quarter of an hour ago. The waiter returned with Wu’s order, placing it and a variety of local marmalades on the table. Wu scarcely glanced at his food as he ate. Hoping to spot Mr. Brookings, he kept his attention riveted on the patrons approaching the restaurant’s outdoor hostess desk.

After another fifteen minutes passed, Wu removed his cellphone from a pocket and sent a message: “I am waiting at Scalotti’s Restaurant as agreed. Have you been delayed?” He pushed the send icon and waited in anxious silence for a reply. Could something have stalled Brookings somehow? Rome seemed to be as plagued by accidents and construction-related traffic snarls as any large city, so such a delay certainly seemed possible.

Thirty minutes became sixty, which subsequently lengthened into two hours. Still Mr. Brookings had neither appeared at the restaurant nor replied to Wu’s message. After waiting until 1:00 p.m., Wu finally had to admit defeat. Even traffic slowdowns couldn’t account for a delay of this magnitude. He had sent another message at the three-hour mark, but Bookings hadn’t replied to it, either.

Wu shook his head in perplexity. What could cause such an inexplicable no-show? Brookings had set the sales price himself. Why would he refuse to come collect a king’s ransom? Could he have found someone willing to pay a higher price? If so, wouldn’t he try to play the two potential buyers against each other in a bid to raise the sales price even higher?

Unable to guess the rationale behind Brookings’ absence, Wu reluctantly stood and exited the restaurant.

As Feng Wu retraced his steps back down the street, Ernesto Vega backed out of the same scouting position he had occupied two days earlier, a narrow crack between a dumpster and an alley wall—a spot permeated by unspeakable odors but perfect for the reconnaissance he had been conducting all morning.

Before he emerged from the alley, Vega lowered a pair of sunglasses onto his face and slipped his Ruger back into its holster. Using a weapon on a crowded street like this carried considerable risk, but he no longer had a choice. He had to prevent the consummation of the sale. If that meant silencing one of the participants, so be it.

Vega sent an encrypted e-mail message to Gantt: “Vidulum seller did not arrive for morning’s rendezvous. Will trail Wu.”

After waiting for Wu to travel a little further down the street, Vega began tailing the frustrated buyer. Almost an hour later, Wu arrived back at his hotel, while Vega continued to shadow him.

After waiting an interminable span at the restaurant across the street, the agent received a phone call.

“Vega here.”

“It’s Gantt. So the meeting never happened?”

“Nope. Wu waited a little over four hours. The Vidulum seller never showed. Have you been able to tap Wu’s communications?”

“No, not yet,” replied Gantt. “He’s using an encryption technique we’re not familiar with. Our boys are trying to break the code, but they think the key might be some new type that exceeds the standard hundred and twenty-eight bits. If that’s the case, we may be working on this for a while.”

“Wonderful,” muttered Vega. “What about the bugs I planted in his room a few days ago?”

“Wu uses a disrupter whenever he makes a call. It sends out a sonic jamming signal. All we can make out is white noise.”

“So we have no intel on what’s going on inside the room?”

“That’s right. We know he had a conversation about an hour ago ‘cause we heard the disrupter. We just don’t know what he said. In the meantime, maintain your position until twenty-two hundred hours. We’ll send Ian Lynch to cover the night shift at that time.”

“Lynch! Is that the best you can do? What about Fruehauf?”

“Fruehauf is in Munich. He can’t make it here in time. But Lynch is still one of our top European agents. Besides, ever since we tapped into the hotel’s cameras, we haven’t seen Wu leave at night. Odds are, Lynch won’t see any action at all. If he does, he can always contact you.”

“Okay. I guess I’ll have to live with that.”

“So,” asked Gantt, “have you heard anything from your private contact—the one you told me about at the beginning of this case?”

“No, which surprises me, to be honest. But I’m gonna rattle his cage as soon as we finish this call. He probably doesn’t know anything, or he would have called me. Just to cover all the bases, though, I’ll follow up with him in a more…uh…persuasive manner.”

“Okay.”

“One last thing,” said Vega. “Have you learned anything about the two other operatives I told you about in my last e-mail message?”

“Not yet, but I’m hoping we’ll be able to identify them in the next forty-eight hours, if we’re lucky.”

“Let me know as soon as you learn anything. I can’t take down Wu until we know their end game.”

“Will do,” said Gantt. “I’ll be in touch.”

They ended the call, and Vega resumed his vigil of Wu’s hotel building. For a couple of minutes, he alternated between monitoring the hotel and typing a message to Raven, his European contact.  He finished typing and sent the encrypted message. “I have enjoyed our working relationship, so it pains me to note that I have not heard from you since the beginning of this case. Do not forget, my friend, that I know your secret. My intention is to respect its sanctity, but if you do not reply in the next 24 hours, I will be forced to reveal it. I do not like typing these words, but I think you know me well enough to understand I do not make idle threats. Remember: you have 24 hours to tell me all you know about the Duncan Wells murder and his missing cellphone.” After sending the e-mail message, Vega settled in to wait.

Feng Wu returned to his hotel room a frustrated and discouraged man. He still couldn’t imagine walking away from a fifty-million-dollar deal as Mr. Brookings had done. He dreaded sharing this news with Xing Z
hǔ
xí, but the task had to be performed.

Wu typed in a message to send to his company’s CEO: “Seller did not arrive for morning transaction. Have attempted to follow up with him throughout the day with no avail. Will strive to reestablish contact tomorrow. Outlook for success is still bright.”

Wu sent the message, hoping his company’s CEO would view the projected outcome with more optimism than Wu did himself.

Wu struggled to think outside the box. What other options did he have to procure the remaining files? He had to follow the project through to a successful conclusion, or what would happen to Li Na, his wife?

CHAPTER 51

As Wu and Vega struggled with their individual challenges, Alton and Mallory spent the day exploring Rome from the top level of an open-air, double-decker tour bus. Mallory had seen the tour described on a flyer in the hotel lobby and had suggested it as a means of seeing the city without undue foot travel. Since they had already scheduled guided tours for the city’s more famous landmarks, the couple used the tour bus as an opportunity to study the more remote Baroque piazzas and ancient antiquities spread along its route.

After returning to their hotel, Alton and Mallory dined in a quiet pizzeria just down the street, opting for a casual dining experience to cap off their relaxing day.

“So, did you have a favorite stop today?” asked Alton as he used a wedge-shaped spatula to deposit steaming portions of pizza onto two plates.

Mallory paused to consider the question. “I think I liked Circus Maximus the best. I mean, a chariot track that could hold a hundred and fifty thousand people in its stands? Built twenty-five hundred years ago? That’s crazy.”

“Yeah, that was pretty amazing. Makes you wonder what it would have been like to actually witness a race back then.”

“Those guys knew how to have a good time, that’s for sure. They had chariot races and Pompeii beach resorts. We have NASCAR and Myrtle Beach hotels. Doesn’t seem like things have changed all that much.”

Alton chuckled. “Let’s just hope Myrtle Beach isn’t covered in a cataclysmic volcanic eruption.”

After dinner, the couple returned to their room. Alton removed the Beretta from his waistband and set it on the nightstand. He sat on the bed and assessed his leg. A tingling sensation ran through it, but no real pain.

Alton stripped off his clothes while Mallory showered. He considered joining her again, as he had on their first day in Rome, but the water stopped running. Mallory walked into the room wearing only a towel and pulled her sleeping attire, a pair of shorts and a tee-shirt, from her suitcase.

As Mallory let her towel drop to the floor, Alton could feel his heartbeat accelerate. “I don’t think I’m ever going to get used to how beautiful you are.”

“Flatterer,” she replied with a grin as she slipped on her makeshift pajamas.

“I mean it—you know I do.”

She walked over to him and ran her hand along his muscular triceps, kept firm by a regular regime of swimming and strength training. “You’re not so bad yourself, Sweetie.”

Alton swallowed. “I think I had better take my shower now.”

Mallory’s eyes twinkled. “Yeah—you do that.”

As he bathed, Alton experienced a tumult of emotions. He struggled to separate his selfish desires from his wish to discern, and act on, the best course of action for Mallory’s benefit. His own desires couldn’t be clearer, but as a man, did he represent the best choice for Mallory? In choosing him, would she be settling? Didn’t her interest in another man during her early FBI days confirm Alton’s lack of appeal back in Kabul? Or did her earlier interest in another guy even matter anymore, now that he and Mallory were together? With all his heart, he hoped this latter proposition was the case, yet the fear of allowing selfish interests to cloud his judgment in this most important question persisted.

Finishing his shower, Alton toweled off and reentered the bedroom. Mallory lay buried under the comforter, watching an old American movie with Italian subtitles. Alton slipped on a pair of loose shorts and slid into bed next to her.

Mallory switched off the television, leaving the room illuminated by the pale glow of a nearly-full moon. She rolled over to look at Alton. “How’s your leg feeling now?”

“I’m good,” he replied, “but if you’re tired—”

She placed a finger on his lips and rolled over to rest her chest upon his. At that moment, Alton realized she had shed her attire.

Mallory slid her hand from Alton’s lips to his waist. With a flowing movement, she pulled down his shorts and began a rhythmic motion that sent an instant wave of desire coursing through Alton’s frame.

A moment later, she asked, “Ready?”

“Um…you should know.”

“Ha! Since you’re still recovering, I’ll do a little more work this time.” She mounted him and began a more intense rhythm, sending electric signals throughout Alton’s body.

Alton pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her as their bodies moved in unison. Maybe this was wrong, but at the moment, he couldn’t bring himself to care. His desire was a physical ache that only she could remedy. Their lips met with an insatiable hunger, and they groaned as their passion mounted, moving together for nearly a quarter-hour.

Closing her eyes, Mallory arched her back as she achieved the pinnacle of erotic bliss, while Alton followed suit moments later. She collapsed onto his chest, their bodies still entwined.

A minute later, Mallory began to shift herself off, but Alton restrained her.

“No, don’t move—not yet,” he said.

“But what about your leg—is it okay?”

“It’s fine. I just want to stay this way a little longer. Let me savor the moment.”

She leaned down to meet his lips, their delicate caress evolving into to a fervent, lingering kiss. Eventually, she rested her head on his chest.

Alton’s last memory before succumbing to sleep was that of the gentle sound of Mallory’s even breathing as she remained nestled atop his body.

In the morning, Alton awoke to feelings of both shame and exquisite happiness as he wrestled with the same questions he had pondered in the shower the previous evening. He consoled himself with the reflection that no matter what the future revealed concerning Mallory’s preferences in men, she had seemed to enjoy last night as much as he had.

Alton placed his hand on Mallory’s arm. Her eyes opened, and she broke into a smile. “Morning, Sweetie.”

“Good morning to you,” said Alton. “You looked so peaceful, I hated to wake you. But our tour starts at ten o’clock, so I figured you’d want to start getting ready.”

“That’s right. We have that museum tour—the one we booked yesterday. Guess I was too distracted to remember.” She ran her hand down his thigh.

Alton’s torso shook with an involuntary shiver. “Too distracted to remember what? Oh, now I recall—the museums.” He smiled and rolled out of bed. “Hey, my leg feels pretty okay. That was a good call last night. Your…technique, I mean.”

“See? I know what I’m doing. You just have to trust me.”

The statement caught Alton a little off guard. He hesitated a moment before starting to brew a small pot of in-room coffee as they began preparing for the new day.

After returning from their tour, Alton turned to Mallory. “That guide sure was organized. Everything went off without a hitch. I wish the Duncan Wells case would resolve so smoothly.”

“Who knows?” said Mallory. “Maybe our luck will change.”

“I hope so, but I’m not counting on that. Speaking of the case, remember how Rossi said he’d send some background info along with Crowe and Wu’s passport numbers?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that information just arrived in my email a few minutes ago. So, I’d like to work on the follow-up research, if you don’t mind. It’s getting a little late to start any more excursions, and frankly, I’d rather wrap up this case if possible so we won’t have this cloud hanging over our heads the entire week we have left here.”

“Works for me,” replied Mallory. “What’s the best way to divide the work?”

Alton smiled. “I had a feeling you’d ask that. Here’s one idea. Since Crowe had to be paid for his work, and you specialize in tracking down illicit payments, why don’t you work on following the money trail backwards from him?  Maybe we can learn a little more information that will help track down both Crowe and his employer.”

“That seems like a reasonable approach. What are you going to work on?”

“I thought I might try to chase down our friend Feng Wu. The Chinese pride themselves on hacking every server in existence to extract the information they need. But that doesn’t mean they don’t have their own vulnerabilities…to someone with the right experience.”

“Gonna hack the hackers, huh?”

“That’s the idea.”

“What about the programming language?” asked Mallory. “What if they use Chinese characters instead of English?”

“Usually their IT people use English, since it’s more compatible with most software languages around the world. If they don’t, though, I can always break out the translation software I used when I was cracking enemy transmissions for the Army back in Kabul.”

“Sounds like you’ve got it covered.”

“I’m also going to see what else I can find out about Zane Crowe from a non-financial perspective, just in case your research hits a dead end,” said Alton. “Someone had to hire him, and we need to learn who that someone is. Otherwise, even if we help capture Crowe, we could be threatened with his replacement in the future.”

“Sounds like we have a lot of ground to cover. Should we order in for dinner?”

“Ha! Well, let’s see how it goes. I’d rather go out for our meal, but we probably should plan on being here through the evening. We need to track down these men, and my gut tells me the time for doing so is running out.”