09.Deep Black: Death Wave Read online

  Her contact, she saw, was already there, waiting for her beneath an umbrella at a sidewalk table.

  The Cold War was over, but now a new and far deadlier war had begun—and the enemy, at least in this battle, was a certain sexist pig named Feng Jiu Zhu.

  She took a deep breath. Lia was not looking forward to this.

  3

  NSA HEADQUARTERS

  FORT MEADE, MARYLAND

  WEDNESDAY, 0821 HOURS EDT

  William Rubens walked past Desk Three’s innermost security checkpoint and back into the Art Room. The huge high-definition monitor covering much of one wall of the chamber above the ranks of workstations and NSA personnel showed a live image blown up to movie-screen proportions, a cluster of sidewalk tables in front of a Starbucks Kaffeehaus—a cluster of white tables under gaudily striped, open umbrellas. The scene swooped and jerked with Lia’s movements. The image was being transmitted realtime from a tiny camera imbedded in a clump of feathers attached to the front of her stylish broad-brimmed hat. It shifted wildly with each step she took and swung dizzyingly each time she turned her head.

  A heavyset Chinese man sat at the nearest table, studying Lia with obvious pleasure. There was nothing inscrutable about that stare as he looked her up and down.

  “Is her backup in place?” Rubens asked.

  Marie Telach gestured toward a second monitor, a smaller one hanging from a different wall. It showed a still photograph of the Pariser Platz from directly overhead, with each street and building labeled.

  “Alabaster is there, on the street,” she said, indicating a red flag on the plaza perhaps thirty yards from Lia’s position. “Onyx One and Onyx Two are here—northwest corner of the Aldon Hotel, fifth floor. All three are keyed in and online.”

  “Good.” Alabaster, Rubens knew, was CJ Howorth, currently in training as a field operator with Desk Three. Until recently, she’d been an employee of GCHQ, the British Government Communications Headquarters, and working out of the station at Menwith Hill, in North Yorkshire. GCHQ was closely linked with the American NSA, and with the far-flung Echelon SIGINT system. She was a linguist, a good one, but her sharp thinking and quick action during the Atlantis Queen hijacking the previous year had earned her a shot at Desk Three.

  Onyx One was James Castelano, former Navy SEAL and an expert marksman. He was on the seventh floor of the Adlon with an M-110 SASS, or semiautomatic sniper system. One of the Art Room wall monitors was showing the image being transmitted live from Castelano’s electronic sight—a close-up of Feng’s leering face, the crosshairs centered on his forehead. Onyx Two was Harry Daimler, Castelano’s spotter.

  “Ah! Miss Lau,” Feng said, standing awkwardly, bowing slightly and extending his hand. The camera peering down over the brim of her hat showed Lia’s hand reach out to be engulfed in Feng’s paw.

  Lia’s cover for this op was that of a Chinese American businesswoman named Diane Lau. This meeting had been set up weeks ago, beginning with exploratory inquiries halfway around the world, in Hawaii. Feng was a big player in an international arms-smuggling operation quite possibly orchestrated by the government of the People’s Republic of China itself. Rubens hoped that Feng would offer Lia an advisory position on his staff, a job that would give her a shot at tapping Feng’s personal business empire. He was a senior vice president for COSCO, the China Ocean Shipping Company, and that fact by itself meant that Feng was of great interest to the NSA.

  “It’s good to meet you at last, Mr. Feng,” Lia’s voice said from the wall speakers.

  “Please … have a seat. Though I must confess I still don’t know why you insisted on such a public meeting place! The street is such an unlikely place to discuss business!”

  “Because it is public, Mr. Feng,” Lia replied, taking the chair next to Feng’s. “Your phone calls and your e-mails have been most informative. But …” The image jiggled slightly as she shrugged. “I don’t know you yet, not personally. You could be anybody.”

  “And a girl can’t be too careful,” Feng said, his dark eyes twinkling. “I do understand completely.”

  His English was excellent. According to his dossier, he’d been educated at Oxford.

  “Smooth operator,” Marie said.

  “The word is ‘smarmy,’” Rubens replied. “Have Alabaster move in a bit tighter.”

  These next few minutes—Feng’s first impressions of Lia—would be critical.

  STARBUCKS

  PARISER PLATZ

  CENTRAL BERLIN, GERMANY

  WEDNESDAY, 1422 HOURS LOCAL TIME

  Lia smiled pleasantly at Feng as he signaled a waiter and ordered two cappuccinos. She’d taken the chair next to the man because the seat opposite him, which would have been her first choice, might have put her ridiculous hat into Onyx’s line of sight from the hotel, blocking his shot. She glanced casually up at the window where she knew Castelano and Daimler were watching. The left half was open, but she couldn’t see them. Thoroughgoing professionals, they would be set up well back from the window, hidden in shadow, their rifle invisible from the street.

  Glancing right, she did see CJ—Siege to her friends—dressed in a green T-shirt and blue jeans, carrying a shopping bag from Peek & Cloppenburg. Siege was studying a tourist’s street map while edging unobtrusively closer, probably at Rubens’ order.

  She was glad for the backup. Feng was a thoroughly nasty character. Formerly a major in the Chinese People’s Liberation Army with fifteen years’ experience in Chinese military intelligence, he was now a high-ranking executive for COSCO, which meant his former connections would still be very much intact. He was known to have underworld connections as well, a working arrangement with one of the more powerful tongs operating out of Hong Kong, and he had a rap sheet that included smuggling, drugs, and gunrunning. His dossier suggested that his weakness was attractive women, with a string of mistresses from Hong Kong to Honolulu to Vancouver to Berlin. He seemed to collect women, though Lia wasn’t sure what it was about the man that would attract them.

  Perhaps it was just a combination of those most powerful of aphrodisiacs, money and power.

  She was dressed this afternoon to entice. The red heels, the short red skirt with the slit up to here, the generous V of exposed cleavage, the smart-looking designer sunglasses, the hat canted across her head at a jaunty angle—all part of the alluring package. Her handlers had designed her look based on careful analyses of six of Feng’s recent girlfriends. He liked Americans but seemed to prefer the dark and exotic beauty of Asian Americans, which was why Rubens had asked Lia to volunteer for this op in the first place.

  Despite the way Feng kept staring at her chest, however, she knew it was her brain that would make or break the deal. According to the employment listing that had first caught Desk Three’s attention last month, Feng was looking for an advisor in cultural affairs and public relations, and that was how she intended to sell herself.

  Feng glanced up from her chest, and their gazes locked. “So, Ms. Lau. Is this your first time in Berlin?”

  “Not at all,” she replied truthfully. She’d passed through the German capital several times in the past five years on various missions. “I love this city.”

  “We have something in common, then.” He nodded toward the monument against the western skyline. “The Brandenburg Gate. Magnificent. Though … I have to admit that my favorite piece of history connected with it is your President Kennedy giving a speech right over there on the far side of the monument … was it 1962? After the Berlin Wall went up, anyway.” He laughed. “ ‘I am a jelly doughnut’!”

  “Ich bin ein Berliner,” Lia said, nodding. “That was 1963. But you do know that the whole jelly-filled doughnut thing is an urban legend, right?”

  “Lia, what are you doing?” the voice of Thomas Blake said in her ear. Blake was one of the Desk Three handlers and would be running her during this mission. “That Kennedy story is well attested—”

  “What do you mean, Ms. Lau?” Feng said at the s
ame time.

  “Kennedy was identifying himself with the German people,” Lia said patiently. “The story went around—I think it was even in the New York Times—about how his use of the indefinite article, ein, made it seem like he was calling himself a pastry. In fact, in German the indefinite article is left out when you’re talking about someone’s profession or place of residence, but it’s absolutely necessary when you’re speaking figuratively, as Kennedy was. He wasn’t literally from Berlin. He was only declaring his solidarity with the city’s citizens, in a city divided and barricaded by the Soviets. So ‘Ich bin ein Berliner’ was completely correct.”

  “I’ve heard that people in Berlin don’t call themselves Berliners,” Feng said. “They reserve that name for jelly-filled doughnuts.”

  “Not true,” Lia told him. “The things are called Berliners elsewhere in Germany, but here they’re called Pfannkuchen—pancakes, for some odd reason.”

  “I hope you’re sure of your facts, Lia,” Blake told her over the communications link. “That’s not what it says here.” Blake and the other Art Room personnel had access to various guidebooks and reference works, as well as the entire Internet to call upon. If Feng asked her something she didn’t know, they would be able to provide the answer in seconds.

  But Blake, Lia knew, was wrong. She was relying on a different source, one she trusted.

  “So … you speak German?” Feng asked her.

  “Some,” she admitted.

  “You seem unusually well versed in the language for an American.”

  “Danke. I’m interested in people, Mr. Feng, and in their stories. Urban legends like that Kennedy story fascinate me, because of what they tell us about people.”

  “Oh? And what does I-am-a-doughnut tell you about people, Ms. Lau?”

  “That too often they jump to conclusions or generalizations, or rely on outright bad information, without checking the source. One of the biggest challenges I face working in PR is cleaning up the mess after someone important puts his foot in it—usually because that someone spoke first and checked his sources later.”

  The waiter appeared with the cappuccinos Feng had ordered. After he paid the man, Feng’s gaze dropped to her chest again, and she leaned forward just a bit, “accidentally” giving him a better view. The idiot could look all he wanted—and if he cared more about that than her experience and her brains, so much the better. It just gave her another weapon in her arsenal.

  “Diane … may I call you Diane?”

  “It’s Ms. Lau,” she told him. “At least for now.”

  “Don’t alienate him, Lia,” Blake said in her ear. “You’re supposed to be swooning all over the guy.”

  She ignored the advice. Sometimes it was better to play hard to get, and her legend, the fictitious background created for her by Desk Three, emphasized that she was a hard-nosed professional.

  “Of course, Ms. Lau,” Feng said, and he smiled. “For now.”

  Lia glanced down into her cup, then looked up, bemused. The barista had expertly poured the steamed milk to create an incredibly delicate image of two intertwined hearts surrounded by lace. Had that been Feng’s idea? Or a misinterpretation of the meeting by the barista? She wondered if Feng had the same picture in his cup, but she wasn’t going to lean closer for a look. Instead, she stirred the picture away, then took a cautious sip. The cappuccino was strong and slightly bitter.

  “I very much liked your résumé, Ms. Lau,” Feng said after a moment. “A double major in public relations and communications from Berkeley, and a minor in anthropology. I like smart women.”

  She said nothing, and he pushed ahead. “It says you live in San Francisco. You would be willing to relocate?”

  “Yes. Where did you have in mind?”

  He sidestepped the question. “The position would require a great deal of travel.”

  “I’m aware of that. Your interviewer in Honolulu told me as much.”

  He nodded, smiling. “And you were willing to meet me here in Berlin this afternoon. I appreciate that.”

  “I travel a lot in the job I have now,” she told him. It was the precise truth. “I’m here on business in any case. It seemed like a good opportunity to meet you … personally.”

  Again, the truth. When Feng’s agents checked up on her, as she knew they would, they would find a solid background for her. Phone calls to any of several numbers she’d provided, including that of her supposed company’s HR department, would be answered by people who would swear she worked in the PR firm of Farnum, Pfizer, and Smith.

  “Indeed.” He took a sip of his cappuccino. “Well, my people in Honolulu would have told you I need a good public relations specialist. But there’s considerably more to this position than that. How much do you know about COSCO, Ms. Lau?”

  She was well prepared for this one. “I know it’s the second-largest dry cargo shipping company in the world. You have a hundred and thirty vessels of over three hundred and twenty thousand TEUs, and over six hundred merchant vessels with a total cargo capacity of thirty-five million metric tonnes, DWT. The COSCO group includes six listed companies and over three hundred subsidiaries, with facilities in over a hundred ports worldwide.”

  “Nicely memorized, Ms. Lau. Do you know what ‘TEU’ stands for?”

  “Twenty-foot equivalent unit,” she told him. “It refers to the standard twenty-foot intermodal containers carried by container ships, by rail, and by truck.”

  “And DWT?”

  “Deadweight tonnage. That’s the total weight a ship can carry, including its cargo, fuel, ballast water, fresh water, provisions, passengers, and crew.”

  “Its displacement, yes.”

  “No, displacement is something else entirely. That refers to a ship’s total mass, how much water it displaces when it’s fully loaded, which equals the deadweight tonnage plus the weight of the ship’s structure itself.”

  Feng nodded. “Very good. You’ve obviously done your homework.”

  “Of course,” she told him. She decided to give his ego a tweak, a small one. “After all, it was important that I impress you.”

  He smiled again. “And you have been quite successful.” He sipped his cappuccino, leaning back in his chair. “Ms. Lau, to be quite frank, I need someone beautiful, charming, smart, and extremely, ah, well informed, someone like you, in fact, to travel with me as a kind of personal, ah, secretary. I want someone who can inform me of local customs, idiosyncrasies, background culture, language, that sort of thing.” The smile faded, and he looked at her intently—looking into her eyes this time. “For instance, if I did this …” He held up his hand, thumb and forefinger touching in an “okay” gesture. “What would you tell me about it?”

  “That you’re fine if you use it in the United States or England. It just means ‘okay.’ But do not use it here in Germany—or in Brazil, or much of Africa, or in parts of Spain or the Mediterranean either, I think. There, it means you’re calling someone an asshole.” She chuckled. “I read once about a U.S. businessman who’d gone to Rio de Janeiro to work out a business deal down there. Everything was going great, everyone was friendly and happy … and then just as they were about to conclude the deal he said, ‘Well, okay, then!’ And he made the okay sign with his hand like that. The room went cold, and the deal fell through.”

  He nodded, as if satisfied. “Excellent, Ms. Lau. I think you will work out very well for me. Very well indeed.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” The okay sign had obviously been a test, as had been the questions about shipping. She wondered if the same had been true with the Kennedy story. Feng might be a sexist pig with a smooth line and a lot of girlfriends, but he had some depth to him, at least. It was possible that some of the testosterone was out there just for show, a means of getting others to underestimate him.

  “You are staying over there at the Adlon?”

  “Yes, sir.” Now that she’d agreed to work for him, he was her boss and she would use the appropriate honori
fic.

  He didn’t seem to notice. “I will send a contract over later this afternoon.” He considered her a moment longer. “When would you be willing to begin in my employ?”

  “Whenever you say, sir. I’m free now.”

  “No, Diane, I would say you are very, very expensive.” He chuckled at his own pun. “And your employers at Farnum, Pfizer, and Smith?”

  “This project in Berlin was my last trip for them, sir. I gave them two weeks’ notice three weeks ago.”

  “Ah.”

  “They know I was going to interview with you today. You can call them and check, if you like.”

  “I’m sure that’s not necessary.” He appeared to think about it a moment. “I’ll tell you what. I am flying to Spain tomorrow to meet a … client. An important client. He’s Arab, from Pakistan, and it would be most useful for me if you could be there to tell me what I need to know about his people.”

  “Well, I can tell you right now that he’s probably not Arab,” Lia told him. “Not if he really is from Pakistan. He’s almost certainly Muslim, of course—but linguistically he’ll be Indo-Iranic, and ethnically he’ll belong to one of several groups. Punjabi, Sindhi, Pathan. The Arabs are Semites.”

  “Well, there … you see? You’ve begun earning your salary already.”

  “Where will you be going in Spain, sir?”

  “To Alicante, and possibly on to the Canary Islands later. I have … business interests there.”

  “Palm trees. Sand. Sun. Bikinis.” She nodded. “Such a tough job.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I meant that it sounds like fun.”

  “Excellent. I’ll send a car for you tomorrow.” He swallowed the last of his cappuccino. “Until tomorrow, then?”

  “Yes, Mr. Feng.”

  He stood, shook her hand, and walked off, swallowed in a moment by the swirling crowds on the Pariser Platz.