The exodus had been planned for years. Jeinsen had come to the United States by way of an even earlier defection. Born and raised in Germany, Jeinsen unfortunately found himself growing up on the eastern side of the Berlin Wall at the end of World War II. As an adult he worked as a weapons development scientist for the GDR until the fateful day in 1971 when he was smuggled through Checkpoint Charlie in a laundry truck. A job with the U.S. government had already been arranged; hence for over thirty years Jeinsen lived in Washington, D.C., helping to design and develop weapons technology for the Pentagon.
After flying smoothly through Immigration and Customs with no problems, Jeinsen picked up his one piece of luggage from the baggage claim and made his way outside to catch a taxi. His instructions were clear: go directly to the hotel, check in under the new name, and await further orders.
It had been an anxious two weeks preparing to leave. He had to make sure he left nothing behind that might implicate him as a government traitor. All traces of communication with Mr. Wong in Hong Kong were to be erased. It was best if Jeinsen seemed to have simply disappeared. The D.C. police would chalk it up to a missing persons case. Because of Jeinsen’s status within the Pentagon, FBI involvement in the search was of course inevitable. But if he had done everything correctly, the authorities would find no trail to follow. Jeinsen had done it once before in East Germany. He was fairly certain he had accomplished the task successfully in D.C.
The taxi dropped him off in front of the magnificent Mandarin Oriental Hotel on Connaught Road in the Central district of the island. Jeinsen knew it was possibly the most luxurious hotel in the territory, aside from perhaps the Peninsula Hotel in Kowloon. He was pleased that Mr. Wong had seen fit to treat him as a VIP and provide him with such flattering accommodations.
Yes! Jeinsen thought. The decision to defect to China is already turning out to be the right one!
The bureaucrats and military bigwigs at the Pentagon never appreciated Jeinsen’s talents. Sure, he was given a top-level security position, had carte blanche in the weapons design programs, and was respected by his peers. It was the moneymen that always gave him short shrift when his colleagues received higher advances. Jeinsen had asked for better raises time and time again. He got raises but they were never what he felt he deserved. Growing up in East Germany, Jeinsen had a delusion that anyone who defected to America could become rich. It had never happened. He had made a modest income, lived comfortably, but was by no means “wealthy.” Jeinsen firmly believed he was a victim of prejudice due to his former nationality. The thirty years in Washington ended up being a huge disappointment.
When Mr. Wong contacted him through a liaison in a government agency, Jeinsen was ready to consider any offers made to him. Wong promised him a fortune and secure passage to Beijing by way of Hong Kong. All Jeinsen had to do was hand over information concerning a special project he was working on and use a transmittal system that Mr. Wong specified. The process would take three years. Jeinsen didn’t want to wait that long but Wong convinced him to be patient. It would be worth it in the end. Thus, when Jeinsen’s role in the project ended recently and the task was complete, everything happened quickly. Wong made good on his promises, arranged Jeinsen’s travel plans, and quietly got the scientist out of the country.
Jeinsen approached the front desk and checked in under his new name.
“Welcome to the Mandarin Oriental, Mr. Lang,” the registration clerk said, handing Jeinsen a key and an envelope. “Oh, someone left this for you this morning.”
Jeinsen took it. It was a brown envelope addressed to him in care of the hotel. “Thank you,” he said.
The physicist nearly gasped when he saw the room. It was a full suite with a terrace. He had never before stayed in such lavish surroundings. Even when he had to travel for the Pentagon, they always pinched pennies and put up their employees in midrange hotels. Mr. Wong was truly a generous man.
Before unpacking, Jeinsen opened the envelope and examined the contents. There was a small silver key with the number 139 engraved on it, a phone number written on a piece of paper, and fifty Hong Kong dollars. Jeinsen picked up the telephone and dialed the number.
Mr. Wong answered, saying, “Welcome to Hong Kong, Mr., uh, Lang.”
Jeinsen chuckled. “Hello there. How did you know it was me?”
“No one else would be calling this number. How was your flight?” Wong spoke good English with a strong Chinese accent.
“Long. Very long.”
“Yes. Do you need some time to rest?”
“No, no, I slept on the plane. I think I’m ready to . . . well, whatever you need me to do.”
“Fine. Did you get the key?”
“Yes. What is it?”
“It’s to a safety-deposit box in the Bank of China. Do you know where that is?”
“I can find it.”
“It’s very close. You could walk there if you want.” Wong relayed directions. “You’ll find further instructions and the rest of your payment in the box. I look forward to meeting you finally.”
“Er, me too,” Jeinsen said. “Thank you.”
He put down the phone and rubbed his hands gleefully. Jeinsen felt like a young man again as he unpacked, freshened up, and changed clothes. In a half hour he was ready for the next great adventure in his life.
Jeinsen left the Mandarin, followed Wong’s directions, and walked south across Chater Road to Statue Square. He was impressed with the collection of fountains in the square but it was too crowded with Asian migrant workers. Apparently a lot of Filipinos and Manilans congregated there, hoping to obtain employment as maids.
The impressive HSBC bank building stood towering over the square to the south. Jeinsen skirted east beyond the monumental structure and headed southeast on the footpath along Des Voeux Road, past Chater Garden, and finally to the equally impressive Bank of China Tower. The seventy-story building, designed by Chinese-born American architect I. M. Pei, was apparently the third tallest structure in Hong Kong.
Jeinsen went inside the banking lobby, approached a teller, and showed the woman his key. “I’d like access to my safety-deposit box, please,” he said.
“May I have some identification?” the young Chinese woman asked. It seemed that everyone Jeinsen saw was Chinese. Most of the British minority that occupied the territory had left after 1997.
He showed her the new passport. She gave it a cursory glance, handed it back to him, and gave him a form. “Please fill this out and take it to the representative over there.” She pointed. Jeinsen thanked her and moved to a counter. He wrote down his new name and indicated the Mandarin Oriental as his address. When he took it to the uniformed bank employee, the man asked to see the safety-deposit key and then led him through a vault door.
The rep used a key of his own as Jeinsen twisted his key in the lock for box 139. The rep removed the box and handed it to Jeinsen, pointing to a private room. Jeinsen nodded and went inside. After shutting the door, he opened the box.
It contained HK $100,000 and a deposit slip indicating that two million more were in a special account with his name on it.
Jeinsen wanted to shout aloud. His hands trembled with excitement as he stuffed the cash into his pockets.
At the bottom of the box was a white envelope. He opened it and found another note from Mr. Wong. It instructed him to go immediately to the Purple Queen nightclub in Kowloon. There were instructions on how to take the ferry across the harbor and the address to give to a taxi driver on the other side. He was to leave nothing in the safety-deposit box and place the key and the note in his pocket.
Jeinsen was walking on clouds when he left the bank. He didn’t bother hailing a cab to take him to the Star Ferry pier. He preferred to walk, admiring the hordes of Asian people sauntering through the streets. For the first time in his life he felt superior. All these workers, these common folk! He was now a wealthy man. He could hire servants and maids. He could be the master for a change! Life was wonderfu
l!
The ferry shuttled him across Victoria Harbor to Kowloon’s Tsim Sha Tsui district. Jeinsen’s earlier elation changed when he began to walk through Hong Kong’s tourist ghetto. He found Tsim Sha Tsui crowded, energetic, and bright. It was still daylight but already the multitude of neon signs overwhelmed his senses. The streets were full of countless restaurants, pubs, clothing stores, sleazy bars, camera and electronics stores, hotels, and people. Traffic was bumper to bumper and the noise was deafening. Jeinsen suddenly felt his age.
He hailed a taxicab and gave the driver the address. The car went east past the Peninsula Hotel, recognizable by the two stone lions in front, and into what was known as Tsim Sha Tsui East, a more upscale version of its western neighbor. The buildings were more modern and there seemed to be more breathing space between them.
The taxi arrived at the Purple Queen within minutes. Jeinsen paid the driver, got out, and faced the nightclub. It was obviously an elegant establishment. The structure looked no more than ten years old and was surrounded by a series of dancing fountains. A suggestive silhouette of a nude woman was embossed on the side of the building next to the tinted glass doors. The nightclub was closed—a sign prominently read OPEN 5:00 P.M., CLOSE 5:00 A.M. Jeinsen looked at his watch and realized he hadn’t reset it for local time. Counting ahead silently, he figured it to be nearly four in the afternoon. Jeinsen tried the front door but it was locked.
He knocked loudly and waited a moment. Puzzled, he started to walk around to the side when he heard the lock disengage. A very large, intimidating Chinese man in a business suit appeared and barked, “Yes?”
“I—I—I’m here to see Mr. Wong,” Jeinsen muttered. He was suddenly very nervous.
The doorman glared at him for a couple of seconds and then nodded. He stepped aside and made way for Jeinsen to enter.
“Thank you,” the physicist said.
“Mr. Wong back here,” the big man said. “Follow me.”
The doorman led Jeinsen through the nightclub’s main floor. The place was lit as if it were about to open for business. Darkness prevailed but tasteful pin lights in the ceiling accentuated the tables and divans. Strategically placed planters held all manner of tropical flowers and plants. A large aquarium dominated one wall and a spacious bottom-lit dance floor occupied the middle of the room.
Jeinsen gawked at the furnishings as he trailed behind the big man. “Very nice place,” he said. “Does Mr. Wong own it?” The doorman ignored him.
They went through a door marked, in English and Chinese, EMPLOYEES ONLY. It opened to a dimly lit corridor lined with four doors.
“Last door on left, please,” the man said, pointing.
“Oh. Okay, thank you.” Jeinsen smiled sheepishly and went through. The door shut behind him.
Jeinsen apprehensively walked down the hall and knocked on the appropriate door.
“Come in.” Jeinsen wasn’t sure if the voice belonged to Mr. Wong. Perhaps it did. He opened the door and went inside. The room was obviously some kind of office, but it had been covered in the kind of plastic sheeting that painters use to protect furniture and carpets.
Without warning, someone standing behind the door shoved Jeinsen. The elderly scientist and U.S. government traitor fell forward to his hands and knees. His penultimate sensation was feeling the cold end of a gun barrel on the back of his head.
The last thing his brain recorded was the sound of the gunshot.
5
“NOBODY reads anymore, that’s the goddamned problem!”
Harry Dagger drops a stack of books on the floor and surveys the overflowing shelves in his tiny English-language bookshop. He looks at me helplessly.
“Don’t ask me what to do,” I say.
“I stock more books than I can sell. I swear I’m going to go out of business if I don’t move some of these things. Sam, you wouldn’t want to buy a couple of cartons’ worth and I’ll gladly ship them to the States for you?”
“No, thanks, Harry. I’m afraid I have all I need,” I say as I sip the glass of Russian vodka he’s given me. I know you’re supposed to down the thing in one chug but that’s not my style. Since Harry’s an American I don’t feel the pressure to drink like the Russians.
Harry’s Bookshop, which is tucked away a few blocks northeast of Gorky Park in Moscow, is really a safe house for American intelligence agents. Harry Dagger has been operating in Moscow for nearly forty years. He was CIA during the sixties, seventies, and most of the eighties, and retired just before the collapse of the Soviet Union. Harry set up his bookshop in 1991 and never expressed a desire to leave Russia. Possessing many friends in the government, Harry has managed to keep his nose clean and run a respectable business. The authorities may or may not know he also hosts out-of-town spies and provides them with Moscow intelligence but so far he’s never had any trouble.
Now pushing seventy, Harry Dagger is exactly the kind of man you might find running an antiquarian bookshop in any American city. He’s fussy, a bit unkempt, and extremely knowledgeable about the publishing business and authors in general. He also knows a hell of a lot about Russian spy networks, the Russian Mafiya, government corruption, and anything else that a lowly Splinter Cell such as myself might be interested in knowing.
He also resembles Albert Einstein, which makes him quite a character.
“But that’s neither here nor there,” he says, sitting in the chair across the worktable from me. He takes his vodka, neat of course, and downs it in one go. He eyes me nursing my glass and says, “Oh, come on, Fisher, that’s no way to drink Russian vodka!”
“Leave me alone, Harry. I really don’t like Russian vodka straight like this.”
“Would you prefer a cognac instead?”
“How about some orange juice? Do you have that?”
“Orange juice? Where do you think you are? Miami?” He stands and goes into the back room, where he keeps a refrigerator, a small stove, and a food pantry. Harry lives above the shop and has a full kitchen in his flat but often “entertains” in the store. He returns with a glass of OJ and sets it in front of me.
“Here you go, tough guy,” he says. “Better go slow with that stuff. It creeps up on you.”
I laugh and thank him. He sits with another glass of vodka for himself and says, “Anyway, as I was saying. This Yvan Putnik is bad news. You really saw him with General Prokofiev?”
“Washington identified him in the photos I sent.”
Dagger pulls on strands of his uncombed long white hair. “Very interesting. We’ve always suspected Prokofiev of playing footsie with the Russian mobs but I guess this clinches it. When I learned for certain he’s with the Shop, I still had no concrete proof. Still don’t. But all my sources tell me he’s one of the four directors. I relayed all this to Lambert last year, you know.”
“I know.”
“If Putnik is working for the Shop now, it could put your and every other Splinter Cell’s lives in danger.”
“That’s nothing new. Last year the Shop had all the information they needed to take us out one by one. They nearly succeeded, too. Carly’s still trying to figure out how the Shop got our names.”
“Well, just because the Shop has moved out of Russia and her satellites doesn’t mean they’re going to stop trying to track you down. I’d say with a guy like Putnik working for them, their odds for success are greatly increased. He’s very good at what he does. I’d say he’s responsible for some of the most difficult political assassinations that have ever been attempted in this country. He’s an expert sharp-shooter and probably very handy with a knife, too. He’s known to use a Russian SV-98 sniper rifle with 7.62mm NATO ammunition. If you find yourself facing him, run away.”
“I’d never do that, Harry. You know that.”
“I know. I’m just saying . . .” Dagger downs his vodka while I take a sip of juice.
“So you have no clue where Andrei Zdrok is now?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “The Far East. That I??
?m sure of. It could be Thailand, it could be Singapore, it could be Taiwan, maybe Hong Kong or Macau, maybe Jakarta.”
“It’s interesting that Prokofiev is still here.”
“He has to keep up appearances. Prokofiev’s a top general.” With that, Dagger opens a folder and removes a map. “Okay, since you want to go through with your cockamamie idea, here’s where he lives.” Dagger points to a spot on the eastern side of Moscow. “Izmaylovo. Actually between Izmaylovsky Park and Kuskovo Park. Quite a lovely mansion in a well-to-do neighborhood. Lives there with his wife, Helena. Children grown and moved out.”
“And you’ve had your people watching the house?”
“Ever since I got your message. He hasn’t returned from his ‘business trip.’ I’d say it’s wide open for you to do what you do.”
“What about the wife?”
“My watchers claim she goes to bed early and appears to be a heavy sleeper. Maybe she takes sedatives. She and her husband have separate bedrooms. She’s a real battle-ax. Kind of looks like Boris Yeltsin in drag. It’s no wonder Prokofiev has a mistress in Ukraine. If I were married to Helena Prokofiev, I’d never go home either. She’s probably more dangerous than he is.”