Counterblow Page 7

  Javin nodded. “Anything else Mila wants to give me?”

  “That’s all, in terms of stuff. But if you need anything else, call me.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Enjoy it, Pierce.” His voice sounded genuine.

  “I will.”

  Javin turned around and disappeared into the stream of people. He didn’t turn his head or look left or right and avoided making eye contact with anyone until he came to the intersection. He waited for the lights to change, then dashed across the street.

  Javin turned into the nearest back alley and waited for a long moment. When he was certain no one had followed him, he continued through the potholed and trash-littered alley. As he came to the end, he slowed down and looked all around him.

  No one was following him.

  He stepped onto the sidewalk and cast a wide gaze, searching the faces of the people around him, especially the ones in a couple of vehicles parked outside a small café that was still open. He saw nothing suspicious, so he stepped into the next back alley. Once he was a dozen or so steps away from the mouth of the alley, he opened the book.

  As expected, there was a hollow compartment in the middle. A compact Makarov 9mm pistol and a sound suppressor stared at Javin. He touched the “pebble” texture grip of the pistol, then removed it from the compartment. Yeah, it is a classic. It felt right in his hand as he sighted down the barrel. He flicked the magazine release lever and looked at the eight-round clip. Another clip was in the compartment. Not enough, but then Kalinin can find me more if need be. He shrugged. I hope there’s no need for this.

  He returned the pistol to its place, then noticed another smaller compartment near the back of the book. There was a Russian passport there with his photograph. Javin frowned, but he wasn’t surprised. He could expect anything from Mila. Why does she think I need this? Has she heard about the shootout at the Golden Duck? He shrugged again and removed the passport. He put it in his front jacket pocket, then closed the book.

  Next, he opened the briefcase. The money was there, and he had no doubt it would be. Crisp, hundred-dollar bills stacked in neat rows. Still, he wanted to make sure everything was in order before he handed the money to Fang.

  Javin returned to the street and began to walk toward the Dragon Inn. When he came to a somewhat quieter stretch of the sidewalk, he pulled out one of his phones and called Fang. The Chinese operative replied right away. “Wei?” he said in a cautious voice. Hello?

  “It’s me. Can you talk?”

  “Sure, sure, Pierce. I just didn’t know it was you.”

  “I have the money, the first payment.”

  “A hundred thousand?”

  “Yes. Where can I meet you?”

  “I’ll come to you. Where are you?”

  Javin hesitated for a moment. He trusted Fang, but Javin’s instinct told him not to let Fang know about the Dragon Inn. The CIS operative thought again. If he was trusting Fang to run the operation of stealing a drone from the Chinese army, then Javin should be able to trust Fang with the meeting location. “I’m at the Dragon Inn. Do you know where it is?”

  “I’ll find it.”

  “Okay. Call me when you’re two minutes out.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Javin hurried his pace as he turned toward the Bagou subway station, then through the maze of streets and back alleys leading back to the inn. He went by a different route, now and then looking over his shoulder. He wasn’t expecting anyone to follow him, but it never hurt to be extra careful.

  He knew he was close to the inn when he began to smell the rotten stench. He wondered if it was a dead animal or just fermenting trash from the overfilled bins a block away. Javin rounded the block, making sure no suspicious characters were hanging around. He passed a police sedan traveling in the opposite direction, followed by a second one. They didn’t have their flashing lights or sirens on. Javin stopped and looked at them for a long moment, but they disappeared somewhere in the distance, north of the inn.

  When he was fully satisfied that he was in the clear, he returned to the inn’s backyard and sneaked back into his room. He waited for Fang’s phone call, which didn’t take long. “I’m outside,” he said.

  “Did anyone follow you?”

  “No, of course not.” He sounded short of breath and insulted by the question.

  “Come to the back.”

  “Okay.”

  Javin met Fang near the rusty gate. The Chinese operative looked upbeat, especially after he picked up the briefcase. He checked it, and a smile flickered over his thin lips. “This is a good start, but of course, not enough.”

  “Of course not. It’s just to prove we’re serious and to pay initial expenses. As things move forward, I’ll pay in—”

  His voice was cut off by loud noises coming from the inn’s backyard. Javin looked through the opened gate. A light was on in his room, and a man in a police uniform was shouting through the window.

  “The police,” Fang said. “How did they find you?”

  Javin shook his head. “I’ve got to go back. My knapsack’s there.”

  “No, leave it.”

  “I can’t.”

  He pulled out the QSZ-92 9mm pistol he had taken from Fang and cocked it. “Go, run, run,” he told him.

  “Don’t kill anyone.”

  “That’s up to them.”

  Fang looked at Javin for a brief moment, then broke into a sprint through the back alley.

  Javin stepped through the gate, his eyes never leaving the face of the police officer who kept shouting and gesturing with his arms. He had no weapons, but Javin could only see the upper part of the officer’s body. And there could be another officer in the room or the hall.

  The CIS operative aimed his pistol at the policeman and shouted in Chinese, “Get your hands up. Up!”

  The officer froze in place with his hands in mid-air.

  Javin dashed toward the window.

  The officer stepped back and disappeared. Then, someone turned off the light in the room.

  Javin had barely crossed half of the backyard when a bullet whizzed above his head. He rolled on the ground and sought shelter behind a wooden cabinet. A couple of rounds stripped slivers off the top of the cabinet. Javin’s face was too far for them to reach it, but a sharp fragment stung the back of his neck.

  He crawled to a better position, next to a couple of tires and an old stove a couple of meters to his right, then popped up and fired two rounds. They were high and off the mark as they shattered the window’s glass. He didn’t want to kill the officers, only force them to retreat.

  Someone returned fire, but not before Javin had dropped down. The bullets pinged against the top of the stove, making the familiar metal-on-metal clang. Javin crawled farther to his right, slithering behind boxes full of broken dishes and rusty pots.

  He knelt near the corner, then swung around, firing another two-round burst.

  Then he hid behind the boxes, waiting for the return fire.

  There was none.

  He listened for a long moment at the eerie silence. Did they leave the room? Or are they lying in wait? He made some quick mental calculations. He had perhaps three or four bullets left. Not enough, especially when I’m trying not to kill them.

  The Makarov pistol was in his rucksack, which he had left under the bed. I have to get the rucksack, then disappear.

  He listened again.

  All quiet, but for distant shouts.

  Javin stood up with his pistol aimed at the window. He squinted and searched the dark room.

  Nothing.

  He tiptoed quickly toward the building’s wall, skirting the backyard litter. He peered inside the dark room and noticed no movement. He took a few hurried steps and reached the window. He checked again, and when he was confident the room was empty, he jumped inside.

  Javin crouched quickly and groped for the rucksack. It was still there. He pulled it and turned to face the window. Just then, he heard
a metallic thud on the tiled floor as something began to roll toward him. He didn’t have to see the object to know it was a pin-less grenade.

  He had three seconds, perhaps less, to get himself out of the kill zone.

  He jumped through the window and rolled onto the ground, just as the explosion erupted behind him. Shrapnel struck all around him, pinging against the stove and the metal debris. Slivers and dust rained over his back as Javin crawled to safety behind a metal cabinet. Something sharp stabbed the side of his face, and he felt blood trickling. He glanced at his bruised hands, then realized he had dropped the QSZ-92 pistol during the explosion.

  He reached into his knapsack for the Makarov and cocked it while he advanced toward the gate. There was a gap of about four steps between the heaps of debris where he’d be exposed. He looked over his shoulder, then peeked just above the cabinet. A different uniformed police officer was standing next to the window holding a rifle in his hands, ready for action.

  Javin fired his Makarov high above the officer’s head.

  It was enough to send him ducking for cover.

  Javin seized the moment and raced toward the gate. He crossed the uncovered area without the officer firing at him. He had almost reached the gate when bullets flew over his head. He rolled on the ground and slipped out the gate, unharmed.

  He jumped to his feet, hoisted the rucksack over his shoulders, and bolted into a full sprint. The police must have parked in front of the inn. He had no idea if they might have reinforcements blocking either side of the alley, but he was taking no chances, since it could be both.

  He ran toward the left for about ten steps, then climbed over a sedan parked next to the wall of one of the houses. He jumped from the roof of the car to the wall, scaled it, and jumped down on the other side in the middle of a garden. He waded through the dirt and plants along the side of the house and to the front.

  Javin scrambled up the wall and jumped into the next alley. He ran toward the mouth of the alley, then slowed down when he reached it. He began to look for a taxi, but this wasn’t a busy tourist area, and there were none.

  He looked around for his way out. A small café a couple of blocks away was still open. He thought about “borrowing” one of the patron’s cars, but that might cause more problems.

  He crossed the street after a couple of cars zipped in front of him. He switched to a normal walking pace and took a last look over his shoulder. No police officers or anyone else was chasing him. So he entered the next back alley and continued in a crisscross pattern, heading toward the south. He was familiar with the overall layout of the area. Soon enough, he’d come to shopping malls and restaurants. He’d be able to find a taxi without too much trouble.

  Ten minutes later, he stopped at a McDonald’s that was still open and went straight to the washroom. He cleaned himself as best as he could and bandaged his face and neck wounds. Then he turned his reversible jacket inside out, switching from black to a pale gray. He found a pair of clear aviator glasses in his rucksack and put them on, along with a gray baseball hat. He’d put a few more touches to changing his look, but that would have to wait.

  Five minutes later, Javin found a taxi. The driver was an older man, perhaps in his early seventies, who seemed to be excited to get a customer needing a ride to the international airport. When the driver asked Javin in broken English about the airline he was flying, Javin didn’t have an answer. His original flight schedule would take him directly to Doha, Qatar on a morning flight the next day. However, considering the turn of events, he couldn’t wait. He might already be too late.

  From the taxi’s backseat, Javin used one of his phones to connect to the Internet. He checked for the first available flight out of Beijing that would take him somewhat in the direction of Doha, which was southwest. There was a SriLankan Airlines flight leaving for the Bandaranaike International Airport in about three hours. Javin booked a seat under the name in his Russian passport, Rodion Gusev, hoping and praying he’d be able to board the flight.

  As soon as they arrived at the airport, he rushed to the first washroom. In one of the stalls, he used the razor to shave his week-old beard. His hair was longer than in the photograph on his passport, but that shouldn’t matter. He wished he had had time to dye his hair, but he didn’t.

  He checked the bandages and cleaned his face. Then, at one of the gift stores still open, he bought a tourist t-shirt and a sweater with large black letters and a heart that read, I Heart Beijing. He put them on in another washroom, then headed to the check-in counter.

  The clerk looked suspiciously at Javin’s passport. He became curious because the name on the credit card used to purchase the ticket didn’t match the name on the passport. Javin told him that a friend had bought him the ticket after his wallet containing his credit card and IDs was stolen somewhere at a market in downtown Beijing.

  It was a sensitive situation that could have easily escalated, but the clerk accepted Javin’s explanation. His rucksack was his carry-on, so he proceeded to go through security. Having already gotten rid of the Makarov pistol before he got into the taxi, there was nothing to raise the alarms.

  But Javin couldn’t sit still. He paced the halls, always attentive whenever he saw a security guard or a police officer. Even when boarding started, his eyes kept flitting left and right, expecting to be nabbed at any moment.

  He was almost surprised when it didn’t happen.

  He only closed his eyes and decided to rest when the wheels of the Airbus A330 airplane left the tarmac of the Beijing Capital International Airport. I should enjoy this downtime. Once I get to Doha and talk to Al-Attiya, it’s going to get crazy.

  Chapter Eleven

  Two Days Later

  World Trade Center Doha

  Doha, Qatar

  Javin knew that Al-Attiya would be very displeased to see him. The Qatari was known for his restraint, and there was a certain sang-froid about him. Still, no one liked being confronted with the truth, especially when the facts exposed their vices. Javin was alone, without backup, and in Al-Attiya’s territory. The operative would have to be careful not to overplay his hand, otherwise the consequences might be fatal. Moreover, this was an unannounced visit, and Al-Attiya didn’t like surprises. So, Javin was planning to meet him in a public space, or at least as public as possible in these circumstances.

  With the help of Matthias, the Mossad cyber-security analyst, Javin had been able to track Al-Attiya’s phone. They hadn’t recorded anything compromising yet, as most of the prince’s aide’s conversations were long and dull. But the malware Matthias had installed in Al-Attiya’s phone allowed them to know his location at all times.

  Around two o’clock, Javin drove to the offices of Energy Constructions, one of the companies owned by Prince Mukhtar Al-Thani and run by Al-Attiya. The offices were located in the World Trade Center building, one of the famous skyscrapers in the city, stabbing at the skies at the height of 241 meters. According to Javin’s intelligence, Al-Attiya was in a business meeting with potential clients interested in the company’s services to build a medical center in Abu Dhabi, in the United Arab Emirates. When the meeting was over, Javin planned to seize the opportunity to meet briefly with the man who had betrayed him.

  The operative was able to go through the tower’s and the company’s security personnel by claiming he had an important meeting with Al-Attiya. Javin looked the part of a businessman nervous and eager to meet with the second most powerful man in the company. The operative was dressed in a black Canali two-piece suit, a crisp white shirt, and a red tie. He had a black briefcase, which held mostly scrap paper, but it gave him the aura of importance and completed his image.

  Javin also acted the part impeccably.

  The receptionist—an attractive woman in her early thirties with large black eyes and luscious red lips, dressed conservatively in a blue abaya, the long loose robe that flowed down to her feet, and a black headdress—a shayla—checked Al-Attiya’s schedule, then gave him a d
isappointed look. “Sorry, Mr. Gusev. I don’t have you on my schedule…”

  “Yes, yes, of course, of course. I… I did call and talk to Mr. Al-Attiya in person earlier this morning. He must have forgotten to let you know…” Javin spoke in a soft, warm tone and gave her a bright smile.

  The woman shook her head. “Mr. Al-Attiya is very meticulous and very good with details. He wouldn’t have forgotten such an important meeting.”

  “He has a perfect memory, yes. Would you be able to call him?” He gestured toward the hall with a row of doors.

  He knew Al-Attiya hated being interrupted in meetings.

  “I wouldn’t be able to do that, and you can’t stay here if you don’t have a meeting.” She looked toward the security officer who had escorted Javin to the twenty-first floor. He was standing a few steps away and discreetly observing their exchange, which was taking place in Arabic.

  Javin leaned in over the counter and closer to the woman. “Listen, our meeting is a bit off the books, so to speak…” He spoke in a low, conspiratorial tone.

  “What do you mean?” She also lowered her voice.

  “You might know that the company, Energy Constructions, has recently suffered a series of losses. Canceled contracts and the like. It’s now desperately seeking new investors for an influx of capital and potential joint projects.” He stopped and smiled.

  Javin was using some of the information he had learned from tapping Al-Attiya’s phone. A series of meetings were being set up with potential partners from across the globe to assist the company.

  The receptionist urged him to continue with a nod.

  Javin said, “I work for NCC, which is the best construction company in Sweden, in the commercial properties branch. My boss, Mr. Bergius, hasn’t been able to connect with your boss yet. But I’ve talked to him. I was in the area, and that’s why I’m here. With a proposal.” He dropped his eyes to the briefcase.

  The woman locked eyes with Javin.

  He produced the sincerest smile he could.

  It worked.