Act of War (22 page)

“Detective Hoffman, this is Special Agent Roe.”

“So you got my text?”

“Yes,” she replied. “I got it, but I don’t understand it.”

“What don’t you understand? Your guy didn’t get off the flight.”

“You’re absolutely sure of that?”

“Positive.”

“You were there, right?”

“I was there and your guy Tommy Wong wasn’t. Trust me.”

“You had the picture I sent and everything?”

Hoffman let out a condescending laugh. “Agent Roe, contrary to what a lot of folks might think, Nashville’s a pretty cosmopolitan place. We get our share of Asian visitors. If I had a plane full of them, it might have been hard to spot your guy. This plane wasn’t full of them.”

“Were there any?”

“There were three—an old man in his seventies, a young girl in her twenties, and some middle-aged guy. There was no twenty-six-year-old matching the photo or description of Thomas ‘Tommy’ Wong. How positive are you that he got on the plane in the first place?”

As progressive as the FBI was, Roe had come up through the ranks feeling that she had to work twice as hard to prove herself as any male agent. She had a chip on her shoulder, but it was a small one. It manifested itself only when she thought she wasn’t being treated with the proper respect. “I don’t know how the Nashville PD does things, Detective Hoffman, but I wouldn’t have asked you to be there if I didn’t know for certain that Tommy Wong was on that plane.”

“Did you see him get on?”

“No, but—”

“So you don’t know
for sure
if Wong was on that plane, do you?”

Technically, Hoffman was correct, but Roe trusted and respected her LAPD colleagues. It was the same respect she was trying to extend Hoffman as a member of the Bureau’s Nashville Organized Crime Task Force. Multiagency task forces were successful only if everyone did his job. She needed to win him over.

“You’re right. My guys in LA might have screwed up,” she admitted. “Are you still at the airport?” she asked.

“I’m on my way to the parking garage, why?”

“I need a favor. I don’t like that your time was wasted. And I really don’t like that we’ve lost track of Wong.”

“What do you want?” Hoffman asked.

“How solid are your airport contacts?”

“They’re not bad.”

“Do you think you can get me a copy of the flight manifest and security camera footage of the passengers deplaning?”

“Probably. What are you going to do with it?”

“I’m going to use it as Exhibit A when I rip my LA people a new one.”

“You can’t do that without the footage or a manifest?”

“I could,” Roe agreed. “But a picture is worth a thousand words. Besides, something doesn’t feel right about this whole thing. I don’t know what it is, but I want to see that footage for myself. Maybe there’ll be another face I recognize.”

“Give me forty-five minutes and I’ll email you what I can. Okay?”

Roe smiled. “Thank you, detective. I really appreciate it.”

The minute they hung up, she called her LAPD colleague.

Nancy Vargas answered on the third ring. “Vargas,” she said, rolling the
r
and pronouncing her last name with a Spanish accent, despite being a fourth-generation Angelino.

“Nancy, it’s Heidi.”

“Hey. How’s Houston?”

“Cloudy with a big chance of pissed off. What happened with Tommy Wong?”

“What do you mean?” Vargas asked.

“What happened at LAX?”

“Hold on a second. Let me find out.”

Roe could tell that Vargas had taken the phone away from her ear and was holding it against her chest in order to mute her conversation. Though the sound was muffled, Roe could tell she was having a rather heated discussion with someone in her office.

When she came back on the line, Vargas said, “My officers confirm that they tailed Wong all the way to the airport and one of them watched him go through the security checkpoint. What happened?”

“What happened is that your people were supposed to confirm that Wong actually got on the plane.”

“I know, but we’re shorthanded and they got called out on another case. We figured if he made it through security, everything was good.”

“Apparently, everything is not good. Our team in Nashville says he never got off the plane.”

“Shit,” Vargas replied. “He must have come back through after my officers left. I’m really sorry, Heidi.”

Roe felt a migraine coming on.

“You guys were right. Wong’s definitely up to something,” said Vargas. “That was a hell of a ruse just to slip surveillance.”

“A hell of an expensive ruse,” Roe stated. “Why not just buy a cheap Southwest flight up to Oakland?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. In the meantime, you’re in Houston, we’re back in LA, and my guys dropped the ball. What can I do to fix this?”

Roe was about to respond when her other line beeped. Pulling the phone away from her ear, she looked at the caller ID, then said, “Nancy, I’m going to have to call you back.”

She didn’t wait for Vargas to respond. Clicking over to the other line she said, “Special Agent Roe.”

A woman’s voice on the other end said, “Agent Roe, this is FBI headquarters in Washington. Please hold for the Director.”

Moments later, FBI Director Erickson came on the line. “Agent Roe, this is Director Erickson.”

Roe had met the Director only once, and then only long enough to shake his hand. She had never spoken with him personally. “Yes, Director,” she replied. “What can I do for you, sir?”

“You and your partner have been working on building the Tommy Wong case out of the LA field office?”

Roe was stunned. Why would such a small-time case rise to the Director’s attention? And why now? She was tumbling all the pieces in her mind, trying to make them all fit. Walking quickly back to the conference-room door, she tapped on the glass to get her partner’s attention and wave him out into the hall.

“Agent Roe?” the Director repeated.

“Sorry, sir,” she replied. “Yes, we’re the ones who have been building the Tommy Wong case. May I ask why you’re interested, sir?”

“I’ll tell you in person. We’re sending a plane for you now. In the meantime, I want to know everything you know about Wong.”

“Does this mean we’re off the Al Ain Six search?”

“No,” replied Erickson. “In fact, we think you may be able to help speed it up.”

N
ASHVILLE
, T
ENNESSEE

C
hina had found its criminal organizations, particularly the triads, to be quite useful, especially as proxies abroad. No one had been more adept at leveraging them from an operational perspective than Cheng. They fulfilled a very important role within his U.S. network and he made sure they were well compensated—both financially and with favors back in China. They couldn’t move the kinds of drugs, weapons, and human cargo that they did without very powerful political figures agreeing to look the other way.

Stepping off the plane in Nashville, Cheng wheeled his bag downstairs and purchased a shuttle ticket to the Opryland Resort and Convention Center. The buses departed at the top and bottom of each hour and took only twenty minutes to get to the hotel.

When the shuttle arrived at the resort, Cheng’s fellow passengers walked inside, but he headed to the adjacent Opry Mills Mall. Built on the site of the former Opryland USA theme park, it was one of the largest shopping centers in the southeastern United States.

Cheng moved in and out of stores and back and forth through crowds of people, careful to avoid security cameras whenever he could. Once he was convinced he wasn’t being followed, he ducked into a bathroom, changed clothes, put on a hat and sunglasses, and then exited the far end of the mall. He found the vehicle right where he had been told it had been left. Reaching behind the rear license plate, he removed the key fob and unlocked the doors.

The Lincoln Navigator had been driven down from Chicago. Opening the lift gate, he found a small duffle bag inside. He placed his carry-on bag and briefcase in the cargo area, and after grabbing the duffle, closed the lift gate and walked around to the driver’s-side door.

He climbed in and started the SUV. Looking around to make sure no one was close enough to see, he then unzipped the duffle bag sitting on his lap. Inside were a suppressor, a Smith & Wesson M&P9 pistol, two spare magazines, and a box of ammunition. Satisfied, he zipped the bag back up, placed it on the floor behind him, and headed for the highway.

When he reached his hotel and checked in forty-five minutes later, the clerk handed him a FedEx box that had been delivered that morning. Cheng thanked the woman, accepted the box and his key card, and then headed up to his room where he locked the door and drew the drapes.

While the weapon and car had come from Chicago, the FedEx package was from a different and unrelated asset in San Francisco. Inside were an envelope full of currency and three sterile cell phones. He knew better than to turn any of them on. As soon as he did, there would be a record of the phone touching the nearest cell tower. He didn’t plan on leaving any trails. There was a cord included and he plugged the first phone in to make sure that it was fully charged.

As he did this with the second phone, he removed the envelope full of currency, counted the bills, and stacked them according to denomination. Out of all the tools intelligence operatives could wield, money was one of the most powerful.

Removing the Smith & Wesson M&P9 from the duffle, he disassembled it and made sure all the parts were clean and properly lubricated before putting it back together.

After plugging in the third cell phone to make sure it was topped off, he walked into the bedroom area to change his clothes.

Putting on a pair of khakis, a short-sleeved dress shirt, and a tie, he then stood in front of the mirror and combed his hair in a different style. He slipped on a pair of glasses and reviewed his appearance. Not only did he not look menacing in any way, he appeared to be some sort of midlevel bureaucratic functionary, which was exactly what he wanted.

Stepping over to the desk, he fired up his computer and refreshed
himself with all of the details in Wazir Ibrahim’s file. Once satisfied that he had everything committed to memory, he gathered up his briefcase, turned on the TV, and left his hotel room, hanging the
Do Not Disturb
sign on the door as he did.

Surveying the exits, he found one that led to a small smoking patio that wasn’t monitored with a CCTV camera. Stepping outside, Cheng hopped over a low fence and walked around the corner to where he had parked the Navigator.

Traffic was heavy and it took him more than an hour to reach Wazir’s neighborhood. It was typical of many of the poor, immigrant neighborhoods Cheng had seen across the United States—run-down four-story apartment buildings cheek-by-jowl with small, dilapidated houses. Yards were untended and filthy children ran back and forth unsupervised. The only thing residents seemed to care for were their cars and trucks, almost all of which had glittering rims, lift kits, and paint jobs you could see yourself in. Cheng shook his head.

He did a slow pass by Ibrahim’s house. There were no signs of life from inside. He found a spot and parked halfway down the next block. Picking up his briefcase, he exited the SUV and walked back the way he had come.

Though he couldn’t see them, he could feel eyes watching him. Old women behind curtains, cautious neighbors peering out to see who the stranger was.

Being Chinese made operating in the United States quite easy. Not many people saw him as dangerous, or even potentially dangerous. Being Asian seemed to automatically disqualify him as a threat. It was a prejudice that he played thoroughly to his advantage.

Arriving at Wazir’s address, he walked up the cracked walkway to a set of uneven stairs to the front porch. He removed a business card from his pocket, pressed the doorbell, and waited. No one came. He leaned over and peered through the front window.
Nothing.
He leaned back and rang the bell again.

When no one answered, he opened the frayed screen door and knocked. He waited again, but still no one came. He moved back to the window and was about to use his car key to rap on the glass when he heard a voice nearby say, “She’s not home.”

Cheng turned to his right and saw a Hispanic man in his late twenties who had stepped out onto the porch of the house next door. “Pardon me?” Cheng replied in perfect English.

“Mrs. Ibrahim,” the man said. “She’s not home. She went down to her sister’s in Shelbyville. That’s who you’re looking for, right?”

Cheng smiled and walked to the edge of the Ibrahims’ porch to better chat with the neighbor. “Actually, I’m looking for Mr. Ibrahim,” he said. “Wazir.”

“You’re not here from Social Services?”

“No, I’m not.”

Suddenly, the neighbor appeared more reserved. “Are you a lawyer?”

Cheng smiled even more broadly. “No. Insurance. Mr. Ibrahim filed a claim at work. We have an appointment to go over it.”

“What kind of claim?”

“I’m sorry, but that’s confidential.”

“Are you really an insurance agent?”

Cheng handed him his card.

“Well, you may have to reschedule your appointment,” the man said.

“Why is that?”

“Wazir’s in jail.”

That wasn’t good news. In fact, it was very bad news. “Jail? Why would Mr. Ibrahim be in jail?”

The man jerked his head, indicating Cheng should leave the Ibrahims’ porch and join him on his. When he did, the man said, “Mrs. Ibrahim had him arrested for domestic violence.”

Cheng acted shocked. “Really?”

The neighbor nodded. “He beat her pretty good.”

“When did this happen?”

“It’s been going on for a while. Someone at the Community Center finally convinced her to file charges.”

“No,” said Cheng. “I mean, when did he get arrested?”

“A day or two ago, I think,” said the neighbor. “I just got back and heard about it. No one is surprised. Wazir’s a
pendejo.
A total dick.”

Cheng let all of this sink in. “The Nashville police have him?”