Death Wave by Stephen Coonts Read Free Book Online Page B

well—possibly with long-range shotgun mikes or a tiny listening device stuck to the bottom of the Starbucks table.
You couldn’t stay in this job for a week without becoming hopelessly paranoid.
“Where the hell did you get that stuff about Kennedy and the jelly doughnuts?” Blake asked her as she walked back toward her hotel. “We have an archived copy of the New York Times here—dateline April 30, 1988—that claims Kennedy screwed up!”
“Check some of your other sources,” Lia told him quietly. “Actually, CJ and I were talking about it when we got in yesterday. She knows German, and we happened to be talking about the Kennedy story. So we can thank her.”
“Thank you, CJ,” Blake said. His voice was touched by just a hint of sarcasm. Lia didn’t know Blake well, but she knew he didn’t like being shown up in front of others. Too bad.
“Any time, luv,” CJ’s voice replied.
“Although I sometimes wonder why we’re online for you guys when you obviously already know all the answers.”
“Just check out the urban legends better, Tom,” Lia told him. “Anyway—did anyone listening in get the idea that Feng was putting on a major show for my benefit?”
“What do you mean, Lia?” That voice was William Rubens.
“The guy is smart. Speaks perfect English. Educated in Oxford, according to his bio data. The thing about the okay gesture was clearly a test. So were the questions about deadweight tonnage and all. And … I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t have a reason to know about Kennedy and the doughnuts. But his slip about Pakistanis being Arabs was kind of … obvious, don’t you think? The guy is a high-ranking officer in one of the largest shipping corporations in the world, and a major in Chinese intelligence. He should already know stuff like that.”
“I think he was surprised Lia knew so much,” CJ put in. “Okay, I have two security types sitting at other tables. They just got up and followed Feng. No one’s following Lia.”
“Good,” Rubens said, “but don’t relax. There may be others in the area.”
“The job offer seems genuine,” Rubens said, “although given what we’ve uncovered about Feng already, we suspect he primarily wants Lia for eye candy.”
Lia snorted. “A pretty girl on his arm to impress his customers?”
“Exactly.”
“The job offer is for eighty K a year. That’s expensive candy.”
“He can afford it. COSCO can afford it. Why, Lia? Are you worried?”
“As a matter of fact I am.”
“You can still change your mind about this, Lia,” Rubens told her. “This op was always volunteers only.”
“No,” she said, walking past several maroon-jacketed bellhops and through the tall doors of the Adlon Hotel, entering into the magnificently appointed lobby. “Hell, this is exactly the sort of break we were looking for. The guy has me flying to Spain tomorrow, to meet someone he says is from Pakistan. Depending on who this business associate is, it might be our link between COSCO and al-Qaeda.”
“Yes, and it also might be a bit too neat,” CJ put in.
“CJ’s right,” Rubens said. “Feng’s contact in Spain could be perfectly legitimate.”
“Well, we’ll know tomorrow,” Lia said brightly. “Won’t we?”
Nevertheless, she wondered just exactly what it was that she was getting herself into.
    RUSSIAN MILITARY HOSPITAL
DUSHANBE, TAJIKISTAN
WEDNESDAY, 1825 HOURS LOCAL TIME
     
Dushanbe was a teeming, sprawling, bustling place.
The name of the city, Charlie Dean had been told, meant Monday—literally “two-Saturday,” meaning the second day after Saturday. Originally, the place had been a Monday market village, and there were still extensive bazaars and countless street vendors and stalls that continued the commercial spirit of the place.
Despite the bustle, Dushanbe was a surprisingly green city. So much of the Tajikistan countryside was sere and brown beneath barren and rugged mountains, but the center of the country’s capital was thickly