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Justine nodded. She wasn’t entirely sure, but there was no such thing as perfect safety and these guys seemed on the level.
They took her outside to a black Escalade with a third man behind the wheel. Richardson climbed in the front passenger seat and Cotton got in beside her.
Justine checked her phone as the large SUV got underway. It was a little after seven, the city was only just coming to life, so they made swift progress through the quiet streets.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Forty-second Street,” Cotton replied, as though that explained everything.
They were at their destination a few minutes later, which turned out not to be 42nd Street proper, but rather a service alleyway that ran behind the buildings on the south side of the street.
Cotton and Richardson stepped out of the vehicle.
“This is it, Miss Smith,” Cotton said.
Justine followed them, suppressing her misgivings about what could turn into a dangerous situation.
Cotton led them to a metal fire door, which opened when he neared it. Another man in a dark suit gave him a nod of recognition and allowed them to enter.
They took a service elevator to the tenth floor, and Cotton walked them down brightly lit, carpeted corridors to an apartmentat the front of the building. The door opened as they approached. Another man nodded a greeting as they went inside.
Justine followed Cotton and Richardson into a large living room that had been converted into a sophisticated surveillance center. Every surface was covered in flight cases that contained computers and electronic equipment Justine couldn’t identify.
Three women and two men sat at workstations monitoring audio, video, and data feeds. At the heart of it all was Tate Johnson.
“Morning, Miss Smith,” he said, offering her his hand. “Sorry for waking you but time is of the essence.” He hesitated. “There’s no easy way to say this, but we had to let Angel go.”
Justine was dismayed. She experienced a rush of anger driven by a sense of betrayal. How could Carver’s people have released a man who’d done so much harm?
“Back-channel pressure on the State Department began almost the moment we took him. It would have developed into a full-blown diplomatic incident and there was no way our man was going to talk, not without the kind of pressure we don’t do in these parts anymore, so we had to cut him loose,” Tate explained.
Justine felt a little sick. They had gone through so much to catch Angel, and their efforts had been rendered void by those who cared about politics more than people. Her disappointment must have shown.
“That’s the bad news,” Tate said in a soothing tone. “Here’s the good news.”
He took her to one of the many windows that were covered by thick drapes. He pulled one back a crack and gestured toward a building opposite. It was an imposing structure with extensivesecurity; guards were posted all around the large gray-stone structure, there were cameras on every surface and counter-surveillance devices on the roof.
“That’s the Chinese Consulate,” he revealed. “They conduct regular security sweeps of all the surrounding buildings, but we have a short window of opportunity until the next one. Angel arrived eight minutes ago.”
Tate moved the drape back into position. “If he’s debriefed, we’ll hear everything he says.”
One of the operators at the surveillance terminals leant back in her chair and signaled to him.
“Sir, I have him. He’s making a call on a secure line. It’s to Beijing, sir.”
“Put it on speaker,” Tate said. “Let’s hear what he has to say.”
CHAPTER 65
ZHANG DAIYU AND I were in the surveillance van parked a short distance from Liu Bao’s building. It looked as though he had settled in for the night at his penthouse. Several guests had arrived for dinner, including Fang Wenyan, Liu Bao’s contact from the Guoanbu. Hua had identified some of the other guests as mid-level government officials and promised us a full background work-up on everyone, but he was dead on his feet and needed rest, so I had sent him and the physical surveillance team home.
Zhang Daiyu and I sat in front of the surveillance console, and she translated some of the chatter around the sixteen-seater dining table. It was mostly about sport and sports cars, and they drank nothing but champagne as the caterers served the meal. We heard a regular popping of corks and the talk grew more raucous.
“He’s got a call,” she said, putting the audio feed from the apartment on speaker.
I heard background hubbub and Liu Bao saying something.
“He’s telling someone to come with him,” Zhang Daiyu translated.
