The man leaned forward and said, “Do you intend to check out of your hotel tonight, before your train trip tomorrow?”
Once again adrift, Jake said, “No . . .”
“Good. Because I don’t like hunting people. It’s easier to just find them where they say they’ll be. Now, what do you have?”
His eyes piercing into Jake’s soul, Jake gave up. “I now have the data on the A2/AD systems for Taiwan. The one they’re using to decrease their alert using artificial intelligence.”
The old man took a sip of coffee and said, “How will that help us?”
Jake took a breath. “I have no idea. You guys asked for it. I got it. I’m not a missile engineer. I work on artificial intelligence.”
“Can it be manipulated? Like you did with the helmet?”
“Yeah, I suppose. I didn’t do it, but it can be, with the right people.”
“So we can make the system think something’s happening when it’s not?”
“Yes. Of course. With the right people working it.”
“Good. We have the right people. Leave me now.” The old man returned to his paper. Jake hesitated, wanting to ask something else, and the man glanced over his news, saying, “Do you have an issue hearing?”
“No. No, I don’t.”
“Then leave me. Before I lose my patience.”
Chapter 33
Paul Kao sipped his tea and kept an eye on the door of the massage parlor at the end of the street, doing what he did best: waiting. If he were honest with himself, he’d felt mixed emotions after having been cut free from the National Security Bureau. Elation for the trust Charlie Chan had in him, but disappointment because he didn’t have any inroads into what Charlie really wanted.
He knew the threat was real and was glad Charlie believed the same, but he wasn’t nearly as good of an operative as Charlie seemed to think. He relied on cultivating assets to accomplish his work, and after the death of his last contact, and his firing, none of his other contacts would talk to him. He had no thread at all. Which left the one lead he did have—the Snow Leopard.
He’d gone to the fabled Huaxi Street market, a seedy underbelly in one of the oldest sections of Taipei. Once the legal area for brothels, it was otherwise known as Snake Alley because of its history of restaurants that served up fresh-killed cobras after a snake show.
Those times were long gone, and the market no longer held any exotic charm. A desolate area, it now consisted mainly of “massage parlors” built onto the skeletons of the brothels of the past, with ancient masseuses standing outside trying to entice a dwindling clientele, along with newfound fortune-tellers intent on taking over the decrepit space and resurrecting its glory.
None of that mattered to Paul. He’d worked inside the city for decades, infiltrating everything from corrupt individuals infatuated with the new money surrounding the needle skyscraper known as Taipei 101 to the men and women clawing for survival in the slums within the heart of the city, all of his efforts dedicated to one thing: saving Taiwan from the communist threat. Others could deal with the rich stealing money through corruption or the poor dealing in drugs. That wasn’t his calling, and never would be. There was a greater threat in the wind, and he’d dedicated his life to preventing it.
He’d worked inside the underbelly for a long, long time, and had learned that this area had been a bastion of the Bamboo Triad for decades, from the height of Snake Alley to the end of the brothels. He knew that the Snow Leopard ran his network here from a specific massage parlor, and so Paul set up surveillance.
He was on day two of his efforts without seeing the man, and was thinking about changing tactics. Maybe the Leopard had left this area. Maybe he didn’t own this parlor anymore. Maybe he’d left the city entirely, feeling the heat after killing Paul’s contact.
Paul wanted to believe that, but knew the Leopard wasn’t that sophisticated. Or that smart. He was here. It would just require some time and patience.
At least that was what he told himself. Wanting to prove Charlie Chan’s investment in him had been correct.
After his second cup of coffee, on the second day of surveillance, he’d seen a person enter the parlor who seemed out of place. One who was decidedly not of the local clientele. A tall man in a suit, he was something different. Paul perked up, taking note of his appearance, cataloging him for future surveillance: patrician face, crisp mustache, slicked-back hair cut short, and a suit that didn’t fit. Like it had spent years in the closet before he had donned it again.
He wasn’t Bamboo Triad, that was for sure.
Paul watched him glance furtively around and then enter, telegraphing his history without even wanting to. He was from power, and he didn’t want to be seen here in the lower depths of Taipei.
In 1992 it would have been normal. He might have been an average man who would visit this seedy neighborhood, like all the other foreign visitors—but even then, it would have been after the sun had set. Not now, at noon.
No, this man was different. And because of it, Paul continued to watch.
Three coffees later, he saw the man leave, never having identified the Snow Leopard. He wondered if he should wait. After all, the guy could have just come in for a handjob and a latte.
He surreptitiously took multiple pictures from his phone as the man walked by him down the market alley. He went through the tunnel-like entrance and Paul sat for a second, wondering if he should call for advice, and then remembered he would get no advice. He was persona non grata at the NSB. There was no one he could call. All Charlie Chan had left him was remote access to NSB databases for research, but nothing real-time in the way of support. So it was up to him and his instincts.
And his instincts told him to follow. Forget about the Snow Leopard.
He watched the man leave the market and continue on down Huaxi Street, dodging the traffic across Guilin Road. He began to lose his target in the crowd, took one more glance down toward the massage parlor, hoping the Snow Leopard would make an appearance. He did not, and Paul made his decision.
He stood up and gave chase.
He kept the man in sight on the crowded sidewalk, staying far enough away that he wouldn’t be able to see a brush pass or other contact, but close enough that he could build a pattern of life. Who was this guy? Why was he in the Bamboo Triad area? And did any of this mean a damn thing?
The man took a left on Guangzhou Street a block ahead, and Paul sprinted to catch up. He reached the corner and didn’t see him. He walked forward, the front of the famous Lungshan Temple to his left and the Mengxia Park to his right, glancing all around to determine where the man had gone. There was a metro station under the park, and multiple alleys leading away, which meant he’d lost him. If the man had chosen any of those directions, he was gone.
Which left the temple. If he were there, Paul could find him. It wasn’t a conscious decision, as it was the least likely place—but it was the only one that made sense to search, given his choices. And so he did.
He entered the temple using the right door, still remembering the religious training of his youth, trying to confuse the demons chasing him. To his right was a waterfall with tourists around it, taking pictures. To his left was a small garden. His target wasn’t in sight.
He left the courtyard and went into the temple proper, once again using the right door. He let his eyes adjust to the dim lighting and saw patrons tossing stones to his left, a ritual intended to give them an answer to their questions. He wandered about for a bit, circling the crowds and smelling the incense, and then recognized the man in the suit at the rear of the temple, moving toward the worshipers throwing the stones.