Barry Eisler - Rain Storm aka Choke Point

The front doors opened and two men got out. They looked Slavic to me: broad cheekbones, wheat-colored hair crew cut, white skin shining unhealthily in the light cast by the shipping facility behind them. They seemed uncomfortable in their dark suits, neither of which fit particularly well, and each was wearing a bright red tie. Ex-military, maybe, men unaccustomed to any uniform that wasn’t battle dress and choosing their ties in overreaction to a previous lifetime of nothing but olive drab. I decided to think of them as Russians. They looked around after exiting the car, and I thought their looks had the feel of an attempt at orientation. They certainly weren’t locals.

“Looks like a drug deal in the making,” I heard Dox say, and he was right, it did have that sort of illicit feel to it. I had expected them to drive into the container port, but it looked like the party was going to happen outside it. Which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

“I think they’re going to do the exchange right here,” I said. “Let’s see if our friend shows, too. As long as the gate stays closed, I’m going to let him pass my position. If he gets out of the car like these guys have done, you’ll have a stationary target and a clearer shot. You’re loaded up with the frangible ammo?”

“Unless you tell me to switch to the AP.”

“Good. Hang tight.”

“Roger that.”

Five minutes later, two more vehicles pulled onto the access road: a white van, followed by a black Mercedes S-class. I glanced over at the previous arrival. The Russians, talking to each other, were smoking cigarettes. The gate was still closed.

“Two more vehicles approaching,” I said.

“Roger that.”

I saw two Arabs in the front seat of the van, neither of whom was the target.

Three men were in the Mercedes. The driver was Arab, and I recognized him as one of Belghazi’s bodyguards from Macau. It looked like there were two men in back, but I couldn’t see well enough to know. Given the circumstances, though, I was reasonably sure about who the passengers were. Adrenaline kicked into my bloodstream.

“I think this is him,” I said. “In the Mercedes. Let’s let him go to the gate, like we said.”

“Roger that.”

The Mercedes stopped in front of the gate and backed in parallel to the Lexus. The van performed the identical procedure, parking so that the Mercedes was in the middle.

“They sure have fine taste in their automobiles,” I heard Dox say.

The van doors opened and two Arabs got out. Three men exited from the Mercedes. One Arab. One white guy. And one half-French, half-Algerian. Belghazi. Bingo.

“He’s here,” I said. “The one who just got out from the passenger-side rear of the Mercedes.”

Belghazi was walking over to the Russians. I watched as they shook hands.

“The one who’s shaking hands now?”

“That one, yeah.”

“Say the word and I’ll drop him.”

“Let’s give them just a few more seconds. I don’t see any money, and I don’t want to have to dig it out of a locked trunk or something.”

“Roger that.”

“Hang on for a second, I’m going to see if I can listen in. Keep him in your sights now.”

“He’s not going anywhere.”

I changed channels so the earpiece would receive from the parabolic mike. The reception was good. The men were exchanging pleasantries, in English. Good to see you, thanks for coming all this way. The two I’d been thinking of as the Russians had heavy accents that might have been Russian. I wasn’t sure.

Belghazi shook the other Russian’s hand. He motioned for the white guy to come over. Even before Belghazi had introduced him, I was pretty sure I knew who he was.

The NOC. Belghazi’s protector. I let out a long breath as I eliminated this angle as a cause of potential untrustworthiness for Dox. This angle only, though. There was still the cash that we expected to be in play, the opportunity that, as he had put it in Rio, “only knocked once.”

“Let me introduce you to our American friend,” Belghazi told the men. “This is Mr. Hilger. He’s here to make sure that we don’t have to worry about problems with the authorities.”

Hilger shook the Russians’ hands. “And how do you do that, Mr. Hilger?” one of the Russians asked.

I looked around. The Russians were on their third or fourth cigarettes. Belghazi’s Arab driver had just lit up. So had the two Arabs from the van. Everyone was obviously a little on edge. Everyone except Belghazi and Hilger.

“I’m fortunate enough to have some useful connections in both the U.S. and Hong Kong SAR governments,” Hilger said, his voice low and reassuring. It didn’t sound like a boast, just a calm response to a reasonable question. “On occasion, I ask those connections if they would be good enough to look the other way while I conduct some business. Tonight is one of those occasions.”

The Russian might have pressed, but Hilger’s self-possession seemed to settle the matter. The Russian nodded. “Cigarette?” he offered, extending a pack.

Hilger shook his head and said, “No, thank you.”

I wanted to hear more. What was being exchanged tonight? Was this the moment Delilah had been waiting for, after which, she had assured me, she would give me the green light and help me get close?

And who were these “Russians”? Were any of these people connected to Nuchi, the Frenchman I had taken out in Macau, of whom Kanezaki claimed to have no knowledge?

Most of all, where was the money?

But at some point, the quest for perfect intelligence becomes an excuse for a failure to act. The situation seemed manageable for the moment, but it could easily change. I didn’t want to delay any longer.

I took two deep breaths and switched back to Dox’s channel.

“You ready?” I asked.

“Sure I am. Been waiting on you, that’s all.”

“Start with Belghazi. Then the white guy who came with him. Then the two white guys from the Lexus. I think they might be Russian. They look military to me, harder targets than Belghazi’s usual retinue.”

“Roger that.”

“Take out as many as you can. The ones you don’t drop are going to figure out the general direction the shots are coming from. Their only cover is the vehicles. When they move around the vehicles to get away from you, their backs will be to me. I’ll close the pincer.”

“Sounds like a plan, buddy. Here we go.”

At that moment, Belghazi, Hilger, and the Russians moved around to the back of the van. I heard Dox say, “Damn, lost my shot.”

“Hold on, I can still see him. They’re just talking. Belghazi is gesturing to the inside of the van. I think they’re talking about transport arrangements, something like that. Give me a second, I’m going to switch over again.”

“Roger that.”

The Russian was nodding his head as though satisfied with whatever Belghazi had explained to him. I watched Belghazi take out his satellite phone. I switched channels in time to hear him say, “We’re ready for the cargo, please. Thank you.”

He must have been talking to his contact inside. This wasn’t what I had been expecting. I had thought the meeting would be just to inspect whatever the cargo was, confirm its contents, and exchange money. The port guy would take care of bills of lading and country of origin certifications and the other minutiae of Kwai Chung’s EDI, then send the cargo off to its ultimate buyer. But it seemed that the goods were going to change hands right here.

And Belghazi had arrived with the van. I had assumed that he would be selling the cargo. Now I wondered if tonight he wasn’t the buyer. I was fine either way. But I did want to know where that damn money was.

The Russians, it seemed, shared my concern. “You have the cash?” one of them asked Belghazi.