The Consulate

Part I

The

Chinese

Connection

CHAPTER ONE

Hot Springs, Virginia

Near Ingalls Field Airport

Sunday, mid-morning

Tango Romeo Sierra, please continue your rapid descent, and let me know when you have the airport in sight.

Wyckoff grumbled. He was not in the mood. The tops of the sinister looking storm clouds were approaching fast. The squall line had not broken up like he predicted, so he was forced to punch through to land. He confirmed air traffic’s request and read the altimeter to himself. Six thousand, five hundred feet. He re-tightened his seatbelt and shoulder harness, as the small plane entered the dark clouds. He immediately felt rain on the wings and light turbulence. The turbulence increased to moderate chop followed by severe turbulence. The heavy rain became so deafening, he couldn’t hear the engine. The black flight bag on the floor did a back flip, spilling all over the cockpit. He looked out the curved windshield to the right for the airport but he was still in a thick cloud, so he focused on the instruments.

Tango Romeo Sierra, runway should be off to your right, turn for final at your own discretion.

He readied for the fun part. Roger ATC, he blurted out. He focused on keeping the wings level. The altimeter needle passed the mark for five thousand, two hundred feet. He was descending fast. He knew the intensifying headwind would convert to a nightmare crosswind when he turned for the elevated runway. Every east coast airport was within a hundred feet of sea level. Not Ingalls. He held the yoke firm to keep the nose up, and pulled back on the throttle. Ingalls airfield sat on top of a thirty-seven-hundred-foot mountain in the Shenandoah Valley. Flying the approach meant taking aim at the side of a mountain. Literally.

He reported back in. I don’t have the runway in sight. I will need to land IFR.

He didn’t disclose this was his first landing at this airport. ATC approved him to land using instruments only. He braced for the heavy crosswind to strike the airframe hard, and hoped the mountaintop airport’s only runway was where his GPS indicated.

Tango Romeo Sierra, clear IFR for runway 7, crosswind 30 knots. Have a good day. The air traffic controller voiced his final instructions.

Wyckoff winced at the wind speed. 30 knots? Fuck me. He knew the forceful storm winds would only get worse closer to the valley floor. Wyckoff repeated back the authorization…Tango Romeo Sierra, cleared for runway 7, winds at 30… when the powerful wind cold cocked the left side of the small aircraft, and started punching like a trained boxer mad at a speed bag. Each thump caused the single engine to whine. A death grip on the yoke kept the nose up. He retarded the power one more notch. The swirling cross wind knocked the aircraft down below the glide slope. He intercepted the right approach another five hundred feet down, and two thousand feet closer to the mountaintop. He glanced to the bottom part of the instrument panel to make sure the flaps were correctly set.

Please return all tray tables to their upright position… Wyckoff mimicked a commercial pilot. His only cargo on the 12 passenger Cessna Grand Caravan was Mikey, a retired CIA Case Officer turned over-paid consultant. Wyckoff stared out the window hoping to run out of storm clouds, so he could actually see the runway. Hold on, he yelled. He was too low, and according to the GPS the mountain side was approaching at 140 mph. He pulled back on the yoke to recover lost altitude. The powerful engine whined hard but responded by leveling off, and then slowly climbed upward the height of a five-story office building. They shot out of the cloud, and were headed straight for the runway. The GPS was spot on – the plane’s nose was lined up with the centerline.

Runway looks clear. Wyckoff scanned the narrow paved strip carved out of the tall trees. A choppy gust swirling up the side of the mountain welcomed them with one last violent shake. Wyckoff could see Mikey out of his peripheral view gripping the lip of the leather dashboard through the turbulence. He remained quiet. Wyckoff smiled. Wimp.

The Caravan’s massive stress-tube landing gear was designed to land on rough fields, so the touchdown and roll out on the slick runway went smoothly.

Tie down? He asked Mikey. There was plenty of surface-parking mid-field on the north side of the runway. The fast-moving storm was clearing the area.

No, go over there, Hanger B.

He used right rudder to turn off the active runway towards two small hangers. He headed for the one with the open slider door.

There is no reason to use a hanger. Wyckoff touched the button on the XM weather receiver to confirm the forecast was clear the rest of the day, and he hoped Mikey’s errand would only take thirty minutes max.

Using the pedals, and a little throttle, Wyckoff moved the Caravan into Hanger B, and, once inside, he spun the aircraft around so she was facing out for an easier departure. Ready to escape! he joked over the noise of the wet wheels squeaking on the painted cement.

Mikey was first out. There you go…

Wyckoff looked in the direction Mikey was pointing. Very funny. He scanned the large warning sign that advised all pilots to perform a low pass over the unattended airport to make sure there weren’t any bears before landing then he realized Mikey was pointing to a Chevy Tahoe rental car.

The key and paperwork are under the mat, but I’ll drive. Mikey yelled.

Wyckoff jumped in the passenger seat, putting his backpack between his legs as he reached into the front pocket to feel his FBI credentials and holstered handgun. He had fourteen rounds in the weapon, and two spare magazines topped off with fourteen rounds each. I hope double dipper’s errand doesn’t require shooting anyone.

Mikey spoke a mixture of Russian and Polish on his cell phone all the way from the airport to The Homestead Resort three miles away. He had under six minutes to tell Agnieska, the Polish woman he met at a bar in downtown Alexandria’s Old Town district the night before why he snuck out of her apartment without waking her up to say goodbye this morning. She wanted him to promise he would call back later. "Obietnicy!" Mikey promised.

Wyckoff grinned and wondered. How do you say pig in Polish? Mixing business and pleasure rarely worked out for him. Like the time he found himself drinking heavily at the Flat Iron Bar near Moscow’s Red Square with an MI-6 agent and two over-friendly young professional women who preyed on lonely foreigners when his satellite pager went off. The target was back in his room. Time to go. He was done with the pleasure part of the evening, and switching to business. His English buddy, an undercover tchotchke exporter enjoyed his role as the lonely foreigner, so he told the beautiful women, My friend and I run a quick errand and we will be right back, in the perfect Russian he had learned at the Defense Language Institute in California. A lie’s a lie, even in Russian.

Wyckoff recalled every detail of the Moscow mission. They hustled on foot a block north to the Hotel Metropol, broke into Presidential Suite 3364 undetected, eliminated an intoxicated German industrial spy soaking naked in a foamy bubble bath, and sprinted back to their eager dates. What a night. His adrenalin was jacked up for half an hour, while the Brit’s pulse was below 60 beats per minute before they even walked back into the bar.

His attention was back on the meandering country road into the Homestead— a five-star resort nestled amidst the breathtaking scenery of Virginia’s Allegheny Mountains. The weather had cleared completely. They passed equestrian riders on horseback, then a group of resort guests working with falcons under a canvas canopy. He noted a female guest wearing a thick glove that ran the length of one arm. One man wearing a sleeveless khaki hunting vest had a large, adult falcon perched on his extended arm. Several falcons flew in circles above the group.

Mikey hung up the phone. Fucking birds, he muttered. Wyckoff had the opposite thought, so he didn’t bother to comment.

What kind of errand are we running? He asked, changing the subject. He wondered if his gun could stay in his backpack.

No big deal. You’ll love this place. I just need to pick something up, and we are out of here.

I need the gun. He wanted to press Mikey on why they parked the plane in the hanger but left the subject alone. Nobody liked to be second-guessed, and with spies the effort was especially futile. He assumed the plane was registered to a CIA front company, and Mikey wanted to keep the tail number out of plain view.

Damn, the whole world has changed. Now, anyone with Internet access could look up mundane information like tail numbers on airplanes. It’s okay to operate in plain view but when you come to a complete stop, hide somewhere until you are ready to go again.

I’ll park up front. Mikey signaled the hotel employees standing on the curb near the door.

You taking me horseback riding? Wyckoff asked like a little kid.

Probably not. Mikey handed the young male valet with the short haircut a twenty-dollar bill, as he stepped out, and pointed to a parking spot near the front. Mikey wanted the Tahoe backed into a space, and the key left in the ignition. Wyckoff’s little voice told him to belt the holster, so he stayed in the SUV while the kid parked backwards, then holstered, and slid one of the loaded magazines into his jeans back pocket. His sweatshirt concealed both.

He noticed three yellow taxicabs lined up nearby, almost out of view, waiting to be summoned by the bellman. Staged about twenty yards from the front doors on the right were two black SUVs with dark, tinted windows. They looked like Secret Service vehicles, except both had generic Virginia license plates with white background and blue lettering.

The expansive lobby reminded Wyckoff of a fancy Las Vegas hotel. Mikey was up at the front desk, leaning over the marble counter talking with a cute young clerk who was laughing at whatever bullshit he was laying on her. He waved at Wyckoff to join him at the elevator.

Fucking bitch, Mikey said under his breath. He pressed the button for the fourth floor.

Did she turn down your offer to get drunk and screw? Wyckoff joked, referencing his second favorite Jimmy Buffet song.

She started to tell me the room number I needed, and then stopped short. She tried to call the room but no answer. He dialed a number on his cell, as they stepped out on the fourth floor.

Wyckoff could only hear Mikey’s side of the phone conversation.

Hi. I’m calling from New York. I’m trying to address this package for FEDEX, and they need the room number for Franklin Burrows. I know he’s on the fourth floor but I forgot which suite.

Mikey hung up. 406, he said, and then called Sara a bitch again.

Suite 406 had two doors side-by-side, so Wyckoff presumed Franklin Burrows was a somebody, as he surveyed the landscape. The double doors were located at the end of the hall facing in, and there were two high back chairs with red-colored cushion seats outside the room. The fancy chairs were out of place. Hotel staff placed them right there for Mr. Burrow’s bodyguards. He counted eighteen paces from the elevator, plus another fifteen to make the double doors. They passed four regular rooms on the left and three on the right. There was an exit door leading into a stairwell five paces from room 406.

He knew Mikey didn’t have a room key, and assumed his friend wasn’t planning to knock. He canvassed the hallway for surveillance cameras. None were in view. He reached for the lock picks in his backpack. Then Mikey grabbed the door handles and broke them off with brute force. Or, we could just cause property damage.

The suite was more than a thousand square feet and well appointed. Mikey went straight to the larger bedroom; He covered the front doors. Rapidly, Mikey re-emerged with a dark green duffel bag over his shoulder.

Just for the record. This was mine, and I’m just taking it back, Mikey yelled across the living room.

Wyckoff could care less he just hoped the errand was over. Let’s go. Exit stairs are right here, He reminded Mikey by pointing.

Fuck the stairs. We’ll use the elevator, and I’m walking out the front door of this hotel. His arrogance was not reassuring — or safe. But the show of ego explained why Mikey broke open the doors. Double dipper wanted whoever stole his bag to know he came back for it. A Michael or Mike would have followed the FBI Agent’s lead to take the stairs, and stay off anyone’s radar. Not a Mikey.

You’re crazy… Wyckoff started to say but stopped. Mikey saw something behind Wyckoff, causing Wyckoff to turn as fast as he could. The sound of a .45 caliber handgun firing a warning shot was distinct. Before the bang noise hit their ears, Wyckoff literally saw the bullet pass through the high back chair guarding the right door and hit the wallpaper-covered drywall. Two short, but physically fit Asian men in dark suits were now twenty paces away.

Don’t move, one yelled in Mandarin. Mikey had no idea what he said. The stranger repeated his order in the same language like a trained police officer.

Wyckoff ignored the command, took cover in the exit doorway and returned two rounds. Both foreigners dropped to the ground defensively. Wyckoff’s first round hit the guy with the gun in the right shoulder, but rather than drop and give up, the stranger switched the handgun to his left hand. He stepped forward to let Mikey get behind him, then, methodically, squeezed off three more rounds. His second round hit a critical area on the guy with the gun. The second stranger lay still on the ground. Wyckoff put rounds three and four into the shooter as his tunnel vision returned to normal. He put the fifth round into the top of the head of the guy on the ground. Wait for me.

As he entered the stairwell, Wyckoff grabbed Mikey before he ran downstairs, pulling him back and pushing him up the stairs. This way, he directed, as he instinctively replaced the partially spent magazine with a fresh one. His gun was now reloaded with 15 rounds of ammo to back up the one bullet in the chamber, and he was ready for round two. We are only four floors up, he huffed, we need more room to work with. Do you have a weapon? he asked between breaths. They took two stairs at a time up to the fifth floor. Wyckoff put his gun back in the concealed holster, then covered the weapon with clothing while he held Mikey back from running. Just relax. Running down the hall only attracts attention.

Mikey nodded that he understood. I left my weapon in the truck. What should we do? Sweat was soaking his shirt.

Oh, now, he wants my guidance.

Mikey spent too much time in Saudi Arabia and England, countries not fond of the whole right to bear arms obsession. Didn’t you know in America, bad guys carried as many knives and guns as they could manage? He pointed down the hall. Elevator, Wyckoff ordered.

The coast was clear. Wyckoff’s luck was back.

The elevator arrived in fifteen seconds. A middle aged couple with two kids was already inside. The blond-haired boy looked ten, and was wearing a black tee shirt with an obscure skateboard reference, and he was listening to a pink-colored iPod Nano. Wyckoff assumed a hand-me-down. The redheaded girl was at least four years older, and obliviously texting at light speed on her iPhone. Wyckoff nodded good morning to the parents, as he made his way to the back, and without looking obvious prepared to use Dad as a human shield to make a path to the Chevy Tahoe. Dad was 5’8" in his brand new, bright white Skecher walking shoes, at least two hundred and forty pounds, and wearing a thin but wide leather belt straining to hold up his Harbor Bay denim jeans. Perfect, I think dad could easily take forty rounds from anything except a bazooka before turning into Jell-O.

Mikey was to Wyckoff’s left. Was that the entire entourage, or do you think there are more? He whispered in Mikey’s ear.

Did you see the two armored cars out front? The elevator doors opened onto the lobby floor.

Yes.

A loud ding announced the elevator opening at the lobby level. Wyckoff grabbed for the fat man’s leather belt then stopped. No need. His first clear view was an open path to the front entrance. We’re good. All the hotel employees and three valets outside were behaving normally.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Wyckoff followed Mikey who followed the Cleavers off the elevator. They were headed to the dining room. Wyckoff and Mikey cut right for the door. Think the old man is headed to the yogurt bar? Wyckoff joked.

Yea, if Yoplait has a bacon flavor. Mikey carried the duffel bag in front like a log.

The skinny Asian driver of the black SUV parked in front of the other one stood outside of his truck smoking a cigarette. Both vehicles were running. The other driver sat in the front seat reading the newspaper. The back window on the second vehicle rolled down. Wyckoff and Mikey were three steps from the rental.

Stop that man, a loud voice yelled in Chinese then in English. None of the hotel staff responded.

Mikey jumped into the front seat, started the Tahoe, and pulled away from the curb as Wyckoff slammed his door shut.

Are you kidding me? he shouted at Mikey. What’s in the goddamn duffel bag? He wanted to know if they risked their lives over cash, or something important.

Just some dirty laundry, Mikey joked.

In a sick, morbid way, he often missed the humor of CIA-trained case officers. Their dry humor in the stickiest situations was the ultimate coping mechanism for dealing with real-time pressure.

Mikey accelerated the Tahoe. Wyckoff watched out the back window. Neither SUV had left the curb yet. The skinny guy who was smoking ran into the hotel.

Was that Mr. Burrows yelling?

Yes. Mikey concentrated on driving back to the airport. Their lead over Burrows had less to do with a getaway plan and more to do with Burrows waiting for his two goons, unaware they were lying dead on the fourth floor.

The Chevy did a great job climbing up the mountain road to the airport.

You want me in the left or right seat? Wyckoff asked. He wanted to be on the same page when they reached the hanger.

You fly the plane. I’ll make sure we get out alive. Mikey reached behind the passenger seat to grab a flat gun bag. Put this together for me. Wyckoff unzipped the bag and got to work.

The entrance to the airport was 500 yards away, and Hanger B was on the far side of the field. The Asian secret service is leaving. Wyckoff reported when he saw the two black SUVs leaving the resort property at a high rate of speed near the foot of the mountain. Mikey grabbed the rental car paperwork to find the PIN number for the automatic gate topped with barbed wire.

Wyckoff assembled Mikey’s illegal Russian machine gun with a noise suppressor then inserted a magazine loaded with twenty-nine, 40 caliber rounds, and clicked the small lever switch from full auto to three shots per trigger pull. You’re all set. Another fully loaded magazine snapped to the side of the gun in a pre-made slot.

Do I have time to walk around the plane?

The manual did mandate the pilot to conduct a pre-flight walk around.

Wyckoff was joking.

You have 29 rounds of protection – use them however you deem fit.

Fortunately, the PT6A-114A engine on the Cessna Grand Caravan was ridiculously powerful. Hanger B was halfway down the runway. Perfect. Wyckoff looked out to the 5600-foot runway. I should only need half or a third of the strip. He knew the Caravan could easily manage a midfield takeoff.

The taxiway and runway were clear of any other aircrafts. And, no bears! He noted the bright orange windsock blowing in the wind to confirm they would use Runway 7 for departure. Mikey slammed on the SUV’s brakes when they were in the hanger near the right wing. Wyckoff handed him the machine gun.

What the fuck? He screamed. The back of the Caravan was now filled with thick cardboard boxes covered by a green army tarp. He shook his head in disbelief and jumped into the left seat.

Just fly the plane. Mikey yelled. He checked the tie downs on the cargo.

Wyckoff used one hand to put on his headset, the other to flip the manual to the pre-flight checklist.

We’ll skip the walk around.

He also skipped the first five steps, which included checking to make sure there was no water in the fuel tank. The engine roared to life on the first start. Mikey removed the chock blocks under the wheels, jumped in and slammed the door. Wyckoff turned off the transponder.

I need the whole runway, he relayed into the microphone. Mikey nodded. They taxied out of the hanger at above normal speed. Using the foot pedals to control the rudders, Wyckoff pointed the nose of the Caravan toward the business end of the runway.

There they are! Mikey exclaimed.

Wyckoff glanced across the field then back to the yellow line on the pavement in front of him.

They can’t get onto the field – they don’t have the pass code, Mikey guessed. The black SUVs were stopped at the second chain-linked gate near the hangers where local pilots entered the field.

He’s opening the goddamn gate manually, Mikey yelled out, pointing to the skinny driver of the SUV.

All clear. The Caravan’s wheels were lined up for take-off. Wyckoff applied full brakes. He had not made a single announcement over the radio since starting the engine and was about to take off un-announced; the runway looked like an infinity pool. The end was also the sheer edge of the mountain and immediately dropped down almost four thousand feet.

Ingalls was an uncontrolled county airport with no control tower, but he knew as soon as he was airborne at 4,000 feet altitude, this close to Washington DC, the military would pick them up on radar.

I have an idea. He mumbled, as he throttled the engine to max power, released the brakes when the RPM needle approached 1900, and started rolling down the runway. Mikey stared at the SUV’s now racing each other to cut off the plane.

Shit, I forgot flaps.

Wyckoff left thumbed the switch on the yoke until a light on the dash indicated the flaps were set for take-off. The black SUVs were approaching from the right. The SUV in the back pulled around the front one.

The crazy son-of-a-bitch is heading straight into our path. Mikey raised his gun but didn’t want to open a window and change the aerodynamics of the plane.

I need another 1,000 feet.

Go, go, go, Wyckoff chanted to the plane. The edge of the mountain was coming at 95 MPH.

The SUV left the paved taxiway at high speed to cross the grass median in pursuit of the Caravan’s take-off path on the runway.

Wyckoff passed the point to take off in an empty plane but still needed another 400 feet of cement to take off fully loaded. Come on baby.

The black SUV came to an immediate stop in two feet of boggy wet grass a few yards from the edge of the runway. Wyckoff pulled back lightly on the yoke as Mikey shot a bird to the six Asian men trying to get out of the two trucks. The plane’s main tire was three inches off the ground when they ran out of runway. A split second later when the tail cleared the mountain’s edge Wyckoff pushed down hard on the yoke.

I forgot to tell you the plan, he started to divulge as the Caravan suddenly went nose down, accelerating past 180 knots. He pulled back on the throttle to let gravity replace horsepower. The fact he plunged the plane on purpose did not alter the realization they just drove off the side of a mountain and were headed straight down. There was not enough time for either of them to verbalize the shared panic or feeling of nausea. The turboprop plane was gone from the view of everyone at the airport. Three seconds later they vanished off regional radar surveillance. Wyckoff started pulling back on the yoke when they were low enough to let the sides of the valley and dense treetops of the George Washington National Forest conceal them.

Everything okay? Mikey asked through the headset intercom, just as they were leveling back off. Wyckoff glanced right to notice Mikey’s hands were gripped to his yoke, and he had helped pull out of the dive.

I’m guessing the steep nosedive caught him off guard. Just avoiding any attention, he answered, finally sharing his plan.

Mikey nodded in agreement. Roger that.

Mikey looked upset that none of the Chinese guys shot their guns.

Their departure was humdrum according to CIA covert criteria.

Wyckoff pressed the white button on the Bendix avionics to identify the closest airports. Greenbriar Valley was 27 miles west, Roanoke Regional 28 miles south, and Shenandoah Valley Regional 48 miles northeast. He dialed the heading for Shenandoah on the autopilot, leveled off at two hundred feet above the tree tops, reduced flaps to zero degrees, powered to cruise, and set the trim for a smooth flight. The winds at the bottom of the valley were calm. But he kept one hand on the yoke in case of unexpected turbulence.

Mikey dialed Agnieska on his cell phone. "Hi, miod."

Wyckoff smiled. Guess business is over, time for pleasure again. Romeo the co-pilot said, "Hi, honey," in Polish, then started jabbering mushy one-liners in her native language.

• • •

Wyckoff’s phone showed a missed text sent by his Section Chief. He hit speed dial then held the phone tight to his left ear to minimize the plane’s engine noise. The Chief wanted to confirm if his favorite wingman was at headquarters tomorrow. They agreed to meet for breakfast.

CHAPTER TWO

San Francisco, California

Near a public library

One year earlier…

Special Agent Wyckoff walked alone.

The downtown intersection of Post and Kearny streets in San Francisco was full of activity for a Monday morning. The ocean fog that hung over the city all morning like a layer of thick white cotton was burning off. Misty grayish-white steam from boilers beneath the street rose up through the cracks.

The narrow traffic lanes on Kearny ran north, and the wider lanes on Post went one way — east – all the streets in this part of town were framed by yellow or red painted curbs, concrete formed gutters and wide sidewalks stretching until the poured cement ran flush into the base of buildings. Every square inch of open space was gone.

Can you spare some change for breakfast? A sun burnt vagrant begged.

Here…

Thank you. The homeless man squeezed the two-dollar donation as he staggered into the doughnut shop to wait for the donor to pass.

Wyckoff kept walking. He already knew the drifter’s intended breakfast was a bottle of liquor, not coffee. His eyes went back to the street.

Yellow and red paint meant no parking, except at night and on weekends. Wyckoff noticed every available space for street parking was taken, and each vehicle was empty. Cars covered with large drops of dew were parked bumper to bumper along the street with their wheels turned such that if the car’s brakes failed, the car would roll onto the sidewalk. Delivery trucks were double-parked with their engines running next to the now illegally parked cars on both sides of both streets.

In the few seconds he took to cross the street, Wyckoff subconsciously scanned the last three digits of every license tag he saw and committed the alphanumeric data to short-term memory.

Several white FedEx trucks methodically made their early morning deliveries to the small merchants just as they opened for business. The black paved city streets were lined with tall, dirty gray cement block commercial buildings, varying in heights like over-sized trees in a dense forest. Standing still on the sloped sidewalks near any of the buildings was like trying to hold steady in a wind tunnel. The tree-like buildings squeezed the already brisk Pacific Ocean wind, creating a sharp, fast breeze that moved parallel to the ground and sliced through everyone in the airstream’s path.

Definitely not Florida. The damp air felt colder than the 57-degree number blinking on and off the First National Bank sign a block away. A city bus approached from the south, and the side facing Wyckoff flashed a color advertisement for a new chick flick opening on Friday. A black stretch limo turned east. Several cars and at least a dozen walkers crisscrossed in every direction. Except for the homeless, most were on their way to somewhere else on this chilly northern Californian morning.

For security, Wyckoff always focused on the people standing still, in his path or out of place. And, of course, women. He definitely didn’t miss the brunette and redhead keeping pace across the street. The 30-something, shorthaired brunette wore pinstriped pants, plaid blazer and a ruffled paisley blouse. The other one looked older, and she had on a white, long-sleeved blouse — no jacket — and a wool skirt. The single special agent imagined the brunette’s legs were tanned and toned and that she worked out — a lot. Then he imagined her hot, sweaty and naked, and her legs wrapped around his own bare waist. The redhead’s tan looked store bought, he thought. She was cute with an attractive face but a little overweight for her height. Both carried disposable coffee cups from the same café the bum bought his lattes, and he noticed they were hustling at an unusually fast we are going to be late pace into The Galleria shopping center on the northeast corner. They were chatting over coffee, and now they’re late for work. He smiled.

A collection of adult males bearing hard briefcases and stuffed folders were waiting outside of the side-by-side branches of Citibank and First National Bank on the southeast corner. Three men were of Middle East descent. The two older foreigners were on their cell phones. The youngest one — in the dark pinstriped suit — wore a white, open-collared shirt, and had a flashy silver watch on his left wrist. Nice knock-off Rolex. Wyckoff thought, as noticed the young businessman in training holding a half-burned cigarette down low in his left hand. The taller, unshaven guy to his left spoke Farsi into a worn out cell phone.

Definitely the father or uncle.

The only Farsi that Wyckoff knew was taught to him in a one-week survival language school in Monterey, and from what he could lip-read, the banter didn’t sound like the gentleman on the phone was buying or selling weapons, or plotting to blow anything up.

The Gap clothing store on