Bad Dogs, Running

Chapter 1

Sniper

The madness of Hong Kong rush hour traffic buzzed in the streets below the forty storey roof of the Royal Danish Bank building. A figure dressed in black jump suit, black leather gloves and black baseball hat sat cross-legged and stared intently through the high powered site of a Tactical Operations modified Remington 700, better known as an M40-A1 standard military issue sniper rifle.

Beside the shooter lay a transit case with foam padded compartments fitted for the break-down sections of the rifle and tripod mount. It was shaped like a trombone case. The rifle sat balanced atop its tripod, fixed in position to point towards the roof of an eighteen storey building two blocks away to the west.

Scanning the target area, the shooter focused on the center of the rooftop heliport. The range would be about three hundred yards. The wind sock to one side of the platform gave an indication of the wind speed and direction at the rooftop. Rough order of magnitude corrections for wind and barometric pressure were considered. Some final decisions for these would be made a split-second before firing. Satisfied that all was ready the shooter checked the time; three forty-two pm. If all went as planned the target would appear at four pm sharp.

Three blocks east of the target area another figure emerged from the rooftop door of a twenty-eight storey office structure. The man pulled a small two-wheel hand truck that held a slender wooden crate. He un-crated a rifle of the same model and snapped the sections together as if he could do it in his sleep. He spied the target area with the heliport, below him and to the west. He lit a cigarette, took a few puffs then squashed the butt with his shoe. He chambered a .308 full jacketed round, took aim and fired, hitting the platform floor of the heliport near the middle. He studied the scene for a moment, then repeated the process, hitting just to the left of the first round. He smiled, repacked the weapon, and departed.

At three fifty pm a Bell Jet Ranger helicopter touched down at the heliport. A man came through the roof doorway carrying a small black valise. That would be the target’s personal assistant. The man slapped the rear door of the aircraft which popped open as the pilot released the latch. The two men chatted briefly as the assistant stashed the valise just behind the pilot’s seat. The assistant re-entered the building.

The shooter on the Royal Danish Bank building took the opportunity to target the pilot as he powered down and stepped onto the roof to smoke. Calculations for wind speed and direction streamed through the shooter’s head. Satisfied that a kill-shot would be routine, the sniper concentrated on staying loose.

At four pm sharp, the roof door opened and three men stepped onto the target building’s roof. Two of them were body guards, easily identified by off the shelf gray suits and aviator glasses. Their charge was a tall Scandinavian with graying hair, Armani suit and Ray-Bans.

The shooter chambered a .308 round, sighted, flipped the safety off and took a deep breath. A last second adjustment for windage was made as the target seemed to be looking straight at the muzzle. It was the perfect view. The shooter began to exhale then gently squeezed the trigger.

The tall gray haired man crumpled to the deck. There was a small hole in the upper middle of his forehead. Behind him the side of the helicopter showed a perfectly symmetrical splatter of brains and blood.

The shooter did not wait to see if the body guards had perceived the kill shot. In seconds the rifle was repacked, spent shell retrieved and jumpsuit removed revealing a tall, attractive Caucasian female in business attire. She removed her cap and shook out long flowing blonde tresses that surrounded her gorgeous face. She stashed the jumpsuit in a compartment beside the rifle. She entered the building, stepped onto an elevator and was out on the street minutes later walking briskly toward a taxi stand with her trombone case. Seconds later her taxi melted into city traffic.

The second shooter, an oriental face in blue maintenance garb, pushed his hand truck across the lobby of the office building. He stopped short to avoid colliding with a patron. The crate slammed to the floor. The shooter made an excuse in guttural Cantonese. He gathered his load again and whisked out a service door to a side alley. In the alley he stripped off a mask and makeup revealing thinning dark hair atop a slender Caucasian face. He loaded the crate into a service van then smoked a cigarette. A maintenance vehicle pulled into the alley. He smiled to the driver and waved as if he knew him then flipped the cigarette butt onto the ground. Nonchalant, he got behind the wheel and disappeared into traffic.

__________

Chief homicide detective Ming Yeung had just shut off his computer for the day. He was gathering his briefcase and jacket when the phone on his desk rang. He answered reluctantly.

Boss, a man has been murdered on the roof of the South China Trading Company building. The victim is Stig Amdahl, a director of South China Trading Company. He is also the brother of the Swedish Consul in Hong Kong. I thought you should be informed right away.

Ming sighed inwardly. Get my car, he said tersely, glancing at his watch. Have you notified the brother?

Not yet sir, he will be informed as soon as we can clear the crime scene.

Don’t move anything until I get there, Ming instructed the officer.

As Ming crossed the lobby of the homicide bureau heading for the garage he heard a vaguely familiar voice call out Hey Ming, how‘re you doing?

He looked up, startled to see the face of an old friend from America.

Bob? he said half in disbelief, Bob Steck?

In person, Steck replied with a big smile. I happened to be in town and thought I would surprise you.

It sure is a surprise, gushed Ming taking Bob’s proffered hand. I have to go to the scene of a homicide that just happened. Want to come along? You might be of help to me.

How can an old spy be of any use to the chief of homicide? asked Bob, walking along beside Ming.

We can talk in my car, said Ming.

In the car the two quickly caught up on each other’s work life. Ming had been promoted from staff to assistant chief two years ago. When the Chief retired, he got the job as top homicide cop in Hong Kong. Steck had worked his way up to assistant director of the CIA. Passed over when Hayden quit, he decided to take retirement. He was on sort of a farewell tour, briefing CIA bureau chiefs in various cities in preparation for announcement of his resignation.

So, how do you think I can help with your homicide investigation, Ming? asked Steck.

The victim is the brother of a diplomat. You can maybe give me some advice about diplomatic protocol and stuff like that. I’m just a local cop, you know.

Steck knew that Ming was being modest. They had worked on worldwide issues together on a few occasions and Ming knew how to play international politics quite well. Well, I’m here Ming. I’ll help an old friend in any way I can.

When they arrived at the scene Ming flashed his badge and proclaimed in Chinese that Steck was working with him. They were quickly ushered through the cordon and up to the roof. The two body guards were giving statements to Ming’s detectives. The pilot, a Brit ex-patriot who spoke perfect Chinese, had already finished his statement and was sitting in the helicopter waiting to be released.

Ming spoke quietly with some of his detectives while Steck surveyed the scene, aided by one of the junior cops who spoke English. After a thorough visual scouring of the roof top and several minutes studying the victim, Steck chatted with the pilot for a while. When Ming was finished with his initial investigation, he allowed the medical examiner to remove the body. At length, in the fading daylight about seven pm Ming and Steck sat quietly on the rail at one corner of the roof to exchange information.

This looks very professional, Ming began. I think it was the work of a single assassin, high powered rifle, one shot from one of the tall buildings in the neighborhood. My Assistant drew a chalk line on the wall according to the direction of the shot. He reasoned from the position of the victim and the spatter on the helicopter that it came from a high angle, probably either that dark building there to the west or the one next door."

I agree, said Steck. If you project the angle from the center of the spatter on the aircraft, through the head of the victim, whom I suppose is about six foot three and carry that line to the west, you just graze the top of the darker building. The shooter was on that roof.

I have a team on that roof right now combing for clues, offered Ming, except a real professional will have left nothing for us. The best I can hope for is if someone on the staff in that building saw something unusual. By the way, that building is the Royal Danish Bank.

So far, so good, muttered Steck. Did you see the other two shots, here in the wooden deck? Steck pointed to two holes in the deck just beside the chalk outline of the victim.

Probably shots for good measure, commented Ming. My team will dig out the bullets for analysis.

I don’t think so, said Steck. Look at the angle of the splinters and the pattern. These shots came from the east, not the west.

Ming crouched, staring at the two holes. Second shooter? he mused.

Definitely a second shooter, declared Steck. Using the same reasoning, these two bullets came from that building to the east. He pointed to the only building to the east that was taller than their position.

The two exchanged blank stares for a moment. Have your men check those bullets for corrosion when they find them. Maybe the shots from the east were from some earlier incident.

I don’t think so, said Ming. See, the splintered wood is not weathered.

It still could have happened earlier, even days ago.

I’ll send a team to that other building right now to search for clues. Ming was punching numbers into his cell phone as he spoke.

We’re losing daylight, Steck observed. Is your wife expecting you or can you have dinner with an old friend?

My wife will feed us both, Ming declared with a smile.

My wife Amelia is with me. She’s waiting at the Crown Hotel.

Then we will all enjoy a meal at my home. Ming turned away so Steck could not object. He dismissed the two bodyguards and the pilot, who was not pleased that he had to leave his helicopter overnight. The pilot gathered his flight papers and stuffed them into his jacket. One of Ming’s men intercepted him at the elevator door and retrieved the papers.

You will get your aircraft back tomorrow, Ming told the pilot in Chinese, after my forensics team completes their work.

Chapter 2

Appearances

It was six am. Kristy Amdahl sat at the breakfast counter in the luxury penthouse that came with her husband’s job. They had lived in Hong Kong for six years. Her husband Stig had made millions running operations for The South China Trading Company. Now suddenly he was gone and so was her whole world.

Last evening she had given the cook the night off. She had spent the afternoon at the spa. She had prepared his favorite meal and dressed in the blue dress he loved so well. She had even poured the Dom Perignon, ready for a memorable evening at home. At the right moment, she would announce the wonderful news that they were at last, pregnant.

That was all before the telephone rang. The gruff voice inquired for Missus Amdahl. When she responded, the voice callously announced in flawed English, Your husband has been shot to death. Please come to central morgue after nine tonight. We need you to identify him after the medical examiner has prepared his report.

At seven-thirty the trading company’s managing director and Stig and Kristy’s good friend Chin Wong knocked at the door. Kristy opened the door and they beheld each other for a moment. He was somber and kind. She was disheveled and tear-streaked. They awkwardly embraced. She clung to him as if he were the last person alive.

At ten-thirty, Chin delivered her back home after they had visited the morgue. He offered to have his wife come and stay the night. Kristy refused.

Now she sat at the counter, watching the sunrise illuminate the Hong Kong skyline. She gripped her empty glass and reached for the Dom Perignon. Cursing the empty bottle, she stood and walked unsteadily to the wine chest at the corner of the kitchen. For a long time, she stared through the glass door at the shelf that held several more bottles of champagne. She turned, as if deciding coffee would be the better choice.

Suddenly she startled herself by screaming from some primal depth, Stig, you sonovabitch! Why did you leave me now?

___________

Three days later, Ming and Steck sat in a conference room at police headquarters sipping tea and reviewing what they knew about the murder of Stig Amdahl.

They had recovered the slugs from the heliport deck. The lab declared they were of the same caliber as the kill shot. The scene at the roof of the Royal Danish Bank Building was totally clean and no one in the building had noticed anyone unusual around the time of the crime. All the evidence thus far pointed to a professional job with no trail to follow.

The evidence collected at the other building gave a totally different story. Ming’s team had found two cigarette butts, two spent shell casings and a witness who described the face of a Caucasian male who drove off at about four pm the day of the crime in a white van. The butts and shells yielded partial fingerprints and DNA that Ming’s lab was running through world databases for identification.

It doesn’t make sense Bob, Ming said, fondling a growing sheaf of papers from a folder marked ‘Amdahl Homicide’ along with a case number. In this kind of case we usually find underworld connections or something like that. I know a lot about the managing director of The South China Trading Company. He is squeaky clean, as you guys always say. He is very keen to vet every associate to a high standard of ethical conduct. This guy Amdahl has no record and apparently no enemies. He is just a successful businessman from Sweden who was gunned down in spite of the usual international executive measures of body guards and a risk-aversive commute from rooftop to rooftop.

That’s the way it seems, Steck answered. The one lead we have is from the evidence left by the second shooter. There’s something we’re missing here.

Ming’s intercom squawked something in Cantonese. Steck wished he had taken the course. Like most diplomats and spies, he had only learned a smattering of Mandarin. What’s up? he asked.

Ming was already up and striding toward the door. They have an ID on the second shooter. Do you know an American named Paul Roche?

Steck blanched. Are you sure it’s Roche?

The DNA is a match. The fingerprints match. It looks like the FBI in America is really interested in this guy. Ming was staring at Steck, who was visibly shaken.

Not just the FBI, Steck muttered. Every agency in American security has an ‘interest’ in this bad dog. Especially me, Ming, I have the greatest interest in Paul Roche.

How so? asked Ming, interested in the emotions he saw in his old friend.

Steck returned to the conference room, followed by Ming. He closed the door then walked to a panel where he shut off the intercom and switched on a random noise generator meant to discourage interlopers when a secure conversation was needed.

Ming, what I’m about to tell you is beyond confidential. I am only telling you this because you may be instrumental in apprehending Roche. You will treat this as between us only, right?

Right.

"Good, asserted Steck knowing his old friend was a man to be trusted.

Paul Roche served with me in Viet Nam. We became prisoners of war in Laos after a covert operation gone wrong. After the war he joined our agency and we worked side by side for many years. A few years ago he went rogue on us selling his services to some unsavory characters. He was so clever at this that we never had enough on him to justify moving against him. We knew he was dirty but had no proof. A few years ago, he got involved with some international thieves in a very nasty operation involving Islamic antiquities. In the course of that operation he killed an FBI agent named Grayson. We pursued him all over North America but he gave us the slip. Men who are in as much trouble as Roche generally go deeper into crime. Roche probably decided he had nothing to lose. I think he decided to make a grand game of it. We chased him but he evaded us at every turn. After several more highly profitable capers including some murders for hire, he disappeared completely.

I’m beginning to get the picture, said Ming. He made a fool of you.

Not just me, Ming, he made fools of the CIA, FBI, NSA and several joint task forces. He’s the only blemish on my career. The bastard cost me the directorship of the CIA.

It’s that bad, eh? Ming stared intently at Steck. His friend Steck could become an asset to his career if they caught this guy Roche, a liability if they did not. If this guy is so smart, why did he leave the cigarettes, the shell casings and a witness that can identify him?

Because for some reason Roche wants us to know he’s involved. Believe it, Ming, he’s planning to use you in some way. We just need to outsmart him.

Just the way you had the guy all wrapped up before? How does that leave us with the upper hand? Ming was skeptical and showed it in his expression.

I can re-open the case against Roche if you will cooperate. That means you’ll have an international team with world wide reach on your side. We’ll keep it under wraps and you call the shots. Working together we can get him. When we get him, your career will soar.

Only my career will soar? I think yours will too.

Mine too will soar. It would allow me to retire with a clear record. Steck perceived that Ming was mulling the downside. It was time to tell it like it is. Ming, I can get this piece of scum. I’m going after him with all the resources I can muster until I get him or the trail turns cold. You can help me or you can watch. Either way, I’ve got to do this.

Ming nodded affirmation. One thing I know about you, Bob Steck is that you never give up. Another is that you have much greater assets to apply than I can ever get from my government. Let’s team up and get this done.

Thanks buddy, Steck said sincerely. Let’s map out a strategy.

________

At midnight Steck was on the phone with Washington through a secure satellite link. The director had just finished lunch with some congressmen. He was surprised to hear from Bob Steck, whom he believed was conducting routine briefings at various CIA bureaus around the world. His mission hardly rated a direct call to Langley.

Director, I visited an old friend who is chief of homicide detectives at the Hong Kong police. We worked together when he was an operative for British Intelligence before Hong Kong was turned over to China by the crown.

I think I remember the guy, the director replied, a man named Ming Yeung.

Correct, asserted Steck. Ming is investigating a case of homicide that looks like a contract hit. His team identified one of the two shooters involved as Paul Roche.

That renegade Roche showed up in China? The director’s voice betrayed the effect that Roche’s name had on his blood pressure.

Ming has both DNA and fingerprint positives from stuff left at the scene. Steck sensed he was making a good start on his objective for the conversation.

Roche isn’t that sloppy, declared the director.

He was leaving a trail for us, Steck announced. He wants us to follow it for some reason. I think we should go along and see the next card. Do you agree?

There was a long pause. At length the director replied, I agree Bob. What assets do you need?

I would like to use the JUMP team. They’ve tracked this guy before and will have a vested interest in apprehending him.

I’ll call Mort Lindsley and see what he thinks. Call me tomorrow, same time. The director was buying it.

The trail will get colder each hour we delay, sir. I’d like your permission to call Mort myself, right now. He knew he was pushing the issue and hoped he had not angered the boss.

Just a minute, Bob. The director went on hold. Steck wanted to retract what he had just said but it was too late for that. The hold lasted minutes. Steck chewed the end of a pencil, hoping he was not about to get a formal dressing-down.

Finally the director came on the line again. Bob, I’ve got Mort Lindsley on the line. We’re all patched in together. Mort, are you there?

Steck breathed a sigh of relief.

Hey, Mister Bob Steck, the familiar southern drawl of Mort Lindsley sounded in Steck’s ear. How are you, old buddy?

Steck settled back in his chair. What followed would waste half the night’s sleep for Steck but it would be well worth it.

Mort, Steck began, I’ve picked up the trail of Paul Roche. Do you want to play?

You got my attention, Mort replied. I’d follow that swamp rat right into the jaws of the beast just to get a shot at him. What is that bad dog up to?

He’s involved in the assassination of an international businessman. Steck declared. We believe he and an accomplice took out the guy, maybe on some kind of contract from business rivals.

What’s the victim’s name? asked Lindsley.

His name is Stig Amdahl. He worked for The South China Trading Company.

Only partly true, Mister Bob. I know this guy. Stig Amdahl was assigned to The South China Trading Company but he worked for MI-5. The Brits have been sharing information with my team in a case of fraud in international arms dealing. Amdahl was in my office just a week ago to brief us on their operation. Mort Lindsley’s voice sounded somber. This ain’t a business spat, Steck. This is big and it involves folks from the State Department right to the White House.

Chapter 3

Traveling Act

The Bangkok opera house was all decked out in bright colors. Flags of many nations flew in a circle of flagpoles with the brilliant red, white and blue Thai flag in the center of the circle, flying higher than the rest. Tonight would be the highlight of the international opera festival of the Pacific. The opera company of Italy, made up of members of the Milan and Rome operas would present Puccini’s Madama Butterfly, the poignant story set in late nineteenth century Nagasaki, a sure hit with the oriental audience.

The members of the Orchestra della Opera d’Italia were seasoned travelers. Critics adored them. Some considered this orchestra the finest traveling operatic orchestra in the world. They had performed various Puccini operas so many times that it was second nature, hardly requiring rehearsal, except to provide musical service to the opera company in their rehearsals.

Today was no different. The orchestra played for final dress rehearsal almost like robots. The percussionist was reading a newspaper while the orchestra played the overture. Members of the string section chatted during breaks in their parts. The conductor tried to keep their attention, finally giving in. He just stood there waiting for the libretto to be completed. After the actor-singers had left the building he would blast the orchestra with great passion, hoping to shame them into feigning attention during the opening evening performance.

One of the musicians stood out by her dedication to the music and her intense study of the conductor’s baton. She was the first trombone of four in the horn section. Perhaps the most accomplished musician among the many top performers, Lydia Frangelo was also the most attractive female in the company. She was a tall, slender and very blonde woman from Veneto. Her ancestors were most certainly Austrian, but her culture and sensibilities were thoroughly Italian. Many of the other musicians pursued her with amorous intent but to no avail. Romantically she was the ‘property’ of the conductor, Massimo Ferlucci. She preferred it that way, even though she could barely stand the man. Ferlucci was full of bombast and snobbery. She sometimes thought him effeminate, but that did not show when they were alone. The Italian press lampooned him regularly as having an ego bigger than Tuscany. They weren’t far wrong.

What nobody knew was that Lydia Frangelo led a dual life. In addition to being an accomplished musician she was one of the world’s very best assassins for hire.

After the evening performance of Madama Butterfly, Lydia blew off the opera company’s opening night party and made her excuses to Ferlucci, promising to meet him at the hotel later. She went to her hotel, changed into plain street clothes and strolled casually through the downtown Bangkok marketplace. She stopped at a food stall and ordered a spicy soup. As she finished the soup, a figure appeared from the shadows and came to her table.

Good Job, Lydia, the man began. You made it look easy. He withdrew an envelope from his side pocket and handed it to her.

She placed it in her purse without comment then looked up and smiled. We aim to please, she said.

The man sat down facing her. I may have other work for you soon, he said. Are you interested in additional work?

Always, especially from you, she replied. You can contact me through the same channel, in Mexico.

The man grinned, took her hand and kissed it rather ceremoniously. "Until then; au revoir."

In an instant he was gone. She opened the envelope and read the bank draft deposit information. Her account in The Cayman Islands was one hundred thousand Euros richer than yesterday. She finished her soup and tea, then walked briskly back to her hotel.

Ferlucci was waiting impatiently. Flowers and a bottle of Proseco, her favorite